James

by Percival Everett

“Try ‘dat be,’ ” I said. “That would be the correct incorrect grammar.”

Safe movement through the world depended on mastery of language, fluency.

“Because we must let the whites be the ones who name the trouble.” “And why is that?” I asked. February said, “Because they need to know everything before us. Because they need to name everything.”

Mumble sometimes so they can have the satisfaction of telling you not to mumble. They enjoy the correction and thinking you’re stupid.

Colored people die every day; you know that. The worst part was that the judge told the grand jury that it was an act of a multitude and so they couldn’t recommend any indictments.

“He’s got a heap of trouble,” I said. “Sad as that may be, I’m still a slave and I can’t help him at all.”

I was as much scared as angry, but where does a slave put anger?

One thing was certain: I had to make sure Huck didn’t become the corpse they were looking for. More to the point, I had to make certain I didn’t become the corpse they were looking for.

I wondered just how scared she was for me at that moment, hated the idea of her feeling fear. I realized I hated it because I knew that feeling so well, every day, every night.

I suspected at that moment that I would not die, but it was unclear whether I would be pleased about that fact.

How strange a world, how strange an existence, that one’s equal must argue for one’s equality, that one’s equal must hold a station that allows airing of that argument, that one cannot make that argument for oneself, that premises of said argument must be vetted by those equals who do not agree.

I will not let myself, my mind, drown in fear and outrage. I will be outraged as a matter of course. But my interest is in how these marks that I am scratching on this page can mean anything at all. If they can have meaning, then life can have meaning, then I can have meaning.

Perhaps, fearful of him or not, I had some concern that grief could overcome the boy if his father, hated or not, was dead.

Selfishly, I wondered how Huck’s incapacitation might affect me, but I felt only momentary guilt for that.

“Did ya pray to da Lawd?” I asked. “Never got a chance to,” Huck said. “We made it anyway.” “I reckon we did.”

I stared up through the canopy of sycamore branches. I’d always liked how the bark of the tree curled and peeled away.

At that moment the power of reading made itself clear and real to me. If I could see the words, then no one could control them or what I got from them. They couldn’t even know if I was merely seeing them or reading them, sounding them out or comprehending them. It was a completely private affair and completely free and, therefore, completely subversive.

I acted like he’d hurt my feelings. White people love feeling guilty.

“Then they will belong to you?” Huck asked. “Naw, dey jest won’t belong to nobuddy else. Dey won’t belong to nobuddy. Dey be free.”

Drowning to death always made a person more interesting, but I wanted, at that moment, to be, to remain, as boring as possible.

I chose the word enemy, and still do, as oppressor necessarily supposes a victim.

He’d made an impression on me, and though I didn’t know what he was asking me to do, I understood his advice to be profound.

I considered running, leaving my raccoon friend, but in which direction does one run from lightning?

“You’re a runaway. You can’t buy anybody’s anything if you’re strung up from a limb.”

Young George seemed to smile until the whip found him again. Blood was dripping down his legs. He found my eyes and mouthed the word Run.

I did not crawl toward the ruckus—it came to me.

I could see that the child in him needed to play.

To tell the truth, I hadn’t seen much killing myself, except that I lived with it daily, the threat, the promise of it.

“Folks be funny lak dat. Dey takes the lies dey want and throws away the truths dat scares ’em.”

“It’s a horrible world. White people try to tell us that everything will be just fine when we go to heaven. My question is, Will they be there? If so, I might make other arrangements.”

“If you’re not making mistakes, you’re not learning.”

“You can write.” It was not a question or an accusation, more a discovery, perhaps a call to duty. “I can write,” I said. “Then you had best write.” “I will,” I said.

I saw the surface of her, merely the outer shell, and realized that she was mere surface all the way to her core.

Slaves didn’t have the luxury of anxiety, but at that moment, I had felt anxiety. Slaves didn’t have the luxury of anger toward a white man, but I had felt anger.

I found this funny and laughed. Norman laughed and soon we were laughing like two children. It felt good. It wasn’t that anything was so funny, but we needed to laugh.

But in this notebook I would reconstruct the story I had begun, the story I kept beginning, until I had a story.

Still, I had my pencil. I had developed a habit of periodically touching it through the fabric of my pocket, for comfort.

“Something wrong? Something bothering you? I thought you’d be pleased I got over my nervousness.” “It’s okay to be a little nervous.”

I might have been wiser to rest before setting out, but fear would not allow it.

I wondered how many snakes simply had just been startled by our rushing feet, too surprised to lash out, how many missteps had not led to plummets because the next step had come so quickly that we flew past the danger.

“Just remember, once they see you, or see me in you, you’ve been seen. I know you don’t understand. But you will one day.”

I looked at the boy’s face and I could see that he had feelings for me and that was the root of his anger. He had always felt affection for me, if not actual love. He had always looked to me for protection, even when he thought he was trying to protect me.

Huck showed the excitement of a boy at the sight of our catch. I was reminded that he was just that, a boy.

My anger fascinated me, still. It was certainly not a new emotion, but the range, the scope, the direction of it, was entirely novel and unfamiliar.

“To fight in a war,” he said. “Can you imagine?” “Would that mean facing death every day and doing what other people tell you to do?” I asked. “I reckon.” “Yes, Huck, I can imagine.”

“Huck, you’ve got to help me,” I said. “Someone has to help me.” I had never sobbed so. “Huck?” “What kin I do?” he asked. His eyes were as red and wet as I imagined my own were. “I’m just a boy.”

Hope? Hope is funny. Hope is not a plan. Actually, it’s just a trick.

I wanted to tell her I was sorry, but that really didn’t make any sense. We both knew where we were and we knew that we didn’t know anything else. We knew that she, I, all of us, were forever naked in the world.

I felt the weight of my pencil. It had survived.

Had I done an evil thing? Was it evil to kill evil? The truth was that I didn’t care.