throwing fists and jabbing, momentarily intent on killing them all, perhaps even the girl for the part she played in this.
“There I was beating them,” Lemuel whispered. “Crazed about it. Like I wanted them children dead. Like the crime they was doing to each other was worse than any done to them. That’s how it felt.”
But then, in the length of time it took for him to raise his hand in the air, he realized that even in this crime these children were each a victim. They were acting out scenes they’d witnessed before. They were using violence and sex as men had taught them, as much a part of the institution in which they were bound as chains and whips. They were criminals, yes, but in their crime they punished themselves. “And I knew they would hurt themselves like that forever. Not just them boys, I mean, but all of us. All of us that have to live with these things.”
Lemuel was silent for a moment, but the pause seemed to make him uneasy. “So how do you live with that?” he asked. “Tell you what I do. I make for myself a string-together life. You take all the fine moments of your life. Eating honey from a cone. Cool stream water on your naked toes. Fireflies lighting a summer evening. Two children tagging and chasing each other. You take them fine moments and you pull them close and string them like a necklace of shells. In the bad times you hold on to them and remember all the reasons God gave you life in the first place. It’s what you hold onto that makes a life, so hold onto joy and let go the rest. Understand? Let go of nights like this, put it behind you and wait for the better times.”
The two lay in silence, and before long that silence was once more punctuated by the sounds that Lemuel’s voice had blotted out. Sometime later, William felt the pull of the chains around his feet. They were yanked and shifted as the woman was refastened. He didn’t turn to look. He wanted to. He wanted somehow to reach out with his eyes and comfort her, but he didn’t trust himself to convey the message properly. Instead, he shut his eyes and prayed for sleep to numb him.
He awoke later in the night and asked, “It’s what you remember that matters?” He was surprised at himself, but the question escaped him before he knew it. He wasn’t even sure that Lemuel was awake until the man answered.
“That’s what I believe.”
“Then which thing you remember better? Standing on that hill with a breeze on your face? Or the sight of them boys on that girl? You remember the joy or the anger?”
The older man didn’t answer.
The next day was a repeat of the one that came before, distinguished only because William had memories of that previous day and therefore this must be another. That evening they camped in a fallow clearing next to a cornfield. Bats appeared in the fading light, first a single bullet and then another, then a whole storm of them cutting the sky with their erratic, reasonless flights. Late that night he woke to a beautiful star-filled sky. He lay staring up at it, for a moment forgetting the discomfort of his fetters. He listened to the chorus of breathing around him. So many nasal voices exhaling up into the air, blending with the night calls of insects. It reminded him of Dover’s house, where, like now, bodies lay close to one another.
When he first noticed the other noise he realized it had long been part of the night, a background sound indistinguishable from the rest and nearly disguised. But it was different. It was a quiet grinding, occasionally interrupted by the clink of iron on iron. He rose up on his elbow. His eyes went first to the guard on duty. It was the tobacco-chewer. He sat leaning against the base of a tree, a shotgun cradled in his lap. The brim of his hat shaded his face from the starlight, and for a moment William thought the man was staring at him. But as he didn’t move or respond in the slightest, William realized he was sleeping. The sound continued, a
“There I was beating them,” Lemuel whispered. “Crazed about it. Like I wanted them children dead. Like the crime they was doing to each other was worse than any done to them. That’s how it felt.”
But then, in the length of time it took for him to raise his hand in the air, he realized that even in this crime these children were each a victim. They were acting out scenes they’d witnessed before. They were using violence and sex as men had taught them, as much a part of the institution in which they were bound as chains and whips. They were criminals, yes, but in their crime they punished themselves. “And I knew they would hurt themselves like that forever. Not just them boys, I mean, but all of us. All of us that have to live with these things.”
Lemuel was silent for a moment, but the pause seemed to make him uneasy. “So how do you live with that?” he asked. “Tell you what I do. I make for myself a string-together life. You take all the fine moments of your life. Eating honey from a cone. Cool stream water on your naked toes. Fireflies lighting a summer evening. Two children tagging and chasing each other. You take them fine moments and you pull them close and string them like a necklace of shells. In the bad times you hold on to them and remember all the reasons God gave you life in the first place. It’s what you hold onto that makes a life, so hold onto joy and let go the rest. Understand? Let go of nights like this, put it behind you and wait for the better times.”
The two lay in silence, and before long that silence was once more punctuated by the sounds that Lemuel’s voice had blotted out. Sometime later, William felt the pull of the chains around his feet. They were yanked and shifted as the woman was refastened. He didn’t turn to look. He wanted to. He wanted somehow to reach out with his eyes and comfort her, but he didn’t trust himself to convey the message properly. Instead, he shut his eyes and prayed for sleep to numb him.
He awoke later in the night and asked, “It’s what you remember that matters?” He was surprised at himself, but the question escaped him before he knew it. He wasn’t even sure that Lemuel was awake until the man answered.
“That’s what I believe.”
“Then which thing you remember better? Standing on that hill with a breeze on your face? Or the sight of them boys on that girl? You remember the joy or the anger?”
The older man didn’t answer.
The next day was a repeat of the one that came before, distinguished only because William had memories of that previous day and therefore this must be another. That evening they camped in a fallow clearing next to a cornfield. Bats appeared in the fading light, first a single bullet and then another, then a whole storm of them cutting the sky with their erratic, reasonless flights. Late that night he woke to a beautiful star-filled sky. He lay staring up at it, for a moment forgetting the discomfort of his fetters. He listened to the chorus of breathing around him. So many nasal voices exhaling up into the air, blending with the night calls of insects. It reminded him of Dover’s house, where, like now, bodies lay close to one another.
When he first noticed the other noise he realized it had long been part of the night, a background sound indistinguishable from the rest and nearly disguised. But it was different. It was a quiet grinding, occasionally interrupted by the clink of iron on iron. He rose up on his elbow. His eyes went first to the guard on duty. It was the tobacco-chewer. He sat leaning against the base of a tree, a shotgun cradled in his lap. The brim of his hat shaded his face from the starlight, and for a moment William thought the man was staring at him. But as he didn’t move or respond in the slightest, William realized he was sleeping. The sound continued, a
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