Sweetsmoke (5 page)

    Cassius
knew that Hoke was not the tower of strength he had once been. In the past, his
wife would not have dared challenge him. Hoke nevertheless maintained the image
of authority in front of his servants. The calculated time spent writing was
meant to intimidate Cassius. But now that Cassius was here, he found himself in
no hurry to learn the bad news. He took this time to observe his old master.
Age and gravity crept in relentlessly, tugging at his neglected edges. Loose
skin draped off his jawbone, gray tufts spiked from the tops of his ears and
inner caverns, his eyebrows curled into his eyes, and the backs of his hands
wore a pattern of liver spots. At fifty-four, Hoke Howard may have had power,
but Cassius took no small satisfaction in his own relative youth, his physical
strength and the tautness of his skin. Time had squeezed and bruised and
softened Hoke as if he were an overripe pear.

    Cassius
examined the room. Once it had been a sitting room, but Hoke had chosen to make
it his office and the room had been transformed accordingly. Cassius had, in
fact, done the work. He remembered back, seven or eight years, to the months he
had spent in this room. He had built the wall of shelves. He had erected the
wainscoting and created the decorative interior casing for the windows. He had
built all of the furniture, particularly the great desk, as well as the chair
in which Hoke now sat. The old man had a fondness for wooden boxes of different
sizes in which he stored personal items. A low rectangular box held paper
alongside a taller, more narrow box with writing instruments. On the shelves
were boxes appropriate for chewing tobacco, snuff, and his decorative pipes
which Cassius had never seen Hoke smoke. There were boxes for medicines and
candies, and some that were either empty or held items about which Cassius did
not know. Cassius had made many of the boxes, some simple, others elaborate,
but the most ornate boxes had been purchased during Hoke's travels. His eyes
moved around the room. Even the picture frames were his work.

    Behind
Hoke was the oil portrait of his wife, Ellen Corey Howard, in younger days. The
painter had captured an expression in her eyes Cassius did not recognize, and
it made the portrait appear false to him. Cassius had also not remembered her
ever being so pretty. He did not consider that the artist had shrewdly
idealized her; only that the artist may have been mediocre or worse, blind. On
the opposite wall, so placed for Hoke's pleasure, was the portrait of his sons
John-Corey and Jacob. John-Corey was thirteen in the portrait, Jacob ten. The
portrait of his daughters was in another area of the house.

    "Well,
Cassius," said Hoke, looking up. "Did you finish work on the
gate?"

    No
sir.

    "No,"
said Hoke thoughtfully. The issue of the gate seemed to hold little meaning to
him, and Cassius was surprised at how quickly he abandoned it. Hoke Howard
rubbed the root of his nose between his eyebrows with his left thumb and
forefinger. Cassius had seen him perform this gesture many times, and
remembered the same gesture made by his son.

    "I
do not know how things will turn out, I simply do not." Hoke looked not at
Cassius but at the space beside him, as if he spoke to someone else. "What
will be my legacy, with my son gone to war and showing no inclination to take
his natural place at Sweetsmoke? The government raids our essentials to supply
the troops, they appropriate the crop before it can reach market and achieve
its legitimate price, and yet, and yet, when I consider all things, we are well
supplied in comparison to our neighbors. And I'm still in fine health, so there
is time for Jacob to come around, still time, still time. It does not help that
my children and their families are drawn to Sweetsmoke as if to a center of
gravity, yet we nevertheless, with careful management, produce enough to care
for them all, Genevieve, Anne and her family, Nettle and his flock of children,
good God, John- Corey's people, of course, our people. The burden is great,
Cassius, great, but manageable, and yet, so many to care for, so many. My God,
on a daily basis, I know only exhaustion, it resides in every fiber of my
being, the responsibility, and I worry about my health, Cassius. The
responsibility is crushing."

    Cassius
was alarmed to hear him speak this way. The man had opened up a private part of
himself to his slave. Cassius thought back, wondering if Hoke had ever revealed
himself to Cassius before, and realized he certainly had not in the last five
years.

    Hoke
looked directly at him without seeming to see him. His eyes were unfocused, as
if searching for something within his own mind. "Yond Cassius has a lean
and hungry look." His words were sad, spoken as if the words were
unrelated to his true meaning, spoken as if he was unaware of an audience.

    Cassius
was further convinced that everything was different.

    Yond
Cassius? said Cassius.

    "Eh?
Oh. I must have been thinking aloud."

    You
said Yond Cassius.

    Hoke
lightened for a moment, as if taking advantage of a momentary reprieve. "I
named you, Cassius. You were quite the lean sprig when you were born. I thought
you might grow to be a runt."

    I
think I heard you say that once before.

    "Did
I? Yes, of course. Yond Cassius. From
Julius Caesar.
It's a play by
Shakespeare," said Hoke condescendingly. "Julius Caesar was a great
general, although when the play begins, he is emperor of Rome. 'A lean and
hungry look' came immediately to mind when I saw you and I always trust my
first instincts, as I have so often been proven correct. A man named William Shakespeare
wrote the play, but you would not have heard of him."

    In
fact, Cassius had heard of Shakespeare. But he said, No sir.

    "Well,
have no fear, Cassius is an honorable man," said Hoke and laughed to
himself.

    Cassius
took a step toward the shelves as if looking for the book. Hoke watched him
indulgently.

    "Would
you like to see the book that gave you your name?"

    I
think I would, Master Hoke.

    Hoke
moved to his bookshelf, his step assured, abounding with pride. For an instant
Cassius saw the young Hoke, with power invincible. But perhaps he had never
truly possessed that power, perhaps the young Cassius had imposed it upon him.
Hoke reached without hesitation toward the shelf that held the Shakespeare
volumes, but then his hand hesitated as he did not immediately see
Julius
Caesar.
Cassius had already located it, but said nothing.

    "Now
where is that?" said Hoke.

    Hoke
found the book and with his finger atop the spine, drew it from its slot. He cradled
it in his hands, then turned its cover to Cassius.
The Tragedy of Julius
Caesar.

    "Although
I cannot imagine what good it does you," said Hoke. He did not bother to
mention that Cassius could not read.

    Cassius
had been fully aware of the change since the death song in the field, but what
pursued him into this room was something quite remarkable. Hoke was not only
speaking as if he regarded Cassius with respect, he was revealing personal
limitations through candor. Recognizing this sliver of an opening, and knowing
it would soon come to an end once Cassius learned the identity of the dead,
Cassius decided to press his advantage.

    Curious
about my name, said Cassius. How it looks written in a book.

    "Well,"
said Hoke. He opened the book and flipped through a series of pages until he
found the name, put his finger under it, and turned the book to him. "See?
That word there. That is your name. C-A-S-S-I-U-S."

    Hoke
glanced away, holding the book carelessly, unaware that the leaves flipped until
a different page was revealed, and Cassius read a passage to himself:

    Cowards
die many times before their deaths;

    The
valiant never taste of death but once.

    Of
all the wonders that I yet have heard,,

    It
seems to me most strange that men should fear,

    Seeing
that death, a necessary end,

    Will
come when it will come.

    Hoke
snapped the book shut and returned it to the vertical space it had vacated.
"Trust me, were you able to read, you would greatly admire Mr.
Shakespeare."

    Cassius
memorized its place on the shelf. Then he asked the terrible question: Will you
keep us together? With things as they are, will you keep us or will you sell
us?

    If
Hoke thought Cassius overpressed his advantage, he did not show it. "I
will do everything in my power to keep our family together, Cassius. You are my
family, you are aware of that, are you not?"

    Cassius
held his tongue a moment too long before he said: Yes.

    Cassius
knew he dared press no further. Hoke returned to his desk and sat in the chair.
He set his elbows down and folded his fingers together.

    "You
were born here, Cassius. This is your home. You grew up with my son. I daresay
you and Jacob were friends. He grew tall and handsome, did he not? He did not
take you as a personal servant when he joined Ashby. William was an odd choice,
I think. But no matter, perhaps he was protecting you, yes, I suspect that was
it."

    The
news is very bad, thought Cassius. The man delays.

    "Do
you attend church, Cassius?"

    Cassius
shook his head no.

    "No,
I suppose not. Church is for women. And slaves. Not for men." Cassius
realized Hoke had just differentiated him from the rest of his chattel.

    "They
have been dancing around you and have only made it worse," said Hoke
bitterly. "Everyone knows how she took care of you."

    So.
Here it was.

    Hoke
stood. He walked out from behind the desk and onto the long rug, hands behind
his back. "Unnecessary intrigue, a lot of damned nonsense. Are you a
danger to run, Cassius?"

    No
sir.

    "No,
of course not." Then, musing, "Although would you tell me if you
were?" Cassius was unsure if Hoke spoke to him or to some unseen person in
the room. "You already enjoy a freedom most of our family can only dream
about. How I wish I had your freedom." Hoke looked directly at Cassius.

    Cassius
wished he had never entered this room. He wished to further delay the news. He
disliked being treated as if he were more than a slave when he knew so
absolutely that he was not. When Hoke treated him as a human being, Cassius was
unpleasantly reminded of the past, when he had been Hoke's favorite. Cassius
wanted nothing more than to continue hating.

    "I
will just come out and say it, Cassius, as I know you will handle it, and I
trust you will not lose sight of yourself or what you have here." Hoke
hesitated, and Cassius saw a tremor in his hand. Apparently the news had been a
blow to Hoke as well. "She is dead, Cassius, that is all there is to it,
Emoline Justice is dead, and that is that."

    The
room blurred before his eyes and for a moment Cassius did not know where he
was. Time stretched and at any other moment, he would have recognized his silence
as dangerous, but at this moment time had little meaning as his head filled
with voices from the past. It was what he had both dreaded and expected, but to
have it verified took something out of him. His body grew unexpectedly heavy
and he feared the floorboards might bow and splinter beneath the sudden weight
of his legs and feet. He no longer saw Hoke's study, as in his mind he was
looking at the snow piled up outside, against the window, and in that moment he
felt her hands on his back, gently applying salve. But before the sorrow could
expand and well up and smother him, he remembered where he was and he
compressed his emotion and forced it deep down into the darkest pocket of his
mind so that he would be incapable of revealing his feelings.

    He
worked to make his voice sound normal: When?

    "Last
night. Monday, yesterday."

    How?

    "Someone…
Well, from the little I know, someone struck her. Struck her violently at the
back of the head, they said."

    Who
did it to her?

    "I
do not know that, Cassius. No one knows that."

    Someone
knows, thought Cassius. The one who did it to her knows. But he did not speak
these thoughts aloud. Perhaps she had spoken her mind once too often, and that
had led to her death.