Then his belly twitched again when he recalled the other mirage: the four small hands playing with him…and the dog…
“Let me ask you something,” he said on a completely inappropriate lark. “Does Harwood Gast have any descendants?”
“Nope.” She smiled at him. “Why do you ask?”
“I bought a bunch of books from Mr. Sute but I haven’t read them yet. Isn’t it kind of curious that the Gasts never had kids?”
“Oh, they had kids, two of them, two girls.”
Collier felt a twinge. “But you just said he didn’t have any—”
“No descendants, that’s right.” She seemed to stall on a thought. “But his two daughters died in their teens, during…the war.”
Collier watched the backs of the two girls. One was dirty blonde, the other drably brunette. Just like…
Before they exited the nave, they turned for moment to wave to some other children. Collier saw that it clearly wasn’t them.
“Did…Gast’s daughters have a dog?”
“Justin, how would I know that?”
“Well, you know a lot about the legend. How did the two girls die, exactly?”
She nudged him. “I don’t think church is the best place to talk about Tennessee’s version of Ivan the Terrible. If you insist on obsessing over it, go ask your friend J.G. Sute. He’ll tell you all the facts and all the B.S. you want to hear. If anybody’s more obsessed with this stuff than you, it’s him.”
Collier felt foolish now, but what she’d said spiked him. Maybe that’s what I’ll do today—give Sute a call. Suddenly he felt intent on learning about Gast’s two children.
He followed Dominique out as she spoke briefly to acquaintances. Outside he said, “So I take it you’re busy this morning.”
“Yeah, like the man said, that’s what I do on Sundays before work.”
“It’s quite a gesture.”
“No it isn’t—it’s no big deal. I use all the leftover side dishes from Saturday, then make some kind of meat dish with overstock or specials that didn’t sell. It’s actually kind of fun. One time I made chimichurri pork tenderloin with a banana-pepper drizzle and wasabi mashed potatoes for a hundred homeless.”
“I’ll bet that made their day,” Collier said.
“They loved it. Another time my supplier was trying to get rid of eight-count sea scallops, so I bought a bunch on the bulk discount and did them up over penne quill pasta with truffled cream pomodoro sauce. It was a riot. The only real hassle is driving all the way to Chattanooga and back.”
Collier felt a stab of obligation. “Let me help you. I’ve got nothing big to do today.”
“No, no, it’s something I do by myself. You heard Father Grumby; you’ve got to choose your own manner of charity.” She grinned. “You’ll think of something.”
Collier felt relieved beneath his falseness. The last thing he’d actually want to do is cook for homeless people hours away. But at least he felt like less of a schmuck for offering.
He pulled on her hand and stopped her. “I hope I can see you later.”
“Of course you can. Anytime after five at the restaurant, but I’ve got to run now. Today I’m taking chicken marsala and saffron rice to the shelter.” She kissed him briefly but not so brief that she didn’t have time to run the tip of her tongue across his lips. Collier tried to retrieve her for a longer kiss but her arms pressed him back.
“If you keep messing around with me you’re only going to wind up pissed off and aggravated,” she said with a coy smile.
He already knew what she was clarifying. “How do you know I don’t like being pissed off and aggravated?”
Her smile dropped down a notch. “Justin, I’ve already told you, I’m never going to have sex out of wedlock. I don’t put out. Get it?”
“As a matter of fact, I received that impression very distinctly last night—”
“If you’re looking to get laid, you’ve got the wrong girl.”
“How do you know I don’t like not getting laid?”
She shook her head, amused. “What I’m saying is I’ll understand if you don’t show up tonight.”
“Great. I’ll see you tonight.”
She kissed him one more time, then pulled away. “’Bye…”
He watched her traipse off in the morning light; he was speechless. Even in the distance, her beauty poured off her. He watched after her until she disappeared around the corner.
Collier considered his plight. Over the past few days I’ve turned into a hell-bent, primo-perverted, lust-obsessed sex maniac…and I’m falling in love with a girl who will never have sex with me.
“Oh well,” he muttered aloud. He started back to the inn, to retrieve the phone number of Mr. J.G. Sute. II
Lottie had dreamed she was being raped in the dirt by soldiers in gray uniforms. “Don’t bust her belly,” one of them laughed. In the dream, Lottie was very, very skinny but also very, very pregnant. “Keep the baby in the bitch ’fore we get her up the hill…”
She’d been shorn of all her body hair in a strange barn full of boiling vats, and though she wasn’t sure, she thought she’d been naked for several months. Outside, the men took turns raping her on her hands and knees, while the rest of the prisoners were packed back into the wagon. “Give that bastard baby some Tennessee jism to swaller!” one guffawed, hoisting up his trousers. “Ain’t gonna be no milk waitin’ fer him when he comes out!”
The soldiers all laughed. When they were done, they squashed her back into the evil-smelling wagon with the dozens of others. Lottie could see through the slats that the wagon was taking them up a winding path, to a great smoking hill.
The sound that throbbed from the wagon was a crush of children’s sobs and desperate prayers. Lottie looked down at herself and saw that she was little more than a skin-covered skeleton but with a big, tight stomach sticking out; she could feel the rape-baby kicking in horror from within. Many of the other women there looked identical to her, but the worst sights were the children, who looked like smaller versions of herself, and some just as pregnant.
The sound of rifle fire cracked down the hill. What was happening? In between volleys, she heard shouts, then more volleys. The distant rifles fired for a long time, then sputtered out.
That’s when the wagon stopped.
Lottie and the other prisoners were dragged out and forced into a line. They now stood before a compound formed by a great wooden fence, and spiring above the top of the fence was a brick-and-mortar structure that tapered to a tepee shape, at least forty feet high. Lottie knew this was a blast furnace, but she’d never seen one this big.
“Don’t send these in yet,” a soldier barked. “We gotta let Mr. Gast’s men finish up…”
Finish up what? And who was Mr. Gast? In the dream Lottie didn’t know…
Next, a soldier who seemed to be in charge ordered, “Send a couple’a these ’un’s in to collect the boots’n clothes.” And then Lottie and several of the women less close to death were pushed through the fence gate by more soldiers with bayonets.
Inside the compound, she could not comprehend what she saw. The base of the furnace had to have been a hundred feet wide, and into various vents shirtless black men shoveled coal. But in the compound’s open areas dozens and dozens of more black men lay moaning while their clothes and boots were pulled off by still more slaves. The heat was so hellish, Lottie almost lost consciousness.
Baskets were shoved at Lottie and the others. “Collect it all up and pile it by the gate,” they were ordered.