Suck on the Marrow

Turnbridge

73 Turnbridge Richard is flesh that answers questions, each limb real as furniture, and he has brought us to a house with many rooms. Thirteen years is too long for a boy to only know his father by a broadside. Richard has taken Jacob up and is teaching him a trade. We are harboring a young man who confiscated himself about a month ago. He’s no more than 16, but his master is eager to pay as much as twelve hundred dollars to get him again. He said no old men lived on his last place. Only a few worn-out women. Men past their prime were sold at cost, he said, if they weren’t already dead. He’ll tell Richard more, but I’ve moved on to the next chore, in a different room. Three men to feed and clean behind, all their woolens to darn and trousers to mend, there’s hardly time for all I must attend to every evening. Two days ago, I forgot until this morning, was Joseph’s birthday. His thirty-second. Lord bless his body if he lives. This page intentionally left blank. ...