Wash (4 page)

Wash feels the weight of Richardson’s gaze lift off of him as soon as he’s tied the winch rope tight. As he climbs up to his loft to unload the hay, he remembers Nero for himself. Never liked him much. But still, Wash was glad he didn’t have to watch it happen. He’d sat up late that night just like everybody else and he’d heard all about it, whether he wanted to or not.

Talk had drifted up from the fire circle all night. The first tellings were harsh and bright, jerky and sudden, full of voices rising and falling. Cutting each other off, calling out in agreement or disagreement before settling down into a slower rhythm with less being said and maybe more being heard but who knows.

Long silences opened up as people drifted off to bed or stared into the fire. But first they went over it and over it, as if they had to tell the story till it started to quit bothering them. They were trying to make it leave them alone. What had happened that day. What Nero had done. What Richardson had done. What they would have done in his place.

That’s just what you think now is what Wash wanted to say to the men still talking like they knew everything about everything. That’s just what you think now. It would be a whole different story if it was you standing there.

Wash knows almost every single step on Nero’s path for having taken it himself. One way or other, he has been down that road and nearly the whole way. Further than most. And all he knows is there’s just no telling.

Wash

It’s the storms that help me some. The ones that come in the middle of the night where I can stand outside and watch. Quiet and on my own with nobody seeing me. Wind comes roaring through, pulling the treetops in circles, trying to turn things round.

Most times, this place feels like being caught in a great big funnel, with all this water pouring through, trying to drag you with it. Nothing to grab on to will teach you to hold your breath. But when that wind comes tearing straight up the bluff, feels like it might pull his house on down.

First, it gets real still. Then I get that weight on my chest. Like God is matching my heart. Making the outside feel like the inside, pressing down on me for his own reasons, so all this other pressing ain’t so noticeable.

The leaves turn and jitter, but just a little, and everything is still, like I get sometimes. There’s a quiet trembling. Like everything is here from someplace else but just for a little while.

Then, when the sky peels back and tears open with thunder, that’s when it feels most like me. That’s when my insides match my outsides and there’s no gap in between. And when the trees lash and get split by lightning, their tops torn and hurled across the yard, that’s me too.

It’s not till I wake up the next morning with the tall grass looking that bright bruised green and the birds busying like nothing ever happened and that big sun rising so quiet and steady that I catch on.

The world has left me behind again without even a look back. Leaving me in a storm and acting like it never went there itself. Looking at me like it never said nothing to me at all.

Richardson

My daughter Livia, my eldest girl, has a face like a horse, there’s no doubt about it. But somehow she is of the most peace to me. She alone calls things as she sees them and has no barriers. As I grew my business of trade, trying to skirt what I saw as the edge, she kept after me, despite the fact that I was not asking her.

“Father, what they want to carry West with them are negroes. Negroes are what they will be wanting.”

She doesn’t hesitate to give me her opinion, even though I took this question to my second son, Cassius, instead.

“Look at you. You brought negroes with you, never mind it was because your brother insisted. You were glad he talked you into buying Virgil and Albert both. You know you were. Only a fool would head into raw land, having to cut and clear and build, without at least a few hands. And just think of all these settlers headed straight for Tyler’s new law. They won’t be able to buy negroes once they cross into the territories. They’ll need to own them before they set out. And here we are. Right here. Don’t make them go down the street.”

And Livia would venture further, which is precisely why I don’t ask her. But she answers me anyway.

“Is it because your firstborn William insisted on marrying that Celeste and setting up house with her in Memphis when he should have left her as his mistress down in New Orleans? That marriage won’t bring anything but trouble, even though Celeste’s cultured and mostly white anyway. William refuses to see that he cannot manage Memphis for you and be an abolitionist at the same time. But just because he’s being irrational doesn’t mean you should.”

My Livia continually comes to my aid by refusing to protect me. Pinning me with a fierce look from under those brows I recognize as my own. No wonder she’s not married.

“I know you hoped you’d have left slavery back in Baltimore by now, well hobbled by your Revolution and dying out. But that’s not what’s happened. The difference you’re seeking is not to be found. It is simply more and more of the same. What will you do when you don’t like the game? Stay out of it? That doesn’t sound like you.”

And she’s as right as ever. I’m in it because I can’t stay out of it. Plain and simple.

Strange as it may sound, it can be easier with the negroes. Some few of them, at least. My Emmaline knows better than to come to me with every little thing. I do not enjoy managing, so mine need to have sense enough to work most things out for themselves. My neighbor Miller keeps his people on such a tight rein until they check in with him about which way the sun will rise and which way it will set. If mine were like that, I’d have to replace the whole lot.

Emmaline runs the house smoothly and I leave her to it. She and my wife make quite the pair. They constitute their own army, with inventory being their strongest suit. Mary gave her the key to the smokehouse and God’s eye on the sparrow is nothing to the track Emmaline keeps of those hams.

I lucked upon her soon after I came West. Took her and her boy unwillingly in payment for a piece of land, but she has proven to be a godsend. Stays close at hand instead of forever asking for a pass like the rest, especially after that husband she finally found took up with somebody else. And Mary savors the way Emmaline wears the Bible she gave her in her front apron pocket, almost like a shield.

Every now and then, I’ll help Emmaline or one of hers out of a pinch but only when it’s serious. She knows I’d just as soon sell than hear too much nagging. And she doesn’t want me in her business any more than I want to be there. Of course, she’s well into mine. When you have folks to wipe your nose and your behind both, they will know your business. All you can do is hope they won’t get the chance to tell too much of it.

Far too many people refuse to accept this simple equation. Wishing things otherwise hardly makes them so. I’m not like these neighbors of mine who think their negroes don’t have business of their own. That’s one thing I’ve learned from Emmaline if from no one else. There’s not a soul born on this earth that doesn’t have some kind of business.

Unfortunately there are those among us, my wife and girls included, who insist on acting like children playing with dolls. I asked Mary not to involve herself so deeply in Emmaline’s eldest grandson’s wedding. But she worked on that damn girl’s dress for months, embroidering flowers all over it, and then orchestrated what should have been a meaningless ceremony right between my garden and my pond. Almost at the house.

And just as I predicted, the many grew jealous of any advantage granted the few. It took me months to settle my place back down after that. So what can I say to my neighbors who create trouble for themselves by getting too involved? What I want to say to those dreamers is dig yourselves out of your own mess and don’t expect to bring it to me. But with the way these negroes all know one another, we are bound together whether we like it or not.

You must work not to get drawn in, even as you must stay close enough to be able to see clearly and decide for yourself. Quinn started out trying to get between me and mine but I had to make him quit. Once I’ve made a decision, then he can carry it out, but I don’t want him any closer to mine than me.

What I tell people about Wash is, most horses, you need to boss them. Bear right down on them till they buckle under. But then there are these others. You cannot make them do. They’d just as soon break their neck than take up a notion that’s yours. With these few, you must study them. Figure out their natural inclination and take that as your way to go. Then find a way to let them think it was their idea.

Usually, these few are more trouble than they’re worth. They’ll break a leg as soon as you’ve put in enough time to make them worthwhile. But I can’t help it. Fine is a weakness of mine. If it’s a stud, he’ll clean up just about any mare, no matter how rough, and if it’s a mare, then God help you.

It’s always best to dampen down this edge a little. Cross one like this with another thicker, duller one in order to get yourself something with clean lines but some common sense to go along. And be careful about two like this coming together. Likely as not, there won’t be anybody who can ride what comes from that combination.

Not to say they’ve all got to be rideable. I’ve found plenty of use for those I could never even throw a leg over. So long as I can build my fence high enough to get them from pasture to barn and back. In and out of the breeding stall when the time comes. I will put up with a lot to see that fineness springing up in my pastures. Some would just as soon shoot a horse they can’t go in a stall with, but I’m not that way. We all have our contributions to make and it is not always what we might think.

Wash is one of these few. Most wouldn’t tolerate him. As hard as he tries to bury his quality, it flashes out often enough for me to see, no matter what the rest say. Anyplace else, he’d be dead in a minute and he knows it.

Maybe it’s unwise of me to foster the very aspect in him that he rightly tries to hide. You’d think I’d want mine as manageable as possible. That I’d pick dull to go with dull. Dull and solid. But I just do not have it in me and God knows, there are enough like that already.

I recognized this quality in Wash, no matter how blurred, because I remember Mena having had it. She carried that same look in her eye. Remaining somehow unto herself through it all and holding her knowing close.

Much of this clarity was gone from her, and from Wash too, by the time I got them home from Thompson’s place, all beat to hell and back. I could’ve wrung those Thompson boys’ necks myself. But even now, I can still catch glimpses of Mena’s fineness in Wash. Makes me wish I’d seen his father. He must have been spectacular.

I do put a good deal of thought into this. I plan it out and map it down. They know how I am about my horses but they have little idea how exacting my considerations are on this. You need a record to know where you stand.

Of course, you can never be sure that you get exactly what you planned on, short of going there or having someone witness for you. But I think Wash knows me, how I am, and that there’s some sense to it. He doesn’t always agree with me and I let him get away with as much as is possible. But I must draw the line somewhere. We need to remain clear about whose hands are on the reins.

I do try to leave him as much slack as I can. Like I said, he’s the kind who needs to think everything is his idea. So I tell him the list, and sometimes I’ll let him scotch or add a few, but we usually see eye to eye.

Wash

Wagon comes for me on a Friday, won’t none of the fellas meet my eye. All they do is look right straight down at the dirt. Stand round muttering like they know something. They act like they know but I know they wonder.

Makes me grateful for times when I pass Pallas on the road. She knows her way round my mind so I need her not looking away from me. She’ll stand there steady as a post, hooked in the ground like my anchor, watching me ride by in the back of this wagon.

Maybe it won’t be so bad this time is what I tell myself. Plenty worse ways to get cross this field. I can hear my mamma saying that right to me, no matter how many years she’s been under the ground. She says quit letting it gnaw at you like that and I do try.

Funny thing is, once I’m headed out of there, it eases off some. Depends on whether they come for me on a good day or a bad one. But things get so twisted up round here till it’s hard trying to tell the difference. That’ll put you right inside crazy.

And you give me any one man, I don’t care how much he tells you about that one woman, there’s always another one walking by, and he’d take her in a heartbeat if he knew he didn’t have to answer for it.

Simple truth is, for the most part, you want it whether you want it or not. Sometimes, it’s having to take it that gets me going but it’s not always like that. Most times, it’s not. And every single thing you do round here has some edge to it. You can cut yourself real good without even trying. I’ll take this one over others I’ve seen and I’ll handle it myself in my own way.

What gets to me is he saw it in me and he put me to it. Makes me feel nailed down in a way I want to pull up from. But it’d take too much skin so I don’t.

Some days, I’ll sit up to see where I’m going. But days when I already know, I’ll lay back on those feed sacks lining the wagon bed, letting the trees make patterns over me. That’s what my mamma never could get used to. Too many trees. Nothing open like the island or even Thompson’s place.