“He did it!” Jackson say. “He said Dada!”
“He did not say Dada,” Josey says, laughing.
“You’re just jealous he said Dada before Momma.”
“He didn’t.”
“Say Dada again so Momma stay jealous,” Jackson say. “Or say, Rachel.”
He don’t.
“What about me?” Sissy say. “You ain’t gon’ teach him ‘Nana’?”
“Aw, Momma, we just messing around. And you know, ‘Momma’ or ‘Dada’ ’posed to come first, anyway?”
“First, huh? If I recall, I was first. Been here first a long time. Ain’t I family, too?”
Jackson smiles, understanding something, and goes slowly to his momma, aching from sitting too long. He limps up the porch to Sissy and hugs her stiffened body. “Is that what this is about, Momma?”
“You turned on me, Jackson?” Sissy say.
“Aw, Momma. You are first. The only momma I got.”
Sissy snorts.
She stayed on the porch mumbling to herself and watching Jackson and his family hold hands and walk in a circle, singing, “Ring a ring a roses. We all fall down.” No one noticed when she went inside. They fall backward at once, laughing, and Jackson kissing Josey, more passionate than he should for the light of day or for children around. Embarrassing.
“Let’s play another game,” Jackson say, smiling slyly at Josey. “Rachel, you and Squiggy hide and me and your momma come find you soon.”
“Hide?” Rachel say.
“Thas the game,” Jackson say. “You and Squiggy hide and me and Momma come look for you and find you.”
Rachel grabs Squiggy’s arm and they take off running, veering right behind the house. After a moment Squiggy comes back on his own, and finds a side-lying barrel out front to climb into.
“Funny how he understands what we tell him,” Josey say.
“People don’t need to talk to be able to understand,” Jackson say. “More people should be like him.”
Jackson pulls her close and kisses her deeply.
Way back near the tree line of the woods, a sway of trees gets my attention. I haven’t felt winds all day. I stay still and watch the spot. The tree limbs creep open, then shake closed. I go to the spot where I think it happened—close enough—and wait for it to happen again.
The bushes part to the left of me and a white man stands in the space watching Josey and Jackson. He’s in a uniform. An old Confederate one.
He sees Jackson and Josey and turns around running through the woods. I chase after him but after two miles, he’s still running fast as he can and only slows when we get about a hundred yards from an opening in the woods. On the other side of the opening is the top of a tent, and smoke is rising from a smothered-out fire. I rush ahead of Josey’s snooper to the signs of life.
Two more soldiers are there.
One’s fat, one’s skinny.
They’re wearing faded gray uniforms and sitting on logs, cleaning guns. But Fatty startles at the sound of Snooper’s approach. He stands quick and drops his cleaned gun for another one in his trousers. Skinny do, too. Both of ’em point their pistols at the edge of the forest and before Snooper emerges, Fatty shoots, tearing the bark off the tree to the right of Snooper’s head.
Snooper waves his arms, stomping out from between the trees, still moving toward ’em, like he ain’t bothered by bullets. “This whole damn place gone crazy!”
Fatty and Skinny lower their pistols. “We didn’t know it was you, Boss,” Fatty say.
“It’s madness!” Snooper say. “The devil’s work, that’s what! He’s alive and well in Alabama!”
From behind the tent comes a third man, another soldier in butternut-colored trousers and he’s closing the last button on his gray coat. His soldier suit got gold stars and a wreath sewn into each side of his up-perched collar. “Colonel,” all the men say, saluting him.
There’s a disquiet here.
I feel it immediate.
Like walking into a room of somebody else’s best friends and when they see a stranger, everybody gets quiet.
A pack. The killing kind. Bonded by some hunger.
“What do you have to report?” Colonel say to Snooper.
“A nigger and a white woman, sir. They was kissing and hugging up on each other. Everything’s all gone to hell, that’s what,” Snooper say.
Colonel shifts his trousers, signals to Fatty for his pistol. He say, “So what are you going to do about it, soldier?”
“Are they outlaws, sir?” Fatty say, giving Colonel his pistol.
His question makes Colonel red-faced. “Do you know what negroes do?” Colonel say, disgusted. “And what that nigger is doing to that white woman in bed right now? Sending our great nation to hell, is what. Next thing you know they’ll want to marry. First, the government takes our property and rights and give it to niggers and then they give ’em our women, too.” He cocks his pistol. “I’ll show you what I’m going to do about it.”
47 / JUDGMENT
Conyers, Georgia, 1848
IT’S PITCH BLACK down here tonight.
Mostly.
Only a teardrop from this candle keeps the light low—more wick than wax. And the light from the saloon above is sprinkling down on me.
Cynthia made me close the latched door in the bathroom floor ’cause she say these nosey women like to wander. So it’s gon’ take me forever to put these bottles of whiskey away since it’s dark and I can hardly see. I finished the first rows—the letters A through E—put the pretty ones up front, like I wanted.
I sit here on my knees trying to read the shadows of labels, and wedge open the last cart of liquor. I run my tiny light across the first labels . . . doggone, another C, Cognac. Means I got to move the bottles again.
Dogs is barking loud outside, just beyond the porch, and men’s voices are mixing in with ’em. I crawl over to the stuck-shut side door and peek through the gaps. The men there are tying their dogs to the porch.
Up in the parlor, Johnny’s shooting marbles and Cynthia’s still in her wedding dress, sitting on a stool, drying a glass.
Two of the men run up the parlor steps. A third set of clicking heels trail behind. Their knocks slam at the door all together.
“Sam,” Cynthia yells to the door. “You got the key. I ain’t gettin up.”
“Open up!” a man’s voice say.
“We ain’t open,” Cynthia yell back. One of ’em kicks the door.
“What the hell’s wrong with you!” Cynthia say. “I said we ain’t open.”
“Cynthia!” the man say again, this time his kick almost moves the door open.
She hops up and I rush to see through the slats in the floor. She tell Johnny, “Go to your room and go to sleep. I’ll be there directly.” Cynthia grabs her pistol from behind the bar, puts it in her garter.
“Open up!” the man say.
Cynthia fixes her hair, sets two glasses on a table, and picks up a bottle of gin on the way to the door. She opens it calmly, relieved when she see ’em: Henry and Ray, and Bobby Lee follows ’em in wearing a patch on his eye now.
“Aw, damn,” Cynthia say. “It’s just y’all. Why you got to kick my shit? Bamming on the door like you the law.”
She picks up the drinking glasses from the table with her fingers, takes ’em back to the bar. When she sets ’em down, she notices the men’s silence. She pauses. Breathes. She says over her shoulder, “Ain’t it a little late for you boys? Surprised y’all ain’t at Sweeny’s, Bobby Lee. Bernadette told me how y’all regulars down there now.”
Cynthia picks up the drinking glasses again. She takes out two more and brings all four to the table in front of them with a bottle of gin. Ray and Henry take out their pistols.
“What’s goin on here, Bobby Lee?” Cynthia say. “Y’all here to rob me?”
Ray and Henry start searching the saloon and disappear toward the gambling parlor while Bobby Lee waits.
He don’t say nothing.
&nbs
p; Ray and Henry come back from the locked parlor door, then Ray starts back through the hallway toward the sleeping quarters and bathroom. “There’s too many doors,” Ray yells back up the hall and comes back to the saloon with Henry and Bobby Lee.
“We can do this the hard way,” Ray say, “and disturb everybody in here, or the easy way.”
Cynthia steps away from ’em, pulls her gun from her garter as she does, and points it across ’em.
“I got my child in here,” she say. “So if by easy you mean I take down at least two of ya, then easy. I ain’t gon’ let y’all rob me or hurt nobody in here.”
“We not robbing you,” Bobby Lee say.
“Where is she?” Ray say.
“Who?” Cynthia say.
“That nigra girl you used to keep here.”
I don’t move.
“What you want her for?” Cynthia lowers her gun and slides into one of the hard chairs above me to the left. Her shadow blocks the light from my eyes. I got to stay still. Don’t want my floor to make a noise.
She pours four shots of gin. “Is this about my party, Bobby Lee? I swear y’all’s invitation was in the post.”
Henry stutters, “D-don’t m-mess around, Cynthia. We know she here.”
“Left months ago,” Cynthia say.
THE HOOVES OF Confederate horses click over mud-set stones while their riders—Fatty, Skinny, Snooper, and Colonel—let their horses’ struts take over their sway. They ride slow and cautious through the tunnel of vines where Squiggy and Rachel chased turkeys into the thick.
“I swear it was down here,” Snooper say.
A quick movement from the ground makes ’em grab their pistols and point ’em at the forest floor where George is. He’s resting against a tree with his mouth wide open, snoring. Fatty taps Colonel and Colonel signals the others to stop.
Colonel jumps down from his horse and with his weapon drawn, he kicks George’s boot.
“Boy?” Colonel say.
George flinches but don’t wake up.
“Boy!”
George opens his eyes and blinks through the haze, squints at Colonel, then proceeds to take his time yawning and stretching his arms high and wide, cracking his back, straining, say, “How do, Colonel?”
Colonel lowers his pistol and slides it in his trousers. “You a soldier, boy?” he say.
“I much more prefer the title, man of leisure. Bum knee kept me from the ‘honor’ of war, of course.”
“That so?” Colonel say. “I’ve seen one-armed men fight a hell of a fight for this great nation. Real heroes. And men like yourself, full of excuse and leisure, are insults to the Confederacy.”
George wobbles hisself up. “If you don’t mind me saying, Colonel . . . war been over a long time. And you and your one-armed men lost for all us. Thanks for nothing.”
Colonel throws George against the tree and George laughs, flopping from side to side. Colonel lets him go. “You’re drunk,” Colonel say.
“Naw, sir. I’m George and you are on my land.”
Colonel say, “We’re looking for a white woman and a negro. They call themselves a couple.”
George burps as he starts his sentence. “The only white woman ’round here is my sister. But now that you mention it,” he say, “free negroes are more uppity than caught ones—talk how they want, sleep all day, and yep, probably take our women.” George bends over a little, then thrusts his hips forward, back and then forth, making a humping motion. “And screw ’em like this.”
Colonel slams George against the tree and this time George cries a pitiful “Ow,” laughing all the while. “I promise you, Colonel,” he say. “I ain’t worth your time.”
“We may have lost the war, boy, but the law still the law. God’s law.”
George holds up his hands like he surrender, “Fine. Fine,” and brushes his clothes straight. “Since you and your . . . battalion seem like reasonable men, I think you’re looking for Josephine and Jackson. Down the road a ways to the clearing. Bout a half mile on the right. A big new road points the way.”
Colonel signals to his soldiers and hops up on his horse.
“What y’all planning to do?” George say. “My sister Annie isn’t going to let you just come on her property taking things. You, of all people, should respect that.”
Fatty spits on George’s forehead and George wipes it off while the men trot up the road ahead. George slides back down on the tree, opens his flask and drinks.
IN THE SALOON above me, Henry’s angry. He’s already searched behind the piano, under the tables. Flipped two. “We know you keep that nigra girl hiding here,” Henry say.
“It’s best you tell us where she is,” Ray say. “Save the damages.”
Cynthia holds up a glass. “Gin’s your poison? Ain’t that right, Bobby Lee?” She pours it in her just-dried glass, offers it to him but he don’t take it.
She leans back in her chair, her legs fall open, for sale again. “Why y’all want her when you can have me?”
“Go outside to the workshop,” Ray say to Henry. “Check the shed and the blacksmith’s place.”
I watch Henry go down the porch steps and disappear into the darkness on the way to Albert’s. I still don’t move.
Cynthia twirls the gin in her glass. “I ain’t never known you to refuse a drank, Bobby Lee.”
“She killed old Charlie Shepard,” he say.
“Mr. Shepard?” Cynthia say. “Somebody killed Charlie?”
“This afternoon . . . butchered.”
Cynthia sets the glass down, holds the table.
“It was somebody he knew,” he say.
“I can’t believe somebody would hurt Mr. Shepard,” she say.
“Had to know whoever did it ’cause he let ’em in the house . . . let her in.”
“Her? You think that little girl did this? You ask Soledad about that?”
“She told us she seen the girl running from her house just before she found him. Said Mr. Shepard figured out she was the one who killed those in Faunsdale. He was gonna turn her in.”
“Naomi?” Cynthia said in disbelief.
“What you call her?” Ray say.
“Y’all crazy if you think that girl killed Mr. Shepard.”
“Read the paper yourself,” Bobby Lee says, tossing the wanted ad on the table. “Soledad said it’s the girl.”
Cynthia glances at it. Recognition slides across her face. “That ain’t her.” She picks up her glass, sips her gin.
“You know lies got consequences, Cynthia.”
“Then why don’t you go after the liar who’s accusin.”
“Soledad?” Bobby Lee say. “Couldn’t hurt a fly.”
“She’s pregnant, you know that?” Cynthia say. “The innocent girl you trying to kill, Bobby Lee. She’s with child.”
“Don’t listen to her, Bobby Lee,” Ray say. “She just try’n to make you soft.”
“You had a family, didn’t you, Bobby Lee? A baby? A wife? Is that right?”
“Everybody heard his family got kilt,” Ray say. “Point is, niggers can’t go ’round killing white folk. Even the rumor of it got to be dealt wit. And ain’t nobody gon’ miss a nigger.”
Cynthia sips her gin again. “Then like I said, she ain’t here.”
The floorboard squeaks under my foot and Ray looks down at me. His dark eyes get stuck on me but I don’t move.
Another squeak.
Ray takes out his pistol. He signals the others to be quiet while he sneaks to the bar, then rushes behind it. Cynthia closes her eyes like she praying it ain’t me.
“Aw, man,” Ray say. “You damn near got yourself killed, boy.”
Johnny whimpers there. Cynthia goes around the bar and grabs Johnny, yells, “I told you to go to bed!”
He’s not crying but Cynthia say to Johnny, “No, no, don’t cry,” and pulls him into her body and walks with him to the middle of the room above me. She kneels down where I can see her face and tells Johnny out loud,
“I’m sorry. I shouldn’t be yelling at you,” then hugs him, strokes the back of his head, looks down toward me, and slides her eyes toward the under-porch door that’s all the way across my room. But I already know that door’s stuck and there ain’t no way to get across the floor quiet.
I shake my head at her. They’ll hear me if I open it. But she cain’t see me. Johnny rubs his eyes and walks sleepy up the hall.
“We all know about the story from the papers,” Ray say. “Those black folk murdered in Faunsdale. The owner. That girl did ’em. Just like she did Mr. Shepard.”
Cynthia picks up a new bottle of liquor from over the bar. She say, “You been spending a lot of time with Soledad, ain’t you, Bobby Lee? Visiting her when Charlie was away. How do we know you ain’t the one that done it?”
I’VE BEEN MOVING fast as I can to get to Josey before these soldiers do. I find her diving into a pile of leafs with Rachel so when the wind of my hurry meets ’em, the spray of leafs that follow go unnoticed. Squiggy and Jackson take my flied-away ones and throw ’em back on top of the girls, burying ’em under.
I yell to Josey, “Run!” but she don’t hear me. “Josey!” I say, beating the ground with my feet.
Rachel grabs Josey’s arm, say, “Momma? You hear that?”
“Hear what, baby?”
“Somebody calling you.”
Josey listens. Waits. “Just the wind,” she say.
“Or my belly screaming it’s time to eat,” Jackson say, throwing Squiggy over his shoulder on the way to the house.
“WHERE IS SHE, Cynthia?” Ray say.
Cynthia laughs and lays her pistol on the countertop. “Who?”
“Stop playin’ games,” Ray say. “We know she here.”
“Is this what you want, Bobby Lee?” Cynthia say. “For a innocent person to get punished?”
“I’m just doing my job,” he say.
“Why does injustice always got to start with those five words? You say that like it’s a game. One of them games where nobody gets hurt. Well, I like games, too, Bobby Lee.”
“I’m gon’ check these rooms,” Ray say, heading down the hall.
“Help yourself,” Cynthia say, leaning back. “The girls back there might be busy. Maybe you’ll get a show. Then again, there’s Albert. Maybe he’s heard y’all come in. Maybe he got a bullet waiting for you behind one of them doors. You say black folks off killing white folk. Maybe it’s your lucky day.”
Grace Page 31
