I rode up Lovett Mountain with misgivings. Several times I turned around only to double back, the growing unease sticking to my dampening collar.
When I didn’t see Jackson in the yard, I dismounted and took Honey from her bag. I stood at Jackson’s door for a long moment, flexing a fist before braving a knock. I hadn’t seen him in weeks, not since the Fourth of July. Every time I tried to drop off the books, he was nowhere to be found.
Maybe he didn’t want to be found, didn’t want to be around me and the books anymore.
Dismayed, I turned to take my leave when he opened the door wearing nothing but his work britches, a pencil tucked behind his ear. Books and papers lay scattered on his table inside.
“Cussy Mary, come in.” He barely glanced at me, turned back, and grabbed clothes off a chair, tossed them across the room, stacking papers and books on the table to clear a spot for me. “Excuse this mess. I wasn’t expecting company.”
“How are you?” Jackson called over his shoulder. “Listen, I’m sorry about keeping the book so long.” He rubbed his head while scanning his quarters. “Ah, here it is. I’ve been going back and forth to Georgia lately to help out a friend with his turpentine camp.” He turned back to the door, opened it wider, and held up Mama’s book. “It’s good to see you—”
The baby squirmed in my arms. Jackson stared at her, confused, and then laughed. “Where’d you get that?” He raised a brow at Honey. “You delivering for the stork now?”
He glanced at my face, took note of my shabby appearance, Angeline’s smeared blood on my skirts, and I saw the alarm in his eyes. “What… Are you okay? What happened, Cussy Mary? Please…please come on in.” He stepped aside.
“The Moffits,” I rushed, “it’s the Moffits—they’s dead. Dead.”
“Slow down.” Jackson motioned me inside again, flicking his hand. “What are you saying?” he asked and darted his eyes to the baby.
“She’s the Moffits’. Was the Moffits’,” I babbled and stepped over the threshold. “The mama done gave her to my care before she passed from birthing.”
“Where’s the papa?”
“Hanged himself.”
“What—?”
I peeled back the baby’s covering. “Mr. Moffit told his wife he wouldn’t have her—colored and all.” I felt the child’s loss splinter in my heart. “He went and took his life out in the yard.”
“Damn. Is the baby okay?”
“Honey. That’s the name Angeline gave her. She’s not fussing none.” I peeked down and saw she was sucking on a knuckle, content to soak up her surroundings.
“I need help, Mr. Lovett—”
“Jackson. Call me Jackson.”
“Jackson, I need milk. And I need to get them buried up there before the critters take ’em. Can you help?”
“Where’s their kin?”
“Weren’t none. That’s why she gave me the baby. I have money to pay you—”
Jackson waved his hand, hushing me. “You mean to bury a chicken thief? Take in the orphan?”
I drew Honey closer as if the ugly word would reach out and lash her. “I-I…” Hot tears struck, and I took a step backward. “I’m her mama!” I punched the words and claimed it for the truth. “Her mama. And I aim to bury the Moffits, and proper-like, Jackson Lovett. Do it myself.” I was out the door, my angry skirts swishing a curse across the threshold.
“Hold up,” he said, following me down the steps.
Junia blew, swung her head back and forth, tried to break free of her tether.
I yelled at him. “Stay back…back till I can get my babe out of here!” To Junia I raised a hand. “Whoa. Easy, easy.”
Jackson retreated back to the porch as if annoyed by Junia’s protection.
With Honey tucked securely in the crook of my arm, I untied Junia with my free hand, gripped the mule’s reins, and led her out of the yard.
Jackson called out, “Cussy Mary, I’ll see they get a proper burial.”
I stopped and turned to face him.
“As proper as one can get in this graceless land.” His eyes were sad and troubling. “I’ll have them buried ’fore sundown. You have my word.”
All I could do was nod and breathe out a raspy obliged before continuing onto the path.