Rafe (28 page)

The door opened behind him and a manservant entered, a pair of coarse canvas trousers and a linen shirt over his arm. He raised his eyebrows at seeing Rafe out of bed, lay the clothes on the rumpled sheets and retreated hastily from the room. Rafe dressed, wishing he had mentioned the hungry ache in his stomach to the young Negro. As he was rubbing his flattened belly the door opened again and Crissa, as if on cue, entered with a platter of biscuits, bacon and honey.

“You're up. You have incredible powers of recovery. I should have thought you'd still be flat on your back. I'm still surprised you're even alive. Most men would have died.”

“They would've,” the black muttered, striding toward the food, then swaying dizzily, his knees weak and watery. He sat back on the bed, barely catching himself before falling.

“The clothes fit,” Crissa went on as if nothing had happened. “They were the largest I could find in the storeroom.” She put the platter by him on the bed, turned rapidly and stood behind the chair across the room. “There. I suspect you can well feed yourself.”

Rafe was staring at Crissa, unable to tear his eyes from her in spite of years of training which had taught him no black man had the right to look so closely at a white woman. Her ripe figure more than attractively filled the summer dress and her hair fell about her face in a cascade of strawberry-gold ringlets. The faint trace of perfume tickled and provoked his senses and in a way angered him. Crissa was a symbol of everything he would forever be denied. “Why you carin' for me, Miss Crissa?” he suddenly blurted. “Did Mistah Ezra give you the orders an' you got to obey?”

Crissa sat down, unperturbed by the outburst. “Ezra Clayton did nothing of the sort. I was worried about you. There's no physician for miles about and I had no way of telling if you were going to live or die. I was determined to see you live.”

“I'm livin', Miss Crissa. Don't you worry. There's more fightin' left in me. Yes, ma'am,” he couldn't stop the sarcasm which dripped so bitterly from his voice, “I'll be butcherin' an' winnin' your stepdaddy his gold again before you know it, so don't worry.”

“You don't have to be hateful. I was only trying to help,” Crissa said angrily.

“What you tryin' to help for?” Rafe went on blindly, knowing he shouldn't be talking to the girl this way but unable to stop himself. “Help your nigger live to kill? Comin' in here in your finery, smellin' sweeter'n honey off a tree. That's all well an' good, but what am I goin' back to? Not the smell a' your sweet skin, but the smell a' ripped guts an' spilled blood. Not no gentle lady voice but the screamin' of dyin' men. Not the touch a' these here sheets and your coolin' hand on my face, but the feel of a hard wooden grip an' the weight an' balance a' my machete. I jus' a pit nigger, one a' your darkies an' you know it. Why you tryin' to make me feel like a real man?”

Her back straightened and a flush came to her cheeks. The words spilled out rapidly, an indication of her own pain, anger and frustration in the face of uncomfortable truth and unassailable logic. “Would you rather I'd let you die? What do you expect of me? Would you feel better if I treated you like an animal? And then what horrible things would you find to say to me? What else was I to do? What
can
I do?”

Rafe was silent under her outburst. He sat back against the pillows and shut his eyes, not wanting to see her face nor the hurt there. “When I was younger, five years younger, I used to watch you every chance I got. Steal a look at you doin' nothin' special, jus' bein', jus' … bein' you. The prettiest sight I ever seen, includin' all them fancy New Orleans women. You, jus' bein'.

“Then I figger if your mama ever found out, ever caught me gawkin' at you she'd fetch me up the side a' the head an' send me to the fields. No call for a nigger to be lookin' after a white woman, 'specially one jus' a girl. I didn't think you would a' minded, but everyone else sure would, an' raised a fuss. So I took to turnin' away every time you come around. Didn't matter. I found out I could shut my eyes an' still be seein' you.”

“What are you saying?” Crissa asked tremulously.

“Nothin'. Jus' there's nothin' you can do, 'cept leave.”

“I think I'd like to stay,” she answered slowly, after a brief pause. “Finish your breakfast and I'll carry your plates back upstairs. It makes me feel useful.” She paused again, a rueful smile on her face. “Carrying plates is about the only constructive function I can find for myself around here. Go on, eat.”

Rafe forced any further reflection from his mind, concentrated on the taste of food and the pleasant nearness of Crissa Fitzman. She had changed, surely enough. The buds of youth had brought forth a woman. He finished the bacon and biscuits and slid the heavy coffee mug over, ladling several teaspoons of sugar and the entire contents of the small china pitcher of thick cream into the dark, aromatic brew. The result, sweet and heavy, was a luxury as well as a necessity if he wanted to rebuild his strength. He made the most of every drop.

Crissa sat and watched him. Perhaps Rafe had not changed all that much. Underneath the hardened veneer she was sure she detected a glimmer of the youth she had once barely known. She almost wished the five years had never been, wished they were back to the simple time she remembered so fondly.

“Why you grinnin' at me, Miss Crissa?”

“I was thinking about five years ago. You and Ezra had only just arrived. I was out playing on the gallery and saw you go into papa's library. No one, especially slaves, was allowed in that room. I hurried in to scold you but you looked so hurt when I started to speak I felt totally foolish and very much a little girl.”

“You weren't seein' hurt. You were seein' scared. If'n your mama or stepdaddy found out, I knew I'd be in trouble. When it comes to trouble, ain't no one but the nigger gonna get his share an' then some.”

“What really surprised me, though, was the fact you could read. For a moment I was angry because I didn't think slaves were supposed to be able to read. I'd never known one who could.”

“I was the pride of Lucas Clayton's household,” he responded, the bitterness seeping back into his voice. “His cultured, talkin', readin' nigger.”

“It always comes back to that, doesn't it?”

“Why not? Sure, I used to sneak in your daddy's book-readin' room at night. Lord Lucas taught me to read an' gave me a hunger for words. So every night I fed myself on them books. Took to readin' whatever I could get my hands on the fastest. I'd sneak a book to my room an' read way into the night. One time Mistah Ezra almost caught me, but I stuck the book down the seat a' my britches an' then got it back when I had the chance. He never found out. If he had, it would've gone mighty hard for me. 'Course, after the compound was built, there wasn't any readin' to be done.

“Don't know how a man can get an' stay that mean an' keep from eatin' himself up with his own juices or cuttin' off his own limbs from spite. I guess 'cause he has his niggers to take it out on. That man doesn't have no heart. Maybe that's why he dug the pit, to match the hole he got on the inside where his feelin's ought to be. Can't understand why your mama tied her knot with him.”

“Ezra was very dashing,” Crissa explained. “And gallant. And knew the right things to say. Mama never was very strong. Independent minded, but not strong. She needed my father—or someone—around, couldn't handle things by herself. I was determined not to let myself get caught in a similar situation. When the opportunity came for me to go to school in Boston, I grabbed it. Now I wonder if I should have left at all, or come back. After four years I thought myself capable of meeting any situation. I should have known better. I'm not. In my own way I was taken in by Ezra too. He's too strong for any of us. I'm as much a slave as you. Of a different sort, but a slave all the same.” She paused, sunk into herself. “When I was a child, slavery seemed very right. Father had slaves to work the fields. He never mistreated anyone and they seemed happy and at peace. It's strange. I learned in Boston how terrible slavery is. Now, seeing Freedom under Ezra Clayton and being under him myself, I've come to understand the difference between learning and knowing. I wish I'd known earlier. Maybe I could have done something.”

Rafe nodded. “My father once said, 'See the horns of the bush antelope, pointin' to where he has been. Like grief over wishin' you had done somethin' but didn't, or not done somethin' but did, it's better left behind you.' What's important is what you do, not what you wished you'd done.”

“You said yourself there's nothing I can do,” Crissa said angrily. She rose, agitated, and paced nervously back and forth like a caged animal. “Ezra will get his way in everything. Everything. He's made my mother an alcoholic and my father's land a symbol of corruption and greed. As for me, what he had planned.…” she paused, letting the words trail off. “And look at you. When I left you were a tall, shy, gawky young man. Now you're huge and frightening, the shy sensitivity replaced by an aura of menace and hatred toward all of us.” Her face reddened as she realized what she'd said. “I'm sorry, Rafe. I didn't mean.…”

“No. What you sayin' is true. Mistah Ezra changed us all. I'm a fine one to be talkin' a' heart an' such. I got an emptiness where mine ought to be too. When all's said an' done, I don't care much who I point my knife at. Mistah Ezra made me a killer. Some needed killin', true enough, but others was jus' poor niggers more scared than me. But you're wrong about one thing, Crissa. I don't hate you. I never hated you. Ain't no way I could.”

Her slim white hand reached out and touched the back of his mangled left hand, rested there despite the incongruous relief, the contrast of pale, lovely frailty to scarred and dark, fierce brutality. Suddenly she pulled back her hand as if burned, grabbed up the tray and left, leaving behind only a tantalizing hint of perfume.

Rafe spent the morning walking back and forth, flexing his hand. Around noon the manservant came with a tray piled high with food. Rafe ate every scrap, slept, and woke again to walk and flex, test and try his body, gaining strength with every step. The manservant came again shortly before sunset. This time he carried a lighted lantern and, on the tray next to a platter loaded with rice and beans and a huge chunk of ham, a cloth-bound book. The manservant informed him in a nervous voice Crissa had sent the book as a gift. Eyes shifting from side to side, he obviously disapproved and Rafe could sense his fear of involvement. Rafe grumbled his thanks, told the boy not to worry. No one would betray him and he need not fear reprisal should Ezra return from Natchitoches and find the book in Rafe's possession. The slave deposited the tray and anxiously hurried from the room, glad to be away from the feared pitbuck.

The first book in over four years—since the compound had been built. Words. Would he remember how to read them? His mind whirling, he gingerly opened the book and stared with awe at the picture of a naked man on a beach. The man was kneeling, staff in hand, examining a footprint in the sand. Gold lettering glimmered on the frontispiece.
Robinson Crusoe
by Daniel Defoe. He turned up the flame on the lamp near the bed and, as he ate, began his struggle with the first page.…

The coal oil lamp had used much of its fuel and a dim shaft of moonlight struggled to be seen beyond the yellowish glow. The upstairs had been quiet for some time. He had reveled as the words, awkward and obscure at first, came easier and easier with each succeeding page. Some he remembered well, others he had to pronounce syllable by syllable. These words he sometimes stared at with awe, other times rushed past in eagerness to learn what lay beyond.

Suddenly his attention was interrupted by a wooden click as the latch on his door was released. Quickly he turned the lantern down and shoved the book under his bed. He knew the hour was late, had heard no warning sounds. Ezra wasn't due until Sunday, three days away. Nevertheless, suspicious of the presence behind the door, he dared take no chances. The door opened a crack and stopped. Whoever was there had paused, unable to decide whether or not to enter. Rafe felt his spine prickle with fear, for he was woefully weak and unable to defend himself. And if Ezra Clayton's wife came again … the game she played was not of his choosing.

The door opened all the way and Micara entered. Micara Clayton. The mistress of the house. Crissa's mother. The other night he had guessed it was she, and now he knew. Her hair was combed to fall in thick brown and silver curls, covering the swell of her bosom. Her figure was wrapped in a dark robe designed to hide her movements in the night and she held a single candle, only recently extinguished. A wisp of smoke rose from the red tip of the wick and trailed out into the hall until she closed the door. Her eyes glanced furtively to the shirt and breeches folded across the chair, then back to Rafe's dark form, sitting up, the sheet covering him from the waist down.

The dark robe fell behind as she walked toward him to reveal a white nightgown fit for a wedding bed. The gown diminished the slight thickness of her waist and hips and the fabric clung to her breasts to accentuate the erect nipples, already straining forward, swollen with anticipation and desire.

She drew closer, a beautiful woman nearing her decline and grabbing for whatever bit of sensation she could find in life, regardless of its clandestine, forbidden nature, aware only that from the first moment she had seen Rafe in the pit and then later, lying naked and unconscious in bed, there had been awakened in her a fierce sensuality appeased only by the driving rhythm and raging climax of two nights earlier. She sat on the edge of the bed, leaned over to press her face against his chest.