Both of them nod.
“Olive, you’re still sick with a fever, just like on Friday,” Marvena says. “Staying at my place.”
“My students—”
“I can keep teaching them.” Again, Hildy surprises herself by speaking up. “I’m good at it—”
“She is,” Tom says quietly.
Hildy looks at him, heart leaping. But he stares down at the fire, away from her.
“And I can listen, too. Let Marvena or Nana know if I hear of danger. I could stay with Marvena, too.” Surely, as Tom comes to visit, he’ll see how she can fit in. How serious she is.
Jurgis shakes his head. “Better you stay with me and Nana.”
Hildy’s heart falls as Tom and Marvena nod agreement.
“When will I get back to my schoolhouse?” Olive asks.
Clarence looks at her gently. “As soon as we know we’re safe. You have to be prepared to leave if need be—”
“What about you?” Olive’s voice is a strangled cry.
Clarence squares his shoulders. “I’ll leave when I know whether or not Negro miners are welcome into the union. I will not let down the United Mine Workers.”
“Enough yammering here. Someone has to go tell Lily about this.” Marvena sighs. “An’ I reckon that someone is me.”
The men start from the cave. Hildy reaches for Tom, but he avoids her touch, refuses to look at her. “Your coat—” she starts.
“Keep it.”
He strides out of the cave, and Hildy feels the pitying gazes of everyone else upon her. She wants to run after him, but pride stops her. No—more than that. Self-respect. She holds her head up, chin forward. Looks at Olive. “Well go on. I’ll help you around the ledge again.”
CHAPTER 22
LILY
Sunday, September 26—2:00 p.m.
Lily takes another sip of tea and keeps smiling, even as her eyelids droop, and a mousy woman, usually quiet at these gatherings, says hopefully, “What about a taffy pull? An appeal to nostalgia might be what we need.…”
Lily nearly laughs at the prim tone, and wishes Hildy were here to share a glance of amusement with—but neither Hildy nor her mother are here. No doubt Mrs. Cooper’s chronic coughing fit—and her desire for Hildy to attend to her—kept them away.
“Oh, heavens, why don’t we pretend we’re our grandmothers and have a cakewalk, then!”
The rebuke comes from Margaret, who is hosting, for the first time, the Kinship Woman’s Club meeting at her new house.
Lily gives Margaret a hard look. “Or instead, let’s hear everyone’s ideas and then discuss them.”
The mousy woman who Margaret had chided gasps—probably both grateful, Lily reckons, for her defense and nervous about the repercussions with Margaret. This is the first time this afternoon that Lily has really looked at Margaret. Until now, she’s avoided eye contact, not trusting herself to keep from lashing out—does Margaret know there’s been a gathering of the WKKK at her husband’s old family farm? That Thea Kincaide had trekked all the dark, difficult miles from the Hollows Asylum to the farm and been murdered not long after?
It seems a ridiculous question, seeing Margaret now, sitting properly on the edge of a Queen Anne wing chair, a seat that is too small for her statuesque frame and surely uncomfortable, chin in an imperious tilt, as if she herself is a queen. Since moving to Kinship, Margaret has gone to great effort to appear prim and proper, campaigning to become the newest member of this club, which normally takes years, and straining to live up to the gabled, overwrought beauty of this Victorian house—one of the finest in all of Kinship, built on top of the town’s highest hill by an owner of one of the many iron excavating and furnace sites that once dotted the southwestern part of the county, before the businesses began dying out two decades ago, leaving only cold, crumbling stacks in the hillside. This house sat empty and neglected after the previous owner left the area, and the Dyers have returned it to its former glory. Now Kinship’s reigning ladies—and those who aspire to such stature—are all too eager to cater to Margaret’s whims. And Margaret is all too eager—even anxious—to deserve their regard.
“Very well,” Margaret says primly. “Let’s hear all of the ideas—however trivial.”
A silence ensues, until a brave soul mentions the possibility of a raffle, which sets the more conservative members of the group to wondering if this is akin to gambling, and soon the rest of the conversation dissolves as exhaustion shuts Lily’s eyes and ushers her thoughts into welcome downy fuzz.
A moment later, a loud clatter and warm tea spilling on her legs startle Lily awake. And standing before her, a young boy. He stares up at her from underneath shaggy, dark hair. He looks to be about seven, Jolene’s age, holding up a toy wooden popgun, squinting his left eye as he focuses his aim on her, and Lily’s mouth drops open in surprise—not at his gruesome pantomime, but because she recognizes in him the narrow forehead, the forward tilt to the ears, that his half siblings and father, Ralf Ranklin, share.
Ka-pow, pow, pow! he mouths silently, jerking the top of his wooden gun with each mute pow, as if his hand is jumping at the recoil.
Lily grabs his arm, causing him to drop his toy, and fixes a hard gaze on him.
And immediately regrets it as his eyes widen and tear up and she notes the bruising around his right eye. He might be the boy who’d attacked her daughter, who’d said awful things, but he was still just seven. And he’d learned such behavior somewhere.
“Lily! He didn’t mean to run into you.”
Lily looks up, startled that it’s Margaret who’s come to his defense. The Sunday afternoon gathering of the Kinship Woman’s Club take in the confrontation between Lily and Margaret, twenty faces of Kinship society’s top tier frozen into various expressions ranging from shock to bemusement to dismay, with one exception. Mama looks concerned.
“Come here, Junior,” Margaret says.
Lily releases the boy’s arm. He scoops up the toy, runs to Margaret, who puts a soothing arm around him. “Now, son, I told you to stay in the kitchen, help your mother.” Her voice is gentle, kind. Son? It’s a commonly enough used term, but the image of the three babies’ grave markers flickers across Lily’s thoughts, along with Ralf supposing that Margaret might be housing Missy and their son.
It seems Margaret is playing a dangerous game with the Ranklin family, and yet, seeing the tenderness on Margaret’s expression as she regards the boy, Lily momentarily feels pity for Margaret.
As Junior runs out of the room, Lily notes her china cup and saucer upended at her feet. At least the dishes are not broken. She pulls her wet skirt away from her lap.
“Was our fundraising discussion boring you, Mrs. Ross?” asks Margaret, her voice coiling back to its customary haughtiness. “Or should I say Sheriff Ross? Perhaps a shooting contest would be more amenable.”
Lily starts to remind Margaret of the protocol of politeness of Woman’s Club meetings—even when already-exhausted guests are lulled to sleep by cookies and tea after a tedious presentation comparing Mary Robert Rinehart’s The Circular Staircase to her newest thriller, The Red Lamp, and somehow making both sound dull, followed by a tiresome discussion of efforts to raise monies for a public library.
Mama, across the room, clears her throat—and Lily knows that sound is an admonishment to behave.
“I’m so sorry I made a mess.” Lily looks at the women who had been talking before her embarrassing mishap, and adds, “And that I drifted off while you spoke. I’ve been exhausted of late—I’m sure all of you, denizens of our town, busy with many important works—can understand. And certainly fundraising for the library is important. A truly public library”—the ladies of the club maintain a private, members-only one but have been debating for years since the disappointment of not receiving Carnegie funding for a public one about how, or if, to get a public library—“would be a boon to our fine county. And perhaps even, in a few years—”
Mama coughs and gives a subtle
shake of her head. Lily sighs. Mama’s right. Pushing for a mule-drawn or even automotive bookmobile so the whole county could be served would alienate the more conservative members of the club.
“Who knows how the library might grow,” Lily falters. “To address Margaret’s suggestion—a shooting contest might not be the best idea, especially for a sleepyhead like me.”
A few titters of laughter. She’s regaining the women’s sympathy. “Why don’t you all come to the debate between myself and Mr. Dyer, and pass the bucket for funds?”
“Beg for money?” Margaret frowns. “At a political event?”
A few of the older women nod, pinch lipped, at the impropriety of the very notion.
“Oh, of course not,” Mama says. “Lily and I were talking this morning about an idea—we’re all baking to enter the county fair contest, and I’m sure we’re making practice batches, so why not bring those items to offer, but without a set price?”
Lily forces her face to be still and not hint at the truth—they’d had no such discussion. In fact, they’d argued. Lily hadn’t wanted to come here today at all. She’d rather be catching up on assorted domestic chores—not to mention the pie for the county fair baking contest.
When she’d returned home after the Quaker meeting this morning, Mama had been waiting for her, envelope in hand—another delivery from Seth Robertson. Gossip column items you might find interesting was all he’d say, Mama had explained, showing her the envelope. Then she’d put it on the desk—Lily watching anxiously, fearful Mama might mention the letters between her and Benjamin. But Mama was on a tear, insisting, after Lily expressed weariness and a desire to skip the Woman’s Club meeting, that she must attend, that she’d need the votes of the members. Now Lily forces herself to smile.
“It will be a great opportunity to raise awareness for a library, and why it’s good for the whole community—and maybe get some of the men to provide funding.” Mama turns her stern look to Margaret. “I’m sure, as the newest business owner here in Kinship, your dear Mr. Dyer would love to donate? Whether he becomes sheriff, or not?”
Attention turns back to Margaret, who flushes brightly and looks perplexed—how had this conversation turned on her? Lily presses back a smile—because Mama is not only one of the revered founding members of the Kinship Woman’s Club. She is also a more adept politician than Lily or most elected officials.
As the conversation turns to the details of how to best execute Mama’s plan, Lily murmurs to excuse herself from the parlor to go and blot some of the tea from her skirt.
In the kitchen, Lily spots Junior, now playing under the worktable in the center of the room, and Missy, standing at a pump sink, back to Lily, humming to herself while washing dishes from the luncheon the members of the Woman’s Club had just enjoyed in the dining room.
* * *
“Kapow, pow, pow!” Junior yells.
“Junior, I told you to hush up! You’re already in trouble for going out there!” Missy spins around, hissing her words, but stopping as she spots Lily.
Lily bites back a gasp. There is a fading yellow mark on her left cheek, but a shiny new bruise mars her right. Lily calculates: The marks on Junior are probably from Missy, and the older bruise on Missy from Ralf. But the new injury? That is too recent to be from Ralf. It must be from Margaret or Perry. Why is Missy staying here, if she’s abused just as badly here as with Ralf? Or is there another explanation?
Missy is shocked at the sight of Lily. “Sheriff?” Terror shadows her expression. She looks like she wants to say more, but then her expression closes. The moment for sharing whatever Lily’s appearance brought to mind has passed.
Lily smiles gently. Maybe she can coax it out of her. “I’m here for the Woman’s Club. Spilled some tea.” She picks up a dishrag and presses it against the damp spot on her skirt. Then she puts the rag aside and starts drying a just-washed plate with a clean towel.
“I don’t need help.” Missy’s tone is prideful. “That’s what Mrs. Dyer is paying me for.”
“Truth be told,” Lily says, “I’d rather be back here anyway than with that stuffy group.”
A smile flits across Missy’s lips, and a knowing look—she’ll never be good enough for the ladies of the club, but if they’re dull, who’d want to join them anyway. Then Missy frowns, not so easily taken in, and says, “Just go.”
“I’d rather not,” Lily says.
Missy shrugs, turns back to the dishes. “Suit yourself. I’m paid same either way.”
“How’s that? Room and board here? I’m guessing no real pay?”
The young woman scrubs at another plate so hard that Lily fears it might crack in Missy’s hands. “Beats where I was.”
Lily dries another dish. “Went to your place the other day, talked to Ralf.”
Missy is quiet for a minute, but Lily can see the sudden tension in her shoulders, can almost feel her wanting to ask if Ralf had inquired about her.
“About your boy, there,” Lily says. “Seems he got into it with my daughter. Said some awful things.”
Missy glowers at the boy, now scooted way under the table, and Lily regrets her words. Though she’s purposefully steering the conversation, she hopes she’s not set the boy up for another backhanding.
“Didn’t know that. Reckon he must have heard some of the points Mr. Dyer is planning on making ’bout you.”
Lily’s hands stop, mid-swipe on a plate.
“So—that son of a bitch have anything to say?” Missy asks.
“What?” Oh—Missy means her husband, not Perry. Lily takes a deep breath, resumes drying. Fine. Let Perry resort to such cruelty—throw Daniel’s death at her in the debate. It’ll more’n likely backfire with as many women voters as it will resonate with some of the men.
Lily considers the boy hunkering under the table, swallows her wrath. “It’s a nice enough day for late September. Maybe your young ’un could go work some steam off, outside?”
Missy gives Lily a long look. When Lily purses her lips to indicate their conversation is not going to proceed in the boy’s presence, she sighs and says, “Go on outside, then, Junior. Mind you don’t get too dirty, or wander far!”
The boy pops out from under the table and glares at Lily. She grins back at him. She reckons the boy has had a hard-enough time of late without being too fearful of the sheriff. Plus, Jolene had already bested him.
After the boy runs out and the back door slams shut, Lily says, “If you mean does Mr. Ranklin want you back, then yes. He did ask after you.”
Missy looks pleased. “Well, tell him I ain’t coming back. I have it good here. Helping Mrs. Dyer around the house, and with … other things.”
“Like the gathering this past Tuesday night, up at the Dyer farm in Moonvale Hollow?”
Missy opens her mouth, about to respond, then stops. Catching herself.
Dammit. She’d pressed too soon. “Look, Missy, I know you’re in a tough spot, but—”
Missy lets a handful of cutlery clatter loudly to the bottom of the sink. “What do you know of it? I come to you for help, an’ all you can say is same as your husband said. Can’t do nothing if I don’t file formal complaints. Well, I do that, then what? Ralf goes off to prison and I’m stuck with my kid and his’n. Or he don’t, and he comes back and it gets worse. Truth be told, he only married me ’cause he thought I was pretty, looked like his first wife when she was younger, and I only took up with him ’cause it seemed better’n, well, everything at home.”
Lily’s heart starts to go out to the young woman, but then Missy goes on. “An’ now I’m saddled with a young ’un I can’t shake off on Ralf. Might as well be a noose around my neck!”
At that, Lily’s sympathy shuts off, like a spigot twisted tight. She clears her throat. Focus. “You’re in a hard way, I know, but is working for Mrs. Dyer the best choice? I mean—” Lily leans toward Missy, as if they’re conspirators. “I know about that gathering last Tuesday night. Now I have reason to believ
e a crime might have been committed there.” Missy’s eyes widen a mite, and her pallor blanches—indicators, by Lily’s reckoning, that indeed she’d been at the gathering. With a bit more careful pressure—
A sharp rap comes at the back door, and they both jump.
Missy stomps to the door, making more of a racket than the knock had, muttering, “Dammit, Junior, I told you to stay hushed up—”
It’s not Junior, coming back.
It’s Marvena.
“Neighbor lady said I’d find you here.” Marvena’s face is taut. Sweaty too. God, she’d walked the whole way here from her place on Devil’s Backbone. Marvena wouldn’t have made the trek to Kinship for less than urgent purpose. The last time she’d done so was to seek Daniel—not yet knowing he was murdered—and ask for his help in tracking her older daughter. Immediately, Lily’s heart races, as her thoughts go to Marvena’s brother, Tom, to Jurgis and his mother, Nana, to Tom’s son, Alistair, and Marvena’s daughter Frankie. They’ve all woven themselves into the fabric of her life. Her family.
Missy’s eyes cut to Marvena, as she listens with intense curiosity.
“Very well,” Lily says as primly as possible. “How may I help you?”
“Need to talk,” Marvena says.
Lily turns to Missy. “Please give my apologies. I need to return to my home.”
With that, Lily folds her dish towel neatly and hands it to Missy, then steps out with Marvena. They start walking, neither one speaking, each knowing by instinct that whatever has to be said and heard best unfold in the privacy of Lily’s house.
* * *
Fifteen minutes later, Lily and Marvena sit in Lily’s kitchen at the worktable. Lily has taken a moment to pour them each a glass of lemonade. Lily says, “Have you heard something about the women’s Klan gathering, among your people?”
Marvena lifts her eyebrows. “Among my people? My people are working with Clarence to integrate the union in Rossville. I found you at the home of one of your people, a well-to-do woman whose old house was the stomping ground for that gathering. You reckon just ’cause my people are ill-paid coal miners—”
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