Absalom's Daughters (9 page)

“I guess.”

After they ate and scrubbed out the pan with sand, Judith tucked herself into the frayed ruins of the backseat. She dug the enormous pistol out from under the driver's seat and laid it by her head. “I'm gonna use it fer a piller,” she said.

Cassie used her shoes, the way Lil Ma had told her to. The shoes were hard. She rolled onto her back, pushing them to one side. From where she was lying in the front seat, she could see the stars through the windshield and the same sliver of moon she had run away from home under last night. What might Lil Ma be saying to Grandmother right at this moment? How long would they stay in Heron-Neck now that she was gone?

*   *   *

In the morning, the car refused to start. Judith rattled the key in the ignition. Something inside the engine flapped like a bird trying to get out. They put up the hood and stared at the oily-black workings inside. A train rumbled into view and went into the tunnel, moving so slowly that they could have kept up with it at a fast walk.

“We should find a freight car and get on,” said Judith. She seemed ready to do just that when a freight car with an open door passed, and the railroad hoboes riding it hooted and hollered at them.

“My daddy—
our
daddy—useta ride them freight trains,” Judith said. “He got robbed when he was asleep, and that was the end of that. Said he thought he was ridin' for free, but turned out he was payin' tramps for a ticket.”

“Shoulda kept his money in his shoes” said Cassie.

“He did. They took his shoes too.”

“They took his shoes?”

The train, with its hooting hoboes, vanished into the tunnel.

“Sure as I'm standin' here.”

The bills in Cassie's shoes slid under her heels. Her sense of safety—which she hadn't actually been aware of until this moment—evaporated. If she were robbed, nothing she had was safe. Not her shoes. Not her body.

“Which way you think we more likely to run into somebody?” Judith said.

The road looked more exposed, but the wagon track into the woods made her think of the Justice boys. “Let's take the road.”

They ate what was left of the burned corn bread. Judith put the pistol in a sack over her shoulder. It was a cold, overcast morning. The unfamiliar road, the fields, the wire fences looked unfriendly. After they'd walked for a while, the sun came out from behind a few thin clouds. It shone down on the rows of cut corn and made the earth smell like spring might not be too far off, but it didn't make Cassie feel any more comfortable. Who could say they hadn't wandered into a world filled with Duncan Justices or oil men looking for dark-skinned women?

“What if you can't find your daddy?” said Cassie.

Judith just walked along holding the sack with one hand, swinging her other arm. “You homesick already?”

“I'm not homesick.” Cassie tried to mimic Judith's walk, but her arms didn't seem to have the same confidence. “I'm just wondering what you're gonna do if you can't find Virginia.”

“Ain't it too big to miss?”

“It ain't too big to miss. It ain't even on the map.”

Judith snorted and pushed hair away from her face. “I never thought I'd be out travelin' in the great big world with some scairt lil homesick nigger girl.”

Lots of terrible things, all accurate and deserved, got ready to rush out of Cassie's mouth. She picked the most cutting thing she could think of. “My mama say you sound like a jaybird when you talk.”

Judith stopped in the middle of the empty road.

Cassie stopped too. “Every nigger in town says so.”

Judith took a funny little breath, like she'd never considered the opinions of the Heron-Neck niggers. “Every nigger in town ain't heard me sing.”

“I'm the only nigger in town who heard you sing,” said Cassie. “An' I say, don't you never use that jaybird voice to call me that again.”

“I jus' kiddin' you.”

“I'm not scared, an' I'm not homesick,” Cassie said, though truthfully, she was, and she was bothered—a lot—that Judith's dreams and illusions shielded Judith from any of Cassie's fears, fears which seemed to get bigger the farther they got from the car.

“Well then, I'm sorry,” Judith said.

They started walking again. Winter birds sang in the trees. Cold wind blew under the clothes they'd slept in. Cassie said, “Do you worry about getting robbed?”

“I thought we shoulda brought a dog,” said Judith, the same way she always said anything—like she'd given it deep thought at some earlier date and had prepared the perfect answer. “Shoulda brought that little Justice boy. The one with the spotted hound.”

“That boy who thought he was a dog?”

“He din't jus' think it. He really a dog born into a boy's body. They say when he was a baby he never cried. He whimpered, like he was a puppy.”

“Even you don't really believe that,” said Cassie.

Judith put her nose up as though offended. “I do try to keep my mind open.”

The sun had cleared the horizon when they saw a colored man driving a mule hitched to a wagon. The man didn't seem to see them until he was very close; then the mule let out a snort, and the man looked up from under his hat. Cassie thought he'd been sleeping while the mule made his way to wherever they were going.

The man pulled the wagon to a stop and tipped his battered porkpie hat. “Mornin', ladies.” He looked like he thought he might be having a dream, and part of his dream was Judith and Cassie walking together. “What brings you-all out on such a fine day?”

Judith elbowed Cassie as though it was her job to speak for the two of them.

“Mornin', suh,” she said. “We got us a car done broke down back a ways.”

His eyebrows went up when she said
car
as though he was sure he was dreaming now. “You gals got a car?”

“Ain't much of a car,” said Cassie. “You know anythin' about gettin' 'em to run?”

“My nephew up 'crost the hills there, he know sumpin' 'bout cars.” The hills were behind them now, on the other side of the railroad tracks.

“You reckon we could get a ride partways?”

“I reckon you could,” said the man. “But you might think twicet 'fore you gets in.” He angled his head at the bed of the wagon.

Both girls peered over the side at a pinewood coffin.

“Oh hail!” said Judith. “Somebody in there?”

“Oh yessum,” said the man. “That there my wife's cousin, Lisette. Dearly departed just this mornin'. I takin' her up to the church to her eternal rest.”

“We sorry for your loss,” said Judith, looking as repentant as she could after
oh hail!

The man moved over on the wagon bench, and the two of them got up next to him. He introduced himself as Ovid Beale, spoke to the mule, and the wagon lurched forward.

Cassie, in the middle, told him their names and said, “We sorry to run into you on such a sad day, but we 'preciate the ride.”

“It sadder than it look,” said Ovid Beale. “Lisette was a young woman. She died from her heart done bein' broke. Her man foolin' round on her, and she found out about it. She run off. We look and look. Ain't no one kin find her. She come back on her own, but she wasted away. She so sick that no matter what folk do—even the white doctor and the root woman—cain't do nuthin' to save her.”

“That's terrible,” said Cassie.

“We sorry for you loss,” Judith repeated.

“Her husband know it?” said Cassie. It felt good to be riding instead of walking, even if she was squashed into the middle of the wagon seat. And she was warm now, between Judith and Ovid Beale, which made her realize how cold the walk had been.

“He know,” said Ovid Beale. “He gonna make a good showin' at the funeral, then he think he goin' back to his hoochie mama.” The mule shook its head and laid its ears back. Ovid Beale let out a laugh, but not like anything was truly funny. “Git up, y'damn mule,” he said and took a quick look at Judith. “'Scuse my language, ma'am.”

“Ain't no problem,” said Judith.

“He's a nice-looking mule,” said Cassie, and he was a nice-looking mule, brushed clean and shining like polished mahogany in the early sun.

“Nice lookin',” said Ovid Beale, “but a lazy sonuvagun. We calls him Miles, 'cause ever day 'fore he go out to work, he think to himself,
Man, I got miles to go 'fore I kin git back to bed
.”

“How you know what he thinkin'?” said Judith.

“I knows this lazy mule like I knows a lazy man. He hate bein' a mule. Hate havin' to work. He the meanest critter in the yard. Chickens skeered to death of Miles. You know some mules useter be human folks?”

“As a matter o' fact,” said Judith. “We know a lil boy who's really a dog inside.”

“Oh, it's true,” said Ovid Beale. “A hunnert percent. Miles useter be a man until recently.”

“Then why you need reins?” said Cassie. “If he was a man, whyn't you jus' tell him where to go?”

“You cain't tell this mule nuthin',” said Ovid Beale. “He din't understan' nuthin' when he was a man. He real stubborn as a man. He'd fight an' mess around jus' as soon as talk to you. Ain't no different now he a mule. Now all he got to do is contemplate on his situation. Hey!” he shouted at Miles and slapped him with the reins. “Git up thar, mule!”

“He act like enny other mule I ever seen,” said Cassie.

“You never know 'bout de mules you see,” said Ovid Beale. “Half them useter be colored folk. Turnin' into a mule simpler for colored folk than turnin' into some other critter, 'cause a mule already half one thing and half another. Mule the most nigger of all the critters.”

Judith started to laugh. “Ain't no such thing as a nigger critter.”

“If you think that, then you ain't truly studied on the mule,” said Ovid Beale. “The mule got his outside self what gots to work all day without complaint or be whupped. But inside hisself he got his own thoughts, and he got plans.”

“What kind of plans?” said Cassie.

“Well, a mule only got two plans,” said Ovid Beale. He tipped his hat back in the cool morning air. “He want sumthin' to eat and to lay down an' sleep. But his other plan—he got it in his mind at all times—is when the right time come, he gone to be out the barn, out the field, gone away to someplace better. No matter how hard he work, he got the other plan in the front of his mind.”

“How's that enny different from enny other critter?” said Judith. “Ain't a horse the same way? What about a dog? Or a cat? Or people even?”

“Horse a more noble an'mal,” said Ovid Beale, “An', I admit, it less common for a man to turn into a dog, but like you say, you already knowed one. An' as fer a cat, cat ain't worked a day in its life, 'cept fer mousin', an' mousin' recreational fer a cat.”

“What about a mule turning into a person?” said Cassie.

“Sho, they kin turn back into the person they was. That happen. Miles waitin' fo' it to happen to him. Ain't that so, Mister Miles?”

The mule shifted one ear.

“I mean a real mule,” said Cassie. “One that never was a person before.”

“A real mule turnin into a man?” said Ovid Beale. “Sho, that happen too. I known plenty of mules become men. But most mules turnt into wimmin.”

About that time, they came upon the stand of pines and the railroad tunnel, and Judith said, “Now here's the car.”

Ovid Beale stopped the wagon and eased himself off. He peered under the junk car's hood and had Judith try the ignition a time or two. There was no noise from the engine.

“How far y'all come in this ol' trap?” said Ovid Beale. “Mebbe you plumb wore it out.”

“You heard of Heron-Neck?” said Judith, with some snootiness. “It some miles off. We done drove all day yestiddy to git this far.”

Ovid Beale looked around at the scuffed pine needles, the burned remains of the fire, and the skillet, still sitting out behind the car. “You slep' out here las' night?”

“Yessuh,” said Cassie.

Ovid Beale pushed the hood down. “That ain't safe. 'Specially here by the railroad track. Don't know what-all kinda riff-raff come through here ridin' them freight cars. I kin haul this here car up over the hill, see what Slick kin do with it, but it might be you need some kinda spare part.” He gave Cassie a penetrating squint. “You gals in any kinda hurry?”

The look made Cassie feel guilty, even frightened, but Judith took it as a cue to start talking about bein' a New York reddio star. Cassie put a hand on Judith's arm to stop her before she got to the part about how they shared a father, how the two of them were progeny and would soon be rich. “No, suh,” Cassie said, “we ain't in any kinda hurry 'tall.”

They started off again with the car tied up behind the wagon. The cart, the coffin, and the car all bumped over the railroad crossing. Ovid Beale turned the mule onto a half overgrown track that led up the side of the hill.

The track wove between trees and stony outcroppings, narrow here, wider where a low spot had become too muddy to drive a wagon. Hoof prints showed as carvings in the cold mud. Wagon wheels left a double imprint along the sides of the trail.

The mule leaned into his harness. In the back of the wagon, the coffin slid heavily back and forth as the track shifted. Behind the wagon, at the end of a short dirty rope, the car looked ancient and disreputable. Cassie and Judith had probably looked like vagrants when they were driving in that junk car; that's what Grandmother would have said. Up the hill, ahead of them, the track twisted through the woods. Would they be able to see Heron-Neck when they reached the top?

By noon, they'd reached the crown of the hill. Trees had been cut and the stony ground cleared for planting. The wind rushed between stone fences and rows of corn stubble.