“You go on,” I say to Abigail as I run up the stone stairs. “Go on and bring Abraham. Tell him to come right away.”
I throw open the front door and call out for Dale. The air inside is stale, smells of warmed-over coffee and Daddy’s cigars. In another house, folks might not concern themselves so with a boy Dale’s age staying out past dark. But Dale is sweet and soft, so sweet and soft he shames Daddy. Dale is meant to carry on the family name long past the day Daddy is dead and buried, something Juna and I can’t do. A soft man might not be fit to do so either.
I look for the pail I packed with Dale’s lunch. He is as tidy as he is clean. He would have hung it on the hook near the door where it belongs. The hook is empty. The spot near the stove where he always sets his shoes, side by side, is empty.
Daddy walks through the door, pauses long enough to see in my eyes that Dale is not here. He walks with his head turned off to the side so as to not look at Juna and carries her through the kitchen and into the bedroom where she and I sleep. In bed, she sinks into the feather ticking, rests her hands on her chest, runs the tip of her tongue over her cracked lips. Daddy looks down on the bed, but not into her eyes, and then, remembering his hat, he pulls it from his head and slaps it against his thigh. He is waiting for Juna to tell us where Dale has gone. He slaps that hat against his leg. Slapping it harder and harder. The smell of him, sour and salty, rises up with each slap. Already, he’s asked Juna four times where Dale has gone off to, screaming at her the last time.
“Won’t do no good,” I say. “She’ll come around.”
Daddy shudders as if to rid himself of whatever blight Juna might have left behind and, without speaking another word, walks from the room and closes the door.
“Let’s sit you up,” I say, sliding one hand behind Juna’s head. “Too much sun, is all. Be feeling better soon.”
I strip her of her limp dress, leaving her to lie in her cotton slip, its straps frayed and yellowed from too many washings. Then I help her lie back again and drape her with a sheet. Outside, the orange light has faded. Shadows dart past the window, bats frightened from under the sill. I leave and return with a saucer. I douse a stiff gray rag and twist it with both hands. Water drips through my fingers and into the saucer. Outside, insects buzz. Trucks crunch over the gravel. Footsteps pass by. I pat the cool cloth to Juna’s cheeks, chest, and forearms. The sharp smell is vinegar—vinegar water to soothe her sunburned skin.
“You need to drink as much as you can manage,” I say, pressing a tin cup to her mouth.
The cool water makes her lips shine. Her face is burned to a dark red, and a white streak cuts across her forehead where she had been wearing a hat. Her hair, which usually hangs in loose waves well past her shoulders, now hangs like twisted straw. Her fingers are stained brown. Each time I try to clean them with my rag, she cries out. After she drinks the water, I feed her cornbread dipped in cane syrup. The yellow pieces crumble as I press them into her mouth, and bits fall to her chest and onto the sheets.
“You’ll tell us what happened when you wake,” I say, but Juna’s eyes are already closed.
They find Dale’s hat straightaway. Daddy stomps up the stairs, waving it in the air and then in my face. John Holleran follows. He removes his hat and dips his head in my direction. I try never to think much about John Holleran even though I know he has a liking for me. His mama gave me my name, and she has the know-how and is all the time saying John and I have a clear and bright future together. John is a good man, much kinder than Daddy, but he can only offer me the life I’m already living. I take the hat from Daddy and look from one man to the other, waiting for one of them to explain.
“You wake her,” Daddy says, pointing at the closed door. “You see to it she tells us where the boy has gone, or I damn sure will.” Even as he says it, Daddy fades from the door. He’s weighing what’s before him. Juna already took his wife, his crops, and now she’s making it clear she can take his boy too, if she’s so inclined.
John Holleran takes the hat from me, lays it in the center of the table, and sets about lighting more candles. I motion toward the pot of coffee and walk into Juna’s dark room. With nightfall, the air has turned damp and cold. To warm my hands, I rub them together before wrapping one around her shoulder and shaking her awake.
“They found Dale’s hat,” I say when her eyes flicker open. They’re like black stones looking up at me. “Daddy found it. That’s good.”
I sit next to the bed on a small round stool I brought in from the kitchen, dip the rag in the cool water still tangy with the vinegar, fold it in half, and drape it across Juna’s forehead.