His shadow stretched up Annie’s porch steps and touched me before I knew it was him, shortened when he got closer.
Annie and Kathy were sitting at a stalemate — a woman and a whore, is what Annie said. That’s when he took his first step up the porch and said, “I heard I had family in town.”
A sudden fire started inside me and I rushed his body. The flames were from him. But I was grounded before I even started in. Was on fire, the way Bessie said I would be. Weak and broken, I could only watch him as he smiled from the bottom of the porch steps, popping sunflower seeds, his hair fresh cut and close. I was forced to watch this man who took so much from my daughter and God gave me no charity.
It ain’t fair.
I despise him, and it ain’t fair. I’m trapped this way. It ain’t. . fair.
He’s the devil walking free. Didn’t even look like half a demon when I saw him standing there, gentle in his disguise. No horns. No tail. Just a man. Annie’s brother. And with joy, she sprinted down to meet him.
I was sickened.
Richard came fast-limping out the house and down the stairs, was laughing when he fell into George’s arms and hugged him. “Bumfucker!” Richard called him.
“And you’re my favorite asshole,” George said, and asked him where the hell he’d been.
“I should ask you the same thing,” Richard said.
“I’m done. I’m staying,” George said. “Followed the fighting far enough. Heard they might go on to Winchester and that’ll have to be without me. Not all my choice. And by the look of that hobble, you’re done, too.”
“It just means they need to bring the fight to me!” Richard said, and almost by instinct, excited to see George, Richard held Annie’s hand. After a pause, he let go, introduced his cousin. “This is Katherine. Your cousin from down in Corinth.”
“Corinth?” George said. “Now that’s some fighting.”
George went up the steps to greet her, and the whiskey on him turned the air drunk. He kissed Kathy’s hand and said, “How do?” then held her gaze. “Corinth’s a dangerous place for a beautiful young woman like you.”
“No place more deadly,” Kathy said. “You know Mis’sippi?”
Richard cleared his throat. “I could use some help up the steps,” he said.
“Will you join us for tea?” Kathy asked George.
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Richard said. “George will join me for a drink in my study. A celebration. The brothers have come home!”
JOSEY WON’T LEAVE the house much now.
Not even to wash.
Not without Charles coming, too. He’ll sit on the porch or a few steps away carving the ends of wood branches into sharp tips while he waits. And with Nelson around now, Charles goes to the field, too, instead of the blacksmith shop. Iron’s scarce. It’s all at the mill. But if there’s something needing doing, he’ll take Josey with him. But me? I’m useless. For the first time I realize: this must be what it feels like to be dead.
27 / FLASH, onyers, Georgia, 1847
SOME OF OUR friendships won’t outlast our usefulness to the other person. When their need for us is gone, so are we. But I cain’t say for certain that me and Cynthia was ever friends. But she wanted something from me that shouldn’t be given away on a handshake deal. A woman’s body is hers, just like a man’s is his. Every woman should make her own choices and consider what’s up for grabs and the consequences. ’Cause she’s priceless. . ’til she names her price. I got wrapped up in Cynthia’s ideas of salvation. And there was no good ending to something like that.
It’s why I woke this morning in the dark, trying to be as quiet as I could. Didn’t want to wake her. Cynthia don’t keep nothing with no value. Worst, something with no value that cost her something. So I made my bed and pulled the curtains together so the sun wouldn’t come in when it rose, put on my white dress and tiptoed around the room, and held the bedroom door to keep it from squeaking open.
Even though she ain’t got one word to say to me, I keep showing up for work every day.
I don’t eat her food.
Jeremy would feed me but he don’t hardly keep no food at his. “A bachelor,” he say. “In transition,” he say. He got his place up for sale and don’t want to make no rush decisions on what he’ll do next but he said I’m going with him if he go. And even though no minister will marry us, we’ll make promises to each other soon. But right now, we got to be patient. In the meantime, Albert let’s me eat with him every morning and night.
I can already feel it’s gon’ be cold outside. This hallway’s ten degrees colder than my room and it’s even colder in this saloon. I bunch my clothes to my chest. I twist the handle on the parlor door — a shortcut to outside. It’s locked. But there are men’s voices coming from inside. Maybe another holdover that Mr. Shepard’s making a fool.
I keep up the hall to the back door, slide out of it, feel the breeze of cold air blow my night stank off. I take off running toward the henhouse and through its door made of loose planks and wire.
Fallen feathers rise from the gush of the opening door and I take six eggs that Cynthia won’t miss. Two for me and four for Albert. The door clanks shut behind me.
Dry thistles in the grass prick my ankles as I rush across Cynthia’s field out front, then across the road for Albert’s shop. It glows from inside. He’s burning trash in a tin bucket, where orange and gray flakes lift their flat bodies and hang in the air. I fan them away from my face.
Albert pours a pitcher of water over his hands and head and into that bucket, wipes his eyes when he sees me standing in the doorway. He don’t say a word. Don’t like our morning ritual disturbed by voices.
When he finishes drying hisself, I give him the eggs. He cracks ’em over his metal tray, holds ’em over the fire, lets ’em sizzle. I sit behind him warm, watch him separate mine from his. He’ll put mine on his only good plate — a shiny white platter with painted blue trees.
The firelight on his red hair makes it look ashy and dirty blonde. His hairless arms seem yellow. He flips the eggs with his flat tool and gives me my share. I wait for ’em to cool.
As soon as his finish, he spoons ’em up and eats ’em piping hot from his hammered-flat metal tray. When he’s done, he holds his empty tray in his hands and don’t look at me. He never does. Instead he stares out and around his shop where metal bits and shavings have spiraled to the ground like silver locks of hair.
Metal trinkets are pushed back on shelves. A grinder, a saw, and a sander’s there, too. He got a water pitcher on the floor for drinking and it’s covered with a pie tin to keep the black dust out. It’s everywhere — that dust. A black handprint is stamped on the red-brick wall. Maybe it’s from holding hisself up or bracing hisself to reach down.
After another second of sitting, Albert gets up and starts stacking his iron next to the furnace. That’s his sign that it’s time for me to leave. I take my steaming-hot plate to the door with me, about to push it open. “The Railroad’s coming this week,” he say.
My stomach snatches.
“I woulda told you sooner, but I just got told it last night. Might be the last time. Every time might be. So be ready.”
I nod. Knew happy with Jeremy couldn’t last forever.
My food was cold before I got back to the saloon. The whole room’s freezing ’cause no bodies been in here yet to warm it awake and Cynthia’s not due up for another couple hours. That’s why this is my favorite part of the day. I dream about having my own quiet room one day. Not the house like Albert said, but after I marry Jeremy, it’ll be the room we’ll build together.