My Name's Not Friday (14 page)

Today I forgive Connie for leaving me, though it wasn’t his fault. Today I was kind to the missus and I forgive her too, for what she did to me. She’s only trying to do what she thinks is best, even if it ain’t what You intended. I hope those are enough good things today to keep my brother safe. And me too, Lord. Keep me safe too.

I pull the blanket up around my ears as Hubbard turns the lamp down low. He don’t say no prayers – not that I can see – just steps out of his boots, folds his clothes onto the back of a chair and falls asleep before me, his big old breath reaching me through the darkness, more like I imagine a bear to breathe than a man.

The next day is properly cold in the way November has of letting you know that winter’s on its way.

Hubbard wakes me earlier than Lizzie did, taking hold of my shoulder and shaking me briefly before he walks back to the fire. He has a pot of hot coffee by the hearth and his lamp is already lit upon the table. He sits down on a chair to lace up his boots.

‘Come over by the fire.’ He stands and walks across to the door, taking up the horn that hangs there. ‘You know how to make ash cakes?’

‘Yes … yes, I do.’

‘Then put some on the hearth. I’ll be back presently.’

He watches me rise and come to the fire before he goes outside. He must have gone to the latrine because it’s a while before I hear the horn blow and then he’s back inside quickly, putting the horn back on the wall and coming across to the fire where my cakes are blistering and brown. He picks one up, moving it quickly between his hands as he blows on it then takes a bite. ‘Needs a pinch of salt.’ He pushes a small pot across the table to me. ‘I keep it here. So you know for next time.’

I take off the lid and stare at it. ‘Lizzie don’t have salt to cook with.’

He might have taken offence at that, but he don’t; he only says, ‘I see.’

Once we’re finished, we rinse out our own plates and tin cups without so much as a word to each other. It’s still too early for the field and there won’t be anyone at the fire pit. I get the feeling he’s watching me, waiting for me to do something. He says, ‘I got to go up to the field and get everything ready.’ He walks to the door but hesitates there, seeming like he doesn’t want to leave me in his cabin on my own.

‘I can wait outside for the others.’

‘There’s probably no need. You could stay if you want.’

‘No. It’s all right. I should see Lizzie before we go to the fields.’ I hurry past him and Hubbard closes the door behind both of us.

Lizzie brings me into the warm and sits me down beside Gil. ‘How was it?’ she asks me. ‘Did he leave you alone?’

‘Sure. Why wouldn’t he?’

‘I don’t know. He can be a difficult man when he chooses.’

‘It weren’t his idea. Least I don’t think so. Say, Lizzie, do you think he knows about the lessons?’

‘It wouldn’t surprise me. It’s his business to know everything, but I reckoned he was turning a blind eye so long as we didn’t rub his nose in it.’ Her forehead creases up as she thinks it through. ‘We’ll have to stop for the time being. I can’t think of anything else we can do.’

The day after that is cold and so is the one after that.

There ain’t no cotton left to pick and the fields are full of the dry old husks of the plant, looking like twigs sticking up from the ground, just dead wood waiting to rot. We cut back the stems and plough the stubs of ’em back into the ground, making it fit for planting again come the spring.

Now that there’s nothing for us to do in the fields, Hubbard gives us new tasks to keep us busy. Some days I mind the pigs and on others I learn to make horse collars from husks of corn or from strips of poplar bark, made soft so they can be plaited. I spend a day with Kofi at the smithy. He’s supposed to teach me how to make new grubbing hoes and how to hammer rims for the wheels of the wagon, but I only spend a few hours over the heat of the fire before he sends me back to Hubbard saying I have two left feet and
thumbs that can’t hold on to anything useful. That’s hurtful and he didn’t need to say it. I thought Hubbard might be angry but he doesn’t show it. He sends me back to Winnie with a message that she was right all along – I am a houseboy and better put to work in the cookhouse when I’m not out picking cotton in the field.

During the working day, Hubbard behaves the same way towards me as he does with everyone else, and when we’re together in the evenings he mostly leaves me alone. We don’t sit around the fire chatting, like I used to with Connie or Lizzie. We ain’t got much to speak of anyway. When we eat, we make polite conversation. Sometimes he asks me something specific about my day, or he shares a piece of news, but it’s always something I have already heard from someone else and I get the sense he don’t give much away.

He’s been fair with me though. I’ll say that for him. He don’t bully me or boss me about, and I’m less fearful of him than I was before. I do my fair share of the chores, deciding myself what I should do, since he rarely tells me to do anything in particular. I can see he’s neat and tidy in his ways and I should try to be the same if we’re not to fight. Also, I don’t want him thinking I’m a good-for-nothing.

Mostly I spend the evenings outside by the fire pit while Hubbard stays inside the cabin. He never mixes with the rest of us, but then he never has. I come and go without him asking where it is I’m going or when I’m coming back, so after a little while I begin giving lessons again, starting out slowly, just a half-hour here or there, with Lizzie keeping watch like an owl. I’m careful never to be too late back and run the risk of questions, but none ever come my way so we begin to increase the time I give to everyone and after few more weeks we start to breathe a little easier. Sometimes
I wonder whether Hubbard reads his book while I’m out teaching and it seems to me we’re both playing a game of sorts.

‘Do you think he knows?’ Lizzie asks me one night as we put the books away.

I have to stop and think about it. ‘I really don’t know, Lizzie.’

‘You make sure it stays that way. You can’t ever let him know, Friday. Once it’s out in the open he’ll have to act, and if the missus ever finds out about us learning to read, then heaven help us.’

I let myself out of Lizzie’s cabin and into the night. There’s a clear sky and the stars are shining brightly as I step quietly across to our cabin, where the lamplight shows underneath the door, telling me Hubbard’s still awake. I go inside and he is sitting at the table with his back to me so I say, ‘Goodnight,’ then creep across and kneel by the edge of my mattress to say my prayers. Once I’m finished, I lie down and pull the blanket up over my shoulders. I’m falling off to sleep when I hear Hubbard’s chair scrape upon the floor and he walks across the cabin, approaching me as I lie in my bed. I keep my eyes tight shut, but really I’m wide awake, listening for his every step. Hubbard stops walking. A board creaks with the weight of him so I know he’s close. I can feel him standing over me as I pretend to be asleep, hoping he’ll go away. But he doesn’t.

‘Are you awake?’ he whispers.

I’m clenching my eyes too tight. Maybe he can’t see ’em, but if he can then he’ll know I’m faking.

‘Friday?’ He ain’t whispering no more. ‘Friday! Sit up and let me see your face.’

I open my eyes and that big man is leaning over me, close
enough he scares the living daylights out of me. ‘Get up,’ he says. ‘I want to talk to you.’

He goes back to the fire and kindles a flame from the embers using bits of twig and cones that he blows on. I don’t know what he wants of me but it can’t be good, I just know it can’t.

I come and stand just a few paces from him, waiting as he turns from the fire and regards me for a moment. ‘Can you read and write?’

All the blood rushes from my head, along with any idea I might’ve had to lie. I can’t think of anything to say. All I can think of is how he might have found out. Has Sicely told him? Has he spied on me at Lizzie’s? Perhaps he looked through a hole in her cabin wall, the same way I looked at him. Perhaps he saw me getting Gil to write on a board with chalk.

Hubbard sits at the table but his eyes haven’t left mine. ‘I asked you a question.’

‘I ain’t allowed to read.’

‘That ain’t what I asked.’

Hubbard waits for me like a lion, knowing he can catch me whichever way I go.

He stands up suddenly and I stagger back a step or two, glancing over at the whip that’s all coiled around itself and hanging on the hook by the door. It looks like a snake in the grass. Hubbard reaches for the oil lamp and turns the wick higher, making the light dance up onto the walls. He takes a wooden box from the shelf behind him and places it on the table. It’s about the size of his hand, perhaps a little bigger. He slides off the lid and takes out a book – perhaps the same one I saw him with – and holds it out to me. There’s a man’s name – John Keats – written in gold leaf along the spine.
Hubbard flicks it open, then holds it up to my face, right under my chin. ‘Read it to me.’

I shake my head, knowing that taking hold of that book is sure to be the death of me.

Hubbard glares at me. ‘I know you can read it. Go on and take it. Show me you can do it.’

And so I chance my arm. ‘You can read it for yourself. I know you can.’

Hubbard lowers the book a little bit. ‘You’re wrong, Friday. I can’t read it myself.’

The way he says it makes me believe him, but I know what I saw. ‘If you can’t read it, how come you’ve got it? You know we ain’t allowed books.’

Hubbard closes it up, places it on the table and sits back down in his chair. ‘This belonged to my mother. It ain’t my book.’ He lays his finger on the cover before flicking his eyes back to mine. ‘I can’t read a word of it.’

‘But I’ve seen you read it. I’ve seen you sitting with it open in your hands.’

‘When have you seen that?’ His temper flares. ‘Have you been spying on me?’ He flicks a finger in my direction then says more calmly, ‘Sit down.’

I don’t. I stay where I am.

‘I said, sit down! You’re making me nervous.’ I take a tiny step towards the table. ‘Don’t try my patience,’ he says harshly, and then softer again, ‘I’m not gonna hurt you.’

I pull out the chair from under the table and sit slowly, watching him closely, knowing I ain’t got a chance any more of getting to the door if he comes for me.

‘Listen to me, Friday. I never learned to read or write. My mother would have taught me had she had the opportunity, but that never came. Sometimes I do get the book out and
look at it – it reminds me of her – but I can’t read it. I only stare at the writing, wondering what it says.’ He sounds embarrassed. ‘Friday, I need your help.’

‘How do you mean? Do you want me to teach you to read?’

‘No, it’s not that. It’s something else I had in mind. It’s not even the reading. It’s the writing.’ He reaches up and brings a second box to the table, larger than the first. He takes out some paper and a pot of ink and I can’t believe my own eyes, seeing him with such things. ‘I want you to write me a pass. You have to make it look as though it’s from the missus. Can you do that for me?’

‘You want me to forge you a letter?’

Hubbard nods. ‘I’ve got a wife and daughter I haven’t seen in weeks. Someone came and found me. They told me my wife’s ill. But I can’t risk going without a pass. Not at the moment. Do you understand me?’

I touch the edge of the inkpot. ‘And you want me to do it? Now?’

Hubbard nods. He takes a slip of paper from the box and pushes it across the table towards me. I pick up the pen but I don’t write a word – not yet. ‘How come you think I can help?’

Hubbard meets my eye again. ‘I know what you do, Friday. I know about the lessons. I know everything about you.’ He ain’t threatening me. In fact, when he says it, he looks smaller than I’d ever have thought possible. ‘We’ve all got to do what we got to do, Friday. We don’t have a choice. Not any of us. But now you know about me too. That’s all I got to give you if you help me.’

I write Hubbard his note and I take my time, trying to think how Mrs Allen would word it, making my handwriting
as neat as I reckon hers would be, and while I’m writing it Hubbard gets ready to leave. He packs a few things in a canvas bag – a blanket and his pipe and some food from our rations.

‘Are you gonna go tonight?’

He nods, taking the slip of paper from me without thanks or ceremony. But I don’t mind. It’s enough for me to know that now we have an understanding, and I can’t wait to tell Lizzie the good news, that we can go full steam ahead with our learning and Hubbard won’t bother us at all.

I give my thanks to God that night. I didn’t think He knew what He was doing, putting me in with a man like Hubbard, but now I see I was wrong again.

Today I helped a man I thought might hurt me. I helped him visit his wife and child. These things I have done today to keep my brother safe.

But then I hesitate, unable to go to sleep but unsure what else it is I have to share with God. And so I confess to my misgivings.

Today I cheated on Mrs Allen. I disobeyed her rules and I know that if she ever finds out she’ll think the less of me, never mind what she’ll do to punish me.

I hope You won’t let it count against me. I hope it doesn’t cancel out the good things I have done.

I say amen to that.

I pull myself from the river, shivering, and flapping my arms together as the goosebumps rise beneath the tiny hairs. It’s too cold for swimming and I tell him so.

‘You might be right.’ Gerald’s already dressed and lying in the grass. He has wet patches under the arms of his cotton shirt but he’s warmer than me. I rub my legs dry and dress quickly, all the time jumping up and down to make the blood reach my feet.

‘Hey – I brought you another book!’ Gerald takes hold of his satchel and brings out a large black volume, holding it up so I can read the title.
A Christmas Carol
. ‘Can you read that?’ He don’t wait for me to answer. ‘I’ll tell you what it says.’ He turns the book around and reads it for me. ‘
A Christmas Carol
. By Charles Dickens. Maybe it’s too difficult, but I brought it anyway cos you might manage some of it.’

‘Let me see.’ I snatch the book, open it at the first page and begin to read out loud. ‘“Marley was dead: to begin with. There is no doubt whatever about that. The register of his burial was signed by the clergyman, the clerk, the undertaker, and the chief mourner.”’

I don’t hesitate or stutter. I don’t even put a finger to the page to follow the letters. The relief of not having to pretend overwhelms me.

Gerald sits up, suddenly alert. ‘Hey! Let me see that.’ He pulls the book closer so he can see it, not believing I could have read it without making a mistake. He puts a finger to a new paragraph halfway down the page. ‘Read that bit there.’

I lose my nerve and make a mistake on purpose. ‘“Mind! I don’t mean to say that I know, of my own knowledge, what there is part … partic …”’

Gerald leans across to look at the word but he can’t say it either. ‘“Parti …” That’s a difficult one, Friday. I ain’t even sure of it myself.’

And I just can’t help myself. ‘
Particularly
– least I think it could be.’

Gerald’s eyes are wide as saucers. ‘Why, you can read it better than me!’ He snaps the book shut. ‘How’d you manage to get that good?’

‘I been practising with the books you gave me.’ I can’t help but smile, seeing him so impressed. ‘I’ve been working real hard at it. I thought you’d be pleased.’

‘Why, I am pleased. That’s great news. Isn’t it? It’s what we’ve been working for after all?’ He slaps my shoulder harder than he should, but then he says, ‘I’m really proud of you, Friday. I knew you weren’t like the others. I knew you could do it.’

He looks at me differently, I don’t know how to describe it, but I feel kinda naked, like he’s seeing me for the first time and we both know something’s changed between us – like we’re more equal than we were before – and I’m grateful for Gerald’s big heart, cos it ain’t easy to be generous when you don’t seem to be getting nothing back.

‘It’s cos you’re a good teacher,’ I tell him, feeling guilty cos I don’t really believe it.

I get a sudden urge to confess it all, to tell him that I could read all along, that it ain’t what he thinks – not any of it. After all, he thinks he knows me. He thinks we’re friends. And we are friends, I suppose. I like him more than I liked anyone before and so I should tell him everything. But just as I’m about to, he stands up and prods me with his toe. ‘Come on, smart ass. Let’s go check on those lines.’

And the moment passes as we walk along the river bank. There’ll be a better time to do it. Sometime later. Once everything changes.

We’re looking out for the lines we’d set to catch bass. Some of ’em are for catfish. ‘I got some news about my daddy,’ he tells me after a little while. ‘We got a letter saying he’ll be back for Christmas.’

I’ve heard this already, on account of Sicely’s gossip, but I still act surprised. ‘That’ll be great!’

‘You’ve never met him, have you?’ I shake my head. ‘Well, there ain’t a better time to make his acquaintance than at Christmas. You’ll see him at his very best. He gives the best presents – everyone says so – and he’ll always have something for you in his pockets when you ask him for a Christmas gift. I help him wrap ’em up, so I know he does.’

‘I like the sound of him already.’

We come to a stick we’d pushed into the ground as a marker for our line and Gerald kneels and puts his hand into the water, feeling for a fish. ‘I don’t think they’re biting,’ he tells me as we walk on, stopping at each stick to check for fish, though we haven’t caught a thing. We never do. I don’t think Gerald chooses the right places.

He don’t mind though. He’s so excited about his daddy
he just keeps on talking and I hardly get a word in edgewise. ‘He’ll arrive Christmas Eve and he’s already told us he wants a side of beef for the fire pit. It’s what we always have.’ I nod as though we wouldn’t have anything else. ‘Do you know how big that beef will be?’ I shake my head. ‘It’ll be big enough that we have to start cooking it before the sun’s up. That’s pretty big. We got a spit that we bring down to the cabins on Christmas Eve so everything’s ready for the next morning. That’ll probably be the first thing he does when he gets here. You ever had beef?’ I shake my head. ‘Best meat you ever tasted, if it’s cooked right. And Winnie knows how to cook it too. My daddy always says so. Says she does the best beef roast this side of town.’

We reach the last stick and Gerald kneels again and slips a hand in under the water. ‘He’s got two weeks’ leave. Maybe he’ll get to stay longer. They’ve got the Yankees on the run, so they don’t need him as badly as they did.’

‘You reckon the Yankees are on the run?’

‘Sure.’

‘How do you know?’

‘It’s obvious, ain’t it?’ He brings his hand up and shakes the water from his fingers and I wonder what stories he must have been hearing about them boats back down the river. Suddenly he stands up quickly, like he might have actually caught a fish, ’cept he ain’t. ‘What if you read to my father when he’s home?’ he says excitedly. ‘He’ll be so impressed; I know he will.’

Suddenly I ain’t so sure of myself. ‘I don’t know about that, Gerald. I don’t think I’m good enough. Not yet.’

‘Sure you are. I’ll tell him I taught you myself. I’ll tell him I chose you and bought you at the auction and then taught you how to read. I want him to know we own the
best-educated slave in the whole county and that when we give you your freedom you’ll be able to sign the papers with your own name. Oh, he’ll be pleased at that; I know he will. And he’ll be proud of me too.’

I’m finding out what’s it like to be on board a train with no brakes, and I want to jump off. ‘Well, hold on there. Let’s think it through. I mean, there’s enough things all stirred up around here without having a Negro knowing how to read. Perhaps it’d be better to wait till times ain’t so hard.’

But Gerald hardly gives it a thought. ‘I don’t think I can wait. It’ll be fine, Friday. My daddy’ll make everything work out for the best. He always does. It’s going to be a great Christmas – it really is. You’ll see.’

That’s easy for him to say. But then it ain’t gonna be his head on the line. It’s gonna be mine.

It was with great astonishment, and with a strange, inexplicable dread, that as he looked, he saw this bell begin to swing. It swung so softly at the outset that it scarcely made a sound; but soon it rang out loudly, and so did every bell in the house.

You could have heard a pin drop as I say those words, though there ain’t no space to drop a thing. Everyone’s crammed into Lizzie’s cabin except for Hubbard and Lizzie herself, who’s outside keeping watch. They’re sitting on the floor in front of me, listening to me read, and I can see their faces in the dim light, hanging on my every word. Even Sicely’s here, right there by the door, crouched on the floor with the rest of ’em, wanting to hear the tale ’bout a mean old master who learns the error of his ways at Christmas.

I’ve planned for each of the readings to last an hour and am hoping to finish the book on Christmas Eve, since I already know the story has a happy ending and I reckon it will be a fitting way to begin the festivities. The grease lamp gives the right atmosphere as I read on, making it feel like the story’s happening right here in this room.

There was a clanking noise, deep down below; as if some person were dragging a heavy chain over the casks in the wine merchant’s cellar
…
The cellar door flew open with a booming sound, and then he heard the noise much louder, on the floors below, then coming up the stairs
…

‘There’s someone outside!’ Benjamin shouts, and we all turn to the door, hearing the footsteps on the ground and the creak of a foot on the step. The latch begins to lift and little Gil screams as the door flies open to reveal Lizzie, looking more scared than any of us. ‘Why you screaming?’ she shouts out, her mouth all agape. ‘What on earth is the matter?’

Well, there was uproar. The room becomes full of hooting and hollering as we all shout at one another, but mostly we shout at Lizzie. ‘What’re you doing creeping around outside? We thought you was the ghost of Jacob Marley!’

‘Who?’

Little Gil slaps his mama’s leg. ‘You shouldn’t have scared us.’

‘Who, me? I didn’t mean to scare a soul. I just wanted to know what was happening. I didn’t know you were hearing about no ghost. Who do you say he was again?’

I know they ain’t never gonna let me go till they’ve found out what happens in this book – no, not for love nor money – and by the end they all want to take the book away, so they can try to read it for themselves. I tell ’em it’s too difficult.
‘By next Christmas you’ll all be good enough.’ And it’s true too.

The next day Mrs Allen takes Sicely into town to buy supplies for the Christmas dinner, but when they arrive they find the store is empty. There ain’t a hunk of beef to be had. There ain’t a turkey nor a piece of venison. Sicely says that Mrs Allen came out of that shop with little more than a bag of sweet potatoes, so we already know that we’ll be having pork or bacon for Christmas dinner – the same as we do every other day of the year – and that’s a disappointment.

When Mrs Allen comes down to the cabins in the evening, she finds us surly and lacking in the Christmas spirit. She reads us the Christmas story of Mary and Joseph going to the stable, ’bout how they didn’t have no food and they couldn’t find a place to stay, except to sleep in with the cows. Once she’s done, she tells us we’ll be given three days of free time over Christmas and she’ll issue passes to all of us if we want ’em, so we can come and go as we please.

‘Three days?’ Henry complains. ‘Master gives us four days minimum, ma’am. Always has.’

‘I know that, Henry. I was already here last Christmas, if you remember.’ She lifts her chin to look him in the eye. ‘But this year we’ve all got to make sacrifices.’

‘Even so, ma’am,’ Henry persists, ‘it’s still a day we lose at Christmas. Is it true there won’t be any beef? Perhaps it wouldn’t be so bad if we knew we had a bit of beef, ma’am.’

‘I’m sorry, Henry, but that store ain’t hardly worth its
name these days. Mr Williams told me he hadn’t seen a side of beef for a couple of months now.’

‘So we got to have pork on Christmas Day? That’s a sad thing to hear, missus. It really is.’

All this talk of food makes me realize how hungry I am since I been here and that ain’t a good feeling to get used to.

But Mrs Allen’s got other ideas. ‘No, Henry,’ she tells him, ‘you’re mistaken. We ain’t having pork.’ She nods at the ground to our left where the chooks have gathered and are pecking at the dirt. ‘I want these chickens strangled and brought to Winnie in the morning so she can pluck ’em ready for the roast on Christmas Day.’

‘But, missus …’ Lizzie steps forward, looking confused. ‘Those are
my
chickens.’

‘I know that, Lizzie, and I’ll pay you for ’em.’ Mrs Allen nods as though it’s as good as a handshake. ‘I’ll give you thirty cents apiece, though it’ll have to be owed to you and settled the next time we’re able to sell our cotton.’

‘But, missus—’ Lizzie seems to swell in size – ‘they’re worth more to me alive than dead. I can sell the eggs, you see. I can sell ’em and save my money. Where am I gonna get myself new chickens with a war on?’

We’re all thinking the same thing, but Mrs Allen stands her ground. ‘The master is home for Christmas, Lizzie. He’s been away at war, getting shot at and risking his life for the rest of us. Most days he’ll be lucky if he gets pork to eat, the same as you do, and so help me God, on Christmas Day, if we can’t get beef then he’ll taste some chicken.’ She looks around the circle. ‘We all will, and we’ll thank the Lord for providing it.’

Lizzie must know it won’t do no good to argue, cos she
walks over to them birds. ‘I’d rather you took ’em now, missus. Let me rest up in the morning. If we only got three days off work, then I’d like to make the most of ’em.’

Well, those chickens come to meet her, thinking they’re gonna get some feed like they usually do, but Lizzie bends over and picks one out and she wrings its neck. My Lord, she did. She don’t even hesitate, and I see its eyes bulge and its little legs twitch before it goes all limp. ‘Go get me a basket, Gil. Help me carry ’em over to Winnie.’ She drops that dead bird to the ground, right in among its little friends, before she picks out another one and kills it just as quick. ‘How many do you want, missus? You want ’em all? Hey, Henry, you got that one over by the tree? You bring it here now. We don’t want anyone to go hungry on Christmas Day.’

Lizzie won’t look at any of us while she does it. She keeps her eyes to the ground and chases the chickens who run away from her, though they don’t go far before she breaks their necks, talking to us all the while in a voice as happy as a songbird, like she’s out at the river washing clothes with Harriet. The rest of us don’t move an inch cos we don’t know whether to help her or stop her, though it doesn’t matter anyway cos we all know those birds are gonna die. There ain’t no two ways about that.

Once she’s finished, there’s a pile of ’em lying down there in the dust and Lizzie puts her hands on her hips, exhausted by the work of it. When she looks at us she’s got no life left in her eyes; they’re all stony old and grey and she swallows hard. ‘You want the rooster too, ma’am? He’s a tough old bird, but he might as well go now too. He won’t be happy without his lady friends.’ She’s breathing hard as she turns around looking everywhere for him. ‘Now, where’s he got to? Anyone seen that big old boy about here?’