Roots_ The Saga of an American Family - Alex Haley [226]
He fell silent. Kunta just stood there.
“Dat son-of-a-bitch!” the fiddler screamed suddenly, and flinging back his arm, he hurled his fiddle into the stream.
Kunta waded in to get it, but even before he reached down, he could see it was broken.
CHAPTER 80
When Kunta got home with the massa well into one night a few months later, Bell was less irritated than concerned that they were both too tired even to eat the good supper she’d prepared. For a strange fever had begun to strike throughout the county, and the two men had been leaving earlier each morning and coming back later each night in the massa’s efforts as the county’s doctor to keep up with the spreading contagion.
Kunta was so worn out, slumped in his rocking chair, staring vacantly at the fire, that he didn’t even notice Bell feeling his forehead and taking off his shoes. And half an hour passed before he realized suddenly that Kizzy wasn’t on his lap, as usual, showing him some new plaything she’d made or prattling about what she’d done that day.
“Where dat chile?” he asked finally.
“Put ’er to bed an hour ago,” said Bell.
“She ain’t sick, is she?” he asked, sitting up.
“Naw, jes’ tuckered out from play. Missy Anne come over today.” Kunta was too exhausted even to feel his customary annoyance, but Bell changed the subject anyway. “While Roosby waitin’ to take ’er home, he tell me he heared de fiddler playin’ other night at a ball he took Massa John to over in Fredericksburg. He say he didn’t hardly recognize de fiddlin’, it jes’ don’t soun’ de same. I didn’t tell ’im de fiddler hisself ain’t de same since he find out he ain’t free.”
“Seem like he don’t care bout nothin’ no mo’,” said Kunta.
“Sho’ seem dat. He keep to hisself, don’t hardly even nod to nobody no mo’, ’ceptin’ Kizzy when she bring ’im supper an set wid’im whilst he eat it. She de onliest one he want anythin’ to do wid. Don’t even spen’ no time wid you no mo’.”
“What wid dis fever goin’ roun’ lately,” said Kunta wearily, “I ain’t hardly had no time or stren’th for visitin’ noways.”
“Yeah, I been noticin’, an you ain’t gon’ set up here half de night, you goin’ straight to bed.”
“Leave me ’lone, woman. I’m fine.”
“Naw you ain’t!” Bell said decisively, taking him by the hand, helping him up, and leading him into the bedroom without his further resistance. Kunta sat on the edge of the bed while she helped him out of his clothes, then he lay down, sighing.
“Roll over an’ I gives you a backrub.”
He obeyed, and she began kneading his back with her stiffened fingers.
He winced.
“What’s de matter? I ain’t rubbin’ all dat hard.”
“Ain’t nothin’.”
“Do dis hurt here, too?” she asked, pressing down farther toward the small of his back.
“Ow!”
“Don’t like de looks o’ dis,” she said, lightening her touch to a caress.
“I’se jes’ tired. All I need’s a night’s sleep.”
“We’ll see,” she said, blowing out the candle and climbing in beside him.
But when she had served the massa his breakfast the next morning, Bell had to tell him that Kunta had been unable to rise from his bed.
“Probably fever,” said the massa, trying to conceal his irritation. “You know what to do. In the meanwhile, there’s an epidemic going on and I’ve got to have a driver.”
“Yassa, Massa.” She thought for a moment. “You got any objection to dat fiel’-hand boy Noah? He done growed up so fast he bout man-size now. Handle de mules good, he sho’ could drive yo’ hosses, too, suh.”
“How old is he now?”
“Well suh, Noah roun’ two years older’n my Kizzy, so dat—” she paused to count on her fingers, “—dat make him thirteen or fo’teen, I b’lieve, suh.”
“Too young,” said the massa. “You go tell that fiddler to take over. He’s not doing that much in the garden, or with his fiddle either, lately. Have him hitch up the horses and get around front right away.”
On her way to the fiddler’s cabin, Bell guessed that he’d be either very indifferent or