“It’s too rich,” she says. “Take it. Save it for Dale.”
I should pour it back in the jug and hope it doesn’t turn before Dale comes home, but I can’t leave Juna, so I send Abigail instead. She looks to Abraham, who nods his head and gives her a wink, and then she takes the cup and leaves the room. When she is gone and the front door has opened and her footsteps have crossed the porch, I reach out to pull the sheet over Juna, but she slaps my hand away.
“You,” Juna says, pushing herself into a seated position and pointing a single finger at Daddy. “You brought this on us.”
Daddy’s head and shoulders jerk as if he’s been slapped.
“It’s your evil thoughts,” she says. “I know. I see how you look at Sarah.”
“Juna,” I say, “stop it. Stop what you’re saying.”
“What with no wife in this house, I know what you’re thinking.”
“Ain’t no curse of mine,” Daddy says.
“Just waiting for her to be woman enough,” Juna says. “It’s evil, and it’s come to this. Your son. You’ve cursed your own son.”
“You hush, Juna,” I say.
John Holleran reappears, and behind him Abigail. John steps into the room and stands alongside Daddy. He’s a head taller than Daddy and thick through the chest, while Daddy’s chest sinks in as if he’s all the time too tired to hold himself up.
“We should be looking for Dale,” John says. He’s talking to the men, but he’s looking at me. He’s wondering if he heard Juna right and if he understands her meaning. “Let’s all leave this to another time.”
Daddy pushes past Abraham Pace. “Don’t suppose you belong in a young lady’s room,” Daddy says.
Abraham dips his head to look down on Daddy. “Soon enough be my wife,” Abraham says.
Crossing his arms over his chest, Abraham squares himself to Daddy. Daddy presses his chest up and out and looks up at Abraham, who is not so much younger than Daddy.
“Ain’t waiting no more,” Abraham says. “Ain’t pretending to wait no more.”
Juna reaches for my hand still resting on her shoulder. She wraps her fingers around it and pulls her knees to her chest. We’re watching Daddy’s face, both of us wondering if he understands what Abraham is saying. Juna squeezes my hand and draws herself in, tries to make herself small. She knows for certain, and so do I. No more pretending. No more pretending because Abraham and Juna have been doing plenty of pretending.
Daddy looks from Abraham to the ground and back again. He’s trying to work things out. They don’t come so easy for Daddy. The thinking takes him some time. It’s probably why his crop is always a little late going in and a little late coming out. It’s why things go too long before getting fixed and then can’t be fixed. Daddy’s boy is gone, his wife is gone for many years now, he can’t grow a decent crop, his house is rotting away beneath his very feet. He’s tired and he finally understands. A person, most any person, would believe Juna is helpless and weak, lying there in that bed, her hair hanging in matted strings, her black eyes sunk in and tired, her skin burned red. Most any person, except Daddy. He knows better.
“Good enough,” Daddy says.
He’s leaving her to Abraham Pace. The push and pull is over. Juna has worn Daddy out. Maybe he’s not afraid anymore, or maybe he’s afraid but figures it can’t get any worse. No matter which, Juna’s days living in this house are over, and soon enough, I’ll be alone.
Abraham waits until Daddy is gone, and once Abigail has slipped back into the room, he closes the door, shutting us all in the room together. It’s as good as saying “I do.” He is telling everyone, not just Daddy. He is telling Juna and me and Abigail too. He and Juna aren’t just passing time anymore. Juna is his now. She can never again tell him no, and he’ll never again beg for a yes. Juna will have to leave Daddy’s house. She is Abraham’s and will be his for the rest of her life. There will be babies. There will be as many babies as Abraham can father, as many as Juna’s body can mother. She will live in a small house with a loosely woven ceiling and floors that are hard and cold. They will eat greens and pone, she and Abraham, and Juna’s clothes will always be worn and faded and they’ll never fit quite right. She will be closed up in that house and turn soft like me, but not a pleasing sort of soft. Her arms will grow thick; her breasts will fill up and sag more with each child; her hips will flare and dimple. I know these things because it’s what would become of me if I were to promise myself to John Holleran.