John Wray - Canaan's Tongue

I couldn’t be pained, I answer.

What’s that, nigger? Kennedy holler.

Problem with Dodds is, say the Colonel. Problem with Dodds is, there’s no fright in him. He lost it when our Redeemer passed away.

Let’s reaquaint him with it, Kennedy say. L! — L!—Let’s—

Leave off it, Stuts, Virgil say. He take hold of Kennedy arm.

Kennedy look at Virgil, then at me, then all the rest. He shake he head three times, slow and murtherish, like a buck-wild bull.

Best let go of me, google-eye, he say.

Colonel smile and step up. Mr. Kennedy—

Back away from me, you blankety-blank mother, Kennedy hisper. He look like he forgotten they anything but Virgil Ball in all the world. Colonel shut he mouth right quick.

I look at Miss Clem. She studying Virgil like she never seen the like. Wouldn’t nobody step into Virgil’s boots at the present time. Not for fifty Union dollars.

Don’t take offense, Colonel, Virgil say. Kennedy’s just sore, on account of we didn’t let him bugger his mulatto. Ain’t you, Stuts?

Kennedy look at Virgil like he half-past dead already. Colonel put he knuckles in he mouth.

Not sore at me, Virgil, I’m sure, Colonel say.

Virgil let go Kennedy arm. That’s right, Colonel — you did let him, didn’t you.

Kennedy blink but once, quick, then put Virgil in the hole. Virgil come up with mud on he clothes and he good right eye shut — but they a look on his face like he just got elected.

Mr Kennedy, he say, wiping at he face.

Kennedy whistle and spread both arms wide. Come to me, brother.

Just then Miss Clem make a noise and I look up past the hole and spy Parson coming down from the house. Then I near drop the spade account of I see Delamare alongside him. I can’t nearly credit it. Everybody quiet and wait on them to come. Parson give a laugh.

I’ve effected a faith cure, children.

Delamare look straight at Kennedy. I thought you killed me, Irish, he say.

I’ll dig every one of you blankety-blanks under, Kennedy shout. Just you come on up!

Everybody hush. Parson stand by with he long coonish hand cross he long coonish face. Kennedy stand twixt of Delamare and Virgil like he can’t recollect who need whipping the most.

Nothing doing for a time. Then Miss Clem commence to cuss and start off to the house and Colonel foller right after. That leave Delamare, Parson, Virgil and Kennedy. I keep quiet as a broom.

I thought you killed me, Irish, Delamare say again. Didn’t you kill me?

Kennedy don’t say much. He look small and crumblish presently, like a crust of weeks-old bread.

All up the sudden he turn and knock me sideways. I smell the mash on you, blacks, he say to Delamare.

And I smell the nigger on you, Irish.

Kennedy laugh, bite he underlip, spit, then off into the woods. Don’t nobody foller after. Nobody blink till he gone clear.

Virgil pull me up to rights. If you’re on speaking terms with the Death-Angel, Dodds, recommend old Stuts to him, would you?

I give a grin. I will, Mr. Virgil. Sure.

No need for that, say Delamare.

Next time he won’t miss, Oliver, Virgil say.

Delamare spits. He had his chance, Virgil. I was ready to get put down yesterday. I was reconciled to it. Eh, Charlie?

Sure, Marse Delamare. Yesterday were the dollar chance.

Men like Kennedy get two chances, Virgil say.

Kennedy is a Catholic, gentlemen, Parson say, making the sign he cross. An idolator of the Heavenly Trinity. As such he always operates in threes.

DELAMARE AND VIRGIL GONE up to the house. Parson watch them like a mother hen. Clucking as he do. In high and blessed spirits.

Is it close enough to the barn? he say after a piece.

I measured it, Parson. I know my business.

Cluck! Cluck! All right, Doddsbody.

I study Parson for a spell. Watch him ruffle he hairy lady face up, then down, then up.

When the next one due? I say.

Parson wave he hand. Tomorrow afternoon.

Where we gone plant him?

Parson give a look. I didn’t say as it would be a he.

That’s right, I say. I rub my eyes. Where it gone get placed?

Back of the tobacco shed. Three feet seven inches. Measure it from the corner.

I’m a broke-footed old house-boy, Parson. Mind I start on it today?

Parson grin. That might look a bit peculiar.

Don’t nobody go back of the tobacky-shed, Parson. You know that.

All right. Anyone asks you, just lay your Doddsbody bit on ’em. Play the holy fool.

Don’t you fret on that, Your Honor. Ain’t nobody gone know blankety blank, alongside of yourself, C. B. Dodds and that old Holy Ghost.

The Ghost will be pleased to hear it, Parson say.

’I’M FIXED TO PASS A CATHERINE-WHEEL, Kennedy says. I’m fixed to pass a oliphant.

Artfer that shite-party over Harvey’s remains I go straight to the privy-house and wait for the End to come. I’ve hardly got the door shut and my pants unknickered when the privy door goes gloomy and I hear the End outside.

You! says I. You’ve gone and pinched my britches proper.

We’ve each of us to answer for our own misdeeds, Mr. Kennedy, says the End.

You see what they done to me back there? Did you? I looks down into the hole and spits. Of course you did.

The End gives a sad and pityish sort of breath and runs its fingers up the slats. I gave you the mulatto, Mr. Kennedy. I gave him to you and you fecked it.

I works my knees together and groans. I want to kill that cheeky niggra boy, says I.

He’s not for you, says the End. You had your go.

When I gets my two hands on him—

Give your hands a holy-day, Mr. Kennedy. They’ve earned it.

These bleeding hands have been on holy-days since I come to this darmed property, says I. I’ve had my share of idle hours. I’m wanting a bit of work.

Mind yourself, Kennedy, says the End.

I’ll mind your nobbin, says I. But I says it quiet.

You’ll have work soon enough, says the End. For now, use your eyes. You’ll see me before you hear me, the next time I come round.

I looks out at the dark. Meaning?

Just that, says the End. Chew on it awhile.

It can’t be much longer now, says I. Can it?

The End gives a laugh. That’s right, Stuts. It can’t be much longer now.

I says nary then. The End breathes up and down in its hennish, endish way.

THE PRIVY WERE THE PLACE the End picked for our chats. I had nary any say in the picking of it. I don’t abject to it, however, on account of my time is dear to me and two birds in a bush, et cetera, as they say. And in fact I’m feeling a chick-a-dee coming on.

If you’d step away from the precincts a moment, Your Endfulness, says I.

Work away, Mr. Kennedy, says the End. I don’t mind.

That gives me a tickle. Miss the days when you had a body, sir? says I.

The End laughs then but it don’t come out proper. It comes out in a sort of a dryness, like wind through standing corn. All up the sudden the memory of my own Marmsie come to me of which I haven’t thought in ages. What would the old pussy have said to see me bow-legged in a privy, trading how-dos with the End of All Creation! I give another laugh and the End joins in behind. And that second laugh is dryer still and it turns my guts to hear it.

Dearest Mary, marther of God, says I, doing up my knicks.

Leave it to an Irish, says the End, spitting air. Leave it to an Irish to say his prayers in a shite-house.

You’ll have your fun, says I. But remember this: I never prayed to you.

You will, Mr. Kennedy. Give it time.

Give me that niggra, you cotton-mouth! What’s he to you? You’ve got so many. Give him to me, Marm.