Tiny, sharp stones dug into her knees and the side of her face as the baby she carried rolled and kicked in protest inside of her.
“I don’t want to do this, Lou, but them boys you got don’t know how to mind,” Lessing said in a voice that dripped with mock sympathy. “Now they gone and run off.” He looked out across the land. “Won’t get far, though, that’s for sure,” he added thoughtfully. “That’s for damn sure. Now, someone’s got to get whipped.” Lessing rubbed at his bruised chin. “They ain’t here to take their punishment, so you the next best thing.”
Lou squeezed her eyes shut.
“If it could be any other way, it would be,” Lessing said, and walked a safe distance away before giving Malroy the go-ahead.
She expected some sort of announcement, a statement that would begin the torture, but all that came was the crack of the whip and then her own high-pitched screams for mercy ringing in her ears.
* * *
Her cries cut across the field and reach out to the boys who are balancing themselves on the crooked limbs of the magnolia trees. In the darkness they are almost invisible behind the waxy, emerald-colored leaves.
Lou’s cries strum their heartstrings as they grip the limbs tighter and squeeze their eyes shut.
When the crack of the whip is no longer heard and Lou’s cries fade to nothing, the boys climb down from their hiding place and move in circles in the thick of night in search of food.
Every night is like the night before until Jim looks at Jeff, rubs his eyes, and says, “Want Mama.”
Freedom is not sweet, Jeff decides, as he takes Jim by the hand and they start toward the twinkling light of oil lamps.
Jeff’s heart is beating so hard in his ears that he does not hear the snapping of twigs when Malroy steps out of the darkness and wallops first Jeff, then Jim, with a cast-iron pan.
* * *
“They back.” The whisper nudges its way into her dream.
“Huh?” Lou says, but does not move. She is on her side, a sheet thrown across her stomach and naked breasts. Her back is bare and the moon clings to the gaping scars that are lined with a greenish-brown salve made from stinkweed and sassafras.
“Malroy got ’em, both of dem,” the voice says.
“They ain’t dead?” Lou’s voice is almost sorry.
“Not yet.”
* * *
When Jeff regains consciousness again, he’s on his back, spread-eagled, wrists and ankles tied to a wagon wheel. Jim is tied to a tree, legs stuck out in front of him, head lolling on his chest.
Malroy is perched on a barrel a few feet away, smoking and sipping whiskey from a jar.
The dark sky hangs above them, the dim quarter-moon glowing somewhere off to the right while the blinking stars look down on them.
Jeff’s throat pulses with pain and he can feel the ropes cutting through the skin of his wrists and shins. He twists this way and that, and the ropes slice deeper, sending fire through his wounds.
“This gonna be the last night you boys see.” Malroy’s voice comes to him first and the footsteps follow. “You the one who did it?” he asks, bending down so he can get a better look at Jeff. “Was it you or him?” he asks, his hand coming up and pointing toward Jim, who is just beginning to stir. “I could never tell the two of y’all apart.” Malroy grumbles and tips the jar to his lips again.
Jeff says nothing.
“The devil musta got ahold of you.” Malroy’s face swims above Jeff’s. “’Cause I can’t think of one good reason why you would do what you done.” Malroy shakes his head with dismay, then shuffles over to Jim. “Thought one of you had some sense,” he says, and kicks at the soles of Jim’s feet. “You the one who did it?”
Jim’s eyes flutter.
“Well,” Malroy mutters in resignation, “I guess it don’t matter which one of you did it. When Massa get back from Myanmar, both y’all going to swing.”
* * *
It scratches at the back of Lou’s mind as she eases herself into a sitting position and her back screams out in pain. It’s there, even though she pretends it’s not. That thing she will have to do. Her God-given right, the only one the white people haven’t found a way to take from her.
It is a necessary act; she’s seen it played out day in and day out for as long as she can remember. The weaker is always destroyed. Sometimes pounced upon and eaten by its own mother, other times tossed from the nest and left to die.
Rubbing her stomach with one hand and reaching for her shift with the other, she forces herself to focus on the situation at hand, even though her mind is trying to drag her to a safe place—that place in time that is frozen inside of her, bright and colorful and full of yellow sun and a cool blue sea.
“Can’t right this minute,” she chastises her mind aloud, and eases the smock over her head.
Shuffling over to a shelf, she reaches for the small paring knife she uses to gut chickens and skin taters.
“The strong have a better chance of surviving,” she whispers as she starts out the door. “The strong have a better chance of living to fight or run another day.”
___________________
“What you want?” Malroy slurs when his bleary eyes catch sight of Lou.
“Just wanna see my boys before they taken away from me is all,” Lou says, and shuffles forward.
Malroy eyes her and then pulls the small bottle of whiskey from his pocket, unscrewing the lid and swinging it in Lou’s direction. “Want a taste?”
Lou says nothing. Malroy laughs and takes a long gulp before replacing the lid and pushing it back into his pocket.
“Go on,” he spits. “But don’t take all night.”
She knows just who is who. Jeff is slightly taller, stronger around the chin, while Jim’s eyes droop a bit and his mouth is soft like woman’s. Both boys are as still as corpses, but the slight rise and fall of their chests lets Lou know otherwise.
She moves toward Jim, who is roped to the trunk of an ash tree. She watches him for a while, takes in his features, but stills herself from reaching out to touch him. The night blows around her and the stars glitter like silver in the black sky while the moon frowns down on the earth and the mess the white men have made of it.
“I believe I’ll take you up on that offer,” she throws over her shoulder at Malroy before turning to face Jim again.
Malroy, his chin resting on his chest, back barely scraping the round wood of the water barrel, lifts his head on a weak neck. “Heh?”
“I believe I’ll have that drink now.”
Malroy’s face goes blank and then a sinister smile swells on his lips before he clumsily removes the bottle from his pocket and passes it over Lou.
Lou inhales, presses the glass lip to her mouth, throws her head back, and drinks.
Back with Jim now, she settles herself down on the ground in front of him, folding her legs beneath her, and places one hand flat on the cold ground. The other she wraps tight around the paring knife and rests her fist in her lap.
She waits.
Before long, the muttering and drunken chuckles from Malroy come to an end and are replaced by loud snores. It is then that Lou moves onto her knees and crawls forward.
She allows herself to touch him, to stroke his leg, caress his young face, before grabbing hold of his chin and pulling down gently until his tongue is visible.
He stirs a bit, weakly moving his head left and then right, trying to climb out of the blackness the blow from the pan hurled him into, but Lou holds fast, reaching in and catching hold of his tongue. Fingers nimble, hand swift, she slices into the pink flesh, severing it and tossing it flapping to the ground.
Then she presses her lips against the crying, screaming ones of her child and spits the whiskey she’s been holding in her own mouth down into his.
Lou jerks her head back, and Jim sprays the night air blood red. His eyes are wild and his lips flap helplessly as Lou takes his face and presses it against her bosom, rocking him until the pain and the shock pull him back into the darkness again.
* * *
Just before dawn and before they are even heard, Jeff feels the vibrations of the horses’ hooves. Then the galloping sounds cut through the purple-blue haze of the new day.
Malroy, groggy and head still spinning from the whiskey, pulls himself up and hurriedly brushes at his clothing as he tries to shake the dullness from his mind. His eyes fall on Jeff and then Jim, whose chin is resting on his chest, which is caked with dried blood. Before Malroy can move to investigate, Lessing and two of his cronies gallop into the clearing.
One is potbellied and blond and carries a jug of whiskey, and the other is tall like Lessing, but thinner, with puffed cheeks and dark hair. Lessing carries a whiskey jug too, and is the first to dismount. The other two follow. None of the men are steady on their feet.
The potbellied one comes to stand by Jeff’s head. He lifts his boot, balancing it over Jeff’s face. “Watch out, now!” he screams, and Jeff squeezes his eyes shut, bracing himself for the hard sole and the pain. But the boot comes down a half-inch from Jeff’s cheek. “Okay, okay, my aim is off.” The man laughs and raises his boot again.
It goes on like that at least a dozen times, until the man tires of the game and walks away.
“Malroy, fetch his mother,” Charlie Lessing instructs, then turns the whiskey jug up to his lips.
Three minutes later, Lou appears.
“Yassir?” she says, careful not to look at Jeff or Jim, whose head is still hanging limp. Her eyes hold fast to the tops of Lessing’s shoes.
“One of these boys did a very bad thing,” Lessing says, his hands laced behind his back. “But, of course, you already know that.” He snickers.
Lou says nothing.
“If you were raising them right, they would know their places.” Lessing shakes his head and drags his hands through his hair. “I can’t have no niggers of mine stepping out of their place.”
Lessing’s eyes swing between the boys. “Which one done it, Malroy?”
Malroy’s eyes follow suit. “I—I don’t know, sir,” he mutters.
Lessing’s face flinches and his eyes bore into Lou. “Which one done it, Lou?”
Lou raised her hand and pointed a shaky finger at Jim.
Jeff’s eyes bulged and his mouth fell open, but the words he wanted to holler out seemed to be caught in his throat. It was only then that Lou allowed her gaze to brush over him; it was a cold and sweeping look that chilled Jeff and forced his mouth to snap shut.
“Jeff. He the one that done the bad thing to you,” Lou said, and finally turned to look at the child her words would hang.
Lessing nodded his head and walked a crooked line over to Jim. “Hey, boy, hey!” he said as he kicked at the soles of Jim’s feet. “Get up, now; it’s time to die!” He laughed.
Jim slowly raised his head.
“What the hell happened to him?” Lessing said in disgust, taking a few steps backward.
Jim’s lips were bloated purple and crusted with blood.
“Malroy, what you do to him?” The sight of Jim’s face snatched Lessing’s drunkenness right from him as he turned to confront Malroy.
Malroy straightened his back. “Nothing, I ain’t touch ’em, ’cept to knock ’em down and bring ’em here,” he nervously sputtered.
“He gets fits, sir,” Lou said quietly.
Lessing spun around. “What?”
“He gets fits,” Lou said again.
Lessing looked back at Jim. “That true, Malroy?” he asked over his shoulder.
Malroy scratched at his head and looked hard at Lou. He’d never heard of either of the boys having fits. But there were a lot of things kept from him. And then again, he thought as his eyes fell on the discarded whiskey bottle, there were things he just couldn’t seem to remember.
“Yassir,” he said, his voice a bit unsure.
Lessing picked up a broken tree limb and jabbed at Jim’s cheek. Jim opened his mouth to scream, but only a choking sound emerged. “Jesus, the boy bit his tongue clean off,” Lessing said in disgust as he tossed the limb aside. “Well, let’s string him up.”
* * *
The horse brays and shuffles restlessly as Malroy sits behind Jim, holding him upright with one hand while working to loop the noose around his neck with the other.
“It is up to you,” Charlie Lessing screams and points a scolding finger at the crowd of slaves that huddle and watch, “to make sure your offspring know that they are slaves and the white man is the master!”
Lou watches as the potbellied man’s hands tighten around the reins as Malroy climbs down.
Jim’s eyes lay on her, pull at her, ask her,
Why? Why?
Some of the women turn away, some of the men walk away, but Lou remains, eyes open and clear. She will watch Jim leave the world the same way she watched him squeeze into it.
“Those who can’t hear will feel!” Lessing bellows, and with the drop of his arm, Malroy slaps the mare on the behind, sending her tearing out from beneath Jim’s body.
Jeff screams as Jim’s face is streaked with terror and then panic when his air is cut off. His feet flail and kick, and his mouth opens and spews nothing.
The nothingness is so loud and heavy that it knocks Lou to her knees.
She remains there until Jim is still. She remains there inhaling the scent of the good earth, feeling God’s gentle breeze against her face. Then she rises, laughs, and begins to dance, hopping from one foot to the next, spinning and chanting the song of the dead:
Return to Mother Earth and become joyful in the light beyond the living. Return to Mother Earth and become joyful in the light of the living . . .
* * *
Everything she thought she’d lost or forgotten is returned to her in Jim’s last moments of life: the scent of her grandfather’s pipe, her mother’s soft hand protectively wrapped around her own, her father’s strong back, the kind eyes of her brothers . . .
Everything.
Goodbyes are for white folks.
Hand-holding people crossing dew-drenched meadows. Stargazing people whom the years have bound together so tightly, the two become one. Gray-haired people with creased faces and shared memories.