Savannah, Georgia August 1880

            A peach hung low on its branch in the midday sun, reaping the heavy burdens of a summertime heat. There, under the canopy and patchy shade of its tree, the fruit slowly deteriorated. Its twisting stem barely gripped. Its skin, blotchy and dry, no longer flashed its true colors, and had stretched itself into a rough deformity. It had been tortured without water in the light, stripped of pride, and left defenseless against the finch, who desperately picked their beaks into its hanging body, hoping to satisfy their thirst; but its drops only made the birds more impatient. They perched themselves atop the strongest branches and waited for the fruit to fall, where they would jump and dive and swoop up what pieces it could before it joined the rot. For in the scorching soil below, beetles, maggots, and all the rest feasted. In a mindless apathy they worked, and never did stop. They were as hungry as the finch and it was only after a new fruit would fall, did they take a moment to pause.

            Within the grove, trees ran row after row and spread for miles on each side, where leather-tough hands picked its crops and fought to keep their restless minds afloat. It was the year’s hottest season when the bees hardly stayed for long. They came and went in the early morning, just as the edge of the sun kissed the horizon. They didn’t return until the day’s tasks were done. The land was quiet, and silence swept along with the breeze. Cicadas hid their hums under the earth and the finch suffered far too much in the heat to chirp when the sun was up. All that remained were the workers, whose distant chatter could be heard to the county line.   

            “Ah ain’t want nuh lickins’ fuh dis, yah heah?” Went the woman. She stood underneath the tree, holding a basket in hand filled almost to the brim in peaches. Her face folded as she used the rag pulled from her breast pocket to swat at the fruit flies surrounding them. She ran the cloth back up to her brow, soaking up each droplet that seeped underneath her bandana, then went, “yuh nuh what happened tuh Mary las’ week?”

            “Six gashes cross de back, ah know’se ’t already Betty,” spoke a man below, who took the basket and placed it atop his shoulder.

            “But is youse not hongry?!” He asked, in a deep tone so raspy that it sounded like his voice had been marinated, for years, in syrup and cigarettes. He arched his back, and though crooked and stout, was able to keep his shoulders balanced with the weight of the basket. The man’s dark skin shown many wrinkles and his eyes, glossy and teary like a bulldog, convinced one that each fold had a story.

            “Ah’s workin’ Johnny. Naw ah ain’t hungry, but ah could shuh’ use some ah dat wahtah. How bout’chu head o’er ’n fetch us some muh, yessuh?”

            “Oh sho’ thang Betty,” he fired, while slowly lowering the basket and its contents back down to the ground. Then he turned and went on with a metal pitcher in hand over to the wagon, which staked itself into the soil a few dozen trees away. There, rested on its wooden frame, stood an old whiskey barrel. Johnny reached down to its spicket and began filling the pitcher, keeping his gaze below. On the side of the barrel, painted in a red brighter than a ripe watermelon, read “COLOREDS WATER”.

            He quickly made his way back to Betty, kicking up dirt over the rotting fruit around him, but never saying a word to the other workers. For the shade kept everyone reserved to only those under the same tree.  

            “Miss,” he murmured, handing the pitcher back up to her.

            “Thank yuh,” she replied, taking a slow swig from its body before slamming it back down into his hands. She reached across her to pull off a washcloth, which hung along a thick branch above the one she picked from. Broken leaves and small bugs were caught in its thread. She gave it a few shakes, then soaked her brow again.

            “Naw Johnny, ‘s yuh hungry?”

            “Ah is, but youse de one dats sho’ lookin’ hongry. Ah seen de way youse been lookin’ at dem peaches, eyes ah’most tryna cut’cha ah slice.”

            “Well naw Johnny…. ah sees yuh, ’n ah know yuh hungry. Shuh’ mus’be hahd wurkin’ when yuh sittin’ undah dat tree. Mus’be tired from ah’ll dat re—”

            “Shut it fo’ Gawd do Betty!” Johnny cursed, as he slapped her across the face.                                    The sheer pain shot through her faster than the mark could form, bringing tears to run over the burn. She held her cheek tight, cowering back to the other side of the trunk and pushing the basket behind her. Droplets clumped together where her jawline met her neck, morphing into murky clouds from the dirt it took along with it. Suddenly the muttering from the workers around them grew louder. 

            “Let ah axe a’gin.” Johnny demanded, now resting his back against the trunk directly opposite from Betty’s side. He drove his head back, scraping his nappy hair along the bark, and ripping pieces off that he largely ignored. His tunnel vision stayed at rest, where his eyes peered through the holes of the canopy and into the blue sky. Then he shifted his gaze down to his carpenters shirt—its bottom fabric cut off above his belly, and its only spot left clean under the flap of its collar. He pulled it back to wipe his brow.

            “Ah’was wurkin’Johnny, jus’lakyuh ‘pusedtuh!” She cried out, speaking in gasps that pushed out clumped words between each breath.

            “Youse right ‘bout one thang Betty. Ah’s tired ah restin’. Ah’s hongry.”

            Suddenly, Johnny reached out and grabbed a peach from the basket and held it in front of his eyes.

            “Ya’lways been!” She yelled and stood up, turning to snatch it from his hands before returning behind the trunk; but to Betty’s surprise, Johnny hadn’t lashed out to claim it back. Instead, he remained still and his voice, soft and buttery, had only gotten calmer.

            “Evah think ‘bout de past?” He then asked.

            “…Yessuh, ah duhs.” She responded, puzzled by his abruptness.

            She reached down for the rag and took the pitcher with her back to her side.

            “Wheah else’d mind wandah ’n dese fields?” She asked, sinking her rag into the water.

            “So youse a dreamer then?” He asked.

            “Suh hahd nut tuh be. Ain’t easy livin’, but ah says ’t bettah naw den befuh,” her eyes scanned the trees ahead of her, “ah’s been thinkin’ de Lawd gave us mem’brin tah mind us ‘bout de wurst. Ah mean, what’d we be thinkin’ bout if we fu’get?”

            “Runnin.”

            “Wat’chu tryna run from?” Betty asked, then pulled the rag out of its brown water to let it drip over her feet.

            “Ah mean, we’se ain’t free.”

            “Say’s dat a’gin?”

            “Youse heahd me, ah said we’se ain’t free.”

            “Naw Johnny, yah shuh’ yuh ain’t thirsty? Yuh speakin’ lak yuh guts drunk uh sumpin’, what’s been happenin’ wit’chu?”

            “Youse really wanna know?” he asked, pulling himself up the trunk and walking back to face Betty.

            “Ah does.” She replied, then scanned his face for answers.

            He motioned with his sharp eyes for her to listen, and after feeling a quiet attention upon him, scratched the sweat that had been trapped inside a deep scar on his cheek. Then he began:

            “We’se born slaves. Born ’n chains wit’ah soul fo’ de purpose tuh work ’n dats ’t. Within de railroads, de fields, de pens, all ah ’t. Dey told us cotton fo’bidden, rice fo’bidden, tobacco ’n all de rest. But dem peaches, naw dem peaches okay. Dey okay tuh eat, dey okay tuh grow, dey okay tuh pick. Dey e’en bring ‘em tuh us each day afah’ workin. We’se use tuh throw dem peaches ’n de rivah late ’n de eve’nin. Mistah Henry, he’d drop ‘em ’n de firepit. Leav’d all kinds ah ash. Lak de color ah squirrels ’n such. Youse ain’t had de choice. Well, wife ’n kids ah mine, we’se throw’d ‘em peaches ’n de rivah tuh wash ‘em off. Call’d ’t natures seasonin’. Coase cuz we’se ain’t git no salted meat from Mistah Henry. No ma’am—”

            “Kids lak tuh be ’n de wahtah?” Betty anxiously interrupted.

            “Yes ma’am. Kids love jus’ bout e’erything ‘bout de wahtah. Whole family does. It’d always been ah little ‘scape from de rest.”

            Johnny let out a sigh, acting as if the air was beginning to close in on his throat.

            “Den came de enin’ afah de war enid. Yankee blues all wearin’ de same clothes, jus’ something ah ain’t neva seen befo’. Lak dey was sold together, ’n fighting fo’ what? Ah saws ‘em when dey got heah, ain’t looked lak dey won anytha—”

            “But we’se wun, Johnny.” Betty interrupted again. 

            He dug his fist in the dirt and pulled out a thin weed to scrape his nails along, while he tried to keep his shakey wrists steady.

            “Las’lection came!” He paused, “…dem boys ’n blue went on home wit’it. Ah ain’t seen em since, not ah single one.”

            “Johnny they’se ain’t ‘round nuh muh since de wah endid, but we’se gettin’ helped naw. We’se free. Quit actin’ lak a dawg Johnny, yuh actin’ suh sad yuh guts me wur’yin’ bout if yuh gunna bite.”

            Quickly he broke out into an anxious itch, scratching bits of broken bark and leaves and twigs off his face, with his eyes strained wide open. He began to speak wide enough for his whole mouth to show. Brown and tarnished teeth each angled themselves in no similar direction. Some reached long enough for his tongue to touch, while others were so grinded down and belittled that one would think his gums would suck them back in. As he spoke, his lips clenched both broken arrays into a smile, exposing the gaps that appeared more evident than before.

            “Grove up North fieldin’ mo’ peaches den cotton, mo’ den we’se got heah. Callin’ itself Fruitland, thinkin’ dat apples ’n oranges’ll sell mo’ den tobacco.”

            “Dat ain’t neva de truth.”

            “Oh but Betty ’t is! Ole’ workin’ friend ah mine use’tuh make ah livin’ deah befo’ he came down heah. Had a scar lak mine ’n spoke so well you’d ah thank he was a white man.”

            “Ah ain’t seen ‘em befuh’, where he frum?”

            “Athens ’t turn out, but ah neva know’se what happen tah him heah. Folks ’twas sayin’ he’se ran up tah Carolina. Workin’ shipyards ’n such ahs thinkin’, but who knows?”

            “Must’ve seen de Lawd ’n his sleep.”

            “We’se all have, but some ah us gots tah stay.”

            “But we’se free tuh leave Johnny, yuh ain’t chained tah nobody…. Johnny?!”

            He stood now with his back turned to her, scanning the vast grove that appeared before him. There was the chirping finch, resting upon each branch, and the maggots feasting upon the rot below; but nothing in the field had caught his eyes more than the trees themselves. How unkept they looked, with their branches in any such length, flailing in any such way, yet they stood strong within their roots. He thought to himself, “how many are there?” Then his eyes began to run along in a craze of disheveled impatience, stretching his sockets and twisting every fold of his brain in a desperate effort to find where the trees found their end, but there appeared to be no end. The heat, since the mornings passing and the bee’s departure, had rose with the soil. It swirled up the stench of those decomposed and brought about a haze in the distance, too cloudy for one to see past it.

            His madness grew. For as he reached the end where the haze began, he witnessed how the trees had changed. Their fruit had disappeared, swallowed up whole by the endless green brush. It was all that was left and, as his eyes searched past through the haze, green was all he saw. Then he shook awake, so startled that the built-up sweat broke off the crevice of his scar. He turned back to Betty. “Fo’bidden fruit! Ah sho’ wish ah ain’t free! Cause I sho’ woulda enjoyed dem peaches! But no! Naw dey jus’ ah notha’ black burden an ah white gift! Damn Hoovah! Damn de Masta! Let Gawd strike ‘em dead from where’er he stands! Ahh!”

            Johnny began to howl and cry out in a thunderous tone, swinging his fists into the air and cursing, while Betty froze still in fear against the trunk of the tree.

            “Ah’s ain’t free…ah’s ain’t free…ah’s ain’t free, an youse!” He shouted, turning his gaze back down to Betty. “Youse ain’t free neither, but ‘tleast youse could leave!”

            “Yuh crazy!” Screamed Betty. With tears soaring from her shaken eyes, she stood up to come face-to-face with the man. He was not much taller than her, and with the slouch of his beaten back, the two appeared almost the same height.

            Johnny laughed at her response, bringing the manic intensity of every muscle in his body to an unexpected low. Then he began to unbutton his shirt, looking at Betty with a strangely assuring smile.

            “Ah ain’t.” He replied. Then he turned the shirt inside out, bundled it into a ball, and stuffed it against his face to mask his chuckle.

            “What’chu… what’chu mean ah could leave?” Betty stuttered.

            Suddenly, Johnny threw his shirt to the side, and looked into her eyes.

            “Knows mah daughtahs?” He asked.

            “Ah neva seen ‘em.”

            “Well, dey loved de wahtah lak ah said,” he continued, “but dey sho’ loved dem peaches mo’. E’en afah de wah, e’en afah we’se git ah own Fruitland…e’en afah signs, dawgs, fences ’n all de rest ah his ways.”

            “Hoovah?”

            As if the word pressed a button in him, Johnny without hesitation, ripped a peach from a branch above and cried, “Hoovah! If Gawd made Jesus, den damn Lucifah fo’ he made him! Ah know’se ’t! He’se made ah freed slave ah slave a’gin. Five thousand he chahged me fo’ five peaches mah chillen’ took. Paid back ’n chains!”       

            “Johnny t’ain’t nuh way yuh payin’ dat back, yuh kids neither. Yuh guts tuh run naw, yuh can take’em wit’chu!”

            “Ah nevah will!”

             “Yessuh yuh can Johnny, Hoovah ain’t gunna fin’ yuh!”

            “Youse lyin’. We’se all see it, Hoovah knows!”

            “Yuh guts tah have faith.” Betty muttered, then looked down into the soil where the bugs swarmed a fallen fruit.

            “Ah ain’t got no faith.”

            “Well yuh guts tah try!”

            “Ah ain’t gon’ try, cause ah know’se ah’s ah slave an de best thang a slave’s tah do’s tah keep goin’ on. Youse act lak yah fig’gered ’t out? Youse ain’t e’en take ah risk. Take ah peach if youse got faith.”