Middle Passage (25 page)

“Oh, dates,” I said. “Nothing important, just the ship's manifest, with names for each Allmuseri slave on board, payment rates for the ship's principal investors, including your whack, Papa.”

“Naw, I can't be in that book.” He frowned and bent closer, trying to look, and swallowed. “Can I?”

I tilted the book so he could see. “Naval authorities will find this document very interesting. Captain Falcon's logbook, I'm thinking, would be Exhibit A for any investigation into the loss of the
Republic.
On the other hand, it would be tragic, don't you think, if it fell into the hands of William Lloyd Garrison. Or maybe the runaway slaves living among Indians, up in the mountains, who periodically raid plantations and, dear me,
kill
slave owners.”

“Santos,” barked Papa, “take that book from him!”

As with pain, so too did thought travel slow as slugs in winter through the inner wiring behind Santos's brow. You may have noticed that he could not think and move at the same time. So he stood perfectly still, like statuary in the corner, and thought furiously, and finally brought out, “Papa, is he sayin' you was dealin' in slaves?” Big as he was, the man was preparing his face to cry over this betrayal. “What was that name you used, Calhoun? All—museri? My grand-daddy use to call hisself that.” He thumped a step toward Papa, his tread shaking the floor, then realized it was too hard to talk, think, and perambulate all at once, and stopped alongside me, his voice cracking and hands flat at his sides. “My people on my grandpa's side is from that tribe.” He wanted to think again, thus was silent for two minutes as we patiently waited. “Calhoun, why would Papa
do
something like that.”

“Ask him,” I said.

“Papa?”

If anyone knew the untapped power in Santos's top-heavy body, it was the man who had hired him. He never got sick,
couldn't
get drunk, no matter how he tried, and had such a high tolerance of pain he often injured himself accidentally. With each step his man took, Papa backed toward the corner behind his table, and was now squeezing himself against it, as if literally trying to force his way through the wall into the next room. “All right, lissen. Let me put my cards on the table. I made a mistake. Anybody kin do that, right? At first I didn't know that ship was carryin' anything more'n vegetables and hides. You got my word on that. Zebediah Singleton come to New Orleans to play at one of my tables, and told me 'bout a business investment he said was straight-up legal—an opportunity for a cullud man closed out of the shippin' industry. I thought it'd be a good thing for me'n my people, a chance to diversify, get a foot in the door, go up one more stairway into somethin' legitimate instead of bein' stuck in the kinda business—gamblin' and gun-runnin'—I been limited to all my life.” Papa's scalp was rivering a screen of perspiration over his brow, causing him to rub both palms over his eyes. “I didn't mean no harm. But once I got in that was it. You kin see what I'm sayin', can't you? Sometimes the biggest curse in the world kin be getting exactly what you want, or think you want, 'cause there's no way to see all the sides when you sign your name or give a handshake. You don't always know what yo' business partners are doin', if they plan to cut yo' throat, or use yo' money—unbeknownst to you—for purposes that'll make you wish you was dead. Calhoun, if I'd known up front the real freight we was smugglin', I wouldn'ta had anythin' to do with it.”

“I don't believe you, Papa.” I turned, pitching my voice toward Santos. “And the Africans who survived this business
venture of yours won't either. They only number three, all children ranging in age from eight to eleven. As cute as they can be too, like Santos here. You could ease your conscience a little, I guess, if you provided something for them—a full endowment, say, for each—until they come of age.”

Santos said, “Damn right.”

“Done!” The muscles in Papa's face fell loose, hanging in folds. “And you're gonna destroy that book, ain'tcha?”

“I'd rather keep it as insurance.” I did not want to hear any more. Possibly, he was lying to me about his involvement in the slave trade. Possibly, he still had deep pockets and a web of criminal connections in Louisiana and planned to have me and the logbook conveniently disappear once we were on shore (I decided it would be best for me to return to southern Illinois); but possibly, too, his equating of personal freedom and racial pride with fantastic wealth and power had gotten the blighter in over his head. Needless to say, I had little sympathy for him. I wanted to give him a good drubbing, but I felt too weakened after learning that Santos might be Baleka's distant cousin, and
that
meant he might be my in-law and come to visit for family reunions. Santos, though, who knew nothing of these backroom dealings, seemed eager to volunteer for the chore. “You bought slaves, Papa? After all I told you 'bout how Ruffner treated me, you did that?” I had to stick out my cane, like a tree limb, to keep him on our side of the table. But yes, it felt good to have his 280 pounds on my side for a change.

Papa had one hand mashed over his heart. “What else is it you want from me, Calhoun?”

“For now, that you leave Isadora and me alone.”

He stood glaring at the logbook, and I put it behind my back, thinking he might leap any second to grab it. Suddenly, the point of my proposition struck home. “Wait a minute.” His eyes snapped level with mine. “That's
blackmail
!”

“Bloody right,” says I. “I'm sure you're acquainted with the technique, Papa.”

I was also sure he had no alternative but to accept. Because there was no reason for me to hear his reply, I closed the logbook and limped toward the door. His man tossed me the key. Neither Papa or Santos had changed position. However, as I closed the door behind me, I did hear, ever so softly, the former dirt-pit wrestler say,
Papa, I'ma kick yo' natural ass.

Squibb, hearing this too, shipped a smile. “Musta gone all right, eh?”

“Aye.”

“Whatcha gonna do now, Illinois? The captain tells me he kin use a coupla hands fer his next voyage. He's makin' a run to the South Seas. You interested?”

“Depends,” I told him, looking aft to where Baleka, brandishing a pot, was chasing a cat; I wondered where the animal had come from. “Might go back to Makanda and look for some land to settle on—solid ground for once, you know?”

“Aye, but if yuh plan to raise kids 'n' chickens, it'd he'p if yuh had a wife, wouldn't it?” I could not have agreed more.

Five turns around the deck, intended to walk off my worrying and my tendency to hiccup during times of stress, brought me to Isadora's door, in my hands a brilliant bouquet of roses I'd “borrowed” from Papa's arrangement in
the messroom. My hands trembled. I felt precariously balanced between my old life in New Orleans and the first rung of another with Isadora, if she would still have an old, broken-down sea dog like me. But why should she, I wondered. She did not know me, as I was now. What was worse, I could not explain myself in a single day. Telling her all I'd endured since I'd seen her last would take a thousand more nights than Scheherazade needed to beguile King Shahryar. Darkness was coming on, the sea trembled as evening shaded down gently over far-reaching waves. I took a breath, then knocked, and Isadora called out, “Come in. It's unlocked.” Anger flared in me again. Hadn't I asked her to keep her latch bolted? Entering, I was prepared to scold her, but when I saw Isadora, there from the doorway, I was certain I had come into the wrong cabin, and rubbed my eyes. Seated on her bed, she wore only a thin cotton gown designed for sleeping. I don't mind telling you this was a shock. I was even less prepared for the birdcage, two smelly dogs, and a cat, lightweight and doubtlessly warm, stretched across her knees like a comforter. The cat and dogs all wore mittens and mufflers. All watched me like bored deck hands waiting for something rich to happen. Quickly, as I shut the door so no one might see her, I realized she had prepared herself not for the man I was now but for the rogue in need of reforming I had been months ago.

“I asked you to lock this. Are you expecting someone?”

“Just you.”

“But you look ready for bed. Are you feeling well?”

“Oh, a little tired, I suppose.” She smiled. “Until you showed up I was worried, but I feel good now.”

I started to ask her to let me feel some of it too, then
stopped, knowing that was what the old Rutherford would say. I struggled for a few seconds, feeling my former ways tugging at me. This was the me Isadora remembered, that she was responding to, but in a way that struck me as contrary to her nature. Truth is, she simply wasn't all that good at acting seductive. Her model, now that I think about it, was a temptress in a play we had seen a year ago, and as Isadora tried to imitate that actress's come-hither expression I could only answer by covering my lips to smother a sudden urge to laugh. But I thought, God bless her for trying.

“Isadora, I spoke to Papa. There won't be any wedding, so you needn't worry.”

“I'm not.” She spanked a spot on the bed for me to sit, which sent her animals flying to the floor. “And my answer is yes, Rutherford. I will marry you and help you make a home for Baleka. I'm sure Captain Quackenbush will perform the ceremony. I mean, everything
is
ready for a wedding.”

I stood where I was, relieved and smiling, but I wondered what to do next, where to begin, how to close the physical distance of the last few months. Furthermore, how could I tell her that Santos might stay overnight if he came to visit? How could we keep him away? More importantly, how in heaven's name would we
feed
him?

“Are those flowers for me?” she asked. Again, she flashed that foolish, fetching, teasingly erotic smile. “Bring them here.”

I sat down beside her, kissed the cheek she turned up toward me, then sat twiddling my thumbs. Meanwhile, Isadora took a whiff of the flowers strong enough to suck a few petals into her nose. She let the bouquet fall to the floor and
turned to me after moistening her lips with the tip of her tongue. Placing her left hand on my shoulder to hold me still, she used her right to grip the top of my slops, and pulled. Buttons popped off my breeches like buckshot, pinging against the bulkhead.

“Isadora,” I asked in a pinched voice, “are you sure you want to do this? We can sit and read Scripture or poetry together, if you wish.”

She made answer by rising to her bare feet, shoving me back onto the bed, and tugging off my boots and breeches. By heaven, I thought, still water runs
deep.
Who'd have dreamed these depths of passion were in a prim Boston schoolteacher? She was so sexually bold I began to squirm. I mean, I was the sailor, wasn't I? Abruptly, my own ache for detumescence, for a little Late Night All Right, took hold of me, beginning at about my fourth rib and flying downward. Soon we both had our hands inside each other's clothes. How long it had been since someone held me, touched me with something other than a boot heel or the back of their hand! And she, so much slimmer—pulling the gown over her head—was to me a figure of such faint-inducing grace any Odysseus would have swallowed the ocean whole, if need be, to swim to her side. I kissed the swale by her collarbone and trailed my lips along her neck. Then, afraid of what I might do next, I slid my fingers under my thighs and sat on my hands.

Isadora twirled slowly on her toes, letting me see all of her. Now that she had my undivided attention, she asked, “Well, what do you think?”

“I'm not thinking.”

“Good.”

“But the animals. Can't you send them outside?”

“Rutherford!”

“At least cover up the birdcage.”

“Don't worry, he's blind.” Her voice was husky. “Just lie still.”

Knowing nothing else to do, I obeyed. Isadora climbed over my outstretched legs, lowered herself to my waist, and began pushing her hips back and forth, whispering, “No, don't move.” I wondered: Where did she learn this? Against her wishes, I did move, easing her onto her side, then placed my hand where it wanted to go. We groped awkwardly for a while, but something was wrong. Things were not progressing as smoothly as they were supposed to. (“Your elbow's in my eyeball,” said I; “Sorry,” said she; “Hold on, I think I've got a charley horse.”) I was out of practice. Rusty. My body's range of motion was restricted by the bruises I had taken at sea, yet my will refused to let go. I peeled off my blouse, determined to lay the ax to the root like a workman spitting on his palms before settling down to the business at hand; but, hang it, my memories of the Middle Passage kept coming back, reducing the velocity of my desire, its violence, and in place of my longing for feverish love-making left only a vast stillness that felt remarkably full, a feeling that, just now, I wanted our futures blended, not our limbs, our histories perfectly twined for all time, not our flesh. Desire was too much of a wound, a rip of insufficiency and incompleteness that kept us, despite our proximity, constantly apart, like metals with an identical charge.

I stopped, and stared quite helplessly at Isadora, who said, “I thought this was what you wanted?”

“Isadora, I . . . don't think so.”

She studied my face, saying nothing, and in this wordless
exchange felt the difference in me. It coincided, I sensed by slow degrees, with one in herself, for in her disheveled blankets we realized this Georgia fatwood furnace we were stoking was not the release either of us needed. Rather, what she and I wanted most after so many adventures was the incandescence, very chaste, of an embrace that would outlast the Atlantic's bone-chilling cold. Accordingly, she lowered her head to my shoulder, as a sister might. Her warm fingers, busy as moths a moment before, were quiet on my chest. Mine, on her hair as the events of the last half year overtook us. Isadora drifted toward rest, nestled snugly beside me, where she would remain all night while we, forgetful of ourselves, gently crossed the Flood, and countless seas of suffering.