A Plantation's Secrets

He'd walked three days on, and chose to stop at this plantation not for its occupants — he didn't know them anyway — but because it'd been left intact. The pillars that pretended to hold it up were white as ivory, the garden out front well-tended and colorful. A man could get work at a place this manicured. He only had a sack of clothes, and he had to put it down to knock on the front door.

It seemed to be a maid that answered. She opened the front door, but almost immediately closed it at the sight of Abraham, the shadow of his massive figure spilling into the house, her first impulse one of fright. It wasn't the first time this had happened to him, and he couldn't blame her.

"I don't mean any harm, ma'am," Abraham said.

"What you want?" The maid ask.

"Looking for work, that's all." His voice. His voice was what calmed her. It was particularly booming, low-pitched and forceful, yet pitiful too, like a spiritual sung in the fields as the day wore on, and there was a spark of trust there, enough to open the door at once and take in the man before her. His shirt was white and threadbare, open at the chest, small tight coils of curls, like a babies, spilling out. His hat hid his eyes, yet she felt them to be sad. These weren't times of happiness for a man like this one.

"Why you figure there's work here?" she asked.

"The only thing I figured was that it couldn't hurt to ask, ma'am" Abraham said.

"I ain't no 'ma'am', I'll tell you that much."

"Well then, you have a name?" Abraham asked.

"Mae, but I don't see why it matters one way or the other."

"Well, Mae, If you wouldn't mind, I'd be much obliged if I could speak with the head of the house."

"Master Banks is out," Mae said.

"Surely there's someone—"

There were footsteps then, quick from one to the next, and a voice came from the hallway.

"Mae, we're expecting the Taylor's in only an hour — Oh, is that them? Well don't keep them out there in the heat, have some manners." When she appeared — when she saw Abraham — the woman had the same reaction as Mae, yet she recovered quickly, enough so to impress Abraham himself. A white woman with some courage.

Abraham knew a slave master's wife when he saw one. Young, lily white, her blonde hair was snug in a bun, her breasts modest but taut in their outline, her feet bare like a child coming in from playing in the backyard. But she was no child. But he knew even then, married and what not, she was no lady, either.

"Oh, I see," she said. "Do you know this man?" she asked Mae.

"No. Says he needs work."

A moment of silence followed, and Abraham quickly spoke up to fill it. "I can work land better than any hand you might have on right now. There's no tool foreign to me. I know proper etiquette as well, and my presence in the house will be both beneficial but invisible. You'll not notice me unless I'm wanted."

"You're not exactly the sort of man that blends in," the white woman said, looking him up and down. His clothes were too tight, she thought. Far too tight. A woman might see too much . . . .

"I do try to, ma'am. Might I say, your rose garden is quite a sight. I ain't seen one like it in some time."

This took her off guard, for it was her prized hobby, those roses. It was as if he somehow knew as much. "I . . . thank you."

"No need for thanks. Only thanks that should pass between us today is if you offer me a place here. And in that case I'd be thanking you."

She was only a housewife, and because of it Mrs. Banks was afraid to make any decision forthwith, but she also knew they needed the help. The war had killed some slaves and freed the rest, and most of those that chose to stay were too old to put in an honest day's work or too lazy to take the whiskey bottle out of their hands. Otherwise there was only Mae, who only stayed out of friendship, the two having grown up side by side. Someone in the field, someone who could manage the stable and bring deliveries into town, would be a Godsend.

"We got a stable out back," Mrs. Banks said. I can't have you in the house once my husband comes back, and we're having guests for dinner, but if I find you there afterwards and you're still up for staying around, I imagine Charles will have a place for you."

"Then it's there you'll find me," Abraham said.

He tipped his hat, and when it raised Mrs. Banks could see his eyes, two pools of darkness but with the oddest hint of warmth, of something more, like a bastion of light at the end of an ominous country road.

"I'll have Mae show you the way," Mrs. Banks said, her suddenly unsure of itself. "The horses could use feeding, if you want to get a start on things."

"Follow me," Mae said.

The stable was larger than he had expected, with enough space for fifteen horses, and looked to Abraham to be a relic of the past, a sign of good fortunes lost. But the horses there, six in all, were well kept, groomed no less than he would have liked to see, and he made a point to distribute the stockpile of hay kept in the back judiciously, and none went without a once over. Healthy, all of them.

There was some time where Abraham was idle. Then an older negro drove in at the head of a coach and assisted in getting the horses into their stalls. The man informed Abraham of the gathering taking place in the big house, a another couple having come in from nearby Bent Creek. And before long, yet long after the coachmen had disappeared, he found himself watching the big house's activities. A light poured out from the parlor, and he could make out Mr. Banks, rotund at the waist, a cane in one hand, a gentleman far older than his wife. He entertained his guests while Mrs. Banks watched on, eyes wandering, disinterested in the proceedings.

She would be the youngest he had, Abraham thought. But she would be had nonetheless. As with so many, she was uncomfortable with her purity, with the rules of customs forced upon her. Pregnancy would come soon from the old man if he wasn't able to interrupt the proceedings, and the mere thought pained him. It was only eased by seeing himself in his place, envisioning her swollen belly, her already blossoming breasts engorged past the point of gentility, her true nature bared for all to see when the baby arrived.

He rubbed his cleanly shaved head, returned to his blanket which he had laid out on a bedding of hay. Through the cracks of the stable's chipped ceiling, he could see the stars up ahead, constellations his father had pointed out to him many years before, all forgotten, and right as he was falling into a dream, Mr. Banks appeared before at the stable's entrance.

"I hear you're looking for work," Mr. Banks said.

Abraham sat up on his elbows before climbing to stand. "You heard correctly, sir. My name is Abraham."

"You trouble, Abraham?"

"No, sir. And I'm not looking to find it, either."

They studied one another, as men are prone to do. Mr. Banks was clearly of another time, the grey already showing at his ears, his cane holding him upright. He was dressed as a gentleman, trousers and overcoat both a clean-pressed, with no signs of wear — no, the only wear was in his countenance, and there it was in the corners of his eyes, the falling skin at his cheeks, the elongated earlobes.

"Where you from, boy?" Mr. Banks asked.

"Radford, originally."

"You don't sound like it," Mr. Banks said, suspiciously. "You sound like a Northerner. You learned?"

"My father was a preacher and a teacher. I didn't go a day without a sermon and a lesson, sir. He wanted me to speak like God — figured God spoke like a white man."

Mr. Banks smiled at this. "Smart man." And then, just as quickly washed it from his face. "But I ain't interested in any smart niggers working my land, you understand me?"

Abraham felt himself grow rigid, upright, if only involuntarily. From a room away he was still cut such a figure at full height that Mr. Banks was nearly left agape.

"Of course, sir," Abraham said, kindly.

"Good, good," Mr. Banks said. "Don't know how much I'll pay you, but you'll make a living. I don't let a slave — I mean, a worker — go hungry."

"Only fair."

Mr. Banks tapped his cane into the ground, as if to replace a handshake between the two. "You'll start tomorrow then. I'll have Mae bring you by some dinner. Not much, but it will do."

Abraham thanked him, and watched him out. He couldn't help but see, up above the man's frail shoulder, a silhouette in a bedroom window; a woman's shoulder sleeve becoming unfastened, the material straying from the body, lowering to the ground.

"And boy," Mr. Banks said, turning for a moment.

"Sir?"

"I don't want to see you and Mae getting friendly, you understand. You could be the finest prize from here to New York — you won't be touching what isn't yours."

"Wouldn't dream of it, sir."

If only he knew where Abraham eyes had been drawn, where he'd set his sights; Mae would be the least of his worries.

***

Caroline Banks awoke to the sunlight, and found herself alone. For some time now she slept away from Charles, first in separate beds, than in separate rooms, and although she made it off to be a product of her chasteness, in reality she resented the man's presence entirely.

Yet she was a woman, and to deny her want of a man would be to deny her very essence, it seemed. At dinner she exchanged glances from the handsome Travis Taylor, and when he winked once, quite mischievously, the act was so much that of a child's that she had to resist rolling her eyes. This was not a man that could take her; for that matter, she'd never known a man that could take her (choosing money in marriage was better than nothing, she supposed). It was only this reason that, looking down from her bedroom window, and having her breath taken from her at the sight of the enormous field hand who had just arrived on her doorstep, was such an unsuspected incident. Not that it had happened, but that it had happened twice, no less, counting when she'd first laid on eyes on him.

The man's shirt had barely contained the hillocks of muscles on his chest, and his trousers seemed so tight as to be uncomfortable, the lining of... well, she knew what, reaching almost, it seemed to her, to the pant-leg. She'd noticed his smile, and it almost made her angry then — that he knew what she'd seen — and vowed, in the moment, not to let it happen again. Just then Mae arrived at the door, and without knocking entered.

"M'am, they's a problem."

"What is it?"

"It's that Abraham. He in your rose garden fussin' around."

"My rose garden?" Caroline asked, confused.

"Yes m'am. We ain't know what he's doing but you best come take a look."'

Caroline asked for a moment and put a dress over her undergarments. They'd been fitting tighter recently; for so long the war had cut rations, had left everyone, even herself, starving for a real meal. When it all ended, when the shreds of former prosperity returned, she feasted just like the rest. Her face was more filled now, her bosom slightly greater, and her thighs what one drunk Union soldier in passing on his way out of town had called, "Perfect for baby-making." Another savage debased by the war, she'd thought.

When she was proper she descended the stairs and found the whole house — Mae, their butler, Joseph, and the cook Bella — all looking out the window in silence. Their eyes were on the large black man, in the garden, on his knees, doing God knows what.

"Is my husband here?" she asked them.

Joseph turned, then. "He had me drop him off in town. Just us here. You want me to say somethin' to 'em?"

"It won't be necessary," she said, and with that she made her way briskly to the rose garden. It was already hot enough to break a sweat, and the heat her just as she opened the gate to the garden.

She expected Abraham to rise up in a fluster, a fit of apology, yet he barely moved. A pair of cutters were in his hands, and his eyes never left the roses before him.

"Who, exactly, do you think you are?" she said, her voice rising.

Abraham looked up, as if noticing her for the first time. The first of a sweat was already beaded on her forehead, and her arms, too bare for the occasion, shone red. He finally rose then, patted his pant-legs, and looked down upon her.

"Just helping tidy them up, m'am. They're beautiful, aren't they?"

"And who gave you the right?! You should be in the fields right now with the rest of my husband's hands, working! This is not a place for the likes of you. Not in here. Not with my roses."

Her words seemed to have little effect. He smiled, as he'd done when she first laid eyes upon him. She realized then how vulnerable she felt. Her dress felt constricting, as if it was choking her, and she felt as if he had brought this about somehow, his very eyes forcing her to mind the contours of her body, the heat there, the beginning of the sweat's dampness that now blanketed across the nape of her neck.

"I was up before the sun-rose. I was told I had fifteen furrows to work. I hoed and planted seed as I was told. With so much free time I thought I'd help you out is all. Look for yourself."

He nodded and, against her better judgment, she followed his eyes. He explained then, with some enthusiasm, the art of pruning, that her numerous snips were causing more branches to sprout, creating far too many buds, and less of the flowering close to the body of the plant that she wanted. "My mother was in charge of our master's garden. She taught me all I know," he said. "I just thought I'd pass it on, is all. No harm meant."

Caroline did not know what to say. He had stopped speaking and his eyes were still on the plants, almost lustfully, obsessively, and, she did not know how to capture his attention. She thought that her voice would go unheard, that a man like this was unique, indeed a rarity to her: someone who did not consider her voice the most important one at any given point in time, that might not even consider it worthy of attention in the presence of something greater.

"No matter," she said, trying to speak up with confidence, as she had before. "I'd like you to quit now. I'll keep your words in mind though."

He looked down at her and tipped his hat, and she saw his enormous knuckles, grey-black and scarred over, and she wondered who this man truly was, where he came from, and when he got the nerve to act as he did around the likes of her.

"You'll find me in the stables if you need me," he said.

"I won't be," she said.

He shrugged, and sighed a bit, and looked her over dismissively. "Whatever you wish, m'am."

He was off then, and in his absence, it seemed the heat of the sun had dissipated, as if his presence was the steady force that had brought it forth in the first place. Afraid perhaps, of a breeze or a shiver, for the slightest moment in time, she wished for his return.

***

Abraham waited patiently. In the day he worked, sometimes more than his share, and he stayed quiet. He almost never saw Mr. Banks, and the closest he was to the man was when Joseph the butler retrieved the carriage come morning and brought it to the front of the house. He'd hear Mr. Banks greet Joseph and, with groans of exertion, load himself into the carriage. Like that he was off until late at night. Although he never saw Caroline Banks, he sometimes felt her eyes on him when he rested at night, when the candle flickered from her room up above and shadows kicked up her figure for him to glance.

Mae would bring him food twice a day — morning and night — and he'd accept it with a smile and thank her, the words unchanging no matter the day: "Much appreciated." Her eyes would be low and she never said a word in response, as if in fear.

He bathed twice a week with a pail usually used to hold the horses hay. It was the only secret he held that he did not arrive to the plantation with; late at night he would go to the water pump, fill the pale, return to the stable, and apply to the water a bar of soap he'd picked up in his travels in an unnamed town he'd long left behind.

On a particular night he underwent this ritual when Mae appeared before him, a plate of food in her hand. "Oh—" she stammered, looking away as she so often did, stepping backwards.

Abraham had not bathed earlier than usual — it was Mae that was late. He found it to be no coincidence, and he went about covering himself in the sudsy mixture as if she wasn't there in the first place.

"I won't tell no one," she said in a whisper.

"Didn't think you would," he said.

When he said no more she turned — yet he spoke to her back, and she froze in her steps.

"Come here, then," he said.

She turned once again and slowly stepped forward. He did the same.

"What you want?" she asked.

"It's not what I want," Abraham began, "It's what you want, but you need to quit the games. There isn't a man suitable for you from here to Stillwater. A house girl like yourself isn't getting near those old slave-hands I work beside. And I've seen you looking, Mae."

This, in fact, was a lie. She'd scarcely looked upon him from the day he arrived, yet he could feel her wanting, and when her eyes finally did meet his, in that moment — traveling first from his bottom half to chest and the up further — he knew that the desires he spoke of were true.

Her eyes were the color of chestnut, her lips full and dark, and although he could not detect her shape beneath her dress, he thought it to be so youthful, as full and juicy as a ripe plum, although he had no urge to find out.

In this moment, she was expecting him to meet her lips; he would do no such thing.

"There are limits to what we may do, Mae. For now." The limits would remain, for she was not what he sought, but there was no reason to tell her this. Not now. "You may undress. You may finish bathing me. You may touch me as you please. But no more."

"I'd. . . I'd like a man." She said it as if she wanted a new dress, perhaps. "I'm about that age."

"Do as I say, Mae."

She was silent for a moment, and she looked around the stable, and although he knew she feared being found out — for although it was late, nothing stopped a soul from walking by — her desire was far too much to overcome.

Her hand touched his chest just as his eyes slowly gazed up; from the corner of his eye, he could see the flicker of a candle.

***

Caroline had said goodnight to her husband hours ago. She resented him for the kiss he made her endure every night — the smell of bourbon on his breath, the gristle of his beard against her chin — and when it was over she hurried to her room. It was not a conscious choice, it seemed, her slowly moving towards the window. It started off with merely a peek one night, but she'd built up a tolerance, felt a rush of excitement pulse through her as she lingered there time after time, as if waiting to be found out.

Tonight was no different. Abraham's bathing, his nakedness, had taken her by surprise the first time she'd witnessed it. The same rush of heat she'd felt that day in the rose garden had now overtaken her once again. She watched his massive hands almost carelessly rub against his chest, his carved thighs, beneath his low-hanging member that knocked against his calf as he cleaned it. The sack beneath it, too, hung with a breathtaking gravity, and when he turned his behind was tight as granite.

Mae's arrival, at first, left her experiencing an unforeseen shock of anger. This was no doubt her property, and for Mae to trespass . . . yet when she rubbed his chest with such uncontrollable reverence she had difficulty feeling anything but pity for her. Her wants were no different from any other woman's, and she new them too well. Perhaps better than Caroline. . .

Mae lathered the soap onto Abraham with great care, the cleaning of a shrine, and no place went untouched. Her dress was wet now, and at once she grabbed Abraham's hand, attempted to guide it to her own wetness, yet he refused, saying nothing, merely pulling his hand away. Caroline felt her hand reach beneath her own nightgown. Her legs peeled apart just as Mae leaned down onto her knees and began, with both hands, kneading the head of Abraham's cock.