When Frank opens his eyes, he finds himself in a rocking chair by a fire. Three small children sit near his feet, staring up at him curiously from the wooden floorboards. A man stands by the hearth, one elbow on the mantel. His other hand rests on the shoulder of a boy, maybe nine or ten years old. Their eyes are upon him, too. A woman paces in the shadows beyond, humming softly to the baby in her arms. Her humming is the only sound aside from the crackle of the fire, and then footsteps: a girl approaches with a cup of water, drawn from the wooden bucket in the corner of the room. She gives it to him shyly, all ebony skin and bone in a ragged white dress.
“Thank you,” Frank says. He takes the offered cup, his hands trembling, and drinks it at once. The water is warm and earthy; he closes his eyes and imagines he can feel it flowing through his veins. He lowers the cup and wipes his mouth.
“You hungry?” the man asks, from the mantel. He is tall, thin like his daughter, in a dirty white shirt and trousers held up by suspenders. He gestures toward the pot hanging over the hearth. “Got stew left.”
Frank shakes his head, though he hasn’t eaten since morning. “Be obliged for more water, though,” he says.
The girl glances at her father, who nods. She takes the cup from Frank and returns to the bucket, where she ladles the last of the water up. The man taps the shoulder of the boy beside him, who goes to the bucket and takes it with him out through the back door.
Frank nods his thanks to the girl and drinks again, this time slowly, sip by sip, each sip restoring him further, bringing the room into clearer focus. It is the cabin’s only room, with a front and back door, glassless windows. There are two ladder-back chairs at a wooden table, and a freestanding cabinet where the family keeps cups and plates. On the other side of the room are two mattresses. These are dirty and bare. The walls are also bare, the plaster falling off in many places. Frank grew up in a cabin like this one, lived in one till he got the sugar job and moved near to town with Elma. But he knows this life. It had been a source of pride for him to be able to give his children more, some schooling, bedsheets, better clothes, though lately he’s wondered what good it did.
“What’s your business here?” the man asks.
In the mother’s arms, the baby begins to whimper, and the mother starts to sing softly, a tune Frank doesn’t recognize. He looks at her, pacing in the dim light, then turns to the man. “I’se on my way to St. Martinville. Mule won’t budge. Left her out on the road edge. Hoped y’all’d have one could pull my load the last miles.”
The man makes a noise with his throat, a scoffing sound. “No sah, no mule here.”
“I seen that.”
“Mule hurt?”
Frank shakes his head. “Old. Been from St. Martinville to Youngsville and back. Or just about. Ain’t used to more than a half mile these days.”
“You can shelter here the night,” the man says.
“No sah,” Frank shakes his head. “I best wait with the wagon. See what comes ’long down the road.” He stands, puts his hand on the mantel for balance.
“Ain’t much in the shape for trekking through that cotton, old man.”
The boy returns with the bucket, which he sets down in its place in the corner of the room. Frank looks at him in the shadows, and he knows it’s just the shadows but still it’s Willie’s young face he sees staring back at him. Willie. Frank rubs his eyes. “I best be gone,” he says. He nods at the man, at the woman beyond. “Obliged to you.”
The woman interrupts her song. “Ain’t something I can live with you keel over in the cotton,” she says. “You stay the night here.” The baby, who had quieted, begins to whimper again at the sound of its mother’s raised voice.
“Ma’am,” Frank says. “Obliged to you. But my boy’s gonna be buried in the morning, and I got to get to St. Martinville tonight.”