Being nice is like leaving your door wide-open. Eventually, someone’s going to mosey in and steal your best hat. Me, I have only one hat and it is uglier than a smashed crow, so if someone stole it, the joke would be on their head, literally. Still, boundaries must be set. Especially boundaries over one’s worth.
“Jo, you simply do not make economic sense.”
Public invitations do not care what you think of them. They speak plainly. Why should a lady who chooses to ask a gent to the race be “ruining her reputation,” rather than simply obliging her hosts’ wishes? When deception is not at issue, words should be taken at their face value, or they are in danger of losing currency. So, ladies, quit your stalling. Your steed may not be available furlong.
We never set foot in Our Lord’s Cemetery, but not because of the ghosts. Many years ago, a Chinese man with “rabid eyes” was rumored to have violated a white woman here. When the caretaker’s wife came upon the appalling scene with a shotgun, the Chinese man ran off, and Chinese men everywhere tried their best not to look rabid.
“Caroline!” Pepper folds herself back into a chair. “If I’d known Jo was up for grabs, I would’ve taken her in a heartbeat.” Hope rises in my chest until she adds, “That is, if I didn’t already have my Martha.”
“Father wants me to settle down, gain some respectability, work, of all things. I’m supposed to be at the mills. And my bride, Jane Bentley of Boston, is a bore who insists on staying through the horse race, which means I must ferry her around everywhere. It isn’t fair. I am only twenty-one, and still have many”—his eyes widen a fraction—“wrong turns left to make.”
“Here’s the thing. Unlike the sidewalk, there ain’t rules yet for bicycles. Means we got to jump in and make the rules.” She waggles her eyebrows at me. “Or someone else will make them for us.”
“Information isn’t free.”
It is time to release these customs into the wild blue yonder before they push the others out of the nest, as cuckoos are known to do.
Readers, what customs would you set free?
“It’s not right,” I whisper once we have reached the warm shadows of our basement. “The streetcars are for everyone.” I set about switching on our lamps while Old Gin boils water.
“There have always been lines drawn. Lines will just get darker.”
We are all like candles, and whether we are single or joined with another does not affect how brightly we can burn.
“The Focus has always erred on the side of restraint. But the moment that means siding with injustice, then we have lost our focus. You and I will never know how it feels to be judged by our race, yet we both feel a moral urge . . .”
“I confess, you are not who I expected,” says Nathan after a painful stretch of silence.
“I never am.”
He peels back a thin smile. “What scares you the most?”
“Being boxed in,” I answer truthfully. Two can play at this game. If he wants a better explanation, he will need to ask me, and that will cost him a question.
“Because.” She swings her gaze back to the crypt, her head jutted forward like a vulture. Her bottom lip begins to tremble. “Edward heard a rumor that Mama had an affair.” Her voice tightens under the noose of hysteria. “That she had an illicit daughter.”
“These are not women’s concerns, they are colored concerns.”
“I tell you, it’s a conspiracy and it’s only going to get worse. Mark my words, that Miss Sweetie is a Yankee sent to infiltrate our ranks. When I smoke out the witch—and I will smoke her out—we’ll see how loud those Bells ring.” His eyes, brown as the butt of a rifle, are suddenly looking at me.
Mr. Q was right. She had an illegitimate daughter.
But it was not Caroline.
My head begins to swim, and my knees give way, but Mrs. Payne collapses on the floor, one step ahead of me.
Grievous is the word that fits our predicament, but I am not grieving yet. There is work to be done. I will bring a warm brick to Old Gin, and then find help. Creakily, I get to my feet, when another sound freezes me in place.
Poor Shang. He was never fingered for the supposed crime, but another man paid for it with his life. The injustice of it all makes me want to lay waste to the whole of Peachtree Street with one fiery breath.
“But wouldn’t we be breaking the law? People would think I was white.”
Mr. Bell sweeps up a finger. “I’d wager most of the agony aunts are actually agony uncles. People don’t care who it is, as long as the advice is good.”
The voice I have heard all my life whispers right by my ear. “Jo.” And I no longer need to wonder how it would feel to kiss him.
The bottle bears the shape of a peach, its roundness matching the impression in the box I wanted for hair ribbons. Its color is the same green as the screw top with attached spoon. It had belonged to Old Gin’s wife. My grandmother. The jade feels warm, like a polished rock left in the sun.
He works his jaw, but nothing comes out. Tears troop down my face, but he stops them with his bandaged hand. “I think the bats have been here with us this whole time.” His broken face smiles, and I’m reminded of a gentle boost onto my first horse in a meadow full of light.
A great man once told me that Luck rides a workhorse named Joy. Let your daughter ride.
Sincerely,
Miss Sweetie
