I stand still.
Bobby Lee’s boot heels click slowly across the bathroom floor. I promise you, God, if you save me this time, I’ll let go this place.
Cynthia say from above, “Ray, what you think my chances are?”
“None of none,” he laughs.
“Cynthia!” a woman’s voice calls from outside, just beyond the porch. Bobby Lee stops at the sound of Soledad. He turns to the door. The shadow of his wait eclipses the liquor cabinet down here.
“Cynthia!” she say again, hurrying up the porch steps and into the parlor. “My husband . . . Mr. Shepard—” Soledad goes quiet when she see Henry and Ray. She straightens her clothes and say, flat, “You catch my husband’s killer?”
“Sol,” Cynthia say. “We was just talking about you. I was just about to tell the boys a story. About how long I’ve known you and how much you hated the thought of being married to an old man.”
“Aw, is the game over?” Henry say.
Cynthia flattens the mouth of the pistol to her head again. Henry smiles.
“Oh no, not this game, Cynthia,” Soledad say. “Not this one.”
“But isn’t that what you want, Sol? For somebody to pay once and for all for all the bad shit that ever happened in your life? You blame me. Your father. Your mother. No doubt Mr. Shepard . . . enough to hurt him?”
“I wouldn’t . . . I didn’t.” Soledad seems lost.
Pain starts in my belly, moves up my back, got me on my tiptoes writhing, gritting my teeth.
I blow quick breaths in and out. Feel dizzy.
“Ray?” Cynthia say. “Did I ever tell you how I betrayed my best friend, turned her into a monster? Wasn’t it Frankenstein who needed to put his monster down?”
I cain’t open this door.
“My momma,” Cynthia say. “She was a good woman. A praying woman. ‘Eternal God, help us walk with good companions, to live with hope in our hearts and eternity in our thoughts.’” She goes over to Soledad and holds her hand. A hopeful expression fills both of ’em. “‘That we may lie down in peace and rise up to find our hearts waiting to do Your will.’”
Cynthia puts the pistol to her head. Fires.
Soledad screams.
“Shit!” Bobby Lee yells and dashes out the bathroom.
Blood pours through the floorboard.
I cain’t move.
I cain’t breathe.
Hazel’s voice inside me says, “Run!”
I heave open the door and fly through it. The dogs are barking mad beside me.
They cain’t have me.
I hold my belly, feel it light as ever, like it’s helping me. Saving me. I run toward the woods, ain’t gon’ stop ’til the Railroad. I see their light through these tears. I know Cynthia’s dead and I cain’t look back.
One of the men’s voices yell behind me, “Is that her?”
“I don’t know what that is,” another say.
I cain’t let them find me. Cain’t join that Railroad, either, and put all them in danger.
So I turn from their flickering lights and change my course.
JACKSON BEGS ANNIE’S reflection, “Please, Missus Graham,” and steps away from the glass cabinet. Annie steps away from him, her face pale.
“I’m not here to hurt you. See?” he says, setting the back end of the rifle down on the floor. He props it against the side of the cabinet, raises his hands, surrendering, and slowly turns around toward her. “I’m Jackson,” he say. “Sissy’s son.”
“Son?” she say.
“Yes, ma’am. She told me y’all ain’t been friends a long time but maybe you could be a friend to me now. I need this here rifle, Missus Graham.”
Annie dashes up the hall toward her study. Jackson grabs the rifle and runs after her, the door slamming just ahead of him. Annie wiggles the latch to lock the door but Jackson pushes it open before she can. He grabs her arms, quickly lets her go.
She whimpers, “Don’t hurt me!”
“Please, Missus Graham. Men are coming to kill me and I’ve committed no crime.”
“I can’t help you,” she say, trembling.
“Please, ma’am. A dying man’s last wish, Missus Graham.”
She closes her eyes, shaking.
He backs away from her and takes a deep breath. Another. He says, “If I don’t make it home today . . . will you give a message to my wife and children. Tell Josey . . .”
“Josephine?”
He nods. “My wife. She’s the love of my life.”
A flash of recognition crosses Annie’s face. The soldiers’ horses neigh just outside the door.
He say, “Please make sure no harm comes to her or my children.”
The pack of soldiers stomps up the porch steps and across to the front door. Fatty and Skinny sneak along the side of the house in opposite directions. Fatty moves cautious toward the library window and Skinny goes the other way.
Colonel knocks on the door while Snooper stands at attention next to him.
Annie says to Jackson, “I’ll need to answer the door. I’m expecting my brother.”
“Yes’m,” he says, with tears sliding down his cheeks.
Annie walks to the door, timid, looking over her shoulder at Jackson as he follows with the rifle in his hand. She opens the door and he waits behind it.
Colonel takes off his hat. His hair is drenched and red lines are on his forehead where his hat was. His uniform is sweaty around the neck. “Good afternoon, Ma’am,” he say. “I’m sorry to bother you on this fine day. I’m Colonel Barling and this is Sergeant Lowe. Are you George’s sister?”
“I haven’t seen George,” she says and starts closing the door.
Colonel holds the door open one-handed, steps into the doorway. “We’re looking for a negro criminal named Jackson.”
“I don’t know any Jackson,” she says. “If you wouldn’t mind, Colonel.”
“Ah, yes,” Colonel smiles, stepping out of the doorway but staying close enough to slyly keep his foot propped at the bottom.
He yanks his gloves off. “You know, ma’am. You can tell me if something’s got you spooked. Ain’t but one or two men stronger than I am. None quicker.”
“You woke me from a nap, is all,” Annie say. “If I appear spooked, what you’ve mistaken is exhaustion. I’ve been cleaning all day. There’s still dinner to begin. So if you don’t mind, sir.”
“You’re not lying to me, are you, Missus Graham?”
“This is my house, sir! You are on my property, Colonel. And what reason would I have to lie about knowing a negro? A criminal?”
“Of course. Of course. Forgive me, ma’am.” He takes his foot from the door and Annie straightens her dress, scowling and huffing. “It’s just that your brother seemed to know Jackson quite well.”
“George knows a lot of people. So if you don’t mind, sir, good evening.”
He nods and backs away from the door. He and Snooper put their hats back on. “Thing is,” Colonel say. “We saw the boy, Jackson, come this way. Right to this very house.”
“If so, Colonel, he didn’t stop here. You’re welcome to keep across my property to pursue your criminal and we’ll all be sure to arm ourselves here,” she say. “Again . . . if you don’t mind, Colonel, I have a meal to prepare.” She begins to close the door.
“Don’t you want to know what he’s accused of?” Colonel say through the gap of the door.
Annie stops.
“Rape. Raping a white woman like yourself. A Josephine.”
Annie swings the door open, “I assure you, sir. Josephine is no white. She was one of my slaves. She’s fair but she has black blood in her.”
“Is that right?” Colonel say, smiling.
Snooper shakes his head, no, ’cause he’s sure of what he saw.
“George also said that you wouldn’t let your property go easily. Now, Missus Graham . . . I’m getting different stories here. When something doesn’t make sense to me, I’m uncomfortable.”
> “Are you accusing me, Colonel?”
Colonel leans against the doorway, crosses his legs as he does, staring at her like he’s reading her. Finally, he tips his hat and smiles, “No, no I don’t believe I am.”
He backs away from the door. “Just be careful, ma’am. Until we find him.”
“I’ll be diligent,” she say.
Colonel nods to Snooper and Snooper charges the door, bursts it open, knocking Annie to the ground. She screams. Jackson’s gone but his rifle remains. Snooper runs up her staircase, clearing five steps at a time, opens the first door.
Jackson leaps out of the library window and almost falls on top of Fatty. Jackson plows his fist into Fatty’s jaw and his body slams straight to the ground.
Skinny turns the corner from the back of the house and when Jackson sees him, he takes off running to the field out front, crashing through the rosebushes. Skinny chases but he’s far too slow. Colonel rushes out from inside Annie’s house just as Skinny makes it to the base of the porch.
Skinny pulls out his pistol and gets down on one knee. He fumbles with it before aiming it in Jackson’s direction—four hundred yards out.
Colonel yells, “No!” from the porch and comes running down the steps to his horse. He unlatches his rifle from it, raises it, tracks Jackson—five hundred yards.
But faster than I can get to him, Colonel fires.
Jackson falls.
He drags himself along the ground, holding his leg.
“Damn!” Colonel say, and drops his rifle. He snatches Skinny’s pistol and starts out to the field.
Annie jams her rifle in the back of Colonel’s head. “Put it down!” she say.
Colonel don’t move.
He drops his weapon and turns around as Annie takes two steps back when she see Snooper is in her doorway. She corrals Snooper and Skinny and Colonel, pointing her rifle between the men. She say, “Nobody’ll get broken up today for the color of their skin.”
Colonel holds up his hands like he surrenders. “Easy. Easy now, Annie.”
“You move, I swear I’ll kill you!”
Annie’s rifle fires into the air as it’s yanked back. Fatty is behind her with his hand under the muzzle. He rips it from her grip and puts her hands behind her back.
“Um hm,” Colonel say, smug. And picks up his pistol again. He walks out to Jackson, stands over him and aims.
He lowers his pistol.
A man on horseback, a stranger, is no further than fifty feet from us. His weapon is pointed at Colonel.
He trots his horse toward him. When the man gets close, Colonel’s harsh expression cools. He arches his back straight and salutes. Fatty let go of Annie and salutes the man, too. Then, Snooper. All this for a man with no uniform. The brass medallion pinned to his knapsack reads, “Robert L. Smith.”
“General Smith,” Colonel say, hurriedly and proud.
“At ease,” General say.
At once, I know him. Know his voice. He’s been here before.
“You saved my life,” Colonel say to General Bobby Lee Smith. “Sixty men or more still thank you for what you did. These men were there, too. All of us owe you our lives.”
“All of us were ready to die for this great nation,” Bobby Lee say. “Lives marked with courage and bravery. We’re all owed respect.”
“I’ll never forget a hero,” Colonel say. “Or his story . . . how we were all in retreat. But not you. You charged over enemy rifle pits and through the lines of a whole regiment under heavy fire.”
“A long time ago,” Bobby Lee say.
“Killed as many bluebellies as you wounded. God was with you.”
Bobby Lee nods a little. Weary, he say, “There’s a small army a day’s journey behind me. My cousin, Ray, and his men are even closer. There’s a good sum offered for you and your men on account of the marauding y’all did in Virginia. The peaceful end is to turn yourselves in now. Give folks who still believe in you a chance to call you heroes, too.”
“And this man?” Skinny say, flicking his pistol at Jackson.
“Way I see it,” Bobby Lee say. “Y’all need to make yourselves square in Virginia. Let the rest be damned.”
“He was laying up with a white woman!” Skinny yell but Colonel hold up his hand and Skinny stops talking.
“We’re done here,” Colonel say. He nods to Fatty to step away from Annie. She rushes out to the field where the men and Jackson are, kneels beside him, tending to him.
“Whatever y’all decide,” Bobby Lee say. “You can go or be the heroes you’re meant to be.”
“We’ll consider the offer,” Colonel say, and he and his men take to their horses. Bobby Lee stays where he is, watching ’em go. Then he turns to Annie.
“Don’t I know you, soldier?” she ask him.
48 / THE RIGOR
JOSEY IS DEATH as she walks. Rigamortis has set into her expression—eyes sunken, mouth seized open, skin frozen to cooled wax, sooted gray. “Rachel!” she screams from the top of the hill. She’s heard the gunshots coming from Annie’s house and the fear of it has quickened all around her.
She’s carrying Squiggy on her hip and managed her way back to the path. But she ain’t all right. She’s breathing now like she’s winded, staggering back and forth across the width of the path. She stops at the tree lines on both sides as if it were a wall of stone and bats at their branches but won’t go in. Tears slide down her face. “Rachel!” Her voice is ragged and empty.
She takes another step up the path where a hollowed log is side-lying making a barrier between her and trees—protection—but to the side of it, hidden, the ground seems changed from never walked on to recently worn. The drag marks there capture Josey’s attention because above them, in the bushes, there’s a near-perfect straight line of color—the yellow-green insides of freshly torn leaves.
When Josey gets closer, she sees a whole splotch of bright color where the bushes have splayed open and re-closed. The broken limbs are man-sized. Josey reaches a shaky hand out to the space and pushes. A path from here to as far as we can see is lined with deep drag marks. A torn blue corner of Rachel’s dress is caught on a branch like a grasshopper’s flag. Josey falls to her knees and Squiggy tumbles out her arms. Her shallow breaths spread the color from her face. A whistle sound shocks her exhales. Her breath is so weak, almost missing. But still, she calls, “Rachel . . .” I ain’t never seen her like this before. Not this bad, this afraid.
From her knees, she slouches to the ground, laid on her side now, her breaths screeching.
She’s giving up.
I know she is.
I call her name, Josey! Who knows better than me the fear that comes with losing a child? She thinks that Jackson is gone, or worse. Rachel, too.
Her face stops me cold. Her doll eyes are back. Flat and unblinking.
I can help her.
I choose to ignite myself. If I only go inside her part way, maybe I can touch her quickly, help her, then move on out. Won’t be as bad as Bessie said. I can be quick.
I throw my hand inside her. I’m swallowed up to my arm, a burning coal—heated black, hotter . . . red-orange. A searing pain chars my left side like graying ash and that layer of me crumbles away. Gone forever. Josey’s eyes start to blink again. Her breathing becomes more clear as air finds her lungs. And in that moment, Squiggy ambles over and holds her hand gentle.
My God! My tears come directly. His hand on hers is mine. His skin on mine. My own tears, one’s I ain’t had since dead, sizzle against my burning coal face. I touch his cheek and his skin is smooth and cool like laying a flat palm on the surface of still water.
I breathe.
Take him in.
His hair is the softness of rabbit’s fur. The deep arc of his curls, halos. I follow their curve with my fingertips like tracing smiles. He stays handholding me this way like we’re waiting in line for something. But I have been. Been waiting for a moment like this all my life and after.
Josey breath
es. Inhale. Exhale. Inhale. I pull away from her feeling like I’m in pieces. Not whole. Never be whole again. She sits up on her knees. She reaches her arms out for Squiggy without me and stands but she cain’t lift him. Her breathing is clear except for a rattle of phlegm. But she’s still winded. She say to Squiggy, “Remember the hide game with Daddy?”
Squiggy squats down and crawls into the log there.
“That’s it,” she say. He pulls his knees into his chest, smiles up at his momma.
“You don’t come out for nothin, all right? For nobody, except me and Daddy. We the only ones who can find you, you understand?”
He shimmies back into the log, waiting to be found. Josey stands and turns into the mouth of the opening. With new tears pouring down her face, she stares down the trees, into the bushes, the dirt, and into the dimming light of dusk—it closes around her in the orange-pink promises for tomorrow. She screams into its shade.
The woods wisp by her as she lumbers forward up the path, my body on fire as I follow. The path ends sudden, dumping her into a small damp clearing, one I ain’t never seen here before.
A manmade gate of twisted leafy limbs and young trees form fence posts meant to guard this entrance but Josey keeps going through it.
I drift around the muddied space, slow and careful and hurting all over, and over plugs of sprouted grass. Empty liquor bottles lay alongside a graveyard of half-buried toys—painted and ceramic. A doll’s head is cracked in the middle and buried, a broken rolling hoop, and a soldier figure. Their erected parts are sticking out of the ground, sun-dulled and dusted over. May have been a playground. One with no laughter. Maybe never.
An old tree house is grounded at the back of the clearing, broken and torn down by a storm or a person. The outside of it is covered in leaves and weeds and got a new tree snaking through it, partly covering a “Keep Out” sign. Its words are mostly rain-sanded away.
I circle the space and pass a clothesline where a young girl’s bloomers hang hand-washed and turned inside out, yellowed in the crotch. Abandoned and dusty cobwebs have made a home on the bloomers, too—a scroll of gray where caught leafs are stuck.
Nobody’s here.
Grace Page 33