the following Sunday.
Queen was only too happy to agree, but asked why he wanted to go. He
chuckled and said that it might stop Miss Mandy's endless preaching at
him.
The men had enlarged the church somewhat over the last few months, as more
and more blacks, disillusioned with the hardships of their reconstructing
society and the failed promises of freedom, sought solace from a higher
source. A small choir had been formed, and Queen, with her sweet soprano
voice, was part of it. A fervent believer, she sang in her most pure voice
that Sunday, and she had eyes for only one man in the congregation. She
was determined that she would be the bridge between him and his spiritual
well-being, and she prayed that the simple songs would transport him on
angel's wings to the embracing love of Jesus.
As they walked home, she asked him what he thought of the service. He
walked a few paces, as if putting his thoughts in order, before he
replied, and when he spoke it was with his accustomed reserve and
apparent lack of involvement.
"I thanks you kindly, ma'am," he said. "Fo' showin' me that good thing.
It gives me much to think about."
She was disappointed that he was not more enthusiastic, but he went to
church with her regularly every Sunday after that, and while he never
prayed or joined in the hymns, he would listen to the sermons with rapt
attention, and discuss the meaning of them afterward as they walked home.
He became good friends with several of the men, even Charles, his
erstwhile rival, and spent considerable time with Abram. Joyce told Queen
later that Davis spent his days off at Abram's workshop, helping him with
the fire and forge, and ceaselessly
644 ALEX HALEY'S QUEEN
questioning him about working conditions, and the role of black men in the
world.
He wrenched his shoulder one day, grubbing a stump of an old tree in the
garden, and when she came to him with his refreshment, she found him in the
potting shed trying to rub oil onto himself.
"Let me do that," she said. He made no demur, but sat on a box, and let her
massage his arm and shoulder. It felt good, and he told her so.
"My marnmy taught me," Queen said, pleased. "She said it was my pappy's
favorite thing."
She put more oil on her hand, and caressed his injured muscles. She could
not resist staring at the scars on his back, the hideous imperfections on
his otherwise flawless body. The shed was hot and quiet, and she worked in
silence, but she knew she gave him pleasure. Her hands inched toward the
scars, attracted to them, repelled by what had caused them. She touched
them and caressed them, and soothed them with oil, and he groaned softly,
the broken twisted nerves close to the surface, and sparklingly alive.
" Did it hurt?" she whispered, and was surprised to hear him chuckle.
"Waren't you ever beaten?" he asked her in surprise, and Queen felt almost
guilty that she, a slave, had not suffered as other slaves.
" Not really," she said, as if apologizing. "I got the switch a few times."
Davis nodded. "Then you was lucky," he said. "It hurt."
And yet he did not believe he had the words to tell her how much it had
hurt, for what words could describe that agony? They said you didn't feel
it after the first few lashes, that your body and mind went numb, you fell
unconscious, but that wasn't true. You felt every sting of it, or he did,
and assumed he was not alone. It cut like a razor across your back, and
went on cutting and cutting, like acid eating into your flesh, until you
could not stop yourself crying out in agony, no matter how strong you were.
And still it went on, pain without end, ceaselessly, unimaginably. You
couldn't even count the number because it went on and on, and all you could
feel was
QUEEN 645
this terrible pain, and a dreadful anger that someone had the power to do
this to you for no other reason than because you were black.
If you were lucky, you fainted, but still it went on until you thought
you must die.
Then, wonder of wonders, suddenly it stopped, and they cut you down, and
let you go. You pulled yourself up, struggled to your feet, somehow,
anyhow, just to try to hang on to some last thread of your dignity, your
self. You walked away, staggered away, feeling the blood pour out of you,
running down your back and your legs, and squelching out of your boots,
if you were lucky enough to have boots. And you hated them with every
ounce of your being for doing this to you, just because you were black,
and you swore to yourself a most sacred, solemn vow, by whatever God you
believed in, or nothing if you did not believe, that someday, somehow,
somewhere, you would make them pay for what they had done to you. Because
you were black.
"It hurt like the very devil," he said to Queen again.
He could not believe it. The power of her gentle hands had sharpened the
memory of his distress, and he felt that churning, irrational anger
again, and a desperate, aching sense of injustice. But beyond everything
else, he felt lonely. He felt tears well up inside him, and fought like
the tiger he was to control them.
"I hate them to' what they did," he said, his voice choking with
unreleased and indescribable emotion.
The depth of his emotion, his profound distress, pierced Queen's heart.
She moved her hands around him, and held him close to her, careless of
the oil that glistened on his back, careless of her modesty, careless of
everything else in the world but the single driving need she felt to
alleviate his sorrow.
"Don't hate," she whispered in his ear. "There's no need to hate now. "
"It's all there is," Davis said, for hate had become the reason for his
existence. He lived only for revenge-shapeless, formless revenge-against
a target he could not define. Someday, somehow, somewhere, someone would
pay for what they had done to him, but he was patient, for he wanted that
re-
646 ALEX HALEY'S QUEEN
venge to be as intense as the pain that had been so casually inflicted on
him.
"No," Queen said. "There is love."
He nodded gently, as if he were considering what she had said, when in fact
he was battling an urge to do something he believed must destroy him, for
if there was not hate, if there was only love, what would he have to live
for?
He lost the battle. His need to be not alone was so overwhelming that he
turned his face to Queen and put his lips to hers, and devoured her into
him, and she gave her mouth willingly to his, and her body unfolded to him,
like a lotus to the sun.
But even as she surrendered to him, she resisted him. As much as she
trusted him, she could believe he would not hurt her. He sensed that she
was not ready, and stopped, and looked into her eyes.
She nodded her head. She loved him so, sh
e was prepared to endure any pain
he might cause, but he knew the moment had gone, and that she was not
ready.
"I will not take what you cannot give," he said. He moved gently, and lay
back on the floor, and nestled his strong arm around her. She wanted to
cry, but did not know why, there was no reason to cry. She rested her head
on his shoulder, and luxuriated in the closeness of him, the feel of him,
the smell of him. She drifted into a contented sleep, and when she woke he
was still there.
He lay on his back, staring at the roof, conscious only that the sweet
thing lying asleep beside him was a gift more precious than any he
deserved.
75
C~
Nothing seemed to change between them, but Queen believed that something
had. Their lives continued as before, with the ritual they had
established, but whenever she brought him his refreshment in the garden,
he was always outside, and Queen thought he engineered it deliberately,
so he would not be alone with her in the shed again. To let him know how
much she cared for him, and how very much she appreciated his tact and
unselfishness, she would touch his hand sometimes, when they sat together
in the sun. He would respond, and hold her hand for a while, but he never
gave any indication, by word or deed, that he wanted more from her. These
were the most pleasant times for her, and puzzling too, for she wanted
their relationship to be more than it was, but did not want to sacrifice
the simple beauty of what they had.
He still ate with her in the evenings, only now he would talk a little
more freely to her, and sometimes offered ambiguous clues to his
background. She knew he had been a slave, and she knew he resented that
bondage with a deep and'abiding bitterness, that endured even now, when
it was over. She knew he had been truculent, and knew he had run away
several times, only to be caught and lashed for it, and that in itself
confused her. He was a clever and resourceful man, and she found it hard
to believe, given his resolute determination in all things, that of his
many escapes none had succeeded for more than a day or two. It occurred
to her that perhaps he had not actually wanted to get away, that he
escaped and allowed himself to be caught again, and endured his
punishment as if he believed that one day even his Massa must be appalled
at the torture that had been inflicted on him, and would say enough. It
would have been a mighty triumph if that had happened, it would have
destroyed the system from within, but it
647
648 ALEX HALEY'S QUEEN
was an impossible dream, which never came true. The fact that he was
prepared to suffer such torment for such an unattainable ideal made her
love him even more, and gave him, in her eyes, the stature of a saint or
a martyr. She sensed his aching loneliness and his feeling of detachment,
of isolation, from other people, and she believed it was her bounden duty
to bring him to peace with his brethren and himself. She was certain that
his place in heaven was secure, even though he was a nonbeliever, for God
could not exclude such a good and caring man. What was not secure was his
place on earth, and she started to think of herself as his salvation, that
she, as a woman, had a redemptive power that would ease his hurt and calm
his soul.
She wondered about the history of his heart. She knew he had never been
married and that he had no children, but otherwise he never spoke of
women. It was possible he had never been in love before, and while Queen
didn't know if he loved her, she was sure that she loved him. It was a
generous love, that wanted little for herself, only the knowledge that
she had, in some way, made him happy. Her faith in her love was so strong
that she was sure that when she exposed him to it, it would be returned
a hundredfold.
Yet she had failed him. She had rejected him because of her own fears of
physical hurt, and the change she saw in their relationship was that
since then he had avoided any situation where she might reject him again.
She had no idea how to achieve her goal, for she was too shy to tell
Davis of her love in simple terms, fearing he would not understand the
depth of it. It shocked her to realize that she had never had the
occasion or the opportunity to tell anyone, except her mother, how much
she loved them, and no one except her mother had ever said it to her.
Whatever school there was for love that other people attended, Queen had
been excluded from it.
She tried to talk about it with Joyce, but it was difficult, for how could
you ask anyone what love is? They sat on the porch one afternoon when the
rest of the family was about their business, rocking in unison, and Queen
wondered, vaguely, about men.
QUEEN 649
Joyce knew the intention behind the quest i ion, and made a
little speech about men, so big and strong and thinking they
could rule the world, but really completely reliant on women.
She stressed the virtues of married life, with its joys and dif
ficulties, but stressed the joys and minimized the difficulties,
for she had another objective. She cared for Queen dearly, and
didn't entirely trust Davis. While she liked the man, admired
him, she saw too many dark forces in him and too much of
the wandering soul in search of some masculine goal, to be
lieve that Davis was ready to settle down with one woman.
And she didn't want Queen to be hurt. Or get into trouble.
"Still steppin' out with Davis?" she asked casually, in the little
silence that followed her talk about matrimony.
Queen nodded, although she didn't know if it was true. They went together
to church on Sundays, but otherwise they never saw each other outside the
house. They had different afternoons off, and he never asked her out.
Joyce didn't care if they were actually courting or not, they were
constantly in each other's company, and she knew how much Queen loved the
man. She could read it in her shining eyes.
"Ain't doin' more than steppin' out with him?" Joyce asked her.
The question irritated Queen, and she shook her head.
"I don't even know where he lives," she said, as proof of her evidence.
"Down yonder a ways," Joyce told her, nodding her head in the direction
of the river, but being deliberately vague. "He got a li'l shack by the
river, Abram say. 'Tain't much of a place, but Davis say it good enough
for him."
She could not resist a word of caution to her friend.
"Be careful, missy," she said. "Don't let him get too close. The man
don't even love himself. He cain't love anyone else."
But Queen didn't want to hear that.
The following Thursday she made herself as pretty as could be, and left
the house late. She went to see Abram and asked him exactly where Davis
lived
, claiming she had a message to deliver from the sisters. She found
her way to the shack, intending to wait outside until he came home, but
it was warm, and she wanted shelter. She tapped on the door, and saw that
650 ALEX HALEY'S QUEEN
it was not locked or barred. She opened the door and called out his name,
but no one was there. Feeling both excited and guilty, she went inside.
It was what she might have expected, a sparse and spartan room, furnished
with only a rough bed, a chair, and a broken table. There was a small
trunk that was locked and she guessed that was where he kept his few
clothes. Although he was always clean and tidy, for Queen did his
laundry, he didn't have many clothes, and seemed uninterested in them.
There was a tin plate and mug and a knife, and some bread and cheese in
a small meat safe. Beyond that, there was nothing to indicate that anyone
lived there.
Yet it was redolent of him. The sense of his presence was almost tangible
to her, and she lay on his bed and put her face to the blanket, and was
sure there was a lingering smell of him. Or if there was not, it didn't
matter, because she could believe that there was. Tingling with
anticipation of him, she lay waiting for him to come home.
When she heard footsteps approaching, she got up from the bed. She went
to the small, rectangular hole that was the window, pushed aside the sack
that covered it, and stared at the nearby river. When the door opened,
she turned to greet him, but did not smile.
He looked at her, and if he felt any surprise, he did not show it. He
came in, shut the door, and put a small brown bag of provisions on the
table. He moved close to her, and touched her hair, but then dropped his
hand to his side, as if waiting to be told what to do. She took his hand
in hers, drew it to her mouth, and kissed it tenderly. She moved his hand
to her neck, and traced it down over her body, and put her free hand to
his neck and traced it down over his chest. She turned her face up to him
and looked deep into his wondrous eyes, to let him know that she was
ready to give him whatever he wanted to take.
Still for a moment he did not move. Then he leaned down to her, for he
was so tall and she so tiny, and gently kissed her lips and let the tip
of his tongue discover the taste of her. His mouth moved to her eyes, and
he kissed each in turn, gently, and she closed them, as she knew he
wanted her to do.
QUEEN 651
He picked her up, carried her to the bed, and laid her gently down. He
sat on the edge of the bed for a while, stroking her hair and neck, and
then lay beside her and kissed her, and opened his mouth to her, to let
her know that he would be passive and not force himself upon her. She let
her tongue caress his, and his mouth yielded to her, and seemed infinite.
As she kissed him, she stroked his body with her hands-his neck, his
shoulders, his chest, Carefully, she undid the buttons at the neck of his
shirt, and pulled the garment free from his pants, pushed it upward and
upward, until she had to break the kiss, and now he helped a little by
pulling the shirt over his head and off, but lay down again. He moved his
hands to her blouse and repeated the actions she had done to him, a
mirror image of her need, not his. When her breasts were free, he stroked
them, staring at them and at her, and delicately kissed her nipples.
She was suspended in time. The lack of urgency in him released her
inhibitions, and it was she who directed his hands to where she wanted
them to be. Naked now, they lay for an hour, touching, kissing,
caressing, until his manhood became a friend to her, and she welcomed
that friend into her body. They lay side by side, joined as one flesh,
he hardly moving until a soft thrusting of her hips told him that it was
time to do so. Never dominant, never assertive, he concentrated all his
attention on her pleasure, as if his own were irrelevant. In the days and