I looked just like anyone else as I went out the back door of the hotel, or at least I hoped I did. I was carrying my stupid handbag, wearing the stupid hat, the boot tucked under my left arm. At least I had a knife in the handbag and one strapped to my leg. It was a relief now. The top of the stocking wasn’t interfering with it.
It was midafternoon, and though there was still some activity in the streets—mostly a couple of blocks east, around the hospital—Sally had sunk into a heat-hazed drowse. I figured this was more typical than the bustle of yesterday. I made myself walk slower. I tried to stick to shadows as I made my way through the parking area, then through a little alley, which was as clean as the main street. I came from the shade of the alley into the glare of the sun beating down on the south side of the next parallel street, Singer. Though I didn’t need to, I found myself pulling the note from my pocket to make sure I had the directions right. I glanced to my left and then to my right. Bingo. I headed for the dark green awning over Kempton’s Shoe Repair, trying to keep my pace down to a seemly saunter.
A bell on the door tinkled as I pushed it open. The shop interior seemed very dark after the dazzling day. The floors were bare wood, and the wall opposite the door was filled with cubbyholes holding shoes and leather and all kinds of items I couldn’t figure out in the dimness.
“Yes’m?” The ancient black man behind the counter was hard to see until he stood. As my eyes adjusted, I could see his hair was almost white. So was his mustache. His hands were massive, thick with muscle and scarred all over.
“I’m Lizbeth Rose. Lizbeth Savarov,” I added, just in case. “My bootheel is loose. I’d appreciate it if you could take care of it.” I handed him my boot, and he looked over the heel.
“Yes’m, I can do that,” he said without looking up. “You care to rest in the back room? You can get yourself a drink of water. Mr. Kempton won’t be back for another half hour. I can take care of your repair right now, if that suits you.”
“Thanks so much.” By now I had noticed the door to the left of the counter. I pushed it open and stepped into the back room. It had one window, which was curtained. There were two people sitting on an ancient sofa covered with dark velvet, worn in places.
“I’m Lizbeth,” I said, tired of wrestling with my two last names. “Are you Hosea and Reva Clelland?”
“Yes’m,” the man said. He was not as old as the shoe repairman, but he was getting a sprinkling of gray in his hair, and his face was heavily lined. She was bent over almost double, and her hair was drawn back in a bun. It was secured with metal pins and a little hairnet.
“You knew our girl?” the woman asked. Her skin was like a pecan shell in color, and her eyes were dark brown. The whites were yellowish. She was thin and looked to be somewhere in her late fifties. Her husband looked healthier, and he’d always been taller and straighter.
“Galilee was a friend of mine,” I said. “My best friend. We lived together for a while, after her son left home to make his own way.”
They regarded me with… it was almost disbelief.
“Really?” said Hosea. He shook his head as if he’d never heard of such a thing.
“We were on the same gun crew.”
“She shot people for a living?” This from Reva. She didn’t seem to know whether to be horrified or proud.
“Galilee guarded things for a living,” I said as gently as I could. I guess I am not very gentle. “Sometimes when you guard things, other people try to take them, and you have to shoot.”
They glanced at each other, a look I couldn’t read. “How did she die?” asked Hosea.
“You knew. You did get Freedom’s letter.” At least I didn’t have to break the news. That was a relief.
“We got it, but we were scared to answer it. They look at the mail here, you know. See who you’re writing to.”
I had to believe them, but this seemed incredible to me. “Galilee died while we were on a job,” I said. I explained that Galilee and I had been in the back of the truck with the cargo, in this case two farm families, who were trying to escape their commandeered farm in Mexico to get to New America. Such people made good human chattel, and bandits had attacked us. They’d killed our driver, and in the resultant crash, Galilee had been thrown out of the back of the truck and killed instantly. I would have said that anyway, but it happened to be the truth.
“So she was left lying in the road?” Reva’s voice quavered, and her eyes had that shimmer eyes get when they are holding on to tears.
“I had to keep on with the job and get the stolen people back,” I said. “But her man’s brother came along right after and buried them.”
“She had a man friend,” Hosea said. “They married?”
“No, sir, but they were headed that way,” I said. It might have happened.
“He didn’t bury her hisself?”
“He died too. That night.”
“You the only one left?” Reva said very softly.
“I was the only one left.”
“You must be one tough woman.”
“I am.”
I opened the handbag and handed Reva the picture Freedom had given me.
“Your grandson wanted to be sure you had a picture of your great-grandaughter,” I told them. The two old people bent over it.
“She is light, like Freedom is, the letter said,” Reva murmured. “But most of the Ballard is bred out of her. She’ll be okay.”
“Ballard” again. The hospital was named after the Ballards. They seemed to be the local high panjandrums to the white community, and the boogeymen to the black citizens of the town. It seemed to me that I’d heard the name before; it felt somehow familiar.
There was a sharp rap at the door I’d come through. Reva and Hosea stood immediately and started for the back door. “Get out there quick and sit on the bench like you waiting for him to get through with your shoe,” Hosea said over his shoulder.
A few seconds later I was sitting on the bench with my legs crossed, studying a map of Sally from a rack on the counter. The owner of the shop came in, mopping his face with a handkerchief. Mr. Kempton was short and white-haired and red with the heat, dressed in white shirtsleeves and black trousers. He’d loosened his necktie.
“Good afternoon, young lady. Has Phineas taken care of you?” he said, real loud. I thought Mr. Kempton was at least a little hard of hearing. He wouldn’t hear the back door closing on Hosea and Reva.
“Yes, sir, thank you,” I said. “My boot is just about finished, I imagine.”
“Boot? You ride? Sorry, I’m Brent Kempton.” A glance at the boot Phineas held in his hand told Mr. Kempton that this was no shiny riding boot, but a strictly everyday item.
“I live in some rough country,” I said. I didn’t introduce myself. Instead I took my boot from Phineas, pretending to examine the heel. “Good as new,” I said. “How much do I owe you?”
“A quarter,” Mr. Kempton said. “Just took a nail or two to fix that.”
Phineas never raised his eyes to mine or reacted to my presence in any way while Mr. Kempton was there. But then, Phineas didn’t show emotion. He seemed deadened, somehow.