Jericho and Greece and Troy and Rome, which he knew I liked, and sometimes he would press sweets into my pocket until it tore. He said: Danny, you will have to do better than I have.
Hill yowls and a dog sings after him outside. The dancing reels along like a brawl. The boots seem to have increased their weight, the thump of a body falling rises up to us on a current of hard laughter. The air in the house seems a mouthful of liquorish breath let out. My own breath is liquorish, I admit, and Rebecca’s is lightly so, though she keeps her mouth closed to a pinpoint and seems hardly to be breathing at all. The bed trembles. It is not ourdoing. A loud stumble and roar downstairs and Neddy’s slow easy laugh from across the landing where he is with his own new wife. Ah-ha-ha. Ah.
Well Uncle James, here is my bride, my new life. To your health. I take another swallow from the jug for good measure.
Rebecca beside me is in her nightgown where Bryan’s house slave Jean propped and primped her before leaving the room with a wink when I appeared. Her hair is cobwebby, black and soft against the pillow. The candle gutters as the dancers shake the walls, it reflects in shudders in her eyes. She is as still and quiet as ever and seems to want for nothing. I feel little guns going off all along my limbs and up my back. I am near to being purely happy, though there is plenty I want at this moment. I say:
—Here you are. Here we are.
She is unmoved. Someone below is singing “Black Betty” in the saddest wail.
Well. My hands seem dumb hammers as I fold them over my chest. I send out a prayer to Maria and the others in Philadelphia, I hope I will do better here. If I had my knife I could make a few holes in her nightdress. Look for dimples.
I roll onto my side and grin at her and say:
—Do you remember the cherry orchard?
At this she inclines her head towards me and says:
—Marriage has turned you sentimental.
In her voice is a flint lightly struck. The possibility of a spark, if not a spark itself. I say:
—It is known to do so.
—Rum is also known to do so.
—Well. Milk is too. Have you brought a bowl along for me tonight?
She says nothing. She winds a strand of hair around each finger on one hand. I say:
—At any rate, you are married yourself. You should know what it is like.
—True. I am married.
She says so as if it is nothing to do with me. I touch her hair.
—Mrs. Boone. Poor woman.
—Do I know who you are?
This is first time she says it. She gives me a sudden vicious little smile and I am seized with tomcat joy.
She catches her breath, I feel it.
Nine months later, we have Jamesie. Rebecca, you know that I have counted it out. I know he was mine.
Y OU CAN HAVE a new life for a time. But it does turn old, everything does.
Rebecca loses no shine for me. The truth is that I am full of aching for her, I am near always so, even now, after all that has happened. When we are new married, her face appears in the corn. Or the axe-edge of her shoulder blade does, or her ribs riding up under her skin as she lifts her arms, or the tiny cushion behind her sharp knee. She is built of weapons, I tell her, and she agrees: Yes I am. I know all of her, every inch, I cannot leave her body alone, even in my mind in the fields. At night I call her a Welsh witch, or Beautiful Helen, Queen Not-of-Troy but of the Backwoods, and I lie her down and kiss her low on her back and feel her silent laughter in her backbone. There is the proof of it.
Little girl, I wish I could see you now, any part of you.
Her grandfather’s fields are dull. The soil is good, things grow readily. But everything here has the taste of Bryan property, a rusty weepy taste. Besides I have never been one for cropping. I am a poor enough ploughman, I make wobbling furrows, I strike any rock in any field. The work presses on me like an anvil. The corn is like lead. In truth I hate corn, God damn the corn, I would like to hear it all pop itself to
Hill yowls and a dog sings after him outside. The dancing reels along like a brawl. The boots seem to have increased their weight, the thump of a body falling rises up to us on a current of hard laughter. The air in the house seems a mouthful of liquorish breath let out. My own breath is liquorish, I admit, and Rebecca’s is lightly so, though she keeps her mouth closed to a pinpoint and seems hardly to be breathing at all. The bed trembles. It is not ourdoing. A loud stumble and roar downstairs and Neddy’s slow easy laugh from across the landing where he is with his own new wife. Ah-ha-ha. Ah.
Well Uncle James, here is my bride, my new life. To your health. I take another swallow from the jug for good measure.
Rebecca beside me is in her nightgown where Bryan’s house slave Jean propped and primped her before leaving the room with a wink when I appeared. Her hair is cobwebby, black and soft against the pillow. The candle gutters as the dancers shake the walls, it reflects in shudders in her eyes. She is as still and quiet as ever and seems to want for nothing. I feel little guns going off all along my limbs and up my back. I am near to being purely happy, though there is plenty I want at this moment. I say:
—Here you are. Here we are.
She is unmoved. Someone below is singing “Black Betty” in the saddest wail.
Well. My hands seem dumb hammers as I fold them over my chest. I send out a prayer to Maria and the others in Philadelphia, I hope I will do better here. If I had my knife I could make a few holes in her nightdress. Look for dimples.
I roll onto my side and grin at her and say:
—Do you remember the cherry orchard?
At this she inclines her head towards me and says:
—Marriage has turned you sentimental.
In her voice is a flint lightly struck. The possibility of a spark, if not a spark itself. I say:
—It is known to do so.
—Rum is also known to do so.
—Well. Milk is too. Have you brought a bowl along for me tonight?
She says nothing. She winds a strand of hair around each finger on one hand. I say:
—At any rate, you are married yourself. You should know what it is like.
—True. I am married.
She says so as if it is nothing to do with me. I touch her hair.
—Mrs. Boone. Poor woman.
—Do I know who you are?
This is first time she says it. She gives me a sudden vicious little smile and I am seized with tomcat joy.
She catches her breath, I feel it.
Nine months later, we have Jamesie. Rebecca, you know that I have counted it out. I know he was mine.
Y OU CAN HAVE a new life for a time. But it does turn old, everything does.
Rebecca loses no shine for me. The truth is that I am full of aching for her, I am near always so, even now, after all that has happened. When we are new married, her face appears in the corn. Or the axe-edge of her shoulder blade does, or her ribs riding up under her skin as she lifts her arms, or the tiny cushion behind her sharp knee. She is built of weapons, I tell her, and she agrees: Yes I am. I know all of her, every inch, I cannot leave her body alone, even in my mind in the fields. At night I call her a Welsh witch, or Beautiful Helen, Queen Not-of-Troy but of the Backwoods, and I lie her down and kiss her low on her back and feel her silent laughter in her backbone. There is the proof of it.
Little girl, I wish I could see you now, any part of you.
Her grandfather’s fields are dull. The soil is good, things grow readily. But everything here has the taste of Bryan property, a rusty weepy taste. Besides I have never been one for cropping. I am a poor enough ploughman, I make wobbling furrows, I strike any rock in any field. The work presses on me like an anvil. The corn is like lead. In truth I hate corn, God damn the corn, I would like to hear it all pop itself to
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