note: the starling damages Indian corn in its milky state.
a farmer would require guns to protect his crop
Martin skipped through the pages. No mention of loggerhead shrike. He thought: The birdman doesn’t even know starlings feed on grub worms, which makes up for the early corn damage.
note: In the woods: wild grapes, blackberries, raspberries, gooseberries
He was thinking about the mistakes in the notebook when he got to the table, last to arrive. No wild grapes in these woods, he was thinking, pleased by his local knowledge. The birdman doesn’t know so much. He scraped his chair legs on the floor and got a frown from his mother while John introduced his daughters. Gina, the little one, and Electa, just home from school in Carolina. His tone underlined the feat of sending a daughter off to any form of education. There was no mention of Patton, no point in identifying him as the “rascal” who had killed a mother bear. Instead, the preacher took up his favorite subject. We cured this ham our own family way, he began, gesturing at the heavy platter Clotilde was balancing on her forearm. Our best pig slaughtered in the fall. He tucked a napkin into his collar and next explained that the smokehouse had been built by his late father, that the customs of the family had been set long ago, that they were traditions by now, and he rubbed his hands when the smothered cabbage and spiced beets were served up by Clotilde spoonful by spoonful to each plate. Ross seemed surprised by this show of earthly appetite, but Martin knew his father well in this regard. His father consumed everything. He hated waste is how he put it, and now the hungry preacher was watching Clotilde cut the ham on his plate into bite-sized pieces with an expression that made Martin look away. It’s the acorns, John said reverently. And the peach pits, plus smoke, which we learned from the Natives. Who were plentiful around here until Mister Jefferson cleared them off…Martin’s father had slipped into his preacher voice and now the diners relaxed. Six-year-old Gina’s eyes were closed, ready for prayer, and Electa was clasping her hands while Lavina was impatiently moving her lips. Let us give thanks to our Heavenly Father, said John, bringing his voice back to full volume. You will note we do not imbibe, Doctor Ross.
Nor do I, said Ross nicely. Although there is the problem of Communion, isn’t there?
At which water will suffice as it did at Cana.
Martin’s mother was staring at the loaded plates.
For what we are about to receive, may we be duly thankful, John said, keeping his eyes on her.
Was that the Cherokee who got run off? Ross asked after everyone said Amen. By Jefferson? He stared at the frayed cuffs on John’s jacket. I guess they refused to work the fields?
John frowned. Have a pickle, he urged, passing a cut-glass bowl. Good for the digestion, as you would know. And as to the meat, it is first coated in salt, that’s the ticket. Three days, no more, it sits in our smokehouse on slats so as not to turn soggy.
Ross was burying his ham under cabbage leaves.
Then in spring, we take the meat off the rack, wash it, dip the joints in boiling water, and coat it with borax. Borax! John thumped his chest. Then we hang it up in sacks to the rafters of the smokehouse and keep a fire smoldering…and…we…
Ross was nodding. Hmm. I meant to say that I attended your ministry. Ah, yesterday. Although it seems a long time ago now, thinking back on it, when you mentioned an angel…
And you think the concept of angelic interference is lacking in evidence, I suppose. John leaned back in his chair, preparing himself, obviously pleased.
Oh, it isn’t evidence I want, sir. That would be pointless. I am trying to remember the biblical story is all. I remember an engraving. Doré I think it was in a library book. It’s Jacob who begs the angel for forgiveness, is that right?
Makes supplication. Promises to repent. As I said. Yes-ter-day. John made each syllable of the word a little joke on the frailty of the human mind. Jacob, he downright bullies the angel, don’t you see, although you’ll remember that his brother has been cast adrift. He has cast his brother out entirely. Utterly! John stretched his legs out under the table and looked at the tips of his fingers as if they had earned the right to hold his fork. Yes. You see. And he knew it well enough, didn’t he? A brother made homeless for twenty years. What right had Jacob to beg for a blessing? And yet, what choice after such fraternal indecency?
But a man who treats another so abominably has a right to expect forgiveness?
Expectation should play no part in it. John shook his head solemnly. Besides. I thought you men of science had no interest in such questions. Angels. Forgiveness. He was still enjoying himself.
Ross looked down at his water glass. I’m wearing a cotton shirt, sir. I’m not guiltless. He lifted his eyebrows.
Which we…Oh! I daresay you are pulling my leg! Cotton shirt! John cleared his throat. But back to the Natives. He took a deep breath and then another bite. He was embarking on a favorite subject. Man is made of many types, Doctor Ross, as I am sure you will acknowledge as a scientific thinker. Some of us are born to lead, some to sow, and some to reap. The Native’s historical time is spent, I’m afraid, although social position has no importance in the eyes of our Lord. John took a piece of ham on his fork, looked at it, and shoved it in his mouth. He laid the fork on the tablecloth, smearing juice and fat. We are part of nature, he said, which claims exactly the same differences in all species.
Exactly, sir. We are not even the only species to kidnap or capture our own kind, making them work for us without gain. Many insects do the same.
Martin heard this as a kind of thunderclap and he watched his father lean forward, bracing his weight on his hands, lifting himself a few inches from the seat of his chair. He was turning a little red in the face, which was not unusual, but this was the supper table and his mother was tapping her foot and once again moving her lips, even squinting some at the visitor, as if she could not believe what she had heard. His father’s question was almost a hiss. Do you not call food and shelter fair reward for labor?
Gentlemen, Lavina interceded.
Not without choice, sir. Which always depends on advantage.
John looked at his guest and frowned.
As in Woe unto him that useth his neighbor’s service without wages.
The children had now lost all interest in food. They were sitting in their separate chairs, Martin having pushed himself to the edge of his. He was frightened and pleased. He could not have moved for anything in the world.
John said tightly: The people who work this land were born in America, Doctor Ross. Not a one of them was captured. Virginia does not allow importation! And we shall gradually improve the race, I assure you, John finished mildly, picking up his fork and running a finger over the stain on the tablecloth. Pass the beets.
Shall we do that through crossbreeding or education, I wonder?
Martin said: But, Papa, Bry was captured!
John snapped: Electa! Take your sister upstairs right this minute! He pointed a finger at Martin. You go now with the girls! He clapped his hands. He said to Ross: According to your theory, the drone ant resembles the queen?
Martin was frozen in his hard chair. He watched the pulse beating in his father’s neck. Probably his father had hoped to engage the doctor in some subject of scientific interest, but it was not going as he wished.
Before dessert, Papa? They were the first words Gina had uttered and the voice was a whine and Electa said: Don’t worry, Papa, I’ve heard worse at school, as the door was flung open by Clotilde and the scent of peach cobbler covered them with its hint of relief. Lavina stood up, reached for a small silver pitcher, and moved quickly to John. At his side, she began to pour nutmeg sauce on his portion of cobbler while everyone else waited to be served. There was no tenderness in the act of pouring, only Lavina’s usual custom while John jabbed a spoon at the latticed crust. Electa, you children are excused. I won’t say it again. He dabbed at his mouth with the napkin still attached to his collar.
Electa was pushing her chair away fr
om the table. She said: Doctor Ross, if social position is of no importance to God, then slavery is as good a system as any, isn’t it? The look she gave him was not easy to read.
They were born right here, John repeated.
Lavina made a clatter of dishes, gathering some of them from the table before holding them out to Clotilde, fluttering her arms as a signal to take them away.
—
In the kitchen a few minutes later, Clotilde was humming to herself, grinding newly roasted coffee beans when Lavina came in. She kept pots of herbs on the windowsill and she reached for a sprig of the lavender because the scene at her table had made her head ache, the guest using knife and fork at the same time, and further offending by engaging in sordid politics. Lavina’s day had been long and sad. As the preacher’s wife, she’d attended the birth of Sister Eliza Ely’s first child. It went on the whole of the day and she could not clear her mind of it now for so much as a minute, even considering what had occurred at her table. She had watched poor, young Eliza die in a pool of blood. She had watched the bereaved husband while she thought of John putting his own little newborn Martin outside on a rock the night he was born. She had made every effort to forget her own past as she took Sister Eliza’s baby in her arms and washed him with tears and then Eliza’s wealthy mother had arrived in a rush and made a show of taking the baby away in her carriage. This is my baby now, she’d said, while Lavina had looked at the father and pitied him. After that awful scene she’d fled home in her buggy to find a strange man in her house and another unpleasant scene. Stop that! she said of the coffee grinding, her voice sharp. John was particular of his coffee and it must not be too fine, which Clotilde should certainly know by now, if she knew anything at all.
On the other side of the door, John was gazing at his table, seeing the tallow candles, more than were necessary, and the porcelain plates muddied by peaches and nutmeg syrup. He lifted his face to glance across the table at his guest, having forgotten Martin, who was sitting as quietly as he could manage to sit so as not to be sent away. Ross was saying: By way of thanks for this fine meal, I might mention that some churches in New York have a concoction of boiled raisins and water to serve for Communion. Because. It doesn’t ferment. For some reason they add the white of an egg, though I can’t say what the purpose of that is.
John said simply: I suggest that while in Virginia you should keep your opinions as to insects and Communion to yourself. We have the law with us, is what I mean.
Ross interrupted: Although surely you believe Christ’s law is superior to civil law. Give the Jewish law of bond service to Virginia, and there will not be a slave left to wet the soil with the sweat of unpaid labor. Then, rising from his chair, Ross apologized for abandoning the table. It is the hour of the owl, as I like to call it, he said, though others have more useful names, I’ve no doubt.
I suspect you have many a doubt, John said coldly, putting his hand on the pocket where he kept a cigar. Then he added: Doubt being no shame to a scientist.
7
When Martin left the house the next morning, John watched from an upstairs window. No boot clunk or door squeak. The doctor had already left his cot and gone off with his Italian device and a notebook tucked under his arm. Now Martin followed him, slipping out silently in the dark, a boy in bare feet, a boy not easily awakened, a boy born twelve and a half years ago on a cold October night, blue of skin and not expected to survive. The midwife had advised John to put him outside, as the cold air would decide things. Four pounds at birth, and Lavina left the birthing bed to go out in the dark to lift her newborn off the ground. Now John wondered: Why would the boy wake up to run after a man who was looking for birds? Why would the boy want to follow at an hour when he was usually soundly asleep? Martin had rescued a bear cub with the help of this intruder. And why did I allow the cub to be kept in the barn when the last thing I need is a nosy boy playing in a mule stall? Was it Lavina’s entreaty for the cub or something darker – a tinge of guilt for a baby left out in the cold?
8
In the woods full of pitfalls and whipping branches, Martin was as quiet as he’d learned to be when he ran off with Franklin, Emly’s oldest boy, who had reached an age where play was forbidden during the hours of work, and even afterward he had to curry and feed the master’s horse and bring him around when the master called, so he could never go off out of earshot. Now, if they met, it was usually on the sly, and they’d want to go back to building their dam that washed away every spring, but that was too far from the house. Anyway. What was the rush? Shouldn’t the birdman be strolling, studying branches, looking up through dew-heavy leaves for the starling with its flat bill, the thrush, largest of the sparrow kind? Instead he was heading at a wobbly run toward a cotton field cold in its rim of grass. He had a sore foot but he was running! The pale sun cast a vaporous light across that bare field and men and women and children moved along in single file turned by the unrisen sun into silhouettes. Martin recognized each walk or shrug or shape. Mean old Sutter kind of stomping in that way he had and Reuben dragging along and the five children clutching hoes that wobbled on their narrow shoulders like metal flags. There was Franklin in the lead trying to march, asleep on his feet. A week ago he and Martin had played their favorite trick on Uncle Benjamin’s bull, hiding behind the laurel and bellowing until his head went up and he cleared the cows away and came charging, pawing at the ground in a bullish rage. There was a good fence between the laurel and the bull, but sod was flying and the boys laughed. Now Martin stopped behind a tree and watched his friend stagger along in the line of slaves while the birdman hurried to catch up. He saw the men shade their faces with hands or hats as the stranger approached and the two women bowed their heads and then he heard the hooves of a big horse, and he wanted to warn the birdman about Uncle Benjamin. Who else would be out here at this hour? But he hid behind a bush and watched Ross explaining something to the silhouettes. The horse was coming. The iron feet nicked the stones in the field and Martin ran off fast.
He had forgotten Cuff’s milk. He should go back to the house. The barn was closed up and the bear seemed alarmed at the creak of the door. She let out a few furtive squeaks. Then she was making meowing sounds and hissing through her baby teeth. Black as night in the barn and Martin climbed into the stall through a little door he unlatched. Were there creatures that might hurt his bear, as the birdman had warned? A snake? The mean father bear? I name you Cuff, he said, when she pushed at him, looking for milk. Was a bear like a horse or cow to be fed at a certain hour? Can’t you just wait a minute?
Then the big door opened again and the boy and the bear listened to the sound of light human feet. It was Emly quietly speaking to the cows, bringing them grain to tempt them closer. She dumped corn at the heads of the first cows to be milked and Martin heard them move forward to eat as she readied the pails. In a moment the others began lowing, asking for shares, and Martin crawled back out through the stall door and got up on his feet. When Emly turned, she said: Oh! You came for the bear?
I forgot her milk.
Come here, Martin. Emly was like this, always nice and soft because he was Franklin’s friend. Or because she was nice to everybody, even cows. She said: The girls can share their milk, I guess.
There was no bottle but Martin went back to the stall with a half-filled pail. The cows were lowing again, waiting now for hay. The three young calves were bawling and Martin heard Emly moving toward them with full pails. The sun had risen and the floor of the barn where he sat was washed with a cool striped light.
He did not hear his father’s entrance. Only the softest call: Emly? He had come to feed his mare, of course, although it was early. And Emly answered: Here. Then she said: Martin too, in the stall.
Quietly, Martin held the pail of milk and the cub grabbed for it, slopping it up with her tongue and dribbling it on the floor. When she finished she moved to Martin’s neck, greedy to suck now, as if she had missed this pleasure while taking milk from a pail.
It made Martin feel strange in his stomach when she sucked on his ear and he wanted to pull away but he pressed his back against the stall and let Cuff have her way. If Emly or his father saw this, he would be embarrassed. Hey, stop that, he would have to say gruffly, but the bear was a motor and Martin felt expanded, his heart beating hard. He might have identified this as a symptom of love but he had no experience of such an idea, no memory of his own infancy or the nurture his mother had provided. His present life was a test of propriety, one test after another. His father spoke of Heaven and Hell as if he had a formula. His father believed an angel was coming. His father believed in each person’s need to work toward getting blessed. He had a balance sheet. Some days Martin gave the balance sheet a check mark, but then he would think back and erase it. Oh bear, he said: What is Mister Ross doing out there in the cotton field? It’s the workers who always get punished, no matter who does something bad, Martin thought. They don’t know about birds, so he should leave them alone. And from now on, Martin would ask Emly to save some milk every morning for Cuff.
—
That afternoon he stayed out of sight and the day leaked away. But that night he picked his way along the edge of things, following Ross again. The birdman had taken leave of the family just after supper. I’m heading on up the road, Ross had said. With many thanks for your kindness.
At this hour?
I have an appointment with that owl. He said goodnight to Martin, even shook his hand, then shouldered his leather bag and set off as Martin quietly followed keeping well out of sight. Uncle Benjamin’s brick house rose up like a fortress while Ross went the long way around it, front to side to back, leaving the road far behind. Beyond sat the smokehouse with its steaming bricks, and beyond that the barn and past the barn and into the bush, the soft shape of Emly’s cabin against the softer night.
Martin was following furtively, keeping to the shadows, wondering if Franklin might be outside. Hopefully he would not make any noise about Martin sneaking around. Martin had never been inside the little house but Emly had once made him a shirt because Uncle Benjamin allowed her to gather the wool his sheep deposited on thorns and fences. This wool she washed and carded and spun and when time allowed she wove it into cloudy cloth, making warm shirts for her children that fell to their knees. Martin’s shirt had a collar so it was better than Franklin’s. He was thinking about that when he saw Ross tap on Emly’s door and he knew then that he should not be watching. Such a man should not be knocking at such a door. Not at night. Not ever. Martin crept up close and hid behind an azalea bush. No star shone yet; it was dark all around.
A Reckoning Page 4
