Kindred (18 page)

“I know that.”

“Then don’t threaten me!”

“I said we were dangerous to each other. That’s more a reminder than a threat.” Actually, it was more a bluff.

“I don’t need reminders or threats from you.”

I said nothing.

“Well? Are you going to go get some help for me?”

Still I said nothing. I didn’t move.

“You go through those trees,” he said pointing. “There’s a road out there, not too far away. Go left on the road and then just follow it until you come to our place.”

I listened to his directions knowing that I would use them sooner or later. But we had to have an understanding first, he and I. He didn’t have to admit that we had one. He could keep his pride if that was what he thought was at stake. But he did have to behave as though he understood me. If he refused, he was going to get a lot more pain now. And maybe later when Kevin was safe and Hagar had at least had a chance to be born—I might never find out about that—I would walk away from Rufus and leave him to get out of his own trouble.

“Dana!”

I looked at him. I had let my attention wander.

“I said she’ll … they’ll get their time. White men attacked me.”

“Good, Rufe.” I laid a hand on his shoulder. “Look, your father will listen to me, won’t he? I don’t know what he saw last time I went home.”

“He doesn’t know what he saw either. Whatever it was, he’s seen it before—that time at the river—and he didn’t believe it then, either. But he’ll listen to you. He might even be a little afraid of you.”

“That’s better than the other way around. I’ll get back as quickly as I can.”

5

The road was farther away than I had expected. As it got darker—the sun was setting, not rising—I tore pages from my scratch pad and stuck them on trees now and then to mark my trail. Even then I worried that I might not be able to find my way back to Rufus.

When I reached the road, I pulled up some bushes and made a kind of barricade speckled with bits of white paper. That would stop me at the right place when I came back—if no one moved it meanwhile.

I followed the road until it was dark, followed it through woods, through fields, past a large house much finer than Weylin’s. No one bothered me. I hid behind a tree once when two white men rode past. They might not have paid any attention to me, but I didn’t want to take the chance. And there were three black women walking with large bundles balanced on their heads.

“‘Evenin’,” they said as I passed them.

I nodded and wished them a good evening. And I walked faster, wondering suddenly what the years had done to Luke and Sarah, to Nigel and Carrie. The children who had played at selling each other might already be working in the fields now. And what would time have done to Margaret Weylin? I doubted that it had made her any easier to live with.

Finally, after more woods and fields, the plain square house was before me, its downstairs windows full of yellow light. I was startled to catch myself saying wearily, “Home at last.”

I stood still for a moment between the fields and the house and reminded myself that I was in a hostile place. It didn’t look alien any longer, but that only made it more dangerous, made me more likely to relax and make a mistake.

I rubbed my back, touched the several long scabs to remind myself that I could not afford to make mistakes. And the scabs forced me to remember that I had been away from this place for only a few days. Not that I had forgotten—exactly. But it was as though during my walk I had been getting used to the idea that years had passed for these people since I had seen them last. I had begun to feel—feel, not think—that a great deal of time had passed for me too. It was a vague feeling, but it seemed right and comfortable. More comfortable than trying to keep in mind what was really happening. Some part of me had apparently given up on time-distorted reality and smoothed things out. Well, that was all right, as long as it didn’t go too far.

I continued on toward the house, mentally prepared now, I hoped, to meet Tom Weylin. But as I approached, a tall thin shadow of a white man came toward me from the direction of the quarter.

“Hey there,” he called. “What are you doing out here?” His long steps closed the distance between us quickly, and in a moment, he stood peering down at me. “You don’t belong here,” he said. “Who’s your master?”

“I’ve come to get help for Mister Rufus,” I said. And then, feeling suddenly doubtful because he was a stranger, I asked, “This is still where he lives, isn’t it?”

The man did not answer. He continued to peer at me. I wondered whether it was my sex or my accent that he was trying to figure out. Or maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t called him sir or master. I’d have to begin that degrading nonsense again. But who was this man, anyway?

“He lives here.” An answer, finally. “What’s wrong with him?”

“Some men beat him. He can’t walk.”

“Is he drunk?”

“Uh … no, sir, not quite.”

“Worthless bastard.”

I jumped a little. The man had spoken softly, but there was no mistaking what he had said. I said nothing.

“Come on,” he ordered, and led me into the house. He left me standing in the entrance hall and went to the library where I supposed Weylin was. I looked at the wooden bench a few steps from me, the settee, but although I was tired, I didn’t sit down. Margaret Weylin had once caught me sitting there tying my shoe. She had screamed and raged as though she’d caught me stealing her jewelry. I didn’t want to renew my acquaintance with her in another scene like that. I didn’t want to renew my acquaintance with her at all, but it seemed inevitable.

There was a sound behind me and I turned in quick apprehension. A young slave woman stood staring at me. She was light-skinned, blue-kerchiefed, and very pregnant.

“Carrie?” I asked.

She ran to me, caught me by the shoulders for a moment, and looked into my face. Then she hugged me.

The white stranger chose that moment to come out of the library with Tom Weylin.

“What’s going on here?” demanded the stranger.

Carrie moved away from me quickly, head down, and I said, “We’re old friends, sir.”

Tom Weylin, grayer, thinner, grimmer-looking than ever, came over to me. He stared at me for a moment, then turned to face the stranger. “When did you say his horse came in, Jake?”

“About an hour ago.”

“That long … you should have told me.”

“He’s taken that long and longer before.”

Weylin sighed, glanced at me. “Yes. But I think it might be more serious this time. Carrie!”

The mute woman had been walking away toward the back door. Now, she turned to look at Weylin.

“Have Nigel bring the wagon around front.”

She gave the half-nod, half-curtsey that she reserved for whites and hurried away.

Something occurred to me as she was going and I spoke to Weylin. “I think Mister Rufus might have broken ribs. He wasn’t coughing blood so his lungs are probably all right, but it might be a good idea for me to bandage him a little before you move him.” I had never bandaged anything worse than a cut finger in my life, but I did remember a little of the first aid I had learned in school. I hadn’t thought to act when Rufus broke his leg, but I might be able to help now.

“You can bandage him when we get him here,” said Weylin. And to the stranger, “Jake, you send somebody for the doctor.”

Jake took a last disapproving look at me and went out the back door after Carrie.

Weylin went out the front door without another word to me and I followed, trying to remember how important it was to bandage broken ribs—that is, whether it was worth “talking back” to Weylin about. I didn’t want Rufus badly injured, even though he deserved to be. Any injury could be dangerous. But from what I could remember, bandaging the ribs was done mostly to relieve pain. I wasn’t sure whether I remembered that because it was true or because I wanted to avoid any kind of confrontation with Weylin. I didn’t have to touch the scabs on my back to be conscious of them.

A tall stocky slave drove a wagon around to us and I got on the back while Weylin took the seat beside the driver. The driver glanced back at me and said softly, “How are you, Dana?”

“Nigel?”

“It’s me,” he said grinning. “Grown some since you seen me last, I guess.”

He had grown into another Luke—a big handsome man bearing little resemblance to the boy I remembered.

“You keep your mouth shut and watch the road,” said Weylin. Then to me, “You’ve got to tell us where to go.”

It would have been a pleasure to tell him where to go, but I spoke civilly. “It’s a long way from here,” I said. “I had to pass someone else’s house and fields on my way to you.”

“The judge’s place. You could have got help there.”

“I didn’t know.” And wouldn’t have tried if I had known. I wondered, though, whether this was the Judge Holman who would soon be sending men out to chase Isaac. It seemed likely.

“Did you leave Rufus by the side of the road?” Weylin asked.

“No, sir. He’s in the woods.”

“You sure you know where in the woods?”

“Yes, sir.”

“You’d better.”

He said nothing else.

I found Rufus with no particular difficulty and Nigel lifted him as gently and as easily as Luke once had. On the wagon, he held his side, then he held my hand. Once, he said, “I’ll keep my word.”

I nodded and touched his forehead in case he couldn’t see me nodding. His forehead was hot and dry.

“He’ll keep his word about what?” asked Weylin.

He was looking back at me, so I frowned and looked perplexed and said, “I think he has a fever as well as broken ribs, sir.”

Weylin made a sound of disgust. “He was sick yesterday, puking all over. But he would get up and go out today. Damn fool!”

And he fell silent again until we reached his house. Then, as Nigel carried Rufus inside and up the stairs, Weylin steered me into his forbidden library. He pushed me close to a whale-oil lamp, and there, in the bright yellow light, he stared at me silently, critically until I looked toward the door.

“You’re the same one, all right,” he said finally. “I didn’t want to believe it.”

I said nothing.

“Who are you?” he demanded. “What are you?”

I hesitated not knowing what to answer because I didn’t know how much he knew. The truth might make him decide I was out of my mind, but I didn’t want to be caught in a lie.

“Well!”

“I don’t know what you want me to say,” I told him. “I’m Dana. You know me.”

“Don’t tell me what I know!”

I stood silent, confused, frightened. Kevin wasn’t here now. There was no one for me to call if I needed help.

“I’m someone who may have just saved your son’s life,” I said softly. “He might have died out there sick and injured and alone.”

“And you think I ought to be grateful?”

Why did he sound angry? And why shouldn’t he be grateful? “I can’t tell you how you ought to feel, Mr. Weylin.”

“That’s right. You can’t.”

There was a moment of silence that he seemed to expect me to fill. Eagerly, I changed the subject. “Mr. Weylin, do you know where Mr. Franklin went?”

Oddly, that seemed to reach him. His expression softened a little. “Him,” he said. “Damn fool.”

“Where did he go?”

“Somewhere North. I don’t know. Rufus has some letters from him.” He gave me another long stare. “I guess you want to stay here.”

He sounded as though he was giving me a choice, which was surprising because he didn’t have to. Maybe gratitude meant something to him after all.

“I’d like to stay for a while,” I said. Better to try to reach Kevin from here than go wandering around some Northern city trying to find him. Especially since I had no money, and since I was still so ignorant of this time.

“You got to work for your keep,” said Weylin. “Like you did before.”

“Yes, sir.”

“That Franklin comes back, he’ll stop here. He came back once — hoping to find you, I think.”

“When?”

“Last year sometime. You go up and stay with Rufus until the doctor comes. Take care of him.”

“Yes, sir.” I turned to go.

“That seems to be what you’re for, anyway,” he muttered.

I kept going, glad to get away from him. He had known more about me than he wanted to talk about. That was clear from the questions he hadn’t asked. He had seen me vanish twice now. And Kevin and Rufus had probably told him at least something about me. I wondered how much. And I wondered what Kevin had said or done that made him a “damn fool.”

Whatever it was, I’d learn about it from Rufus. Weylin was too dangerous to question.

6

I sponged Rufus off as best I could and bandaged his ribs with pieces of cloth that Nigel brought me. The ribs were very tender on the left side. Rufus said the bandage made breathing a little less painful, though, and I was glad of that. But he was still sick. His fever was still with him. And the doctor didn’t come. Rufus had fits of coughing now and then, and that seemed to be agonizing to him because of his ribs. Sarah came in to see him—and to hug me—and she was more alarmed at the marks of his beating than at his ribs or his fever. His face was black and blue and deformed-looking with its lumpy swellings.

“He will fight,” she said angrily. Rufus opened his puffy slits of eyes and looked at her, but she went on anyway. “I’ve seen him pick a fight just out of meanness,” she said. “He’s out to get himself killed!”

She could have been his mother, caught between anger and concern and not knowing which to express. She took away the basin Nigel had brought me and returned it full of clean cool water.

“Where’s his mother?” I asked her softly as she was leaving.

She drew back from me a little. “Gone.”

“Dead?”

“Not yet.” She glanced at Rufus to see whether he was listening. His face was turned away from us. “Gone to Baltimore,” she whispered. “I’ll tell you ’bout it tomorrow.”

I let her go without questioning her further. It was enough to know that I would not be suddenly attacked. For once, there would be no Margaret to protect Rufus from me.

He was thrashing about weakly when I went back to him. He cursed the pain, cursed me, then remembered himself enough to say he didn’t mean it. He was burning up.