Sweetsmoke (14 page)

    "That
last one who walked past?"

    "Do
you refer to Cassius?"

    "He
made eye contact with me. And he did not look away!"

    "Cassius
is a good boy."

    "That
very fashion of coddling is what leads to rebellion. Have you forgotten Toussaint?
No sir, beat them down and you will never hear the least murmur of revolt; if
you do not, you will one day wake to find nigras in your bedroom brandishing
farm tools!"

    "You
will cease this sordid talk, Mr. Francis," said Frances Jarvis, coming to
her feet. "These are our guests."

    The
Judge pursed his lips, cowed by her disapproval. After a moment's pause he said
with effort, "I will bring my friend Hoke another libation and we will
speak of Victor Hugo's new book." The Judge turned, looked at his daughter
Mary, and with a forceful nod of the head directed her inside the big house,
out of sight.

    Ellen
saw that Hoke nursed injured feelings, but she glared at him so that when his
eyes met hers, he sat upright. He said then, "Yes, Hugo, what did you say
it was titled?"

    
"Les
Miserables,
and I had hoped to dust off my rather dismal French to read it,
but with the embargo, well, I know you of all people understand," said the
Judge.

    "You
do realize it has also been published here, in English?
The Miserable Ones
."

    "Yes,
yes, and I am having someone up North send me a copy, but

    it is
so much better to read it in the original language, do you not agree?

    Ellen
listened to her husband lunge and parry with the Judge and she fretted. She may
have disliked the time spent with other planter families, but she also feared
that the Howards were excluded from the social whirl of the county. She blamed
her own personality, feeling that her moody, bitter thoughts leaked and made
her transparent to others. But as she listened to her husband she entertained
the possibility of another villain.

    In a
moment of horror, she realized Frances Jarvis had been speaking to her. Ellen
turned to her hostess. She knew that Frances would infuse the moment with her
code of superiority; she would quash all discord with proper manners.

    "I
must say, I rarely leave Edensong now," said Frances Jarvis.

    "Do
you not?" said Ellen.

    "I
do not and I cannot. It is our people, you understand. They need to be watched
all the time, it is worse than ever. I am certain that you experience the same,
my dear. The simplest requests, and they refuse to do what is expected of them,
always doing things you do not wish for them to do, no matter how expressly you
tell them. They are such children, and yet, unlike children, they seem
incapable of learning the most rudimentary things. Repetition is not enough, oh
no, if I am not present at all times the entire household will go to the
Devil."

    Ellen
watched Frances's words sour her face, and she thought of Frances as a
repetitive scold, one whose tyranny had undermined her humanity.

    A
strange and fleeting image entered Ellen's mind, that of a large cage in a
small room. The cage was filled with slaves while their masters were outside
the cage squeezed and immobile in the narrow space between cage and walls. This
was a queer image indeed as both master and slave were unable to reach the
fresh air that beckoned through a wide open door. In that tiny vision she
thought she might be experiencing a moment of insight, but it came and went so
quickly that she was unable to recall it a moment later. She returned to
Frances Jarvis's ramble and was eased back into the comfort of what she had
always known, that the negro was inferior and required the guidance and
assistance of the white planters. We are, after all, benevolent, she thought,
and by our generosity, our people are well served, as they are clothed, fed,
housed, taken care of in all the small ways that they cannot do for themselves.

    "I
do not know why they have so little appreciation for what we do for them,"
said Frances Jarvis. "We take good care of them, there is no way they
could do for themselves."

    Little
appreciation, thought Ellen. She also had seen the look in Cassius's eye. She
knew well that when given a taste of freedom, her people were not grateful.
Therein lay the danger of benevolence; a small morsel might bring appreciation,
while a grand gesture might bring treachery. She feared them at those moments,
imagining that they would indeed resort to offensive methods to obtain their
freedom, thereby destroying their own wonderful existence. The Judge had it
right. And Cassius was the worst of them all.

    "Now,"
said Frances, smoothing her dress, "perhaps you would care to join us in
our cartridge class, Ellen?"

    "I
beg your pardon, Frances, what is a cartridge class?"

    "We
gather together a small group of the better ladies and load cartridges for the
soldiers. Women all over the Commonwealth are doing it."

    Ellen
Howard had already forgotten that she had, moments before, been fretful about
the Howard family's social position, and she said, "Oh, Frances, I do
appreciate the invitation, but I believe I will not be able to attend."

    Approaching
the small barn, Andrew ran ahead to join his friends. Cassius saw individual
exhibitions of vibrant color as everyone was dressed in their finery, and amid
the bright oranges and yellows and greens and blues were spectacular splashes
of bold red. He took note of his own attire. He had worn drab work clothes
without thinking. Cassius had unintentionally estranged himself from the
festivities. He wandered down to the orchard, where a storyteller rambled
through an overlong tale while standing under a tree dense with tiny clenched
green apples. Abram was among the judges, and his eyelids fluttered as his chin
drifted to his chest only to jerk back up again. Cassius did not see Weyman, so
he ducked behind a line of haystacks that separated the storytellers from the
stage. He was surprised to discover Weyman holding a jug.

    You
already done, Weyman? Sorry I missed it, said Cassius.

    No
sir, mine just comin up, old windbag James been up there huntin for the end of
his tale some ten minutes now, and if he don't finish soon, I'm hittin him in
the face with a shovel. Uncle Paul there up next. Uncle Paul, y'all any closer
to rememberin how your story starts yet? said Weyman.

    Paul
nodded, looking green.

    Uncle
Paul, said Weyman with false seriousness, ain't been real successful keepin
down his supper.

    Never
saw you romance a bottle in advance of your event, Weyman, and you got some
hard judges out there, said Cassius.

    Y'all
know a story tells better when lubricated, said Weyman.

    Never
saw you lubricate in the past, when you won, thought Cassius to himself.

    I'll
come back, said Cassius in a manageable lie. He left the orchard and went out
to the lane where children shucked corn with their mothers. An impressive rig
of green-jacketed ears were piled high against the planks of the small barn,
unsheathed one-by-one rapidly and tossed to the summit of a rising stack even
as the smallest children plundered the pile from below. The corn was from the
previous years' harvest, each cob with teeth missing like an old man's mouth,
while the remaining kernels were poorly kept with an intimate knowledge of
mold. Cassius filched a husked ear and tasted kernels that ground to mush
between his teeth and left a queer aftertaste.

    He
walked past Tempie Easter and Pet seated high on a horseless buckboard. They
preened for a pair of hands Cassius did not recognize, and he assumed they were
from the plantation called Little Sapling. Tempie appeared snug and dry in her
astonishing red dress, a vibrant revelation among even the grandest of outfits.
Pet wore a dress she had borrowed from Tempie, but the red of her dress was a
shade deeper and the cut was more ordinary, uncomfortably tight on the plump
house girl, with underarm stains that were rimmed by salt down near her waist.
The smaller Little Sapling man stood on tiptoes to appear taller. It seemed
that he thought Pet bulged in all the right places.

    Initially,
Cassius thought it a trick of his peripheral vision, but when he looked back he
saw the edge of it clearly, a small wooden box that Tempie attempted to hide in
the folds of her red dress. He recognized the box, he had seen it recently on
Hoke Howard's desk; a box for snuff, predominately green with narrow brown
strips inlaid. It had taken him a significant number of hours to carve that
inlay. He thought her brazen and foolish to have it out in the open, especially
if she planned to trade it for a special treat, and perhaps she recognized her
error in judgment as he saw her push the box away, to hide it in the folds of
Pet's dress. Cassius met her narrowed eyes. He returned to the path.

    Banjo
George had found a spot that would both serenade the corn shuckers and carry
down the lane. Cassius saw he was lit up and suspected the Edensong men had
passed the jug early. Banjo George teased Joseph, holding the banjo just out of
his reach.

    You
gonna play for the folks, Joseph? said George, as the banjo wavered in the air.

    Joseph
lunged to catch it as it appeared that Banjo George would lose his grip, but
his reach fell short when George yanked it back.

    Not
your fault, boy, you just a young dog sniffin 'round the big dog field, you got
to earn the right to play this, said Banjo George.

    I
know, said Joseph, shaking his head, embarrassed to be there and embarrassed
that his teacher was making a fool of himself. Joseph stepped back, looking to
escape.

    You
want to be the Man? Then, earn the right to play. You got to live the pain. You
got to suffer, can't just pick it up when you feel like it. Tell you what, we
go set this blade in the fire, get it red hot and carve a little decoration in
your shoulder, prove you can take it, then you be man enough to play this here
banjo.

    Cassius
stopped close behind Banjo George.

    No, I
don't think so, sir, said Joseph.

    Sure,
said Banjo George, goading. Prove to me you strong, show off for the ladies.

    Must
not be man enough, said Joseph, and Cassius smiled at that answer. You play for
us, George.

    Not
ready to be a man? said Banjo George, louder and with an edge.

    Think
I'll go check on the dance, said Joseph.

    You
stay here, said Banjo George sharply.

    Cassius
stepped in.

    You
ever see what George here went through to become a man, Joseph? said Cassius.

    Reckon
not, said Joseph guardedly, thinking two older men now goaded him.

    Maybe
George'll open his shirt, said Cassius.

    His
shirt? said Joseph. Banjo George patted his chest.

    This
man George, he carved so much of his chest, why, if the angels don't weep when
he plays, then pain ain't all it's cracked up to be. How 'bout it, George, you
ready?

    I am
ready, sir.

    You
ready to play like nobody ever played before?

    Got
me a new song I wrote myself.

    A new
song, said Cassius in exaggerated awe.

    Not
just new, this here song inspired by the Lord, said Banjo George, leaning
sideways to look around Cassius at Joseph. Lord gifted me when I'se sufferin
the great chest tattoo.

    Well
I'll be switched, George, said Cassius. The Lord.

    That so,
Cassius, song came with a bolt of thunder from the Lord hisself.

    A
rumble of lightning, said Cassius happily in the voice of the preacher.

    Cassius,
on the day I enter heaven, I will sing this song to the Lord.

    Cassius's
brow furrowed. Didn't you say the Lord gave you this song?

    That
so.

    Well,
now you got me wondering. Why give it away? Why didn't the Lord keep his song?
If He liked it, you'd think He'd want to hear it regular. I'm thinking the Lord
didn't want that song no more.

    No,
He wanted it—

    Maybe
the Lord was drunk when he wrote that song.