am I to eat this?’ July asked him. As Nimrod leant forward to splice the fruit with a knife, July hit him once more upon the head with her spoon. ‘You are too close to me, nigger,’ she told him. And, as he jumped back from her, she yelled, ‘What about this fruit? Am I to peel it myself?’ When he leaned over to attempt a second splice, she slapped him about the ear. ‘Are you disobeying me?’ she asked him.
‘No missus,’ he said, breathless.
‘How dare you speak to me while I am at my table,’ she said, before striking him again with her spoon.
The glass Nimrod filled with red wine overflowed, the dark-plum contents dribbling upon the table. ‘Be careful, nigger, that is our finest wine,’ July was forced to yell.
Nimrod fell to his knees before her pleading, ‘No beat me, missus, no beat me.’
‘But I must,’ July said, slapping his head, ‘or you will never learn.’ Her fingers, still sticky from the orange, wrapped the stem of the glass, then lifted it to her thirsty mouth. She gulped two mouthfuls before the pungency made her splutter and cough. It was disgusting. She had never tasted anything so renk. ‘Are you poisoning me, nigger?’ July said.
Nimrod’s fearful face was all July could see through her watering eyes. She coughed again and again and again. But then the wine gradually soothed to a warmth at her throat. She licked the sticky drops from her lips. Then took another sip that tasted a little sweeter. And then another. Until Nimrod, inclining his head, asked her if she would like him to pour her some more.
And soon July had the urge to tickle Nimrod under his chin. She leaned to grab his little beard so she might feel those spiky hairs, but her elbow slipped from the table—her hand clutching nothing. This was very, very, very, funny to her. So funny that her wriggling and giggling slipped her from the chair to land her upon the ground. And suddenly all was dark, for her head kerchief had fallen across her eyes.
Under the table was as gloomy as a stormy sky. ‘Come, put me back,’ July cried out, for she did not have the strength to lift herself from the floor. She was stuck to it. As Nimrod caught her around the chest to raise her, she said, ‘Bring me more wine, nigger.’ And as he sat her back upon the chair, she made grab again for his chin. But missed. He handed her the wine glass, which swayed until the sweet and precious wine did spill wet upon her skirt.
‘Is me pretty, Mr Nimrod?’ she asked as he took the glass to fill it again. He did not answer which was so, so, so vexing to her. This man was fussing—he was around her this way, he was around her that way. He was making her dizzy. ‘Sit, sit, Mr Nimrod. Sit still so me can know your answer,’ she said. And Nimrod, not sitting as she commanded but fretting still with something, called out that she was prettier than any white woman he knew.
‘Prettier than Miss Clara?’
‘Miss Clara. Cha. You is prettier than Miss Clara,’ came a reply from across the room. Which was very, very, very pleasing to July because Miss Clara was not dark like she and so she was pretty. Oh yes, Miss Clara was fine.
And Nimrod had plenty women in town, for Miss Hannah did talk of them, but only when Nimrod was nowhere near. One, a sour-faced woman, owned a house that had little bow-legged pickney everywhere, Miss Hannah said.
‘Mr Nimrod, how many pickney you have?’ July called out to him.
He was in the room but she could not see him. But she felt the breath he blew out on the back of her neck for he was behind her, holding up more wine. ‘Tell me,’ she said. But he just sucked long upon his teeth and began speaking about . . . he was speaking about a pony. A pony. A Shettlewood pony. His Shettlewood pony. Nimrod was speaking of his Shettlewood pony. Not even white people can own such a fine beast, he said. And he looked so serious, staring his obedient eye upon July while the other gazing upon her chest looked so comical. July could not help but giggle. And her nose did run with snot. So she wiped it upon her skirt. And July wanted to ask if she might get