“Yes,” I say, a little too quickly. “I—”
“Nathan? Jo?”
My eyes pop out. From across the street, Lizzie Crump has emerged from a carriage painted cabbage green, with gold lettering that reads CRUMP’S PAINTS. The carriage driver offers his hand to another woman, who must be Lizzie’s mother, judging by her similar coloring and heavy-lidded eyes. Lizzie strides up to us, tailed by the older woman.
On Lizzie’s head sits a cunning hat of magenta felt, with a streamlined saucer profile. Just like on my sensible hat, the one I left unfinished in the workroom, a rooster tail of feathers sprouts from the back, pinned by an eternity knot, though the knot is missing a loop. Mrs. English stole the design!
“Hello, Lizzie,” I manage to get out.
“Good evening, Mrs. Crump, Lizzie.” Nathan turns his astonished eyes to me. “You know each other?”
“Jo used to work at Mrs. English’s with me. She’s a first-rate milliner.” Lizzie stretches the toe of one of her pointed boots, a move that strikes me as feline.
“Is that right?” Nathan’s eyes drift to my borrowed bonnet, into which I wish I could pull my limbs and disappear, like a turtle.
“Yes,” I say weakly. “How about that?”
“I was just coming to tell you my colors for the race, remember?”
“Of course. Your colors. Ah, about that. I realized that I will not make a very good escort, as I will have my hands full reporting on the race. If you wanted to find another escort, I would gladly step aside.”
“Oh.” Lizzie stops twisting about and bites a finger. I can almost see her thoughts wiggling into place. “Well, I don’t want another escort. And anyway, I would love to watch the newsman in action.”
“Right.” Nathan’s gaze drifts toward me, pulling Mrs. Crump’s along with it. Her sharp nose sniffs, as if smelling something off, and her false smile withers like an old rind.
“Oh yes, and Mrs. English has a new advertisement for you.” Lizzie pulls a slip of paper from her glove and hands it to Nathan. “Business has gone through the roof. She thinks it’s because of the popularity of your new agony aunt column, so she created this special number called the Miss Sweetie, for the ‘independent woman.’” Lizzie tilts her head, showing off her hat. “She’s selling it at the special rate of three dollars.”
If there were more irony in this situation, we could build a railroad.
“Do you like it, Jo? I made this one myself.”
“You made it?”
Her laughter floats on a breeze. “Don’t sound so shocked. I pinned it beforehand like you showed me, and that helped tremendously. Mrs. English said I might make a top-shelfer if I keep up the good work.”
“That’s wonderful.” The words drop like lead casings. I should be happy for her success, but my insides feel as mealy and brown as a January apple.
Mrs. Crump rakes her gaze down my fallen braid and then her spine straightens. “But how does this . . . creature . . . know you, Mr. Bell?”
“She is a colleague.” Nathan removes his Homburg hat, causing tufts of his hair to put his head in quotes, even after he runs a hand through it.
“A colleague?”
Lizzie playfully bats her mother’s stiff arm. “Oh, Mama, she does speak English.”
“I’m afraid I must be on my way,” I say with Miss Sweetie’s briskness. Not engaging is a victory in itself.
“But we haven’t yet finished our . . . meeting,” says Nathan. Mrs. Crump’s face draws into a point focused around the nose. Her daughter still wears a loose smile from my compliment of her hat. Unlike Caroline, Lizzie is cut from softer jade than her mama.
I dip my head toward Nathan. “We are done, Mr. Bell.” I avoid his gaze, stooping to rub Bear’s sweet face between my hands. Into her silky ear, I whisper, “Thanks for coming to my rescue.” Up close, I finally see her eyes, which are warm as melted candle wax, just like her owner’s.
Then I hurry away, smudging myself from Nathan’s life like a rubber cube over a pencil mark. I cannot go spoony over Nathan Bell. The line between us is too dark.
Anyway, Lizzie has already laid her claim, and that is how it should be. Maybe my feelings for him are more brotherly than amorous anyway, just like when he was twelve and I ten, and he sang “Turkey in the Straw” so many times, I nearly yelled at him to shoot the hanged turkey already. I focus on those old feelings and not these new ones.
* * *
—
MY FLANNEL GOWN whips around my legs as I wheel around the racetrack of our spool table, going nowhere fast. A twenty-five-dollar loan for a woman that he never paid back. Did this woman write the letter? Was she the reason Shang left? It occurs to me I still don’t know for certain that Shang is my father. For all my efforts, I seem to have gotten more questions than answers.
The speaking tube, visible through the open curtain to my corner, taunts me to unplug it. I keep moving. Lately, I’ve been feeling more like an intruder anyway. When I was a child, the Bells filled in the spaces Old Gin could not, teaching me about the American way of life, making me feel less like an outsider in my own country. But like Old Gin, one day I’ll have to let them go, too. Especially Nathan.
Before I carve a moat into our floor, I pull out the cigar box of silk-cord odds and ends I bought from Mrs. English for a penny and then seat myself upon my flowerpot chair. Maybe tying knots will soothe some of my anxiety.
* * *
—
WITH THE WEATHER finally warming, Buxbaum’s buzzes with activity. It heartens me to see Robby at a counter, counting out a woman’s change. A line of folks, all of them colored, wait to be rung up.
The woman puts her money in her change purse. “You tell me when they invent self-mopping mops, and I’ll be the first in line.”
“They do have them, Mrs. Weaver. They’re called cats.” He notices me. “Good morning, Jo. Be right with you.”
“Sure thing, Robby.” I collect the items I need—barley, crackers, a salve for my roughened hands, a bar of soap, black-eyed peas, and an ax to replace our rusted one. Plus, it won’t hurt to have a reliable weapon handy. Heaven forbid I should have to use it.
Robby finishes with his customers, and I bring my items to him. He looks around us—no one is within earshot—and then quietly says, “Those Paynes are as shifty as sand. Would you believe, they asked Noemi back? Etta Rae called Pastor Harkness this morning, who passed us the message in front of the whole congregation.”
“I’m glad they did the right thing. Will she return?”