The Rebel Wife

by Polites, Taylor M

  Eli’s office. I can feel him in this room. I can see the curve of his back on the chair behind the wide pine desk. There are his footprints across the worn Persian rug. There are tiny blots of ink soaked into the wood of his desk. The desk is clear, but it is as if the papers were just swept from it. I can see them there by the metal inkstand, crisscrossed with his spidery hand.

  Through the window, the sunlight flashes off the surface of the collecting pond of the mill creek, surrounded by trees that dip their branches down to touch the water. Three Forks Creek vanishes into a curve of their drooping leaves. Beyond, fields lay bare and open. The Cumberland foothills stand in the distance like painted scenery.

  Eli was not a ripple of water that smooths itself but something more permanent. The things of my past will never meet the things of my present. Buck is here as if he has some right to a role as my guardian. Like Judge. Buck talks to me as he used to. How easy to slip back into the past, to pretend like we are here again at Three Forks on our horses and there is no Eli and no war and no mill. But the fit is rough on me. He makes me uneasy. He watches me. I think he is waiting for a sign that we could go back to that summer after the war, that we could somehow sew together that year and this and cut away all that has happened in between.

  Hunslow steps behind the desk, rubbing his palms against his vest front. “Let’s see,” he says. “What sort of things were you looking for, ma’am?” Buck stands too close.

  “Everything. I would like to take his things home. Are there any packages? I have been waiting for those books for so long.”

  “Papers, too? Some of them relate to our business here.”

  “The business papers can stay, of course. What you haven’t felt a need for since his passing, I’d like to take with me.”

  “Gus,” Buck interjects. “Do you need these things now?”

  “If you are pressed, you can go anytime, Buck. There is no need for you to stay on my account.”

  Buck lets out a grim laugh. “No use arguing with ladies, is there, Hunslow? Especially when they’re waiting for their novels.”

  Hunslow gives him a weak smile in return. He is opening drawers, pulling out ledgers and stacks of loose paper. A penknife and a larger one that still has wood shavings stuck on the blade. A gold watch that has stopped running.

  “Will you be wanting the other things?” Hunslow asks, wagging a hand around the room, indicating the inkwell, a clock, and some pens.

  There isn’t much else. Some prints tacked on the wall—cutouts from a magazine. A stack of old newspapers in a corner by the fireplace. A pair of tin candlesticks.

  “If you could box everything else and send it to my home, I’d appreciate it very much. And any packages?”

  Hunslow surveys the room again and shrugs. “No, ma’am, just these things. I can take them out to your carriage now.” He collects the papers in a large pile.

  I slip the watch into the pocket of my dress. “Just one more thing,” I say.

  Buck shakes his head with exasperation.

  “Dividends. When are the dividends paid?” I force a smile. My hands clasp. Is my voice shaking? My teeth clench.

  “Well,” Hunslow stumbles. Heat rises in my face. “Well, ma’am. We once paid dividends quarterly. But Mr. Branson suspended dividends since—well, over a year ago now.”

  “Suspended dividends?”

  Buck is grim-faced and nodding in agreement as if aware of all this.

  “Yes, ma’am,” Hunslow says. “The mill has had some difficulties. We hope to turn things around soon.”

  “What sort of difficulties, Mr. Hunslow?”

  “Well.” Hunslow looks at the papers and back to me. “Maybe we ought to sit down.” He coughs into his hand, looking at Buck with discomfort. He takes the chair behind the desk and motions Buck and me to sit. He looks around the room slowly and coughs into his hand again. “The mill has operated without interruption for almost four years. We have not fully recovered from the panic. We were building out a list of buyers, cloth merchants and the like, but with the panic, we saw our business fall off quite a bit. The operation was only two years old and given the amount of capital that was put in for the building and the machinery—well, you can imagine. We have recovered some clients and found some new ones. The cloth is, you know, of a coarser grade—osnaburgs and the like. It was always the intention of Mr. Branson to move into finer cloths. We’ve found merchants in Atlanta and Nashville who have been consistent buyers, and now some in Birmingham. It’s been a difficult return to profitability. But things are getting better.”

  “The mill isn’t making money.” I blurt it out. What are these meaningless subtleties between profits and losses?

  “Oh, yes, ma’am, it is,” he insists quickly. “Oh, of course, it is. But we’ve had some reverses, you see, in the cloth market and so on. We’ve been unable to realize profits that the investors expected. And you are now the main investor.”

  “But Mr. Heppert said the mill was profitable. He said it was very profitable.” Hunslow looks at Buck with raised eyebrows. “The senior Mr. Heppert,” I say.

  “Yes, ma’am, I see,” Hunslow says. Buck shifts in his chair. “And Mr. Heppert, Mr. Everton Heppert, is correct, in a way. With careful management, the mill should be very profitable and very soon. I’ve guaranteed Mr. Heppert that I can do it. That I can turn it around and make the place a model for the whole South.” Hunslow smiles with pride.

  “How soon will that be, Mr. Hunslow?” My voice is sharp, like Rachel’s. I am hot and tired and confused. Hunslow flushes.

  “Now, Gus,” Buck says and reaches for my arm.

  “It’s my mill, Buck,” I say. “And it’s my money. I don’t even know why you’re here.”

  “To keep you from exposing yourself,” he says quickly. He rises from his chair.

  “When will the next dividend be paid, Mr. Hunslow?” He squirms, looking to Buck to intervene. “It’s a fair question,” I insist.

  “Yes, ma’am, of course it is,” he answers, then turns to Buck. “As I said, Mr. Branson suspended dividend payments.”

  “Well I want them resumed.”

  “Gus, that’s enough. Pa is handling all this,” Buck interjects.

  “I will see what we can do,” Hunslow says. “The first of July, we can see how much of a dividend might be paid. But it’s going to put us behind, Mrs. Branson. You don’t want to cut off your nose to spite your face.”

  “Pay the dividend and then we can see about cutting off noses.”

  “Thank you, Mr. Hunslow,” Buck says, interfering again. “We’ll be on our way.” I refuse to get up.

  Hunslow gathers the papers and moves toward the door. “I’ll let your coachman know you’re ready, Mrs. Branson,” he says, and he leaves us in the office.

  My hands are shaking and my knees, too. These men, pushing me all the time. Eli never pushed. He didn’t need to. Buck can rot.

  “Do you think your pa will be pleased with how you’ve accomplished your errand for him?” I ask. He frowns as I walk past.

  In the outer office, the machines roar. The office door is wide open. The accountants are out on the mill floor, working their way into a cluster of women. The spindles are unattended, spinning wildly with white threads like streamers flowing behind them. The great gears and flywheels rotate, and the leather belts that power the looms keep roaring. Shuttles bang back and forth, but there is no thread in them, and the machines put out unwoven warp.

  I approach the women, my black hat and veil in my hand, moving between them in their drab grays and whites that are yellowed and stained with dirt. They are gathered around a woman. She is lying on the floor, sprawled out, semiconscious. Her dress is soaked through, and her hair is drenched with sweat. She is younger than me but worn and wasted. Her hair is coming loose from her kerchief in brown strands that stick to her temples. She is on her back, staring up at the ceiling, wide-eyed. Roving eyes like Eli’s, looking for something. Her body begins to convuls
e, as if every muscle flexes in a single simultaneous contraction. A thin foam gathers at her mouth. The light is dim, but is it pink—red-tinted?

  “Give her some air,” the overseer shouts, and the women and children take a step back. “Give her some air,” he shouts again.

  “It’s the heat. The heat got to her,” a woman near me says to another. They wipe the sweat off their foreheads with bare hands and rub them on their aprons.

  “It’ll kill us all if it doesn’t break soon,” the other says back. “The third this week.”

  The dust around me spins like the threads spinning around the bobbins. Thousands of spindles turn wildly, whipping the powdered air. It is so hot in here.

  Buck takes my arm. “Come on, Gus,” he says to me carefully. “Let’s go. Simon is ready.”

  Eleven

  SIMON PRODS THE HORSE with his heels, and she picks up her gait, jerking the carriage forward. Buck is beside us. He rides a jet-colored gelding and heels into him to keep up. The battering noise of the carriage on the plank road pounds into my head like those looms. The face of the woman on the floor of the mill, her ghostly face, pink foam at her lips. So much like Eli.

  Buck is too close. I do not want him here. The thick, ringing clip-clop of his horse’s shoes against the boards maddens me.

  “Did you find out what you wanted?” Buck calls to me.

  I grit my teeth. Simon’s head makes the slightest of turns. He is watching Buck. And Buck is watching him.

  “Yes, Buck. Thank you.”

  Simon’s back moves in time with the battering of the horse’s hooves on the planks.

  “Can you hurry, Simon? I need to get back home.”

  Simon nods without looking back and shakes the horse’s reins. He brings his heels sharply into her flanks. The papers slide against my leg. My gloved hands can’t grip them.

  Buck hurries his horse, trying to stay close. “Is it about the money, then, Gus? You know Pa can tell you the same thing,” he says. He is painfully serious.

  “Thank you,” I say. We ride along in silence, Buck keeping up as he can.

  “I have missed you, Gus,” he says suddenly. He lowers his voice, as if to keep Simon from hearing. Heat and blood rush to my face, draining the rest of me, turning my body to ice. I cannot answer him. Not with Simon here. Not even if we were alone.

  “I have,” he goes on. “These years away from you, they’ve been like a prison for me. I am happy to be near you again.” His words are sweet, but his face remains hard. If I move or try to speak, I’m afraid I will shatter and be unable to find myself again. The horses trot in time, and we clatter along. The sun has moved lower on the horizon so that it burns my eyes. “I just want to help you. If you’ll tell me what you want, I’ll help you get it.”

  Buck’s closeness is melting me, and I do not want to soften. I do not want to be kind to him.

  “You don’t need to tell me you’ve been climbing mountains for the past ten years. I’ve been unfortunately aware of your pastimes,” I say. I taste metal in my mouth.

  “You still remember that night,” Buck says with a frown. “I remember it, too.”

  My hands itch in the soft kid gloves. I scratch at my palm, keeping my eyes on Simon’s back. How humiliating to have this conversation within his hearing.

  “Gus,” Buck says softly, edging his horse too close to the carriage wheels. “I’ve thought about that night—of all the time we spent together back then.”

  “You should be ashamed, Buck,” I whisper hoarsely. “Coming here to tell lies like that.” Buck’s horse loses its footing and stumbles to the side, but he recovers and rides close to the carriage again, looking wounded.

  “They aren’t lies. I can’t help what happened between us. You’re the one who married.”

  His gall is stunning. Like a blow to the stomach.

  “Let’s start again,” he says. “What is past is past. I want to be your friend again, if nothing else.”

  “We were never friends.”

  “Is it so easy for you to say that? You know that’s not true. I was always your friend. You promised yourself to someone else, and I stepped aside. I don’t blame you for it. You did what you thought was right.”

  It isn’t true. He left me alone. He left me alone to face Eli and Mama. He abandoned me. If he had said one word to me, I never would have married Eli. But he was gone. I could not get to him.

  “You are right, Buck. It is past. Let’s forget it. There is no need to discuss it.”

  “We had good times together, Gus. You can’t forget them. Remember when we would walk down by the river? Or take rides out here when there was no one else around?”

  My hand grips the arm of the seat. I struggle to hold myself still against the bouncing of the carriage and keep the papers in my lap. My throat closes. I must hold my breath.

  “We’re kin, too. That blood connects us. Let me help you.”

  “How can you help me?”

  “However you want. You want to get a dividend from the mill? I can talk to Pa. I can make him see reason. I can help you.” He looks honest. His eyes say that he is trying to be truthful. Maybe he does want to help me.

  “What did you tell Mike?” I ask directly, watching his eyes.

  “Mike?” he says blankly. He is pretending now. I notice Simon nod faintly. He does not turn or make any other motion. It could be the bounce of the horse. “Tell Mike what?”

  “About the money. About Eli’s estate. He came to me. He seemed to think there was a great deal of money—at the mill, he said. He said he had talked to you about it.”

  Buck considers for a moment. His gaze scrapes across the row of cedar trees that line the edge of a field. The stubble of last year’s cotton crop has been plowed under, and new plants are starting to break through the orange-red earth.

  “I talked to him, I guess. I never said anything about Eli’s money. How could I know anything about it?” He looks at me without blinking.

  “I just wondered, that’s all,” I say, meeting his eyes. “He seemed so agitated, and I thought maybe your father had told you something.”

  “He told me just what he told you. I thought the mill was doing very well, but according to Hunslow, that’s not the case.”

  “No, not quite the case.”

  “I’ll talk to Pa. I’ll convince him to help you with the money. Hell, he can give you something, too, if you like. He’s not busted up like the rest of these folks.”

  I smile at him through my veil. Should I lift it? I take an edge in my hand and pull it back from my face. He sits taller than me on his horse, so my eyes tilt up to him. What can he really do for me?

  “I do appreciate your help, Buck. I’m sorry if I was rude. It’s just that so much has changed since we were—since we were last together.”

  That sadness comes back into his eyes. “I know it has. We’ve all seen the change. You’ve had it better than most.”

  “I guess I never realized how bad things have been for people. For everyone else. We were all starting to get along, and then the panic—”

  “The panic hit a lot of people. They’re going off to Texas and Arizona. And these dirty Republicans running Alabama like it’s a common trough for them to root in. Taking whatever they want. It’s disgusted a lot of people. They won’t stay here and let the niggers lord it over them. They’ll pick up and leave rather than stay here.” Simon is perfectly still, as if he is all alone.

  “Not you and Judge, I hope. You wouldn’t leave, would you?”

  “No, ma’am,” Buck says with a twisted smile. “We’re here to stay. This is our country. Our home. It ain’t theirs. We won’t let them have it.”

  “Judge wasn’t hurt by the panic, was he?”

  “Sure he was. It hit just about everybody. Pa was nervous there for a while. But now the Democrats have taken back the state, and it looks like he’ll be able to make things work out all right.”

  “Will he? I’m so glad.”

 
The first houses from town come into view. They are old farmhouses, weather-beaten and quiet but not abandoned. Many of these homes seem abandoned—in town and out in the county—though there is life in them, desperate life. There is a thin difference between a place that has been abandoned and a place where the people have simply given up. It is all around us.

  “Are you going to see your pa now?” I ask.

  “No,” Buck answers, looking surprised. “Why would I?”

  “I only ask because I wonder if I should go see him. You’re right. He’s trying to help me, and I have been shameful. It’s my nerves these past weeks.”

  “You should see him. I know he would want to know you want to be good, but let me talk to him first. I’ll let you know what he says.”

  “Thank you,” I say with only a little difficulty, and then add, “I have missed you, too, Buck. I would be happy for you to call on me.”

  “I will, Gus. Very soon.” His face is calmer, less sad. The sun seems like a friend to him, shining on his glossy black hair and warming his tanned face. “I will.” He tips his hat and pulls his horse’s reins to the right, leaving us. The dust rises as he gallops up Chickasaw Street until he is out of sight.

  “I’m sorry, Simon,” I say. “I think that conversation might have upset you.”

  Simon turns back and looks at me with a curious face. “No, ma’am,” he says. “There was nothing to be upset about for me.”

  “Really? I’m sorry. I—Well, I don’t understand, perhaps.”

  Simon smiles. “I think you understand well enough. Well enough to handle Mr. Heppert.”

  “Do you think so?” I ask.

  “Yes, ma’am. And anything you can’t handle, I have the means to handle for you.” He pats his side pocket, where there must be a gun. It bulges against his side like a gun. Most of the Negroes around Albion do not have weapons. The white men, the men of the Knights of the White Cross, disarmed most of them and intimidated the others with whippings so that some gave their guns up without a word. But Simon still carries his.