After he takes the papers to the burn pile, he returns with a kerosene lamp. I shake my head. It’s one thing for the Bells to know about our home in their basement, but I wouldn’t like others to find out. “I will lead you.”
The night is blacker than usual with no moon to light the way. I slip my hand into Nathan’s so as to lead him, grateful to the dark for hiding the wildfire blazing across my face. Together, we move quietly to the abandoned barn, which is easier to negotiate than the Virginia cedar. We climb down the rungs, engulfed by that familiar scent of earth and magnolia roots. When I light the kerosene lamp we keep in the western corridor, his breath shushes out of him. I carry the lamp down the corridor, seeing our quarters as if for the first time with him treading breathlessly beside me. When we reach our living area, my chest puffs with pride over the tidy little home Old Gin and I have built here.
I collect my nightgown and underthings while he roams the room, taking in the stove, the spool table, even crouching to inspect the rug. He crosses to my corner. His incredulous eyes rove from my embroidered curtains, to my small bed, to my wooden-crate nightstand supporting a dictionary and a candle. Then to the G-words, growing both more complex and neater in penmanship the higher up the wall extends. Two words catch his eye. “Giddy goobers,” he reads.
I pull the wool stopper from the listening tube. Moving slowly, he lowers himself onto my bed, then puts his ear to the hole. No words drop out. No one is in the print shop. “You must have heard quite a bit growing up.”
“Well, yes.” I cough, struck with the sudden urge to pull the embroidered curtain around me.
His gaze spreads over the room again, and he presses a fist to his chin. “This is your Avalon.”
“Avalon?”
“It’s what Bear and I call our secret hideaway, named after King Arthur’s magical island. There now, seems you didn’t know everything about me.” His eyes invite me to laugh.
“Your family taught me so many words. If I had lived under, say, a goat herder, I might never have been Miss Sweetie.”
“You do an injury to goats. I heard they recite Shakespeare when no one’s watching.” He puts a hand to his heart and says grandly, “‘To bleat or not to bleat, that is the question.’”
I let out a tiny smile and squeeze my bundle of clothes. “Cud you . . . find it in your heart to forgive me?”
He smiles. “Thanks to Miss Sweetie, my heart may never be the same.”
It is hard to read him in the dim light. But of course, these are words of admiration, not love, or why else use Miss Sweetie’s name? The sentiment ripens like fruit, fruit from a tree I cannot touch. I ignore how the shadows conspire to pull me closer to him. He draws nearer as well, but cautiously, as if afraid to break anything.
“I would like to get some fresh socks for Old Gin’s feet,” I announce.
“Er, of course.”
Nothing like the word feet to break a spell.
He clears his throat. “Tomorrow, I would like to file a police report on Old Gin’s assault.”
“I—I don’t think he would like that.”
“Why not?” A frown mars his smooth cheeks.
“Because we do not trust certain things.”
His face asks more, but it is difficult to explain a lifetime of wariness. Justice and fairness are for other people, umbrellas that open only for certain heads. The Chinese just try to stay out of the rain, and if we are caught in a downpour, we make do, knowing that the rain will not last forever.
“Do you . . . trust me?”
“Yes.”
Thirty-Seven
Nathan offers his chambers, but just the thought brings a blush to my cheeks. Anyway, I would rather sleep in the room with Old Gin in case he needs something. Mrs. Bell lays a thick rug and several quilts on the floor, which coax me to sleep sooner than I expect.
I wake with a start to the sound of Old Gin coughing.
The sunlight seems too bright, even filtered through the cracks in the shutters. I rise and bring water to Old Gin’s lips. He’s wearing a flannel nightshirt I haven’t seen before. One of Nathan’s? I adjust the pillows around him, wondering if he needs to make water. But he slumps back, somehow managing to look smaller and more injured than yesterday. His wounded eye is now the size of a baby’s fist.
Mrs. Bell pokes her head in and I follow her out of the room, closing the door behind me.
“Good morning, Mrs. Bell. I’m sorry to oversleep. Has he had his medicine?”
“Yes, this morning, and then Nathan helped him use the outhouse.” She wipes her hands on an apron embroidered with fruits, her premature white hair neatly whorled into a bun at her neck. “You were sleeping so soundly. We didn’t want to disturb you.”
“Thank you. Is Nathan—”
“He’s delivering one of our jobs.”
My eyes fall to today’s copy of the Focus on the kitchen table. Nathan titled the Miss Sweetie column about the streetcars “I Know How to Sit.” He must have been up all night running the press.
“I must go. The Paynes will be wondering where Old Gin is.” Troubles are like weeds, and the longer you avoid them, the bigger they grow. Might as well give this one a good yank now before it can do more damage.
* * *
—
THE SPRING DRAGON roars, its breath reeking of cut grass and pollen. I trudge down the gilded corridor of Peachtree, wearing Old Gin’s cap and carrying my borrowed bonnet in a gunnysack. I never thought of Mrs. Payne’s hat as mine, and that makes it easier to surrender. Maybe that is how Mrs. Payne felt about me—only borrowed as needed. With rising costs, it is easy to give me back.
My outrage at the woman has mellowed into something duller but somehow more painful, a gnaw versus a bite. Hammer Foot taught us that standing in another’s shoes is good for our own postures, but today, I can barely manage to stand in my own.
Old Gin’s cap sags over my ears. They will have to bring in a replacement, though they will never get anyone as capable as Old Gin. A good groom is hard to find, too.
The biscuit Mrs. Bell insisted I eat has cooled in my stomach by the time I turn into the Paynes’ driveway. There is a haunting stillness to the property, the same kind that creeps over an old battleground, never quite achieving peace. Since I am no longer employed here, I knock on the front door instead of rounding the courtyard to the kitchen.
Etta Rae answers, her reedlike figure more stooped than yesterday. Her sigh seems to sink through to the floor. She knew, too. Has she pitied me all these years? What other burdens has she carried?
“How long have you known?” I try to keep the bitterness from my voice.