Read Online White Doves at Morning by James Lee Burke - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: James Lee Burke
Tags: Fiction, Historical
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on the
rim of the earth.
She stood up from the bank and
brushed off her dress and started to walk back to the quarters behind
the laundry, before the paddy rollers came out on the roads. But now,
for some unexplained reason, the thought of encountering them did not
fill her with apprehension.
Then she realized the origin
of the feelings that had flooded through her after she had gone into
the widow's bedroom and hunted through the New Testament for the
excerpt from St. Paul. She could read. No one could ever take that gift
from her, and no one could hide knowledge or the truth about the world
from her again.
AT sunrise the next morning
she heard Rufus Atkins' horse in the yard, then heard him swing down
from the saddle and approach her door. She was undressed, and she
gathered up her clothes and sat on her bed and held them in her lap and
over her breasts. He stepped inside the door, smelling of tobacco and
cooked bacon, steam rising from his uniform in the morning coolness.
He removed the bent
twenty-dollar gold piece from the watch pocket of his trousers and
began working it over the tops of his knuckles.
"I got to go to bell count,"
she said.
"No, you don't."
"All the niggers got to be
there, suh. The widow don't abide lateness."
"Not you, Flower. You can do
almost any goddamn thing you want. You're a juicy bitch and you know
it."
"Ain't right you talk to me
like that, suh."
"I'm not here for what you
think," he said. He walked to the back window and looked out on the
cane field. The sun had just broken the edge of the horizon, like a
soft red lump of molten metal.
"Marse Jamison is establishing
a slaves council on all his plantations," Atkins said. "That means the
slaves will lay out the punishment for anybody who breaks the rules.
Marse Jamison reserves only the rightto overturn a punishment if he
thinks it's too severe . . . are you listening?"
"I'm not dressed, suh."
Atkins took a deep breath and
went outside the door. She heard him light a cigar and lean against the railing on her small gallery.
She put on her work dress and lit the kindling in her stove and washed
her face in the water bucket, then pushed the coffee pot over the
flames that leaked around one of the iron pothole lids. She
heard Atkins clear his throat and spit and then felt his weight bend
the floorboards in the cabin.
"You're going to be on the slaves council for the laundry and two of
the plantations up the road," he said.
"This don't sound like Marse Jamison," she said.
"What do you care? It gives
you a little power you didn't have before."
"What if I say I don't want
it?"
"I'd say you were a mighty
stupid black girl."
"Tell him the stupid black
girl don't want it."
He removed the cigar from his
mouth and tossed it through the back window.
"You're a handful, Flower. In
lots of ways," he said, biting down on his lip.
"You been in my bed, Marse
Rufus. But it ain't gonna happen again."
"Say that again?"
"You heard me. I ain't afraid
of you no more."
It was silent inside the
cabin. Outside, the wind off the Gulf rustled the cane and flapped the
clothes drying in the yard.
"I wouldn't be talking out of
school, Flower. There are houses in Congo Square for girls who do
that," he said.
"I ain't afraid."
He took a step toward her, his
eyes roving over her face and the tops of her breasts. Her hand touched
the oyster knife she kept on the table next to the stove.
Atkins rubbed his mouth and
laughed.
"Damned if being white makes
any man less of a fool. If I ever get rich I'll buy you and carry you
off on my saddle and keep you as my personal strumpet. You believe
that? It's a fact. Wouldn't lie to you, girl," he said.
His eyes seemed to be laughing
at her now, as though he were reliving each moment he had probed inside
her, put her nipples in his mouth, lifted her up spread-eagled across
his loins. She turned away and picked up the
rim of the earth.
She stood up from the bank and
brushed off her dress and started to walk back to the quarters behind
the laundry, before the paddy rollers came out on the roads. But now,
for some unexplained reason, the thought of encountering them did not
fill her with apprehension.
Then she realized the origin
of the feelings that had flooded through her after she had gone into
the widow's bedroom and hunted through the New Testament for the
excerpt from St. Paul. She could read. No one could ever take that gift
from her, and no one could hide knowledge or the truth about the world
from her again.
AT sunrise the next morning
she heard Rufus Atkins' horse in the yard, then heard him swing down
from the saddle and approach her door. She was undressed, and she
gathered up her clothes and sat on her bed and held them in her lap and
over her breasts. He stepped inside the door, smelling of tobacco and
cooked bacon, steam rising from his uniform in the morning coolness.
He removed the bent
twenty-dollar gold piece from the watch pocket of his trousers and
began working it over the tops of his knuckles.
"I got to go to bell count,"
she said.
"No, you don't."
"All the niggers got to be
there, suh. The widow don't abide lateness."
"Not you, Flower. You can do
almost any goddamn thing you want. You're a juicy bitch and you know
it."
"Ain't right you talk to me
like that, suh."
"I'm not here for what you
think," he said. He walked to the back window and looked out on the
cane field. The sun had just broken the edge of the horizon, like a
soft red lump of molten metal.
"Marse Jamison is establishing
a slaves council on all his plantations," Atkins said. "That means the
slaves will lay out the punishment for anybody who breaks the rules.
Marse Jamison reserves only the rightto overturn a punishment if he
thinks it's too severe . . . are you listening?"
"I'm not dressed, suh."
Atkins took a deep breath and
went outside the door. She heard him light a cigar and lean against the railing on her small gallery.
She put on her work dress and lit the kindling in her stove and washed
her face in the water bucket, then pushed the coffee pot over the
flames that leaked around one of the iron pothole lids. She
heard Atkins clear his throat and spit and then felt his weight bend
the floorboards in the cabin.
"You're going to be on the slaves council for the laundry and two of
the plantations up the road," he said.
"This don't sound like Marse Jamison," she said.
"What do you care? It gives
you a little power you didn't have before."
"What if I say I don't want
it?"
"I'd say you were a mighty
stupid black girl."
"Tell him the stupid black
girl don't want it."
He removed the cigar from his
mouth and tossed it through the back window.
"You're a handful, Flower. In
lots of ways," he said, biting down on his lip.
"You been in my bed, Marse
Rufus. But it ain't gonna happen again."
"Say that again?"
"You heard me. I ain't afraid
of you no more."
It was silent inside the
cabin. Outside, the wind off the Gulf rustled the cane and flapped the
clothes drying in the yard.
"I wouldn't be talking out of
school, Flower. There are houses in Congo Square for girls who do
that," he said.
"I ain't afraid."
He took a step toward her, his
eyes roving over her face and the tops of her breasts. Her hand touched
the oyster knife she kept on the table next to the stove.
Atkins rubbed his mouth and
laughed.
"Damned if being white makes
any man less of a fool. If I ever get rich I'll buy you and carry you
off on my saddle and keep you as my personal strumpet. You believe
that? It's a fact. Wouldn't lie to you, girl," he said.
His eyes seemed to be laughing
at her now, as though he were reliving each moment he had probed inside
her, put her nipples in his mouth, lifted her up spread-eagled across
his loins. She turned away and picked up the
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