Conyers, Georgia, 1848
I BEEN SPINNING THIS gold coin around my fingers for most the night ’cause the worse thing about being pregnant is sleeping. Better, not sleeping. Cynthia gave it to me after Jeremy flicked it at her a few days ago. She said it was for the baby now. For me.
I told her I didn’t want it. Not from him. Not for this baby. ’Cause there are things more important than money. Time is one. Peace, another. A good father for this baby. I’ve got all of that now without him. She said, “Don’t let nobody tell you money ain’t everything. Money keeps you from paying for things with your life.”
Before this baby, I took for granted sleeping on my stomach or sleeping on one side for as long as I wanted to. Cain’t even sleep on my back, now, for drowning. Like deep breathing through a reed. It’s how I feel when I remember Jeremy.
Cynthia told me not to punish myself for him, for still feeling love for him. “If a person never loved somebody pathetically and unrequited, they haven’t met themselves yet, so consider yourself introduced. And lucky. We don’t always get to touch the ones we want without losing everything.”
IT’S JUST AFTER midnight now, and I’ve been wasting time. Been folding clothes, counting unmatched socks. How does that happen? My mind’s been racing with thoughts and feelings that pass and re-pass. Not just about Jeremy. And Albert. Or Cynthia. Momma. Hazel. A chaos of faces. Bernadette’s, too.
Cynthia gave me her room like she promised. And in between time, Cynthia put Bernadette out in the shed across the road. Locked her in there for four days with only bread and water. Left her hollering and screaming like she was being murdered over and over again. When Cynthia finally got her out, Bernadette had throw-up all over herself, her clawing fingers were bloodied, and her screaming voice was gone. But she was cured of the leafs, though. Has been for almost a month and Bernadette say it ain’t easy. Say, the first thing she think about when she wake in the morning is the leafs. Then she spends the rest of the day trying to forget ’em.
I FELL ASLEEP in this chair with my folding still in my hand. Might as well get up ’cause it’s 3:00 a.m. and another couple hours of sleep won’t make a difference.
I shuffle up the hall, gon’ clean the saloon. Shouldn’t be much to do ’cause it’s been empty since Cynthia closed for business a few days ago—the day after her party. She’s been telling everybody she’s “renovating” but she tell me she need time to decide what she gon’ do next.
Sam still comes to work every day. Been unloading them crates that he never got a chance to unload for five years. Some of the crates are more full than others, a couple of ’em only got one bottle inside from him cherry-picking ’em the last few years.
He built a new drying rack closer to where he wash. “Doesn’t make sense to keep dripping across the floor,” he said.
A few of the girls are still here, too, some loyal, some hoping Cynthia will come up with a new way a woman can make money without being a wife. Bernadette’s making dresses. She’s got a ball gown on a wire frame in the windows and when sunlight hits ’em, it throws sparkles of yellow and white light around the room, mixing with Cynthia’s rainbows on the walls from her hanging crystals.
Cynthia and Sam are already up when I get to the saloon. “Evening, Sunshine,” Cynthia say. “Or should I say, morning.” She’s sitting at the bar, nursing a drink, still wearing her wedding dress. Been in it three days. “It’s about time you got up. Longest nap a person ever took.”
“It’s only three,” I say.
“Yeah, but you was ’sleep at noon yesterday.”
Cynthia’s just holding her drink in her hand. Usually, pouring it in her glass is the same as putting it in her mouth. Only a two-second delay between ’em. But this time, we’re going on a minute.
“I’ve been thinking,” Cynthia say. “Maybe marriage ain’t so bad. Maybe I could live with a man. A young sunflower like me gotta rethink her options. And Sam says he’ll marry me.”
“I didn’t say nothing about marriage tonight.”
He sets a glass of water in front of me.
“You don’t want to marry me, Sam? I already got a ring. You can get down on one knee at sunrise or in front of the fire, romantic like, and . . .”
“See, that’s the problem, you’re too bossy. Most men find that intimidating.”
“The people you want to partner with should intimidate you,” she say, smiling. “Not because they’re a bully but because they’re that good and you know it.”
“And what makes you think I’d ask again when you’ve already said no?”
“I’m a new woman, Sam. You never know. I could’ve changed my mind.”
“All right,” he say. “Marry me.”
“No,” she laughs and shoots her drink. “I cain’t marry nobody. I’d eventually kill him.”
“I know thas right,” I say.
A look of calm rests on her face. She looks around the room. “Isn’t this a good feeling,” she tells me. “The stillness in here? Reminds me of the good ole days.”
“Naw,” I say. “Reminds me of the good days coming.”
“So what you gon’ do, then?” Cynthia say. “You welcome to stay here, make this house a home for you and Albert and Baby Peaches.”
“Peaches’ll be a boy.”
“Then, Berry. And y’all can still be my good deed before I die. It’ll make me look like a saint. A white woman caring for a black baby always makes her look like a saint.”
“You ain’t going nowhere,” I say. “You got Johnny to take care of . . .”
“That’s why I got Sam. You’ll keep him for me, won’t you, Sam? Be a better mother-father than me.”
“I wish you’d gon’ and divorce your death talk finally. Death, religion . . .”
“Then, what did you decide to do, Naomi?” she say. “You can be my backup for Johnny.”
“I cain’t even think that far. I just want this baby out.”
“You say that now. Wait ’til it starts coming. When you cussing us all. I’ll be sure to remind you of how bad you wanted it out—the baby and the old bag of blood that comes out after.”
“Mercy!” Sam say.
Cynthia laughs. “Too much girl talk for you, Sam?”
“You could talk about these late notices instead,” he say, opening an envelope.
“I don’t pay taxes,” she say, and slides back in her chair, puts her foot on the table. “What’s the government done for me? I’m still a woman.”
“Your problem is you always think you won’t get caught for nothing. They could send you to jail.”
“People don’t get caught for the real thing they did wrong, Sam. They get caught for some lesser thing, some small offense. Taxes, jaywalking, a fine . . .”
She’s right, I think.
’Cause I’m still free.
Only Jeremy is accusing me of a lie now. And no one mentions the murders in Faunsdale no more. Even the papers have quieted down. But in my heart, I know I got away with murder.