John Wray - Canaan's Tongue

The man guffawed. There was nothing threatening in his laugh, perhaps, but no politeness, either. “Your boy’d have no objection, I think, if I tuh, tuh, took you off his hands,” he said. He laughed again, more quietly, then raised his voice—: “Would you, boy?”

Anne spat out a curse. “Let me caution you of something, Mister—”

“Kennedy,” said the man. The mirth was gone out of his voice already. “Kennedy’s the name I were born into. I’m here on a errand for Mr. T. H. Morelle, gentleman, of Nuh, Nuh, Natchez-on-the-River.”

A brief, unwieldy silence fell, during which Anne did up the buttons of her shift. The man said nothing, did nothing. Evidently he was content to wait for her to dress. His conduct was unlike any burglar’s I’d heard tell of. But in truth I never mistook him for a burglar—; I knew exactly who he was. He was my day-dream of deliverance made flesh.

“Morelle?” Anne said finally, stepping out from the curtain. “Does that name excuse a man from ringing my house-bell?”

“It should,” said Kennedy.

“We’ve a power of customers here, Mr. Kennedy. Quite a number of well-heeledand accredited gentlemen buy their mash from Mother Anne. You’ll have to forgive us if a name escapes—”

“ ‘Us’?” Kennedy said. His voice was suddenly flat as a crypt-cover. “What do you mean by us, ma’rm?”

“Why — just what I said, sir. Us. Me, my husband, and the boy.”

“Your husband is upstairs with his guts strung around his ankles,” Kennedy replied.

Anne made a sound at this that seemed stripped of any meaning. It could have been a laugh, or a snort of indifference—; it could have been a cry of pain.

“You borrowed four hundred State of Louisiana dollars from Mr. Amos Dall, of Vidalia, Louisiana,” Kennedy said, as though reading from a receipt. He cleared his throat and spat onto the floor. Mother Anne made to answer, but her voice was oddly muffled, little better than a gurgle, as though Kennedy had his hand over her mouth.

“That sum were to of been paid back, with interest, at a monthly rate of three puh, puh, percent, in three-and-one-half years from the time of borrowing,” he went on. His stutter seemed to be worsening. He spat again, more loudly still. I decided he was chewing on a tobacco-plug.

“Not that terms matter much, marm. That money weren’t Mr. Amos Dall’s to get fancy with. That money belonged to Mr. T. H. Morelle of Natchez-on-the-River, gentleman and financier.”

Anne gave another gurgle, louder and more desperate than before. It was clear from the sound that she was not more than three paces from the curtain, and also that she was kneeling on the floor.

“Let go of my trouser-leg, Annie. No harm will cuh, cuh, come to you today.” He went quiet for a moment. “Am I right, little Annie, in saying so?”

Again she tried to answer but could not. “Please,” she managed finally. “Please, Mr. Kennedy — I beg—”

“Am I right in saying so,” he repeated with great deliberateness. “That no harm will come to you.”

Anne gave no answer.

“Where do you keep your profit-box, marm?” Kennedy said smoothly.

He must have turned her loose, for she sucked in a breath and scrambled to her feet. “Under the roof,” she said. “Under the roof, Mr. Kennedy. In a linen-trunk.”

To this day I wonder what Mother Anne intended. To win a minute’s time? To coax Kennedy out of the cellar, away from the profit-box and from me? It makes little difference now.

“That’s a lie, Mr. Kennedy!” I said.

Anne cried out, tried to speak, then cried out again.

“Is that you, boy?” said Kennedy. “Speak on up!”

“It’s nobody,” Anne said quickly. “Don’t you mind—”

“That’s right, missus! Nobody whatever!” I yelled, thrashing impotently against the wall. “The bills are behind the mash-kettle, Mr. Kennedy! Twined up in a blouse!”

I date my entry into the Trade from that instant. What doomed me was not the betrayal itself, ruinous though it was—; my doom lay in the reasoning behind it. I didn’t give the lie to Mother Anne out of a sense of the wrongs done to me, or out of righteousness, or vengefulness, or even out of fear—: I did it out of the simple desire to matter. Friendless and without the least standing in the world, I was nonetheless guilty of the sin of pride. Sometimes I think there is no other.

“Thank you kindly, Mr. Nobody,” Kennedy said, and as he spoke there came a sound like that of a boot-heel striking a sack of rice and Anne dropped slackly to the floor. Her milk-colored fist, balled gracelessly together, like a child’s hand taken from a railing, fell against my heel and quivered there.

Kennedy rummaged about behind the boiler, cursing industriously under his breath. Anne’s white fist held me enchanted.

“Oho!” Kennedy said at last. “Yes.”

“Tie me loose, Mr. Kennedy!” I called out. I hadn’t yet set eyes on him, but I pictured a squat, hard-featured man—; grave, of course, but with a ready smile. When at last he came, shoving the curtain aside so it fell over Anne’s fist and stilled it, he looked nothing like the men that I’d imagined. His long, stooped body and shriveled bloodless face looked like nothing, in fact, that I had ever seen, except perhaps the winged skulls carved by the richer families in town onto their head-stones.

He looked me up and down and gave a laugh. “Mother Bradford’s buh, buh, boy,” he said.

I stood as straight as I could, struggling to look dignified, but after a spell of time had passed without his saying a single word I began to suffer sorely under my nakedness. When I could meet his gaze no longer, I dropped my eyes reluctantly to Mother Anne. Her shift was ripped open at the breast and a palm-sized bruise was darkening at her temple. Farther down, above her belly, a stain was spreading whose source was hidden by the bunching of her shift. When it was clear to me that she was dead I looked at Kennedy to see whether he had noticed, but he seemed oblivious to all around him. He stood before me awkwardly, breathing through his mouth, with an expression on his face that I knew well enough, though it took me a long, dull moment to decipher it. His right hand clasped the ring above me—; his left twitched restlessly at his trousers. Instinctively I turned to face the wall.

Kennedy took in a rattling breath behind me.

“Mother Bradford’s boy,” he said.

I’M JUST ON MY WAY FROM THE PRIVY, having paid my evening tithes. The End is waiting for me there with a grin on its face fit for a monkey’s christening. I hang back, quiet as a dove, and bide. So here it is.

So here it is, says I. I won’t be keeping you as I know you’re very busy.

There has to be an end, Stuts.

Does there? says I.

You’ve been no end of help, Stuts, the End says. Truly.

Aye! says I. That I have. And is this —you don’t mind my asking— how you shows your appreciation of it.

You know I appreciate it, says the End. I’ve given you room to play in, after all. If you haven’t made good use of it, the fault is not my own.

I’d of liked to make use of it to whup that niggra boy, says I.

You’d of liked to slip one into his knickers, the End says, giving me the wink.

I set quiet. The one don’t rule the tother out, says I.

No. The one don’t rule the tother out, says the End. It grins.