of the silver salver within the dining room, July’s nose appeared to her as big-big as a boiled ham, her pursed lips plump as rolls of Miss Hannah’s chocolate. And in the large serving spoon she, and the whole world, was reflected upside down, then back upon the ground in the spoon’s other side. On her head, on her feet, on her head, on her feet. And the spoon made the glasses upon the sideboard tinkle with tune when she tapped the metal upon them. The big ones went bong and little ones sang ting. Bong, ting, ting, bong.
Those funny pictures upon the wall that the massa called maps were just like the marks that patterned the missus’s white blouse after she had dribbled her tea. They were not pictures really, for there were no scolding eyes within them to follow where she walked. Unlike that portrait of the dead missus in the drawing room; she watched July all the while and did tut when July threw the missus’s chair cushions upon the floor to jump from one to the other so she might feel the soft silk yield between her toes. July had to leave the room under that dead missus’s scorning.
And the mirror within the bedchamber gasped when July’s dark face appeared within it. Only white skin with pitiless blue eyes usually preened there. July, flouring her face with a puff of the missus’s face powder, sneezed away the stink from up her nose before she ran from that peeping mirror’s gaze.
If this were her house, July decided, she would not have a cupboard so tall-tall that it did not allow her to look with ease upon all the pretty plates displayed there. She had to carry a chair from across the dining room, and stand upon her tiptoe to reach the first shelf alone. She would have those pretty blue and white plates resting near at hand so that at any time she might tangle herself within the story that lay upon them—fly with those birds that soared above the tree that shaded the house, that sat near the bridge, that spanned the river, that carried the boat. July, sipping the air from one of the cups, stuck out her little finger, just as white people did when they tipped that heavenly porcelain to their skinny lips.
But oh, July was exhausted—all this freedom did tire her out. Landing herself upon her missus’s daybed she cried, ‘Marguerite, come fetch me some tea.’ Her voice, running around the room, found no one to obey the order. ‘Marguerite, where is my tea?’ Still no one came. She sighed. Oh huff, oh puff—what a difficult life it is to be a white lady upon this island.
Then, as she rested, quite forlorn, she heard, ‘Ah, Miss July,’ cough, cough, ‘greetings.’
She nearly bit the birds off the fancy cup for Nimrod startled her so. Her little finger was still raised as Nimrod, grinning, carried on saying, ‘What you doing there, Miss July?’
Nimrod’s white waistcoat was smeared with something green, while his trousers carried sooty prints from his hands. And this man’s legs were bowed so July could still see the closed door behind him as he stood before her. His few-few-tooth-grin tried to muster some sort of charm, but was hindered—for while his one eye looked firm upon her face, the other roamed up and down her body and everywhere it pleased. But still, it was a freeman who stood over her, seeming ready to gobble her up. July put down the cup and, looking firmly upon the eye that needed to be taught to stare, said, ‘Bring me some tea and be quick.’ Nimrod, scratching his head, frowned for the briefest second before those lonely teeth once more set out to enchant. Then he bowed low.
The knife, fork, spoon and blue and white plate that Nimrod laid at the end of the dining table for July were placed well enough, but still she had to punish him. For he was too slow. He was a dull and indolent nigger. She took the spoon and hit it upon his head. He yelped—oh—at the sharp pain, then promised her he would do better. Yet he did not pull out the chair far enough for her to sit, nor push it in close enough for her to eat.
‘You are a very stupid nigger and I will see you whipped,’ July cried.