Diann Ducharme (21 page)

But I reckon I was, at that. I wanted that Hatteras job like I’d never wanted anything before. And I wanted to keep seeing Abby, and learning how to read and write. Didn’t know what I’d do if I couldn’t meet up with her on the porch anymore. I figured if I did what he wanted, the debt would be paid and I’d never have to worry about this mess again.

And too, Elijah Africa was right respected around these parts. He might not be the man Mister Sinclair wanted after all. From what I’d heard, those kind of men had been known to make mistakes in their pursuit of “justice.”

I said my farewells and slipped off the stool and out the door. ’Round the back of the hotel I hurled up the whiskey into a patch of sea oats. It smelled undigested, pure liquor, and I featured that little patch of green choking on it and dying a quick, painless death by the end of the day.

Sleep was not easy coming that night. Pap was blowing air out his mouth every other second—sounded like a snake hissing at me.
He’d like to slumber the days away if he could, life was stringing him out so.

But me, I just rolled around on my pallet, wracking my brain for a way to help Mister Sinclair. The man meant business, that much was clear. Taking my leisure just wasn’t an option. But how to get sight of a naked Negro was a new and different kind of dilemma for me, and my brain just wouldn’t latch on to an idea. The only thing I could figure to do was to peep at him through his cabin window.

But I didn’t have the slightest idea of his daily habits. I reckoned I’d have to watch him for a good while. Watch him without him knowing I was watching him. It was the only way I could think of doing it.

So without catching a wink, I went over to the island before Pap even awoke, so I wouldn’t have to tell him lies about where I was off to.

I took the old dory boat and rowed around to the western side of the island. I docked at an old Union pier and set to walking toward the colony, not really knowing what-all I was scheming to do.

It was Sunday morning, a sunny day with birds singing and water slapping. But I had no appreciation of the beauty, like I usually did. I felt sick all through my guts, to tell the truth. I felt like a puppet, and the evil spirit of Mister Sinclair was working the strings. I wouldn’t wish the feeling on my worst enemy.

I soon found myself at the Sheltering Oaks Baptist Church. With a big sigh, I crouched myself in a stand of thick oak and holly trees, where I had a view of the comings and goings. Didn’t know what else to do but wait ’til the service started.

Wasn’t the first time I’d done such a thing, watching animals go about their lives from a secret spot. Just like hunting, really. And I was damn good at hunting.

I recalled the first time I took Mister Sinclair duck hunting in Currituck, back in November. He had surprised me with his skill, near about killed as many birds as I did on my best days. He fired his gun over and over, steady and quick, and I saw the splashes of the canvas-backs hitting the water. He recharged again and again, black smoke lingering around him. He just wouldn’t stop ’til he was sure they were all dead.

He was so pleased then that he booked my services for the summer. Now that first hunting adventure seemed like some kind of fate for us. I wish I’d never met the man, but then I wouldn’t have met Abby. And that is what Abby would call “ironic.”

’Round nine o’clock a whole bunch of black folks came ’round to the front of the church. Squinting through the twisted branches, I counted about a hundred of them. They were a mighty scraggled lot. Unshaven, raggedy old clothes, bare feet, skinny limbs everywhere you looked. Only a couple of the women folk had bandannas and bonnets, and the rest were bareheaded, their snarled hair blowing free.

But they all seemed in right happy spirits. Laughing and talking and singing made their way to my ears, and the folks weren’t even in the church yet.

Then I saw the preacher stroll up, hands full of papers and Bibles. Even from my spot, I could see he was right tall and strong-armed and as dark as a ripe blackberry.

He greeted the folks kindly, patted the children on the heads and gave them some sweetmeats from his coat pocket. They all followed him into the church like they were pups following the scent of cooked meat.

When I heard his voice boom out his sermon through the church windows, I had a hell of a time featuring him to be the killer Mister Sinclair said he was. That voice was like God himself. The man was
meant to be a preacher—no one else could have sounded as right as he did.

After the sermon, he led a chant in his low, deep voice, and the Negroes answered him in the same tone. It wasn’t really singing so much as shouting and, every once in a while, moaning. I heard them stamping their feet and clapping their hands in time to the song. It was miles apart from any church song
I’d
ever heard.

Just when I thought they were done, and moving on to some other kind of worship, they’d start up again, in a new and different tone of voice, sometimes sad, sometimes happy.

And I thought it to be true, what I’d heard about hearing those voices clear across the Roanoke Sound. Jesus Christ could hear them, clear up in heaven. I reckoned that was the point of it all.

Listening to the noise, I forgot my problems for a minute or two. The birds in the trees above me took off on account of the jollification. And then I was up in the warm blue sky, looking down at myself, my poor body sitting in a tight spot. I had pity for that body and for what he felt he had to do to get ahead in this world.

When the service was over, I watched the folks stream out of the church and spread out down the island. The preacher took his time moving on, though. He talked to folks for a good long while before he made his way toward the colony proper, younguns and mamas in tow.

I followed along in their dust, slowly and with my cap down over my eyes. They soon met up with Lincoln Avenue and meandered down the lane for a while. No one took any notice of me, just like Mister Sinclair had reckoned. Finally I saw the reverend go up to a house about midway down and walk in and close the door. Folks
called their good-byes to him as they continued on down the lane. I’d found his house, I figured.

It was a tidy-looking cabin, and his garden was one of the few that was free of weeds. I caught sight of some real nice tomato plants. I thought of the preacher building that house with wood he split himself, and I tried to block out the hopeful feeling he must have had as he hung the doors on their hinges.

I looked around for a good spot to watch him from. All along the back of his plot were some scrubby yaupon bushes and red cedar trees, the ones that weren’t fit to fall under the ax. Could hardly see the sound through the hedge, it was so heavy. Preacher probably left it all there to protect his yard from overwash. It all looked like a pretty good hideout to me.

I backtracked a bit up the lane, then walked down the slope of sand along the sound and snuck into the brush from the back. I burrowed into the thick part of the bushes quick, the fallen leaves pricking my knees and palms as I crawled. Scared a couple of meadowlarks out, their tweetings fussy and trespassed against.

And there I sat, cross-legged as a Indian, peering out of yaupon bushes like I didn’t have a lick of sense about me. Felt like I was in a fever dream. Couldn’t even think straight, my whole head pounding like a drum. What was I going to do, catch him running buck naked around his backyard?

I couldn’t even move a hair in this little space, branches on top of me like they were. I caught myself breathing too quick and tried to slow it down. Everything was moving too fast for me. I wasn’t used to all this rushing ’round, trying to make other men’s wishes come true.

I had my own wishes that needed coming true. But I didn’t see anyone lining up waiting to help me out. Lord, the only one that
had
helped me out was Mister Sinclair himself. And that thought turned
over and over on itself in my mixed-up brain, like a fatty piece of bacon in a sizzling-hot pan.

Half an hour went by, and I still could see folks out walking ’round the streets like regular people, happy on a Sunday, and here I was, stuck in a bush.

I saw a woman carrying a pot of something down the lane, and she walked right on up to the preacher’s front door. I heard him talking to her kindly on the other side of the cabin, and I heard her answering him with a big, shiny voice. She went on and on—sounded like she wanted to do more than cook him his meals. Then I heard the door close again. Must be nice to have women bring you your meals all cooked up. Must be one of the perks of being a preacher man out here.

I watched her meander back down the lane again, her rump bumping slow from side to side. Soon I caught the scent of cooked pork through the windows, and it made my own belly start growling like a dog. But I didn’t have a thing to eat or drink.
What I wouldn’t do for a bowl of boiled oats and butter right about now
, I thought.
Even some well water would do
. It was hot as blazes, even under all those bushes.

I tried not to think about those things for a while. I tried not to think about anything at all. Sitting there by my lonesome was not helping matters, though. I began to think on good ol’ Robinson Crusoe, and his twenty-odd years of alone time.

Would anyone even miss me if I went away that long? Would Abby miss me if I got shipwrecked on some wee bitty island? We hadn’t known each other long, it was true. But I already felt as close to her as I’d ever felt to anyone, or anything. I wondered what she thought about me, if she ever did.

And yet, if she could see me sitting here in this bush, spying on a preacher man, she’d be shocked into hating me. After all we’d talked over, she’d gather up those skirts and books and papers and strut
back into that cottage, never to be seen again. I don’t think I could bear it if she ever found out about this.

Another hour, and still no sign of the preacher. I figured he lived there by himself, no sign of offspring, and women visiting with food. His yard in back was clean, no junk littering his land, unlike ours. Just the outhouse and a little shed and a few stumps. Even had some blue hydrangea bushes planted next to the house.

Pap and I had a big shed, a stable for Junie, boats and boat parts scattered all over, and nets and poles and old tools and a big garden with all manner of vegetables and herbs and whatnot. Trees big and small grew willy-nilly over it all, and dropped their own mess of pinecones and leaves and needles and deadness in the mix.

I wondered what the differences in the yards meant, what they told or didn’t tell about the folks that owned them. Sometimes things that are too neat and orderly set my teeth on edge. A big mess is a sign of life, to me.

After a while the flies and gallnippers found me, like they knew I couldn’t move a muscle, somehow. They swarmed off the marshes and took to biting me all over, so I spent my time slapping at ’em and cursing as quiet as I could. I made it into a game, seeing if I could swat the buggers before they stung me. I won the game thirty-six times before I stopped counting.

I heard Elijah moving about in the house, pushing back a chair or scraping a plate, cleaning up his pork dinner. But he never saw fit to come outside. Part of me wished he wouldn’t ever show his face, and this awful thing would just be done with, but the other part of me wanted to go in there and rip off his undershirt, lay eyes on his back once and for all, and skedaddle out the front door. But Mister Sinclair wouldn’t take to that at all. Had to be done expert.

I fingered the glossy yaupon leaves in front of me. I’d never really sat and looked at one before. Bankers made tea from these leaves, and
so did the Indians before us, but uppity folks from the mainland like other kinds of teas better. Pap and I still made it right regular, because it perked us up in the mornings. And too, it’s said to have medicine qualities. I could’ve used some right then, for certain.

But my stomach had long ago given up on me and had quit its churning. I was empty as a bell. The Croatan Sound lapped the shore so gentle, and the gulls were crying so soft. Soon the lack of shut-eye lay heavy on me, so I curled up best I could and fell asleep, but with one ear pricked to the house.