“Best draft is time.” His gaze strays to an old pair of work boots neatly lined against the wall, where we hide our money. We have always been frugal, but lately Old Gin has become as tightfisted as a man gearing up to throw a punch. Last month, I lost a quarter out of a hole in my pocket, and he didn’t sleep well for a week. “We must save for your future.”
“Our future.” Old Gin is not my real father, and yet I cannot imagine a world without him by my side. Whoever my parents were, they must have known he was the most reliable of the Chinese bachelors in Atlanta when they left me with him. A former schoolteacher in China, Old Gin taught me everything he knew. The handful of “uncles” whom Old Gin permitted to live with us—fieldworkers, ditchdiggers, and rock drillers—took turns watching my infant self, but it was Old Gin who paid Robby’s mother to nurse me. It was Old Gin who stayed when the others moved on.
He sips his tea, chest calm once again. “Yes, our future.” He inhales a slow breath and sets down the tea. “How would you like to work for the Paynes again?”
I snort too loudly, but his face doesn’t alter its expression. “You are serious?”
Old Gin nods. “You could see Noemi every day.”
“That would be nice, but—”
“And you will be able to ride Sweet Potato.”
Our mare’s coal-black face appears in my mind. Old Gin had begged Mr. Payne not to let the head groom, Jed Crycks, shoot her as a foal after a lame leg caused her mother to reject her. Mr. Payne agreed, giving her to Old Gin and even letting him board her at the estate as long as Old Gin paid her keep.
“She has grown into a fine animal,” he adds. “Smart, like you.”
Aside from the awkwardness of being dismissed, a job at the Payne Estate is nothing to sneer at, with its luxurious surroundings, plentiful food, and a usually fair, albeit distant mistress. Of course, Mrs. Payne’s daughter, Caroline, was a horse of a different color altogether, but she was away at finishing school.
Old Gin swirls his cup, gazing at the contents.
Would Mrs. Payne really have me back? “Bad eggs, once tossed out, aren’t usually put back in the basket.”
Old Gin trains his placid gaze on the kerosene lamp above us, and it’s as if my words are standing in line behind another thought. But after a moment, he says, “You were never a bad egg.” He sniffs, as though verifying his claim. The sniff sets off a quake in his chest, but he clamps his mouth shut, refusing to let the cough boil over. He lifts himself from his milking stool and takes a moment to scoot it back in place. Instead of saying good night, he nods, then pads creakily toward his “quarters.”
After a rushed tidying, I retreat to my own corner underthe print shop, passing through the curtain door Old Gin had embroidered with horses. When the uncles moved away, he suggested I move to a less noisy section under the main house where he lives, but I love my snuggery, softened by a rug I braided out of old flannel. Not to mention, I refuse to be parted from the speaking tube, the only way I can eavesdrop on the Bells.
After slipping into my nightgown and thick socks, I stretch over the raised platform of my bed. From the opening above my pillow, I remove the wool plug that stops sound from traveling up our end of the speaking tube.
A light draft flows in from above, and the flame in my oil lamp wavers from its place on my crate nightstand. Mr. Bell’s three-beat pacing echoes down to me. Though I don’t know the exact mathematical equation, Old Gin believes the “hearable” space encompasses the area around the Bells’ worktable, roughly matching my corner.
They’re arguing. I pray it has nothing to do with a discovery of rats in the basement.
“Sixteen hundred subscribers, while that fish wrapper theTrumpeterhas broken three thousand. Curse that ridiculous Advice from Aunt Edna column,” thunders the publisher. “It’s embarrassing.” His voice only comes in two levels: loud and louder. I imagine his ruddy face with its fleshy eye pads growing bright with indignation.
I release my breath. It pains me to hear Mr. Bell upset, but at least it is not over Old Gin and me.
Circulation for theFocushas recently taken a nosedive, after Nathan’s risky editorial criticizing a proposal to segregate Atlanta’s streetcars, while the similar-sizeTrumpeterhas soared,thanks to its new agony aunt column. The family sheepdog, Bear, short for Forbearance, sounds out a heartywoof, and her tail begins thumping. Unlike most sheepdogs, Bear’s tail was never docked. I like to imagine the Great Shepherd put her heartbeat in her tail and wanted it kept intact.
“We could add more pictures,” says Nathan, pronouncing the last wordpitchas. Unlike his parents, who hail from New England, a light drawl rubs some of the letters from his words. Old Gin says the Georgia accent rubbed off on me, too. “TheTrumpeterhas at least two per page.”
“A waste of space. Pictures are for children.”
The room falls silent. Even Bear’s tail stops thumping. I can almost feel the rise in Nathan’s temperature, and my heart reaches for him. Nathan is my oldest friend, even if he doesn’t know it. We have much in common, including a love of goobers (what Nathan calls peanuts), a distaste for turnips, and a longing to be heard.
Wood scrapes the floor, probably Nathan pouring himself into one of the worktable chairs. I imagine him sketching out his frustration into one of his political cartoons, art that could easily be featured inPuckmagazine.
“Where is your article on hickory fungus?” Mr. Bell booms. “Folks want to know why their trees are stunted.”
“I’m waiting for it to grow on me,” grumbles Nathan. If I had to have a husband one day, I hope he would have a quick wit, like Nathan, minus his grouchiness.
“If it’s parasites you want,” he adds, “let me write that exposé on Billy Riggs. TheConstitution’s too gutless to write the real story.”
TheConstitutioncalled Billy a “fixer,” but the Bells believe Billy trades in dirty secrets. Last year, the heir to a bourbon fortune hanged himself after a rival revealed the heir preferred the company of men. The Bells suspected the information was bought and sold by Billy Riggs.
Mr. Bell snorts loudly. “The end might be near, but I won’t be burnt at the stake of scandal!”
“Yes, yes,” Mrs. Bell smooths. My ears perk up. Sometimes it’s hard to tell if she’s in the room, as she walks with the heft of a mosquito. “Well, there’ll be a scandal if you miss the early train. Better turn in now.”
