Free Knee-Deep in Wonder by April Reynolds Page A

from the Sillers plantation? Maybe that’s where the mistake is.”
    Mr. Hubbert looked at the general through lowered eyes, both he and the general aware that it was too late to take back what had been said. Mr. Hubbert mumbled, “We’s from Sillers.”
    â€œMaybe you is from Sillers, but you ain’t a bunch of niggers. Ya’ll niggers?” Loud laughter tore out of Mr. Withers’s mouth. Mr. Simmons picked it up and laughed too: throaty, deep. The noise attracted the attention of several men and they left their work, walking over to the Hubbert wagon, curious.
    â€œYes, sir. We niggers.”
    â€œYes, well, we got a problem indeed. Sillers told me right off that he ain’t got no working niggers. Maybe ya’ll a different set?”
    Watch out, white man, Mr. Hubbert thought, scared to jump into the opening Mr. Withers seemed to give them. Mr. Hubbert said nothing, waiting for Withers to finish his thought. But Mr. Withers had grown tired; sitting on his heels, his legs had fallen asleep. His last words were spoken without thought, merely sounds to fill up time while he thought of a tactful way to ask Mr. Simmons to help him up. He blinked slowly, almost yawning. Damn niggers got me crouched down here and I can’t get up, should let them float out there for a while; whoever heard of a white man bending to a bunch of niggers anyhow? he thought. And then he remembered the last words he had spoken aloud. With new eyes, he saw how the Sillers tenants stood bundled together on the raft. The smaller children gathered in a tight knot in the center of the raft, almost leaning into the soft arms of their mothers. They all seemed to swing with want. Sweat and rain collecting behind his knees, General Withers suddenly felt they should sing; he deserved that sort of solace. “Maybe you a bunch of singing niggers?” Withers looked at Mr. Hubbert, who caught his breath. “You hear me? I said maybe you a bunch of singing niggers.”
    Come all this way and now this, Mrs. Hubbert thought. She looked away from the levee, holding both her arms. “You niggers gone and sing!” Withers’s voice rang extraordinarily loud, booming over the roar of the water. The people standing, gently swaying before him, said nothing; a soft jostling passed through the group as they readjusted soaked blankets and the children in their arms. He took a fat hand and grabbed Mr. Simmons’s thigh, hauling himself up. The movement caused the three bands of fat to shudder. “You hear what I said? Y’all sing. Something nice.”
    Those from the Sillers plantation chewed heavy air between their teeth and watched farther down the levee a child being swung lightly up and away from a boat into the waiting arms of a man in khakis. All this way, and then a white man trying to turn church on us. They waited, turning away from the baby’s midair flight to safety, heads bowed as they contemplated the shape of their hands. Nothing was revealed in their faces, no despair, just a weariness that suddenly swept through them all. But Chess couldn’t take his eyes from the child being thrown into waiting arms. A woman with a bonnet tied fast under her chin with a yellow string reached for the levee next. There was nothing to grab onto except the khaki man’s hand, and as she reached for him, her dress lifted, revealing one stocking rolled right above her knee. She almost leapt into his arms. By the time the last man on the boat stuck out his arm to be rescued from the water, Chess couldn’t bear it. What was the harm in singing if he got to get atop the levee? He’d seen the woman’s mouth move (hadn’t he?), saying, “Thank you, thank you,” her voice musical and light. She took the child in her hands, tucking his head beneath her chin, cooing (wasn’t she?) and the men surrounded her, smiling. Why, she’s singing, Chess thought. Something low and sweet,