As the crowd thins and folks walk toward home, I drop Juna’s hands, though I squeeze them first and tell her I’ll be right back. The spot where John Holleran and his mama had been standing is empty. I turn toward the road I know they’ll travel to go on home, and I see the back of them, walking among a few others. I wouldn’t have thought myself a person who would hurt another so bad. Worse still, I wouldn’t have thought myself a person who would do that and still be thinking of Ellis Baine and hoping one day he’ll see me and want me. I have never thought myself such an unkind person.
I lay a hand on Juna’s arm, a signal it’s time to go, but she doesn’t move. She wore her hair down this morning even though I told her it would be best if she’d bind it and cover it over. Being as it was a solemn day, I thought there would be something almost obscene about the beauty of her hair when it catches the sun. Falling down to near about the center of her back, it glows. No other way to put it. Folks can’t help but stare, even though she’s not new to them, even though they don’t want to look. They’re afraid to look. They’re afraid of those black eyes. But she’s wrapped up in a kind of beauty most folks will only see once, maybe twice in their lives. They stare because they can’t resist.
“Time we go,” I whisper.
Still Juna doesn’t move, so I look where she’s looking.
Daddy has sobered enough to make it safely to the other side of Joseph Carl’s grave, and he is standing with Abraham Pace. Abigail Watson stands between the two men, and every so often, she dabs at her eyes with a kerchief. Daddy has stretched one hand up to rest on Abraham’s shoulder and is leaning into him, probably as much to steady himself as to have a private conversation.
If it were at all possible, though I know full well it isn’t, Abraham looks to have grown a head taller. His jaw looks to have squared off at a sharper angle, and his brow hangs heavier over his eyes. But it isn’t Abraham who’s grown; it’s Daddy who’s shrunk. He has a way of balling himself up when he’s drinking regular, almost like he’s wanting to altogether disappear.
While Daddy is doing the talking, Abraham is doing the nodding, and every so often, he looks off in our direction. A few folks still linger. The fellows talk about the tobacco they’ll be cutting shortly. Not such a good crop as they were hoping for. Too damn dry. The whole country like to blow away. The ladies, the few who remain, talk about the potluck at church this Sunday. Mrs. Ripberger touches me on my forearm and asks would I care to bring something fresh-picked. It’s kind of her to act as if we’ll be at that potluck, kinder still to act as if we’d be welcome. Something fresh-picked would be easier for you, don’t you think? I tell her yes, much easier. I’ll be happy to. And as Daddy keeps talking and Abraham keeps nodding, the last of these folks go on home too. We’re left alone, just us five and two colored fellows who will cover Joseph Carl over once we’re gone.
“I think this’ll be good,” I say to Juna. “This could be real nice. Daddy will be making amends, don’t you think? Inviting Abraham back. He’ll be a real fine daddy to your little one. And Abigail, she’ll be like an aunt, or a big sister maybe. They’ll be your family.”
I say it like I mean it, but what I really mean is if Abraham takes Juna back, she’ll move into his house, she’ll be his wife, and she won’t live in my house ever again. I have yet to ask her if those things Ellis Baine said about her and him are true. I haven’t asked because I know they are. Her not saying it out loud makes it somehow easier to bear. I can think about a new baby coming into our lives instead of imagining Ellis Baine with Juna. I can dream about the way a new baby will smell and feel and rinsing her soft hair clean and patting her dry and dressing her in pinks and yellows the likes our house has never seen. As long as Juna doesn’t say it and I don’t have to hear it, I can go on. Abraham Pace taking her away will make it easier still.
When Juna doesn’t answer me, I lean forward and look up into her face. She’s still staring at Daddy and Abraham like if she stares hard enough, she’ll hear what’s being said. As if feeling my eyes on her, she turns to me, and there is a look about her I’ve never seen before. Her eyes, wide and black as they are, have somehow changed. They’re looking not quite at me but instead over my shoulder somewhere, not entirely able to focus. It’s fear. I’m seeing fear in Juna’s eyes.
Daddy gives Abraham one last pat on the shoulder, nearly falling to the ground as he does it. Next to me, Juna’s body, always hard and lean, stiffens as if she’s bracing for something. I try to move her along, but she won’t move. As Daddy passes us by on his way up the hill toward home, he says Abraham will have her. He’ll have Juna but not until he gets a look at the baby. If it’s to his liking, he’ll have her.
“That’s good,” I say. “It’s behind you now. Behind us all. You and Abraham, you’ll be a fine family. He’ll be a fine father. Abraham will be a very fine father.”
“Yes,” Juna says, her eyes following Abraham and Abigail as they walk toward town.
Because of the way she draws a deep breath in through her nose and lets it out long and slow through her mouth, and because of the way she shakes her head ever so slightly, I might say she looked to be feeling sorry for Abraham.
“He would have been,” Juna says. “I’m guessing Abraham would have made a real fine father.”