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The Englishwoman came home just before midnight, dropped off by a hunter in an old pickup truck. Barbree, who was a light sleeper, hurried to the window as the pickup pulled away with a diminishing volley of backfire explosions.
The night was cold and clear under a brilliant moon, and Barbree watched the Englishwoman open the rusted gate and stumble up the steps, unsteady in her high-heeled shoes and dragging her suitcase. She was wrapped in Nick’s old hunting coat, which explained why she had left her own fashionable coat behind her when she ran off to Pittsburgh.
Barbree shuffled into her slippers, threw a ragged patchwork quilt around her shoulders, and picked up her solitary candle. The house was cold, the only warmth coming from the banked coal stove in the kitchen and what little heat remained in the chimney. She was halfway down the stairs when the Englishwoman opened the door with a key that she should not have possessed.
“You don’t belong here,” Barbree said by way of greeting. She held up the candle so that it illuminated Vera Malloy’s face and the wisps of breath from her decorated lips.
“Says who?” Vera asked.
“Tramp,” Barbree whispered.
Vera pushed past her, heading upstairs.
Barbree was triumphant. “Not up there. You don’t got no bed up there.”
“What do you mean?”
The irritating English accent was as strong as it had been the day Nick so reluctantly brought her home. There were those, of course, who thought it attractive. No doubt the driver of the pickup had thought so. She’d probably persuaded him to do all kinds of things just by using that silly little voice. He was probably a God-fearing family man led astray, just as Nick had been led astray.
“Why don’t I have a bed?”
“You left. This ain’t no boarding house where y’all can come and go anyways it pleases you. You left, and we don’t want you back.”
“I went to Pittsburgh. I told you where I was going. Someone had to earn some money.”
“Oh yes,” Barbree agreed, “someone had to earn some money, and you knew how, didn’t you?”
“You evil-minded old witch,” said Vera. “Where’s my daughter?”
“Gone.”
“Gone? You let her go out on a night like this. What’s the matter with you? How long has she been gone?”
“I didn’t let her go. Someone took her.”
Vera raised her eyebrows. Even by the light of the single candle, Barbree could see that the eyebrows were no longer the way God had made them, thick and dark. They were little pencil lines on a plucked-bald forehead. What did she think she was, a movie star?
“What are you playing at, old woman? Who took my daughter? Whoever it was had better bring her back. Your son’s not going to like this, Barbree. She’s Nick’s daughter, and his granddaughter. He loves her just as much as Nick did.”
“She ain’t Nick’s daughter.”
“Oh, don’t start this again. She’s Nick’s daughter. We even went to Morgantown for the blood test. O positive blood group, that makes her Nick’s daughter.”
“I don’t trust them doctors. I could tell by looking.”
Vera looked away. “I’ll sleep down here by the fire. In the morning you can go and get her from whoever took her.”
“She’s not coming back.”
“Of course she is.”
“No, she’s not.”
Barbree laughed softly, careful not to wake up the rest of the family exhausted from the day’s hard work. Decent folk, folk who worked in the mine or tramped through the woods looking for game, went to bed at night, and slept the sleep of the righteous. Decent folk didn’t run off to Pittsburgh and then return unexpectedly in the middle of the night. “We found out who her real father is.”
The Englishwoman stepped back. “What do you mean? Nick was her father.”
“No, he wasn’t. Her father was Jack Harrigan.”
Barbree had to admit that Nick’s faithless bride made a good show of seeming surprised.
“Who?”
“Jack Harrigan, and you ain’t even her mother.”
Ah, now there was guilt mixed with the surprise.
“You’re talking nonsense. Of course I’m her mother.”
“That ain’t what Mr. Harrigan says.”
Vera set down her suitcase and grabbed Barbree’s arm. She pulled her into the kitchen, where the moonlight streamed through the cracked windows.
“Look at me.”
Barbree eyes slid away from the Englishwoman’s fierce glare. Vera grabbed her by the chin and forced her to turn her head.
“Look at me.” The words were an angry hiss. “What have you done with Anita?”
“She went with Mr. Harrigan. He’s her grandfather.”
“I thought you said he was her father.”
“Not Jack Harrigan, Harry Harrigan. Jack Harrigan is dead, died over there in Europe.”
Vera took a deep breath but her grip was as firm as ever. She forced Barbree to meet her gaze. “And this Harry Harrigan says that I’m not Anita’s mother?”
“That’s right. He says you stole her from her mother, and her mother is some English lady, some high-up.”
“High-up?”
“Yeah, not someone like you pretending to be high up, someone really high up. A lady.”
“Did he say her name?”
Barbree made another attempt to pull away, and Vera’s fingers bit into her flesh.
“Did he say her name?”
“Sylvia something.”
Vera’s fingers released their grip.
“Sylvia? Lady Sylvia? ”
Barbree stepped back, out of reach of the Englishwoman’s grasping hands. The red lips were open in a gasp of surprise, the penciled eyebrows raised, and the blue eyes wide with shock.
“You stole her, that’s what Mr. Harrigan said. You stole her so that Nick would marry you, and you brought her here so you could live off our family.”
“Live off your family!” Vera kept her voice low, but her hiss was more menacing than any shout could have been. “You live no better than rats. If I’d had any idea that this was how Nick lived, I would never have come here. I’ve done my best, and God knows it was difficult, but I’ve done my best for all of you. I only went to Pittsburgh to earn money. I can’t earn any money here. I can’t work in the mine, but in Pittsburgh they have office buildings and steel mills, and they like my accent. They pay good money just for me to answer their phones. That’s why I went. I’ve come back with enough money to connect the house to electricity and running water so Anita and I can live like human beings.”
“We don’t need your money.”
“Oh, don’t worry; you’re not going to get any.”
Barbree wrapped the blanket tightly around her shoulders and shuffled back toward the stairs.
“Wait.”
Barbree turned to look at her grandson’s widow. Vera’s expression had changed from shocked to calculating. She was opening her purse and looking inside.
“I need information.”
Barbree waited.
“I need to know more about this Mr. Harrigan.”
“Oh, you’ll never find him. He’s taking her to England.”
“Really?”
“Yes, really. I signed something that said she wasn’t ours. He said that would be enough to get her some papers so he could take her away. They’re gone. Left in a big car.”
“When did they leave? How long ago?”
Barbree looked at Vera’s open purse.
“Oh, for God’s sake,” said Vera, her hand dipping into the purse and creating rustling sounds.
“A week, maybe ten days.”
“And he had a big car?”
Barbree locked her eyes on Vera’s purse. “Mr. Harrigan’s a rich man.” “Where does he live?”
“Why should I tell you?”
“So that I won’t go to the police,” Vera replied. “I’ll bring charges of kidnapping, or maybe even worse. You sold my child, didn’t you? Mr. Harrigan gave you money.”
“No.”
Vera’s hand dipped into her purse and came out with a handful of paper money. “Listen to me, you evil old hag, we can do this the easy way, or the hard way. You can tell me everything you know about this rich man who has stolen my daughter, and I will pay you what I think is a fair price for the information. Alternatively I will start screaming bloody murder that my daughter has been sold by you to white slavers. People won’t like that, not even in this benighted place. What do you want, Barbree? Do you want to do this quietly, or do you want the whole world to know?”
“Chicago,” said Barbree.
Vera handed Barbree a couple of dollar bills.
“Is that all?” Barbree asked.
“Yes, that’s all. I don’t need anything else from you. You’ve told me what I need to know.”
Barbree tucked the money into the sleeve of her flannel nightdress. The Englishwoman lowered herself into the rocking chair by the banked fire and eased her feet out of the high-heeled shoes.
“Are you leaving?” Barbree asked.
“Yes,” said Vera, “I’m leaving. First thing in the morning.”
She leaned forward, grasped the poker, and stirred the coals into glowing life.
“You’re wasting coal.”
Vera opened her purse and produced another dollar bill.
“Buy some more. Now go away and leave me alone. I have to think.”