Octavia E. Butler

Kindred

Holly 

Finally, he came out to the living room where I was sorting books into one of the big bookcases. Fiction only. We had so many books, we had to try to keep them in some kind of order.

Time passed. Kevin and I became more a part of the household, familiar, accepted, accepting. That disturbed me too when I thought about it. How easily we seemed to acclimatize. Not that I wanted us to have trou- ble, but it seemed as though we should have had a harder time adjusting to this particular segment of history-adjusting to our places in the household of a slaveholder. For me, the work could be hard, but was usually more boring than physically wearing. And Kevin complained of boredom, and of having to be sociable with a steady stream of ignorant pretentious guests who visited the Weylin house. But for drop-ins from another century, I thought we had had a remarkably easy time. AndI was perverse enough to be bothered by the ease.

 We both had books shelved and stacked and boxed and crowding out the furniture. Together, we would never have fitted into either of our apartments. Kevin did suggest once that I get rid of some of my books so that I'd fit into his place. 

“You're out of your mind!" I told him. 

“Just some of that book-club stuff that you don't read." 

We were at my apartment then, so I said, "Let's go to your place and I'l help you decide which of your books you don't read. I'll even help you throw them out." He looked at me and sighed, but he didn't say anything else. 

My memory of my aunt and uncle told me that even people who loved me could demand more of me than I could give-and expect their demands to be met simply because I owed them.

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