down his face and the sides of his head, into his ears. His head was misshapen, she thought, like someone had been sanding it down and reshaping it. Blood soaked into the dirt and formed a dark halo around him. Sound disappeared, and Mariah heard nothing except the roar in her own head.
The doctor recovered and began trying to wrap Theopolis’s chest. She held her son’s head in her hands.
Mariah couldn’t remember holding Theopolis this way since the morning of his birth. He was covered in blood that morning, too, and he wailed in her arms. She sang to him in a soft voice as she brought him to her breast. And now she sang to him, the melody lost behind sobs and her breaking voice. She remembered giving birth to Theopolis, alone on a strawtick pallet. She cried out and gripped the edges of the bed and screamed into the sky. He was heavy when he was born, and she held him then as she did now, trembling, kissing him on his forehead, pressing his face into her chest.
The little doctor sweated and pulled and stanched, but nothing changed until Theopolis rolled his head over in his mother’s hands, toward her own face. He still did not blink, he did not see her, but he was faced toward her when he disappeared for good, drawn back into depthless darkness.
That was what had happened, she would say forever afterward. He just left , his face said nothing more eloquent than gone . There he was, and then, in less than an instant, he wasn’t.
A man stepped forward. And here’s the nigger’s gun . Rogue nigger. Just started shooting!
Mariah was not really hearing his words, not right then; but the words would echo in her ears for years afterward.
This nigger boy shot the grocer. Shot John Sykes dead.
The cobbler boy here shot him? No sir. That’s not his gun.
You bet it’s his gun. I the one who took it off him.
You a damn liar.
Somebody shut him up. He saying Theopolis Reddick started shooting. Where he get a gun from?
She watched as someone laid a pistol by Theopolis’s hand. She ignored it, left it in place. It had nothing to do with her or with her son.
She didn’t recognize this gun, old and worn and dark-handled. She doubted Theopolis had ever carried one in his life. Still, she could see the story unfolding. They would make Theopolis look like a killer when he was anything but. His head was heavy in her lap, paradoxically heavier now that the soul was gone. In truth, she preferred that story, the rogue nigger , to the one more likely, which was that he had been taken down from the stage and slaughtered like a winter hog.
Theopolis believed in this world, so much so that he would make for it some speeches and try to win its votes. Her own head felt heavy, too, and seemed in danger of collapsing in on itself from the pressure of sound, too much sound, everything so loud now, all of it directed inward through her ears to her brain.
It was some time before she realized that the sound in her ears was that of her own voice. She wailed and directed the sound at Theopolis’s face, but the vibrations would not revive him.
Chapter 10
Tole
July 6, 1867
Evening calmed the chaos. George Tole had returned to his house in the Bucket, where he listened to the sounds of the street. Children cried out and carts clattered quickly past, their owners eager to be done with their business and go inside, safe in their homes like Tole. But Tole didn’t feel safe. The day’s crowd had dispersed, but still the voices rang out inside his head—clear, brittle, overly sharp.
He hadn’t expected to see so much mayhem. He saw a Negro boy shot dead, a white grocer, and dozens wounded. Had to be at least forty or so boys wounded from the gunshots and beatings.
Around him he studied his hobby, the one thing he had that he loved: the tiny houses and buildings he carved out of scrap wood. They were little figures, the men in high pants and the women in long braids, going about their tiny days under the supervision of their God,
The doctor recovered and began trying to wrap Theopolis’s chest. She held her son’s head in her hands.
Mariah couldn’t remember holding Theopolis this way since the morning of his birth. He was covered in blood that morning, too, and he wailed in her arms. She sang to him in a soft voice as she brought him to her breast. And now she sang to him, the melody lost behind sobs and her breaking voice. She remembered giving birth to Theopolis, alone on a strawtick pallet. She cried out and gripped the edges of the bed and screamed into the sky. He was heavy when he was born, and she held him then as she did now, trembling, kissing him on his forehead, pressing his face into her chest.
The little doctor sweated and pulled and stanched, but nothing changed until Theopolis rolled his head over in his mother’s hands, toward her own face. He still did not blink, he did not see her, but he was faced toward her when he disappeared for good, drawn back into depthless darkness.
That was what had happened, she would say forever afterward. He just left , his face said nothing more eloquent than gone . There he was, and then, in less than an instant, he wasn’t.
A man stepped forward. And here’s the nigger’s gun . Rogue nigger. Just started shooting!
Mariah was not really hearing his words, not right then; but the words would echo in her ears for years afterward.
This nigger boy shot the grocer. Shot John Sykes dead.
The cobbler boy here shot him? No sir. That’s not his gun.
You bet it’s his gun. I the one who took it off him.
You a damn liar.
Somebody shut him up. He saying Theopolis Reddick started shooting. Where he get a gun from?
She watched as someone laid a pistol by Theopolis’s hand. She ignored it, left it in place. It had nothing to do with her or with her son.
She didn’t recognize this gun, old and worn and dark-handled. She doubted Theopolis had ever carried one in his life. Still, she could see the story unfolding. They would make Theopolis look like a killer when he was anything but. His head was heavy in her lap, paradoxically heavier now that the soul was gone. In truth, she preferred that story, the rogue nigger , to the one more likely, which was that he had been taken down from the stage and slaughtered like a winter hog.
Theopolis believed in this world, so much so that he would make for it some speeches and try to win its votes. Her own head felt heavy, too, and seemed in danger of collapsing in on itself from the pressure of sound, too much sound, everything so loud now, all of it directed inward through her ears to her brain.
It was some time before she realized that the sound in her ears was that of her own voice. She wailed and directed the sound at Theopolis’s face, but the vibrations would not revive him.
Chapter 10
Tole
July 6, 1867
Evening calmed the chaos. George Tole had returned to his house in the Bucket, where he listened to the sounds of the street. Children cried out and carts clattered quickly past, their owners eager to be done with their business and go inside, safe in their homes like Tole. But Tole didn’t feel safe. The day’s crowd had dispersed, but still the voices rang out inside his head—clear, brittle, overly sharp.
He hadn’t expected to see so much mayhem. He saw a Negro boy shot dead, a white grocer, and dozens wounded. Had to be at least forty or so boys wounded from the gunshots and beatings.
Around him he studied his hobby, the one thing he had that he loved: the tiny houses and buildings he carved out of scrap wood. They were little figures, the men in high pants and the women in long braids, going about their tiny days under the supervision of their God,
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