Grace (35 page)

“Check 'em for what?” Sissy say.

“Well . . .”

“Did—did Jackson run from his service?”

The soldiers look at each other, confused.

“To the contrary, ma'am,” Colonel say. “We want to reward him for his honorable service.”

“My son? Honorable?”

“Yes, ma'am,” he say. “A medal with his name on it. Good conduct and bravery . . .”

“Ain't no ceremony you coulda summoned us to? So everybody could see?” Sissy say.

“We thought we'd deliver it personal,” Colonel say. “A hero's service just for your son.”

“Then why y'all want to see Josey?”

“We don't have time for this!” Colonel say. “Where is he? We saw your son with that white whore.”

“White? Josephine ain't . . .”

“Ma'am,” Colonel say. “There's no point in protecting 'em. How much is a woman like you willing to give up for somebody else's mistake?”

Sissy shakes her head, “But . . .”

“People like your son don't care who they hurt, what the law is,” Colonel say. “What about the children that come from it? It's selfish, that's what it is. Those like your son take whatever they want, just like these damn Yanks.”

Sissy say, “But . . .” A gun shot. Sissy's body jerks.

Colonel has his pistol back at his side before she hit the ground. Blood spreads around the new hole in her heart and through her dress.

“I told her we didn't have time for this,” Colonel say.

I
HOLD STILL
as best as I can under the floor of Cynthia's cellar. The weight of my belly is tipping me forward, but I fight it. My nose is running 'cause mildew and dust got in it, making it drip on my yellow dress. I quit breathing through it so I don't sneeze.

“Cynthia, don't play at this,” Bobby Lee say.

Click. That's her first pulled trigger.

Outside, a noise like a birdcall comes through the gaps around the door.

And again.

It's one bird, no . . . two. A hoot of an owl, a screech of a falcon. But they don't sound natural—two birds of prey, close enough to be on the same branch?

“We only here to do a job,” Bobby Lee say to Henry. “You and Ray search the rooms.” But they don't go.

She pulls her trigger again.

Click.

C
OLONEL STEPS OVER
Sissy's body saying, “Come on out, Jackson. We just want to talk to you.”

Fatty searches the room. He draws his pistol, opens the cupboard door. No Jackson. He sees the opening in the floor, kneels down to it, yells back to the front door, “He's a runner!”

Colonel and Skinny run out to the front door. Far off to the left of the porch, Jackson leaps into the woods, his head is bobbing up and down like one of them white-tailed deer, going in the direction of the Grahams' house away from Josey and the children.

“There he is!” Snooper say.

Skinny runs down the porch. Colonel pulls out his rifle, prepares to fire at Jackson. His rifle jams. “Dammit!” he say.

He and the men race to their horses.

E
VEN THOUGH IT
'
S
quiet, I take a chance at another step.

It starts the dogs barking out front.

I shut my eyes. Hold still again. Gon' pee myself. I put my hands between my legs, stop my bladder.

Henry rushes to the front window to see what the dogs is getting after.

“Henry,” Cynthia say. “You wouldn't believe how many lives I have.” She holds the gun to her head and pulls the trigger twice. Click. Click.

“Goddamn!” Henry say.

“Fine, I'll go look for her myself,” Bobby Lee say. “Can't believe y'all want to watch this.”

Over the loud barking, I take two, three running steps across the floor.

Almost there.

The unnatural birdcalls start again. This time, flashes of light come through the door's gap, too. Quick-like. Flickers in the dark. One flicker. Stop. Then a second and third flicker. A whistle. The Railroad north to freedom.

There must be a dozen of 'em out there, black men and women, children, risking their lives waiting for other negroes to join 'em.

I
RUSH OVER
small trees and skim tall grasses, up and down the lane of Jackson's cut-down trees searching for Josey. For Rachel. Nothin. This is the only path here.

A quarter mile to the old slaves' quarters from Sissy's and Jackson's path is blocked by trees that have grown back and made a wall. There's no way forward, only back. They cain't go back. There's killers there.

I wait here at the wall, confused. There's no way around it and Josey wouldn't have gone through it. Even with Jackson and a blanket over her head.

A small figure walks out of the brush. Squiggy.

He's alone.

I trace his steps back to where he came from and find Josey there covered in the tall grasses, frozen from the touches of shadows. Her knees are pressed against her chest. But Rachel is missing.

Squiggy squats beside her now, “Ma-ma,” he say, calling her name for the first time. She shutters. But only her eyes shift toward him. Her gray lips tremble.

B
OBBY
L
EE HEADS
for the hallway, annoyed and yelling, “This is a sideshow!” and stops short. “You comin, Ray?”

“We're just getting started,” Cynthia say, and Ray's attention is fixed on her trigger finger.

Bobby Lee cocks his pistol and turns into the hall. I freeze where I am. Cain't think what to do. And now I cain't remember if I shut that trap door that leads down here. God, let him pass by this bathroom for someplace else.

I count Bobby Lee's steps and hear him walk past the first door—the linen closet. He takes enough new steps to pass the second door, third, and me in the fourth, I think. I don't know what's taking him so long.

He opens the door. “Get out!” Bernadette screams. “Get out! And tell Cynthia I'm not leaving. I just finished decorating this room and I'll be damned if I can't have this one, either.”

Please, God, make my door like the linen closet so he pass me by.

An urging rises up from inside me—not the baby—an instinct, maybe. A voice. It tells me, “Go!” and I tiptoe around the edge of this cellar, blocking out the noise from my head that might stop me.

By the grace of God, I make it to the under-porch door and pull.

R
ACHEL WASN
'
T AT
the house.

Only Sissy was there, unmoved.

The soldiers left too fast to have met Rachel when they gave chase to Jackson and I didn't see her along the path to the Graham house. Jackson must have circled back and got her. And now I've beat him here.

I'll wait for a minute.

This house looks different since the war. Weary. The perfectly rounded rosebushes that once lined the drive like watercolor moons are bushy now. A chunk of wood plank is missing from the painted porch—a tan patch in all the white. But the acres of green field out front still roll and dip as they always have 'cause God's still tending to it.

Heavy footsteps run up behind me. Jackson racing to the house. He don't have Rachel.

He runs around to the back, peeking through windows. He could have had enough time to bring Rachel here and hide her. Not wishful thinking. I follow him around and go ahead of him, find one window unlocked before he do. I sail through it, coast inside the room—Annie's new library.

Nobody's here.

Books are on shelves around me and the broken oak table from the kitchen that slaves used to chop and sort on is here, too. But no Rachel. Pamphlets are spread across the tabletop.

I pass through the only door in this room and it leads to a connected room, a study, where Missus Graham is sitting at a desk in a plain blue dress, her hair pinned into a bun. She tilts her teacup to her lips, sips, and sets it down before writing in her notebook.

The scribbles of her pen start and stop and point. Start and stop and point, and start again. I look over her shoulder . . . a letter to her cousin.

I whisper, “You should go upstairs.” But she keeps writing.