I drag her down the porch like a tow sack of wheat and haul her to the rain barrel and, little by little, pour the water over her skin and wash her off, best I can.
“You tell them you fell off the swing.” Even though I’m holding her face in my hands, she won’t look at me. “You hear? Anybody asks about the skinned places, you say you fell off the swing and that’s all.”
Over on the steps, Fern and Lark and Stevie wait for us, quiet as mice. “Y’all stay put…and leave Camellia be,” I tell them. “She ain’t feelin’ good.”
“Yer tummy hurt?” Fern sidles closer, and so does Lark, and Camellia pushes them away hard. Lark looks at me, confused. She’s usually the only one Camellia does like.
“Let her alone, I said.”
“I see London. I see France!” one of the big boys hollers from halfway across the yard. They always start wandering in about now, so they can be first in the supper line. I don’t know why. We all get the same thing, every single meal.
“You hush up, Danny Boy,” I hiss, and pull Camellia’s dress down over her knees. The workers call him Danny Boy on account of he’s Irish. Red hair and a thousand freckles, just like James had. He marshals their pack now that James is gone. But Danny Boy is mean to the core.
He wanders closer, props his hands on the rope that’s holding up his too-big britches. “Well, ain’t you fine and fancy? Guess even them purdy clothes couldn’t getcha no new mama and daddy.”
“We don’t need a mama and daddy. We got one.”
“Who’d want ya, anyhow?” He catches sight of Camellia’s scratched-up arm and leg, pushes in closer to see. “What happened to her? Looks like she’s been fightin’.”
I step up to Danny Boy. If I have to get the closet to protect my sister, I will. “She fell down and bunged herself around a little. That’s all. You got anything to say about it?”
The dinner bell rings, and we line up before anything else can happen.
Turns out that evening it’s not me getting the closet I need to worry about; it’s Camellia. She’s quiet through supper and doesn’t eat her food, but when it’s time for the bath, she comes alive and throws a wild-eyed fit. She screams like an animal and scratches and kicks and leaves long, red fingernail marks on Mrs. Pulnik’s arm.
It takes three workers to hold Camellia down and drag her to the bathroom. By then, Mrs. Pulnik has me by the hair too. “You are not to speak. Not one wordt, or you will see the consequence.” Fern, Lark, and Stevie cling to each other against the wall.
In the bathroom, Camellia roars and squeals. Water splashes. A bottle shatters. Scrub brushes clatter. The door shakes in its frame.
“Riggs!” Mrs. Pulnik yells down the stairs. “Come with my rope. Bring my rope for the closet!”
And just like that, Camellia’s gone. The last thing I see of her is a worker hauling her off down the hall, caterpillar-wrapped in a bedsheet so she can’t kick or hit.
That night, we’re just three. I don’t take out our book to read it, and my baby sisters don’t beg for more of the story. Lark and Fern and me curl up in one cot together, and I hum one of Queenie’s old songs until my sisters fall asleep. Finally, I drift away too.
Sometime before sunup, Fern wets the bed for the first time since she was two and a half. I don’t even holler at her for it. I just clean it up the best I can and open the basement window the little crack it’ll go. I roll up the wet blanket and Fern’s drawers and stick them under the bushes where hopefully nobody will find them. I’ll sneak through the azaleas later and spread them out so they’ll dry before tonight.
It’s when I’m working to spread the blanket over the branches that the wind catches the leaves and they shudder apart long enough for me to see something. Underneath the gaslight by the street, there are people standing and watching the house. In the dawn dark, I can’t make out faces or clothes, just the outline of a crooked old man and a tall, thin boy.
They look like Zede and Silas.
Just as quick as they were there, the leaves fall back, and they’re gone.
CHAPTER 15
Avery
The envelope is surprisingly ordinary. Just the plain