Sweetsmoke (9 page)

    Sometime
during the second week, he asked Emoline why, with her knowledge and gifts, she
told the fortunes of whites but never of blacks.

    She
acted as if the fact that he had even asked such a question was a wonderful
sign, because any interest in a topic outside his anger meant he was improved.
Her explanation was delivered in her familiar, self-assured voice: She told
only white fortunes because the future must not be predicted nor anticipated.
She would not bring false hope to her people. Their lives were hopeless enough
without packing them with lies. She was more than happy to take money to
manufacture white fortunes, sewn out of whole cloth and presented in a pretty
package, and wouldn't you know, the odder her predictions, the more her clients
desired them.

    Emoline
left her home on occasion to visit these clients and she carried her tools with
her, as she would not have others in her home while Cassius was healing.
Cassius knew that Hoke sometimes visited her for conjuring, and wondered if
during those weeks she ever ventured to Sweetsmoke.

    By
the second week, Cassius discovered he had less pain. He sat up. Emoline taught
him the alphabet. He learned quickly, filling his aching, empty, hungry brain.
By the end of the week, he recognized words. By the third week, he read
sentences.

    Somewhere
in the second week, Cassius noticed a distraction in Emoline's eyes and he
wondered about it until Hoke sent the first messenger. At the knock on the
door, Cassius rose to his feet in defiance, his back bristling. Emoline pushed
past him and opened the door herself. The messenger was one of the grooms from
Sweetsmoke, saying that Master Hoke was anxious to have his man back. She sent
the messenger away without explanation. A few days later, another messenger
arrived, this time William, the butler. To him she said simply, "Not
yet." But for all her certainty, Cassius continued to identify a nervous
energy in her demeanor.

    She
could heal him physically, but his mental healing followed a separate path. For
this she could only offer tools, and she knew her time was limited. She was
pleased to see him learn words and sentences, and this new ability, this
ability to read, reshaped his mind. For the first time in his life he
experienced a nugget of personal power that was not a gift from his master. He
did not know what might come of that power, but he knew it was greater than the
strength of his arms, the power owned and benefited from by the Master. Reading
was his secret power, and through it he recognized the small budding cancer of
hope.

    By
the third week he was moving well, and in between her reading lessons, she put
his skills to work. He built for her a false panel between the hearth and the
perpendicular streetside wall. She did not say why she desired a hiding place.
He assumed it was to protect her money and her free papers.

    When
the false wall was finished, he knew it was time to return to Sweetsmoke and he
was able to pretend to be mentally recovered.

    The
citizens of the Commonwealth of Virginia marked time from that day, January 16,
1857. But more to the point, slaves living in the Commonwealth marked that day.
Many slaves did not know their birthdays, but they remembered the day of the
Cold Storm that blanketed the state and brought everything to a halt. It snowed
and then it snowed. Snow waves crested under eaves and rolled up against doors,
where they froze in place. People did not leave their homes. Cassius could not
leave for the plantation, so he stayed another week with Emoline Justice, and
his reading improved and his comprehension grew.

    He
would return to Emoline's home many times in the ensuing years, and she would
give him a Bible of his own to read, the book currently hidden in his cabin,
and he would return with questions that she attempted to answer. But it was that
last week, with snow falling on the roof over their heads, that he felt his
confidence grow as he became fluent.

    On
returning to Sweetsmoke, Cassius walked down the lane of the quarters. Snow
melted, a trickle glinting down the Suetsmoke gully under a cover of lacy
snowpack. He returned to his cabin on the lane, where it had stood empty for
weeks. He stopped in the doorway and took in the large room with the cold
hearth barely discolored with soot. He walked around to the back, to what
remained of Marriah's garden, blanketed by snow that was unblemished. His shoes
crunched through the icy top layer. Black sprigs of a sapling poked through a
drift; he had planted it to coincide with the birth of his son. He dug his
fingers down in the snow to secure the narrow trunk and wrenched it out of the
earth. He threw it aside, where it remained as the snow melted beneath it,
until someone sometime later took it away.

    The
only excuse for a tree or garden was to invest in the future. No future
existed. His heart was as cold as his fingers and knuckles had been on that day
when he had wrenched out the sapling. He hated Jacob for what he had done, but
it was not unusual or unexpected—he hated Hoke more, for protecting his planter
son and for the three days in the tobacco shed.

    He
rose from his pallet fully awake, his legs sore from running in his sleep. He
found the cigar that he had hand-rolled earlier in the day, and a Lucifer
friction match, and put them both into his pouch and went outside.

    The
last of the fires sizzled. Wooden crosses surrounded him, dark and erect, fresh
bulbous candles dangling off their arms. The smoke had cleared, a few crickets
persisted in the night air and the dew cooled his bare feet. Mr. Nettle would
have made his final pass down the lane hours ago. Cassius considered going into
the woods, but it would be a slow and tedious journey to his traps in the dark.
He had decided to go to town on Saturday night. Friday was the Fourth, and
there would be celebrations, but Saturday would still see many hands traveling
to their abroad husbands or wives. The patrollers would soon tire of checking
passes by lantern light for the second straight night, and he could utilize the
whole night, as Sunday was free. The Big-To-Do was Sunday at Edensong, the
Jarvis plantation, and not even Hoke would dare take that away from his
"family," not even for hornworms.

    He
ran his finger over the piece of string he had tied around the end of the
cigar, an inch from the lip end, a personal habit and his alone, then brought
the cigar between his teeth and dug for the match. Unable to find it in his
pouch, he ducked under the arms of a cross and pushed the other end of the
cigar into a banked fire. He stood slowly, drawing in the smoke, thinking that
he would have to see if his pouch had developed a hole and if it could be
mended. He looked back at the pale dry shapes made by his bare feet in the
dew-covered dust where he had walked from his cabin. He smoked awhile standing
there, and after many minutes had passed, he saw her in the cleared space
beside his cabin. She sat on a log under a tree, and she hadn't moved. His
heart raced, thinking her a spirit or an illusion, but when she smiled, he knew
she was real and had been staring at him. He walked over to her. As he got
closer, she seemed to duck away, and Cassius knew that she had not wanted him
to see her. He considered that, and thought that it had to do with her being
perceived as a jinx.

    Quashee
is an unusual name, said Cassius.

    Not
for an African.

    You
born in Africa?

    No, I
was born here.

    Your
name got a meaning?

    What
make you say that? she said.

    Something
I was told, African names got meanings, and you didn't get Quashee from a white
master.

    No. My
father gave it to me. Quashee's a girl born on Sunday.

    Ah.
So what day were
you
born? said Cassius.

    She
smiled graciously. And your name? she said.

    My
name came from Hoke.

    So no
meaning.

    Got a
meaning to Hoke. He plucked it from a play. From
Julius Caesar,
by
Shakespeare.

    Ah.
William Shakespeare.

    Cassius
was surprised. You know Shakespeare? he said.

    I
heard the name, she said, looking away as if she had revealed too much.

    Can
you read?

    She looked
back at him and considered his expression. Then she said: No.

    Cassius
almost spoke up, but caught himself. She had not asked him if he could read,
but if she had, he would also have said no.

    Why're
you out here? said Cassius.

    Why're
you?
she said.

    Running
from a dream.

    My
muscles are too tired to run, I lie still and my leg knots up, said Quashee.
She reached down and rubbed her calves.

    Savilla
probably got a balm for that.

    Savilla
got some witch's brew for most everything, said Quashee.

    Guess
I forgot, wouldn't be like you to believe in low negro superstition, you being
part big house.

    You
ain't exactly a field hand.

    Cassius
smiled. No. So why're you sitting here?

    Didn't
know this was your field.

    Most
likely that didn't come out right.

    It's
late. Someone comes out, they like to ask questions, she said. Cassius smiled
and looked down. She went on: Over here, I am out of their way.

    Cassius
nodded, thinking, Out of the path of insatiable young men. Out of the way of
gossiping women. Out of the way of people imagining you to be bad luck.

    She
looked at the cigar in his hand.

    Your
cigar got a string, said Quashee.

    He
raised it as if seeing it for the first time. Nodded.

    Any
reason for that? she said.

    He
took her in with a full look, then spoke the truth: Did it once years ago, when
all I had was an old leaf wouldn't hold together. Some of the others laughed,
so instead of explaining I said it made the smoke taste smooth. They believed
it, and a few even tried it once or twice, said I was right. I did it for the
next one and now it's just habit.

    Does
it make it taste smooth?

    No.

    They
were quiet for a moment, staring at the dying fires on the lane.

    So
why're they keeping you down here? You belong up at the house, said Cassius.

    They
won't see me at the big house.

    Who
won't?

    Missus
Ellen. We've been called up, but always get sent back before she sees us. I
asked her girl Pet, but she's got nothing to say to me.

    Cassius
saw Quashee catch herself, letting her literate big house voice slip through.
He imagined she was considering revising herself, but she clamped her mouth
shut.

    I
know they could use you, said Cassius, but he remembered how Pet had tried to convince
Ellen to use Tempie Easter as a personal servant.

    Seems
like they already got a full staff.

    Sarah
should have someone, said Cassius.

    Quashee
considered that and nodded. She said: I hoped to work for Master Jacob's wife,
but she's always in her bed. Not much for a personal servant to do but bring
food and empty the slops.

    Pet
and the others do for Sarah but they don't like it. Ellen is spiting her
daughter-in-law.

    Then I
would surely love to be part of that, said Quashee with a low laugh.

    Cassius
was aware of an undercurrent of tension.

    You
think they'll sell you, said Cassius, making a statement.

    No
good at field work, said Quashee. And now I'm bad luck.

    Stupid
talk. Something bad's always happening in the quarters. Makes no sense to make
it about you.

    Seems
to be about my master John-Corey.

    So I
hear. John-Corey dies in the war and starts a run of bad luck, then you come
with your father and bring it along.

    They
say we brought the hornworms.

    Hornworms
started up before you came. Just another excuse to blame someone else for their
troubles.