by D L Lane
***
The third night of my covert—another word I learned—mission, I’d found some writing paper and a pencil, so I began scribbling words and their meanings down, starting with... A.
***
Night after night were all the same ’til I decided to give the dictionary a rest and scanned the library shelves, freeing a book titled, The Secret of the Old Clock. Swirling my fingers over the cover, I’d made a mental note. A lady named Carolyn Keen wrote it.
An hour later, I was still reading. That girl in the story, Nancy Drew, sure was smart, and I was glad to go along with her on a grand mystery.
***
All my late-night adventures were wearing on me by the seventh visit to the King Library. For over a week, I would keep myself up ’til the sky outside the windows started to shift from shades of silver to orange/pink, putting everything back where I’d found them, then sneaking up to my room before Cook waked to start on breakfast. She’d put on a whole spread—eggs, bacon, fried tators, pancakes, pulpy orange juice, and cold milk, or big ol’ biscuits with heaps of creamy gravy. Cook would offer butter and marmalade for the fluffy biscuits if you didn’t want the sausage gravy. She even made ham steaks with a side of fried green tomatoes and grits, all served up steaming hot, every morning at seven.
My first sit-down breakfast at the King table had been a jaw-dropping deal. I’d never seen so much food in my life, and guessed Mr. King had the right of it when he’d said Inga made enough to feed a small army, though I didn’t honestly know how many people were actually in a small army.
Sitting crossed-legged in my corner on the floor, lamplight burning, words blurred across the pages of the open book teetering on my thigh.
I yawned, stretching my arms up over my head—the loose, untied neck of my white-cotton sleeping gown slipping, exposing my right shoulder blade when I brought them down.
“Mississippi, what is this?”
“Aaah!”
Mr. King’s stern voice, followed by his palm on my bare upper arm, had startled me.
“It’s all right,” he said as I jumped up and spun around to face him.
“What are you doing?” I grabbed my lopsided gown, yanking it in place, fisting the material at my neck.
Palms up, he slowly backed away. “I came to get a reference book before settling in behind my desk this morning.”
“I didn’t hear you come in.” I nibbled on my healed bottom lip.
“I know. I’m sorry.” He tucked his hands into the front pockets of his trousers. “When I saw you, I thought to ask what you were doing.” His gaze flickered to my neck, then back up to meet my eyes. “Then, I noticed those marks on your skin.”
“You shouldn’t be sneakin’ up on a person.” I clutched my gown tighter.
“It wasn’t my intention to sneak up on you or to scare you.” He backed up another step. “Forgive me.”
I studied him for a second, considering. “Okay.”
“Okay?” His dark eyebrows rose.
“You’re forgiven.”
With a tilt to his head, he said, “Thank you.”
“I should go now.” Slowly, I slid along the bookcase I’d shoved myself against.
“Wait.” He held out a hand. “What happened to your back?”
Pressing my lips together, I shook my head.
“Please. I want to know.”
Peeking up at him from beneath my lashes, I asked, “If I tell you, will you let me go upstairs?”
Sadness clouded his features. “I’m not holding you captive. You can go now if you wish, but I would like an answer before you leave.”
“My daddy,” I said in almost a whisper, not sure what possessed me, but I turned around, slipping the gown off my shoulder, exposing the scars I wore.
The warmth of his bigger body caressed mine when he stepped up to me, fingertips tracing the discolored line etched sideways into my shoulder blade. “What did he do to cause this type of damage?”
The sound of his voice wasn’t loud, or harsh, but soft—almost gentle.
“He told me he was going to teach me a lesson, and for once was true to his word.”
“Explain,” he said as he fingered another line on my skin.
“Lesson learned was don’t buck him unless I’m ready to suffer the consequences.”
“Tell me about those.”
“Consequences?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Daddy’s mean, and you never know what he’s going to do.”
“So, he’s unpredictable?”
“Yeah. I’ve heard people say he’s a shifty sort.”
“Do you know what that means?” he asked.
Pursing my lips, I shrugged. “Not really.”
“Shifty means he’s dishonest, devious, and untrustworthy.”
“Shifty fits,” I said, “but on top of that, he’s dangerous to be around when he’s been drinking.”
“Had he been drinking when he made these marks?”
Mr. King stroked part of my spine, and I closed my eyes. “Mm...no. He was as sober as a judge.”
“What happened?”
Tendrils of my hair fluttered along my back when he brushed it aside, trying to get a better look at the damage I figured.
“Daddy whipped me with a belt ’til I bled ’cause I wouldn’t let him take the perfumes mama had won at the church bazaar.”
His fingers slowed, and I’d swear the man held his breath.
“My mama didn’t own much, but what she did have she took real good care of. And she’d been so proud of those perfumes, lining all three shimmering bottles up on her scratched vanity table.” I sighed. “She’d been gone from this world for only a day when Daddy Bruce started taking her things, hawking them for gambling money, and after the family Bible she inherited from her mawmaw went missing, I’d done set my mind—I wasn’t going to let him take her perfumes.”
He slipped his fingers along the top of my shoulder, where there weren’t any scars, sending a shiver over me, goosebumps breaking out everywhere while spikes of heat buzzed parts of my body that wouldn’t be proper to speak of.
“Are you cold?” He tugged the material of my gown into place.
Shaking my head, I said, “That tickled,” giving him a half-truth. The entire truth was going to take me a month of Sundays to figure out. No way would I be blabbing ’bout that tingling thing happening.
“Sorry,” he said.
“Don’t be, Mr. King. It was nice.”
Having the man so close, softly touching my bare skin, was more than nice, although I wouldn’t be tellin’ that either.
“Mississippi...”
I waited for him to say something else, but everything went still.
“Yeah?” I asked, hoping he would tell me whatever it was he started to, but he must have backed away, ’cause I didn’t feel him anymore.
I turned around, surprised by where he stood—behind one of the leather armchairs placed at an angle in front of a window where the first rays of morning light peeked through.
“I am,” he said. “Sorry for all the pain you have suffered at the hands of a man who should love and cherish you. Do everything within his power to protect you. Sorry that he ever put one hand on you in anger. Sorry for the scars you carry, and not just those I can see”—he patted his chest, over his heart—“but the ones I can’t. I’m sorry your mother is no longer in your life. Sorry for...”
Mr. King stared at the back of the chair he gripped so hard it had turned his knuckles white.
“Go on,” I said. “Might as well finish what you started.”
He looked at me as if pained. “I’m sorry for your tears.”
“Me too.” Quickly, I swiped the wetness from my cheeks, unsure of when I started to cry. “But, feeling sorry for myself hasn’t got me much of anywhere.”
He turned and stared out the window. “You better go on upstairs and get ready for breakfast.”
One minute he’d been so ten
der and kind, the next he’d dismissed me.
“Alright.” Placing my hand to my throat, I dropped my head and stared at my bare feet, willing the numbness to go away.
“And don’t forget Doctor Rhymes is coming today to take the stitches out under your chin.”
“Think he’ll take them out on my side too?” I glanced back up, hoping, but Mr. King hadn’t stopped looking out the window.
“I’m not sure, Mississippi.”
He only stood a few feet from me, but by the sound of his voice, he’d already left the room, going to places I couldn’t reach.
Chapter Eight
You don’t belong
August 1, 1936
I hadn’t laid eyes on Mr. King for two days. Not since he’d turned his back on me in the library. I wasn’t sure why he’d closed himself off, but it became as clear as day whatever caused the change did have something to do with me, especially when the man took all his meals in his office, leaving me by my lonesome at the dinner table. While breakfast and lunch tended to be casual, everything served up in a smaller room circled with windows, dinner was another story. Mr. King and his guests dressed for dinner. So, there I sat in the formal dining room, candles flickerin’ down the middle of the table, feeling like a thumb after Ms. Bonny, who did double duty as the maid and Cook’s helper, brought out the food.
She and all the staff, including Ms. Bauman, ate in the kitchen.
I didn’t get the whole ‘staff eat elsewhere’ thing, ’cause. Mr. King had a table so large; I’d swear twenty people could fit around it, maybe even more.
Placing my cloth napkin on the table, I exhaled, glancing up. Like the ceiling in my room, someone had painted it. Golden leaves twined around what Mr. King had called a coffered ceiling—fancy chandelier glittering as the centerpiece.
Taking in the sound of silence, my gaze bounced from spot to spot. All the wood, the table legs, chair legs, edges of the side tables, mantle, and door frames had been carved into twisting vine and leaf designs as well. And like my room, landscape paintings, except more impressive in size, hung on the cream and golden walls. Even golden curtains with tassels decorated the windows perched on either side of an elegant fireplace, which I imagined would be blazing in the winter.
The space was gorgeous, no doubt about that, but made me feel as if I shouldn’t touch anything ’cause I might break something with my clumsy ways or soil it with smudges. So, it didn’t matter if I were clean, wore a pretty dress, and Ms. Bauman had pinned up my long hair, leaving little waves to flutter around my face and neck, being there screamed, “You don’t belong!”
I dropped my head and stared at the table covered in a lace cloth, fingertips tapping by my gold-rimmed plate. Even the cup and saucer, and bowls were edged in sparkling gold.
Of course, I’d noticed all of this before, but having Mr. King with me at the time occupied my thoughts, somehow making my presence in the space worthy and acceptable.
But all that good feeling was long gone.
Scooting my chair back, I’d made up my mind. Cautiously, I picked up my shiny fork and fine china plate, carrying them into the kitchen.
“Is everything all right?” Ms. Bauman asked, eyes flicking up at me once I entered.
“Is the food okay?” Inga asked, her brow puckering.
“Everything is fine, and the food is as yummy as always,” I said, shifting my weight from foot to foot. “But...”
I drew my bottom lip between my teeth.
“What is it?” Ms. Bauman asked.
Shrugging, I said, “Eating in the dining room all by myself is silly.”
Charles stood then pulled out a chair. “Come on over.”
“Thank you.” Relief eased some of the tight knots living in my shoulders.
“Mr. King wouldn’t want his guest to dine with us.” Ms. Bauman’s soft expression as she spoke with Charles didn’t say she was mad about my arrival.
“The girl doesn’t want to be by herself,” he said, “so if he gets upset, he’ll have to get over it.” He waved me over. “Join us.”
No one had to tell me twice; I plopped myself down and smiled.
“Feeling better now?” he asked as I picked up my fork.
“Yeah,” I said before taking a bite of a steamed carrot.
***
For the next two mornings, I’d taken a stroll after breakfast through the rose garden—butterflies flittin’ from bloom to bloom, and a hummingbird buzzed around the reddest of red flowers. I knew from reading the book I’d found about plants; this garden must be a late bloomer since most roses blossomed in the spring, and July had gone, slipping-on into August.
Taking a seat on the wide ledge of the fountain, gooseflesh rose along my arms like someone had walked over my grave. Frowning, I crossed them and rubbed my palms along the weird sensation, pondering. It had happened the day before as well. If it were chilly, I wouldn’t have thought anything about it, but while it wasn’t yet the hottest part of the day, it wasn’t even close to being cool either. And as usual, while a breeze was a blessing, it was tinged with the Louisiana humidity.
I twisted to glance behind me, expecting someone to be standing there, but the coast was clear. However, the warning tingles were still zipping down my spine.
Holding my breath, I listened. There was nothin’ but the birds in the trees and the wind unsettling the leaves.
“You're just crazy,” I mumbled, turning back around, my eyes shifting to the estate. “There’s no one—”
That’s when I saw him. Mr. King. He stood at his office window, his attention attached to me. But the moment I blinked, he was gone like he never existed—the curtain swaying.
I tipped my head back and closed my eyes. I hadn’t imagined things. Someone had been watching me, though I didn’t know why Mr. King bothered. After all, I’d become an outcast in his home just like I’d become one in mine; only instead of vulgar language, bad attitudes, and flying fists, I was completely ignored.
***
Three more days passed, and I avoided the rose garden like the plague, instead gettin’ lost for hours down by the lake, still not one single face-to-face run-in with Mr. King. He had become a ghost, but I think I was the one haunting his property.
“Mississippi?”
Ms. Bauman.
“Yeah?” I asked, setting up in the tied-off rowboat I’d been lying in, watching the puffy white clouds float across the sky.
“There you are.” She glided down the dock. “I’ve been looking all over for you.”
“I’ve been right here,” I said.
She smiled. “Mr. King would like to see you.”
A lump formed in my throat. “Why?”
She shrugged. “I don’t know. He just said he needed to speak with you.”
I shielded my eyes with my hand and squinted. “What does Mr. King want to talk ’bout?”
“He didn’t say. He just sent me to find you, so come on.”
Making my way to the end of the boat, then up the wooden stairs on the side of the dock, I gained solid footing and combed my fingers through my hair. “Maybe I should go freshen up first.”
She eyed me. “You’re fine. A little mussed, but nothing to worry over.”
***
A few minutes later, Ms. Bauman knocked on the half-closed office door looming in front of us. “Mr. King, I’ve got Mississippi with me.”
“Come in!” he called.
Tapping sweat from my brow with the back of my hand, I tried to settle my nerves as I followed my escort just inside the threshold.
“Thank you, Ms. Bauman,” he said.
“No problem,” she replied, looking over, expecting to see me by her side, I guessed, but I’d remained behind her.
She turned and looked at me. “What are you doing?”
“Nothin’,” I said.
“Well, come in, silly.” She motioned with her fingers.
Slowly, I moved forward until I could see the man himself, sitting behin
d his desk like the tycoon Fawna-Leigh called him. I finally knew what that meant; I’d looked it up.
“Mississippi,” he said, waving a hand out in front of him. “Have a seat.”
“I’d rather stand,” I said.
“As you wish.” His gaze slid to Ms. Bauman. “Would you give Ms. Singleton and me some privacy?”
“Oh, of course.”
Turning, I watched her go, dread swamping me.
“Are you feeling okay?” he asked, forcing me to face him once again.
“I suppose.”
“You look a bit flushed.”
“Just hot.”
“Doctor Rhymes told me he was able to remove all the stitching.”
I nodded.
“I bet it feels better to have them gone.”
I shrugged.
His blue eyes narrowed. “Does it feel better or not?”
“Guess so.”
He cocked his head. “Guess so, yes? Or guess so, it doesn’t?”
“Does.”
He rubbed at his temple. “Would you please sit down so we can talk?”
“Is there some rule that says we can’t talk with me standing right here?”
“No rule. But I would like it if you would take a seat.” He rose from his chair, rounding his desk and pulling another chair out. “Please.”
Givin’ in, I walked over and sat. “Happy?”
“Happier.” He turned the other chair to face me then taking his seat. “I have a multitude of things going on right now.”
The corners of my eyes crinkled as I glared, I’m sure. “You’re sayin’ you’ve been busy?”
“I have been.” He nodded. “I am.”
I gripped the chair arms. “You sent Ms. Bauman to get me after days of nothin’ from you to tell me you’ve been busy?”
The mad showed up in my voice.
“I sent her to find you when I wasn’t able to.”
Mr. King’s calm manner got my goat.
“You went hunting for me?” I asked, disbelief colorin’ my words.
He bobbed his head. “Checked all the places I thought you might be.”
Crossing my arms, I asked, “What places?”
Leaning forward, elbows on knees, Mr. King clasped his fingers together. “Your room, the library, and the rose garden.”
