She smiles so big all Cecily sees is teeth. “Ruthie was our mama’s name.”
“That’s what he said.”
Della touches Cecily’s cheek. “It was always hard for me to talk about her. I was so young when we was separated, and it hurt so bad.”
“I’m sorry I’m adding to your hurt.”
She shakes her head. “This is different. You choosing to go, not being sold out from under me. And you got something better for yourself in store.”
“If I ever have a daughter,” says Cecily, “she’s gonna be tired of hearing about you.”
Della’s eyes have gone all glassy, and she blinks once and then twice to keep from crying. “I got to go soon.”
Cecily doesn’t know if she will be able to bear watching her mother leave. “Stay a few more minutes?”
“I can’t,” says Della with a sad smile. “It’s getting light, and I got to go get ready for your funeral.”
Just the sound of those words from her mother’s lips sends a shiver up Cecily’s spine. “Master Price said you could go?”
“He’s letting anyone in the quarters go who wants to.”
“Elliott must love that.”
“No one’s seen him since yesterday afternoon.”
“You think he’s still out there, looking for me?”
“Maybe,” says Della. “But it won’t do him much good soon.”
Cecily assumes that some part of her will always be looking over her shoulder, expecting Elliott to jump out at her when she least expects it. With time and distance and a little bit of God’s grace, she prays he’ll forget her.
“Oh,” says Cecily, remembering Moses’s sweater and jacket. “Will you give these back to Mo? Thank him for loaning them to me, and tell him he don’t make a terrible turkey.”
Della takes the clothing and hugs it to her chest.
“I almost forgot,” says Della. “I wanted to give you something.” She reaches into her pocket and pulls out one of the little animals Cecil’s always whittling. This one’s the bluebird, carved from the river birch that grows in the woods behind her parents’ cabin.
The bird is in flight, and Cecily runs her finger along the beak, the wings, the tail. “I love it,” she says softly.
“Something to remember us by.”
“I don’t need anything to remember you by,” says Cecily as she begins to sob. “You and Papa and Moses and the girls will always be with me, wherever I go.”
JACK
The deal is remarkably straightforward.In exchange for the land, which the burial committee dearly wants, the inquest committee is prepared to issue a report absolving the company of all wrongdoing.
Jack can scarcely concentrate on the words coming out of Ritchie’s mouth. When he went to him last night with the real story, he thought he’d been doing the right thing, thought that his testimony would result in the troupe paying for what it had done. But now he sees that all he did was give Ritchie what he needed to blackmail West.
Ritchie places the papers in front of Placide, who has pulled up a chair beside Twaits. “Remember, it’s a draft.”
Placide’s eyes are weak, so he hands the pages to Twaits, and it’s he who reads the first few sentences aloud:
We, the committee appointed by our fellow-citizens “to enquire into the causes of the melancholy catastrophe” which took place in this city, on Thursday night last—a catastrophe which has spread a gloom over a whole city, and filled every eye with tears—has given to this melancholy duty all the attention in our power. We feel it due to ourselves; it was due to the world, to collect all the lights which might serve to elucidate an event whose effects are so deeply written on our hearts. We have seen every person who was behind the scenes, that was best able to assist our enquiries, we have heard their statements, and after sifting them as accurately as possible, beg leave to submit the following report to our afflicted citizens.
“Christ, you’re not the most succinct writer, are you?” says Twaits after he’s taken a breath. “You should try to write for the stage. It’d break you of your run-on sentences.”
“It might be worth remembering, Mr. Twaits,” says Ritchie with a grimace,“that no one is off the hook quite yet. Until we have the deed to the land, it’s still subject to change.”
