boy like his own son. He even thought of what never entered Mama's head - he said a few words to Peggy, to promise her that they wouldn't give no preference to the boy, neither. Peggy nodded. She didn't want to say much, cause anything she said would either be a lie or give her plans away; she knew she had no intention to be in this house for even a single day of this baby's future here.
"We go on home now, Mrs. Guester," said Anga. She handed the baby to Mama. "If one of my children wake up with a boogly dream I best be there or you hear them screams clear up here on the high road."
"Ain't you going have no preacher say words at her grave?" said Mock.
Papa hadn't thought of it. "We do have a minister upstairs," he said.
But Peggy didn't let him hold that thought for even a moment. "No," she said, sharp as she could.
Papa looked at her, and knew that she was talking as a torch. Wasn't no arguing that point. He just nodded. "Not this time, Mock," he said. "Wouldn't be safe."
Mama fretted Anga Berry clear to the door. "Is there anything I ought to know?" said Mama. "Is there anything different about Black babies?"
"Oh, powerful different," said Anga. "But that baby, he half White I reckon, so you just take care of that White half, and I reckon the Black half take care of hisself."
"Cow's milk from a pig bladder?" Mama insisted.
"You know all them things," said Anga. "I learnt everything I know from you, Mrs. Guester. All the women round here do. How come you asking me now? Don't you know I need my sleep?"
Once the Berrys were gone, Papa picked up the girl's body and carried her outside. Not even a coffin, though they would overlay the corpse with stones to keep the dogs off. "Light as a feather," he said when first he hoisted her. "Like the charred carcass of a burnt log."
Which was apt enough, Peggy had to admit. That's what she was now. Just ashes. She'd burnt herself right up.
Mama held the pickaninny boy while Peggy went up into the attic and fetched down the cradle. Nobody woke up this time, except that minister. He was wide awake behind his door, but he wasn't coming out for any reason. Mama and Peggy made up that little bed in Mama's and Papa's room, and laid the baby in it. "Tell me if this poor orphan baby's got him a name," said Mama.
"She never gave him one," said Peggy. "In her tribe, a woman never got her a name till she married, and a man had no name till he killed him his first animal."
"That's just awful," said Mama. "That ain't even Christian. Why, she died unbaptized."
"No," said Peggy. "She was baptized right enough. Her owner's wife saw to that - all the Blacks on their plantation were baptized."
Mama's face went sour. "I reckon she thought that made her a Christian. Well, I'll have a name for you, little boy." She grinned wickedly. "What do you think your papa would do if I named this baby Horace Guester Junior?"
"Die," said Peggy.
"I reckon so," said Mama. "I ain't ready to be a widow yet. So for now we'll name him - oh, I can't think, Peggy. What's a Black man's name? Or should I just name him like any White child?"
"Only Black man's name I know is Othello," said Peggy.
"That's a queer name if I ever heard one," said Mama. "You must've got that out of one of Whitley Physicker's books."
Peggy said nothing.
"I know," said Mama. "I know his name. Cromwell. The Lord Protector's name."
"You might better name him Arthur, after the King, " said Peggy.
Mama just cackled and laughed at that. "That's your name, little boy. Arthur Stuart! And if the King don't like such a namesake, let him send an army and I still won't change it. His Majesty will have to change his own name first."
* * *
Even though she got to bed so late, Peggy woke early next, morning. It was hoofbeats woke her - she didn't have to go to the window to recognize his heartfire as the minister rode away. Ride on, Thrower, she said silently. You won't be the last to run away this morning, fleeing from that eleven-year-old boy.
It was the north-facing window she looked out of. She could see between the trees to the graveyard up