Property(5)

As he told this story, he laughed at his own wit; it had been an exciting night. Sarah stood at the sideboard listening closely, her eyes on the butter dish. I put a bland smile on my lips and kept it there, sipping my coffee during the irritating intervals of his phlegmy laughter. When he was finished he looked from Sarah to me, including us in his genial pleasure.

“I thought Joel’s negroes were armed,” I said.

“No,” he replied. “They weren’t.”

Sarah gave me a darting look. “Wasn’t one of them Delphine’s brother?” I asked.

His good humor evaporated. He looked from Sarah to me and back again. “All you women do is talk,” he said.

As this was his first truly humorous remark of the morning, I indulged in an unladylike snort of laughter myself.

“Eben Borden,” he said to Sarah. “Yes, he was one of them. He’s the one nearly lost his foot to the dogs, and when Borden’s overseer is through with him, his foot will be the least of his troubles.” He laid his hand across his chest, wincing from a sudden pain. “So you and Delphine can quit poisoning me,” he said. “I saved her damn brother’s life.”

Sarah’s face was a mask. She glanced at his cup, then took up the pot to refill it.

“You women should think about what would become of you if I wasn’t here,” he said, gazing suspiciously into his half-full cup.



DOES SARAH THINK about what would become of her if he were gone? How could she not? What would become of me must be her next question, as she belongs to me. She can’t doubt that I would sell her; I would sell them all. I imagine it sometimes, selling them all and the house and the land, settling his debts, which are considerable. He has loans from his brother and three banks, and he has used the house as collateral for repairs on the mill. He has what my father called “planter’s disease”; he keeps buying land when he hasn’t the means to cultivate it. If the price of sugar falls again this year, it will hurt him, but he won’t have the sense to stop planting to meet the shortfall. He doesn’t know I can read an account book, but I can, and I’ve been looking into his for some time now. He might pull through this year if the weather is good and the price stable, but this combination is unlikely, as good weather means a better crop for everyone, which will drive the price down. I never speak to him about such things.

Though his ruin entails my own, I long for it.

Often I’m grateful that my father didn’t live to see me in this place. If he knew what humiliation I suffer every day, he would be at the door with his carriage to take me home. Our home is lost, but if it were still there, still ours, though it was not half so grand as this one, with what joy would I return to its simple comforts!

Do the dead see us? Is Father weeping for me in the graveyard?

If my husband died, I think. If my husband died. But he won’t. Not before it’s too late for me.



THIS AFTERNOON’S GAME was a more straightforward one, not very original at all. Two strong boys were required to fight until one couldn’t get up. The loser then received a whipping. It was an eerie scene to watch through the glass because there was no sound. Doubtless the boys were grunting and groaning, and he was urging them on, but it all looked as serene and orchestrated as a dance. I watched for several minutes. One of the boys was clearly the better fighter, though the smaller of the two. “Come look through this glass,” I said to Sarah, “and tell me who that smaller boy is.”

Sarah backed away as if I’d asked her to pick up a roach. “No, missus,” she said.

“And why not?” I asked.

“I don’ like that glass.”

“Have you never looked through it?”

She looked down, shaking her head slowly.

This surprised me. The glass is on the landing, pointing out of the only window in the house that faces the quarter. He had it specially mounted for this purpose, to watch the negroes at their daily business, to see if they are congregating. Sarah must pass it ten times a day.

“I’d look if I were you,” I said. “You might see something you need to know.”

For answer she took another step back.

“Or do you already know everything you need to know?” I said, turning back to the glass.

I was right. The taller boy lay facedown in the dirt, his legs drawn up under him, trying to lift himself up like a baby learning to walk. The victor stood before him, unsmiling, sweating. In the shadow of the tree I saw him, bending over to put down his Bible and take up his stick. As he turned toward the fighters, he said something to the victor, who looked up boldly at the house, directly at me, or so it seemed. I backed away from the window, stunned, momentarily as guilty as a child caught stealing candy. Sarah had passed into my room, where her baby was whining. Why should I feel guilty? I thought.