Antebellum (23 page)

“How did you do this, Bradley?” Mr. Talbert said as if he was viewing a magic trick. “How did you pull this off?”

“Well, Mista Talbert, all I did was follows ya example. I sees this nigger here and I think Bradley—this yo' chance right here. Take dis nigger and show 'em what you can do!”

“I'll say! You showed everyone in this town what you could do. He doesn't even look like the same nigger anymore.”

“I knows it. He was a tough one to crack. Any of these regular niggers would've been died long time ago, sir.”

“He ever tell you where he was from?”

“No, sir, he never said nothin' 'bout it, and I wasn't asking.”

“No, you wouldn't, would you have?”

Bradley stopped and looked at Mr. Talbert. He knew he had been insulted, but didn't understand how exactly. After a few seconds of silence, Mr. Talbert placed his hand on Bradley's shoulder. “Well, let me congratulate you, Bradley. You've managed to tame the savage beast! Susie went around telling everyone the story, and now the town thinks you're a hero.”

“That story true just as I'm standing here, Mr. Talbert! The nigger—”

“Oh, please, save me the fantasies, Bradley. You may have everyone else fooled with the story, but for God's sake, give me some credit! We both know that nigger never turned into some giant ape and destroyed your stable. He was more civilized than you when we first found him.”

Bradley tried to mask his hate, but he didn't have to. Mr. Talbert had never taken his emotions seriously.

“But I guess that doesn't matter, does it?” Mr. Talbert continued
as he looked over and observed my mangled body. “People believed you two, and now you're a hero. You saved this town from the ape-nigger, or whatever else people are calling him these days. You've made a name for yourself. Have you gotten any clients yet?”

“Mr. Stanley say he bringin' his nigger down Monday,” Bradley said through clenched teeth.

“That's wonderful! You do remember our agreement, right?”

“Yes, sir. I'll keep usin' your land, and you get part a' the money every month, sir.”

“Good, Bradley. Good. You learn well. I do believe I was prepared to get little Katie out here to spell it out for you in...umm... simpler terms...”

Bradley would've killed any other man for a statement like that. He was at least twice the size of Mr. Talbert, and could easily overpower the smaller man; I imagine an invisible force must've kept him from laying a hand on Mr. Talbert, or even speaking ill of him.

He inhaled a deep breath. No, he couldn't swing a punch at Mr. Talbert, but he could attack in other ways—below the belt. He fixed his face into a smile and turned to face his tormentor. “I made myself a pretty good inves'ment keepin' this here nigger...”

“Yes, you did, Bradley. Quite good, I must say.”

Bradley scrunched up his face in feigned contemplation. “You thinkin' it was stupid for me give up my wages?”

“No, no, Bradley, that wasn't stupid. Look what it got you. You're a lucky man.”

Bradley pretended to ponder once again, and then turned slowly back to Mr. Talbert. “You must'a been able to buy somethin' real nice with all the money, sir.”

“Well, actually, I...” Mr. Talbert stopped mid-sentence, realizing where Bradley had brought the line of questioning. He swiftly
picked up his fist and brought it across Bradley's jaw. Bradley's head turned with the force of the blow. Only a keen eye would've caught the smirk on his face right before the impact.

“You insolent little prick!” Mr. Talbert spat out.

Bradley immediately shifted the features on his face, and when he turned back to Mr. Talbert, he looked like a wounded poodle.

“I'm sorry, sir! I'm sorry! I meant nothin' by what I said! Ain't meant nothin' by it!”

Mr. Talbert studied him long and hard, looking for a reason to believe his disrespect had been anything but unintentional. But Bradley wore the mask as good as any slave, and Mr. Talbert couldn't find one.

“You sure are a dumb one, Bradley. You don't even know when you're insulting a man, do you?”

Bradley rubbed his cheek and looked down sheepishly at the ground. “No sir, I was jus' thinkin' out loud when you struck me, sir. Ain't know I was offendin' you.”

“Well, you need to be very careful when you're talking to a gentleman, Bradley. We offend easily, and I would've hated to punish you for something you were too ignorant to understand.”

“Yes, sir.”

Introspection crept over Mr. Talbert's face as his anger dissipated and he wandered into thought.

“You know, Bradley, Satan really is all about seeking whom he may devour...”

“Yes, sir. I knows it.”

“That money could've been spent on a lot of things. A good many things. Gifts for my wife—my daughters...you know how the girls love the dolls from up north...”

“Yes, sir?”

“But Mr. Stanley had a wench. A wench that I had my eye on
every time I visited. She worked in his kitchen. I asked him once if he'd ever...umm...sinned against God, and he told me the midwife kept her too close...”

Bradley knew where his boss's monologue was going, but he continued to play dumb.

“Sir...I...I don't know if I'm the right one to tell this to...”

Mr. Talbert wasn't listening. His pants bulged as he continued to reminisce.

“You know what I did with all the money I saved from not paying you? I took it right down to Mr. Stanley, and gave it to him in exchange for that pretty little wench. That midwife. Boy, she put up a good fight! Stanley said it was the first he'd ever whipped her. And that little wench screamed and cried something awful, but she ended up in my carriage. Yes, she did. And when she was so far away that she couldn't see her home anymore, she sat there beside me and purred like a kitten. Christ help me, I almost threw her out and ravaged her on the side of the road...Christ help me...”

Bradley remained silent. Mr. Talbert shook in disgust with himself, and then snapped back into the present day. He looked around, and then at Bradley. When he spoke again, it was as if he was trying to keep a secret from himself. “You've had your share of nigger wenches, right?” he asked in a strained whisper.

“Yes, sir, I have.”

“I think their crotches have some sort of spell in them. Some kind of African voodoo magic that makes them impossible to resist. I swear, I've never felt anything like it. No matter how much I pray and read the scriptures, no matter how much I ask Jesus Christ to take this burden from me...I...I just can't stop...”

He sighed loudly, and turned around and began making his way back to the plantation. This wasn't the first time he had
confessed his sins to Bradley, and it wouldn't be the last, either. Sleeping with slaves, if the knowledge became public, would ruin a reputable man. Mr. Talbert couldn't even tell his priest about his indiscretions. But he'd told Bradley, because he knew Bradley's survival depended on his satisfaction. Bradley, in turn, knew he would never share his boss's secrets. The damage it would do to him would be far greater than any injuries suffered by Mr. Talbert. But Bradley knew how much his obsession with slave women made Mr. Talbert hate himself. The torture he put himself through was enough satisfaction to last Bradley a few years, and as long as he kept his sins consistent, they would last him for the days to come as well.

My days continued to arrive and depart, like trains traveling through a busy station. The crowds began to dwindle down to three or four people a day—most of them out-of-towners who'd been told about the community's main attraction. Sometimes a child would have a recurring ape-nigger nightmare, and the mother and father would bring them to my cage to show them that the beast was contained and, according to the way I looked and smelled, damn near dead. The child or children would take turns throwing stones and debris at me as I huddled on the floor. They'd do this until they were satisfied I wasn't hiding under their beds at night, and then they'd go home content. My mind was so fragile by this time that I had begun smiling at the children when they came. Apparently though, for someone in my condition, a smile looks more like a growl, and I would inadvertently scare both child and adult. They would promptly run away and go and get the hero, Bradley,
who would swing open the cage door and quite efficiently knock me unconscious or semi-conscious. He'd then hand the shovel, or bat, or whatever the object of choice was for the day, to the first person brave enough to take it (usually a father), who would gingerly step into the cage and begin to beat me, too. The blows always started softly, because of their fear of being in the cage in the first place. After they were confident that I wouldn't jump up and eat them, however, the blows came with much more force. Mothers and children would observe the fun that Daddy was having, and inevitably they'd yell out with glee that they wanted a turn as well. My beating would turn into a family affair that, on most occasions, left me so broken Bradley would only bring me partially rotten food to eat for the next few days—until it seemed as though my strength had come back. Then it was back to fully rotten trash, pig dung, and business as usual.

Aunt Sarah still snuck me food a couple of nights a week, and so that became the time I was most active. During the day I lay flat in my cage like a deer that had been hit and laid on the side of the road to die. At night, though, I began to learn the dynamics of my new body. I learned which angles and movements caused a pain that made me faint, and which angles caused a pain that I could live with. I learned how to deal with the agony in my shoulders in order to reach out and grab whatever food was given to me. I retaught myself how to use my arms and how to operate on broken legs, and eventually I was able to push up on all fours. On the nights that Aunt Sarah or one of the girls brought me food, I would crawl from one end of the cage to the other and back before the sun came up. On the days that they didn't make it, I'd make it halfway to one side and pass out from exhaustion.

I still hadn't spoken a word to anyone. Not even Aunt Sarah.

Somewhere, in some faraway land, I had been a king. My voice had been known around the world.

I was terrified of the sounds that would come out of my mouth now.

On a particularly hot day, when the transparent heat waves could be seen off in the distance, a young white man walked up to my cage. I saw him through my half-closed eyelids, and I figured he had come to spectate like everyone else. My mouth hung open and my tongue hung limply out of the right side. I decided not to move.

When he got close enough, he found something to cover his nose and mouth to help block my stench. He looked to be about thirty years old, and he wore a solid black shirt, black pants, and a collar that I used to see the preacher from the church on the corner wear.

By this time, Bradley had gotten business from many of the slave owners in the town. If he could tame a beast, they figured, then knocking their most troublesome slaves down to size shouldn't be a problem. He had kept four slave men tied up at various places around the land, and would torture them incessantly, stopping only if they cried like babies or lost consciousness. He was becoming masterful at inducing either one....

The day the young white man came to see me, the screams of the slaves echoed off of the trees and caused the wildlife to pray. Their agony had been mine once, and I shed dry tears for them regularly.

The man walked up with anguish as his background music. When he got to my cage, the cloth still covering his mouth, he regarded me with a great deal of intrigue. Most who came had a distinct curiosity. They bathed in the danger of doing something to make me turn back into an ape, and when I didn't, they credited
Bradley for his bravery and effective nigger-breaking methods. But this man actually tried to look at me—to see who I was. He regarded me from head to toe, looking for something that was either never there or stolen along with my freedom. I allowed my eyes to fully open, spending more energy than I thought it would take. I looked back at the white man, unsure of his motives. When our eyes were locked long enough, he lowered his handkerchief and stepped up to the bars.

“Where are you from?” he whispered.

It was the first time since I had been pulled from my subconscious that I was reminded of where I had come from. I lay virtually motionless, yet my mind leaped into thoughts of jewelry and concerts and women and drugs. My mind flashed through pictures of five-star hotels and strip clubs, and for the first time since I'd lost myself, I tried to speak. Fueled by a new determination, I lifted my head about two inches off the ground. The old man noticed my slight movement and stared in disbelief.

“You...you're...you're not...are you...trying to talk?”

The young white man's eyebrows jumped up in fear and excitement. He couldn't decide whether to stay where he was or take off for the woods. I concentrated on the muscles in my lips and tongue and willed them to move to form words. I wanted to scream. I wanted to jump up and run headfirst into the bars and proclaim that this was not my world, that God had made some sort of cosmic mistake and dropped a square peg into a round hole. I pressed my lips together as tight as I could and exhaled, hoping to hear the word please come out of them.