And after that day at Jonnie funeral, it take a while, but I notice Massa no longer look at me sideways. When our paths cross, him look me full in the face, some mornings, him even nod. Always looking to see if any of him blood roaring round in mine. Stella, she change her ways a little too. Talk to me bout her concerns. Start to listen when I give advice. Is like the world of un-belonging I been living in start to fade away. I can come out of hiding, no longer see it from behind the wait-a-bit hedge.

The funny thing is, Sammy start look a lot more like Busha Davis, even though Stella swear is only Massa what have him way with her. Caused a whole lot of ruckus one time when Sydney go tell Mistress Margaret, ‘Me seen them, late at night. Seen them talking, sneaking round the place.’ Next day, all of a sudden bags packed, Busha Davis saddled up him horse, headed off the plantation. Came back a few weeks later, when everything cooled off. Stella and Sydney barely had two words for each other after that, and them was already not talking.

Me and Sammy no longer enemies, but we still not friends. I live in one world, him live in another. He have eleven years under him feet, and them feet take him in another direction. Spend most days inside the Great House learning how to serve at table. Looking after Massa clothes. Making sure him shirt clean and pressed, him boot them bright and shiny. Sammy seem to fit this indoor house slave business. Everybody say him good at it. Massa try me out first, but me feet too big. Always drop things. And when I set the table with all the knife and fork and spoon and glass them, I get it all wrong. ‘Clumsy donkey,’ Stella used to call me. Is true. I not meant to be indoor slave. Make me feel cooped up like the animals in them pen. But me not a field slave either. Don’t seem to fit in anywhere.

Still, me the oldest and in charge of our little family. Except Sammy don’t listen to me, never did. When I have dealings with him, he get all puffed up, pretend like him don’t even know me. Pretend that we not brothers. Look down him big nose at me when him dressed up, running round the place like what him doing is important. What a fool. Just because Massa call him servant, don’t mean him is not a slave. And when was the last time him look in a mirror? Him not see him have the same raggedy hair like me.