him, letting him take the answer to be no. But it's like this. Long ago. Long ago. How long ago? I don't even know. I stopped letting myself want anything I could not have.
Hours later Jeems pulled the carriage up in front of my house and I got out.
33
R. wanted to know who the boy was who had brought me back from Cotton Farm. I wanted to wince when he spoke "boy," but I answered, "Jeems," and gave him my smile. For the first time, the first time ever, I'm wondering what it was he did remember about before Emancipation. "You remember the Twins Other was sweet on?"
"Those big red-haired boys?"
"Them."
He nodded, but there was an unspoken question hiding in his smile.
"Jeems was their tenth birthday present. He was ten too."
"The Twins are dead now."
"Yeah, they are."
"Gettysburg."
"Gettsyburg."
Already R. had lost interest. He wasn't interested in slaves. I tried another smile, but my mouth sort of stuck to my teeth, and all I made was something that looked like snaggles peeking through half a moon. My face was changing. I wondered if he could see it yet. I smiled the half-broken smile that conceals. I achieved a fraction more. The edges of my lips were heavy, and I could feel the inside of my lips sticking to my teeth. Always, when I'm awkward or clumsy, I'm grateful for beauty which causes men not to notice my other imperfections.
I wanted to ask R. if he was grateful for my beauty, but I did not. Questions like that can only be written here. They can't breathe. Is he ever grateful for anything I do?
I told him I was tired, and he told me to be down in time for the evening meal. I told him dust was with me still. Dust of death and dust of road. I needed sleep, day sleep now, and water. I blinked, and then I wanted to cry with no cause.
He said, "Be down in time for supper. A Congressman is coming to dine."
At noon the young maid brought dinner up to my room: cold fried chicken and a glass of wine. She is an olive-skinned, straight-haired girl, a slim-as-a-beanpole beauty, heavy on her feet, but there is a lot of Indian in her nigger. She closed the door behind her when she entered. Just then she appeared a breathless, hipless, and unsexed creature. The drumming of her feet as she crossed my room, placing the tray or unpacking my bag or storing clothes away in the chifforobe, lulled me to sleep. I fell asleep and dreamed of Jeems.
It was a very bad dream. I dug up the grave of the last of the dead baby boys. The one born the year I went away. I dug into his grave, opened the coffin, and Jeems popped out, live, like a jack-in-the-box. He had a hundred white teeth. There were too many teeth, but they were so pretty, like pearls bright shining, and I was glad he had so many yet repulsed at the same time. I wanted him to stop grinning so he would still have the teeth but I wouldn't see them.
But he wouldn't stop grinning, and I couldn't get the lid of the coffin back on. I woke up with sweat and tears running down my face. I just had time to dress.
34
I'll be late down to supper now. But R. say the Congressman will be later. I hope Mrs. Dred larded the turkey enough so the meat won't be dry with long cooking. Of all our peculiar customs, I find it strange that we denizens of the Southland don't have a taste for cool foodâeven in August. I told her to wrap the turkey in bacon before cooking, but she knows I don't like to serve the turkey with the bacon on it, so I suspect the bacon is someone's dinner and not on the turkey at all, and I can't be angry. Everybody needs to eat.
R. came into the room and led me to the bed. He lay me down upon it. And undressed me as if I was a child. He sat down beside me. He kissed my forehead and my lips. Ran his hand across my belly. His hand just hovered over the curly dark separating my thighs. When he looked at me this way, I knew he wouldn't love me. Wouldn't touch me. Wouldn't take me.
I still stir his mind, but I can no longer for sure stir his body. He is still
Hours later Jeems pulled the carriage up in front of my house and I got out.
33
R. wanted to know who the boy was who had brought me back from Cotton Farm. I wanted to wince when he spoke "boy," but I answered, "Jeems," and gave him my smile. For the first time, the first time ever, I'm wondering what it was he did remember about before Emancipation. "You remember the Twins Other was sweet on?"
"Those big red-haired boys?"
"Them."
He nodded, but there was an unspoken question hiding in his smile.
"Jeems was their tenth birthday present. He was ten too."
"The Twins are dead now."
"Yeah, they are."
"Gettysburg."
"Gettsyburg."
Already R. had lost interest. He wasn't interested in slaves. I tried another smile, but my mouth sort of stuck to my teeth, and all I made was something that looked like snaggles peeking through half a moon. My face was changing. I wondered if he could see it yet. I smiled the half-broken smile that conceals. I achieved a fraction more. The edges of my lips were heavy, and I could feel the inside of my lips sticking to my teeth. Always, when I'm awkward or clumsy, I'm grateful for beauty which causes men not to notice my other imperfections.
I wanted to ask R. if he was grateful for my beauty, but I did not. Questions like that can only be written here. They can't breathe. Is he ever grateful for anything I do?
I told him I was tired, and he told me to be down in time for the evening meal. I told him dust was with me still. Dust of death and dust of road. I needed sleep, day sleep now, and water. I blinked, and then I wanted to cry with no cause.
He said, "Be down in time for supper. A Congressman is coming to dine."
At noon the young maid brought dinner up to my room: cold fried chicken and a glass of wine. She is an olive-skinned, straight-haired girl, a slim-as-a-beanpole beauty, heavy on her feet, but there is a lot of Indian in her nigger. She closed the door behind her when she entered. Just then she appeared a breathless, hipless, and unsexed creature. The drumming of her feet as she crossed my room, placing the tray or unpacking my bag or storing clothes away in the chifforobe, lulled me to sleep. I fell asleep and dreamed of Jeems.
It was a very bad dream. I dug up the grave of the last of the dead baby boys. The one born the year I went away. I dug into his grave, opened the coffin, and Jeems popped out, live, like a jack-in-the-box. He had a hundred white teeth. There were too many teeth, but they were so pretty, like pearls bright shining, and I was glad he had so many yet repulsed at the same time. I wanted him to stop grinning so he would still have the teeth but I wouldn't see them.
But he wouldn't stop grinning, and I couldn't get the lid of the coffin back on. I woke up with sweat and tears running down my face. I just had time to dress.
34
I'll be late down to supper now. But R. say the Congressman will be later. I hope Mrs. Dred larded the turkey enough so the meat won't be dry with long cooking. Of all our peculiar customs, I find it strange that we denizens of the Southland don't have a taste for cool foodâeven in August. I told her to wrap the turkey in bacon before cooking, but she knows I don't like to serve the turkey with the bacon on it, so I suspect the bacon is someone's dinner and not on the turkey at all, and I can't be angry. Everybody needs to eat.
R. came into the room and led me to the bed. He lay me down upon it. And undressed me as if I was a child. He sat down beside me. He kissed my forehead and my lips. Ran his hand across my belly. His hand just hovered over the curly dark separating my thighs. When he looked at me this way, I knew he wouldn't love me. Wouldn't touch me. Wouldn't take me.
I still stir his mind, but I can no longer for sure stir his body. He is still
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