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  To C—

  Luv, J

  I do not know why this double-entry account of time intrigues me, and why I am compelled to call attention to it—to both its personal and objective forms, the time in which the narrator moves and that in which his narrative takes place. It is a peculiar intertwining of time’s courses, which are ordained moreover to be bound up with yet a third—that is, with the time the reader will one day take for a receptive reading of what is told here, so that he will be dealing with a threefold ordering of time: his own, that of the chronicler, and that of history.

  —Thomas Mann, Doctor Faustus

  CONTENTS

  * * *

  A Prefatory Note

  JB & FD

  Dark Matter

  Shape the World Is In

  My Dead

  Music

  Bonds

  New Start

  Maps and Ledgers

  Writing Teacher

  Williamsburg Bridge

  Examination

  Wail

  Lines

  Nat Turner Confesses

  Empire

  Yellow Sea

  Bunny and Glide

  Snow

  Ghost Dancer

  Collage

  Expectations

  About the Author

  A PREFATORY NOTE

  * * *

  Dear Mr. President,

  I send this note along with some stories I’ve written, and hope you will find time in your demanding schedule to read both note and stories. The stories should speak for themselves. The note is a plea, Mr. President. Please eradicate slavery.

  I am quite aware, sir, that history says the Thirteenth Amendment to the Constitution abolished slavery in the United States of America in 1865, and that ensuing amendments extended to former slaves the precious rights and protections our nation guarantees to all its citizens regardless of color. But you should understand better than most of us, Mr. President, that history tells as many lies as truths.

  The Thirteenth Amendment announced the beginning of the end of slavery as a legal condition in America. Slavery as a social condition did not disappear. After serving our nation for centuries as grounds to rationalize enslavement, African ancestry and colored skin remain acceptable reasons for the majority of noncolored Americans to support state-sponsored, state-enforced segregation, violence, and exploitation. Skin color continues to separate some of us into a category as unforgiving as the label property stamped on a person. Dividing human beings into immutable groups identifiable by skin color reincarnates scientifically discredited myths of race. Keeps alive the unfortunate presumption, held by many of my fellow citizens, that they belong to a race granted a divine right to act as judges, jurors, and executioners of those who are members of other incorrigibly different and inferior races.

  What should be done, Mr. President. Our nation is deeply unsafe. I feel threatened and vulnerable. What can I do. Or you. Do we need another Harpers Ferry. Do we possess in our bottomless arsenal a weapon to demolish lies that connect race, color, and slavery.

  By the time this note reaches your desk, Mr. President, if it ever does, you may be a woman. No surprise. Once we had elected a colored President, the block was busted. Perhaps you are a colored woman, and that would be an edifying surprise.

  This note is getting too long. And to be perfectly honest, Mr. President, I believe terminating slavery may be beyond even your vast powers. My guess is that slavery won’t disappear until only two human beings left alive, neither one strong enough to enslave the other.

  Anyway, please read on and enjoy the stories that follow. No strings attached. No obligation to free a single slave of any color, Ms. or Mr. President.

  JB & FD

  * * *

  1

  * * *

  To need his glasses and be struck by an awareness that they are not at hand, an ordinary-enough circumstance for Frederick Douglass, except sometimes it’s accompanied by a flash of extraordinary dread. If not quite panic, certainly an unease disproportionate to a simple recurring situation. Dread that may be immediately extinguished if he locates his horn-rimmed, owlish-eyed spectacles exactly where he anticipated they should be.

  * * *

  He sees them and almost sighs. Nearly feels their slightly uncomfortable weight palpable on his nose. Finding the glasses is enough to reassure him that he remains here among the living in this material world where he depends on glasses to read, glasses to help him negotiate stubbornly solid objects he cannot glide through. Enough to remember that he’s able to recall or backtrack, anyway, and understand how the present moment connects to moments preceding it, a trail of hows and whys causing him to wind up where he is now, at this particular moment, stretching out a hand to pick up eyeglasses because he is the same person who placed them on the desk, beside a stack of three books at the desk’s upper-left-hand corner so he wouldn’t forget, and there, here they would be when he needed glasses.

  * * *

  Sometimes dread does not vanish when he locates his glasses. They turn up where he thinks they should, his fingers curl, prepare to reach out for them. But glasses are not enough. Not convincing enough. They do not belong to him. Not glasses. Not hand. He vaguely recognizes both. Glasses too heavy to lift. Or hand too heavy. He’s observing from an incalculable distance. Sometimes that detachment is a gift, sometimes it dooms him, and he cannot animate or orchestrate what he desires to come next. John Brown spreads his ancient, musty wool cloak—cloak the brown color of his name—over glasses, books, desk, study, house, wife, him, and when John Brown snatches the cloak away, nothing’s there. Douglass has fled to the mountains, the woods to join him.

  2

  * * *

  Ah, Frederick, my friend. Look at you, Fred Douglass. I knew after a single glance you could be the one. Your manly form and bearing left no room for doubt. And today, these dozen hard years later, you still stand tall, straight, gleaming. I see God’s promise of freedom in you. Yours. Mine. Our nation’s. A man who could lead his people, all people, out of slavery’s bondage. Your beard dark that day we first spoke and now tinged with spools of gray, but you gleam still, my friend. Despite the iron cloud of suffering and oppression slavery casts over this land.

  * * *

  Douglass remembers no beard. Not wearing one himself, nor a beard on Brown’s gaunt face. Certainly not the patriarch’s thicket of white flowing—no, a torrent—today, halfway down John Brown’s chest. He misremembers me.

  * * *

  But if God ignites a man to believe himself a prophet, if visions burst upon him and seize him, as an ordinary man is seized by a roiling gut and must rush behind a bush to squat and relieve himself, if such urgency is the case, I suppose, Douglass instructs himself, a prophet can be forgiven for mistaking petty details. Prophecies forgiven for confusing time and place, for compounding truth and error, wisdom and foolishness, for mixing wishful thinking with logic. John Brown thus forgiven for believing that ignorant, isolated slaves, cowed into submission by a master’s whip, will grasp the purpose of a raid on Harpers Ferry and flock instantly to his banner. Enraptured by his vision, Brown foresees colored slaves armed with sticks and stones prevailing against cannons, Sharps carbines, the disciplined tr
oops of a nation dedicated absolutely to upholding the principle that color makes some men less equal than others. I embrace the fiery justness of John Brown’s prophecies, his unflinching willingness to sacrifice himself and his sons, yet I cannot forgive my friend for untempered speech, demagoguery, the impetuosity and rage that grip him. That transform dream to madness.

  3

  * * *

  Douglass watches himself step out from behind the curtain and stride to the bunting-draped podium. They will welcome him. He is famous. Broad chest bemedaled, gold baton, field marshal’s crimson sash decorating his resplendent uniform, veteran of a terrible war, though he never fired a shot in anger. Fine figure of a man still. After seven decades on earth. After a protracted, blood-drenched conflict settling nothing. Certainly not settling his fate. Nor his color’s fate. Nor his nation’s.

  * * *

  A drumroll of applause greets him, deepening as he moves step-by-step across the stage, a thunder of hands accompanying him. In the front rows his new white wife’s white women friends. When a journalist asked Douglass to speak about his marriage, seeking details to spice the story he intended to write about newlyweds whose union scandalously ignored great disparities of age and race, Douglass replied, “My first wife the color of my mother, second the color of my father.”

  * * *

  Tonight in this hall where he’d spoken once before, where once he’d been property, a fugitive hosted by abolitionists, a piece of animated chattel curiously endowed with speech, tonight in this hall he would address “The Woman Question.” Proclaim every woman’s God-granted entitlement, like his, to all the Rights of Man.

  * * *

  A born orator. Born with that gift and many glorious others, his mother assured him in stories told at night, whispering while she lay next to him in the darkness, their only time together, half hours she stole from her master, slipping away to walk an hour each way, plantation to plantation, to earn their half hour.

  * * *

  Second rumble of applause when he concludes his remarks. Head bowed, he waves away the noise and stirs it, conducts it, loves it even as his gesturing arm seems dismissive, seems modest, a humble man, a veteran tempering, allaying the crowd’s enthusiasm just as he strokes and soothes and quiets and fine-tunes his new young wife’s pale hair and pale skin, her passion that makes him tender, wistful, as often as aroused. These happy newlyweds. Her ferocious coven of female friends among the loudest of clappers.

  * * *

  The evening will be a success, and he will return home to drop dead. Douglass dead as suddenly as Lincoln felled by an assassin’s bullet. Except the president lingered. Douglass won’t. Dead. He sees this as surely as he sees his old face in the vanity mirror in their freshly papered bedroom. As surely as old man Brown saw blood. Only pools, rivers, an ocean of blood, John Brown swore, would cleanse the sin of man-stealing. No. Not cleanse. Not expunge or redeem or expiate. No. Blood must be shed. No promises. No better, cleaner South or North. Only a simple certainty that blood must be shed. Douglass read that dire text in Brown’s distracted gaze, his stare. Same fire in himself as a boy who struck back, no fear of consequences, at bullying slave driver Covey. Same fire fanned by waves of hands striking hands that primes him, guides, draws him as he crosses to a podium. Fire in the young woman he’s taken after forty years with his colored first wife, this second wife who will discover him lying comfortably on the floor as he would have been lying comfortably across their canopied bed awaiting her had his heart not stopped and dropped him like an ax drops an ox, Douglass lying there on the Turkish carpet he sees so clearly now and never will again. Won’t see it when he falls, when the abyss blackens suddenly and his head slams down into the rug’s elaborately woven prayers.

  4

  * * *

  Through a smallish window in a small motel I watched snow falling, a heavy snow, probably more than enough coming down to transform in a couple of hours the unprepossessing landscape framed within the motel window. Big white flakes dropping effortlessly from the sky as I’d hoped all morning words would materialize on the page while I sat here in this unprepossessing room attempting to imagine a boy alone on a wilderness trail who drives his father’s cattle along a shore of Lake Erie. How many miles there and back to supply a military encampment during the War of 1812, the boy on a horse or a mule, I assume, although it’s possible he may have been on foot, armed with a long stick or a cudgel to protect himself and prod the stream of cattle along whichever edge of Lake Erie he advances—north, south, east, west—from Hudson, a small, new town in Ohio’s Western Reserve, where the boy’s family resides, to a base on the Detroit front occupied by a General Hull and his troops.

  * * *

  I had never been a white teenager with a strict, pious Calvinist father named Owen Brown whom I had accompanied often on cattle drives, never punched cows alone, never a slave like the boy his age John Brown immediately would befriend and never forget, the colored boy encountered in an isolated cabin located somewhere along his route. Very likely John Brown himself couldn’t say exactly where, disoriented by an unexpected snowstorm that erased the usual familiar terrain and forced him for caution’s sake to seek shelter for his animals and himself before nightfall, before he found himself lost completely, not sure how far he may have drifted from the trail, not even clear in which direction the trail might lie after hours of thick, swirling snow, certain of nothing but snow, wind, chilling cold, and the necessity to keep track of the cattle, perhaps round them up, count them, maybe drive them into a tight circle for warmth, cows huddled, hunkered down in a ring, and maybe him or him and his horse or mule bedded down close enough to share the heat of three, five, seven large beasts in a heap, a dark snowdrift in the middle of nowhere. Or perhaps drawn by the sight of a cabin ahead, you keep the animals moving as best you can and ride towards it, then dismount, or you’ve been plodding on foot and you reach a door and knock, embolden yourself, a shy, stranded twelve- or thirteen-year-old, to share the unhappy story of your plight, the errand your father entrusted to you, his livestock, his livelihood, delivering beef for General Hull’s soldiers to eat so the Brown family can eat, so there’s food on the table back in Hudson. Not army beef—cornmeal mush his mother measures, spoons out to John Brown and his siblings Ruth, Salmon, Oliver, and Levi Blakeslee, an orphan who, thanks to Owen Brown’s charitable heart, was adopted and traveled as part of the Brown family to Hudson from New York State. Taut, hungry, lean faces at home, and now John Brown’s duty to feed them.

  * * *

  Night deepening. Storm trapping him, a boy who’s desperately seeking assistance, refuge, only or at least till daylight and he can relocate trail or landmarks and be on his way. I compare his predicament to mine, and I’m ashamed. My problem simply finding words, simply pretending to be in another time and place, another consciousness while settled in the comforts of a motel room along the interstate, fumbling around in storms of my own making, staring out a window at an increasingly postcard-perfect snowscape.

  * * *

  John Brown’s storm does not subside but intensifies, lasting through the next afternoon perhaps, so he stays a night and half the following day in a cabin with a settler and his family, stranded here in a stranger’s cabin for far too long, too far away from accomplishing his task. Owen Brown’s cows outside maybe wandering off, lost in blinding snow. How many of them? Count them, band them together, search for strays, coax up the slovenly ones who otherwise would be content to die where they kneel, sunken into the snow.

  * * *

  These people are pioneers of sorts, like his, hovering at the edge of raw wilderness. Dark inside the cabin. Fireplace logs shiver, smolder, smoke. Spit loud as mountain streams thawing in spring. A question arising daily, as predictable as the sun: will they survive for another twenty-four hours on this not-quite-civilized frontier. Prayers each time they awaken, each time they break bread. Bread coarse, dark, hard, a little milk on occasion or water to soften it, a rare da
b of honey to sweeten, or it’s cornmeal porridge or cornmeal fried in grease to make a square of hot mush like John Brown receives that night in a cabin familiar to him from home, the wooden plates and heavy mush no strangers, nor the wife who smiles twice—John Brown notices, counts—during the hours of his stay.

  * * *

  She reminds him of his mother—busy without a pause, quiet as a shadow, a kindly shadow, she lets you know without saying a word, nor could you say how you know that deep kindness and deep fear hide inside her busyness. Her mouth like his mother’s a tight line, lips nearly invisible even when she unseals them to address briskly, not often above a tight whisper, her three tiny girls or the man who is her husband, who’s quite impressed by any youngish boy a father would trust to drive cattle along miles and miles of wilderness trail, a man who offers encouragement to John Brown to linger longer, though the boy and perhaps the host know he must refuse and he will, politely, this well-spoken boy. A boy who understands his mission. Determined, as long as he can draw breath into his body, to reach his destination and discharge his responsibilities. Then walk, ride, or crawl back to Hudson, money collected in hand. Hurry, hurry, not a moment to spare, so many crucial hours consumed, lost, wasted already.

  * * *

  Not a problem for me to identify with his anxious state of mind, his despondency and disappointment with himself, with John Brown’s sense he could, should have been better prepared for any emergency that might sap precious time. His sister Ruth would not understand why her bowl is empty. Her big eyes, severe even when a very young child, hold back tears she knows better than to shed, not because she fears being disciplined for weeping at the dinner table—her parents love her, teach her, pray over her and with her every day. Tears would vex her mother, worry her father, tears might cause them to think she is blaming them for no food or, worse, blaming the Good Lord she knows is always watching over her, His grace abounding, more precious than thousands of earthly platters heaped with food.