After I saddled Junia, I looked in on Pa and the babe and saw that Honey was sleeping. Pa had settled into a chair near her pallet and fallen asleep too, holding one of my children’s storybooks in his lap.
I headed toward the Moffits’ homestead, eager to make the stop before I went for the baby’s milk. I needed to make sure Honey’s folks got themselves the burial Jackson’d promised.
As we got close to the broken-down cabin, every few steps, Junia would switch her stride and walk sideways, her nose arrowed toward the Moffits’ home, a soft bray blistering her lips like she was calling for her friend Angeline.
The air smelled of mud. Turkey buzzards circled above, pressing blackened smudges against the hard Kentucky sun.
I found Jackson around back with his horse tied to a stick post. He stood over the potter’s ground where he’d dug up two fresh mounds under a half-broke tree, the only shade back there. Jackson rested an arm on the shovel with his back to me, head bowed in what looked like thought or prayer. A damp circle bull-eyed his shirt as the July sun hammered its waves of heat onto everything.
I slid off Junia and fumbled with the reins before dropping them. Instead of staying put, the mule trotted toward Jackson, blew over his shoulder, then—to my surprise—nuzzled his arm.
“No flowers today,” he told her solemnly and rubbed her neck.
I stepped up beside him and reached into my pocket. “Thank you, Jackson. I have your pay.” I pulled out money.
He dropped the shovel and raised a palm in protest. “For the baby. How’s she doing?”
“I got her settled in. Pa’s tending to her. She seems right fit.”
Jackson pointed to one of the graves, cleared his throat, and said, “Takes a mighty special woman to take in a mother’s baby like that, Cussy Mary. To raise Mrs. Moffit’s babe.”
I studied Angeline’s grave. The mound of loose dirt. Even it was sparse. “She’s a right special baby,” I said more to the heavens, hoping the words would reach dear Angeline.
“And a lucky one.” He dug into his pocket, pulled out hair that had been braided into a small ring, and gave it to me. “I thought Honey might want her parents’ locks. Snipped them off for her keepsake.” A sorrow clung to his words.
He’d done that for Honey—thought to cut off small locks of her folks’ hair like that. Jackson’d woven each of their strands, then carefully weaved those two together into a third, the one that represented Honey.
As if reading my thoughts, Jackson said, “My mama died of smallpox when I was twelve, and I lost my twin baby brothers a week later.” He grimaced. “I can still see my papa saying it was important to honor the dead by keeping a part of them living. He’d tucked their locks into our Bible. I did the same to his, two years later after he drank himself to death.”
“I’m sorry.” Without thinking, I told him, “After Mama died, Pa went on a tear, ran off into the woods somewhere. He soaked his boots in the shine, had himself a mighty battle with devils and angels, I reckon. He didn’t come out of the hills for three nights and not a second sooner and until the miners found him and dragged him home. I thought I’d lost them both.”
I’d never shared anything about Pa’s tear before, not to anyone. That Jackson could draw this story out of me so easily frightened me, and I searched his face to see if my words did something to him too.
Jackson nodded with the kinship of knowing something no one else did. “I ended up leaving these hard parts when I was fourteen and swore I’d never come back. Wandered around the country till I settled out west. Worked a lot trying to forget it all. But, hell, anyone knows a Kentucky man ain’t gonna let the wandering legs plant themselves anyplace other than here—can have hisself one foot on foreign soil, but the other is always pointed home.”
His words were measured with regret and relief, a flash of old hurts sweeping across his eyes.
I gave Jackson a sympathetic smile and said, “My great-grandpa came from a small village in France, but my folks always claimed he came here to collect his ’tucky heart. They say I favored him, and they named me after the town he was born in.”
“Cussy, France?” Jackson looked at me like he saw something new. Then, “Well, I didn’t think it was because of your mouth.”
I smiled at that. “It’s a right pretty place from what I’ve seen in the National Geographic.” I peered at the ring he’d made. “Much obliged, Jackson. This is a special gift, and I’ll keep it in the Bible for Honey.” I held up the keepsake, peered at the tiny woven ring of Willie’s dark hair and Angeline’s blond. A precious piece of their life, for Honey’s new life that she could hold forever. I pressed it to my mouth with a silent prayer and slipped it into my pocket, grateful for what Jackson had seen fit to do.
“This old land.” Jackson stared off. “It sure makes a man yearn for it and want to flee it altogether.”
“Ain’t never had the chance to leave,” I said and wondered if he would again, wondered if I’d ever. At that thought, a peculiar new ache seized me.
Jackson darted his eyes to mine and held them.
“Queenie Johnson wants me to visit her. She says there’s opportunities in Philadelphia. That it’s a fine place to raise colored young’uns.” For the first time I thought hard about Honey, what kind of life we could have there, reckoning anyplace might be softer, better than here.
“Cussy Mary, I’ve been wanting to apologize for my words back on the trail that day. I had no right telling you how you should feel. No right claiming knowledge on things I could and will never feel. I’ve never known harm or exile because of my skin. Nor felt the lash of leather whips or angry tongues because of it.”
I shifted uncomfortably.
Jackson stepped toward me. “Forgive me. I was damn foolish, blind, because I only saw a smart librarian, a fine lady. I see more now…see your burden and grief, and I am sorry for it.”
A silence fell as I searched his anguished eyes, grasping the words.
He was about to say something more, then stopped and pointed to the hill behind the graves. “I’m not finished here.”
My eyes followed his.
“There should be some sort of markings.” Jackson climbed up the rocked slope and picked up two hand-sized stones, weighed them and scampered down. He placed one at the head of each grave and stepped back to inspect them. “I’ll take them home and see if I can chisel proper headstones for them. Bring ’em back tomorrow at first light.”
“I’m much obliged.”
Jackson scooped up a handful of dirt beside the covered plots, letting it sift over the graves. He bowed his head.
I followed his lead, grabbed a fistful, and sprinkled it over the hungry earth.
“Go in peace, you’ve earned your sleep. God rest,” Jackson said, picking up their stone markers. He walked them over to his horse, stuffed them into bags. Then he was off, galloping away.
For a while I stood over the graves, babbling to Angeline, praying, promising her that I’d take care of Honey till she was good an’ grown—till the day I died. I looped my prayers and declarations until the ground seemed to shift, and Junia brayed a warning. I squeezed my eyes, and then opened them and saw the buzzards had tightened their circular pattern. Their afternoon shadows hungered, had grown bigger.