to. Then I told Rufus what I had done. And Rufus hadn’t known whether to hit me or thank me. He had glared at me, the skin of his face drawn tight, intense. Then, finally, he had relaxed and nodded and gone out to find his son.
Now, he sat with me—being sorry and lonely and wanting me to take the place of the dead.
“You never hated me, did you?” he asked.
“Never for long. I don’t know why. You worked hard to earn my hatred, Rufe.”
“She hated me. From the first time I forced her.” “I don’t blame her.”
“Until just before she ran. She had stopped hating me. I wonder how long it will take you.”
“What?”
“To stop hating.”
Oh God. Almost against my will, I closed my fingers around the han- dle of the knife still concealed in my bag. He took my other hand, held it between his own in a grip that I knew would only be gentle until I tried to pull away.
“Rufe,” I said, “your children …” “They’re free.”
“But they’re young. They need you to protect their freedom.” “Then it’s up to you, isn’t it?”
I twisted my hand, tried to get it away from him in sudden anger. At once, his hold went from caressing to imprisoning. My right hand had become wet and slippery on the knife.
“It’s up to you,” he repeated.
“No, Goddamnit, it isn’t! Keeping you alive has been up to me for too long! Why didn’t you shoot yourself when you started to? I wouldn’t have stopped you!”
“I know.”
The softness of his voice made me look up at him.
“So what else do I have to lose?” he asked. He pushed me back on the pallet, and for a few moments, we lay there, still. What was he waiting for? What was I waiting for?
He lay with his head on my shoulder, his left arm around me, his right hand still holding my hand, and slowly, I realized how easy it would be for me to continue to be still and forgive him even this. So easy, in spite
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of all my talk. But it would be so hard to raise the knife, drive it into the flesh I had saved so many times. So hard to kill …
He was not hurting me, would not hurt me if I remained as I was. He was not his father, old and ugly, brutal and disgusting. He smelled of soap, as though he had bathed recently—for me? The red hair was neatly combed and a little damp. I would never be to him what Tess had been to his father—a thing passed around like the whiskey jug at a husking. He wouldn’t do that to me or sell me or …
No.
I could feel the knife in my hand, still slippery with perspiration. A slave was a slave. Anything could be done to her. And Rufus was Rufus—erratic, alternately generous and vicious. I could accept him as my ancestor, my younger brother, my friend, but not as my master, and not as my lover. He had understood that once.
I twisted sharply, broke away from him. He caught me, trying not to hurt me. I was aware of him trying not to hurt me even as I raised the knife, even as I sank it into his side.
He screamed. I had never heard anyone scream that way—an animal sound. He screamed again, a lower ugly gurgle.
He lost his hold on my hand for a moment, but caught my arm before I could get away. Then he brought up the fist of his free hand to punch me once, and again as the patroller had done so long ago.
I pulled the knife free of him somehow, raised it, and brought it down again into his back.
This time he only grunted. He collapsed across me, somehow still alive, still holding my arm.
I lay beneath him, half conscious from the blows, and sick. My stom- ach seemed to twist, and I vomited on both of us.
“Dana?”
A voice. A man’s voice.
I managed to turn my head and see Nigel standing in the doorway. “Dana, what …? Oh no. God, no!”
“Nigel …” moaned Rufus, and he gave a long shuddering sigh. His body went limp and leaden across me. I pushed him away somehow— everything but his hand still on my arm. Then I convulsed with terrible, wrenching sickness.
Something harder and stronger than Rufus’s hand clamped down on my arm, squeezing it, stiffening it, pressing into it—painlessly, at first—
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melting into it, meshing with it as though somehow my arm were being absorbed into something. Something cold and nonliving.
Something … paint, plaster, wood—a wall. The wall of my living room. I was back at home—in my own house, in my own time. But I was still caught somehow, joined to the wall as though my arm were growing out of it—or growing into it. From the elbow to the ends of the fingers, my left arm had become a part of the wall. I looked at the spot where flesh joined with plaster, stared at it uncomprehending. It was the exact spot Rufus’s fingers had grasped.
I pulled my arm toward me, pulled hard.
And suddenly, there was an avalanche of pain, red impossible agony! And I screamed and screamed.
Epilogue
We flew to Maryland as soon as my arm was well enough. There, we rented a car—Kevin was driving again, finally—and wandered around Baltimore and over to Easton. There was a bridge now, not the steamship Rufus had used. And at last I got a good look at the town I had lived so near and seen so little of. We found the courthouse and an old church, a few other buildings time had not worn away. And we found Burger King and Holiday Inn and Texaco and schools with black kids and white kids together and older people who looked at Kevin and me, then looked again.
We went into the countryside, into what was still woods and farmland, and found a few of the old houses. A couple of them could have been the Weylin house. They were well-kept and handsomer, but basically, they were the same red-brick Georgian Colonials.
But Rufus’s house was gone. As nearly as we could tell, its site was now covered by a broad field of corn. The house was dust, like Rufus.
I was the one who insisted on trying to find his grave, questioning the farmer about it because Rufus, like his father, like old Mary and Alice, had probably been buried on the plantation.
But the farmer knew nothing—or at least, said nothing. The only clue we found—more than a clue, really—was an old newspaper article—a notice that Mr. Rufus Weylin had been killed when his house caught fire and was partially destroyed. And in later papers, notice of the sale of the slaves from Mr. Rufus Weylin’s estate. These slaves were listed by their first names with their approximate ages and their skills given. All three
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of Nigel’s sons were listed, but Nigel and Carrie were not. Sarah was listed, but Joe and Hagar were not. Everyone else was listed. Everyone.
I thought about that, put together as many pieces as I could. The fire, for instance. Nigel had probably set it to cover what I had done—and he had covered. Rufus was assumed to have burned to death. I could find nothing in the incomplete newspaper records to suggest that he had been murdered, or even that the fire had been arson. Nigel must have done a good job. He must also have managed to get Margaret Weylin out of the house alive. There was no mention of her dying. And Margaret had rela- tives in Baltimore. Also, Hagar’s home had been in Baltimore.
Kevin and I went back to Baltimore to skim newspapers, legal records, anything we could find that might tie Margaret and Hagar together or mention them at all. Margaret might have taken both children. Perhaps with Alice dead she had accepted them. They were her grandchildren, after all, the son and daughter of her only child. She might have cared for them. She might also have held them as slaves. But even if she had, Hagar, at least, lived long enough for the Fourteenth Amendment to free her.
“He could have left a will,” Kevin told me outside one of our haunts, the Maryland Historical Society. “He could have freed those people at least when he had no more use for them.”
“But there was his mother to consider,” I said. “And he was only twenty-five. He probably thought he had plenty of time to make a will.”
“Stop defending him,” muttered Kevin.
