When Mr. Sitwell arrived at the Barclay house the next morning, he found Bart sitting on the back porch with his shoes off, stuffing rocks into the toe of his sock.
“Morning,” Bart said.
Mr. Sitwell nodded. Without wanting to, he glanced down at Bart’s mangled foot.
“What’s that you’re doing?”
Bart shrugged. “Old trick of mine. Keeps my shoes from popping off when I’m running upstairs.”
He held out the sock weighted down with rocks, wedged his damaged foot inside it, then shook the stump at Mr. Sitwell.
“Doesn’t that hurt?”
“No, sir. Not at all. Not for a long time. Itches sometimes, but that’s about all.”
Mr. Sitwell said nothing. He’d meant the rocks but the boy apparently thought he meant the foot itself. He started to ask why he didn’t massage the foot in linseed oil to keep the skin from cracking and then wrap it in something softer, like a cotton bandage. But instead he kept quiet. The boy was not his responsibility, he thought. Let someone else help him, someone who actually worked in the house.
Bart stood up and hopped a few times. “See that?” Bart said proudly. “Takes a lot more than a couple of missing toes to keep young Bart down.” He held open the kitchen door. “Coming inside?”
“Not today.”
Instead Mr. Sitwell turned and walked toward the yard. He’d spent the whole night thinking about what had happened the day before and decided the best he could do for those boys was stay away from them. He’d let himself get too caught up in the drama inside the house and was now convinced that nothing he did was actually helping. For once he was determined to stay out of it and focus on his actual job.
He walked through the flower garden and looked at the grounds beyond it, taking stock of all the work he had sacrificed to Miss Mamie’s constant need of him inside the house. Given how much time he’d spent neglecting his own duties he was not surprised to discover that an invader had taken root near the north fence: choke weed.
He went to the shed, put his weeding tools inside the wheelbarrow and pushed it to the northern fence. Then he got down on his knees and began the arduous task of trying to uproot everything that did not belong.
Vigilance: that was what was required to keep the weeds out, what he had started to lose sight of by spending so much time in the house. And this was true not just with respect to his responsibilities to the yard. For, in going over the events of the day before, it occurred to him that in telling Frederick the truth about Wash Talbot, he’d revealed more about his past than he’d ever told anyone since he arrived in the city, even Mamie. He’d told Frederick that story because he felt the boy needed telling, but he wondered why he’d not chosen another way to convey the message he was trying to express. He’d always been taught that one kept safe by keeping hidden; because of that, he was not sure if his telling what had really happened to Wash was not, in fact, a symptom of his finally beginning to forget who he actually was.
At some time around eleven, when the sun was high in the sky, a voice called out to him.
“There you are.”
He turned around and saw Mamie standing behind him.
“You didn’t come get your coffee this morning. Where you been, Sitwell?”
“Right here. Working.” Mr. Sitwell shrugged. “I’m the groundskeeper, remember?”
“Yeah, well about that . . .”
She was quiet for a moment, distracted by something going on near the front of the house. Mr. Whitmore had brought the car around and was holding the door open as Mrs. Barclay and Mrs. Lawson climbed inside.
“You heard the news? Mr. Pound made Barclay an offer last night. Coming by this afternoon to finalize the contract.”
“Glad to hear it.”
“Nothing is settled yet, of course. Barclay still has to deal with the Southerners. But it’s a step. A big step.”
“Good for you.” Mr. Sitwell nodded.
“Good for me, good for everybody . . .”
The car wheeled past them, out the front drive.
Mamie chuckled.
“You see that? Mrs. Barclay is going shopping. Deal is not even finalized and they’re already celebrating. Isn’t that just typical?” She shook her head. “Know why Mrs. Lawson is going with her? She’s buying fabric for a new uniform. I finally got the go-ahead from Barclay to hire new staff.”
Mr. Sitwell nodded. “So, you’re finally getting a real butler?”
“No, I’m finally getting a real groundskeeper.” Mamie smiled. “Don’t look at me like that. I’m not putting you out, Sitwell. I’m bringing you inside.”
“What?”
“Already talked to Barclay about it. And honestly, he didn’t take much convincing. Man is getting tired of trying to dress himself for one thing. And I imagine you impressed him with all that clowning you did last night. He said he understood you might need some training, but he thought it was a fine idea. You know how he is; managed to convince him it was better than bringing another stranger into the house.”
“What are you saying? You want to make me the butler?”
“Don’t act so surprised. It’s something I’ve wanted to do for a long time. Now maybe folks won’t act so confused about your proper ‘sphere.’ You’ll be the butler, and that means you’ll take charge of the staff. It’s called delegation of authority. I’m tired of listening to people complain.”
Mr. Sitwell stared. “I don’t know what to say, Mamie.”
“Say thank you.”
“I mean I’m flattered, of course. But you know very well I’m not properly trained.”
“I shall train you. You are smart and you shall learn. Anyhow it’s more money. And it’s where you belong.”
She sat down on a stump and looked around the yard.
“How old were you when Boudreaux sent you out here? Fifteen? I remember because it was right around the time he finally agreed to make me his apprentice. That man sure had a way of making it hard to like him. I spent an entire year pleading with him to let me come into the kitchen and when he finally consents, what does he do? Forces you out the very same day. He knew you were like a brother to me.”
“Perhaps he had cause.”
“No, he just didn’t like you. Imagine he figured out pretty quick you were smarter than him, imagine it intimidated him. You don’t intimidate me, Sitwell.”
“Yes, well, regardless of the circumstances . . .” He looked back at the house. “Perhaps it’s better this way. Truth is I’m happy here.”
“That right?” She gave him a pitying look. “Well, too bad. Because your exile is now over. You’re coming back inside, like I said. And that is final.”
She stood up. “Enjoy your flowers while you still can. I intend to have a proper groundskeeper hired by the end of next week.”
He watched her stomp back to the house.
She was angry, had no doubt been expecting gratitude and instead he’d told her the truth. He was relieved to hear that things were finally getting back to normal, if only because it meant that he could finally get the matter of the boys sorted out with Mr. Barclay. But he’d already decided he didn’t want to be in the house. He didn’t trust himself inside of it, found it too confusing for reasons he could not fully explain.
He was still thinking of ways he might prevent it from happening when a woman’s voice called out to him once more.
“Hello, Sitwell.”
This time when he turned around Jennie was standing behind him.
“Miss Mamie sent me to fetch you. Said to tell you Mr. Barclay wants to talk to you. Congratulations, by the way. Understand you are going to be the man in charge from now on. Which is funny because I was under the impression that you already were that. Guess they’re just making it official.”
“Nothing’s official,” Mr. Sitwell said. “Mr. Barclay got two deals to work out, remember? It’s why we’re having another dinner on Friday. Nothing around here has really changed and there is not really anything to celebrate. Not yet anyhow.” He shook his head. “Seems like everybody else around here has forgotten that except me.”
“Well, now you just proving my point, aren’t you?” Jennie said. “Frederick told me what happened yesterday, by the way. He was crying in that cellar while I was trying to wash his face. He told me he figures you saved his life.”
Mr. Sitwell frowned. “Probably best not to repeat that.”
“Yes, I realize that too. I wouldn’t tell anybody who didn’t already know. Just wanted to make sure you know the boy understands what you did for him. Just wanted to make sure you knew that I understand it too.”
She smiled. “You do realize that, if it is true that you are coming into the house, it means the two of us will be forced to spend more time together.”
“I suppose it would.”
“Well, we shall just have to find some way to endure it.”
She shook her head, let out a dramatic sigh, then, in the most graceful movement he’d ever seen, spun around before him and bowed.
“What are you doing?”
“Cakewalk.”
Mr. Sitwell watched her glide back and forth through the yard.
“Must be hard for you, working in this house.”
“There are harder things.”
“I mean I imagine you must miss the theatre.”
“Oh, I loved my life. And it was a good thing too, seeing as how when I started out I didn’t have much choice in the matter. Perhaps Cutie Pie will choose to go back to it someday. But if she does decide to go back, that is what I would like it to be. A choice. I owe her that much. She did save my life.”
He watched Jennie dance. “One day I would like to thank her for that.”
“Perhaps one day you will get the chance. Perhaps over dinner sometime?”
“Dinner?”
“You do eat dinner, don’t you?”
“Once a day.” He smiled. “I would like that, Jennie.”
“How about Saturday? After Mr. Barclay’s deals are sorted out. What do you say?”
“That sounds grand.”
She spun around one last time and curtseyed. Then she bowed and took her leave.
Mr. Sitwell watched her walk back through the yard. As he did it occurred to him that he’d been so busy worrying about his past that he hadn’t even realized what Mamie was actually offering him by giving him that promotion: a future. If he wanted to court Jennie, he’d be a butler asking her out to dinner, as opposed to a groundskeeper. A butler, walking down the street, holding Jennie’s hand . . . It made a difference, he knew that it did and deep down realized that Jennie knew it too. Knew she thought about such things because she had to think, if not for her sake then for the sake of her child, Cutie Pie.
When he walked back to the kitchen Mamie was sitting at the table dicing onions. Mr. Sitwell stood behind her chair.
“Mamie?”
“What is it?”
“Thank you.”
Mamie sighed. “Never mind, Sitwell. It’s alright. Just go on out there, do like I told you, and stop acting like a fool.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mr. Sitwell pushed through a swinging door. He walked down the hall and knocked on the door to Mr. Barclay’s study.
“Come in,” Mr. Barclay said, then smiled when Mr. Sitwell entered the room.
“There you are, Sitwell.”
“How can I help you, sir?”
“Yes, well, this time I believe it is I who can help you. Have a seat, my boy.”
He eased into the chair in front of the desk while Mr. Barclay gave him an appraising look.
“I have news. You may not be aware, but I am currently in the process of negotiating a substantial business deal. Once negotiations have concluded, the house will once again be on secure footing, and when that happens, I’ve decided to give you a promotion.”
“A promotion, sir?”
“That’s right, Sitwell. We are in urgent need of a new butler and I have decided to give the position to you.”
“Me, sir? Well, this is indeed an honor.” Mr. Sitwell smiled. “And most unexpected.”
“Of course, initially it shall be on a trial basis. You should consider it an opportunity to prove yourself. An opportunity I believe is well within your reach.”
“Thank you, sir. For the opportunity.”
“Not at all. I have already informed Mamie of my decision and found her highly amenable to it. She told me how much help you have been to her these past few months, a fact that did not surprise me in the least. Truth is I have long believed you belong in the house, never fully understood why Mr. Boudreaux seemed so convinced you would work better in the yard. It has always seemed to me that your instincts were better suited to an entirely different form of service. It’s not a groundskeeper whose advice I count on. Not a groundskeeper who would think to take the initiative, to step in and handle the situation with those boys.”
“Thank you, sir. And . . . about that,” Mr. Sitwell said. “I can’t tell you how bad I feel about our misunderstanding.”
Mr. Barclay waved his hand. “Never mind. It’s past.”
“Still, I feel bad. And seeing as how things have changed and the house is back on firm footing . . . perhaps there is some way we could correct my mistake.”
“What do you mean?”
“Bring the boy back. The other two are still in contact with him. Perhaps it is not too late to have him reinstated. After all, we do need three to handle the workload in the kitchen.”
“Yes, that has always been the official number. . . .”
Mr. Barclay pursed his lips as he thought about it.
“Perhaps, Sitwell . . . Why don’t we give it a few days, let things get sorted out here first? Wait until the contracts have been signed. We don’t want to get too ahead of ourselves. . . .”
Mr. Sitwell smiled. “No, sir. Of course not. But thank you.”
Mr. Barclay turned toward the window and sighed.
“You know, it’s funny. Those children do look so much alike. Yesterday I would have sworn it was the other one you’d sent away. The one with those dreadful scars.” He ran his finger along his left cheek. “But now I see quite clearly it was the one with the deformity. It didn’t affect his hearing, did it? The missing ear? Is that why you chose to get rid of him?”
Mr. Sitwell turned toward the window and saw Bart and Frederick working together in the yard.
“Never mind,” Mr. Barclay said. “Leave it for now. We can discuss it later, once my negotiations have concluded.”
“Yes, sir. And thank you again, sir.” Mr. Sitwell stood up. “I won’t let you down.”
Mr. Barclay smiled. “I know you won’t, Sitwell. You never have.”
Mr. Sitwell bowed and took his leave.
He walked outside to where Frederick and Bart were crouched in front of the water pump.
“Where is Mac?”
Bart shrugged. “He had to run a quick errand. Should be back straightaways.”
“Errand?”
“Don’t worry, sir. It’s nothing like yesterday,” Frederick said. “Just went to pick up something right quick. From the field.”
“What?”
“Berries, sir,” Bart said. “The nonpoisonous kind.”
“The nonpoisonous kind? What are you talking about? Did Miss Mamie send him out there?”
“No. It was for Miss Jennie,” Frederick said. He took a deep breath and then tried to explain. “When we came upstairs this morning she was at the stove boiling berries. She said you’d taken her out to the field and told her they’d make a fine jelly someday. She wanted to make some for you, as a surprise. Thing was, soon as we looked at what she was doing we could tell she’d picked the wrong ones. Got some of the bad berries mixed in with the good. And we remembered how you told us we had to be careful with them on account of the poison.”
They went back inside and led him down to the cellar, where they’d taken the berries and hidden them so that no one would eat them by mistake. He took one whiff of the concoction and could tell it was true: Jennie’s jellies were poisonous.
“She was very upset, of course, when we explained it to her,” Bart said. “Started crying and everything.”
Frederick shook his head. “I told Mac to let it alone. But, you know . . . she’s so nice and sometimes Mrs. Lawson gives her such a hard time. Mac said he’d go back to the field, get some good berries so she could make her jelly and wouldn’t have to feel bad about nothing. Said he figured it wouldn’t take more than an hour. If it wasn’t for that, I would have told him not to go. Something must have happened to hold him up.”
“I heard Mrs. Lawson say there was some kind of protest going on downtown,” Bart said. “Might be they blocking the streetcar. Might be he had to walk.”
“How long ago did he leave?”
“Must have been around seven.”
Mr. Sitwell looked at the clock above the stove. It was eleven thirty.
“Look here, sir. I can tell you’re upset, but I mean it when I say you got no cause to worry. Mac will be alright and Bart and me can cover for him until he gets back.” Frederick smiled.
Bart nodded in agreement. “You won’t even notice he’s gone.”
Mr. Sitwell sighed. “Honestly, what foolishness. Just keep those jars where no one will find them. Then go and help Mamie in the kitchen. Mr. Pound is coming back this afternoon. I’ll deal with cleaning the jars properly when I get back.”
“Yes, sir.” Frederick gave him a serious look. “I’m sure Mac is fine. Matter of fact, you’ll probably pass him coming in on your way out.”
But Mr. Sitwell did not pass him on his way. He looked for him too, as he hurried toward the streetcar stop, then all along the Avenue as the omnibus shook over the pavement. When the car trundled past the Magazine he could see Bart was right about the protests; there was a great throng of people crowding the sidewalks, much larger than on previous days. From the signs they carried he gathered it was some sort of tailors’ strike. They were shouting chants and waving their fists and the car was forced to stop several times in order to avoid hitting those who, lost in a trance of their own outrage, would every now and then wander directly in front of it. When the driver dared to honk his horn their anger only seemed to intensify. Before long, rocks were being thrown.
Mr. Sitwell kept his head down as both rocks and fists battered the windows of the car. After a long series of starts and abrupt stops, the car finally made its way past the turmoil. Mr. Sitwell kept riding until they reached the park then climbed off and hurried toward the fields.
He entered through the gate and began walking up the hill. He walked the entire length but saw no sign of Mac. He turned around and walked back the way he’d come; he’d almost reached the gate when, in desperation, he began shouting the boy’s name. To his surprise a voice called out in response.
“Mr. Sitwell?”
He stopped walking. The voice seemed to be coming from some place nearby, but when he looked around he saw no sign of Mac.
“Mac?”
“Yes, it’s me!”
“Where are you?”
“I’m right here,” Mac’s voice cried out. “I’m in a hole.”
The voice seemed to be coming from behind a large patch of reeds near the fence.
“Careful, sir. Watch your step. . . .”
He pushed through the reeds and found, hidden behind them, a large hole, so deep and dark that he could barely see Mac trapped inside it.
“Thank goodness you’ve come,” Mac said.
“What happened to you?”
“A terrible thing,” Mac called from the hole. “Just came out here to run a quick errand. Figured I could do that and get back before anyone even knew I was gone. And I was right about that, only took me a few minutes to get the berries. Then I was on my way back to the omnibus stop. And that was when I saw him.”
“Who?”
“The boardwalk man. The one who locked up Frederick. He was standing on the corner, arguing with a group of men about the protests. He said the strikers were foreign anarchists and that he hoped they were all shot. Then he saw me and stopped talking to give me the most hateful look. So I did the only thing I could do. I ran. Ran all the way back here trying to find some place to hide. I looked back one time to see if he was following me and it seemed like the ground just gave way beneath me. Next thing I knew I was stuck in this hole.”
Mr. Sitwell looked at the broken planks of wood on either side of the hole. He realized that Mac must have managed to fall into one of the many transportation tunnels that had been dug underneath the fields as a means of getting supplies to the fairgrounds during the construction of the Exposition. The tunnels had been boarded up, but the wood must have rotted in the neglect of the years that followed its demise.
“Are you alright down there?”
“Not really, sir. I hurt my leg. It’s why I can’t get out.”
“Don’t cry, Mac. It will be alright.”
“You talk like somebody who’s never been stuck in a hole before.”
“You should feel around down there. Perhaps there’s something you could use to pull yourself up.”
“There isn’t.”
“Perhaps there is. Something you can’t see.”
“No, I can see everything just fine. I see in the dark, sir. Did you not know this about me?”
“I did not.”
“Well, perhaps it simply never came up.” Mac cried, “Woe is me that it ever should have. . . .”
Mr. Sitwell listened to the boy sob. “You know, Mac. I have already walked by this spot twice trying to find you. If you couldn’t get yourself out, why didn’t you call for help?”
“I didn’t know it was you.”
“Yes, but how did you expect anyone to help you if you would do nothing to make yourself known?”
“I don’t know,” the child said between hiccupping sobs. “I guess I was scared. First I was scared of that boardwalk man and then I started thinking of all the other people I done met in my life who I’d not want to ever find me in a circumstance like this. I figured Frederick and Bart were bound to come out here to look for me, eventually. So I thought it best to just stay quiet until I heard someone actually calling my name.”
Mr. Sitwell looked out across the field. Yes, he could see the wisdom in that. It was a warning he himself had been given once, a long time ago.
From the green-eyed man: “Stay hidden and keep quiet. No matter what you hear going on outside, promise me you will not cry out until someone actually calls you by your name.”
“I understand,” Mr. Sitwell said. “No, you did right, Mac. Just . . . please don’t cry. I’m going to find a way to get you out.”
“Thank you, sir.”
But when he looked around him, he realized he didn’t have the slightest idea how to do that. It was a very deep hole, so deep he was surprised that the boy had only injured his leg.
“I’m going to have to get some help.”
“No! Please, Mr. Sitwell. Don’t leave me alone. I’m scared!”
The boy was hyperventilating.
“Mac, stop crying. Try to relax.”
For some reason, Mr. Sitwell found himself patting his pockets. His instinct was to give the boy something to hold on to, in order to vouchsafe his return. But his pockets were empty.
“I promise I’ll be back.”
As he hurried out of the fields and back onto the street, he puzzled at the strangeness of his own gesture, wondered what it was he’d expected to find in his pocket. It wasn’t until he reached the omnibus stop that he remembered: that it was not true that he’d never been trapped in a dark place underground. He had once spent an entire night alone in the darkness, not in a hole but a cellar. It was where the green-eyed man had thought to hide him the night the townspeople raided their village. He’d hidden Mr. Sitwell then told him he had to go back to help the others; but before he’d left, he’d reached into his pocket, pulled out a locket, and tucked it into Mr. Sitwell’s hand.
“Keep that for me. That’s how you know I’m coming back. Because that there is precious to me. It’s kept me safe and it will keep you safe too. Best believe I’d never leave it behind. . . .”
When the omnibus let him off near the Avenue, Mr. Sitwell began to run.
Back at the house he found Mr. Whitmore standing in the kitchen, chopping meat for Mamie.
“Stop what you are doing at once and come with me.”
“Excuse me?”
“I need your help.”
He ran out to the shed and searched for a length of rope. When he came back out, Mr. Whitmore was standing in the yard, watching him.
“What is this, Sitwell?”
“There has been an accident. . . . Just come along, I’ll explain on the way.”
“No.” Mr. Whitmore shook his head. “I am not going anywhere with you. Whatever it is, I can’t help you. Bad enough I’ve got Mamie after me all day, asking me to do things in the kitchen that aren’t my job. I’m not gonna get started in all that with you too. I was hired to drive the car, remember? You’re the yardman. Something wrong in the yard, you can fix it yourself.”
Mr. Sitwell frowned. “I take it you haven’t heard the news?”
“What news?”
“I’ve been promoted. I’m the butler now.”
“Butler? Says who?”
“At present, I do.” Mr. Sitwell held out the rope. “That means you work for me.”
Mr. Whitmore stared for a moment, trying to decide if Mr. Sitwell was serious or not.
He took the rope.
The two of them walked back out to the Avenue.
“So you say you’re the butler now? Interesting. I mean it’s a bit unusual, don’t you think? Kind of makes me wonder if my uncle wasn’t right after all.”
“What does that mean?”
“Nothing. It’s just that he figured it was what you wanted. Said he figured it was what you’ve been angling for all this time.”
“Your uncle doesn’t know a thing about me or what I want.”
“Yeah, well . . .” Mr. Whitmore shrugged. “He said you’d say that too.”
They climbed aboard the omnibus. When they reached the Magazine stop, the sidewalks were deserted; at first Mr. Sitwell was confused by this, but then they ran into the mob two blocks later. He realized the strike had not ended abruptly; it was on the move.
Once again the car was forced to stop in order to avoid those who were passing in the street. Mr. Whitmore watched the windows nervously as people began banging on the side of the car.
“It’s a tailors’ strike,” Mr. Sitwell said.
“No.” Mr. Whitmore nodded toward the crowd. “Some of those men might be tailors. But I recognize some of the others. They are part of the gang sent out with the specific intent to assault men of color. The Good Time Gang. They’re the same ones who ran me off the job.”
“The Good Time Gang?” Mr. Sitwell squinted. “So that’s what happened? Why you came to work for the Barclays?”
“Man came to recruit me back when I was still in Alabama. Said he wanted to make sure I was aware of opportunities that awaited in the North. Wasn’t until I got up here that I realized I’d been hired to be a scab. In some ways, the man was right, of course. They gave us less than those white boys were making but more than I ever would have made in Alabama. Still, I can’t say it sat well with me, nor many of the others who come up here. We tried to tell them that. Tried to form our own delegation, see if there wasn’t some way to work something out between us. Man who volunteered to speak with them got a brick to the head for his trouble.”
He stopped talking, distracted by something going on near the front of the car. A black man had risen from his seat and was standing nervously by the door, trying to decide if it was worth it to get off.
“Don’t do it,” Mr. Whitmore said.
“I’ve got to get to work.”
“Sit back down. Can’t work if you not living. Stay on the car until we get past it, then find some way to circle back around. Sometimes you got to be strategic. You try to get off here, those men will tear you to pieces and not think nothing of it. Trust me, I know.”
The man nodded his thanks and waited until the car rumbled past the strike. When the coast was clear he carefully stepped out onto the street.
Mr. Whitmore looked at Mr. Sitwell. “What did you think I was doing in that house?”
“Honestly, Whitmore? We thought you liked the uniform.”
“I could have bought myself a uniform with the money I was making before. But I get it. Y’all think I’m a fool. Well, you’re wrong about that. I am not a fool. What I am is a cattle butcher.”
“Push back!” the driver yelled.
Mr. Sitwell and Mr. Whitmore moved to the very rear of the car.
At last they reached their stop and Mr. Sitwell led Mr. Whitmore to the fields. Three paddy wagons were parked just outside the gate and several police officers were busy setting up a barricade on the opposite side of the street in anticipation of the protesters’ arrival. Mr. Sitwell hurried into the fields and led Mr. Whitmore to the spot behind the tall reeds.
As soon as Whitmore saw the boy sitting inside the hole, he frowned.
“What is this?”
“I believe it’s one of the tunnels they used to bring supplies into the fairgrounds. They run all across the fields. It must have collapsed.”
“No, I meant how did he wind up in it?”
“I’m not sure,” Mr. Sitwell said. “Never mind that. How is not important. We’ve got to get him out.”
“You are wrong about that, Sitwell,” Mr. Whitmore said. “It’s very important. In fact, it’s the most important thing there is.”
He shook his head.
“How old is that boy? Fourteen? That’s far too old to just be falling into holes. Unless he was pushed. Did someone push him?”
“Nobody pushed him, so far as I know.”
“Then perhaps he is simple. Is he simple, Sitwell? Because it’s the only other possible explanation, so far as I can tell. And yet you know as well as I do this world is not made for the simple and the slow.”
“He’s not simple. You know very well he is not. It’s Mac.”
“Well, if no one pushed him and if he is not simple I can see no discernable reason a boy as big as that one should wind up in such a predicament.”
There was a sound of breaking glass on the other side of the fence, some kind of commotion going on in the street outside the fields. Mr. Whitmore continued to stare at the hole.
“We shouldn’t have come,” Mr. Whitmore said.
“What?”
“I said we shouldn’t have come. It’s bad enough the boy managed to get himself into such a humiliating circumstance. The least we can do is let him get himself out.”
Someone screamed on the street behind them.
“What are you talking about, Whitmore?”
“The larger picture, Mr. Sitwell. You might think you’re doing him a favor pulling him out but trust me, you’re not. Because it seems to me that if that big old boy can’t figure out how to get himself out of a hole when there is no accounting for how he got into it, then he might as well stay there. Because we both know he’s not got much chance of surviving outside of it.”
Mac, who could hear Mr. Whitmore talking, began to whimper in the dark.
“It’s the truth,” Mr. Whitmore said. “You know it’s the truth. You might like to act like you don’t know what I’m talking about, but you do. Deep down, I know you do.”
Mr. Sitwell could feel his heart pounding in his chest as he listened to the protesters chanting, just beyond the gate. Mr. Whitmore stared down at the hole, almost as if he were in a trance.
“It’s the mob, isn’t it?” Mr. Sitwell said. “Those strikers have rattled your nerves. I don’t know what you went through before you arrived at the Barclay house but believe me, you are not the only one who has lived through an encounter with the mob. The point is, I don’t care. I don’t care what you’ve been through, I don’t care how Mac got in that hole and I don’t care what it means. I want him out of it and that’s all that matters. Because you work for me now, and so long as that’s true you are going to do what I tell you and you are going to do it when I tell you to. Or else you can go right back out there and join the rest of those men who don’t have jobs.”
Mr. Whitmore looked up.
“I’m not Mamie, Whitmore. I’ll cut the meat myself before I allow you to disrespect me. I do everything else in that damn house. No reason I can’t do that too.”
Mr. Whitmore nodded toward a nearby tree.
“Might be we could tie the rope to that and make a pulley,” he said.
“Then do it.”
Together, they tied one end of the rope to the tree then dropped the other end into the hole and instructed the boy to tie it around his waist. They stood on the edge of the hole, a length of rope in each of their hands. Behind them they could hear the chanting getting louder as the protesters got closer to the fields.
“Now pull,” Mr. Whitmore said.
Mr. Sitwell pulled on the rope. And as he struggled to summon strength from his muscles, he heard the mob drawing closer and could not help but be reminded of the night the townspeople had raided his village. The sound of the guns, the screams of his neighbors as the green-eyed man led him to his hiding place in the cellar. He’d told Mr. Sitwell he would be safe there and promised someone would come for him; until then Mr. Sitwell had to stay hidden. Then he’d reached into his pocket and held out a small locket on a chain with a picture of a woman inside.
“Your uncle Max give this to me, a long time ago,” the green-eyed man had said. “See, when I was your age I didn’t live in a nice place like this. I was born a slave in Saint Augustine; figured I would die there too until I met a woman who told me she could get me free. I went with her and I was not the only one. She had a whole group of us traveling with her, which is why when I got sick with the fever she had to leave me here on account of all the other people depending on her too. It’s how I wound up living with your mother and uncle Max. By the time I got better, she was long gone, which of course produced a powerful sadness in me. So your uncle Max drew this picture for me, so I’d have something to remember her by.”
“Pull,” Mr. Whitmore shouted.
“Hold on to that,” Mr. Sitwell remembered the green-eyed man telling him. “Keep it safe and it will keep you safe too. Promise me that no matter what you hear going on outside you will stay here. Don’t come out until you hear somebody call you by your name. Because I promise, someone will come for you.”
Then the green-eyed man had gone back out into the chaos and left him alone in the dark. And even though Mr. Sitwell never saw him again the man had kept his word. Because someone had come for him. Just before dawn someone had called his name and led him out of the burning village and back onto the main road; there he’d met a man in a wagon who’d taken him all the way to the state line. He’d explained the need to be careful, that everyone knew his family had been harboring the green-eyed man, that if he were caught he’d be held responsible for his mother’s lie.
“Pull!” Mr. Whitmore said.
It wasn’t until the following day that he’d opened the locket and understood what it was he’d been given. Inside it was a picture of a woman’s face, hand-drawn by his uncle Max. It was the face of the woman who had tried to lead the green-eyed man to freedom. It was the face on the mask held by the woman from his dreams, who’d been coming to him almost every night since.
The sound of a gunshot startled him from his revelry. He looked up and saw a woman in a torn blue dress running frantically past him through the fields. Mr. Sitwell pulled on the rope as hard as he could, then fell backward as the tension gave way and Mac appeared on the ground in front of them. He still had the berries he’d picked tied up in a handkerchief he’d strapped to his waist.
“Thank you, sir,” Mac said.
Mr. Sitwell clutched the boy to his chest. Behind Mac he could see an enormous crowd of people now running through the fields, a row of men on horseback charging after them swinging billy clubs left and right and all of them heading toward the reeds where the three of them stood. He held on to Mac and shut his eyes, as for a moment it seemed as though the three of them might be trampled.
Then something happened. The earth began to shake beneath him, followed by a loud crack as the wooden boards sealing the transportation tunnel gave way a few yards from where he, Mac, and Mr. Whitmore stood. A section of the crowd was sucked into the ground, replaced by a cloud of dust that came billowing out of it. Mr. Sitwell raised his hand to shield his eyes then squinted at the chaos and hysteria that surrounded him. Through the fog of dust he saw a line of men with linked hands moving slowly and deliberately through the crowd, their footsteps tracing strange patterns in the ground as they wove their way through the fields. Mr. Sitwell recognized some of them as the tramps who lived there; he took Mac’s hand and motioned for Mr. Whitmore to follow them all the way through the fields to a small hole in the fence on the opposite side.
The three of them slipped through it and carefully made their way back to the Avenue.
* * *
When they got back to the kitchen Frederick and Bart clenched Mac in a tight hug. Mr. Sitwell looked at Mamie standing near the stove.
“Am I late?”
Mamie smiled. “Quite the contrary. You are right on time.”
She handed him a serving tray.
He found Mr. Barclay and Mr. Pound sitting together in the parlor.
“So it is settled then?”
“I should think so. Just a few minor details to work out. I have one more meeting tomorrow; I just want to feel confident that I fully understand what I am getting into. I shall be more than prepared to make you an official offer by Friday.”
“But if you are getting into it, if that much is firm . . . I don’t see what this meeting has to do with our negotiations.”
“Rest assured, Barclay, the deal will go through. You have my word on that. Really, I find myself distracted by an altogether different matter.”
“Oh?”
“I take it you are aware of the current chaos downtown?”
“The strike? Yes, but it’s hardly chaos. More of a controlled burn. Sometimes it is best to let them rage a bit, get it out of their systems. I can assure you it is being closely monitored by the authorities.”
“Well, whatever you choose to call it . . . It appears it does have consequence. I told you about the luncheon my wife is intent on hosting tomorrow? Now the caterer she hired has pulled out at the last moment and she is convinced that it is due to the turmoil that she has not been able to locate a suitable replacement.”
“Whatever might be going on downtown, I assure you the two have nothing to do with each other.”
“Perhaps not. But I am concerned that it speaks to larger themes.”
“Nonsense, it speaks to no theme at all. As a matter of fact . . . It occurs to me . . . Why not have her lunch here?”
Mr. Sitwell looked up.
“You’re certain you don’t mind?”
“Of course not. No trouble at all. My wife will be delighted.”
“That would be marvelous. And of course, I could pay you for the catering if that is an issue at all.”
Mr. Barclay laughed. “Nonsense! The opportunity for more of your company is payment enough.” He turned to Mr. Sitwell.
“Run and fetch Mamie so that Mr. Pound may explain what he requires.”
Mr. Sitwell frowned. “Yes, sir.”
In the kitchen he told Mamie she was wanted in the parlor. Before she pushed through the door he reached for her hand.
“It will be alright,” he told her.
He waited a few minutes then returned to the hall. He retrieved Mr. Pound’s coat from the closet, then stood listening to the muffled voices on the other side of the parlor door. After a while the door opened and the two men walked out.
“Tomorrow then.”
“Yes, looking forward to it. Hopefully we shall be doing business together for a long time.”
Mr. Sitwell handed Mr. Pound his coat. Mr. Whitmore drove the car around to the front of the house and Mr. Pound was already seated inside it when Mamie finally emerged from the parlor, the expression on her face a mix of anger and profound fatigue.
“So we are clear then?” Mr. Barclay asked her. “Everything must be ready by noon.”
“What would you have me serve them?” Mamie said.
“What do you mean? You know very well what to serve.”
“I know what I was asked to serve. And I also know we do not have the provisions to prepare it in the house. I barely have enough provisions to get through the week, including Friday’s dinner.”
“Is that not what the market is for? Go buy more. What is the matter with you?”
“Those who sell in the market expect to be paid,” Mamie said. “We owe money to every grocer in the city.”
“What did you just say to me?”
“I’m not telling you anything you don’t already know.”
Mr. Barclay frowned. “Yes. We have indeed passed through a difficult period in this house. And yet somehow despite this, you have always been paid and paid on time. Is that not correct?”
Mamie said nothing.
“I do not expect you to understand everything I do, all the sacrifices I have made to ensure the stability of this house. Why should you understand? You are the cook. Cooking is all I have ever asked of you. I must say, however, that when Mr. Boudreaux left, I did have my reservations about giving the responsibilities of head cook to a woman. But you assured me you could handle the job, did you not?”
“I did,” Mamie said. “I do.”
“Then figure it out.”
He turned and walked down the hall. A few seconds later, the door to his study slammed shut.
Mr. Sitwell followed Mamie back to the kitchen where the three boys were busy washing dishes. They noticed her expression and frowned.
“Miss Mamie? Are you alright?”
Mamie stared straight ahead.
The swinging door pushed open again and Mrs. Lawson rushed in, followed by Jennie.
“What is this I’m hearing about a luncheon tomorrow?”
Mamie did not respond.
For a moment the room was quiet. Everyone stared at Mamie. They looked frightened, as if they’d all suddenly realized how much they had depended on her these last few months. Depended on her confidence, on her assurances that things would get better. Without that, it was clear they hadn’t the slightest idea what to do.
Fortunately, Mr. Sitwell did.
He reached for Mamie’s hand. “What did I tell you before? It’s going to be alright.”
He went to the refrigerator and brought out what was left of the sauce she had prepared for the dinner the night before. He raised it to his nose, inhaled deeply then smiled. He went to the pantry and brought out a can of stewed tomatoes, brown sugar, and vinegar and set them out on the table. He chopped garlic and onions then set the saucepan on the stove while Mamie watched.
“What are you doing?”
“Wait and see.”
He mixed Mamie’s sauce with the new ingredients.
Then he began to cook.
When he was finished he tasted it, then held a spoon to her lips. Her eyes lit up as if smelling salts had been placed under her nose.
“What is this?”
“A meat sauce.”
“It’s delicious. I did not know you could cook, Sitwell.”
“My mother taught me a few things when I was a child.”
“Your mother?”
“She was a cook, like you. A fine cook and a fine woman . . .”
“I don’t doubt it. But I can’t recall you ever speaking of your mother before.”
“Her name was Lotta,” Mr. Sitwell said.
Mamie tasted the sauce again.
“Did Mr. Boudreaux know you could cook like this? And yet instead of making you his apprentice, he chose to send you to work in the yard? Why, Sitwell?”
“What does it matter? I’m not outside anymore. I’m right here. With you.”
* * *
When he returned to his rooming house that night Billy was sitting behind the front desk, reading.
“How is that coming along?”
“Oh, there are dark days ahead, that much is clear. Cherokee’s assault is now inevitable and the town is bracing itself for what promises to be an attack of extreme violence.”
“Is that right?”
“And yet there is some beauty amid the terror. According to the author, the threat of attack is what brings the townspeople together. They’ve put aside all petty grievances and are determined to meet the threat as a unified force. As a result, perhaps the first time in its existence, the town is able to see itself for what it truly is.”
“And what is that?”
“A beacon in the darkness. A lonely outpost of civilization carved out of a wilderness that had them surrounded on all sides.”
“Is that right? And what of the village not a mile down the road?”
Billy shook his head. “There is no village down the road.”
“No, perhaps not. Perhaps not anymore. But there was. It was a beautiful place. Full of beautiful, strong, proud people. Until those townspeople whose story you seem so moved by decided to burn it down.”
“What are you talking about? There is no village. There never was. And these are good people in this book. They would never do something like that.”
“And yet they did. I know because I was there. I used to live there. This story you are reading is my story and that is how I know it is full of lies. And all these people you’ve mentioned from the book? Wash, Cherokee, Uncle Max, Farley, Lotta . . . I knew them, I knew what they were really like. The village existed and it still exists. Because I’m still here and I remember.”
Billy frowned. “I’ve already told you, Sitwell. There is no one in this book named Lotta.”
Mr. Sitwell nodded and walked up to his room.
That night, when the woman appeared to Mr. Sitwell in his dreams, he was waiting for her. For the very first time, when she stretched out her hand he did not hesitate.
He took it.