Touched

by Carolyn Haines

  Janelle took the seat beside me as soon as Elikah left. “That rich food didn’t agree with you.” She spoke as if it was a fact. “Elikah said you ate too much.”

  I gripped the edge of the seat and hung on to the motion of the train.

  “I had the hotel make me up some tea. It’s warm now, but it might help.” She settled back against the seat.

  “No, thanks.”

  “Did you dance last night?”

  I remembered the room with the covered lights and the band that seemed to blow smoke from the shining horns. “Yes. We danced.”

  “I told you.” She touched my arm. “Had a little too much to drink, didn’t you? It wasn’t the food at all. You drank.”

  I didn’t dispute her. What purpose would it serve?

  “Vernell did, too, but I didn’t touch any of it. I don’t feel sick today either.”

  We were pulling into the Bay St. Louis station, the first stop in Mississippi. We’d passed over Lake Pontchartrain, a mirrored sheet that stretched from horizon to horizon. Now the Sound waited out my window, glittering into the distance. The beaches were the color of muslin, not the pure white that I’d always imagined. It was a detail I’d failed to notice on the way over.

  “Vernell told me to leave you alone, but I’ve been waiting for a chance to talk to you.”

  I tensed, feeling the involuntary pain curl through me. “I don’t feel well,” I told her.

  “It’s JoHanna McVay,” she continued, ignoring me. “I know you’re tenderhearted, Mattie, and a tad naive, but you can’t go around with that woman. Everyone in town knows you were at that baptism with her when Mary Lincoln drowned. And that Duncan all but cursed her with it. Look, Elikah has suffered a lot of shame because of you. Don’t you see, honey, you have to watch yourself? Everything you do reflects back on him.”

  My fingers dug into the seat, holding on, holding me back. I couldn’t look at her or I would smash her pert little nose between her blue eyes. In my hot brain I could feel the flesh give beneath my palm, the point of her nose both hard and soft.

  “Mattie, I’m not trying to lecture you, but there are some things you need to know about that woman. She’s got a reputation. A bad one. Everyone in town knows she’s had lovers. At least two.”

  I ignored her, keeping my gaze out the window where the pine trees passed in a blur. Off in the distance there was an occasional house, and along the beach there would be some of the bigger homes. Mansions.

  “JoHanna flaunts herself all over town. Why even the way she walks is designed to bring attention to herself. And she’s raised that child to be an outcast. The only friend that young-un has is that nasty old rooster.”

  “Pecos loves Duncan.” I wasn’t saying it to defend the rooster. He wasn’t my favorite creature on earth, but he did love Duncan. “He’d kill anyone who tried to hurt her.”

  “That’s ridiculous, Mattie. Roosters don’t have sense enough to act like a watchdog. You’re being silly. And even if the rooster was as smart as Thomas Edison, it still doesn’t make what’s happening at that house right. Two lovers! And I could name names.”

  “Does Will know?” I didn’t believe such a thing. What woman would choose another man over Will McVay? It was just more of Janelle’s gossip.

  “Who knows what Will knows or why? Everyone in town says she has a cooter-lock on him anyway. And it’s common knowledge that she got rid of a baby before Duncan was born. That’s why she’s so obsessed with that child.”

  The things she was saying were wicked, evil. Lovers were one thing, but getting rid of a baby was something else again. JoHanna would never do something like that. Never. Decent people didn’t even think about such things. Not even when they were desperate and so afraid they thought they might die. Killing an unborn baby would be the biggest sin, the worst thing a woman could do.

  “JoHanna can act like she doesn’t give a damn, but she knows in her heart that God is going to punish her, and He has.”

  “Punish her? What do you mean?” Janelle had finally frightened me. I knew all about a punishing god. JoHanna didn’t believe in such a thing, but Janelle did, and I wasn’t certain exactly what I believed. It seemed to me the world was mostly made of punishment, whether a person deserved it or not.

  “Look at what happened to Duncan, and that was just a warning. But JoHanna hasn’t mended her ways at all. She’s unnatural. She doesn’t behave in a respectable way. I mean she dresses like a slut. She may think it’s fashion and all that, but she’s forty-eight years old and she dresses like she’s a model from some Paris whorehouse. Those hats and those dresses, they’re just indecent.” She fluttered her hands in her lap. “God don’t hold with such behavior in a decent town. She ought to go on over to Paris or Europe or wherever she thinks is so grand and fine.”

  “She’s beautiful.” I spoke so softly I wasn’t sure she heard.

  “Beautiful? If you like that all the men in town watch the way you move. Why, you can see her butt jiggle under those flimsy dresses. And no sleeves, and that little hellion of hers dancing like she’s been possessed by Satan.”

  “Duncan can’t dance anymore. She can’t even walk.”

  “In that wagon with that rooster. It’s ridiculous. She makes a fool of herself and a fool of you—and Elikah—when you’re seen with her.”

  I let go of the seat and turned to her. “Why are you so afraid of her?”

  She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out. “How dare you speak to me like that when I’m only trying to do you a service by warning you? How dare you?” She got up, holding to the back of my seat as the train lurched. “Well, I can tell you one thing. I won’t waste my breath any further here, but just you mark my words; the day will come when you regret you ever spoke to that woman. And if you keep it up, you’ll be ruined in town. No decent person will invite you into their home.” She whirled around and fled.

  “No decent person should invite me in,” I answered her when she was gone.

  Ten

  BY the time I returned from New Orleans, JoHanna and Duncan had come and gone. They were back in Fitler with JoHanna’s Aunt Sadie, according to Floyd. I suppose it was because Floyd was their friend, the closest thing left in Jexville to them, that drew me down to the boot shop on that Wednesday. I’d told no one about New Orleans, or about my nausea. I had begun to think of ways to do away with myself. Perhaps it was my own thoughts that drove me to seek out someone who could hold my desperation at bay with words and stories, and even the vaguest link to JoHanna. At any rate, I went to the shop under the pretense of having a pair of shoes made.

  Floyd was in the back of the dark shop that smelled like leather and polish. Moses’s Bootery was a long, narrow, wooden building that shot straight back from a few racks of display boots. The front display section was divided from the larger workshop in the back by the office where Axim Moses sat stooped over his desk. The office was solid wood on the bottom but with bars going to the ceiling, more like a horse’s stall than anything else. A narrow passage bypassed the office and gave onto the room where Floyd was intently working by the natural light of a single window.

  He straddled a rough wooden bench with a wooden foot situated so that he could work on the boots and shoes without having to hold them. With great care and no small degree of skill, he was piecing the leather vamp on a pair of fine boots. Mr. Moses was busy in the small office with some paperwork, so I went all the way to the back.

  Floyd’s smile made me want to cry. He was genuinely pleased to see me.

  “Hi, Miss Mills.”

  “Don’t stop,” I told him, not wanting to interrupt his work for my make-believe mission.

  “You want some shoes?” He looked down at the pair I was wearing. They were new, but they didn’t fit exactly right. My long skinny foot seemed to bunch down at the toes after I’d walked for any length of time. “Those don’t fit too good.”

  “I just came to look. Maybe later I can get some shoes.”
r />   He got up and came over to me, kneeling down at my feet, his gaze intent on my shoes, his fingers pressing at the toes. I had to catch my breath to keep from shifting away from him. Elikah pursued his handsomeness; Will took his for granted. Floyd was simply oblivious.

  “These don’t fit at all. Your toes are all cramped up in there.” He pressed hard, drawing an exclamation of discomfort from me. “Sorry,” he said, looking up. “You’re gonna get the arthritis if you wear these shoes. Cripple your feet.”

  Somehow he managed to lift my foot and take off the shoe. It was a relief to stand barefoot, at least on one side.

  Before I knew it, he’d inserted a piece of paper beneath my foot and extracted a pencil from behind his ear. Using great care he drew the outline of my foot.

  “Now the other,” he said.

  “The other?”

  “No two feet are alike. No point in making shoes that fit one foot but not the other.”

  I let him take off my shoe, standing barefoot like a fool. And I had said that Floyd was a loon. If Elikah walked into this shop and saw me standing barefoot with a man on his knees in front of me, I’d be more than sorry.

  “Floyd, I—”

  He grabbed my hand and put it on his shoulder so I could balance. “Just a minute more.”

  The pencil moved around my foot, tickling my instep.

  “See here, it’s that heel, and right at the big toe. You’re narrow.” He’d slid the drawing out from under me and was pointing with the pencil.

  I looked up to be sure Mr. Moses was still busy in his office. His back was to me and his head was bent over the papers he had out on his desk.

  “Sit down.” Floyd waved me to a chair. He stayed on his knees, but edged toward me. “I have to measure more.”

  “Floyd, I can’t afford shoes now.” I had to tell him. He was so completely sincere that he made me ashamed. And nervous. “I just wanted to say hi. To see if you’d heard anything from JoHanna.”

  “They’ll be home tomorrow. We’re going on a picnic. JoHanna sent a note by Bruner this morning.” He reached for my foot, a tape measure in his hand. “Stand up,” he said, bending over my foot.

  Moving from the length of my toes to the arch to the heel to the ankle, he took the measurements, making a note of each on the paper that contained the drawing of my foot.

  “I can’t have shoes,” I told him again.

  He motioned me back to my seat and lifted my left foot, examining as he turned it first one way and then another. He was so intent on his work that even I became interested. It was almost as if it weren’t my foot at all, but someone else’s. A strange, pale thing that had sprouted at the end of my leg without pain or warning. His fingers began to work over the soul of my foot, probing gently, and I was more than aware that it was my foot again.

  I’d gotten a little more at ease with him hovering over me. It was just something he did with everyone who came to buy a pair of shoes or boots. It was pleasant, actually, the feel of his warm hands on my feet. His fingers probed the callouses on my heel and the ball of my foot.

  “That’s because your shoes don’t fit,” he said, nodding. “You’re rubbin’ there. Sure sign of trouble.”

  My feet were long and slender, but they were almost petite against his large hand.

  “I’ve got some really fine leather. I’m making Sheriff Grissham these boots.” He got up in a quick, fluid movement and went to his work bench to retrieve the half-made shoe. “See. Duncan helped me with the pattern.”

  I took the leather which still seemed warm from his hands. It was the vamp of a boot, highly ornate, with stitching that seemed to draw pictures, only it wasn’t a picture of anything I’d ever seen before.

  “That’s timber rattler,” he said, pointing out the strange design. “I made it just like Duncan told me. She drew the picture and told me how it was, and I knew how to make it.”

  “It’s beautiful.” I held it up, letting the broad shaft of light strike it. The snakeskin seemed to come to life in the sun, almost to move with the sinuous grace of its original owner. “It’s really beautiful, Floyd.” I’d never imagined he was such a craftsman. Fine leather boots, yes, he was known for his work. But the intricacy of this design was like a painting.

  I looked up at him and saw that he was frowning. “What’s wrong?” My bare foot on the floor felt suddenly indecent.

  “It’s from one of Duncan’s dreams. She was upset.”

  I didn’t completely follow him. “What dream? What came from a dream?”

  “The picture on the boot. Duncan dreams about a man in the water. It’s not like a whole dream, but only bits and pieces.” He looked up at me, his fingers unconsciously massaging my foot. “He scares her.”

  More than likely it was Mary Lincoln’s drowning that had Duncan upset. I figured that was why JoHanna was spending so much time in Fitler. After that baptism scene, it was better for them that they made themselves scarce. At least until Will got back from Washington. People in Jexville were acting like it was Duncan’s fault that Mary drowned.

  Floyd’s hand on my shoulder startled me. “Duncan says the dream is like being trapped underwater. She hasn’t told JoHanna. Only me.” Pride was mixed with concern. “You won’t tell, will you? Duncan would be mad.”

  “No, Floyd. I won’t tell.” His secret was perfectly safe with me. I had enough of my own, and no one to share them with. “You said JoHanna will be back today?”

  “Maybe right now. Miss Nell is bringing them back. She went over to Fitler to see her mama’s people and she’s gonna give JoHanna and Duncan a ride home. I’m gonna get some rolls from Mara. To surprise JoHanna and Duncan. I can get one for you, too.”

  I reached out and touched his arm, startled by the hardness of the muscle on his forearm beneath his shirt sleeve. “Thank you, Floyd, but I’d better stay home and make supper for Elikah.” I couldn’t go on a picnic, but I had to see JoHanna. Alone.

  He nodded. “I’m gonna tell Duncan the story of the pirates on the Pascagoula River. It’s a true story.”

  “Maybe I could hear it another time.”

  “The head pirate’s name was Jean Picard.” He grinned up at me, delighted with himself. “JoHanna taught me how to say his name. She said it was French. He was hanged in New Augusta. They built the gallows right by the courthouse. It was the same place they hung old James Copeland.”

  I’d heard of the outlaw James Copeland, but Jean Picard was a new one on me. Very likely something JoHanna had made up, passed to Duncan, and it had finally become another item in Floyd’s treasure chest of tales. With repetition, he’d come to believe it was true. That was Floyd’s weakness. He wasn’t a loon, like I’d first thought, but he was an innocent. He believed everything people told him, even to the point that his real father had been a gunslinger. That was one of the crueler fabrications of the townsfolks, but Floyd had accepted it so completely that now not even JoHanna could dissuade him.

  “I’d love to hear about James Copeland and Jean Picard, but I can’t.” I didn’t point out that JoHanna had not extended an invitation to me.

  “Okay.” He leaned over toward me, his long arm sweeping up the drawings of my feet. “When you want shoes, I’m ready now. You just have to tell me what you want.”

  “As soon as I have some spare money, I’ll be back.” I got up, sliding my feet into my shoes. Floyd went back to his bench and picked up a small mallet he was using to pound the leather. I stood for a moment, watching him. What illness had left him with the trust and wonder of a child? Was it a gift or a punishment?

  Watching him work the leather, I had to admit that Floyd was far happier than I was.

  Eleven

  “HOW about some bacon and eggs, Mattie?” JoHanna held the spatula in her hand as she turned to me. On the stove the cast iron skillet was spitting and popping with the strips of bacon that sizzled in it.

  “No, thanks.” I swallowed, running my finger around the edge of the cup of coffee I h
ad not touched. Sitting in JoHanna’s kitchen, I was terrified. I’d come to her because of Janelle’s gossip, and watching her stand at the stove, her arms pale but muscular in the short-sleeved blouse, her head covered in a fine fuzz of chestnut, I couldn’t bring myself to ask what it was I wanted.

  “You haven’t been sleeping lately, have you?”

  She wasn’t even looking at me. She was turning the bacon.

  “No.”

  “Is it Elikah?”

  “No.” I swallowed again, letting the coffee warm my hands. “Well, yes and no.”

  “Are you pregnant?” She turned around and held me with that blue, blue gaze.

  “I think I may be.” I started to cry. “I don’t want to die.”

  Her smile was immediate. “Most people don’t die in childbirth, Mattie. You know that. It’s frightening, but completely natural.” She put the spatula down and came around the table to put her hands on my shoulders, lifting the heavy braid of hair that hung down my back.

  I wanted to lay my head on the table and squall. As it was, though, I fought back my tears and straightened my back. I couldn’t look at her, but I could tell her. “I don’t want this baby. If I have to have it, I’ll kill myself so it won’t be born.”

  Her hands continued to pull at my hair, the slight tugs of a mother ordering a mess. At last she dropped the braid and went back to the stove and turned the bacon. She took it out, draining it on some brown paper, and moved the pan off the stove. “Let me fix Duncan’s eggs,” she said. “Then we can go for a walk.”

  I’d dried up my tears, and I was determined not to cry again. She wouldn’t believe me if I cried. She’d think I was being a baby and was just upset over my circumstances.

  With the skill of a practiced cook, she broke the eggs in the hot grease and flipped them. In less than a minute she had the plate ready. “Duncan gets breakfast in bed, but then she has to get up and try to walk. I think she might be getting a little stronger.”

  She talked as if she’d forgotten what I’d said earlier. It made me steadier, gave me a chance to compose myself.