Sapphire's Grave (6 page)

LICKSKILLET, NORTH CAROLINA

MAY, 1879

Her name was Queen Marie. Daddy’s girlfriend.

It had been the school’s commencement day, a fine and sunny day, turned suddenly into rain, splashing red mud, and commotion as the ceremony ended.

The one-room school, run by do-gooder white folks from the Methodist church in Warrenton, was still housed by the Negro Bull Swamp Methodist Church. It only went to eighth grade, but the students and proud parents were grateful for it.

Sister was proud, in her white dress formerly reserved for Sundays, now rarely worn at all; and Lilly was proud to see her baby brother march the distance from the plywood platform, hastily erected each year for this occasion, to the makeshift podium, there to receive handshakes from kindly teachers, affluent benefactors, and the pastor of Bull Swamp.

The brassy witch had approached Lilly as she emerged from the outhouse, following the ceremony’s hurried benediction.
I’m yo’ daddy’s girlfriend,
she had told Lilly, smiling with self-satisfaction.
I’m Miss Queen
Marie,
and Lilly had wanted to gouge out those smug brown eyes aflame with wickedness.

But she had not. Lilly had been taught, by her aunts in light of her mother’s backslidden state, to love her enemies, and failing that, to pretend. So she had stepped around Queen Marie, lifting her skirts above the mud as she ran to meet her mother at the front of the church. She did not mention Queen Marie as they strolled silently home.

But it was harvest time, and Lilly and Prince Junior had cotton to pick at the great field a county away. Cotton-picking was therapeutic for Lilly, a time when neighbors, usually chatty and loud, fell silent and intent on their labor. Occasionally, someone hummed a tune. Mostly, people worked, surrounded by their peers, but each alone with her own thoughts; in Lilly’s case, thoughts of Daddy and Mommy and Queen Marie, and other daddies and mommies and why; confused thoughts, and painful.

She could not imagine what had made of the genuine affection her parents once shared such putrid disdain and bitterness. Her mother rarely spoke of him, and when she did, it was with contempt or indifference. For years, Lilly had pondered how she might bring them together, but had come up with no viable plan.

Prince Junior did not share her concern. But Prince Junior had been an infant. He could not remember the days when their parents had been loving and affectionate toward each other. By the time he was a toddler, their parents had become cordial. Later, their mother would vacillate between overt anger and a greed for Prince that cut into her attention toward her children. But Prince, as far as Lilly could see, never changed. It seemed to Lilly that he had always remained gentle and attentive, a near-mute teddy bear of a man who bore his wife’s wide mood swings with patience.

Yet her mother had become increasingly disgusted with him, finally driving him to the likes of Queen Marie—nasty, obnoxious Queen Marie—shameless wench with no more decency than to impose herself upon her lover’s family; and on what should have been a happy occasion, shared with their father.

And where had he been, anyway, on the day of his son’s graduation? Prince Junior’s manner toward their father, much like his mother’s, had no doubt kept him away. With each birthday, holiday, or special occasion that Prince missed, the light of Lilly’s hope for a reunion of their family faded but slightly. She would not hand him over to that brazen slut without a fight. On this inclement graduation day, Queen Marie had unwittingly declared war.

When Lilly cooked for her father, she felt the move of God within, a primal knowledge of calling and destiny. Everything turned out better when prepared for Prince. Fish fried firm and even-toned. Corn bread melted in one’s mouth. And the flavor of turnip greens retained its edge, delicately. Chitterlings satisfied. Shortbread delighted. Once, she made dumplings from three-day old bread, and Prince, having dropped by unexpectedly, made a meal of these and squash seasoned only with butter. They had known that he was coming, those dumplings, and Lilly swore that they had set themselves right for his consumption.

“Girl, you needs you a man to cook fo’,” Prince had teased. But Lilly had seen his sadness and dread at the thought.

“Oh, Daddy,” she had said, reassuringly. “What I need wit’ another man? I got you.” And she had hugged him around his waist, the way she had as a small child unable to reach higher. Now, she was becoming a young lady, and an artist of artifice and feminine wiles. If Sister did not know how to keep her husband happy, Lilly knew how to bring Prince home.

“You don’t have to cook for him,” Sister once told her, breaking the silence of a still night as they had washed clothing in cast aluminum tubs, working side by side on their knees. She had meant that Prince loved his daughter, in his way, and would always return, albeit less frequently, to indulge himself in the smile of his baby girl, if not her cooking, a delight for which he lived. Recalling her mother’s words years later, Lilly would understand this. But now, she regarded her mother sullenly from the corners of her eyes, biting her tongue. After all, Sister had cooked for
her
father, each year at Thanksgiving and Christmas. She had baked yeast rolls and sweet potato pies, and yams candied with brown sugar and nutmeg. Her sisters, too, Lilly’s aunts, had prepared for days in advance all of his favorite dishes. And at those family gatherings, when Grandma had shushed all of the children and seated everyone around a plank that masqueraded as a banquet table, no one had spoken until Grandpa had blessed the table and taken his first bite of this, and then of that, turning his plate for easier access to each course. Then, having taken note of what was and was not on that heavily laden plate, the sisters would raise a cacophony:

“Have some of these beans, Daddy.”

“You didn’ get none o’ my puddin’? Try some o’ dis puddin.”

And steaming cups and bowls of whatever and what not would surround his overflowing plate.

Prince may not have been as righteous as his father-in-law, but Lilly understood and loved him every bit as much as Sister had loved her own now departed father. Lilly would resent her mother’s remark for years.

But mostly, Lilly felt protective of her mother who, despite the cutting tongue and often caustic manner for which she had become known, had a vulnerability and despondency that shamed Lilly out of her sulking resentments and small youthful rebellions. Sister was an agonized woman, and the source of her pain was a knowledge personal, burdensome, and unutterable.

Prince Junior felt this, too. They had not forgotten Sister’s excursions from reality when they were both small children. And Lilly, a solemn child and wise beyond her years, had learned to be attentive to Sister’s changes in disposition, watching with the tremulous expectancy of three small girls waiting for deliverance—not their own, but that of their mother held captive inside the barn.

When Sister was “low,” Lilly picked up the laundry from her mother’s employers; saw that it was delivered clean, crisp, and on time. She fed Prince Junior and the chickens; kept the yard swept and tidy. She even kept visitors away, engaging in pleasant conversation the occasional stoppers-by, keeping them tactfully outdoors with an apologetic smile and an explanation: Sister was feeling poorly. Yes, she was sure Sister would be fine. Jes needed a lil’ res’, dass all. At night, she hummed pleasantly as she combed her mother’s hair before the dying embers in their darkened hut. She had learned the comforting effect of near-silence and touch; the soothing power of near-darkness—a reprieve from the stark clarity and ugliness that filled her mother’s days. She understood Sister’s need to be alone—almost, but not quite, alone—and to appreciate her own solace. And Lilly developed a special sensitivity to the pain of others. Pain reached out to Lilly. It spoke to her in a language understood by the truly discerning; and it brought forth the kindness of the sainted Black Woman. Mother sister burden-bearer. Counselor comforter. It evoked the quiet efficiency of a midwife; the strength and patience of a woman waiting for deliverance—not her own, but that of her mother, her father, brother, and sister human beings struggling for their own lives.

She learned to control, gently, with the unassuming wisdom of one who knew what was best for others. Friends grew to rely on her. Young men saw in her a fine, Christian wife, a capable mother; and Lilly began to appreciate her own value, to understand her role. Somebody had to have some sense around here. Somebody had to hold things together.

Somebody had to be strong.

INEZ, NORTH CAROLINA

DECEMBER, 1880

Christmas Eve. Parties erupted along the roads of Henderson and Warrenton, dotted the countryside in Nash and Vance counties, bringing a liveliness and cheer seldom seen among the colored of eastern North Carolina. Barrooms and billiard halls had lately been packed with merry-makers throughout the night and well into the mornings. The Feels Good Inn rocked. Queen Marie felt the jarring rhythm of the live band, and on her night off, she danced a jig naked before the one small window of her room above the bar. “Come on, Prince,” she cooed. “Pleeease”—turning toward him to wiggle her shoulders, her arms extended gracefully—“let’s go out dan-sing,” she sang, and began to chant, “A-ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-dem bells, a-ring-a-ring-a-ring-a-ring—”

“Queen Marie,” Prince laughed, accepting her embrace. “You know you is a fool. But I got to go. Let go, now! I got to go.”

“Go where,” Queen Marie whined. She sat pouting on the bed, crossing her thin bare legs at the ankles. “Not to go progin’ ’roun’
her
house.” She paused, and when he did not deny this: “Priiince! You said you wouldn’t go dere no more. You said yo’ chirren didn’t wanna see you nohow—”

Prince winced. “I said my
boy
didn’t wanna see me.” Queen Marie could see the pain of rejection on his face. It hurt her to see him hurt, and she was sorry that she had raised the issue of Prince’s children. But he recovered quickly. The rift between Prince and his son was an old one, and he had resolved to leave it unmended. Prince Junior was just as well off, Prince knew, without him.

The girl, Lilly, was another matter. The holiday season always meant increased guilt for Prince. Lilly looked forward to his occasional visits. She wanted to spend time with him—like family, she had said, staring meaningfully into his eyes and grasping his hand. He had marveled at this cunning child as beautiful and manipulative as his mistress, yet, at times, as benign and full of gentle grace as her mother had once been.

Sister barely tolerated Prince during these visits. Prince Junior was always conveniently absent, without explanation or apology. But Lilly freely forgave Prince his desertion, chattering as she moved about the little house, cooking, feeding, and fussing over him. Lilly’s absolution made these paternal visits endurable for Prince. “My girl—Lilly. She wants to see me.”

Queen Marie sucked her teeth and turned her head to stare at the

wall. Prince continued. “She my baby girl. She don’ ask much. I be dere for her dis time.” Prince moved toward the door.

Queen Marie sprang to her feet, her small breasts bouncing as she rushed toward the door and flung her back against it. “An’ nex’ time?” she asked. “Nex’ time I wanna do suh’m, you gon’ go runnin’ off to dem and leave me by my lonesome?”

They stared at each other for a long moment, Queen Marie pouting and insolent, Prince realizing with a start, as he often did, that Queen Marie was, after all, still a child, albeit in a woman’s body. He lifted her gently and placed her beside the door. She looked up at him, sadly, but said nothing as he opened the door and bounded down the stairs.

FISHING CREEK, WARREN COUNTY, NORTH CAROLINA

CHRISTMAS EVE, 1880

It was snowing when Queen Marie arrived at the roadhouse near Fishing Creek, her backside sore from the buckboard ride she had hitched with a stranger. The door was wide open despite the chill, and inside, Queen Marie could see sweating bodies flailing and spinning to the song of a local celebrity, who swung her great bulk from side to side as she belted out a half-angry, half-forlorn song. Squeezing into the small wooden structure, patched in several places with sheets of tin, Queen Marie removed her coat and shook it vigorously, holding it outside the door, and attracting the attention of several young men who stood in a cluster in the red mud outside. One of them whistled. Queen Marie frowned, squinting at them through the delicate curtain of snow that fell between her and her admirers. She did not notice the boy with the hazel, hooded eyes, younger than the rest, with a thinly veiled excitement and expectancy not possessed by his companions.

She turned to navigate her way through the crowd, refulgent in a drop-shouldered dress she had appropriated from her mother, a relic of a years-ago past but still fashionable, more than conspicuous in this lackluster gathering of the county’s poorest and least refined. A young man offered to hold her coat. Another offered her his chair, and yet another brought her a drink, and another—151-proof whiskey with no ice.

Queen Marie danced, her throat burning as she fought back tears. Her Prince was with Sister, at Sister’s house, probably in Sister’s arms. That wench and her daughter—that Lilly—had conspired to lure Prince from her. And Prince was cooperating with them, dim-witted in his wish to be near Sister under any pretense that his wife devised.

And Queen Marie—childless after years of effort—was left alone on Christmas Eve, no child to even the score between Sister and herself, no family to entangle Prince in a web of loyalty and love and tradition during this holiday season. She whirled in the space on the dance floor that had opened for her, her eyes half-closed and her skirt billowing around her, giggling foolishly, not certain that she had a partner. She said this aloud—“Don’t know if I even got a partner”—although she was sure that no one could hear her above the din.

But when she opened her eyes, miraculously, he appeared, standing just outside the door: a young man with wide, thin shoulders, and intriguing eyes; eyes that seemed to make love to her from across the room. Queen Marie blinked. This was not her Prince. Her Prince was heavier, more substantial. She began moving toward him, her eyes fixed on him, making him shift his weight nervously from one foot to the other. Delicate hairs darkened his chin, she saw as she came closer and stopped directly in front of him, staring up into his narrow face. His friends grinned at her, knowingly at Prince Junior and each other before wandering away to watch from a respectful distance.

Queen Marie barely noticed them.
Prince Junior.
The angry, hurting little boy clutching his mother’s hand at the Feels Good Inn. The child she had wished could be hers. He swallowed but met her stare, uncertain of what he should say or do. She was flattered by his discomfort. It made her feel mature, worldly.

She took his arm and strolled with him down the path that led to the road, forgetting her coat. The snow had stopped, and the sky was clear and blue, peopled by stars that seemed to crowd the sky. Queen Marie supposed that they were having a Christmas party of their own.

“You gotta name?” she asked when they were far enough from the roadhouse to hear themselves speak.

“Yes, Ma’am,” he replied. Sister, Queen Marie noted, had raised a nice boy. “Prince—” he caught himself before saying
Junior
—“My name Prince.”

Queen Marie hesitated, deciding what to call herself if he should ask her name. “Well, dass a fine name. For a fine fella,” she added, looking up at him. He blushed. She contemplated his age. Probably in his early teens, she guessed. Younger than Lilly. She took his hand and stopped walking as they reached the turn-off onto the road.

“You ever been wit’ a woman, Prince?” she asked softly.

His eyes widened, almost imperceptibly, as he tried to appear unruffled. “Yes, Ma’am.” Queen Marie was disappointed, and this must have showed, because he added, hastily, “I mean no, Ma’am. Not wit a
lady,
not like you.” She recalled the frantic groping that went on when fourteen-year-old boys were left alone with unsuspecting girls. She understood what he meant. Without a word, she led him into the dense woods beside the path, a shortcut to an abandoned supply shed where she and Prince had often made love.

He was not as shy, or as unskilled, as she had expected. His hands moved along the length of her body, stopping at points of interest, exploring every inch of her in wonder and amazement. He had never seen a completely naked woman before, and he intended to exploit this opportunity for all that it was worth. And Queen Marie, content with her fantasy of Prince, allowed his son to stroke away the pain of his rejection.

And as Prince Junior helped her into her dress, she turned to embrace him, discarding the dress again, pulling him with her to the floor, drawn to him by loneliness or vengeance or confusion as to his identity, or perhaps some combination of these. Queen Marie knew only that there was satisfaction of a sort in the uncertain embrace of this boy-man who had not asked her name.

INEZ, NORTH CAROLINA

MARCH, 1881

Thus saith the Lords of hosts; Consider your ways.

—Haggai 1:7

Spring came early that year, melting the frost of winter, causing folks to accelerate the stowing and mothballing of overcoats, the consumption of canned goods, now overstocked, and the carrying out of spring cleaning: quilts hanging from clotheslines, rugs shaken vigorously in front yards. And with the warmth of spring and its attendant fever, churches began once again to compete with the forces of darkness that beckoned from juke joints and whorehouses, luring away young deacons-in-training and junior Willing Workers, emptying pews and choir stands as thoughts of a wintry and wrathful God gave way to shindigs and impromptu barbecues.

Business began to pick up at the Feels Good Inn. Queen Marie worked tirelessly, the hours of labor in the solitude of the kitchen proving therapeutic. She had had several weeks to consider her ways, and to consider their consequence, the enormity of which had begun to sink in on a tepid evening in February when Prince, always cognizant of her menstrual cycle, had made inquiries as to her health. Queen Marie had smiled innocently, lowered her lashes, and hinted at maybe being in a family way.

She had done this as he sat on the edge of her bed, shirtless and removing his shoes, the light from the gas street lantern outside the barroom, new and cosmopolitan, casting a yellowish glow on his profile. She had waited for a rejoinder, crouched behind him on the lumpy bed. For several moments he had not spoken. A chill, slight and barely stirring, had filled the room, causing Queen Marie to hunch her shoulders and pull a quilt around them. Prince had not moved a muscle.

“Prince?” She had begun to move toward him, finally, touching his broad back.

“You’s in a family way,” he had stated, his voice flat. Still, he had not turned to face her.

“Maybe, I reckon,” she had replied softly, afraid of his posture and tone. She was not sure what she had expected. She had known that he did not,
had
not wanted this. But that, Queen Marie had thought, was water under the bridge. She would have a baby now, a boy, like Sister; and Prince would love both her and their son. Like Sister. And her son.

He had not touched Queen Marie that night. She had tried not to worry, and toyed with the idea of trying, once again, to elicit a response to her touch. But she had thought better of it. He was angry now. His contraceptive efforts had failed; but he would cool down in time.

After that night, Prince had avoided Queen Marie. She saw him once in early March, at a general store in Warrenton, buying fatback and homemade “cracklin’” corn bread. He saw her, too, watching him from the candy counter, holding a bag of butterscotch stick candies, her favorite confection, and he had looked away. When she cornered him to ask him of his plans with respect to her, he had looked at her strangely, then looked away, above her head, past the rough wood door that led to the fields outside.

“
You’s
in a family way,” he had said, and shuffled around her and toward the door.

She stood frozen for a moment, wondering at his words, before the intended impact of his
“you’s”
dawned upon her, and a gathering began to assemble in Queen Marie’s heart.

Disbelief arrived first. Then, the thought of Prince denying in this way his role in her pregnancy Shocked and Shamed Queen Marie.

Then, Doubt made its appearance. Queen Marie had had sex with two men, only one of whom had the foresight to have made feckless, undisciplined attempts to protect himself from unintended paternity. She had taken for granted, irrationally, the identity of this child’s father, on no basis other than that she had wanted to; and Queen Marie had not been able to imagine things not working out, ultimately, in the way that she wanted them to.

Realization arrived disheveled, hurried, and unfashionably late: Prince did not intend to claim this child. Her jaw lowered itself slowly, her mouth opened in a horrified O.

Prince did not believe that he had spawned this child.

Prince believed her a liar and a cheat.

She watched his departing back, dumbfounded. Suddenly, she dropped her candy and ran after him, intending to take an authoritarian tone—this worked sometimes with Prince—and scold him into repentance.

“How you know it ain’ yours!” she cried, all attempts at dignity and indignation lost as she began to wring her hands, something she had never done, in horror and frustration. “How you know? How you know you ain’—how you know we ain’—” she sputtered.

“Queen Marie,” he said, his voice patiently condescending, as if talking to a stupid child. “I keeps up wit’ yo’ mont’ly. I knows yo’ cycle. I ain’ never touch you when you was . . . dat way.”

Queen Marie stared at Prince.
Cycle?
She had no idea what this meant. She stood silent, puzzled and ashamed of not knowing this thing that she should have known. And as Prince ambled down the path that led from the store to the road, hot tears began to burn a path down Queen Marie’s face.

For weeks thereafter, she sat alone in her room above the barroom. Sometimes she plotted ways to win back her Prince. She even toured the barrooms in three counties searching for him, prepared with well-rehearsed words of wit or charm or sore contrition. At times she was filled with dread of her life without Prince, now looming ahead of her, a drawn-out and unpleasant nightmare with no hope of awakening, a dark drama without the light of resolution at its end; for Prince had been both her reason for living and her life’s only goal. Without him, her life was aimless and morose.

She also thought of life, for the first time since she had shared her callow philosophical musings with Dottie—those innocent, life-ago ruminations with Dottie.

She reconciled with her mother, finally, tearfully; and in her own bedroom, kept exactly as she had left it, Queen Marie found her writings from that time, untrained but promising, the germinating talent of a child soon to be thrust into a kind of infantile adulthood. And for the first time, she grieved for lost possibilities, lost newness and freedom and power—the power of Queen Marie’s own mind, which had been known to take her to heights of adventure and enlightenment, weaving stories of complexity and fascination that had made Dottie shiver, her teachers gush, and her mother hug her with satisfaction and pride.

She could have been somebody.

Yet, she still loved Prince, loved him fiercely and unconditionally, and it was hard to regret the years she had spent with him, the sweetest days of her existence. She knew in her heart that given the same options, even knowing the outcome, she would spend those days with him again—every one of them. Some part of her would always live in those days, with her Prince.

Queen Marie kept working at the Feels Good Inn, harder now that she had a purpose. Her insecure future, her brazen past, the need for rectifying things—these matters concerned her now. In September she had a girl—a girl with skin the color of caramel and Prince’s soulful eyes, or perhaps Prince Junior’s, or perhaps it did not matter. There was business to take care of—Queen Marie’s business and that of her baby, Vyda Rose, named after Queen Marie’s great-great-grandma who had once held off a handful of British soldiers with a musket. What difference did it make who the father was? Vyda Rose had a pedigree to rival even that of the finest white gentry in the state of North Carolina. Why, her grandma was a successful business
woman.
She had come from a bloodline of heroines.

Lots of people came around the Feels Good Inn these days, to see this girl child of uncertain parentage. Prince, it was reported, was not claiming the child. Of course, no one spoke of this around Queen Marie, as in years to come, no one was to speak of it within earshot of Vyda Rose. This inviolable silence was forged to a wrought-iron rule, not entirely out of kindness and tact, but out of fear as well: Queen Marie had become fiercely maternal—it was her job to protect her child and, for her child’s sake, her own reputation as well. And although it was rumored that she had messed around with Prince Junior, it was speculated as well that Sister had brought an abrupt end to this, and advised that the townsfolk avoid the subject. And so folks regarded the child with the sorrowful eyes, and looked away without comment.

When she saved enough money, Queen Marie bought an inexpensive headstone and secured a plot at the cemetery adjacent to Bull Swamp. She fabricated a somewhat vague but intriguing story of an itinerant father for Vyda Rose. And every year on the anniversary of his purported death, she took Vyda Rose to visit her father’s grave. The trustees at Bull Swamp each raised an eyebrow at the solemnly marked but apparently empty grave. But they said nothing. Queen Marie had paid for her plot. She could sleep in it or fill it with pig slop, for all they cared.

During these annual treks to the graveyard, Vyda Rose drew from Queen Marie whatever details of her father’s life and death she could. The remaining details she filled in herself. Aside from this, he remained, for the most part, unmentioned, shrouded in a mystery that Queen Marie and Vyda Rose were happy to maintain, each comforted by her own privately invented image of a man whom neither had known.

Queen Marie had intended to devote herself to the raising of her child. But after a fretful, strong-willed infancy, Vyda Rose became a sweet-natured toddler, and then an obedient child. She sat quietly in the kitchen at the Feels Good Inn, or just outside the back door, while Queen Marie washed dishes and entertained suitors. She avoided danger, and was respectful to her elders. By the time she was five, Vyda Rose seemed to possess the wisdom and carriage of a woman several times her age, and none of the stupidity and lack of restraint that had guided Queen Marie’s actions as a child. Queen Marie sighed with relief. Child rearing would be easier than she had thought.

With Vyda Rose safe in her own care, Queen Marie began searching for a replacement for her Prince. She did not need to look far for candidates, for there were many men in Queen Marie’s life now, suitors who wished to be lovers, even husbands: She was still young and attractive, with a few babies left in her.

But Queen Marie had trouble bonding with these men. Their love-making disappointed her—it lacked the emotional intensity of her experience with Prince—and she could not settle for less than the all-consuming love she had first had. Some part of her could not let Prince go.

Yet the steady stream of admirers continued, in and out of the kitchen at the Feels Good Inn, each disappointing her, each informed, eventually, of his deficiencies and tactfully dismissed, usually without having gained so much as a kiss for his trouble. Occasionally, she grew discouraged, wrote poetry, and cried on the large and sturdy shoulder of Fields, her employer and friend, painfully sorry to have lost Prince, even though he had never truly been hers to lose, and even though years had passed. She despaired of ever finding another to fill his space in her heart, and badly wanted him back.

Were it not for Fields, and the fact that she seldom knew where to find Prince, she would have pursued him to the end. But Fields reminded her, in his quiet, rational tone, that she did not need Prince, that her love was wasted if it was not returned.

Once, upon hearing of Prince’s liaison with a dancer in a musical revue company, Fields had thwarted Queen Marie’s intention to sneak backstage after the show and fling herself at his feet, confessing her sin and begging, as she had on earlier occasions, for forgiveness. Fields had held her, fighting and screaming, her fists falling upon his solid chest with a hollow
thudding
that he did not seem to feel. When she had exhausted herself, he had led her meekly home, where she had dissolved in tears, her head in his lap.

The following morning, she had made careful incisions in her wrists, avoiding the green veins that lay visible just below the surface of her skin. Fields had discovered her in the kitchen at the Feels Good Inn, as she had expected him to, and she had lain comfortably in bed for several days, composing rhymes, reading novellas, waiting for the news to reach Prince; hoping that he would rush to her side.

But it soon became apparent that Prince had not heard or did not care, her artifice transparent to him now, or her life a matter of indifference. Queen Marie rose from her bed and began to wash dishes.

Vyda Rose played quietly alone outside the back door.

Lonely, she made of her surroundings imaginary scenarios and friends, birds and squirrels who stopped to chat with her before flying or scurrying away through the woods that surrounded the Feels Good Inn. Soon, her precocity and hunger for attention began to attract certain patrons to the back of the roadhouse, where Vyda Rose was a pleasant distraction from the goings on inside.

Meanwhile, Queen Marie’s relationship with Fields began to metamorphose. She began to rely upon him to comfort her, and to steer her through periods of erratic behavior and irrational decision-making. He was like a father to her, caring and accepting and wise; and although he did not evoke in her the passion she had felt for Prince, her gratitude and respect for Fields turned to something comfortable and mature and akin to love. She declined to marry. She was not certain of her love for him. It was not what she had expected.

But Fields moved Queen Marie with her daughter to a small house that he had built next to his own, across the road from the Feels Good Inn. There, Vyda Rose could have her own room, and he could spend nights with Queen Marie. He was certain of his devotion, and he was a patient man.