Free The Water Dancer: A Novel by Ta-nehisi Coates Page A

Like the parties of Lockless, race-day would start off in high pageantry, and then the drinking would start and the festive spirit would darken, and all the masks of fashion and breeding would fall away, until the oozing, pocked face of Elm County would lie revealed.
    There were no other colored people out, because we all knew what came next—the ill feeling descending on the whites would soon be turned upon us. It is odd to say this, but it was the free coloreds who had the most to fear under such circumstance. We who were Tasked belonged to someone. We were property and any damage inflicted on us must be done under the orders of our owner, for you could no more beat another man’s slave than you could beat another man’s horse. But even from my relative safety, I felt uneasy. And in that state of mind, I endeavored to make my way away from the square to Freetown, and the home of Georgie Parks.
    It was a small community, clustered together so tight that I knew everyone who lived there. I knew Edgar Combs, who’d once worked iron at the Carter place, and now did the same for the blacksmith in town, and Edgar was married to Patience, whose first husband had died when the fever hit all those years ago. And across from there was Pap and Grease, brothers, and next to them was Georgie Parks. So I walked out of the madness of the square and to the southern end of the town, and there found myself before Ryland’s Jail, which marked the beginnings of the free colored section of Starfall.
    It was all planned this way, it had to be, for Ryland’s Jail was not a jail for criminals. Sprawling two city blocks, it was a warehouse for the Tasked who’d been caught running away or were being held before being sold. The jail was a daily reminder that no matter their freedoms, these coloreds of Starfall existed in the shadow of an awesome power, which, at a whim, could clap them back into chains. Ryland’s Jail was run and staffed by the Low. These men became rich off the flesh trade, but their names were of too recent vintage and their work of such ill repute that they could never rise above their designation. It was the strong association between the jail and the low whites who fed and served it that gave them the name Ryland’s Hounds. We feared them and hated them, perhaps more than we feared and hated the Quality who held us, for all of us were low, we were all Tasked, and we should be in union and arrayed against the Quality, if only the low whites would wager their crumbs for a slice of the whole cake.
    Georgie’s wife, Amber, greeted me at the door, smiling. “I thought you might be making your way past here today,” she said. “And timed right, just before supper. You hungry, Hiram?” I smiled and greeted Amber and then stepped into the one-room hut, and that is what it was, barely better than what I enjoyed down in the Warrens. The smell of ash-cake and pork wafted over me and I realized I was indeed hungry. Georgie was there, seated on the bed, next to his just-born son, who lay there pawing at the air.
    “Why, look at you,” he said. “Rosie’s boy gettin’ big.”
    Rosie’s boy, that is what they called me down in the Street, though I had not heard a greeting such as this in some time, because there were so few left who still remembered me as such. I embraced Georgie and asked how he was and he smiled and said, “Well, I got me a woman, and now I got me a little boy,” and he walked over and rubbed the baby’s belly. “So I reckon I’m doing just fine.”
    “Why don’t you take Hiram out back,” Amber said.
    We stepped outside into a small area where Georgie kept his garden and chicken coop and seated ourselves on two upturned logs. I reached into my pocket and pulled out a small wooden horse that I had carved for Georgie’s son and handed it to Georgie.
    “For your boy,” I said.
    Georgie took the horse, nodded a thank-you, and put it in his pocket.
    A few minutes later Amber came out with two plates