Butler, Octavia - Kindred

“Dana!”

I looked at him. I had let my attention wander.

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“I said she’ll … they’ll get their time. White men attacked me.” “Good, Rufe.” I laid a hand on his shoulder. “Look, your father will

listen to me, won’t he? I don’t know what he saw last time I went home.” “He doesn’t know what he saw either. Whatever it was, he’s seen it before—that time at the river—and he didn’t believe it then, either. But

he’ll listen to you. He might even be a little afraid of you.”

“That’s better than the other way around. I’ll get back as quickly as I

can.”

5

The road was farther away than I had expected. As it got darker—the sun was setting, not rising—I tore pages from my scratch pad and stuck them on trees now and then to mark my trail. Even then I worried that I might not be able to find my way back to Rufus.

When I reached the road, I pulled up some bushes and made a kind of barricade speckled with bits of white paper. That would stop me at the right place when I came back—if no one moved it meanwhile.

I followed the road until it was dark, followed it through woods, through fields, past a large house much finer than Weylin’s. No one both- ered me. I hid behind a tree once when two white men rode past. They might not have paid any attention to me, but I didn’t want to take the chance. And there were three black women walking with large bundles balanced on their heads.

“ ‘Evenin’,” they said as I passed them.

I nodded and wished them a good evening. And I walked faster, won- dering suddenly what the years had done to Luke and Sarah, to Nigel and Carrie. The children who had played at selling each other might already be working in the fields now. And what would time have done to Mar- garet Weylin? I doubted that it had made her any easier to live with.

Finally, after more woods and fields, the plain square house was before me, its downstairs windows full of yellow light. I was startled to catch myself saying wearily, “Home at last.”

I stood still for a moment between the fields and the house and reminded myself that I was in a hostile place. It didn’t look alien any

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longer, but that only made it more dangerous, made me more likely to relax and make a mistake.

I rubbed my back, touched the several long scabs to remind myself that I could not afford to make mistakes. And the scabs forced me to remember that I had been away from this place for only a few days. Not that I had forgotten—exactly. But it was as though during my walk I had been getting used to the idea that years had passed for these people since I had seen them last. I had begun to feel—feel, not think—that a great deal of time had passed for me too. It was a vague feeling, but it seemed right and comfortable. More comfortable than trying to keep in mind what was really happening. Some part of me had apparently given up on time-distorted reality and smoothed things out. Well, that was all right, as long as it didn’t go too far.

I continued on toward the house, mentally prepared now, I hoped, to meet Tom Weylin. But as I approached, a tall thin shadow of a white man came toward me from the direction of the quarter.

“Hey there,” he called. “What are you doing out here?” His long steps closed the distance between us quickly, and in a moment, he stood peer- ing down at me. “You don’t belong here,” he said. “Who’s your master?” “I’ve come to get help for Mister Rufus,” I said. And then, feeling sud- denly doubtful because he was a stranger, I asked, “This is still where he

lives, isn’t it?”

The man did not answer. He continued to peer at me. I wondered whether it was my sex or my accent that he was trying to figure out. Or maybe it was the fact that I hadn’t called him sir or master. I’d have to begin that degrading nonsense again. But who was this man, anyway?

“He lives here.” An answer, finally. “What’s wrong with him?” “Some men beat him. He can’t walk.”

“Is he drunk?”

“Uh … no, sir, not quite.” “Worthless bastard.”

I jumped a little. The man had spoken softly, but there was no mistak- ing what he had said. I said nothing.

“Come on,” he ordered, and led me into the house. He left me stand- ing in the entrance hall and went to the library where I supposed Weylin was. I looked at the wooden bench a few steps from me, the settee, but although I was tired, I didn’t sit down. Margaret Weylin had once caught me sitting there tying my shoe. She had screamed and raged as though

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she’d caught me stealing her jewelry. I didn’t want to renew my acquain- tance with her in another scene like that. I didn’t want to renew my acquaintance with her at all, but it seemed inevitable.

There was a sound behind me and I turned in quick apprehension. A young slave woman stood staring at me. She was light-skinned, blue- kerchiefed, and very pregnant.

“Carrie?” I asked.

She ran to me, caught me by the shoulders for a moment, and looked into my face. Then she hugged me.

The white stranger chose that moment to come out of the library with

Tom Weylin.

“What’s going on here?” demanded the stranger.

Carrie moved away from me quickly, head down, and I said, “We’re old friends, sir.”

Tom Weylin, grayer, thinner, grimmer-looking than ever, came over to me. He stared at me for a moment, then turned to face the stranger. “When did you say his horse came in, Jake?”

“About an hour ago.”

“That long … you should have told me.” “He’s taken that long and longer before.”

Weylin sighed, glanced at me. “Yes. But I think it might be more seri- ous this time. Carrie!”

The mute woman had been walking away toward the back door. Now, she turned to look at Weylin.

“Have Nigel bring the wagon around front.”

She gave the half-nod, half-curtsey that she reserved for whites and hurried away.

Something occurred to me as she was going and I spoke to Weylin. “I think Mister Rufus might have broken ribs. He wasn’t coughing blood so his lungs are probably all right, but it might be a good idea for me to bandage him a little before you move him.” I had never bandaged any- thing worse than a cut finger in my life, but I did remember a little of the first aid I had learned in school. I hadn’t thought to act when Rufus broke his leg, but I might be able to help now.

“You can bandage him when we get him here,” said Weylin. And to the stranger, “Jake, you send somebody for the doctor.”

Jake took a last disapproving look at me and went out the back door after Carrie.

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Weylin went out the front door without another word to me and I fol- lowed, trying to remember how important it was to bandage broken ribs—that is, whether it was worth “talking back” to Weylin about. I didn’t want Rufus badly injured, even though he deserved to be. Any injury could be dangerous. But from what I could remember, bandaging the ribs was done mostly to relieve pain. I wasn’t sure whether I remem- bered that because it was true or because I wanted to avoid any kind of confrontation with Weylin. I didn’t have to touch the scabs on my back to be conscious of them.

A tall stocky slave drove a wagon around to us and I got on the back while Weylin took the seat beside the driver. The driver glanced back at me and said softly, “How are you, Dana?”

“Nigel?”

“It’s me,” he said grinning. “Grown some since you seen me last, I

guess.”

He had grown into another Luke—a big handsome man bearing little resemblance to the boy I remembered.

“You keep your mouth shut and watch the road,” said Weylin. Then to me, “You’ve got to tell us where to go.”