2
There was water, rain pouring down on me. I was sitting in mud clutching my bag.
I got up sheltering my bag as much as I could so that eventually, I'd have something dry to change into. I looked around grimly for Rufus.
I couldn't find him. I peered through the dim gray light, looked around until I realized where I was. I could see the familiar boxy Weylin house in the distance, yellow light at one window. At least there would be no long walk for me this time. In this storm, that was something to be grateful for. But where was Rufus? If he was in trouble inside the house, why had I arrived outside?
I shrugged and started toward the house. If he was there, it would be stupid for me to waste time out here. Not that I could get any wetter.
I tripped over him.
He was lying face down in a puddle so deep the water almost covered his head. Face down.
I grabbed him and pulled him out of the water and over to a tree that would shelter us a little from the rain. A moment later, there was thunder and a flash of lightning, and I dragged him away from the tree again. With his ability to draw bad luck I didn't want to take chances.
He was alive. As I moved him, he threw up on himself and partly on me. I almost joined him. He began to cough and mutter and I realized that he was either drunk or sick. More probably drunk. He was also heavy. He didn't look any bigger than he had when I saw him last, but he was soaking wet now, and he was beginning to struggle feebly.
I had been dragging him toward the house while he was still. Now, I dropped him in disgust and went to the house alone. Some stronger, more tolerant person could drag or carry him the rest of the way.
Nigel answered the door, stood peering down at me. "Who the devil …?"
"It's Dana, Nigel."
"Dana?" He was suddenly alert. "What happened? Where's Marse Rufe?"
"Out there. He was too heavy for me."
"Where?"
I looked back the way I had come and could not see Rufus. If he had flipped himself over again …
"Damn!" I muttered. "Come on." I led him back to the gray lump—still face up—that was Rufus. "Watch it," I said. "He threw up on me."
Nigel picked Rufus up like a sack of grain, threw him over his shoulder, and strode back to the house in such quick long strides that I had to run to keep up. Rufus threw up again down Nigel's back, but Nigel paid no attention. The rain washed them both fairly clean before we reached the house.
Inside, we met Weylin who was coming down the stairs. He stopped short as he saw us. "You!" he said, staring at me.
"Hello, Mr. Weylin," I said wearily. He looked bent and old—thinner than ever. He walked with a cane.
"Is Rufus all right? Is he …?"
"He's alive," I said. "I found him unconscious, face down in a ditch. A little more and he would have drowned."
"If you're here, I suppose he would have." The old man looked at Nigel. "Take him up to his room and put him to bed. Dana, you …" He stopped, looked at my dripping, clinging—to him—immodestly short dress. It was the kind of loose smocklike garment that little children of both sexes wore before they were old enough to work. It clearly offended Weylin more than my pants ever had. "Haven't you got something decent to put on?" he asked.
I looked at my wet bag. "Decent, maybe, but probably not dry."
"Go put on what you've got, then come back down to the library."
He wanted to talk to me, I thought. Just what I needed at the end of a long jumbled day. Weylin didn't talk to me normally except to give orders. When he did, it was always harrowing. There was so much that I coudn't say; he took offense so easily.
I followed Nigel up the stairs, then went on to the narrow, ladderlike attic stairs. My old corner was empty so I went there to put my bag down and search through it. I found a nearly dry shirt and a pair of Levi's that were wet only at the ankles. I dried myself, changed, combed my hair, and spread out some of my wettest clothing to dry. Then I went down to Weylin. I had learned not to worry about leaving my things in the attic. Other house servants examined them. I knew that because I had caught them at it now and then. But nothing was ever missing.
Apprehensively, I went through the library door.
"You look as young as you ever did," Weylin complained sourly when he saw me.
"Yes, sir." I'd agree with anything he said if it would get me away from him sooner.
"What happened to you there? Your face."
I touched the scab. "That's where you kicked me, Mr. Weylin."
He had been sitting in a worn old arm chair, but now he surged out of it like a young man, his cane a blunt wooden sword before him. "What are you talking about! It's been six years since I've seen you."
"Yes, sir."
"Well!"
"For me, it's only been a few hours." I thought Rufus and Kevin had probably told him enough to enable him to understand, whether he believed or not. And perhaps he did understand. He seemed to get angrier.
"Who in hell ever said you were an educated nigger? You can't even tell a decent lie. Six years for me is six years for you!"
"Yes, sir," Why did he bother to ask me questions? Why did I bother to answer them?
He sat down again and leaned forward, one hand resting on his cane. His voice was softer, though, when he spoke. "That Franklin get back home all right?"
"Yes, sir." What would happen if I asked him where he thought that home was? But no, he had done at least one decent thing for Kevin and me, no matter what he was. I met his eyes for a moment. "Thank you."
"I didn't do it for you."
My temper flared suddenly. "I don't give a damn why you did it! I'm just telling you, one human being to another, that I'm grateful. Why can't you leave it at that!"
The old man's face went pale. "You want a good whipping!" he said. "You must not have had one for a while."
I said nothing. I realized then, though, that if he ever hit me again, I would break his scrawny neck. I would not endure it again.
Weylin leaned back in his chair. "Rufus always said you didn't know your place any better than a wild animal," he muttered. "I always said you were just another crazy nigger."
I stood watching him.
"Why'd you help my son again?" he asked.
I settled down a little, shrugged. "Nobody ought to die the way he would have—lying in a ditch, drowning in mud and whiskey and his own vomit."
"Stop it!" Weylin shouted. "I'll take the cowhide to you myself! I'll …" He fell silent, gasped for breath. His face was still dead white. He'd make himself really sick if he didn't regain some of his old control.
I dropped back into indifference. "Yes, sir."
After a moment he had control of himself. In fact, he sounded perfectly calm again. "You and Rufus had some trouble when you saw him last."
"Yes, sir." Having Rufus try to shoot me had been troublesome.
"I hoped you would go on helping him. You know there's always a home for you here if you do."
I smiled a little in spite of myself. "Bad nigger that I am, eh?"
"Is that the way you think of yourself?"
I laughed bitterly. "No. I don't kid myself much. Your son is still alive, isn't he?"
"You're bad enough. I don't know any other white man who would put up with you."
"If you can manage to put up with me a little more humanely, I'll go on doing what I can for Mister Rufus."
He frowned. "Now what are you talking about?"
"I'm saying the day I'm beaten just once more, your son is on his own."
His eyes widened, perhaps in surprise. Then he began to tremble. I had never before seen a man literally trembling with anger. "You're threatening him!" he stammered. "By God, you are crazy!"
"Crazy or sane, I mean what I say." My back and side ached as though to warn me, but for the moment, I wasn't afraid. He loved his son no matter how he behaved toward him, and he knew I could do as I threatened. "At the rate Mister Rufus has accidents," I said, "he might live another six or seven years without me. I wouldn't count on more than that."
"You damned black bitch!" He shook his cane at me like an extended forefinger. "If you think you can get away with making threats … giving orders …" He ran out of breath and began gasping again. I watched without sympathy, wondering whether he was already sick. "Get out!" he gasped. "Go to Rufus. Take care of him. If anything happens to him, I'll flay you alive!"
My aunt used to say things like that to me when I was little and did something to annoy her—"Girl, I'm going to skin you alive!" And she'd get my uncle's belt and use it on me. But it had never occurred to me that anyone could make such a threat and mean it literally as Weylin meant it now. I turned and left him before he could see that my courage had vanished. He could get help from his neighbors, from the patrollers, probably even from whatever police officials the area had. He could do anything he wanted to to me, and I had no enforceable rights. None at all.