Big Lies in a Small Town - Diane Chamberlain Page 0,128

They call lunch “dinner.” I’ve come to realize that if I have a question to ask anyone in the family, “dinner” is the best time to ask it. In the three days I’ve been here, I’ve eaten breakfast alone, unable to get up at the crack of dawn like everyone else. At the first sign of light, they are up and out, gathering eggs and feeding animals and doing whatever else needs to be done out there. This was Jesse’s life. There is a void here without him and no one says it to me, but I imagine everyone has to work much harder without him here. I worry they blame me. Why shouldn’t they? There is no one else to blame.

The first night here, I weepily told them everything. I said how sorry I was for putting them in danger. I offered to turn myself in, and I meant it. They are taking such a risk and I wanted to give them a chance to back out of helping me. They are not happy about having me here—well, except for Nellie, whose ignorance of what is truly going on helps maintain her sunny disposition—but they all know Jesse is in grave danger and they conspire to keep me hidden in the hope I will never be questioned by the police and that will somehow keep Jesse safe. Only Jesse’s father is not really in agreement, but the women—Jesse’s mother and Aunt Jewel and nineteen-year-old Dodie—override him. Only Aunt Jewel treats me warmly, though. I can tell that Jesse’s mother and Dodie think I’m the cause of his problems. Of course, they are right.

Aunt Jewel is very kind, but I think she sees me as a project. I am a project for her. I won’t be having this baby at a hospital, that is for certain. She’ll have to deliver it here. And then what? I can’t live here with my baby. She says it’s too early to worry about it, so I’m taking her advice and trying to put the baby at the back of my mind for now.

Mr. and Mrs. Williams exchanged a look when I asked how I could help. So far, I have done little other than clean up after myself and try to help a bit with cooking, although to be honest, I feel lost in their kitchen. I’m accustomed to getting my groceries at the market. I have never killed a chicken, butchered a hog, ground meat, canned a single vegetable, picked lettuce from a garden, and God knows, I’ll never know how to cook those stinky collards that seem to be on the stove all day long.

Mr. Williams said it would be too dangerous for me to do anything outside where I could be seen, so I offered to clean the house, nearly giggling at the thought, wondering just how many colored families had a white maid. I suggested I do the sweeping and dusting and bed making. The wringer-washer is out in the open on the porch, so doing the laundry is probably unwise. I offered to wash the dishes. “Whatever needs doing, I’m happy to do it,” I said.

Mrs. Williams asked me if I can stitch. I wasn’t quite sure what she meant.

“Sew,” she said impatiently. I’m not sure if her impatience comes from my presence or if this is the way she always is.

I told her I can sew, that I’ve made many of my own clothes, and she said they have plenty of mending to keep me busy.

So, this afternoon I swept the downstairs rooms and dusted furniture, waiting for my first sewing assignment. It’s not much, but it feels good to be paying something back to these people.

Saturday, June 22, 1940

Four weeks have passed since Jesse and I fled the warehouse, and for the first time, there is no mention of us in the Chowan Herald. Mr. Williams picks up the newspaper each Saturday when he goes into town to sell his eggs and melons and I don’t know what else, and I’ve gotten in the habit of reading the paper the moment he returns to the house. Since the paper comes out on Thursday, the news is always a bit stale, but it’s all we have to go on. Mr. Williams doesn’t read, and I feel touched when Mrs. Williams reads him the Bible lesson and the other articles that might interest him. At first I wondered what it would be like to have a husband so