James

by Percival Everett

“You believe in Jesus?” Huck screamed. “Sho,” I said. “But maybe you be the one to ax him fo help? He don’t seem to pay no mind to the wishes of no slave.”

Huck started laughing. He pointed at me and laughed harder. “You mean you was pullin’ on my leg?” I said. He was enjoying himself and that was all right with me. It always made life easier when white folks could laugh at a poor slave now and again. “I had you goin’,” Huck said. I acted like he’d hurt my feelings. White people love feeling guilty. “I’m sorry, Jim. I just thought it was funny,” he said. “Yeah, it be funny, Huck, sho nuff funny.” I pushed out my lower lip a bit, an expression I displayed only for white people.

I DIDN’T SO MUCH swim to shore as the river spat me out. Spat me out into a terrible bramble of blackberries. Unripe blackberries, so the insult was complete.

There were those slaves who claimed a distinction between good masters and cruel masters. Most of us considered such to be distinction without difference.

After being cruel, the most notable white attribute was gullibility.

“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.” Easter laughed. I laughed with him. “And they named you Easter.”

I reached into my pocket and pulled out the pencil, showed it to Easter. “Well, I’ll be damned,” he said. “Young George stole it for me,” I said. “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 hated the world that wouldn’t let me apply justice without the certain retaliation of injustice.