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Pale(4)
Author: Edward A. Farmer

   Silva’s boys, Jesse and Fletcher, had joined the crew that year. Floyd took it upon himself to ensure the boys stayed in line and kept good numbers like the rest, reporting to Silva each day of the boys’ progress and impressing upon them that same Christian work ethic he’d been taught as a boy. Jesse was eighteen and had a spirit of defiance about him that gleamed through the slight flicker in his eyes that made him appear somehow wiser than most boys his age. There was a handsomeness in his face that extended to his broad shoulders and chiseled frame. He was stout and stood proud, nothing like those scrawny youngsters you’d see around the market as bag boys and clerks. Fletcher, on the other hand, was created in their likeness. At sixteen, he had not the muscles nor boldness that his brother possessed, although he was just as handsome and quite possibly prettier, people often commented, noting right away the boy’s thin nose and lighter skin, his large eyes that sat beneath those dashing eyebrows that occurred naturally with him. He was special and was, as such, treated that way, his slight stutter a perceived innocence that led many to coddle him and his brother to, at all costs, follow his mother’s insistence that he take care of his younger brother.

   Both boys adored Floyd, I quickly noticed, never poking fun at him, which could be an easy task, given Floyd’s fussy nature and rambles that often ended right where they began. No, the boys were instead like his own children, each of them following his orders without ever questioning and never giving backtalk no matter how stern the lecture was. When I found them on this day, Floyd was deep in one of his sermons as the boys took their lunches under the shade of the magnolia trees, the two of them stretched like fat cats on the grass to relieve the crooks that formed from having bent for hours. The countryside looked the same all around as I approached—the pushing up and down of white heads from the wind’s fuss, that cotton a sea of foam witnessed only at the water’s edge that pooled and lapped in constant thrusts.

   “Now, King David was small, too,” Floyd began, taking in their eyes as he spoke. “An’ look at what he done. An’, Jesse, what ya don’t know is that ya were named for his father who was also Jesse. Now, outta all the sons, Jesse never figured David would be the one that’d be king. But he was. An’ he defeated a giant an’ had the Lord’s favor. So I don’t wanna hear ya poke tease at ya younga brotha. Ya both got power. It’s from the Lord.”

   This sermon was in no way an atypical lesson for Floyd to give, his knowledge of the bible as well versed as his knowledge of those fields, as keen as my own training for housework when I was younger—when I was blessed to read books by Dostoevsky, Woolf, and Chopin during my free time. Each of these distinct skills was reared in us since we were little and never went away, like the mastery of learning to ride a bicycle. The boys seemed partially entertained by this story, Jesse taking it upon himself once the story had ended to show his complete lack of understanding as he shoved Fletcher’s arm and sent the boy falling into the dirt. Fletcher brushed off his sleeves then took chase after Jesse who, although bigger, was not necessarily faster. The two ran wildly amongst the blooms and around the piled sacks near the middle of the field, the dust leaving a trail behind them that eventually curved in our direction and caught Floyd’s nose just as he reached me.

   “Boys!” Floyd shouted then sneezed loudly. “Don’t let me tell ya agin.”

   The boys slowed their pace along the outer edges. Floyd turned to me with his handkerchief in hand as he used it to wipe his nose and eyes.

   “Damn sun’s gonna get ’em faster than the fields,” Floyd said, still sniffing as he dabbed once more.

   “They just boys,” I acknowledged.

   “But this here ain’t no playground,” he said. “An’ this ain’t their home, either. Ain’t time for that. Now, ya come out here for what, ya say?”

   “Silva needs Jesse at the main house,” I said.

   “Ya can’t take one uh my workers away,” he argued. “What’s he gonna do there?”

   “We need him to help with moving the Missus’s wardrobe,” I said. “Should only take a few minutes. Miss Lula won’t have it there another second. You know how she gets.”

   “Since when ya get so weak, Bernie?” he said teasingly, now turning to the boys who walked inside the shaded area. “Jesse, ya go wit’ Bernie, but come right back, ya hear.”

   Jesse rushed over, bringing with him that towering presence.

   “Come on,” I said. “Your mother’s got a task for you at the house.”

   Jesse smiled, relieved to be out of the sun and perhaps even happier to try his hand at something new. Honestly, who knew, but his smile cast as something permanent even if it was just housework.

   Although he sailed leaps and bounds above me, he still appeared juvenile, that energy he had unable to be contained like most boys his age. He kicked at rocks and picked up sticks wherever he saw them, leading me to constantly direct him to “put that down” or “don’t do that” or “don’t get so dirty.”

   He sighed a huge relief once we’d entered the house, that coolness always welcoming when coming from outdoors. He looked around him curiously, walking loudly as he clumsily bumped into this or that, unaware of the silence that home demanded. Silva turned the corner and shushed him immediately, her pointed finger raised to her lips as she blew.

   “Be mindful, Jesse,” she said. “You ain’t at home.”

   “Yes, ma’am,” the tall boy replied.

   The three of us tiptoed into the bedroom where the wardrobe and dresser were located. Miss Lula rested in the adjacent room where the items were to be placed, not necessarily her usual quarters but an equally dim space where she often sat, dependent upon her mood—usually a foul one, as it was on this day. Jesse bent down and lifted the heavy dresser by his own strength, his arms wide enough to secure both sides without any help from Silva or myself. Silva guided him as he carried it from the room into the hallway while I remained behind to remove the remaining clothes from the wardrobe so it might be just as easy to carry.

   With my arms loaded, I turned to see their swift return.

   “Damn thing can stay right where it is for all I care,” Silva muttered. “Ain’t worth a dime anyway.”

   There was time enough to retrieve one final blouse and slip from its sliding door before the two stopped my efforts completely. Silva pushed Jesse in front of the wardrobe, where his frustration instantly met similar chides from next door, as I could indeed hear the Missus fussing from within her room.

   “What’s going on?” I said.

   “Ain’t nothing,” Silva swore. “Jesse, just get that thing and be done.”

   Jesse did as she said and lifted the wardrobe, Silva leading him once more into the hallway while I followed with the remaining clothes to be placed inside.

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