Alice felt she should make a speech but couldn’t find anything to say except, “I’ll miss you too.”
On the whole, they seemed unusually solemn, maybe because with her departure they watched their old lives leave as well. In a month of changes, they could see this one with their own eyes. Alice also looked them over. For the first time, she saw every face and body. It made her guilty now to see their sunken cheeks and tattered clothing. In contrast, she had remained well-fed and impeccably dressed, at least when she took an interest in herself. There was no doubt that they were more self-sufficient than she could ever be—her reliance on the Teferas for traveling was evidence enough of that—but she wondered if the freedmen would as tattered and dirty if they had lived on a plantation with a less aloof and indifferent mistress.
She hung her head for a moment. Sighed.
When it was time to go, Jonah brought around the mule cart, into which he’d stowed their belongings alongside Alice’s trunk. She noticed that some of the bundles were tied with the same odd combinations of knots that had been used in the slave quilts—five square knots, one on top of the other—and the angel’s wings inside her fluttered as she stared at them, sensing the protective incantations at work in them.
Eliza emerged from the crowd amid a sea of hands trying to touch her one last time. Some were crying. Others watched her take her seat by Jonah in alarm, apparently just learning that the Teferas were leaving too. Alice now recalled that her cooks were also these people’s spiritual leaders—the “shouters.”
There was only room for two to sit up front, so Alice sat in back. This more than anything affirmed for her their change of status to that of equals, and it drew looks of surprise. But that’s the way things were destined, apparently. She would ask the Teferas to cook for her during the trip, but only because she didn’t have the skill to do it for herself. Jonah flicked the reins, and the cart jostled forward. A breeze brought the smell of roses and orange blossoms.
The freedmen launched into song, as they always seemed to do when gathered together. It was the usual call-and-response format, and the crowd immediately knew which song the cantor began.
“Jesus callin’ ’cross the water.”
“JESUS CALLIN’, ‘COME TO ME.’”
The lyrics were appropriate but discomfiting, as hymns usually were for her. She closed her eyes and concentrated on the rocking of the cart as it rolled along the ruts.
“He be callin’ ’cross the Jordan.”
“JESUS CALLIN, ‘COME TO ME.’”
“He be callin’, take you homeward.”
“JESUS CALLIN, ‘COME TO ME.’”
“He be callin’—”
A rough voice crashed through the air: “Alice? Alice!”
She opened her eyes and looked at the sky. Was she imagining it? Was that Jesus?
“Alice,” the voice cried again. “I see you there. Where are you off to?”
The song caught in the singers’ throats, and they looked at her questioningly—no, past her. As the mule cart also stopped, she heard Eliza’s sharp intake of breath.
Jonah said, “What in Lord’s name?”
When Alice sat up in the cart and looked forward, her guts heaved as if she’d been thrown down a flight of stairs.
Thorton Brooksford Norwick—torn, muddy, gaunt—rode his horse toward them from the opposite direction. He smiled with rotted teeth.
Chapter 10
Just a shadow of a man now: thin and scarred, and with a scab clinging to his left temple. But Thorne was substantial enough for Alice to stare at him in dumb shock as he rode closer. He looked uncomfortable as he took in the sight of his wife in the back of a cart driven by his two best servants, being serenaded by a huge throng of negroes.
Feeling dizzy, Alice croaked, “Thorne?”
“Of course,” he said. He looked everywhere at once, obviously nervous. “Who else would I be?”
She couldn’t meet his eyes. “I—” she began, “we were—” How could she explain what she was doing? She burst into tears. “Oh, Thorne.”
“It’s, uh, good to see you too,” he said. His expression darkened when he sided closer on his horse and saw the luggage. “Were you leaving me?”
Trembling, Alice said, “I was going to spend the summer at cousin Jamison’s. I haven’t seen him in years.” And neither have I seen you, she wanted to add but couldn’t summon the courage. Thankfully, Jonah and Eliza kept their eyes averted.
The crowd, recovering from its initial shock at seeing the old master again, sounded like a pit of snakes as everyone began whispering.
Obie Redger came forward, eyes wide with surprise. “Thorne? By God, how have you been?”
Alice glared at Obie, expecting him to expose her lie, but he didn’t appear to have heard her.
The two men talked for several minutes, Obie periodically touching Thorne’s stirrup as if to confirm that he was really present, while Alice simply stared in horror.
Why don’t you just reach out of the sky and end my life? she thought to Jesus. Or is this your way of more slowly snuffing the flame?
Of course, Thorne showed twice as much affection for Obie as he did for his own wife. He even reached down to shake the overseer’s hand. As the men talked, Alice quietly asked Jonah to turn the cart around. He was hanging his head low, defeat radiating off of him, and said nothing as he obeyed. A single sob escaped Eliza’s throat. The crowd, parting to let them through, watched with mixtures of relief and sorrow. Shaking their heads, they headed home. Some cried and cast worried looks at Thorne.
Still out on the trail, Thorne and Obie talked loudly, oblivious to everything else.
“What happened to the house?” Thorne was saying. “Christ, Alice really let it fall apart, didn’t she?”
Wiping her eyes, she wished she could sink into the ground. Just as the cart was about to disappear around the corner on the way to the Tefera cabin, the men’s conversation fell silent. She knew Obie had just snitched on her about trying to leave.
“Alice?” Thorne called, but she was already out of sight. In the hush, however, she still heard him say, “Bah, I’ll talk to her later.”
As Eliza commenced unloading their belongings, Jonah carried Alice’s trunk into the house. The two cooks walked as if hauling chains—and might as well have been. She wanted to say something to them, anything, such as, “I’m so sorry this happened,” or, “I’m sorry you can’t have your dreams on account of me,” but it seemed weak and might make them resent her more.
Covering her face, Alice trudged inside. Well, at least the Teferas could still leave—perhaps in a few months, when the dust of the War had settled into a stabler footpath for ex-slaves. She, on the other hand …
“Food!” Thorne bellowed as he came in through the front doors. Alice sidestepped into the drawing room so he wouldn’t encounter her. “Where are my cooks? Someone make me lunch!”
In minutes, the house was full of servants that Obie Redger had summoned there. One got to work pouring him a bath, and another, trembling and stuttering slave-like “yes’m”s and “no’sm”s, offered Thorne a glass of cold well water. The War might be over, and the slaves might be slaves no longer, but Thorne had no qualms about ordering them around as if they were still his property. Alice’s heart sank as she saw the looks of devastation on their faces. His complaining and ordering didn’t let up for a moment. Servant feet pounded through the house, rushing to do this or that.
As Thorne went upstairs to his bath, Alice retreated to the dining room mirror. The woman she saw looked dead and empty. She probed herself with the angel’s wings, hoping the self-absorption would make her feel better as it usually did. Her old recipe for comfort: one part psychic introspection, two parts resignation. But now it made her feel worse. In fact, she wished she could avoid awareness of her thoughts completely: that she didn’t love him, and that she’d just been robbed of her freedom. If she tried to leave now, Thorne would certainly go into a mad frenzy chasing
down his escaped “property” (no high-blown emancipations for mere wives).
And was escape even the proper course anymore? Her main reason for going, after all, had been to seek out Christ and surrender to Him. That had not changed. Christ had only sent Thorne back today to preclude any of the mitigating pleasure she might have felt by returning home.
Sighing, she went outside to examine the gear Thorne had dumped on the porch. Besides his weapons, which were already stored safely inside the house, Thorne possessed one of each: hat, shirt, pants, drawers, shoes, socks, wool blanket, rubber blanket and a tin cup. He must have walked in naked, she thought. His haversack smelled of a stinky mixture of bacon, salt, sugar, coffee, tea, rice, desiccated vegetables, and rotten meat. Over the swing, he’d draped a shredded uniform jacket—Confederate gray, of course—trimmed with the yellow of cavalry and with a colonel’s two stars on collar and sleeve. She would have given her own hair never to be standing here seeing it. If only she’d left yesterday!
Tiring—tired of everything—Alice climbed the stairs. She peered into Thorne’s bedroom, where he was bathing. He sat in the metal tub with his back to her, still wearing his hat. He hummed loudly and tunelessly as he scrubbed. No fat left on him. His ribs pushed against his skin. When he was done, he would probably start yelling again for his food.
She remembered the days before he left, when he would enter the bedroom unannounced and commence his breeding—it hadn’t been lovemaking. Unlike him, however, Alice now knocked before stepping in.
He didn’t hear her. He continued to hum out of tune, which was odd for him. Before the War, he’d been a wonderful singer, leading his drinking buddies in loud choruses on the few occasions that he hosted a gathering. Then again, since she had never been present in the room with them—having never been invited—she might have mistakened someone else’s voice for his. In any event, she was still touched by the lyrics that now drifted in and out of his tune:
“Dearest love, do you remember, when we last did meet, how you told me that you loved me, kneeling at my feet? Oh, how proud you stood before me, in your suit of gray, when you …” He trailed off for a moment, apparently forgetting the lyrics, then glossed over the gap with “dah dah daah”s before hitting the chorus: “Weeping, sad and lonely, hopes and fears how vain. When the cruel war is over, praying that we meet again.”
Taking the words as a good sign, Alice stepped around front.
Thorne screamed and jumped half out of the tub. His hat fell off to hang by the string around his neck, and water sloshed onto the floor. “Good Jesus Christ, woman! To think I might let my guard down at home. Jesus!”
Alice was stunned by the words but quickly shook them off. Thorne must have forgotten what effect the J-word had on her, if he even cared. “I’m sorry. I knocked before I came in. I … I just wanted to see if you need anything.”
Still huffing, he replaced his hat upon his head. “A razor and honing strap would be nice.”
“I’ll have them fetched immediately.”
Unsure what else to say, she turned to leave. Thorne stopped her with: “So, how have you been?”
She paused, and then sat down on a chair. “I’ve been well—for the most part.” She wiped her runny nose.
Thorne raised his eyebrows.
“It’s been hard with you gone. I can’t—couldn’t take it anymore.” Her eyes filled with tears. “Are you angry I was leaving?”
“A little.”
It wasn’t the answer Alice expected, and it hung oddly in the air. Was he only “a little” mad because he empathized or because he didn’t care? Alice hoped it was the former.
“But I’m madder’n hell you lied about going to your cousin’s,” Thorne added. “Why did you lie?”
“I was ashamed.”
“Ashamed of losing faith in me? Yes, you should be.”
Taking a breath, he leaned back in the tub, resting his arms over the lip. He made no effort to hide his nakedness. Alice felt not the slightest stirring of arousal or any other affection for him. If she was ashamed of anything, it was of that.
“You should’ve known I was alive and coming home,” Thorne said.
“I should have, but I didn’t.” Her nose suddenly clearing, Alice stood and walked away from him. With her back turned, she said, “I haven’t heard from you in four years. You treat your overseer better than me.”
“What? I didn’t hear that last part.”
Taking that as a gibe, Alice faced him again—but was surprised when his expression showed no irritation. Maybe he really hadn’t heard her. She repeated herself in a more controlled tone: “I said I haven’t heard from you since you left.”
Looking up from her lips, Thorne appeared shocked. “But I wrote everyday. You received nothing?”
“Nothing.”
He stared dully into space, slackjawed. “My God. You must have thought I was dead.”
Alice hesitated, unsure whether he was telling the truth—but she wasn’t about to wake up the volatile angel’s wings to find out.
Again, she told herself that his reappearance was a sign from Christ, indicating how to end her long ordeal. In spite of her animosity for Thorne, she knew she had better find a way to connect to him. Whether he acted consciously or unconsciously, she realized that Thorne was to be her savior—a way to bridge the gap of sin separating her from Christ.
“No, now that I think of it, that can’t excuse your actions,” Thorne continued. “I understand your position, but you had no confirmation I was dead. What you told Obie to do with my estate—and that letter—is inexcusable.”
She blinked. “What?”
“I don’t have a written will, Alice. That letter you wrote for Obie would’ve been read, and I would’ve had to sue my own overseer for my property.”
Water poured off him as he stood up. Not bothering with the towel draped over the chair, Thorne stepped out of the tub and approached. She was startled to see his penis growing erect.
“I used to shoot deserters. And you tried to desert our marriage. You need reminding of what your place is.”
“Thorne, what—”
Grabbing her shoulders, he spun her around and forced her to her knees. “Bend over.” He lifted her skirt.
Alice resisted at first by saying, “No!” and trying to move away. But Thorne knew how to handle her—perhaps he’d done this before—and easily pulled her toward him.
She tried not to think about Forney and the rape. This isn’t the same. He’s my husband. This isn’t the same!
She stopped resisting when she reminded herself that Thorne was her salvation. She wished she would become pregnant this time, if that’s what Thorne wanted. And maybe this could be fanned into a real relationship. Anything to end her pain. Compared to it, the agony she felt now of his penis tearing into her dry vagina was nothing. His fingers felt like wet claws digging into her back.
Thorne’s thoughts entered her, her telepathy extracting them from the raw energy oozing from his pores and penis: no, he hadn’t sent her any letters at all during the War. Not one damn letter. It was just something he’d told the bitch—that is, her—to pacify her.
Grunting and laughing, Thorne yanked her hair savagely, pulling her head back like a horse. Forced to stare at the ceiling but seeing Heaven beyond it, she sobbed once, tearlessly.
At one point, footsteps sounded on the other side of the closed door. She heard the person stop and listen to Thorne’s grunting. There was a gasp—Eliza’s gasp—and plateware crashed on the floor. Thorne didn’t even flinch.
At last, Alice figured out that the son of a bitch had come home deaf, probably from the noise of gunfire.
✽ ✽ ✽
The mess was gone from the hallway when she finally emerged. She leaned on the stair rail as she went downstairs. With her free hand, she bunched her skirt between her legs, hoping the burning would stop soon.
“Where the good goddamn is my food!” Thorne yelled from his room.
&n
bsp; In an eyeblink, Eliza was running back up with a bowl of turtle soup.
Alice went to the only place that had ever given her relative comfort: the dining room. It wasn’t a conscious decision—more like the mindless drifting of a compass needle free to follow its whims. She returned to her mirror, as unable to resist the urge to psychically wallow in her pain as a dog when told not to bite its fleas. Normally, this would be an action of self-preservation. Her psychic meditations upon her image permitted her to keep her powers under control and dormant. Today, however, today …
She sat down at the dining room table and stared at the black chasm she called herself. The tears she’d been holding came out.
I can’t do it, she thought. Then to Jesus: You must send me another savior. I cannot bear this penance.
She would rather die then spend her life in this subjugation. Yes, she wanted Christ to welcome her back into His flock, but if it meant suffering this marriage to Thorne, then it wasn’t worth it.
To think this way, however, required the callouses of rebellion and conviction, and Alice soon shied from the commitment. Instead, she beat herself back down by thinking, I must accept this yoke. There’s always a chance Thorne could change. Then the stain of sin could be removed.
But if these ambivalent urges had been physical forces, they would have torn her body in half. As it was, another portion of her sanity tore free.
Chapter 11
The three years following the end of the War Between the States saw the ripping out of the old ways, much as Alice ripped stitching from a shirt whose sewing had gone wrong. Legislators and then historians would call it the “Reconstruction” era—a cruel euphemism indeed.
The War couldn’t have ended at a worse time, because the spring of 1865 was planting season, confronting Thorne with the appalling prospect of having no labor. Despite the risk Alice imagined for the recently freed slaves, half of the Norwick Plantation’s population disappeared overnight, no doubt just to get away from him. She learned through overheard conversations that most were migrating to cities—Atlanta, Augusta, or farther north when possible. And when agents of the U.S. Department of War’s “Freedmen’s Bureau” drove them back out of the cities, none of the emigrants returned to Norwicktown.
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