Sweeping Up Glass (28 page)

We go back to the hotel, and, although it’s eight o’clock and near my usual bedtime, Wing slices bread and spreads mayonnaise. I lay on thick slabs of ham and roast beef, cut the sandwiches crosswise and arrange them on a platter. He makes coffee.

I’m setting out squares of buttered gingerbread when the lobby door opens and a great convolution of wind and people rushes in. Wing goes to welcome his guests. His seems to be a pleasant life. I don’t know whether it’s the warmth and elegance of the hotel, or having someone, today, to share the workload. Maybe it’s that Wing doesn’t have to worry where his next dime’ll come from.

Out in the lobby, voices boom, raucous men pumping Wing’s hand, slapping his back. Telling baudy jokes in cigar-raspy voices—every one of which I heard Saturday night in Alton Phelps’ barn. The hunt club is back. This time, they aren’t here to snipe at my wolves and take home ears. Apparently the warning they left in my house was not enough. I scan Wing’s kitchen for a place to hide, but even if I slipped out the back door, they might
spot me from the hall. They must have seen us, Elizabeth and me, must have posted a guard. And if they have now come for me, what have they already done to Elizabeth?

The elevator wheezes open, and Wing takes them upstairs. In minutes they’ll come down, wanting this supper that I’ve helped prepare—and my cape’s up in my room. I round the corner to the hall, slip into the first bedroom and open the wardrobe, looking for one of Wing’s old coats. Empty. But there, folded on the bed is the pink rosebud quilt that I gave Grace Harris. I wrap it around me, hurry through the lobby, and step out onto the icy sidewalk. A fine sleet burns my face as I slip into the alley, hurrying between buildings, then cross over at the next block and head for the bridge. I pull the quilt up over my head. Was it just this morning that I watched Wing at his baking? Now I’m slogging through the frozen night, coatless, not knowing what’s ahead. I’m ashamed of myself that, once more, I wonder if Wing is a Cott’ner.

I
t’s good to be home. Climbing the steps, I am glad I locked the back door. I feel for the chain hanging over the table, and pull. Nothing happens.

In the dark grocery, I hear the clang of the cash register, and my heart lurches. Alton Phelps draws back the curtain, stands in the doorway. I recall, now, that of all the voices I caught in the lobby at Wing’s, I did not hear his. His rifle is propped in the corner, by the stove.

“Get out of my house.”

“Why, Olivia, that’s not friendly,” he says. He’s wearing a sheepskin coat. He takes up the gun. A big-bellied man steps out of the larder. In his hand are three boiled eggs that he cracks against the sink, and he stands there, peeling them.

“I hope you’ll excuse my cousin Doyle Pink,” Phelps says smoothly. “He may be the sheriff, but he’s short on manners.”

Fear crawls up my arms, puckering the skin. They must not see that my heart’s lodged in my throat.

I muster a shaky politeness. “Alton, you-all go on down the road, now.”

Phelps holds the gun, pointed easy at the floor. He whistles like that’s the stupidest thing ever. “When you was out to
my place Saturday night, my missus and I weren’t near this inhospitable.”

Poor Elizabeth. My stomach does a turn.

He gestures with his hand, and Pink produces a rope. “Was I you, Olivia, I’d sit down in that chair.”

I do, and wince when he binds my hands behind me, then my feet.

“You’re not as social as Ida,” Phelps says. “I thought whores begat whores.”

Inside me, a twig snaps. “I’m not going to spend one more night afraid. If you came to shoot me, that’s fine. At least tell me why.”

“Shoot you?” he says and smiles as if he’s just now thought of that. “I told you I’d come for you and the boy, Olivia. You got something I want. Or you know where it is.”

Pink crams the last egg in his mouth.

Phelps looks around, says, “Goddamn, Doyle, you’re making a fucking mess.”

“’Em niggers wouldn’t stand for no shootin’,” Pink says. “Findin’ her with a hole in her gullet.”

Phelps’ face darkens. “They’ll stand for whatever I tell them to.”

I’m remembering what Elizabeth said. “You’re so full of yourself, you and your club. So vicious even the Klan denies you.”

Phelps takes a step, draws back his arm, and strikes me hard across the face.

It brings tears to my eyes. What is it they’re after? Old chloroform? Stitching silk, dog runs, tweezers in six sizes? I lay my throbbing cheek to my shoulder, and hold my tongue.

“I’m askin’ you one more time,” Phelps says.

My ears are ringing, and I can’t think clearly. “For what?”

“We’ll rip this place apart if we have to, Olivia, one splinter at a time.”

I sit for most of an hour while every damn thing is once again ransacked and shattered, mattresses slit. They pull out the stove, throw cans from the larder. Out in the store, I hear glass jar after glass jar breaking. This must be how death sounds when it’s coming, and it wears me down worse than a beating. It wears the sheriff down, too.

“Goddamn, Alton,” Pink says. “I’m tuckered out.”

Phelps fights to keep himself under control. “What say we hold her trial right here, Doyle?”

“Ain’t got no bale of cotton, Alton.”

So I’m about to find out what a cotton trial is.

Phelps reaches in his back pocket and snaps out a hank of red fabric, turns two cut holes to the front, and slips it over his head. The very scarlet that Aunt Pinny Albert wouldn’t buy. Through the eyeholes, now, he watches my face, gauging my fear.

Pink whines, “Shit, Alton, I didn’t bring my hood.”

“That’s all right, Doyle, you can see better without it. I’m just showin’ off a little. Why don’t you go on down in the cellar and look around. See if you can find a beam—”

A beam
.

Now I know how this will end.

Pink tries the cellar door, but it’s locked. He spots the key. “Jesus H. Christ, it’s dark down there.”

“Well, light a goddamn lamp.”

While we wait, Phelps looks around. Says, “Me and James Arnold, we used to come here, take turns with Ida. She was a spitfire—man, that suited us fine.”

“I never—saw—James Arnold.”

“Oh, he liked the feel of Ida’s skin. You don’t remember,” he says with a grunt, “’cause you were half dead, over to Buelton.”

What?

“Alton, I can’t find shit down here!” Doyle calls from the cellar.

Phelps’ voice is low. “Don’t that come as an almighty surprise.”

“It’s colder’n hell and all cleaned out. But the beams are solid. I’m comin’ up!”

The two of them are too much for me, and there’s no getting rid of the stronger one. I wet my lips. “Get Pink out of here.”

Phelps steps closer. “What’s that, now?”

“Send Doyle away. When it’s just you and me—I’ll tell you what you want to know.”

“Why, Olivia!”

“Do it.”

He pulls off the hood, entertains a grin. Steps to the doorway. “Doyle boy,” he shouts. “That’s all right, you come on up.”

The sheriff appears, ears red and sour of face.

Phelps takes a toothpick from his pocket. “You take the truck back to my place,” he says. “Me and Olivia are gonna have a talk.”

“But we were gonna string her up, have us some fun.”

Phelps frowns. “Jesus Christ, what kinda way is that to talk? You go on now.”

“I say we put her in the cellar, Alton. Lock this door, take the key.”

My stomach turns over.

“—Be some time ’fore they find her. We impound her truck, they’ll think she took off. We grab the boy—” Pink’s pleased with himself.

Phelps picks his teeth. “Like I said, you take my truck. You’re always wantin’ to drive it.”

“But it’s parked clear up the road—”

“Walk’ll do you good. Now go.”

When he’s gone, Phelps says, “I don’t trust you one almighty inch, Olivia. But just to see if your heart’s in the right place—” He comes to me, leans, puts his lips on my hair. “Untie me,” I say.

“That’d be pure foolishness.”

“It’s the only way I’m gonna tell you—what you want to know,” I say. “Otherwise, I’ll die without talking. I mean what I say.”

He grins and moves around behind me. I hear him set the rifle down, feel him work the knots loose. I rub my wrists.

“The way I see it, Olivia, I can’t lose. And you can’t win.”

He’s come around and is directly in line with the cellar doorway. With my feet still bound, I fly at him, claw his face, get in one long rip before he bellows and grabs me. He catches my wrists, shoving. I land hard on my back. He comes at me, but I deliver a foot to his groin. His fist connects so hard with my jaw that I hear my teeth rattle. He sinks to his knees, clutching himself and fumbling for the rifle. “Bitch,” he says through his teeth.

Ankles still bound, I struggle to my feet. Work frantically at the knots.

He groans, grabs my boot, and I hit the floor with my shoulder. I reach for the leg of Will’m’s bed, the potato bucket, the door frame. But his hand covers my nose and mouth, squeezing the bones. I bite down and swing the bucket. Connect.

“Fucking bitch!”

I hear my dress rip and scramble away.

He comes after me. “This one’s for James Arnold—”

He slaps me hard. I crash against the alcove’s corner, the back of my head going warm and wet. My knees give out, and I slide down the wall.

Phelps’ face is dark, the eyes so black the sockets seem empty. “I’ll tell
you
, little girl! Tate Harker kilt my brother, all right, but it wasn’t the night you think it was.” He’s on his knees, lifts the rifle. “Couple months later your old man came home. Caught James Arnold with his drawers lying right where you’re sittin’ and his hand up Ida’s twat, that’s what.”

I can’t breathe. I can’t
breathe
.

“That’s right, Miss Holy and Righteous Olivia Harker. Your pap shot my brother deader’n hell.”

Y
ou hear what I say, Olivia?” Phelps shouts like there’s a great distance between us.

Pain shoots down my arm. The air’s thick as grease.

“It was a clear goddamn night,” he says. “Sound carried to the highway. Folks came just to gawk at James Arnold, him bleeding his brains out on this very floor.”

“Pap—died in that—crash.”

“Like hell he did. Ground was so hard, Ida couldn’t a buried a chicken bone. Not to say she wasn’t meaner’n a boar hog in heat.” He cocks his head like he’s told a joke and expects a laugh.

I get to my knees. “Why—why are you—saying this?”

“Because Olivia Harker couldn’t do any wrong. This town had you and Tate on a goddamn pedestal. You lived in ignorance, little girl. That night—shit, I wanted Tate to run. Just so I could hunt his ass down.”

“Someone—would’ve told me.”

“Bullshit. They all knew. Ida had the whole town by the balls. Too bad I gotta kill you. Like to see you stand up to them lyin’ niggers now, look ’em in the eye.”

Pap with his rifle, one clean shot. Love Alice. Junk, digging when they all knew we’d find nothing. Ida, in flames.

Phelps is on his feet. He wobbles closer. My nostrils are full of him.

“What—what happened to—”

His grin is ghastly. The rifle’s in his hand. “What happened to your pappy? Goddamn, I waited a long time to say this. He’s in prison, in Kingston. Been there all this time.”

“Kingston.” I gag on the word.

“Always knew I’d be the one to tell you. You’re just too much like him. Gotta kick a dead horse.” He presses himself to me, shows me the hardness in his trousers. “You smell real good, Olivia. Like whorehouse soap.”

“I—”

“I’ll bet you had a fine time last night with that Wing Harris.” His mouth’s on my ear, his hand on my arm. “You’re a strong woman, the kind me and the boys like. Bet you’re a fighter, the way Ida was.” He cups my breast. “You know, Olivia, we can set all this right—”

I deliver spit to his cheek, feel my head snap back. His fists are solid. Blood fills my mouth with the taste of old pennies. It runs down my chin. I fold over and butt with my head, catching enough of his kneecap that he yells and closes his eyes, twists his lips. I grab hold of the rifle, shove the stock upward, hear some part of him snap. He swears and swings wide with an open palm, but I’m on my feet and run hard at his belly. His eyes go wide as he scrambles for a hold and passes, backward, through the cellar doorway. He screams once and cracks several steps as he falls. Then lies at the bottom, arms and legs bent in impossible ways, head tilted back like he’s looking for something.

Everything’s changed, and everything’s wrong. My hair’s come loose, and my dress flaps where it’s torn. I stumble out to the truck, get in, turn the key wrong, then again. Not a sound. I
slide out, hug my elbows, more snow’s coming down. I stumble through the field, down the hill, cross the bridge where even the ice on the river deceives. On Main Street every familiar thing is washed black and purple and streaked with red. In front of Ruse’s, I stand screaming, “You-all come out here! You fucking tell me the goddamn truth!”

Nobody comes. Not even Wing. Not the Ruses, or any of hell’s Cotton Club. They’re waiting for Phelps to show up with my ear. What a joke—Tate Harker’s alive, and Olivia’s dead.

I look up through the bare winter trees to Rowe Street. I plow through the snow, climb up on a porch, beat on doors.

“Liars! You let me think he was dead! Pack of stinking Judases!”

Now I’m beyond words and chunk a rock through a window, shatter the next with my fist. I’m bent over with pain, cannot lift another boot. Surely if I look down I’ll see a great hole where my heart was. I’ll watch my life running out, blood from the lifetimes I spent up here, loving and learning and playing with babies.

In the name of this earth I baptize you …

Traitors. Judas bastards.

There’s only the sound of snow falling and falling. Somewhere a door opens, and a woman comes out. Love Alice, and her hands burn where they touch. Miss Dovey in a shawl. Old people, black skin. Teeth gone. Liars.

I’m dying. “Don’t touch me.”

Junk, wrapping me in his arms. “Come in, Miss Livvy. Tell us what happened.”