“You saying he wrote down yours?”
“Mmmmhmmm.”
“Like he’s telling people he saw you?”
“Outside the theater. The night of the fire. Waving a torch around.”
Gilbert shakes his head. “You wouldn’t believe it if it wasn’t true.”
“Nope.”
A thought occurs to Gilbert. “Was he a big man? The fellow who picked you out?”
“That’s right,” says Cecil. “With eyebrows as thick as turds.”
Gilbert should have known as much. “His name’s Billy Twaits. Came by Kemp’s, trying to rile him up. That man is lying through his teeth.”
“Well,” says Cecil, “I hope somebody figures that out before they get around to deciding what they want to do with the names on that list.”
CECILY
Della finds a stool andmotions for Cecily to sit, then she goes to ask Samuel if he’s got a comb and some grease.
While she’s gone, Cecily removes her headscarf and runs her fingers over her hair. She put it in a couple of thick twists last Sunday and hasn’t touched it since.
To her relief, the bump on her forehead has gone down. When she presses on it, it’s still sore, but in another few days, it will disappear completely.
Della returns with a wire brush and a jar of kerosene. “Best he’s got,” she says as she gets to work.
Cecily tries to savor the feeling of her mother’s hands on her head, the care and love that goes into each brushstroke. She has been sitting, on a stool just like this one, for nineteen years, and it is impossible to believe that—if all goes well—this is the last time Della will ever perform this simple act of love.
“Mama,” says Cecily, “what you said about Master Price and me. To Elliott, when you was in front of the cabin.”
The brush in Della’s hand stills. “You heard all that?”
“I came up from the boathouse, to tell you they had Moses.”
“I see.” She takes a deep breath, then says, “I’m sorry you had to find out like that.”
Cecily doesn’t mean to make her mother feel worse than she already does. “I think some part of me has known for a long time, but I was scared that if I said anything—that if Papa knew I knew—it might change something between us.”
“Oh, baby,” her mother whispers, “nothing could change the way he feels about you.”
At some level, Cecily knows that’s true. Yet she’s still got to ask, “Gilbert told me Papa’s always known. Is that right?”
Della lets out a note or two of amused laughter. “Why you think he named you Cecily?”
Cecily tilts her face up toward the ceiling, trying to get a good look at her mother. “I guess I thought you named me.”
“No, ma’am,” says Della, gently guiding Cecily’s head back down into position. “You were his from the start, and he wanted you to have a name that said so.”
Once Della has finished combing out Cecily’s hair, she smooths it back into a neat bun, which she secures with a few of her own hairpins. “Now stand up and turn around,” she says as she takes a few steps back to admire her handiwork.
Cecily does as she is told. “Do I look like a Ruthie Mills? On my way to Philadelphia to visit my sister?”
“Ruthie?” her mother whispers.
“It’s the name Uncle Gilbert gave me—on my papers.”
