My Name's Not Friday

by Jon Walter

  Connie comes across to me and he leans into our sack of supplies, putting his fingers through the corn and feeling the weight of the pork that’s in there. He smiles with satisfaction. ‘I told you they’re losing the war. It’s beginning to bite.’ He moves his tongue around the front of his teeth. ‘Price of food’s going up every day and the rations are down.’ He winks at me. ‘It won’t be too long now.’

  I don’t think I can survive on any less food than I been getting to eat right now, cos every day my stomach moans more than it did the one before, and when I give the sack to Lizzie she rolls her eyes and tuts at me. ‘Just corn and bacon,’ she complains. ‘No peas or carrots. No jars of molasses.’ She sucks at her teeth, maybe hoping to find some last bit of goodness stuck somewhere in the gaps between ’em.

  ‘Did I do something wrong, Lizzie?’

  ‘Not that I know of. You got something I should know ’bout?’

  I shake my head. I can’t think of anything. Then again, there’s always something you got to feel bad about.

  *

  First time I remember Joshua being caned was after a trip to the Middle Creek store. Mr Randolph was the owner and it paid to be on his good side, cos if he liked you he could be a generous man, but if he didn’t he could be mean as hell.

  We all went into town with a coin in our pocket and his wife had made a pretty display of candied fruits along the front of the counter. There were cherries and orange peel and there was ginger. There was toffee and peanut brittle too, both of ’em a deep orangey brown, looking like a piece of melted sunset, and we stood there wishing we could have ’em all.

  Joshua pressed his nose up against one of the glass jars. ‘Mister,’ he asked Mr Randolph, ‘can I have a taste?’

  ‘They’re five cents a quarter.’ The shopkeeper eyed my brother suspiciously. ‘You can taste ’em once you’ve paid for ’em.’

  I loved the look of those sweets just as much as anyone, but I had my eye on other things and I was saving my coin to buy a metal toy soldier. I was a week away from being able to afford it and I asked Mr Randolph if I might take a closer look at his collection and he obliged me, coming around from behind the counter and taking me across to the window display, where he brought some of the little metal figures out so that I could hold ’em for myself. There was a redcoat with a musket held to his face and a little drummer boy with a flag. I was about to engage Mr Randolph in conversation when we were startled by a scream from Mrs Robinson, who had arrived from the storeroom out the back.

  She looked like she’d seen a rat, but it was my brother that she pointed at. ‘He licked it! I saw him lick it and he put it back!’

  Mr Randolph hurried back and saw that all the jars were open, with their lids all on the counter. He put his hand inside the first and brought out a piece of toffee that was glistening and wet. ‘You did this to all of ’em?’

  ‘It wasn’t me!’ Joshua protested brazenly, but Mr Randolph already had a hold of him by the scruff of the neck. ‘So you’re a liar as well as a little thief.’

  ‘It wasn’t me! Honest it wasn’t! It was Johnny Bradshaw and the little bastard’s run off out the door!’

  Mrs Randolph slapped the back of his head for his bad language, and her husband marched the both of us outside in search of Father Mosely. Joshua got a dozen strokes of the cane on a bare backside, and since Mr Randolph suspected I was his accomplice, we both lost our money for a month. It didn’t matter that it wasn’t me who did it, and I never did get my toy soldier.

  *

  Gerald flips the ball up for me to catch and I drop it. He sidles away from me, his back to the river and his bat held up to his shoulder. ‘Pitch the ball for me, Friday. Go on, pitch it hard as you like. I bet you can’t beat me.’

  I throw the ball but it falls short of him. ‘That’s no good,’ he tells me. ‘Try again.’ He scurries forward, picks it up and throws it back, but then I throw the ball so high and wide he ain’t got a hope of hitting it. It’s closer to going in the river than it is to him and he shakes his head as he runs to picks it up. ‘You sure ain’t no pitcher like I thought.’ He throws the ball for himself, straight up in the air, hitting it hard and high so it flies over my head and out across the field behind.

  ‘Well, go on then. Go and get it.’

  I run and fetch the ball, then I pitch again and Gerald hits it again and off I go, backwards and forwards, like a dog after a stick. I don’t know why someone would want to spend their day doing this, but it makes Gerald as happy as it makes me miserable. Each time I return with the ball, he’s ready and waiting, the bat already slung across his shoulder. He’s good at sport and he knows it. He’s got a kind of confidence in the way he stands and pushes the cap back onto his head, so it’s clear of his face. ‘You want a go with the bat?’

  ‘No. I’m fine.’ I wipe an arm across my forehead to take away the sweat. ‘I could do with some water though.’ I come across to him and we stand by the river as I swig from the canteen. Gerald looks up into the bright blue sky. ‘There’s only one way to cool off properly on a day like today.’ He takes off his cap and shirt, steps out of his shoes and drops his trousers too. He really does – stands there without a stitch on him, all lilywhite clean and bright, like a scrubbed potato. Then he runs and jumps, hitting the water with a splash. He screams so loud I think he’s been bitten by a big fish. ‘It’s so cold!’ he says, ducking his head under the surface and popping up like he’s about to feed on a fly. ‘Come on in! Come on!’

  But I won’t do it. I ain’t even tempted. It’s just another thing he can do that I can’t. I roll up the legs of my trousers and sit on the edge of the bank till Gerald stops his nonsense and comes across to me. ‘Why won’t you come in?’ He splashes water at me. ‘You ain’t scared, are you?’

  ‘Sure I’m scared.’

  ‘What of? The fish ain’t gonna hurt you.’

  ‘It ain’t the fish. I’m scared of drowning.’

  Gerald looks like he don’t believe his own ears. ‘You telling me you can’t swim?’

  ‘Nope. Never had the opportunity. Where I lived before, there weren’t no rivers, at least not close by.’

  Gerald suddenly becomes all serious. ‘Come on in and I’ll teach you.’

  ‘No. Thank you.’

  ‘You can trust me. I’ll look after you.’

  ‘I’m sure you will, but I’m happiest with my feet on dry land.’

  Gerald shakes his head solemnly. ‘Everyone should know how to swim, Friday. What’ll you do if you fall in a river?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be that stupid.’

  ‘You might. Accidents happen. People make mistakes.

  It happens all the time.’ Gerald becomes the grown-up and he does it well. He’s all earnest and calm. ‘See where I’m standing now? That’ll still be in your depth. So long as you stand here you can’t drown and I won’t make you go any deeper, I promise you. Not till you’re ready.’

  ‘You ever taught anyone before?’

  ‘Never. But my daddy taught me and I can still remember how he did it. First thing you got to do is float. You got to get used to the water so you ain’t scared and then you won’t panic. That’s half the problem. If you panic, you start to sink.’ He opens his arms out to me. ‘C’mon, Friday. You can do it. I know you can.’

  I put my foot in the water and it feels cool on my skin when I move it in a circle, stirring up the mud below the surface. ‘OK. I’ll do it!’ I jump up, taking off my breeches and shirt so I’m naked on the river bank. Gerald takes hold of my hand to steady me as I step down into the river. ‘There’s a branch there,’ he points out. ‘Do you feel it with your foot? That’s right, step on that and you’re halfway in.’

  Another step and the wet mud squelches up between my toes as Gerald walks in front of me, showing me the depth before I take my next step. I go in up to my waist.

  ‘Now watch what I do.’ He lets go of my fingers and falls slowly back till he’s floating on the surface,
his arms and legs stretched out at his sides, with the water calm around him and his golden hair fanned out around his head like a halo. He stays like that for a little while before kicking out and coming to stand upright again. He wipes the water from his eyes. ‘That’s what I want you to do.’

  ‘I can’t do that!’

  ‘Yes, you can, cos I’m gonna help you.’ He comes behind me and takes hold of my shoulders. ‘Put your weight back on me and bend your knees. Go on, do it.’

  I want to do it, I really do, and I feel like I can trust him. So I lean back slowly and the water creeps up my chest till it’s over my nipples and all up in my armpits.

  ‘Can you feel the river take your weight?’ Gerald holds me ever so carefully and I can feel myself rise. I can feel my legs wanting to join in with the rest of me. So I let ’em go.

  ‘Put your head back,’ he tells me. ‘I dare you to put your head right back.’

  I do as he says till the river fills my ears and I lie like a water boatman or a dragonfly, all light and sleek on the glittering river. When Gerald speaks I can see his mouth move but I can’t hear a thing. Only my breathing and my pounding heart.

  Gerald moves me slowly around in a circle and I ain’t never been so peaceful. Not ever.

  When we’re done we dry ourselves on the river bank and then we get dressed, both of us lazy in the afternoon sun like a couple of big ol’ cows that’s had a good day’s eating and ain’t got nothing to do but rest. When we get up to leave I see Hubbard coming into view and I panic, knowing he’s already seen us. ‘Quickly. It’s Hubbard. Let’s go the other way before he gets here.’

  ‘Hubbard’s all right.’ Gerald walks casually out to meet him, but I follow two steps behind. ‘I’ve known Hubbard since the day I was born,’ he tells me. ‘He’s always looked out for me.’

  But Hubbard ain’t smiling when we meet him. ‘Mrs Allen was asking after you up at the house,’ he tells Gerald. ‘And don’t let your mother see you with a bat and ball or she’ll know what you’re up to.’

  Hubbard’s eyes go right through me, like he’s inside my head, like he knows everything about me. I think he’s going to punish me but he don’t. Not exactly. ‘The preacher’s getting ready to do his sermon,’ he tells me. ‘I want you to bring all the chairs up to the barn.’

  So I scamper on ahead of ’em as we go back to the cabins.

  *

  When Chepstow gets to sermonizing, he holds his Bible like an axe above his head. ‘“Slaves,”’ he tells us, ‘“be submissive to your masters and give them satisfaction in every respect.”’

  You can tell he knows that particular verse off by heart. He looks around the gin barn and his eyes take in each of us, sat in three neat rows beneath the tall roof, all hung with spider’s webs and the white wisps of stray cotton. Every one of us is there cos Mrs Allen has made it clear that none should be missing, even if it is a Sunday and supposed to be our free day, to do with as we wish.

  Chepstow repeats those words again, cos he wants to make sure we heard ’em good and proper. ‘“Slaves, be submissive to your masters.” Those ain’t my words. No, sir. Those are the words of God that are written for all of us to read. It tells us this in the book of Titus, chapter 2, verse 9, and again in Paul’s letter to the Ephesians, chapter 6, verse 5. Let me see now.’ He brings the Good Book down and flicks through the pages, finding where he’s put his markers. ‘Yes, here it is. “Slaves, obey your earthly masters with fear and trembling.”’ Chepstow turns the book outward and points to the passage so we all can see. He lifts it up for the people at the back and walks along the front row, holding the book open under the noses of those sitting closest so it makes ’em uncomfortable.

  ‘Are you the kind of servant that steals from your master? And do you think that gives him satisfaction? I don’t think so.’

  Lizzie fidgets in her chair beside me.

  ‘It may be that all you do is help yourself to a mouthful of brandy from the cask out in the shed. It may only be a slice of food from the dining table and you will probably say to yourselves, well, it doesn’t matter, Mrs Allen’s got enough, and anyway who’s to know? Who’s gonna find out? There’s no one here to see me. Well, let me tell you that God sees you. He sees you every time you steal and He will know whether you have indeed given your master satisfaction in every respect.’

  Chepstow snaps shut his big old Bible and steps back to look at us. ‘Well, you might say to me, “I don’t like my master whipping me, I don’t like my mistress being unfair.” Let me tell you that God sees your master same as He sees you, and He knows when your master might treat you unfairly. Your master answers to God, and He has told us that we should look after those that cannot look after themselves.’ Chepstow walks with open hands held out to us. ‘Slavery does that for the black folk. Do you see? Slavery is God’s way of keeping you safe, of keeping you warm in bed, of making sure everyone can feed themselves. He’s saying we should work towards a common good and remember this: we are all slaves before God, we are all obedient to His will and we will pay for our sins on the Day of Judgement, both the master and the slave, and there ain’t no whip like the Devil’s own whip, no, sir, cos if you’re burning in the fires of hell, that pain don’t ever go away.’

  I know all about them hellfires. I’ve seen the pictures. But what Chepstow is saying ain’t true, at least not if Father Mosely was right. And yet they can’t both be right, even though they’re both preachers and both of ’em privileged to have the ear of the Lord.

  Chepstow smiles at us all. ‘So you see, slavery has been given us by God for the good of us all. He has ordained it.’ He holds the book back in the air above his head and he shakes it as he speaks. ‘These are but a few verses and there are many more, both from the New and Old Testament, beginning with the curse of Ham and ending in the Book of Revelations, where we are told of slavery still in existence on the final day of this blessed Earth. Yes, that’s right. Even Jefferson Davis himself has said that slavery has been found among the people of the highest civilization and in nations of the highest proficiency in the arts. There are those in America who would have you believe us to be uncivilized, and yet the fact remains that our brightest civilizations, the very best that mankind has achieved, have been built upon the institution of slavery.’

  Mr Chepstow points a finger towards the heavens and his eyes are glistening with the zeal of everything he says. He’s standing close enough that I can see inside his mouth when he speaks and I can smell his rotten teeth.

  He points his finger in my direction. ‘I say to you people, follow the Ten Commandments and serve your masters well. That’s the only way you’ll get to heaven. I’m here to tell you that. And once you get to heaven, the good Lord will give you your reward, as He Himself has promised it.’

  His eyes suddenly fall on Albert. ‘Young man, do you want to go to heaven?’ Albert nods. He turns to Harriet. ‘Do you want to sit at the feet of the Lord? Do you want to eat at His table?’ Harriet nods as well.

  It’s Connie who coughs and says, ‘Excuse me, sir,’ and when he stands up, those of us in the front row turn in our seats to look back at him. ‘Mr Chepstow, sir, I’m sorry to butt in and everything, but I have a question I was hoping you could help me to understand.’

  Chepstow don’t seem to mind the interruption. He’s all sweetness and light now he’s delivered his sermon, and he opens his arms in welcome. ‘Go ahead, young man. Ask me what you need to know.’

  Connie pauses. He’s taken the rabbit foot from his hat and turns it in his fingers. ‘Well, I was thinking about heaven and how it works up there, I mean, in respect of us slaves because … well … there’ll be white folks there. Won’t there? Surely they get to go to heaven too?’

  Chepstow laughs at him. ‘I’ve got a congregation back at the Church who certainly hope so. What’s your point, young man?’

  ‘Well, my question is this, are we gonna still be slaves when we get to heaven? Only, if all our masters are goin
g to be up there with us like you say, will I be a free man when I get there or am I going to have to slave away the same as I do down here? It’s a question that’s been on my mind, sir, cos if God likes slavery as much as you say He does, then I can’t see how I’ll ever be free.’

  Mr Chepstow can’t help but smile. He even allows himself a chuckle. ‘Well, you don’t have to worry about that. The direct answer to your question must be yes – I expect your master will still own you. After all, it’s a point in law. Ain’t no getting around that even in heaven. But just stop and ask yourself this, my man – what’s he going to get you to do?’ He spreads his hands apart, giving us time to think it through. ‘Ain’t no work to be done in heaven. Do you see my point? Morally, he will still be your master, just as God will still be master over him. But I don’t think you’ve got a whole lot to worry about on that score. And remember, if you’ve done your duty here on Earth, God has promised to reward you in heaven. You have His word on that.’

  Connie don’t make no argument about it and he says, ‘Thank you, sir,’ and he sits back down, but I can tell that there’s a whole lot of dissatisfaction in the barn. People are shuffling their feet or staring up at the strands of cotton hanging high in the rafters and I’m troubled too, because Father Mosely always said the orphanage had saved us from a fate worse than death. But then again, given my own predicament, that doesn’t make a whole lot of sense to me either, cos if God hates slavery then why did He deliver me into the arms of Gloucester, knowing all along that he would sell me at auction? Unless, that is, God hates me too.

  I go and see Connie that very evening to tell him I’ve been thinking ’bout what he said. ‘I don’t think the preacher’s right,’ I say to him as he smokes his pipe by the hearth. ‘I can’t be certain, but I don’t believe you’ll still be a slave in heaven.’

  ‘I ain’t interested.’

  ‘I thought you were?’

  Connie suddenly looks at me like he hates me. ‘You like to hear the priest preaching, don’t you, Friday? I’ve seen you praying and I’ve heard you too.’