The Sinner in Mississippi

by D L Lane

  ***

  “Mm...Mama?”

  The moaning stopped when a delicate hand clasped onto mine. “I’m right here.”

  “I hurt like the dickens.” The fluttering of my eyelids was too much to handle. I didn’t have the strength to open them. “Something’s wrong with me. I think I’ve got that nasty flu James Henry had.”

  “Shh...rest now.”

  “I should rest.” My agreement was weak.

  “You’ll be right as rain soon. I promise, Sippi.”

  She started humming an old-time hymn, or maybe it was a lullaby—hard to know for sure, but I managed to murmur “Pretty” right before everything faded to black.

  ***

  Why is someone beating a drum?

  Whimpers escaped me. Thinking made my brain ache.

  “You’re alright.” Mama's smooth palm rested on my forehead. “Everything’s alright.”

  My nose twitched at the scent of soap as something petal-soft wrapped around me.

  “That’s nice,” I mumbled drowsily.

  “You’re snug like a bug in a rug. Go on back to sleep.”

  ***

  Caught like a fly tangled up in a web, I attempted to move my legs, the burning in my right side stopping me. But I was too lazy to worry or wake.

  ***

  “Mama? Where did you go?” I slurred, hazily—eyelids flickering—blurry movement around me.

  Cool fingers swiped along my cheekbone. “Shh...” Mama soothed, but her voice seemed off. “You’re safe now. Don’t cry.”

  Snuggling my cheek against her smooth palm, I mumbled, “Safe.”

  ***

  The blaze above my hip, and the repeating bang, bang, bang, stirred me, or maybe it was all of the chatter happening that troubled me.

  “Ms. Bauman, you’ll need to change the dressing on her chin and the one on her side at least twice a day, being careful with the stitches,” a man with a scratchy voice said.

  Pushing myself to focus, took effort, but it wasn’t no drum—my throbbing head was to blame as it joined in the up and down dream chorus of conversation.

  “Of course, Doctor. I’ll take good care of her,” came a sweet, song-like voice.

  “She’s had a rough time of it,” said a second man, the smooth texture of his voice sounded familiar.

  “The IV fluid is for dehydration,” said the first man, “but she is malnourished. You’ll need to get some good food into her, but do it slowly.”

  “I think Cook is making chicken and dumplings for dinner,” the woman said.

  “Don’t get too carried away,” said scratchy voice, “you don’t want to overwhelm the poor girl's constitution.”

  “I should have bought her something to eat instead of a cola,” smooth voice said. “I knew she was too thin, but I never considered she was half-starved.”

  “Well, don’t beat yourself up over should-haves,” scratchy said. “All they are good for is causing a body grief. And that doesn’t do anyone any good. Besides, you can feed the girl now that’s she’s here with you.”

  “Have Inga make her something, Ms. Bauman,” the smooth voice said. “What would you suggest, Doctor?”

  “I’m sure her stomach will feel like it’s gnawing on her backbone when she wakes, but I’d start with some hearty broth.”

  Someone was shuffling around.

  “Ms. Bauman, follow the doctor’s advice.”

  “I’ll go tell Cook now, Mr. King.”

  Mr. King? What’s he doin’ in this weird delusion?

  “Before you go,” the other man said, “I’m leaving Laudanum. Give her up to three teaspoons, no more than every four hours for pain.”

  “Up to three every four,” she repeated.

  “I’ll be back first thing in the morning to check on our patient. For now, expect her to be in and out of a fitful sleep, but try to keep her comfortable and give her sips of soup if you can manage it.”

  “I will. I’ll stay with her once I get back from speaking with Cook,” the woman said.

  “I’m sure this goes without saying, but send for me if there are any complications, Thayer.”

  “Will do. Thank you, Doctor Rhymes.”

  I couldn’t figure out what was going on, my eyelids were too heavy to open, and the thing was, part of me knew I should have been upset, but I didn’t seem to have the will to care.

  A rhythm of thudding shoes made me take notice of the swish, click of what sounded like a door closing.

  All went quiet.

  Fear should have swamped me, and probably would have if I’d been in my right mind, but even in the odd, muzzy state I found myself in, one of the things my daddy hated about me the most won—my curiosity.

  Is this real?

  I struggled to remember, but my temples and jaw pounded. That’s when the moaning started echoing again in my head.

  The pain was real, so maybe everything else was too, although I had no idea of what happened, and I couldn’t figure out why I was stuck in this strange, not asleep, not awake condition.

  For that matter, I had no earthly idea where I was, but it smelled too good to be Daddy Bruce’s house.

  Shifting my hand pulled at something, and I stopped. It hurt, but making any sense of things seemed to be no use. Everything jumbled up—puzzle pieces of crazy images scattered around in my thoughts with clouds of unreachable emotion floating along as their friends. Although, none of it mattered anyway since the welcoming embrace of darkness closed in and took me.

  Chapter Five

  Where am I?

  Cracking one of my eyelids open, then the other, I blinked and blinked some more—confused. Sure enough, there was a painting above me, a blue sky with puffy white-pink clouds and baby angels colored the ceiling around a bronze, hanging light with four flowering glass shades.

  Who would paint a place in such a way? Interesting question, but my mind jumped to something of more importance. Why am I lying on my back?

  Glancing down the length of my body, in a large bed with tall spindles that didn’t belong to me, I stared at a beam of sunlight slanting over my legs, which were covered by a pretty, light pink blanket, warming me.

  Frowning hurt, and my jaws ached, so I raised my hand and touched my throbbing chin, being careful to inch my fingertips over the tender spots, but what I felt wasn’t skin. Someone had placed a rather large bandage over the swelling there.

  Another sore place on the top of my left hand had me pulling it in front of my face to see a reddish-purple bruise there where the light blue veins should be.

  Perhaps I should have taken the time to ponder; however, that pesky thing called curiosity grabbed me and held on like a badger with his teeth sunk into the bone, too interested by my surroundings to really dive into the matter.

  Turning my head hurt pretty bad, too, although I pushed back the pain and studied the room. Rich, dark, what I would call highfalutin’ paneled walls held beautiful paintings of lakes with swimming white swans surrounded by willow trees, and flower gardens bursting with bright blooms—all hung with fancy golden frames.

  To my right, two big windows, covered with a silky material that matched the bed covering, bordered an expensive sitting table with carved legs. Along with it, a velvet-red, stuffed-topped bench, and an oval mirror stood, but the angle didn’t allow me to see myself.

  On the wall facing the foot of the bed, a wardrobe the likes I’d never seen before took up the entire space, and perched atop of it a delicate, golden mantle clock tick, tick, ticked the time away.

  Shifting my gaze over by the door, a table held a porcelain pitcher decorated with tiny roses and a matching washbasin along with a few fluffy looking hand cloths neatly stacked beside it. But I didn’t have time to linger on how nice things were, ’cause the brass doorknob rattled and turned, making the beating of my heart thrum against my ribcage.

  “Oh!” A woman, not much older than me, I suspected, stepped inside wearing a green dress with a slender green belt highl
ighting her tiny waist and the shape of her hips—a set of keys hanging off the buckle. “I wasn’t expecting you to be awake.”

  Her wavy chestnut hair surrounded an attractive face, but my gaze shifted when she fluttered her hand, the short-cuffed sleeve on her thin arm staying in place as she ran her fingertips over the little buttons running up her ample chest to the broad, pointed color of the garment.

  “Aaah!” My scream happened when I shot up, my right-side burning flames, a gully-washer of tears streaming down my sore face.

  Even crying pained me.

  “Careful, now. Are you okay?” the woman asked, coming toward me—something I recognized as concern flickering in her big brown eyes.

  “Wh-who are you? Whe-where am I?” I managed to ask between quaking sobs that only spiked the pain in my body higher.

  Reaching for me, she said, “I’m Ms.—”

  The bedroom door flung open and hit the wall with a crash. “What’s wrong? I heard Mississippi scream.”

  My watery gaze went to the man who’d raced in like someone had stuck him in the back of his britches with a hot poker, and for a quick flash in time, my racing heart settled at the sight of Thayer Drayton King.

  He wasn’t in a three-piece suit with a tie, but a navy-blue vest, the sleeves of his white shirt rolled up to his elbows.

  Reminding myself to take a breath, everything crumbled down around me.

  My daddy.

  Dudley.

  “A daughter for a debt.”

  “No, no, no.” I shuddered, trying, albeit poorly, to scoot myself up into the far corner of the bed, taking the covers with me as if they were any protection.

  I remembered shootin’ off toward the trees, running for my life, my goal—the thicket. Then I went flying through the air, screaming, falling, landing with a brain-jarring thwack.

  Clutching the blanket to my chest, I knew I must have hurt myself but good since every part of me smarted even worse than all those times I’d been the whippin’ board for Daddy’s swinging belt.

  “Mississippi,” Mr. King said, his smooth tone doing that soothing thing he did, but it wouldn’t work.

  “You took me!” I accused, anger drowning the fear as well the aches and pains. “Daddy Bruce listened to that evil Dudley McCoy’s advice to swap me for his debts, and you agreed with them!”

  The man shoved his hands into the front pockets of his dark trousers, rocking back on his heels, then straightened—face turning into a mask of emptiness, just like my daddy. “You had an accident and were badly injured.” Those crisp, sky-blue eyes of his met mine. “I couldn’t, in good conscience, leave you there with them.”

  “So you took me while I was unawares, for my sake? Is that what you’re tellin’ me?”

  “You required medical attention.”

  I knew my daddy wouldn’t have paid no nevermind to any injury I may have had, seeing nothin’ but another chance to help himself, and if not, then Dudley would have pointed it out.

  Sickness swirled in me. “But to give me ‘medical attention,’ you wiped what my daddy owed you clean away, didn’t you?”

  Mr. King turned his head for a moment, staring at the wall, stabbing me with his, “Yes.”

  “So I belong to you, now,” I said, bitterness rising in my gullet. “Yours to do with as you wish?”

  He glanced at the woman to my left, who had clasped her hands together in front of herself, as quiet as a church mouse. “Ms. Bauman, please leave us.”

  Without a single word, she nodded, spun, and scurried out of the room—the click of the door echoing the final nail hammered into my coffin.

  “I knew I shouldn’t have taken a ride from you,” I said, shaking. “You’re just like the rest of them, seeing an opportunity, and taking what isn’t yours! Why should my wants matter? I’m just a stupid girl, worthless but for one thing when it comes to men.”

  Swiping tears from my cheeks, I tried to get out of bed and met a wall of dizzying pain, knocking me back to my bottom, but as the covers slipped, I noticed the snow-white sleeping gown I wore, plucking at it—surprised.

  “Are you done now?” Mr. King asked, no anger in his question.

  I glared at him. “If my side wasn’t burning like the devil lit me on fire and my body didn’t override my good sense, I’d take a swing at you.”

  The man had the nerve to grin. “You’d take a swing, huh?”

  “And I’d make it count,” I assured, lifting my throbbing chin.

  “I’m sure you would,” he said, chuckling.

  I pointed my finger at him. “This isn’t funny!”

  “I’m sorry.” He erased the amusement from his face. “I know none of this is a laughing matter.”

  “But you sure were doing it.”

  “I wasn’t laughing at the situation, but I’ll admit, picturing you—all five-foot-nothing—taking a swing at me, did tickle my funny bone a bit.”

  I raked him with my gaze hard enough to leave marks on his perfect face.

  “All right,” he said, serious. “Get settled back into bed. You’ve done quite enough, and I don’t want you to harm yourself even further.”

  Not wanting to obey, but having no real choice in the matter, I slowly tucked myself back under the covers with a moan or two falling off my parted lips.

  The man took one step closer. “I’d offer to help you, but—”

  “I don’t need your help, Mr. King.”

  He sighed. “I figured that’s what you would say, Ms. Singleton.”

  “Mississippi!” I snapped.

  “Mississippi,” he agreed calmly, my fit of mad not appearing to bother him in the least. “Now, let’s get a few things straight.”

  “Oh, I’m straight,” I said sneering.

  “No. You most assuredly are not.” He took a seat on the side of the bed, near my feet. “Are you listening?”

  Ignoring him, I studied the pattern of the lace edging the curtains.

  “Look at me.”

  “No.”

  “Please, Mississippi.”

  Trying not to grind my teeth ’cause it hurt, I finally gave in and did what he asked—waiting.

  Mr. King didn’t say anything.

  “Well,” I said, “I’m lookin’.”

  “Not at my shoulder.” He tapped the top of my covered foot. “At my face.”

  I lifted my eyes, shifting them to meet his.

  “I do not own you,” he said. “Nor will I ever own another person.”

  “But you took me as payment from my daddy.”

  He shook his head, a misbehavin’ piece of midnight-black hair brushing his forehead. “I did what I needed to do to get you out of a bad situation and be seen by my doctor. So, if forgiving your father’s debt did the trick, I gladly zeroed out the money he owed me.”

  I sniffed, crossing my arms, then reconsidered when my side pulled tight.

  “You are not here for my pleasure,” he continued, “or for any other repugnant act a man might force upon a woman against her will. You are safe. No one will hurt you in my home, most especially not me.”

  Gently, I massaged the twinge in my temple. “How do I know I can believe anything you say?”

  He shrugged. “Only time will be the revealer of truth.”

  “Time? How long do you think I’m stayin’ here?”

  His eyebrow arched. “Do you have any place to go?”

  Dropping my hand, I glanced at my lap. “Not really.”

  “You need to wrap your mind around the fact you are here, Mississippi, because you were desperately in need of help, and I was in a position to give that to you. And, you will stay as long as need be without fear of anything improper taking place between us.”

  My stomach growled the sound of a hungry bear.

  “Right.” He slapped his knees before he got up. “I had our cook prepare some broth for you to eat upon awakening, per Doctor’s orders. I’ll have Ms. Bauman bring up a bowl.”

  “How long have I been dead
to the world?” I asked, a question I couldn’t ignore.

  “Two days.”

  I took a second to chew on that then asked, “Ms. Bauman. Is that the woman you sent from the room earlier?”

  Mr. King nodded. “She takes care of the household for me and was the one who stayed the last two nights with you, making sure you were comfortable.”

  “So she’s the one who put this sleeping gown on me?” I asked, playing with the ruffle around my neck.

  “She’s the one.” He cocked his head, studying me. “Ms. Bauman cleaned you up and has been changing the dressings covering your chin and side.”

  My hands went to the areas he mentioned. “What happened?”

  “You were tripped up by a fallen branch when you were running and took a hard fall, hitting your chin on a rock, and knocking yourself out. You impaled yourself, above your right hip, on a shard of bark as well.” He frowned. “That fall earned you six stitches under your chin and twelve on your side, along with a mishmash of other scratches, bruises, and bumps.”

  “Guess that explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “Why I feel like someone beat me with a bat.”

  “I would say so.” He slid two fingertips along his jawline, the muscles in his forearm dancing. “That’s why it’s important to get plenty of rest, giving your body the chance to heal.”

  My tummy decided to grumble again.

  He pinned me in place with his blue eyes. “And it’s far past time to eat.”

  Chapter Six

  A new beginning

  July 20, 1936

  “Today’s the day,” Ms. Bauman sang, flittin’ into my room as if carried on the breeze.

  “What do you mean?” I sat up, blessedly with much less pain. Of course, I’d been ‘convalescing’—another word which Mr. King needed to explain to me—for five days since I’d awoken from my two-day stupor.

  “Doctor Rhymes said you should get up and out. Get some fresh air. The movement does a world of good for the body.”

  Turning, she went to the oversized wardrobe, opened the doors, and walked her fingers over the many things hanging inside.