Touched (26 page)

His fingers squeezed hard, once, then released me as he went to the bucket and filled the kettle before lighting the stove. When he turned back to me the laughter had gone from his face. The light from the lamp made his eyes hollow, unreadable. But his voice was clear, and I understood that he enjoyed the waiting, the torment. “Maybe not tonight, Mattie. Or tomorrow night. But it won’t be long before you can do anything I tell you to do. Now get ready for your bath.”

Twenty-five

I
T was not the fact that Lola came and went from Elikah’s bed that bothered me most. My feelings on that issue were strangely confused. My unexpressed anger came from the fact that he allowed her to come and go from my kitchen as if she were a guest. Elikah made it clear to both of us that this arrangement was only for the length of my recuperation. Once I was able to be “wifely” again, Lola’s role would change. And so would mine.

The possibility brought only a bored shrug from her as her flat brown gaze roved over the cabinets, lingering on canisters and bins.

She ate like a starved hound dog. And with about the same finesse. In the morning, when Elikah went to work, she vanished from the house.

Where Elikah had gotten her and where she went when she wasn’t with him, I had no idea. She wasn’t local. Her destination, once she left our home, didn’t seem to trouble her. She was where she was for two purposes. To service Elikah and to eat as much as she could swallow without exploding. Looking into her vacant eyes, I couldn’t begrudge her the food she ate, but it stung me that I was left to cook the food, to wash the dishes. The terms of this arrangement were clear. If I could not perform my conjugal duties, I could maintain the house.

Two days passed, with me cooking and spending as much time as possible in town. I went to the dry goods store and explored every dusty bin, every bolt of cloth, every box of lacy underwear. Olivia showed me the stockings that felt like air, drawing them slowly up her round, white arm to demonstrate their sheerness. Watching the other side of the store to be certain old Mrs. Tisdale was busy, she showed me how to roll the stockings just above the knee for the most fashionable look. I caught her watching me with a look of curiosity, but it was only kindness and an offering of friendship that she demonstrated.

I spent an hour or two in the bakery, watching Mara’s strong fingers work the dough. She taught me to knead the dough, to feel the life in it, and then to braid the elastic strands to make the sweet loaves that sold for a penny each. Glad for the extra pair of hands, even if they were inexperienced, she didn’t ask why I wasn’t at home waiting for my husband. In fact, no one I passed seemed surprised that I was not the loving wife I should have been.

Part of the day I spent with Floyd at the boot shop. He was making great progress on the beautiful boots for Sheriff Grissham. Even more wonderful were the boots for Tommy Ladnier, the bootlegger. Mr. Ladnier had taken his occupation to heart when he’d drawn out the type of boots he wanted. They were tall and black, beautiful in their simplicity of line. From the few glimpses I’d caught of him, I knew he’d look like a pirate with his white silk shirts and those knee boots. He struck me as a man who wouldn’t hesitate to run his sword through anyone who resisted him. But Floyd said he was very easy to work with on the boots. Floyd said his voice was like the Pascagoula River washing against the shore, and that he never sounded angry or impatient, not even when Floyd measured and measured again because the boots were cut to fit his calves so closely and went all the way to the knee.

Mr. Moses didn’t mind that I sat on a three-legged stool in the back and kept Floyd company. Once he even asked me to manage the cash drawer if anyone came in. I took it as a sign of trust, and it made me feel welcome in the shop, until it occurred to me that Axim Moses knew about the woman in my house and that his gesture had been motivated by pity. Elikah was the kind of man who would brag about such a thing, I felt sure. I could sometimes go to the window of the boot shop and look across the street to the barbershop. Elikah kept a steady clientele, and the men came out rubbing their freshly shaven cheeks and grinning. Elikah would walk by the window, snapping the barber’s cloth before he placed it around his next customer, and the sound of laughter would tumble out into the road. The sound of that laughter scalded me, sending me to the back, where Floyd labored in the light of a window.

It was Floyd who told me about Red Lassiter’s funeral. We decided to go together, a united front should anyone try to question us about Duncan. We would go for the McVays.

The funeral was set for ten the next morning, and I awakened from my bed on the sofa to discover that fall had slipped through the town. The trees had been hinting for days, whispering with the rustle of leaves still green, but the sun had burned as hotly as ever. Now there was a touch of chill in the air as I found my clothes and slipped into them. It was time to make Elikah’s coffee and breakfast. Time to feed the hound. If the thumping and groaning of the night before was any indication, she’d be starved.

I put on the coffee, started the bacon and grits, and began cracking eggs in a bowl for Elikah and Lola. In a peculiar way I’d come to welcome her. She hadn’t spoken a word to me since her arrival, and I didn’t want to talk to her. I resented feeding her less, though. Strangely enough, I had to admit to myself that I didn’t resent
her
at all. Elikah came to the table and ignored both of us. We were women, there to serve. I cooked, she serviced. All in all, it wasn’t a bad arrangement.

“What’s the secret, Mattie?”

Elikah’s question almost made me drop the bowl of eggs. I couldn’t tell him how much I liked the punishment he’d constructed for me. I slid three eggs into the hot bacon grease before I answered. “Red’s funeral is today.”

“And that made you smile?” He tapped the table with his fork, impatient with me.

I flipped the eggs. “They’ve waited three days for some of his family members to show up, but they can’t find anyone. I’m just glad they’re getting on with it. Red deserves a decent funeral. Are you going?”

“No. I’m closing the shop, but I’ve got some accounts to go over. I can use the time to do that.”

I nodded as I scooped up the eggs, put four slices of bacon on his plate, dished up some grits, and put it all on the table. In a few seconds I had four pieces of perfectly browned toast from the oven.

“Lola!” Elikah yelled at her though she sat only three feet away.

“What?”

“Tell Mattie what you want.”

She shrugged, but she eyed his plate hungrily. Her hair was a pale brown, almost blond, and it hung in her eyes, as straight as a board. She shrugged. “Whatever she cooks is fine.”

I fixed her the same thing I’d given Elikah, then took a cup of coffee for myself.

“Eat some food, Mattie. You’re never going to get better if you don’t eat more.”

“I’m getting better, Elikah.” I went to the doorway. “I’ve got to get ready for the funeral. I have some errands to do beforehand.”

Floyd sat beside me on the cushioned pew, the blue of his flannel shirt the perfect color of his eyes. The church had white walls, but the timbers above the high ceiling were dark, unfinished wood. It gave the sanctuary a sense of gloom. A center aisle split the dark rows of pews and led to the altar, where the coffin rested on sawhorses. Black-eyed Susans and wild asters had been woven into a blanket to cover the new pine of the coffin. They gave the room the only color, the only sense of beauty.

We’d arrived early and taken a seat in the back. Folks took notice of us, but not unduly. We were there, showing our respects to the man whose death Duncan had predicted. We were there for JoHanna, and for Duncan.

Janelle Baxley slipped into the seat beside me. “I didn’t think JoHanna would have the nerve to show.” She looked straight ahead. “I tried to warn you about her. Everyone in town is talking, and not just about those McVays. They’re talking about you, too.”

The entire time she spoke she stared at the front of the church, where Red Lassiter’s corpse resided in a varnished pine box. Janelle spoke out of the side of her mouth, never glancing at me or acknowledging Floyd in any way, as if she could not be seen associating with the likes of us. In contrast, Reverend Bates kept casting long, hostile glances at me and Floyd from the small vestibule off to the side of the altar. I had heard a minister from Waynesboro would preach the funeral. If I’d known Bates, who’d sprawled on the bank of the creek while Mary Lincoln drowned, was going to preach, I might not have come. He was not a man of God by any definition I knew. Janelle’s voice buzzed in my ear like a big green blowfly.

“It would curl your hair to hear some of the things JoHanna McVay is capable of doing.” She clutched a handkerchief in her hand, her fingers working it into a sweaty knot. “That woman needs to be run out of town. She and that little prophet of death. Red would be alive today—”

“I was there to see what happened, Janelle. Duncan didn’t have a thing to do with what happened, and Red would tell you that himself, but I don’t think he’s up to gossiping.”

“Mattie!” She turned her blue eyes on me, shock blanking out the tiny wrinkles that had crept around their corners. “He’s dead!”

“Thank goodness for that if we’re going to bury him.” I waited a heartbeat before I went on. She wanted details, gossip, something shocking to gnaw and worry. “I was there when they found the body.” I couldn’t stop myself. “That Spaniard, Diego, hooked him not very far from where he went under the raft. JoHanna said it was unusual for the river to pull someone right down and keep them there. She said it was almost like the river was holding him close, like a lost child to a mother’s bosom.”

Janelle started to rise, but Agnes Leatherwood and her husband, Chas, slid into the pew, a perfectly groomed Annabelle Lee between them. There were a dozen other children in attendance. Agnes leaned forward to look me over, to see if the taint of JoHanna had rubbed off on me like a manure stain. She didn’t speak to Floyd. He sat on the other side of me, unaware of the slight. He didn’t expect to be acknowledged by these women. I understood then that they would have been kinder to an ugly idiot. It was his handsomeness, his perfection of body, that earned such harsh treatment. These women didn’t want to seem to take notice of him because they were so painfully aware.

“Did Duncan really tell Red he was going to drown?” Agnes leaned over Janelle to get her question to me. She tried to speak softly, but her whisper carried up the pews, causing heads to turn and stare at us with disbelief, disapproval, and curiosity.

I had rehearsed and rehearsed my answer for this, but it suddenly seemed inadequate. In the end, what answer would best serve Duncan? I felt Floyd’s fingers grasp mine on the pew between us. He would not talk to these women. Somehow, he’d been warned not even to look at them. But he heard.

I turned to face Agnes and Janelle. They didn’t have the intelligence of Pecos. “Duncan had a dream and she told Mr. Lassiter that the rafts were dangerous. That’s it.”

“But we heard she told him just hours before he drowned.” The pleasure of gossip had pushed Janelle over her shock at me.

“Red stopped by for some coffee and cake, and Duncan chatted with him. Then he went out to the river and began working on one of the rafts. He drowned. But everyone with good sense knows those rafts are treacherous. It just so happened Red—”

“That child is dangerous. First Mary, now Red. Who’s going to be next?” Agnes Leatherwood put her arm around the plump Annabelle Lee and pulled her against her bosom. “If she says one word about my baby I’m going to … to …”

“To what, Agnes?” I stared into her, daring her to make a threat. “Duncan did not hold Mary Lincoln underwater. She didn’t push Red under the raft. She’s a little girl and she can’t even walk. Why are you so afraid of her?”

Stung, Agnes had finally straightened her shoulders a bit. “Who do you think you are?” she asked. “You were
sold
to your husband. Everyone in town knows it, and you act like you’re the queen of England.”

I had turned the ire from Duncan onto myself, but it wasn’t exactly what I’d intended to do.