“Hanalee?” asked Mama. “Are you sure you’re all right?”
The lingering dew on the grass bled through both the blanket and my skirt, moistening my knees. I sat there for a moment and wondered how the universe had seen fit to throw me together with a person I was supposed to hate. A person who wouldn’t ever want to be with me, even if my skin was whiter than his. I imagined someone from up above—certainly not God, I hoped—devising all the various stumbling blocks he could place in front of me, all the barriers to love and freedom and simple happiness, just to see how I’d react. Just for a laugh.
Before I could answer my mother, someone called my name. I raised my head and found Mildred Marks plodding toward me, dodging through a three-legged race that was claiming more victims than victors. She wore her usual fedora and filthy brown boots and looked like a cross between a gangster and a farmhand—a furious one at that, with her hands balled into fists by her sides. She plowed straight toward me, her mouth clamped shut in an ugly scowl.
“I . . .” I jumped to my feet from our blanket. “I think I might need to step away for a spell and talk to Mildred.”
Mama stopped pulling dishes out of the picnic basket and raised her head. “I don’t want you stepping too far away from us.”
“Joe’s not going to come anywhere near the church grounds, Greta,” said Uncle Clyde, leaning back on his hands. “I can guarantee he won’t show up within a mile of this crowd.”
“I need to speak to you, Hanalee.” Mildred stopped right in front of me, smelling a little tangy and pungent, like the grains distilling inside that back room in her house. “Do you have a moment to spare?”
I glanced down at Mama, who then glanced at Uncle Clyde.
“Just as long as you stay on church property,” said my stepfather. “No wandering out of sight.”
“It’ll only take a moment.” Mildred grabbed me by an elbow and yanked me through the maze of picnickers until we reached a row of birches on the edge of the church grounds. She then threw my arm back at me as if it were a stick.
“He’s still coming to our house,” she said with a hiss. “Why in hell aren’t you using the Necromancer’s Nectar?”
“But I did.”
“When?”
I counted in my head. “Two nights ago. I did exactly what you said—the spoonful, the crossroads, the circle on the ground—and I spoke to him.”
“Well, he’s still barging through our front door, still looking lost and desperate, giving us all a fright. Even Mama saw him last night. She’s planning to hire a Spiritualist to exorcise him.”
“No!” I waved my hands in her face. “Don’t do anything to hurt him. Please.”
She swatted my fingers away. “We don’t want him in our house.”
“I’ll speak to him again. I’ll see what he wants. I’ll . . .” I turned my head and looked beyond the other townsfolk, spotting Mama and Uncle Clyde nestled together on the blanket, their heads tipped close together, their arms touching. “I’ll do whatever it takes to set things right.”
“I hope you do.”
“I’ll speak to him tonight, in fact. Just”—I rubbed the back of my neck—“please, don’t do anything that might cause him any harm. Don’t send him away just yet.”
“All right.” She pushed her hat farther down on her head, shadowing her face with the short brim. “I’ll tell my mother you’re taking care of him tonight, but if he—”
“Wait a minute.” I dropped my hand to my side. “Tell me again why you think my father is heading to your particular house all the time, looking so upset.”
“We’re sensitive, that’s why.”
My jaw hardened.
Mildred stepped back on her left foot. “What’s that look for?”
“Are you sure there’s no other reason?”
“Cheese and crust, Hanalee. Why are you glaring like you suspect me of murder?”
“There’s a troubling undercurrent rumbling beneath the surface of this town,” I said. “I don’t trust much of anyone these days.”
“I’m prone to seeing ghosts. That’s all. And I find myself overcome with premonitory sensations whenever something awful is about to happen.” She tipped her fedora out of her eyes. “In fact, I experienced one of those sensations that Christmas Eve, right after your father left our house.”
My head jerked back. “What?”
“I . . .” She inched backward. “What? I just said—”
“Why on earth was my father at your house that Christmas Eve?”
Mildred scratched at her elbow, and her lips sputtered as if she didn’t know what to say.
I edged toward her. “Don’t you dare tell me my father was seeing your mama.”
“No! That’s not it at all. He was picking up whiskey for a bootlegging run.”
“He . . . No!” I darted a quick peek in Mama’s direction again. “My father was most certainly not a bootlegger.”