When the Reckoning Comes, page 12
Next to Mira on the other side, two women talked. Each of them wore a pastel dress. Gold jewelry gleamed on their wrists as they brought their champagne flutes to their lips. Mira didn’t recognize them from the night before, but she didn’t recognize anyone. She assumed they were Phillip’s guests.
“What do you mean by ‘she’s gone’?” Mira heard one of them ask. She tried not to eavesdrop but she was close enough that despite her best intentions she heard anyway.
“Disappeared,” the other responded. “You know. Left. Got cold feet. With that heel I would have left too.”
“Heel? What did he do?”
“That man will go to town on anything in a skirt, if you catch my drift. He wanted to settle down but no one would have him.”
“I didn’t know about that. I only knew from Darcy that he could be a bit hot-tempered, but you know Darcy—she thinks a man who curses has gone too far.”
“It wouldn’t surprise me if he was too much to handle and that’s why he’d been single for so long.”
“I feel like a little fury is sexy, you know? Like when Rhett takes Scarlett in his arms and kisses her. I love that scene. He knows she wants him and is willing to take her. Every woman wants a man who’ll be forceful like that, but in the right kinds of ways.”
“Yes, that, I think, is the difference,” the first woman said. She poured the rest of her drink in her mouth and pushed the glass to the edge for the bartender to collect. She ran her tongue across the front of her teeth before making a sucking sound and continuing. “That girl Celine was the only one around here left to give him the time of day. Trash meets trash if you ask me, but she must have smarted up. You know, people think he’s got all this money, but tobacco’s not doing well. No one smokes that much anymore. Even consolidating, most tobacco farms can’t match the scale of production of any of the big companies. That’s why he started that practice, for goodness’ sake. I heard he put most of what he had in this wedding because he knew how important it was to her. He did all that and she’s gone and he’s gotten himself broke over it.”
“How much do you think they spent?”
“I don’t know, but it’s got to be a fortune. What a waste.”
Mira heard Celine’s name and had to interrupt. “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to overhear, but are you talking about Celine? The fiancée?”
“Oh, you haven’t heard?”
“No, I—I haven’t heard. I’m sorry, but what happened?”
“That girl’s gone. No one can find her anywhere. She’s gone and disappeared.”
Mira couldn’t cancel her order, so she paid for her meal and left, making her way to the main house. A small crowd had gathered around the entrance, but with nothing to see and nothing to do they just circled around the lawn. Others had gone and sat on the porch chairs. Guests sat with their hands clasped in their laps, their eyes scanning in search of further gossip.
Mira passed them all and went upstairs, heading straight for Celine’s room. She wanted to knock on the door and see for herself, but when she got up there the door was already open. Phillip sat on the unmade bed. He ran a hand through his disheveled hair. He was dressed in his nightclothes. Dark blue silk pants and an unbuttoned silk shirt. On his feet a pair of black slippers.
“No one can find her,” Phillip said, shaking his head. “No one knows where she is.”
“What happened?”
“When she didn’t make her hair appointment, Kristina”—he gestured to a woman sitting on the sofa behind him—“came over to see if maybe she’d just overslept. She knocked on the door but no one answered and so she got one of the staff with a key to let her in, but this was what she found. Everything left like this, with her gone. The bed was unmade so she slept here, so she must have gone somewhere this morning, but no one has seen her.”
“Not exactly,” Mira interjected. “I came by last night and she’d already messed up the bed.”
“You came by? What time was this?”
Mira paused, trying to think. “It was late. At least an hour after the party ended. I’d gone for a walk and then came up to check on Celine. I wanted to talk with her one last time before the wedding.”
Mira left out the part about Jesse. She wasn’t sure why, but the decision was a reflex. Phillip shook his head again. Seeing him now in the light, he looked much older than he’d appeared last night. His worry made the wrinkles in his face more prominent. The confidence he’d exuded the evening before was replaced with a wearying sense of dread.
“How long has it been?”
“A few hours,” Kristina interrupted. “We were supposed to meet her at eight and it’s past ten now.”
“I don’t know what to do. Should I call the police?” Phillip directed the question at Mira, his voice betraying a pleading for her to tell him yes.
“It’s too early for that, I think,” Mira told him. “She’s probably out on the grounds somewhere and lost track of time.”
“The wedding party has split up and are tackling different areas. The other bridesmaids are asking guests in the cottages if they’ve seen her. The groomsmen are going through the rest of the buildings. Most of the staff know too and they’re keeping an eye out for her. We’ve got everyone looking,” Kristina said.
“Then I’ll go look too,” Mira offered. “Okay, Phillip? I’ll see if I can find her. There are all kinds of places she could be.”
“Has anyone told her father?” Kristina piped up.
Mira tensed up thinking about Mr. Tatum. “Has anyone seen him?” she asked, and both Kristina and Phillip shook their heads.
“Someone should try and find him. To let him know.”
“I’ll go look,” Phillip said, his voice sounding calmer now that he was faced with a task.
“No, Phillip. I think you should stay and wait here in case she comes back. After last night, Mr. Tatum is probably passed out drunk in his room, or he probably went home. We should focus on finding Celine first.”
“You’re right,” Kristina agreed. “Somebody needs to be here, and, Phillip, if you go outside everyone will see you and it’ll make things worse. Right now, all they have is rumors, but if they see you they’ll know something’s up. This way we can keep everything contained until we can figure out what’s going on.”
Mira appreciated Kristina’s help, although she disagreed with her reasoning. Still, Phillip decided to stay, keeping watch inside the hotel suite in case Celine came back.
With a plan in place, she left the room and went outside to figure out where she should try to look for Celine. The truth was she had no idea where Celine could have gone. She couldn’t say she knew Celine anymore, however close they used to be when they were younger. She wondered if the two women at the bar were right, if Celine had really bailed on her wedding. Mira thought back to the expression on Celine’s face last night. Her flippant joke. Had Celine been trying to say something else, something darker? Despite the distance between them, if Celine truly had been unhappy, Mira hoped Celine would have said something. If Celine couldn’t, then what did it say about who they’d been to each other after all? Celine had to be fine, Mira reasoned, and so she walked out into the sun in the hope of finding her.
XII.
KRISTINA HADN’T MENTIONED searching the fields, so Mira decided she’d look there first, partly because she felt a beckoning to return. She trudged along the path away from the Big House, pausing every few minutes to get her bearings. In the light of the day, the layout of the grounds confused her, and she had a difficult time gauging which direction she needed to go.
“Excuse me. I’m looking for the tobacco fields?” Mira asked a man she came across on the path.
“What do you want to go out there for? There’s no showing today because of the wedding, although that doesn’t look like it’s happening either.”
“Please, I don’t have my map and I don’t have time to go back to my room and try to find it. Do you know which way?”
“The fields are that way, I think,” he said, pointing south, and Mira started in that direction.
While she tried to think about Celine and where she might be, she couldn’t escape the image of the woman in white. Mira had been too far away to recognize her face, but whoever she was, she’d been alone, and no one came out to these woods unless they were looking for something or someone was looking for them. What other reason could a person have, especially with the night’s darkness surrounding them? The woman’s attention had been fixed on what lay hidden deep among the tobacco stalks, something Mira had been unable to see, and she wanted to find what last night she might have missed.
It was a long walk, longer than Mira remembered it being, and the farther she went the more she regretted not changing out of her clothes for the wedding. The dress was too constricting, and the material made her itch in the heat. At least she had comfortable shoes, flats she’d slipped on instead of the heels she’d felt pressure to wear. She continued on the uneven path, trying her best to recollect the way she’d gone.
With the plantation closed for the wedding and most everyone still at the restaurant, the grounds were whisper-quiet, a stark contrast to what she’d witnessed yesterday. Without the conversations of strangers or the sounds of the machinations of plantation life, she heard the sounds of the woods. Its hums and calls. With each step she heard the low whistle of wind or the trill and buzz of insects hiding in the dark.
The foliage grew dense and lush as she continued into the heart of the woods. The trees’ branches above clouded the summer light, and she worried she’d cross a point of no return where she’d be lost forever. It didn’t seem she was getting any closer to the fields but closer to a world unfamiliar.
“This isn’t right.” Mira stopped, finally admitting to herself she was lost. Everywhere she looked the path appeared the same, and she had no idea anymore which way to go. Her worry became a fear as she started again, quickening her pace, her chest tightening as she ran faster in the hope she’d stumble upon something she would recognize. Soon, she had to stop. The sound of whispers rippled through the trees. Whispers swelled to murmurs. She couldn’t resist following the sounds. Murmurs shifted until she heard talking. Then, singing. A haunting call trailed by the chorus’s response.
Now see that possum he works hard. Hoe, Emma, hoe. You turn around, dig a hole in the ground. Hoe, Emma, hoe. But he can’t work as hard as me.
Mira followed. The trees fell away and she came upon a clearing where a few feet ahead of her a group of black men rotated, digging a large hole in the ground. They struck their shovels deep in the ground and threw the dirt in the air. Mira watched it fly. As they worked, they sang, their deep voices bellowing as they dug again and threw. She sank behind some brush to watch, hidden from their sight.
Hoe, Emma, hoe. You turn around, dig a hole in the ground. Hoe, Emma, hoe. He sits a horse just as pretty as can be.
Mira could not see into the hole, only the end of the shovels as the dirt they carried was released into the air, but she did see the men who’d climbed out to rest. They were dressed in plain clothes, mostly torn rags that were darkened with sweat and covered in dirt. Many didn’t have shoes, walking through the grass and mud barefoot. When they climbed from the hole, they glanced up at the sky, their eyes searching for something to deliver them. Nothing ever came and soon they were told to get back to work, and they fell once more into the hole, continuing on with their pace.
Hoe, Emma, hoe. You turn around, dig a hole in the ground. Hoe, Emma, hoe. He can ride on and leave me be.
This was not like the reenactments she’d witnessed before. These men were gaunt, nearly starved, mud-slicked skin shining as they kept on. She waited for them to falter or stop, to say they’d had enough. They’d been digging all morning by the looks of the hole; it must be past break time now and any minute she’d hear the call letting them know to quit. Mira listened, but as the time passed she was forced to face the possibility that it wouldn’t come at all.
One man climbed out of the hole and pulled off his shirt to clean his face. Mira saw a mark on his chest, the skin dark and raised, a wound long-since healed but the mark distinct, the lines embedded in the shape of the letter, a branding to warn others to whom he belonged.
They’d see her if she stood up. It seemed almost impossible none had already caught her crouching in the grass. Although, didn’t they want to be seen? That was what these reenactments were for. To be witnessed. She should stand and watch, at least get a better view, but she remained still, barely breathing as she let the brush be her cover. Standing meant acknowledging what was in front of her in a way she wasn’t prepared for, not out here, not alone, with her their only audience. When she was surrounded by the crowds watching the reenactments, it was easier to wipe her hands, to shrug in the admission that this is how it is and how it’ll always be, but alone she couldn’t ignore it. Alone she had to face the reality of what she saw and her own participation in it, because watching was participating, wasn’t it? Allowing it to continue? Any movement might disrupt the veil, the one that kept her invisible, watching. Her whole life, she’d existed on this side of it—keeping quiet, following rules, doing whatever possible to continue in the safety of being unseen, fearing the slightest transgression would put her on the other side. How many times had she watched as people like her got their spirits ruined from the unfairness of this world? She’d lived in the false promise that because she was invisible, she’d be spared, and while she knew now this was a lie, she stayed crouched to the ground, hidden from view, too afraid of any other choice beyond watching as they worked.
A white man supervised in the background. Young, clean-shaven, with dark hair. He carried the look of a man who’d never been told no, who acted as if the world had been built for him, and for most of his life it probably had been. In this heat he still dressed in his finest clothes because a man like him could afford to. He wore dark trousers with a matching frock coat. Underneath he wore a single-breasted blue-and-green-checkered vest. On his feet were ink-colored leather shoes, which he tapped impatiently against the grass.
He yelled at the others as they dug, impatient, yet his gaze betrayed a sense of gratification in watching the men as they struggled. “How much longer?” he barked.
“Almost done, sir,” a voice down in the hole yelled back. “Almost done, sir. Almost done,” he repeated. His tone was of someone who’d lived a life of acquiescence, someone who’d become intimate with the strain of a bowed head and bent back. Like the other men, they did what they were told because they knew of no other choice. They dug their hole. A hole for graves or a hole just because. They dug.
The white man nodded and walked off out of sight. When he returned, he had a band of other slaves following behind him in teams of two, with each twosome carrying a large burlap sack. They grunted as they walked, straining from the weight of what they carried. He signaled for the slaves to drop their sacks and they pounded against the ground. Then, he called to those in the hole. “Enough,” he said. “I’m done with this. I’ve got other plans for today than to watch you all work.”
The slaves were pulled out, and the hole was empty.
“Which one of these is him?” he said. “Do any of you know? The one who organized it?”
“He’s here, sir,” a slave said, eager to achieve some small favor as he pointed to the final sack.
“Pull the cover away. Let me see.”
The others crowded around, blocking Mira’s view, as they pulled off the sack. Mira couldn’t see his face but she could see the expression of a few of the others as they recoiled in horror. One could not contain himself and turned away, retching in the grass.
“You’re going to look!” the white man told them all. “Look, and see what your future will be if you try to escape again. Look hard now. All of you. Look.”
Mira watched as they stared down at what was once covered. Their faces sullen, pained, angry, but whatever they felt, they never expressed a word. When the white man was satisfied, he called again to one of the slaves. Mira thought it was over but the slave brought an ax and handed it to him.
“This will be a lesson to all of you,” he said, holding the ax high in the air, the blade’s metal blinding her from seeing more.
Fear told her to do what she’d always done—run, and she did, running as fast as her legs could take her through the uncertainty of the woods. She ran, putting as much distance as she could between her and what she’d left behind.
Behind her, the singing continued, a chorus rising.
Master he be a hard, hard man. Hoe, Emma, hoe. Lord strike down Pharaoh and set them free. Hoe, Emma, hoe.
Those who stayed behind found their own ways to resist. A burned field at night meant no crops to harvest come morning, and a burned barn meant no crops for their master to sell. To slow down work they ruined themselves, since a broken leg couldn’t hoe a field. Broken fingers couldn’t pick tobacco leaves. Over and over they suffered the pain of fractured bones, of mutilated flesh. They’d always known their weapons were their bodies. They stuffed cotton roots down their throats. Forced down turpentine and indigo to make the life within stop. The path to resistance was through what their bodies could do, and so they found ways to refuse at every turn.
They made do with what was given. They dyed rags to their liking and wrapped them around their hair. Colors vibrant and daring, colors that gave them a sense of pride despite the shame of their circumstance. They adorned their clothes with cowrie shells and glass beads, smiled at their gleam refracted in the sunlight. They made beauty out of nothing and wore it like the finest jewels.
