The Sweetness of Water

by Nathan Harris

  Hackstedde took a long drag, and Prentiss could smell the smoke as the sheriff exhaled.

  “I jumped down that tree and told them there wasn’t nothing up there but a bird’s nest.”

  Prentiss opened one eye and turned away from the wall to look back at Hackstedde.

  “I could never shake the thought they knew I was lying,” the sheriff said. “I still wonder about that. Like I let them down. But hell, I was just a boy. And I liked the fellow. Tomorrow ain’t too far away, though. I got you to fix my conscience. Make things right.”

  Prentiss didn’t linger on the sheriff’s words. He shut his eyes once more, thinking the judge would arrive and have his say and he would awaken to the sigh of the iron door swinging ajar, after which he would have a reckoning with a noose—his own return to the earth.

  * * *

  It felt like the fabric of a dream when a woman’s voice called his name. When he came to, he was so startled to see the figure before him that he nearly jumped. But she said his name once more in a soothing tone.

  “You thought you wouldn’t ever see your cousin again, didn’t you?”

  The woman winked, and Prentiss nodded along, as he would have done to any string of words coming from her mouth. It was night already—yet even in the dark her beauty was immense: her eyes like flowers in bloom, the lashes the petals. She wore a flowing blue dress with tassels at the bottom that looked like catkins hanging from a tree. His life had always been a loaded coil held taut by the discipline of hard work, the allegiance to the duties of each day, yet he could sense how the very sight of a woman like this could spring it loose and scatter a lifetime of order.

  She reached through the bars with a peach, which he clutched dumbly, and assured him, in a whisper, that she’d come to see a certain Prentiss. “Haven’t you missed me?” she asked him, more an instruction than a question.

  He hadn’t considered that he might need to respond. It seemed almost too great a task.

  “Yes,” he managed. “Dearly.”

  Her face came to a rest—his answer had satisfied her—and she settled back in her chair on the other side of the bars. Hackstedde was watching them intently from his desk.

  The woman looked back at the sheriff and then turned to Prentiss again, whispering once more.

  “You must be hungry, you poor thing. Eat.”

  He looked at the peach in his hand, having already forgotten it was there. He hadn’t eaten in two days, since the evening of Landry’s burial, but although his hunger was wolfish, he took only a slow bite, keeping his eyes on this heaven-sent woman whose business with him he still did not know.

  The woman explained her encounter with Isabelle and the mission to visit Prentiss that she had accepted.

  “My name is Clementine,” she said.

  “Pleasure,” Prentiss said.

  “Mrs. Walker sends her regards.”

  Hackstedde’s chair squeaked as he shifted forward.

  “What’s all that whispering about?” he yelled.

  “Just being polite, sheriff,” the woman said. “Minding you your space.”

  She could inflect her voice with the softest of tones and Hackstedde fell under the spell of her words. He grunted and said no more.

  “Are you well in here?” Clementine asked.

  “It ain’t exactly paradise,” he said. “Apologies for the smell. He had me walking through filth before we made it to Selby. I don’t have no way to clean up.”

  He could hardly look at her, but she returned his gaze so generously, so kindly, that his shame was expunged.

  “You should see my home,” she said. “Oh, does it get filthy sometimes. Nothing shameful about a mess.”

  He took another bite, thought to speak, but had to have another before going on.

  “You know Isabelle?” he asked quietly.

  “Somewhat,” she said with hesitation. “We’re better acquainted now. In fact, she’s watching my daughter as we speak. But I knew George first. He would come by my workplace on occasion.”

  “What do you do?”

  “I’m a whore, mostly.” She said it as though she were a seamstress.

  He kept chewing, contemplating the image of George even standing next to a woman this beautiful, let alone being so close to her. He would never have thought George had so much as talked to a woman other than Isabelle until this very instant.

  “It has its perks,” she went on. “It’s possible the sheriff is falling for this ruse of us being related, but it probably has more to do with my promise that he could have a few free visits, girl of his choice. I’ll owe someone back at the house a favor—a rather large one, considering.” She appraised Hackstedde again. “But life is all about compromises.”

  “For me.”

  “For you and yours. The Walkers are good people. If they say there’s a man in need, to bring him a basket of fruit is not too much to ask. But I ramble. Tell me about yourself, Prentiss. I’d be curious to know the man who’s caught the Walkers’ fancy.”

  No one had ever uttered such words to him—even George hadn’t been especially curious about him—and he was at a loss to speak of himself, even to know where to begin. He told her about Morton’s plantation, about the sorrow he’d found there, and she was quick to cut him off.

  “We don’t need that,” she said. “Not now. Not here.” She slapped her knee and put her fist under her chin, grinning mischievously. “Tell me a secret. Something you haven’t ever told a soul.”

  He had to think hard about what to share, all the more difficult with Clementine’s eyes locked on him.

  “Well, there was a girl once,” he said, and looked down bashfully.

  “Do tell,” she said.

  “I feel silly saying it.”

  “I bet you haven’t got your fill of silly your whole life, and a man’s entitled to some. Make up for lost time.”

  So he told her. First of his brother, for the story started there. Never had he seen a man so obsessed as Landry was with the Mortons’ fountain, and it made him curious every time he saw his brother stare. He told her of Landry’s love of water and how he’d never understood how one could have such an intense fascination with any one thing until a certain afternoon, when he got his own obsession.

  “And just like that,” he said, “I start thinking about girls like I ain’t never done before. Just that age, I s’pose.”

  There was one in particular, he said, name of Delpha.

  “She had eyes like yours, you lock in on ’em and they wouldn’t let you go for a whole afternoon. Thin as a branch, couldn’t pick to save her life. She was too small to take a beating, but the overseer would make her life hell, just like the rest of us, and one day I couldn’t take it. All day I been watching her and I knew her sack was only half full, and it was nigh on weighing time. I had to do something to help her out.”

  He laughed on recollection, and the sudden joy on his face brought another smile to Clementine’s, too.

  “Oh, you played her savior.”

  “You go on embarrassing me I won’t be able to finish out the story. But I tried, yes I did. I spy the overseer, name of Gail, big fella, dumb as a cow, halfway ’cross the field, minding another boy, so I make a run for her row.”

  “You don’t.”

  “And I’m reaching into my sack, already pulling out handfuls of cotton, ready to cram it into her own, to show her just how far I’ma go for love.”

  Clementine had her hand over her mouth.

  “Now I’m three, maybe four rows away, calling her name, ‘Delpha, Delpha, turn around,’ and right as she does, I trip over myself, fall forward, and land right square on a cotton stalk. I broke it off at the root, and what’s left of me slides down the other side. I got scratches all on my face, burrs in my hair, and the next thing I see is the hooves of Gail’s horse pounding my way, and I know I got a bad night in front of me.”

  They laughed together, so hard that Hackstedde told them to quiet down.

 
“But you were courageous,” Clementine whispered. “Women are always swooned by bravery.”

  “There weren’t no bravery when I took that whipping, I’ll tell you that much. You feel that skin peel off and…” The flicker of unease in her eyes told him to stop. He tried to laugh again, to rekindle the joy of the previous moment, but it was gone.

  “Mrs. Walker told me what you did,” Clementine said. “To Wade Webler. That’s courage, Prentiss. Maybe not smart. You’re behind these bars—let’s not pass that over.”

  He laughed again, though the no-nonsense warmth of her humor nearly broke his heart.

  “But there are some things we’re called to do,” she said. “Being a woman, and an authority on such things, I can tell you that I for one am swooned, and I’m sure Delpha was, too.”

  These precious and unexpected minutes had passed swiftly, and the night was growing long. Hackstedde would make her leave soon, Prentiss knew, and he was fearful of being robbed of her presence, of losing her to the shadows and facing the dark alone. He knew what would follow the darkness, the end that would find him when they carried him from his cell. He shuddered and swept the thought from his mind once more.

  “Tell me of you,” he said.

  She asked if he’d heard of New Orleans. It was where she was from. In New Orleans, she said, the men wore clothes more garish than the women, and there were parties every night. Drinks flowed endlessly. Faces were hidden by masks. The port was built to hold hundreds of ships, schooners, and steamers, and those who were of the disposition to do so could travel all over the world. And there was a market the size of Old Ox itself, haggling so loud you couldn’t hear your own voice.

  “You take yourself to a horse race,” she said, “and you’ll see Negroes, mulattoes, white men, Frenchmen, all packed together.”

  Prentiss had never heard of a place so peculiar, and he could only imagine how distant it must be from Old Ox. How stupid he must look to her in his shock.

  She laughed at him, a little teasingly.

  “You have to see it to believe it, I know.”

  “And you came here? From there?”

  “That’s a longer story,” she said. “One I fear I don’t have time to tell.”

  Every minute with Clementine was so spontaneous, so freeing, that he didn’t think he could bear to watch her go.

  “What if I was free? Would you meet me?”

  “The men I meet”—she rolled her eyes—“you don’t want the association, believe me.”

  Not at her workplace, he said. New Orleans. Baltimore. Anywhere else might do.

  “Ah, we would run away! But what of my daughter? My Elsy? I don’t think you’d want the extra worry.”

  They were playing with each other. Yet he couldn’t help believing in the imaginary world they were conjuring together. What else was there for him to hold on to?

  “I lost a lot,” he said. “Ain’t got to tell you that. But my heart’s grown with all that pain, I like to think. Always making room for what might come. A daughter would fit that bill real nice. Maybe more than one, even.”

  Perhaps he was fooling himself, but Clementine appeared to be enjoying the game as much as he was.

  “That is the sweetest thing a man has said to me,” she told him.

  “I got more like that one stored up,” he said. “Ain’t never had no girl to speak ’em to.”

  “Except Delpha.”

  “We saw how that worked out.”

  She grew oddly stern, her eyes narrow and searching.

  “Have you touched a woman before, Prentiss?”

  He seized up, pulled into himself, shook his head.

  “Just my mama,” he said. “Isabelle for a hug.”

  She looked back at Hackstedde, who was pretending to read his paper a mere few yards from them, yet in that moment the man felt to Prentiss an ocean away. Clementine reached between the bars. She nodded at Prentiss, and he reached forward and curled up her fingers, sealing her hand within his own. It was the softest thing he’d ever felt—nothing compared.

  She leaned forward. Her voice was so close it rattled the inside of his head.

  “I would go with you,” she whispered.

  There was a snap, like the sound of a whip striking its target. Hackstedde was folding his paper.

  “I’m just overjoyed you two got to reunite,” he said. “But visiting hours are over. Time to say your goodbyes.”

  When Clementine did not move, Hackstedde stared at her unyieldingly. Finally she rose, and the sudden movement pulled Prentiss to his feet as though they were tethered to the same rope.

  “You tell the Walkers I’m getting on,” he said. “That I’m more than fine.”

  “I will,” she said, then paused a beat, giving him a once-over. “Don’t give up hope, you hear? Find your strength and protect it.”

  “I’m standing here, ain’t I?”

  She gifted him one last smile.

  “Goodbye, Prentiss.”

  Then she walked to Hackstedde and placed the fruit basket on the table.

  “If we’re to keep our deal, my cousin is to get any of this fruit whenever he wishes.”

  “Now we both know that wasn’t part of our deal,” the sheriff said.

  “Then consider it changed.”

  Hackstedde laced his hands behind his head and leaned back, entertained by the negotiation.

  “Tack on a visit. I get four. My choice of girl.”

  Clementine looked at Prentiss a final time, not in shame, but as if to say: This is what I will do for you.

  “So be it.”

  “Good, good.” Hackstedde gestured at the door. “You get home safely now. I’m sure there are many men awaiting your arrival.”

  She went into the night without turning back. Hackstedde spoke more—he always did—but Prentiss heard none of it. He was strangely at peace. He journeyed his way back toward sleep. He thought there was a chance, however slim, that he might wake to Clementine’s voice once more. And if that wish was too much to grant, perhaps he might find her in his dreams. But as it happened, he got little rest. With Clementine gone, the reality of his predicament wended its way like a slow freight train toward his cell. And when the next person came through the door of the jail, it was Hackstedde’s deputy.

  The sheriff reacted like a father proud of a son who had accomplished a task above his station. Tim, quite proud himself, informed him that Judge Ambrose had been delivered to Selby and was lodging across the street. The proceedings could take place first thing in the morning.

  “Well!” Hackstedde said, taking off his hat. “If the office had medals, I’d award you one. Quite rightly so.”

  Tim beamed, and Prentiss was galled that in accomplishing their petty objectives, all rendered to bring about his death, these two men, until recently strangers to each other, had located such a profound sense of achievement.

  Hackstedde said he would get some rest and ride to fetch Webler with the good news come morning.

  “You stay here,” he commanded Tim. “Watch our prisoner for me.”

  Prentiss shut his eyes once more, and this time exhaustion claimed him. When he came out of his doze, Tim was the only man in the jail. He’d pulled a chair up to Prentiss’s cell. The candle on the desk behind the deputy had burned itself down to a nubbin. Gripping a peach from Clementine’s basket, he monitored Prentiss with a rapt fervor, his eyes sharp, as though Prentiss might take flight at any second. He took a bite of the peach, and juices oozed from the open wound.

  Here, here was a simple man, Prentiss thought. Did he not see the bars? Why watch over him so intently? But when he considered what was to come, it seemed not so odd. In all the ways that counted but one, the noose was already tightened fast around Prentiss’s neck. A man waiting to die was a show by itself. Tim had just arrived early.

  CHAPTER 21

  Caleb found his army pistol down in the cellar, wrapped in a quilt, left to languish in the company of his grandfather’s hunting rifl
es. The house was pitched with an enveloping blackness. It was neither night nor morning but rather that long lull of hours between the two, a period of nothingness—one Caleb knew too well. He’d awakened to it often as a boy, half-asleep, transfixed by the way the thudding of his own heartbeat penetrated his thoughts, consumed by the terrible sensation that the rest of the world lay dormant, at peace, while he alone could gain no rest. He’d have done anything to avoid that pit of despair. Tonight he welcomed it.

  He left the cellar and moved into the darkness outside. By the time his eyes had adjusted, the cabin was already some distance behind him. Each step felt bound to nothing. Old Ox was no longer home. None of this was. Even the cabin had the air of the unfamiliar. He’d swear to his room being smaller, and the passageway leading to the stairs tighter. It was as though the space, in his absence, had begun to shape itself to the contours of his parents, having forgotten the child who’d wandered off. In his heart, though, he knew the house hadn’t shrunk. He’d simply learned how immense the world was. Probably any man who returned to his boyhood would discover the exact same phenomenon.

  He was in the fields now. His father’s plants were still unassuming, and the fact that they had spent so much time tending to them, with so little to show, was a lesson in perversity. Caleb reached down, felt under the topsoil beneath one of the plants, clasped its winding roots, and gave a tug. He didn’t haul them up. That was months away yet. He simply wanted to make contact—to see how far down they descended, and how far up they would have to travel to see the light of day. Anyone could tell you he hadn’t been raised a farmer, but the feat astounded him. Small miracles stowed away.

  He pulled his hand out of the dirt and sat with his knees bunched to his chest. The pistol was in his waistband, the edge of the hammer pinching his side. With a squint and a bit of imagination, he could discern the cabin. Locus of those night terrors of his childhood. Why had he been forced to cross the gulf between the bedrooms in the dark to wake his parents? Why hadn’t his mother, in her celestial understanding, come to him? Why hadn’t she known the loneliness washing over him in those empty hours? It was selfishness to ask this, he knew, and yet the feeling had never left him. Even now he hoped his mother would walk out to find him in the field and guide him back to his bed. What kind of man felt this way? This cowardice was what had permitted Landry’s death. The truth was that there was nothing in him worth saving. He was a disgrace.