God's Fool (30 page)

That was the year the bright leaf tobacco barely saved us from ruin, the year Lewis died. I was sorry about Lewis. I still am. We had our troubles (just weeks before his death he had quarreled with us about getting
his son a knife, as though we were a mail-order catalog he could order from whenever he pleased), and yet I see now that, just like certain other members of his race, he had about him a quality that set him apart from his kind. I can’t say that I liked him, but I was sorry when he died. So much so, in fact, that the week after we brought him back from Bellefonte in the back of the wagon (he was buried in the Negro graveyard off Sorghum Road) I interrupted my brother’s studying one warm October afternoon to inform him that I had decided to bring Berry and Moses into the house with us.

I knew it would not be easy.

For a few minutes, as we sat there on the porch, I tried to figure out a way of making my case in the least objectionable manner possible. I couldn’t do it. More importantly, I discovered I didn’t want to. The more I thought about it, in fact, the more I resented having to justify myself to my own brother. I looked at him. There he sat, with his hairy ears and his reproving look, looking like some wandering apostle sniffing the air for sin, while I twisted myself into knots trying to figure out a way of asking his approval for something I had every right to do on my own. It was absurd. To hell with him.

“I’ve been thinking about bringing Berry and Moses into the house,” I said, plunging in. “It seems to me Aunt Grace could use the help.”

“Oh?” he said, without raising his eyes or his finger from the book. “Have you noticed her falling off from her duties?”

“It’s obvious she’s getting on,” I said. “The house is too much for her.”

“Is it?” He turned the page.

“I think it is,” I said. “Besides, we have to think about the future. Better now, it seems to me, than when she’s too frail to properly train her replacements.” My brother said nothing, letting me run on. I could hear my own voice—false and ingratiating.

“I’ve made up my mind,” I said, feeling myself growing hot in the face.

He smiled, pulled the tassel to mark his place, closed the book. Something about the movement—its deliberateness, I suppose, as though he
were a schoolteacher dealing with a stubborn child—infuriated me. “I believe I still have some say in these matters,” he said, looking off across the fields.

“Some.”

“Be so kind as to hear me out, then.”

I waved my hand. He paused, while I marveled at the absurd formality that had recently crept into his speech.

“It’s inappropriate. She’s needed in the fields. Trust me, brother, she’ll be best off among her own kind, not separated off from them in a world she doesn’t understand. Not to mention that—”

“Are you finished?” I said.

“Would it matter?” he said, stung.

“Probably not.”

He stopped. “I can’t say I’m surprised. I never expected you to take anyone else’s opinions into account.”

“Really? Why did you offer them, then?”

“Because I foolishly thought I could talk some sense into you. I should have known the time for that was long past.”

“Oh, but how Christian of you to try anyway, brother.”

He was trembling now. “You’re an arrogant and selfish man.”

“And you’re a prig and a fool.”

“Don’t bait me, brother. I won’t stand for it.”

I laughed. “Bait
you?
You’re a fish on a plate.”

He stood up abruptly, jerking me to my feet.

“Enough reading for today?” I said, smiling.

For a moment I thought he was going to hit me. A long moment passed. From inside the house came the quick clanging of pots. A cow lowed in the distance. “I don’t care what you say,” he said at last, quietly. “They’re not coming into my house.”

So they came into mine, instead. Over the next four years, for exactly two weeks out of each month, Berry would help Aunt Grace about the house—washing, mending, spinning flax into linen, preparing the midday meal out back by the old brick oven—while Moses would do
whatever needed doing; for the other two they would stay on with the others under the general supervision of our overseer, Tim McDaniel (though I often thought they could have managed just as well or better alone) keeping up the house for our return. I never regretted it. Unlike Lewis, who could be difficult, both mother and son generally knew their place, and never took advantage of the good fortune that had come their way.

But though the obvious success of the arrangement should have brought some peace to our affairs, it did not. The original argument covered over but didn’t heal. How could it—when every two weeks one or the other of us would be forcibly reminded of the limits of his domain? Though we had always deferred to each other to some extent when in each other’s homes, the gesture had always been voluntary. It was so no longer. Submission had become a requirement, a mandate neither of us hesitated to impose on the other.

And as the months passed, we expanded it joyfully, allowing it to encompass nearly every part of the day. When in Eng’s house now, I would be forced to retire early because he preferred it, to walk when he wanted to, to sit for hours on end while he made his way for the umpteenth time through Charity Barnum’s Bible, refusing to admit he was tired even though it had been an hour since he had turned a page and I had been watching him fighting sleep the entire time—his body sagging, then jerking awake—just to spite me. I responded in kind, fighting to stay awake into the early hours when we came to Mount Airy, moving about to wake him if he started to nod off before me. I canceled our Bible mornings, swore as colorfully as I knew how, attempted, at every turn, to anticipate his wants, so as to know how best to frustrate him. Now, if there was anything to be done at Mount Airy, it was done my way; if there was any disagreement—over anything, really—my decision was final.

None of this was ever addressed directly. We remained superficially polite.
If you wouldn’t mind. If it’s not too much trouble. Certainly, brother, have it your way
. We smiled. Whatever we endured, we endured in silence, unwilling to give the other the satisfaction of seeing our irritation.
Now again, for the first time since childhood, our bond became an issue between us—the most convenient thorn with which to torment the other. Bit by bit, a lifetime of small but necessary accommodations was abandoned. The signal before sitting up in bed. The willingness to get up immediately when nature called the other. The thousand small adjustments of weight and balance that made bending, or turning, or reaching for something, less difficult for each of us.

Now, if my brother reached for something to his right, I held my weight back just enough to force him to move me around. If I turned to speak to someone as we walked down the street, he would jerk me back slightly, making me stop and back up, instead of coming up ahead. And so on. Gone, seemingly overnight, was the coordination that had always struck outsiders as very nearly supernatural, the unthinking alignment that had allowed us to swim and run and fight, that had saved our lives that day on the
Sachem
when, running at full speed from one of the mess boys who delighted in chasing us about the deck, we had suddenly seen the open hold yawning at our feet and, too late to stop or swerve or signal, had instinctively lifted off at precisely the same moment—I off my left leg, Eng off his right—and cleared the pit by so little, with only the front of our bare feet hitting the wood, that had it not been for our momentum, which threw us tumbling across the deck, we would never have made it. Now we twitched and lurched about like men continually hitching their pants or getting at some hidden itch or suffering from some strange nervous disorder.
It’s fine. It’s nothing. I’m sorry, brother, did you mean to turn?

And we got used to it. Month by month, as we went along, we grew accustomed to the new dispensation, adjusted ourselves to its demands. Habit took hold, as it will. The furrow grew deeper. Whereas at the beginning a good quarrel might still conceivably have wrenched us out of our path, now it just confirmed our course. We would argue, accuse each other of mendacity and all manner of crimes, and in the morning resume precisely where we had left off. The year came and went. Another began. Nothing anyone said could sway us.

Not that they didn’t try. Addy and Sallie, singly and together, wept
and begged us to be reasonable. The Reverend Seward, having gotten wind from some conjugal quarter of our situation, preached a repetitive sermon on tolerance and brotherly love, taking as his inspiration the First Epistle of John 2:9–11: “He that saith he is in the light, and hateth his brother, is in darkness even until now. He that loveth his brother abideth in the light, and there is none occasion of stumbling in him. But he that hateth his brother is in darkness, and walketh in darkness, and knoweth not whither he goeth, because that darkness hath blinded his eyes.” And so on. I let it pass. We hardly spoke now except to convey the most essential information, and when speaking to a third person, would communicate through them.
Tell your uncle Chang she’ll need a second dose of Cook’s pills. Ask your father if he’s hungry
.

That particular Sunday morning in 1859, if I recall correctly, we had not spoken directly for days. Which may explain why, at first, I didn’t realize he was speaking to me.

We had just settled ourselves behind the table for our Bible-reading session (it being my turn to wear the ball and chain) when, opening one of Sophia’s English novels, which I was rereading at the time, I thought I heard my brother say, “I really wish you wouldn’t.” It took me a moment to realize he wasn’t talking to one of the boys.

“I’m sorry, brother,” I said, confused. “Did you say something?”

“I said I wish you wouldn’t,” he repeated.

“I beg your pardon, brother, but ‘wouldn’t’ what?”

“Read that book.”

I couldn’t believe what I was hearing, but I still managed to remain calm. “Why on earth not?”

“You know why,” he said, going back to his book. “Don’t make me say it.”

I could feel myself trembling. “Why not, if it gives you pleasure.”

“It doesn’t. It gives me no pleasure whatsoever.”

“Why don’t you just say it,” I said.

“I’d rather not.”

“Go ahead. Say it.”

“I don’t have to say anything. You know exactly what I’m talking about.”

“You coward,” I said.

“Because it was hers,” he said, almost hissing it. “There’s something unseemly about it. Something weak. Like stroking a piece of her clothing or … or fondling a lock of her hair.”

“It’s none of your goddamn business,” I said.

“Oh, but it
is
my business. This is my house.”

I opened the book. “Go to hell, brother. I’ll read what I want.”

He jumped up, wrenching me to my feet. I had forgotten how strong he was. “There will be no more reading today,” he whispered, his jaw clenched and his face almost disfigured with rage. “And don’t you dare, ever, tell me to go to hell when it’s because of you that I …”

“Because of me that you what?”

“Nothing.”

“That you what? That you’ll—” Hearing footsteps in the hall behind us, I paused, shaking like a blade of grass in the wind.

“Daddy?” Nannie appeared behind the screen mesh. “What are you doing?” she said, seeing us standing there behind the table.

“What is it, Nannie?” I said.

“Have you seen Aunt Grace?”

“She’s probably out back by the oven,” I said.

“Aren’t you reading today?”

“No,” I said. And then, after a pause: “Your uncle Eng and I have a few things to talk about. We’re going for a walk.”

We didn’t get far. “So that’s what’s keeping you up at night, brother?” I whispered when we were halfway across the yard. I could see Lester pouring a bucket of slops for the pigs. The sound of excited grunting rose in the still, hot air. “That you’ll go to hell because of me? Is that it?” I leaned closer. “Are you worried that God won’t bother to cut us free? Hmmm? That he’ll just toss us out like a half-rotten apple?”

We had passed out of the shade of the locusts. We were walking faster and faster, jerking and wrenching each other about. Aunt Grace was out back by the brick oven. I remember seeing Frank rolling a
wheelbarrow full of wood toward the shed. He called something out to us, but neither of us heard him.

“The lake of fire, brother,” I whispered, wanting to hurt him, to run him down to the ground like a winded animal. “Is that what’s worrying you? That your name won’t be written in the book of life because of me?” We were plunging across the tobacco field now, oblivious to the plants being trampled underfoot. “Well it’s too late, brother. Do you hear me? It’s too late.” I leaned closer. “ ‘He that saith he is in the light, and hateth his brother, he is in darkness even now.’ ” We were almost running. “Are you listening, brother? ‘He that hateth his brother, he is—in—darkness. He that—’ ”

The first blow broke my nose. A great gout of blood gushed across my shirt and I fell into the furrows with him on top of me, my hands around his throat. I could hear him strangling even as I felt a dull hammering on the side of my face and wondered what it could be. We rolled and wrenched, punched and gouged. He was my brother—as boys in Siam, we had wrapped our arms around each other and rolled down the hills, laughing and screaming—and yet at that moment I swear to God I would have left him dead in that tobacco field, cut him loose like a piece of cloth, and walked back to the house alone. But I did not have a knife. He did. At some point, I remember, he rammed a handful of dirt into my face, grinding it up into my nose and eyes with the heel of his palm. Choking and thrashing, I managed to raise a knee between his legs. I heard him grunt and felt him curl toward his middle, the strength draining out of him, just as a searing pain flashed through my side—once, twice—and I heard him scream and wondered, for one mad instant, if someone else had hurt him, but by then my hand had closed on something hard and I was swinging it wildly, not knowing what was happening, dimly aware of voices yelling something somewhere, and then a huge weight was on my chest and my arms were pinned to the ground and I was crying and spitting dirt and that, as they say, was that.