Twelve
Dear Miss Sweetie,
My husband chews with his mouth open, despite my asking him to close it for over sixteen years. He tells me that he will close it only if I will stop slurping my soup. But slurping is the best way I know to avoid burnt lips. Please advise before we kill each other.
Most sincerely,
Still Slurping
Dear Still Slurping,
Stir your soup for two minutes before attempting to consume it and not only will you avoid burnt lips, but you will be spared regular updates on the state of your husband’s mastication. Since one does not eat soup year-round, you’d make out like a bandit by accepting your husband’s proposal.
Yours truly,
Miss Sweetie
—
I wait a quarter of an hour at the water trough, and Caroline still doesn’t appear. Perhaps she didn’t hear the bell chime from the chapel at Our Lord’s Cemetery. Or perhaps she did hear, but simply does not care to be on time. Or perhaps she was kidnapped by a band of kangaroos, and a ransom note will be punched through the door shortly.
I steer Sweet Potato back toward the cemetery.
Sounds and smells always feel amplified when one walks through a graveyard. It would seem that Death, having visited each of these souls already, has no more business here. But the Chinese believe death simply moves a soul to an ancestral state of existence, and that the dead cause mischief if not properly appeased. So there could be plenty of trouble to be found among these tombstones, and I should watch my step.
The stony angels of the Innocenti vault implore me to relieve them with their pupil-less eyes. Frederick and Thief are still tucked in the wooded area behind the vault, minding their own business. Poor spoony Salt, with no idea that her beloved is dipping his pen in the neighboring inkwell.
Assured that Caroline has not been kidnapped by kangaroos, I’m about to steer Sweet Potato back to the water trough but stop when I hear a voice coming from the vault. “She’s warming to the idea of Thief. But you won’t be paying much attention to the race anyway, with Miss Saltworth to distract you.”
Thief throws back his head, his black mane splashing like a wave. The horse has good bone structure and a well-muscledback end, but does he have the kind of ruthlessness required to cross the finish line?
“She means nothing to me.” I expect Mr. Q to have a velvety baritone, but his voice has the soft tenor of a snake charmer, the kind of voice that could coax the gray out of the clouds. “Her father will be moving them to New York soon, and of course she will understand that I cannot go. We shall tell your parents then.”
The words are chased by amorous murmurings, and I hastily exit before my ears start to burn.
—
FRIDAY NIGHT JUSTafter five o’clock, Mrs. Payne gives me three dollars, which I secure in the waist pocket of my russet dress. Old Gin must stay the weekend at the Payne Estate. Noemi bundles a wedge of cheese and crackers in a handkerchief for me to carry to Old Gin, who neglected to come by for lunch. “This cheese will fatten him up for sure.”
I bundle myself into my cloak, then hike to the stables.
In the corral, a whip of a man with ears that stick out like maple pods puts the stallion through his paces. A jockey’s cap is pulled nearly to a small hill of his nose. This must be Johnny Fortune, the best jockey in the States. His squinty black eyes track me, his expression landing squarely on disapproving. The two are watched by Merritt and Mr. Crycks, an old cowboy who is all legs, door-knocker mustache, and hat.
Sighting the curly oak where Billy Riggs accosted Old Gin, I squeeze past the low hedge to inspect the trunk. Below eyelevel, two squares have been carved, one containing four dots, the other, five. They must be dice—maybe lucky numbers. The scratches are small, but it will be hard not to think of them each time I see this tree.
I hurry into the stables, but not finding Old Gin there, I head to the barn next door. Springtime means occasional work helping the caretaker with newborn kids and lambs. In the barn, animals warm the air, their bleating and baaing a peaceful kind of music. I am surprised to find Old Gin, his back to me, in a horse-riding stance. I thought he had given up those strenuous exercises after Hammer Foot left. He holds the stance a full minute before rising. “If you want to sneak up on old men, you should not bring such powerful cheese, hm?”
“I wanted to make sure you ate something.” I hold out the food to Old Gin.
He takes it with a sigh. “Thank you, Jo.” He unwraps the bundle and offers me some.
I shake my head. “That’s for you to eat, and I won’t leave until you do.”
He sits on a bale of hay and takes a nibble so small, I despair of it making it all the way down the hatch. He catches me glaring at him and pats the space beside him. “Let me tell you a story, hm?”
Reluctantly, I sit.
“A farmer whose crops had not bloomed sent his son to buy a peach to entice the bats of fortune. And so the son found a fruit the color of a setting sun, one so large he could hold it with both hands without the fingers touching.” He demonstrates, holding an imaginary ball between his hands.
