“Oh good, for a minute I thought she might have had three. If we were ever held up, how would you describe the perpetrator to the police? The young woman I saw was pretty, about your age, five foot and some change, with soft brown eyes the color of chestnuts. She had creamy skin—I suppose all hatters are good about keeping out of the sun—and she had a careful way of moving around. She didn’t throw herself about like some young people. Stop twitching. So, what do you think?”
“I think, if she ever holds us up, you’d better do the describing.”
“We don’t see many Chinese around here, especially after the Rabid-Eyes Rapist. Of course, you were too young to remember that.”
“I read Father’s articles.”
I allow myself a breath. They never did catch the Rabid-Eyes Rapist, but they caught another man who looked like him—if you ignored the ten-inch difference in height. The unfortunate soul was eventually cleared, but only after they had hanged him from a stout oak. The Chinese who remained in Atlanta began drifting away after that.
“I suppose that could be who I saw,” says Nathan at last.
“I didn’t catch her name. Perhaps I will ask Mrs. English tomorrow. I’m curious about her.”
I stifle a gasp. Hammer Foot says when people make connections, their energies seek one another out with more frequencyas the mind strives to see patterns. That’s why Old Gin was so strict with the uncles about following rules. Footprints are not just left on the ground.
Have I stamped another footprint with my Miss Sweetie column? Yes. Perhaps sending the Bells my letter was a very bad idea.
Ten
My muscles protest as I shift around the bench of the streetcar, scanning passengers for copies of theFocus, ears attuned to any mention of the wordsweetie. Though 90 percent of me dreads the Bells’ accepting my proposal, the 10 percent of me that wishes for it is a vocal (and regrettably vainglorious) minority. A man in front of me is reading theSavannah Tribune, one of the few colored newspapers available in this town. Beside me, a butler unfolds theConstitution, clutching it closer to him when I try to get a look. At least the Paynes will have a copy. They subscribe to every newspaper, save the colored and the Jewish ones.
The air is shrouded in droplets, making it feel as if the morning is spitting in my face. Every jostle of the streetcar seems designed to wreak maximum injury on my limbs. Old Gin, though, takes the bumps in stride, serenely chewing on a piece of ginger. Shivering, I slide closer to him, being careful not to muss my new “cheeky clouds” hairstyle with its rolled bundles that peek out from my “borrowed” bonnet.
“I must spend tonight at the Paynes’,” says Old Gin, sidestepping my surprised eyes. He’s been working late hours recently, but he’s never spent the night. “Merritt will be arriving with a new Arabian stallion. Mr. Crycks wants me on hand, just in case.”
Merritt has always loved fast horses, just like his sister. An Arabian stallion is sure to cause a stir among the mares who are in heat. “Where will you sleep?”
“There’s an extra room besides Mr. Crycks’s in the work shed.”
“The work shed is always drafty.”
“If I’m cold, I’ll sleep in the stables.”
“The dust will hardly help your cough.”
“I’m only a little hoarse, hm?” He begins to laugh at his own joke, but when he becomes short of breath, I fix him with a glare.
“Will they compensate you for your additional work? You should not set a precedent.” Of course, that would never happen. Folks like us are just lucky to have jobs.
“There are rewards.”
May the rewards from his extra hours be worthy of the loss of his health.
Once at the Paynes’, Old Gin opens the kitchen door for me, but leaves before anyone can attempt to feed him. Through the window, I spy Noemi bent over in the garden.
I assemble fist-size cinnamon buns dripping with honey and butter on a doily-thin plate, betting that even my bad-tempered mistress won’t refuse this breakfast.
Before I even reach the third floor, I can hear Caroline’sand her mother’s voices, the rapid pace telling me how things lie. They must like to get their arguing over with in the morning, sort of like milking the cows. It strikes me that money can alleviate many of the miseries of common folk, but it opens up other avenues of suffering.
I park the tray on a side table and wait outside Caroline’s bedchambers for the flames to cool. On the wall hangs a painting of a horse standing atop a knoll, his tail high, ears rigid. A herd of black sheep graze in the valley below it, kept in line by a fierce-looking dog. The painting probably gave the artist a mean hand cramp with all the tiny strokes, but something about the scene puts an itch under my skin.
I hear Old Gin’s voice in my head.Fancy horse like that wouldn’t just be strolling around, free as a bird, hm?Noemi might wonder why the sheep are all black and stuck at the bottom of the hill, a question that four years of bloody battles between the states and twenty-five years of Reconstruction still haven’t answered. For me, the piece is simply banal—one of Nathan’s favorite words. For once, couldn’t the artist show the things people don’t pay attention to? Like the wind. Maybe the wind wouldn’t be so invisible if people took the time to notice it.
When I detect a lull in the conversation, I shoulder into the room. “Good morning, ma’am. Miss.”
Mrs. Payne pulls the African violet away from Caroline, lying in bed, and a trail of soil spills onto the woman’s apricot skirts. She dusts them off with a few flicks of her fingers. “Good morning, Jo.”
Unlike her mother, Caroline holds her displeasure up for allto see: two hot spots on her cheeks, a scowling mouth, and eyes narrowed to slits. I might have been wrong about the cinnamon buns, which seem to have been frightened into silence and no longer smell. I set the tray on her table and pour the coffee.
