Lily Fairchild. Don Gutteridge
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one good foot. When she touched him, he stopped moving as if lightning had singled him out. He collapsed on the stool, staring away from the corpse towards the bush now deepening with late-day shadow.
“I jus’ hears ya call out, jus’ like... an’ I comes runnin’ through dat door an’ I sees de man with de whips an’ I jus’ go crazy. Doan even ’member pickin’ up dat bucket, I doan.” He shook his head, then stared again at the bush beyond. “You hurt, Miz Lil?”
“No,” Lil said. “He didn’t hurt me.” The stout flour-bag cotton of her smock had absorbed some of the lashing, though the buckles had left two stinging but superficial cuts. Her arm was sore but undamaged, and though her ankle was swelling, she found she could hobble satisfactorily.
“Well, I’se sho’ glad he dead, if’n I have to go hang an’ to hell for it. Guess I was wishin’ to do dat to somebody fo’ a long time now. A long, long time,” he said.
“Papa’ll be home soon, everything’ll be fine,” Lil said without much conviction, trying to stop her body from shaking head-to-toe and make her voice do what it was told.
Solomon heard her teeth start to chatter. “You best lock me up in de shed, missy. You best lock me in dere good.”
Leaning on his arm, Lily led him to the cellar. Holding onto his hand a second longer than necessary, she watched him ease down into whatever comfort darkness afforded him. “Everything’ll be all right,” she said, suppressing the quiver in her tongue, “I promise.”
“Jus’ bolt up dat door,” he said. “Please, Miz Lil, ma’am.”
Reluctantly, Lily closed the door to the cellar, almost overcome by a second wave of shakes. As she clicked the lock into place she noted that both the hinges had been knocked more than half-way out of their moorings. In his frenzy to save her, the black man, thinking the door locked, had hurled his body almost through it. She pushed the screws back into place. If he wants to go, Lily thought, nothing will keep him there.
She knew exactly what she ought to do. Papa often got home just before dark. The sun was just about to sink below the tree-line, which left about two hours of hazy daylight. Lily ought to act the full measure of her eleven years and drag that man’s body into the brush. She ought to throw dirt on the blood and mess to hide it. She ought to bring the donkey to the empty hut reserved for Bert and Bessie. She ought to fetch the fowling gun and have it ready for use. She ought to be able to stop the treachery of her own body which would not cease its shivering.
She did none of these. What if Papa did not come home? She hobbled, hopped and crawled into the undergrowth where the new South Field would be someday be planted, and hid herself. Against what, she could not imagine; perhaps only to sooth her ankle and regain her level head. There was just enough light left for her to see the outline of the cabin. From that direction came a sudden intermittent moaning. Terrified, she strained to check the corner of the cellar shed on the north side of the cabin. The moan grew louder, but it wasn’t coming from the cellar. Lily turned in time to see the pedlar raise his head a few inches off the ground, groaning piteously all the while. In a moment he propped himself up to his elbows so that he could peer about him. Lily didn’t breathe. He flopped to the left, turning over so that he could sit up and get his bearings. Then he put two fingers to his lips and whistled softly. To Lily’s surprise, Bobby pulled free from his loose tether and stepped unhurriedly over to the pedlar, now evidently returned from the dead. The pedlar pulled on the halter, Bobby sank shakily to his knees, and his injured master rolled onto his stout back. Then donkey and burden moved into the near-dark where the north road lay. They turned neither north nor south, however; instead they continued due west, following the ancient deer-trail that wound its way eventually to the River.
Lily waited until the mosquitoes had become unbearable before she limped to the cabin. She no longer shook, but she was consumed by a dread that was worse, an apprehension that would not name itself. The image she carried across the clearing at that moment was a strange one: Maman LaRouche’s strong grip ripping turnips out of the ground, her sickle slicing green from root before the plant could gasp, as Maman’s sturdy foot, surging forward, buried itself cosily in the unresisting gash.
All that night Lily sat at the table facing the window and door on the south side, the fowling piece lying before her, cocked and expectant. When she had first entered the cabin, she rapped in code on the far wall and heard, after a while, the mutually reassuring response from Solomon somewhere below. Determined to remain awake to face whatever grim retribution might appear, Lily – fast asleep – dreamed she was awake, and very brave.
She awoke with a start to the sound of horses. The gun jumped too but held its peace. Forgetting the weapon, she ran to the door and flung it open. In the disfiguring light of the false-dawn, Lily saw three mounted men, two of them already in the dooryard, the third stopped behind them in the opening before the road. The horses snorted and jangled, sweating from exertion. Their heat washed over her.
The two men dismounted with a certain practised grace. Behind them, the third arrival remained on his steed, the swath of bandages on his head beaming like a Turk’s turban across the clearing.
“Mornin’, ma’am,” said the taller of the two in a strange accent, mellifluous as honey. “Beggin’your pardon for disturbin’ you this early in the day, but we’re-all here on pressin’ business.”
The other one nodded but said nothing, glancing nervously around.
“What’s your business with us,” Lily said, trying to shake the sleep out of her voice. She wished she’d picked up the gun.
“Your Papa and me’s made a certain transaction, ma’am.”
“What kind of...transaction?” Shorty was edging towards the north-east corner of the cabin, holding his hat in his hand, nodding and trying to look casual.
The tall one brought out a leather purse; Lily heard the clink of coins inside. Her heart froze.
“My job is to bring you this here payment in return for certain goods you have in hand.”
“This ain’t a store,” Lily said. Shorty had slipped around the corner.
The tall one put the purse into Lily’s hand and as he did so grasped her gently but firmly by the wrist. “No need to get riled up, missy. We ain’t in the habit of hurtin’ decent folk. Beauregard and me are businessmen, that’s all.”
Lily was about to attempt a knee to the groin when Shorty’s voice pierced the quiet of the pre-dawn. “The son-of-a-bitch’s gone! He’s flown the coop!” Breathless, he reappeared from the rear of the cabin.
“You sure?” snapped his partner, tightening his grip.
“Goddam right. The door’s busted half off. They had him holed up like a polecat back there, but he’s done beat it to the bush!”
“You let him out, gal?”
“Fuck no, I tell ya, Sherm, the door’s lyin’ in pieces. That big buck just blew outta there!”
“Cut the cursin’,” Sherm said, more calmly. He loosened his hold on Lily’s arm. “No call for that. Either your Daddy’s cooked up this little treachery or that nigger’s lit out on his own. Either way, we’re gonna get him.” He pulled the purse from their mutual grip. “You won’t have need of this no more.”
“We goin’ into the bush after him?”
“Yes, we are. Tell that pedlar to vamoose. We don’t need him any more.” He turned to Lily. “You tell your Daddy to stay out of our way. Nobody need be hurt so long’s we get our hands on the nigger. Good mornin’ to you.”
They mounted and cantered as far as their waiting accomplice. Sherm spoke sharply to him, and Bobby wheeled and loped southward, towards Chatham. They watched him for fully ten minutes, then circled and headed north in the direction they assumed Solomon had fled.
It must have been mid-morning when Papa came home. Lily had returned to her vigil at the table, the