The Loom

by Shella Gillus

  “You’re being ridiculous.”

  “No, I’m serious. We were just your hired help. That’s all we were to you.”

  “You’ve lost your mind.”

  “We were never your friends.”

  “If you don’t shut your mouth—” Jackson jerked him by the collar. He needed to get ahold of himself. He loosened his grip. “I’m sorry.”

  Rex was whimpering, sucking his bottom lip in and out like a mindless child. Pitiful! He had enough to deal with.

  “Look, you go on. I’ll take care of this.”

  “What does that mean? What are you gonna do with him? Should I go to Mae?”

  “No! No…I need to think. Maybe.” After all, it was an accident. But would she believe him? Would she care? Either way, her husband was dead. “Let me handle this, Rex. Go on now. Go home. I’ll handle this.”

  Back inside, he questioned whether or not to go to the sheriff, but then thought better of it. Too much probing. With all the liquor he had been purchasing, it would be foolish to draw attention. He would deal with it himself.

  Hide the body.

  He knew where to look. Annie had given Caroline all sorts of blankets when she arrived.

  “Caroline?” She was asleep. He searched in the armoire for a covering and raced back down the steps, the wind stinging his face. It was the first time he felt the cold since the accident. Odd how that was.

  Rex was still there, pacing, whimpering. “What are you going to do with him? Where did you get that?”

  “What?”

  “The blanket?”

  What difference did it make? “It’s Caroline’s.”

  He looked at it now in his hands. Why had he grabbed the brightest blanket ever made? This was ridiculous! “Just help me, will you?”

  “What are you going to do? You’re going to wrap him in that?” Rex fell against his chest. Jackson gave his back a quick pat.

  “Listen. You just go on home.” He would get nothing done with him around. “Take care of yourself.”

  Rex just stared at his half-covered friend.

  “Go on now. Take care of yourself. How’s your stomach?”

  “It’s hurting more. It’s really hurting,” he sobbed, pulling up his shirt. The wound oozed yellow.

  “Go on home. You’re going to be fine.”

  “What about Henry?”

  “I’ll take care of him.”

  Slowly, Rex staggered away, turning back again and again to the man sprawled on the ground.

  “Don’t worry, Rex. You’ll be all right. And I’m going to talk to Caroline.”

  “You are?”

  “Yeah, sure.”

  “When?”

  “Soon. Don’t worry.”

  “Promise?”

  What did he have to do, cross his heart? “Yeah, I promise.”

  Jackson stood at the riverbank.

  Guilt washed over him as he tossed his friend into the shallow water and watched him rise to the surface, bobbing under circles and diamonds. The blanket! He needed it in case someone linked it back to him. He waded through the murky water. It was freezing. He stroked midway and yanked the cover off the body. Henry was faceup, his eyes stretched wide like he was looking, staring at him. Jackson scrambled back, falling into the water. What had he done?

  He scurried from the bank back home, whipping through tree limbs and leaves, swatting through branches and the image of Henry in his mind. He threw the soaked blanket on a heap of hay outside his barn and set it on fire, blazing the night sky up in smoke.

  When he shut the front door, he didn’t know how he had made it home. In the foyer, he started to peel off his wet clothing when he heard a soft patter, a woman, Annie or Caroline, coming down the hallway.

  “Jackson?”

  How would he explain…?

  His shoes and one sock were as far as he got when Caroline’s silhouette appeared several feet from him. If he couldn’t see her, she couldn’t see him, he hoped.

  “What are you doing up? Go back to bed.”

  “I can’t sleep. Your boys got me all worked up.”

  “Don’t worry about them.”

  She stepped closer. “Were you outside?”

  “No.”

  “I heard the door.”

  “It was me. I was looking out. I thought I heard something.”

  She moved closer.

  “Go back to bed.”

  “Jackson?”

  He moved deeper into the shadows, hoping she wouldn’t notice what a mess he was. He jumped when she touched his hand.

  “You’re freezing!”

  “I—”

  “Jackson! What happened to you?”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Your face. Your face is all scratched up.”

  He smudged his cheek. He must’ve scraped himself against the branches.

  “Are you bleeding?” She gazed over him. “Are you wet?”

  “I—”

  “Jackson…” She searched his eyes. “Jackson, what happened to you?”

  What happened to him was that boy. Somebody always ended up dead because of them. Coloreds were a looming shadow of death. He swore, if it weren’t for them, everything would be fine, just as it had been. The thought of Henry, Timothy, buckled his knees. “Oh, Caroline…” He fell into the arms of one half his size and allowed her to hold him up.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN

  So, you haven’t seen him either?” Mae craned her neck and peered past Jackson to the left, to the right, into the foyer, dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. “It’s awful cold out here this morning. Mind if I come in? Maybe I could rest awhile before getting back on the road.”

  “Weather’s suppose to turn ugly, Mae.” Jackson frowned up at the sky, grateful for the hints of gray in the distance. “Probably best for you to head on back. Last thing you need is to get caught up in it. But if I see him, I’ll be sure to send him right over. After a swift kick in the rump for scaring you like that.” He forced a smile. “But I’m sure he’ll be home tonight. Might be there now.”

  “Is Caroline here? It’d be rude of me not to speak.” She pushed him aside and plowed through. “Caroline?”

  Jackson gritted his teeth, slammed the door behind him, and followed Mae into the parlor.

  The women pecked cheeks and sat back on the sofa.

  “Look at you! As beautiful as ever,” Mae said, crossing her legs. Her shoe dangled off her foot, inches above the floor. “How ever do you keep such color in the winter?”

  Jackson rolled his eyes but noted Caroline’s sudden unease. He stood above the two with his arms crossed until Caroline raised a crinkled brow.

  “Is there something you need?” she asked.

  She was becoming too familiar, much too bold in her regard, teetering on a disrespect he wasn’t about to tolerate. Not in his house, under his roof. He’d handle it as soon as the nosey one staring at them went her way.

  “Oh, you don’t have to go, Jackson. I’m not planning on taking over. Not entirely.” Mae giggled. “I’m not staying long. I was just asking about Henry.” She leaned in close to Caroline and whispered, “He didn’t come home last night. I’ve been wondering about him. Gone all the time.” She sniffled and wiggled farther back onto the cushion.

  “Well, he was here last night,” Caroline said.

  “He was here?” Mae twisted around to him, her mouth a tight red line. “Jackson!” She whipped back around toward Caroline. “He said he didn’t see Henry last night. That’s what he told me.” She crossed her arms and waited.

  “What did you want me to say?” He blew out a breath, deep and long. His heart thumped, but he reassured himself. He had nothing to worry about. “I didn’t want to hurt you, Mae.”

  “Hurt me?”

  “He was here. I did see Henry last night and he told me he wasn’t going home.” The words came fast and with ease. “He had another stop. Might stay all night, depending on how things went. He winked and left. That
’s it. That’s all I know. I don’t know who, I don’t know where.” Jackson studied her face as she searched his.

  Mae wailed into the balled-up cloth in her fist but contained herself moments later with a grip of Caroline’s hand.

  “I’m sorry I didn’t tell you the truth,” he added. “I just didn’t want to see you upset.”

  She fanned him quiet and wiped her eyes. Jiggling the lines of her dress straight, she stood with lifted chin. “I’m fine.” She walked swiftly to the door and turned toward them. “I’ll be just fine.”

  “If there’s anything I can do…” Caroline followed her to the foyer, Jackson a few feet behind.

  “Thank you.” Mae squeezed Caroline’s hand and glared at Jackson.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I just wish there was more I could do.”

  “There is. When you see your friend, tell him it’s best not to come near me.” She narrowed her eyes. “Or he might end up dead.”

  Lydia snuggled under a blanket on Jackson’s back porch. It was certainly an improper gesture, a lady sitting on the ground in the open. It would’ve been much more appropriate to sit in the wooden swing several inches away, but swinging didn’t feel right, not now. Much too joyful, too carefree somehow, for a sad Christmas Eve. Besides, she was alone and after the terror of the last few nights, she could care less about custom. A few days ago, custom had her and John running for their lives. She shuddered. This place! She looked out over the fields of land Jackson owned. Miles and miles of land, the haunting trees in her periphery. She wouldn’t allow her eyes to stray there, not yet, lest she never venture near them again.

  She laid her hand across her stomach, grateful no blood stained her garments despite the rigor, the running, and the tears. Their child remained safe. She prayed the same for the father. He carried a bit of her in the blanket she weaved as she carried a piece of him. Even apart, they were knit together.

  She looked out over the fields. She would have to leave this place before too long with or without him.

  Shivering, she twisted to her side and leaned back against the foot of the rocker as she had so many times before with Lou. She pulled layers of blanket up over her arms, her chest.

  The night was dark, as black as it was beautiful, but without John, she was uneasy, much too nervous since the men… She hated to think about it.

  She lay back and gazed above until she fell asleep against the cold wood and dreamed of her husband. She couldn’t see him, only heard his voice, but with such clarity that she felt his breath on her face. Though she had sat shivering, she awoke damp, her dress clinging to her chest.

  His presence had been no more than a game of the heart played on her in the middle of the night.

  “Anything else I can get you, Miss Caroline?”

  “No, thank you, Annie.”

  “Mr. Whitfield, sir?”

  Lydia glanced at him. Jackson shook his head and gulped a spoonful of succotash. Frowning, he pushed it away, wrinkling the maroon tablecloth under the friction. “This is a bunch of—”

  “I’m sorry, sir, if you ain’t pleased. I tried to do right by you, today especially. Tried my hardest to make you happy.”

  “Well, you didn’t.”

  “Sorry, sir.”

  “Just go.”

  “Miss Caroline?”

  “That would be fine, Annie. Go on. We’re fine.”

  “I’ll just be around this corner if you need me.”

  The clinking of silverware against plates echoed. After a swig of wine, Jackson cleared his throat and rubbed his right cheek.

  “How’s the tooth?”

  “Better.” He glided his tongue over his back gums.

  “Long gone, but I haven’t gotten used to the empty space.” He looked up at her. “You feeling all right? Your hair…”

  Lydia’s hand grazed over her head. Strands had fallen loose from the high chignon. Warmth rose in her chest, under her cheeks. “I suppose I didn’t pull myself together so well today. Just tired.”

  His eyes flashed before dropping down to her stomach. She tugged the crimson napkin in her lap higher against her waist.

  “Forgive me,” she added.

  “Anything you want to tell me, Caroline?”

  “Such as?” She dabbed her mouth with the cloth.

  He buttered his second slice of rye and shrugged. He was watching her. She could see him watching, waiting to see if she would squirm under the scrutiny.

  “Such as?” she asked again, willing herself confident.

  “Such as this wedding of ours.”

  Her heart thumped. He saw it. Fear must have flickered briefly across her face because his demeanor changed. He disguised it with a smile.

  “What do you want to know?”

  “I want to know why you don’t talk about it much. For a woman, you don’t seem to be that happy. I thought you would’ve been thrilled.”

  “Well, Jackson, I’m still not feeling well and the wedding is only a few days away. I’m hoping I’ll be better by then.”

  “You never did tell me what you wanted to say that day. Out in the rain.”

  She still hadn’t told him anything. She was waiting, hoping to get word somehow that John was alive. She had no idea what to do. If she left this place without him, how would he find her again? So she did nothing. She stayed put.

  “It wasn’t important. Besides, I didn’t think you were the kind of man who’d want to sit around and talk about weddings all day.”

  “So who do you talk about it with?” He leaned forward.

  “I didn’t think you’d be interested—”

  “Try me!” Jackson slammed his glass against the table. The wine swooshed high, over the side of the flute, staining the arch of his hand red.

  Lydia’s trembling hands brought her glass to her lips in small jerky motions.

  “You’ve been different lately,” he challenged.

  “So have you.” A filthy rottenness corroded the little good he had left. She couldn’t tolerate him for much longer.

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Since that night Henry and Rex were here. When you came in wet and bloody and Henry ended up missing.”

  “I told you, I don’t know anything about that. I don’t know where he is.” He pierced a carrot with his fork and kept his eyes on his plate.

  Lydia watched him. He had his own secret. At least it kept him from meddling with hers. “Merry Christmas, Jackson.”

  “Merry Christmas.” He didn’t look up.

  Lydia chewed on a rubbery carrot. Out of the corner of her eye, she watched Jackson reach for his fourth piece of bread, his umpteenth glass of wine.

  “Annie! Get out here. Bring us the whole loaf of whatever you’ve got. It’s the only thing that’s decent.”

  Annie returned with a warm platter of pumpernickel, rye, and gingerbread.

  “Where’ve you been hiding this?” Jackson grabbed slices with both hands.

  “I’ll just leave it here for you, sir. The whole platter of it.”

  “Good.”

  “What would you like more of, Miss Caroline?”

  “Nothing. Thank you.”

  “You sure? Looks like you ain’t ate much. Was everything all right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You certain, ma’am?” Annie’s eyes scanned their plates.

  “I’m certain.”

  “Looks like neither one of you enjoyed your Christmas dinner much.”

  “It was fine, Annie.”

  “You’re upsetting Caroline,” Jackson slurred.

  “The dinner was just fine, Annie. I’m not upset. Go on now and rest. It’s Christmas. Who are you spending the day with?”

  “I ain’t spending it with nobody.”

  “Oh.” Lydia looked at Jackson.

  “Don’t even think about it. Go on now, Annie, and find some family, find some friends. There’s plenty of slaves finding something to do with themselves today. Go with James and
his family.”

  “Do you want to sit—”

  “No! I’d never sit and eat with a Colored. You can’t eat at my table, Annie. You can take some of the food you made and go somewhere. I don’t mind. You can take the rest of it as long as you don’t ever think about parking yourself at one of my tables.”

  Annie’s eyes watered just enough to put out the fire that raged in them.

  “I’m sorry, Annie.” Lydia could barely contain herself. When the footsteps faded, she twisted around to Jackson. “Why are you so awful? Nobody deserves—”

  “And you’re a liar.”

  “What?”

  “How many times did you tell that girl you liked the food? Did you? Why did you lie?”

  She swallowed. “Because I didn’t want to hurt her feelings.”

  “Is that what you do? Lie to save feelings?”

  “Annie’s a hard worker. Very loyal to you—”

  “As she should be. I take care of her. What would she do without me?”

  He didn’t ever need to drink. Lydia stood up and flung her napkin on the table.

  “I’m not done. Sit down.”

  She didn’t move.

  “We’re not done. Sit down, Caroline.”

  She glared at him.

  He shot up and grabbed her by the wrist. She tried to squirm free but every pull locked his fingers tighter, clamped his hand harder around hers. His flaming eyes bore into her. “You better be glad I don’t beat my women. Don’t ever disrespect me again.” He flung her loose. “Annie!”

  “Yes, sir.” Annie walked into the room with her hands behind her back and her eyes low, not as if fear bowed her head but a mumble, a prayer, or simply a will not to witness the scene playing out before her. “Everything all right?”

  Jackson grabbed a corner of the tablecloth and with a flash of his hand, yanked everything—bread, wine, bowls, plates, glasses, silverware—to the floor.

  “Clean this mess up.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  Something wasn’t right.

  Lydia paced the sitting room. She smoothed the cushions of the pale blue sofa with her palm, propping her toes webbed in pale stockings against the clawed foot of wood. Running her fingers over the curved back of the velvet armchair, she knew nothing had changed. But something was clearly wrong.