Jacob's Ladder by Donald McCaig

it wasn’t me had brushed her hair every mornin’, a hundred strokes, way she liked it.” She paused. In another woman’s voice Maggie said, “Dear Maggie. You know how I care for you, child. But there is nothing, absolutely nothing, I can do. You do understand!”
    Jesse shivered. When Maggie talked like this, Jesse felt there were two women living inside of his wife and one of them would remain a stranger.
    â€œMistress using that Franky for lady’s maid. Franky—straight out of the kitchen house into Mistress’s boudoir. You think Mistress ever give me my job back?”
    Jesse shrugged. Had any man ever been asked so many questions he couldn’t answer?
    Jesse gave her his gift: a six-inch slippery-elm tube. Maggie’s face lit up briefly.
    â€œWhat’s this?”
    â€œWhistle. Rufus showed me how to whittle it. Took me three nights whittlin’ it while you and baby Jacob was sleepin’.”
    Jesse blew a high trill. “Shapin’ that wooden ball inside without bustin’ the outsides, that was the sly part,” he said.
    Jack the Driver slashed into the thickest part of the hog and twisted his blade to see the juces run. “He ready,” he cried. “And he prime.”
    Men slipped poles under the carcass and hoisted it onto the plank-and-barrel table. Aprons shielding their faces, women raked blackened yams out of the coals. Iron frypans filled with green kale fried in fatback were set on the table. Some celebrants owned plate and fork, others only spoon and wooden bowl. Jack ran his butcher knife over his whetstone, whisk, whisk, whisk, and tested the edge on the hair of his arm.
    â€œDriver,” Rufus called, “we don’t need for you to be shavin’ that hog. We just want you cuttin’ him up.”
    The children went to the head of the line. If the food ran out, it wouldn’t be the children who suffered.
    Someone said, “Praise the Lord for His blessings.”
    Someone else said, “Amen.”
    â€œYou want me to fetch your dinner?” Jesse asked.
    â€œWhy you want to be with me?” Maggie stirred a circle in the dirt with her foot. She changed to her white-lady voice. “Jesse, I am not intended for you. No doubt you are an excellent man, but when I look, I see nothing I desire. I cannot make you happy.”
    Jesse’s voice was hoarse. “You make me happy, give me what you can.”
    Her dark swimming eyes turned away. “But I ain’t givin’ you nothin’. I lie down with you and I don’t feel nothin’. Nary a itch!”
    Jesse swallowed. “That child wrapped warm enough?” He tucked cloth under the sleeping infant’s cheek.
    The hog was speedily reduced. Rufus waved a ham hock. Grease streaked his chin.
    Gunshots roared from the big house as the masters celebrated the birth of their Prince of Peace. When Mr. Colt’s pistol boomed its shots, all the coloreds fell silent except Rufus, who howled like a dog. “Master got one of them guns you load on Sunday and shoot all week,” he whispered.
    â€œMaster! Master!” children called as Samuel and his jolly guests came into the Quarters. Samuel put hard candies in every child’s hand.
    â€œEvening, Uncle Agamemnon. Hope you got sufficient to eat. Rufus, Ellie. I’m pleased that your new clothing fits you.”
    Rufus stepped out to shake Duncan’s hand. “Young Master, welcome home. Ain’t no good sawmill work goin’ on since you gone away. We loafin’ all the time.”
    Franky curtsied sillily. “Master Duncan, you right fetchin’ in your soldier suit. Was that you shootin’? Scared me half to death.” With focused concentration she aimed a mock rifle right at Duncan’s heart. “Bang! Hee!”
    Samuel said, “Jack, you’ve a grand bonfire and Hevener’s George has his banjo tucked under his arm, so perhaps we could