Homecoming

“I’m so proud of you, child!”

“Don’t you think just one Hattie would do?” Joe leaned against the fence post, watching the exchange, afraid his mother’s joy might actually seep into him—if he let it.

“Hattee-Hattee is close enough for now,” she said. “Close enough, that’s for certain.” She reached for Deborah, wrapped her arm around the girl’s shoulders and gave her a squeeze.

Deborah slipped out of her grasp and gathered the hem of her dress up to her knees again.

Joe couldn’t help but look down. It was a moment before he caught himself.

“You’d better teach her not to do that,” he advised Hattie before turning around to focus on the cattle milling in the corral, trying to forget the sight of the girl’s well-turned calves and ankles.

“She’s making progress, though. Isn’t she, Joe?”

“Except for the fact that she keeps lifting up her dress. She’s doing better than I expected,” he admitted grudgingly.

“But…?”

“I’m taking a wait-and-see attitude, Ma.”

“Uh-oh,” Hattie muttered.

Joe followed her gaze. Deborah was on her way back to the house on her own.

“If I don’t stop her, she’ll track mud right into the house.” Hattie hurried across the yard, then paused to call out, “I have a feeling she’s going to surprise you.”

As he watched Deborah walk away holding her skirt above the mud like a barefoot queen, he couldn’t help muttering to himself.

“That’s what I’m afraid of, Ma. That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.”

Chapter Seven

T he white woman was ill.

Eyes-of-the-Sky saw it in the way her steps slowed as the day wore on, in the way she kept touching her forehead.

That evening, Hattee-Hattee ignored her when she grew frustrated at her awkwardness, put down the metal fork and spoon, and ate the evening meal with her hands.

The man ignored her, too, which was good. While his interest was on his food, Eyes-of-the-Sky could watch him without being watched.

His hands were hard and brown, his fingers long and graceful. He was not a small man by any means. His shoulders were strong and thick beneath the soft fabric of his shirt. When he moved, whenever more than just the base of his throat showed beneath his shirt, his skin was pale as the moon.

His hair amazed her. That it was black was nothing out of the ordinary, but the way it rippled and waved, the way it curled away from the neck of his garment made her want to touch it, to see if it would spring to life beneath her hands.

He had laughed today when she said the woman’s name. Laughed and shamed her. She realized she must have misunderstood and even now her face burned with shame at the memory.

She made herself a promise. She would never say his name aloud.

What did it matter if he understood her? Why should she care? She didn’t wish to please him. Not in any way. She learned their words for one reason only. Knowing their words would give her power. She would learn of their plans for her, know what they were saying and make plans of her own. She didn’t need to speak to him for this to happen. She only needed to watch and listen.

He ate with purpose, finished his food long before the woman, who had pushed her dish away and was content to sit there with her hands in her lap. Usually she jumped up and collected everything, carried it inside and started to clean it with the soap that clouded the wash water.

“Youallrightma?”

Eyes-of-the-Sky dropped her gaze when the man lifted his to speak to Hattee-Hattee.

She listened intently. The words you and ma were becoming familiar to her. Joe often said ma when he spoke to Hattee-Hattee. It was one of the white man’s words that bothered her the most.

Ma.

Ma. Ma. Ma. Mama.

The word rubbed at her like an ill-cured moccasin. Irritated until deep inside, where her spirit dwelled, she felt raw. She knew not why but was not able to think about it for long. The man pushed back the chair and stood. He was looking down at her now.

“Youwashthedishestonight,” Joe said.

“Shedoesntunderstand, Joe.” Hattee-Hattee started to rise. She reached for her dish full of food.

“Gotobedma.”

“But…”

Eyes-of-the-Sky watched the exchange with interest. Joe would not let Hattee-Hattee pick up the things and wash them as usual, though there was water boiling on the big metal stove.

The woman’s skin was pale and yet her cheeks were bright red. Her eyes were exceptionally bright, too, though her lids were drooping.

Eyes-of-the-Sky knew the signs. The woman was not hungry. She kept rubbing her stomach. Hattee-Hattee had the burning sickness and soon she would be too ill to do more than sleep.

When Hattee-Hattee walked out of the room without looking back, Eyes-of-the-Sky began to worry for her own safety. If Hattee-Hattee died, then she would surely become Joe’s slave, and from what she had learned of him so far, there was no kindness in the man. There was none of Hattee-Hattee’s gentleness at all.

Surely he would beat her. Maybe even blame her for the woman’s illness.

“Deborah.”

He was standing across from her now. She lifted her face and stared squarely into his eyes.

“Washthedishes.”

She understood dishes. He pointed to the empty container across the room and then to the boiling water on the stove.

“Wash—” He started to repeat himself, but before he said any more, she jumped to her feet and started gathering up the remains of the meal. Back and forth, she carried things over to the metal container, scraped the scraps onto a pile for the pigs as she’d seen Hattee-Hattee do. Then she began to pile the things into the empty tub. As soon as she wrapped a piece of cloth around the kettle of hot water and started back to the container with it, she heard him clear his throat.

She turned around.

He nodded, said one word. “Good.”

Then he walked out, following the path Hattee-Hattee had taken into the larger dwelling.

She did as the woman had done every evening, rubbed the dishes and eating implements clean. White men made much work for themselves, as if there wasn’t enough already. Not only did they prepare and cook their food, but they spent precious time washing everything.