part ways.
Ahead of them came the noise of crunching footsteps on frost-hardened grass.
Illuminated by the lantern she carried, Miss May Belle was coming around the corner like a bad omen borne of light. The shadows that skittered across her face told of her displeasure better than the frown on her lips or the hardness of her words ever could. The lantern in and of itself was a bad sign. It came from the House, a place Miss May Belle never had cause to go except in the case of some unusual trouble.
“She been callin’ for you, Miss Varina,” Miss May Belle said. Varina stopped just behind Rue as if knowing she’d be in need of a shield. Their shoulders overlapped. Rue could feel Varina’s body shiver.
“Who is?”
“Missus took ill in the night. Ain’t you heard?” Miss May Belle knew full well they hadn’t heard. She must’ve been smelling the corn whiskey on them heated up by their sweat. Rue, self-conscious, wiped at her lips, fearful they were glistening still.
“What’s the matter with Mother?” Varina sounded troubled.
“Can’t say. But they done called for the county doctor. They say he on his way.” That was a journey of miles.
“Why won’t you help her?” Varina stomped her foot same as she had when she was a child, a child still in so many ways.
“It ain’t won’t, Miss Varina.” Miss May Belle held higher her head and her lamp. “It’s can’t. She won’t ’llow me or anyone else to see her. Cusses and spits and foams when we get near. But she been askin’ fo’ you.”
“For me?” said Varina. “What can I do?”
“Set with her, I s’pose. Just be with her.”
Varina paled. She did not argue but followed last in line behind Miss May Belle and Rue as they hurried to the House, came out into the clearing together, purposeful, like nocturnal creatures starting their day. Varina went up to the porch. The lanterns were all lit in the windows, despite the late hour, further signaling that all was amiss. Only in the circle of their light could Rue see that it had begun to snow, white bits of nothing-ice were hanging in the air, melting before they ever hit the ground. From the depths of the House there came a high, sharp woman scream. Rue already knew death by the turn of a scream the way she knew when babies were hungry or wanting to be held by the turn of their cry. She thought, the white doctor won’t come in time.
In the doorway Varina stalled at the sound her mama was making. Miss May Belle nodded her on, and the girl disappeared all the way in.
Now alone with her own mama, Rue feared a scolding but all Miss May Belle said was, “Ain’t nothin’ we can do here now. Best we get us some rest. Long days ahead.”
Her mama reached out to her then and put her palm on Rue’s cheek, a gesture that felt loving. Rue smiled, and her mama looked in her eyes. Miss May Belle licked the end of her thumb, and Rue saw there the sparkle of a silver ring that she had never seen before. It belonged to Missus. Or used to. Miss May Belle wiped the wet thumb across Rue’s cheek, cleaning away something only a mama could see.
“Ain’t nothin we can do,” she said.
* * *
—
Missus’s funeral fell in the cradle between Christmas and New Year. She’d put it in her will that her slaves ought not to mourn too heavily for her and should not be expected to cease in their work at all. Bless her heart, the black folks said, for even in death she could give them the gift of toil. They did not have the day off to attend her burial, and those of the House were put to work double, preparing for the elaborate stages of weighty mourning, black ribbons and black crepe veils, black door pulls and flowers blackened for wreaths. Black makes you blameless, folks said, makes death look the other way when it’s deciding on who to chomp at next.
They’d all know