One Last Time

by Denise Daisy

  My mind torments me with dire thoughts that suggest a worst-case scenario, like what if something should happen to Quillan. I’d be doomed for sure, left to live out the remainder of my life in the 1800s, struggling in a world where I know no one. My mind goes crazy with a million hypothetical situations, pushing me to tears, when the sound of his voice calls me from my fearful stupor and back to reality. I’m thrilled to see him, and I am sure it’s written all over my face because his eyes sparkle and his mouth spreads into a wide grin. Damn it, Averie. I scold myself for letting my guard down.

  He unloads a few packages wrapped in brown paper and tied with string. He opens a burlap sack and hands me a warm loaf of bread, then sets out a jar of strawberry jam, a jar of honey, and a block of cheese wrapped in a soft cloth. My mouth waters and without thinking, I clap like a kid at Christmas. There goes my guard again. Next, he pulls out a flask. I’m wondering what his beverage of choice is. He catches my eye and grins. “Sorry, Ave, it’s clear water minus the sulfur.”

  I smile at him, thankful for his kindness, yet even happier he shortened my name. I break the bread, spread strawberry jam with my finger, and then lick it clean while I watch Quillan open the packages. He pulls out a hairbrush and dangles it in the air, taunting me. I laugh while I chew. We both know my hair is a mess. “Was it the first thing you bought?” I ask with my mouth full.

  “Sure was.” He winks at me, and his flirting makes my morning. He pulls out some hair ribbons and pins and lays them beside the brush. The next package he unwraps reveals silk stockings and a pair of low-heeled boots. I wince, not able to fathom sticking my sore feet inside those tiny-looking shoes. By the time he finishes unpacking his plunder, there is a dress, a pair of silk gloves, a parasol, a satin purse, some sweet-smelling perfume, a few pieces of jewelry, and clothes for him. No wonder it took so long.

  I hand Quillan a piece of bread dripping with honey. “So what’s your plan? Tell me how you intend on preventing James Faulkner from hanging Lunar.”

  “I don’t know,” he answers before shoving the entire piece of bread into his mouth.

  What? “What do you mean, you don’t know? I thought you had a plan.”

  “I do.” He wipes honey from his lip and then sucks it off his finger. “But I don’t have all my bases covered. My plan got us back here and will get us to the Faulkner Estate this evening. The rest we’ll have to play by ear.”

  I’m shaking my head in disbelief.

  “What are you afraid of?” he asks me.

  “Everything,” I reply with a sarcastic laugh.

  “Does it include trying?”

  Bam! He hit me hard with that one. “No.” I come to my own defense. “I’m not afraid to try some things. I guess it depends on what it is.”

  “Then you’re afraid of risk.”

  “What are you? Some kind of therapist?”

  “No.” He cuts two slices off the block of cheese with his pocketknife and hands me one. “I just knew someone like you once. Not taking a risk when they should have pretty much sealed their fate.”

  I nibble at my cheese before I come back with a smart-ass reply. “All I know is I took a risk last night. Now look where I am. I think taking a chance has sealed my fate.”

  “I see you’re one of those glass-half-empty people then. Great, I get stuck with a pessimist to help me change the future.”

  “How dare you! I’m not a pessimist. Believe me, I make the best of what life offers me. Unlike you, elitist on Mr. Brackett’s guest list, I don’t have a disposable income. I was working for the caterer, remember? You may be the wealthy grandson of a business tycoon who has nothing better to do with his spare millions than experimenting with time travel and collecting old money, but I’m not that privileged.

  “I am the abandoned daughter of a plastic surgeon who cheated on my mother over and over again with his wealthy, bitchy clients. I’m the daughter who lives in poverty because her mother had enough self-respect to leave the bastard, even if it meant being cut off financially and living in a small two-bedroom apartment, barely making ends meet. I’m the daughter who took a risk and went to her dad, begging him for financial help the day we got an eviction notice on our door, only to be turned away by his lying receptionist, who told me he was out of the office, when I clearly saw his BMW in the parking garage. I’m the daughter who can make a feast out of Top Ramen, make outdated clothes look trendy, and fake my way through a haircut and color at the salon, just to earn enough money to pay the rent while my mother is away. If anyone here knows how to survive, it’s me, so back off.”

  “Life is not about survival, Averie. It’s about living.”

  “Well, when I can stop worrying about things like eating and keeping the electricity on, or if I get to sleep in my bed one more night, then I’ll try living it up some. How’s that?”

  Quillan just stares at me. I glare back, feeling like I need to stand my ground and protect why I am the way I am. Even though I sometimes dislike myself for being so lame, I don’t like anyone else criticizing me. After a few minutes of close inspection, he interrupts the silence and suggests I get dressed while informing me he has secured us a room at the hotel.

  “We should go there and clean up before we attend the soiree at the Faulkner Estate this afternoon.” He begins unbuttoning his shirt. I’m mesmerized and force myself to turn away, fearing I might drool if I watch. I snatch up the dress he purchased and move behind a large boulder for some privacy.

  The dress is pretty, but I look like I am ready for trick or treat. There is enough fabric here for a bedspread, pillowcases, and matching drapes. I walk out from behind the rock and notice Quillan stealing a glance my way. Acting like I didn’t notice, I sit on the ground and begin pulling the silk stockings over my dirty feet. They snag against my chigger bites, giving me the chills like fingernails scratching on a chalkboard. I slip on the low-heeled boots and groan. They are much too narrow for my wide feet. My toes curl on top of each other, and I wish I’d trimmed my toenails earlier. I can just imagine how my rough nails will cut my toes. Standing, I dust the dirt from my dress and look at Quillan.

  “Your hair.” He hands me the brush.

  Sighing, I run it through my curls, but it fluffs my hair even more. I can see Quillan’s expression. He’s suppressing his laughter, I can tell. Heat starts in my neck and radiates up into my face. I am pretty sure my cheeks are blossoming into full color about now. I know I must look quite ridiculous. He, of course, is even more delicious in eighteenth-century attire. His suit coat hugs his chest in all the right places. I gather my massive mane in my hands, twist it a couple of times, secure it in a sloppy bun, and allow a few tendrils to escape the roundup. Quillan hands me the ribbons. I protest. “You gotta be kidding me.”

  He tilts his head in a way that encourages me to pin in the ribbons. How could this happen twice in less than twenty-four hours. First Mike, now Quillan. Tonight’s party better have a much more pleasant outcome.

  The walk to town proves miserable. For the life of me, I don’t see how women survived this time period. We should have become extinct years ago. It must be ninety degrees already, and here I am wearing a comforter and silk stockings, which are tickling my legs and making my chigger bites come alive and itch me to death. Plus, the most uncomfortable pair of boots I’ve ever shoved my feet into. I can’t take the heat any longer, so I lift my dress up high, holding it right below my hips.

  Quillan does a double take before shaking his head. “You can’t do that in public you know. And while we’re at it, you need to watch your language. Ladies don’t curse here, and you, my dear, have a potty mouth.”

  I gasp. “I do not have a potty mouth, thank you very much.”

  “Yes, you do,” he fires back.

  “Do not,” I proceed in childish banter.

  “Do, too. Why, I’ve counted several damns, a couple of hells, a bastard, and the word bitchy.”

  “Well shit!” I sa
y. “I didn’t realize I was cursing so damn much.”

  He shakes his head again and sighs. I grin and keep marching forward in my makeshift minidress.

  Chapter 12

  Everyone is looking at me as we walk along the wooden sidewalks toward the hotel. Perhaps it’s because I stick out like a sore thumb, wobbling in these tiny boots and tripping over the circus tent I’m wearing. Quillan slips his arm through mine, steadying me, and then whispers in my ear that we are registered at the hotel as Mr. and Mrs. Quillan Robison. Forget my wobbling feet. My knees buckle, and my stomach takes a nosedive. I desperately wish he’d cleared his bright idea with me first.

  We stop at the stables. Quillan suggests I wait outside while he rents us a carriage. I’m more than happy to oblige. I have no desire to stroll among the horse dung. From where I’m standing, I can already smell manure. A rustic bench draws my attention. I try making my way over there as graceful as I can, hoping it’s downwind of the shit. I take a seat, and my dress covers the entire bench. I’ve worked up a sweat, and now streams of perspiration are running down my legs, soaking my stockings and tickling the chigger bites. The air is hot and muggy. There hasn’t been a breeze all day. I can’t remember a time when I’ve been more miserable. With one hand, I lean over and claw my legs. With the other, I open my satin purse and pull out my fan. I try to cool my heated face and tingling legs while I wait and watch the people on the street. If I didn’t know any better, I’d swear I was on a movie set, waiting for the director to shout “action.” A few years ago, Hollywood came to town and filmed some scenes of a movie set in Charleston. Momma suggested we drive over and watch. The casting people were asking locals to sign up as extras. Momma encouraged me to do it but, of course, I was too nervous, so I just watched everybody else have fun. Later, I hated myself for not having the balls to do it.

  The street is buzzing with activity. As far as I can pick up by the snippets of conversation, everyone is excited about tonight’s garden party at the Faulkner Estate. I overhear a couple of women discussing the dresses they will be wearing. Hundreds of years and some things never change. I guess women will always be concerned about looking their best and impressing people who don’t really matter. I smooth the fabric on my new dress. Like prom night, this picnic must be the social event of the year. Thanks to Quillan, I have something pretty to wear.

  The humidity hanging in the air is unbearable. I shift on the hard wooden bench as tiny beads of perspiration race down my legs while I stew in the sun. Flies from the stable swarm around my face, drawn to the sweat. I smack the annoying little boogers away with my fan. I’m not sure if it’s my arm pits or the stench coming from the stables but something around me is beginning to reek. God, this is agonizing.

  What’s taking him so long? I crane my neck hoping to see him emerge from the stables. Instead, I gasp when I catch a glimpse of the same muscular African American man from the tunnel coming out of the feed store next door with a heavy burlap bag flung over his shoulder. He’s a handsome guy, built to perfection. He loads the heavy bag of grain into the back of a wagon for an overweight gentleman leaning on an ornate walking cane and puffing on a big cigar. A pregnant black woman, holding a couple of brown-paper packages like the ones Quillan brought to the cave, appears from the stables. She’s waddling my way and stops beside my bench. She seems to be exhausted, as if she might faint. Beads of sweat trickle out from under a drenched scarf tied around her head. Her eyes look heavy, and she is swaying back and forth as she attempts to balance the packages. One thing my momma always taught me is good manners, one being, never sit when the elderly or pregnant are standing.

  “Here, ma’am.” I manage to stand up on my throbbing feet. “Take my seat. You look like you can use it more than me.”

  My little bench is her oasis in the middle of a desert, but she refuses to sit. She stares at me but says nothing. Maybe she’s so delirious she thinks I’m a mirage. The packages are first to fall, hitting the dirt and stirring up the dust. She had better do something, or she might keel over any minute now.

  “Do you need some help?” I collect the packages from the ground and lay them on the bench. I help her sit, but I can’t tell if she’s grateful or having a heat stroke. As hot as it is, I figure it’s the latter of the two. I remember the flask Quillan brought me, so I pull it out of my fancy silk bag and unscrew the cap. When I put the container to her lips, a portly man with a belly resembling a potbellied stove waddles our way, flapping his arms and ranting about something. At first, I think he might be trying to stop me from giving a pregnant woman liquor, so I am quick to tell him there’s only water inside the flask.

  “I don’t care what it is!” he yells at me. His face resembles a stewed tomato. “She’s not supposed to sit on our benches, let alone drink from a white person’s flask.” He turns to the woman who appears terrified. “Get up! You know better than that!” Taking his walking cane, he jabs her in the belly, prodding her to move. I’m appalled. Without thinking, I grab hold of his cane, an action he’s not expecting, and easily remove it from his chubby fingers.

  “How dare you!” His beady eyes flash in anger while he wags his finger in my face.

  “How dare you!” I yell right back at him and then use his cane to poke him in the belly. “How does it feel, huh? Not too good, does it? You’re not even pregnant, even though you look like you are ready to pop a baby out any minute now.”

  We have an audience now. From my peripheral, I see people gathering around, interested in what the commotion is about. Quillan comes bolting out of the stables, not looking happy. “Everything all right, Averie?” He takes my hand.

  “Is this woman your wife?” Mr. Potbellied Stove drawls out his question.

  “Yes, she is.” Quillan stares back, standing his ground.

  “Well, it seems to me your wife is a Negro sympathizer. I’ve half a mind to file a report with—”

  “You have half a mind, all right,” I say. Quillan squeezes my hand so tight my knuckles crack, but it still doesn’t keep me quiet. “And I’ll file a report, too, stating you caused bodily harm to a pregnant woman, endangering her unborn child by jabbing her in the stomach with your walking stick!”

  I can hear the murmuring in the crowd. I believe Mr. Potbelly must envision himself on a platform because he becomes over animated, no doubt striving to give the performance of a lifetime. He laughs and throws his hands up in the air. “File a report with whom? That Negro is my property, as well as the varmint growing inside her. If I want to jab a hole in it, it’s my right to do so.”

  Rage detonates inside of me, shaking my body. I’m ready to duke it out with Potbelly when Quillan squeezes my hand as a warning to keep quiet, yet everything inside me screams in protest.

  “What about her rights you dumb ass!” I say, drawing a mixture of gasps and laughter from the crowd.

  “Her rights?” Potbelly bellows, joining the crowd in amusement. “She’s a Negro. She ain’t got no rights.”

  “Well it’s a damn shame,” I say. The women in the crowd cover their mouths and gasp. “I seriously can’t believe how ignorance runs rampant here. Every one of you should hang your head in shame. This isn’t right, and the thing is, you know it, but none of you have the courage to do a damn thing about it.”

  Quillan’s had enough and begins pulling me away from the crowd. As I toss Potbelly’s walking stick in the dirt, I notice the black guy who’d been loading the sacks of grain. His eyes are fierce, boring holes into me. The peculiar way he’s looking at me causes my skin to crawl.

  Mr. Potbelly grabs his walking stick, giving the woman a whack on her back before climbing up on his wagon. I want to clobber Potbelly, but Quillan has a solid hold of my arm. I can tell by the way he’s breathing that he is upset.

  “Take me home.” Potbelly wiggles his lard ass on the seat. His driver nods his head. The muscular black guy begins to help the woman in the back of the wagon, but before he can lift her inside,
Potbelly protests, “I think she got her rest when she sat on the bench. She can walk home behind the wagon today.” The guy drops his head and closes his eyes. The side of his face pulsates as he bites down hard on his jaw. The young woman gives him a slight pat on the forearm, speaking volumes with her quiet gesture.

  “Leave her be, Lunar!” Potbelly bellows as he eases back on his seat.

  As the wagon pulls away, Lunar Wilson turns his head toward me, throwing me one last unforgiving look.

  Chapter 13

  Quillan keeps his peace until we’re in the privacy of our room. Shoving the wooden bolt lock in place, he secures the door, and then turns his narrow eyes on me. “Fine time to find your courage,” he says, not looking too happy.

  “That wasn’t courage. That was common sense.” I cross my arms in front of me. “I couldn’t sit there and let a pregnant woman pass out from heat exhaustion. I’m sorry, but my momma raised me better. I’m surprised you’re okay with it!”

  “I’m not okay with it, Ave.” He shortened my name again. “But I have a bigger mission on my hands right now, and your public antics could cost me the opportunity.”

  “Public antics?” I bat my eyes while fanning my face like the Southern bell I’m dressed as. “Well, sir, I was simply offering my seat and a cold drink of water.” I don’t think he saw me jab potbelly in the stomach. I’m certainly not going to mention it right now.

  Not finding the humor in my charade, he comes at me fast. His eyes flash as he grabs my shoulders and pushes me up against the wall. “Like I said last night, you’re in way over your head. You have no clue what’s at stake, or why I’ve spent years trying to come back here. We are dealing with the future of many lives, yours included. If you want to make it back home, then quit screwing around and making a game of it.”