May the Road Rise Up to Meet You: A Novel (44 page)

And Mary couldn’t help but laugh a little to hear it, one of those little bits of kindness Cora’d been throwing her way sometimes at night when it was the two of them sleeping in her room. Of course, those little bits of kindness only ever came at night, with the candle blown out, and just about the time Mary was ready to start crying about what’d happened on Christmas Eve. The resta the day Cora was her old self, a chubby old bitta meanness with the wrinkles collecting along her cheeks and chin like they were conspirin’ to make her face into a permanent sorta scowl. And every time Cora mentioned the man she was gonna run off with way back when, then said
like your’n
, like both her and Mary’s man were the same sorta man, and both her and Mary’s situations were the same sorta situations, well then … Mary spent an hour at least crying herself to sleep, thinking about how her face was gonna soon enough take on that same permanent sorta scowl.

So by the time the New Year came around and the Misses’s brother and his family were just another day from traveling back home, Mary couldn’t help but feel relieved. She’d have her room back to herself, have Juss back to herself, and her work most of all, to help someday push these terrible memories back down inside enough ’til one day it’d all be just another set of shadows. But there were still these two days to get through, even more so now, now that she’d picked up Mista Kittredge’s paper he left in the library, where she was dusting just the day before, wanting something to do, and glanced through it until she came upon the notice that terrified her and gave her hope all at once:

And it was the last part of that notice that she liked the most—
Reward will be paid only if returned in good condition
. Micah wasn’t likely to go easy, she knew. He wasn’t about to let some slave-catcher throw a rope around him and prop him on the back of a horse and ride him back to
Richmond. But at least that slave-catcher wouldn’t shoot him or whip him anymore, not with a thousand dollars gold being offered. It was at least twice as much as she’d ever seen offered for a runaway, and there was that odd sense of pride attached to it, to know that he was that valuable, her man … well, once her man.

She told Cora that night about the notice, forgetting to wrap it in the usual lies, like she heard such-and-such at the dress shop, or the Mista said this, but instead just coming straight out and saying that she’d read it in the newspaper. But Cora didn’t get mad at Mary the way she used to when she was stealing lessons from Miss Randall or standing too long around the bookshelves she was supposed to be dusting. Instead she just let out a frustrated laugh, like she’d done her best to learn Mary some sense and a merciful Lord wouldn’t hold it against her for how she’d turned out. But then after a little while in the silence, Cora’d said another one of those little sideways kinda compliments she’d been paying Mary every now and again in their week together.

’Magine what that reward a’been if you’da gone wit’ him, she said. And then let out a whistling sorta
whooo
, thinking about so much money.

And Mary went to sleep that night thinking if she woulda been worth a thousand dollars too, even though she was a woman. Of course, that only made her dream about Micah all the more that night and do nothing but think of him all the New Year’s Day, one minute thinking maybe he’d let himself get caught if it meant coming back here to see her, then the next minute thinking he’d get killed by some slave-catcher or the Boys in Gray or the Yankee Army even, and she’d never see him again. And the hoping had a tough time trying to find its way through all those sad possibilities.

By the time the New Year’s dinner was ready to be served, Mary propped herself on a stool over on the wall not far from the oven, figuring that watching Ginny do her work, and watching Mabel and Cora and Bessie doing the serving, would help take her mind off of Micah. None of them had mentioned Micah since Christmas morning, but she could tell they all knew what their plans had been. And it was strange the effect it had on them, like Ginny and Mabel and Bessie were almost her friends now, like they’d been softened a little to hear of her loss and didn’t look to poke their finger into the wound the way they woulda
before, like somehow losing a love like that was something they could all relate to.

And when Mary asked Ginny what she could do to help, Ginny didn’t snap at her and tell her it was
her
kitchen, but just told her to sit over by the stove where it was warm and she’d let her know if something came up. So Mary watched quietly as Ginny took one dish after another out of the oven, always complaining about how this wasn’t gonna taste the same without enough butter, or how could she make this dish without any vegetables and such. Mary just nodded her head at Ginny the first few times she turned to her and complained how the war was getting in the way of her cooking, but then mentioned that it was the same for them in the dress shop. Ginny thought about it for a moment, and Mary worried that it might turn Ginny against her again, not wanting to go back to her room and have to be alone. But then Ginny musta figured trying to make a dress without silk was about the same as making a cake without sugar, and that was all right with her then. Then Ginny let Mary help with some of the little things, like putting out all the serving dishes on the counter before Ginny filled them, or holding the gravy bowl while Ginny scraped the last of the drippings into it.

Bessie was quiet as ever, but Cora and Mabel seemed to be having more and more fun as the night went along. It wasn’t until they served the sugarless cake for dessert that Mary understood why. Mrs. Kittredge asked for Ginny to come out and enjoy a small toast with them to celebrate the meal, and while she was out of the kitchen, Mabel poured some of Mista Kittredge’s claret into an already-used glass, then looked at Cora, who held out her glass to be filled, then looked over at Mary with wide eyes asking if she wanted some too. Mary just shook her head, and Mabel and Cora swallowed that one down, and then each took a little more before Mabel poured the rest of it into the crystal decanter and handed it to Cora.

Boy, they sure drinkin’ lotsa wine tonight, Mabel said to Cora with a nod into the dining room. And Cora laughed like Mary’d never seen her do more than once or twice in all the years she’d known her.

Then Cora smoothed down her apron and walked back into the dining room. Mabel looked over at Mary and made a pretend frown.

Aww cheer up, Mary. Donchu know this here’s our ’Mancipatin’ Day!? Mista Lincoln done said we all free! Dinchu know that?

And she laughed the way Cora had before, more from sadness than actual joy, and went back into the dining room herself.

There was the usual talk in the darkness of her room that night, and Mary grew a little sad when she realized that it would be the last night with Cora and probably the last time they ever spoke to each other for this long, with this much kindness. And hearing Cora talk about her man from back almost thirty years ago, she realized that this was what Cora could hold on to just to survive. Most of the year she spent closed up and mean and forging that scowl ever deeper into her face, but then there might be a few dirty glasses of wine on New Year’s or a piece of half-eaten cake on one of the Kittredges’ birthdays, or the chance to relive some of those memories from all the way back for a few moments in the safety of the darkness.

And Mary, feeling closer to Cora than ever, brought up the notice in the paper from the day before, hoping Cora might be of a mind to tell her it was worthwhile hoping Micah’d come back.

He ain’ th’sorta man like to give up wit’out a fight, Cora said.

I know, Mary answered. I just thought that maybe, once they caught up to him and weren’t gonna shoot him, maybe he’d figure it was worth coming back so … so he could see me again.

Now why he gonna go an’ do that when he know ’bout how you changed yo’ mine on goin’ wit’ him?

The words were a jolt to Mary.

You told me he thought you were me right to th’end, she said in a voice above a whisper now. You told me you didn’t say anything to him, just shooed him off an’ ran back to the house.

And Cora was silent.

What did you say to him that night? Mary asked.

Nothin’.

So why would he think I changed my mind? He saw Mista Longley there by th’door. Why would he—

’Cause he come back th’next night lookin’ fo’ you, afta you gone up wit’ Miss Juss, Cora said, a little stern but still like it was a confession. That’s when I told him ’bout you changin’ yo’ mine.

And she wanted to yell at Cora then, wanted to demand that she somehow fix this thing that she knew was beyond repair. Even if Micah did get caught, even if he was brought back here, there’d be no detours in the wagon to the front of the shop and lifting his hat to tell her he loved her. There’d be no kisses behind the store or little notes passed in secret.

Why would you do that? Mary said. Why didn’t you tell me about that?

And Cora’s explanation was all the same sortsa things she’d been saying to Mary all along, her recipe for how to live life closed up tight, every day building that scowl on her face, looking forward to the next dirty glass of wine or half-eaten piece of cake or the memories in the tiny doses they could be taken. None of it interested Mary, though, and she said nothing more to her through that whole night or even the next morning, preferring to be an island once again, than to have Cora for a confidante.

You’re all in a daze again. The way you’ve been most of the time since you left Mary’s window. That horse from the man you killed did all the riding. All the figuring out where to go, it seems. He rode you far and fast out of there. Like he wanted to get out of Richmond more than you did. Like he wasn’t leaving anything behind the way you were.

You rode all that day, rested at night for a while. Rode some more that night and all the next day. It went like that for three days ’til you reached the turn in the river. The place you and Mary were gonna leave the boat, and head northwest to the Blue Ridge. You came to life for long enough to chase that old horse off. Didn’t kill him for a few meals’ worth of meat. He’d done you too good for that. Plus you got a soft spot for things that live only to serve their masters.

So you walked the rest of the way from that turn in the river. Only
it wasn’t straight to the Blue Ridge. No, you were headed more north somehow. Like it was that horse still carrying you there, only it was your own feet this time. You knew the way. You’d been all around these roads with him before. You knew the way to his house as much as you knew the line of Mary’s cheek. Or the shimmer of her eyes. And you were thinking on Mary some of the time. Wondering why God brought her into your world only to take her away. It only stirred up more of that anger. Fed the daze. And you walked along country roads in the broad light of day. Not caring if anyone came by. Ready to take that Home Guard’s pistol and put a bullet in the first white man that looked you in the eye. Those were the thoughts you sometimes had. But mostly it was just mindless walking. Like a broken-down nag with blinders on. Not so much you moving your feet as something, someone, else.

Whatever that something or someone is, it brought you here. Beside the familiar stable where you used to feed and water his horse. You can tell straight off by the look of things that he’s still here. Place doesn’t look abandoned, just neglected. Like a shit carpenter lives here. Making his excuses to himself about why the place looks like it does.

It’s a while, maybe six eight ten hours that you wait. Hard to tell about something that matters so little as time. All day passes anyhow, and then it’s dark again. You know it must be cold ’cause you can see your breath. You should be hungry ’cause you can’t recall eating that day. But you don’t feel either thing. ’Til sometime in the dark come the squeaking wheels. And he’s home. You can hear him inside the broken-down stable. Unhooking the carriage. Cussin’ the broken-down horse for needing water and hay. He walks out to the well, and you can hear him breaking the thin layer of ice on the water line. Drops the bucket onto it three four five times. When he comes back to the stable, cussin’ at the water he’s spilling out of the buckets he’s holding, you know this is why you came here. This is the moment.

Water’s over there, Tom. You carry your own buckets
.

Only then do you realize another man is riding up to the stable. When you see who it is, you can feel a strange half-smile form on your face. He pours his buckets into the trough and hands them over. Starts pitching some hay into the pen. It’s a few minutes before they’re both in there together, and you get ready to act again.

Albert’s stoppin’ t’get the dogs
.

He’s bringin’ ’em here?

Three miles closer’n our place. If we headin’ inta the Blue Ridge, save us an hour in the mornin’
.

And that strange half-smile returns. One perfect thing in all this mess. The three of ’em all together, like you couldn’ta planned it. You wait until they’re inside, walk up to the back window. Look inside through the caked-on dirt. You see them sitting on opposite ends of the fire in the front room. Passing the jug back and forth, smoking their cigars. Fat country squires. Talking about where they’re going in the morning.

Albert wadn’t too happy you brung me in on ’is one, I guess
.

Needed some convincin’
.

Dunno why he had t’go all th’way t’Richmon’
.

How th’dogs gonna know the scent if we ain’t got a piece o’ his clothes?