Mama was the same way. She loved me, for sure and certain, but she never wanted to talk about what I could do, even when it was just me and her and Daddy all alone by the box stove. Magic makes mischief, she always said, and left it at that. If she’d had her way, I never would have used my powers, even if it meant holes in the roof and a bare cellar.
She changed her mind at the very end, but it was too late. She was murdered for my gift. So I don’t blame my friends one bit for being a little bit scared sometimes.
“It’s one of the prettiest things I ever saw,” Jefferson says, breaking the silence.
“A marvel, truly,” the Major agrees.
“Well, I’ve never noticed Lee’s eyes,” Becky says, “but her particular abilities have been an incredible blessing, and I’m grateful to be among the lucky few who benefit.”
Henry raises his coffee mug. “To Lee and her . . . second sight.”
Everyone grins, raising their own mugs, and I look around at them all, tears filling my eyes as it slowly dawns on me: I misread their stares. They’re not afraid of what I can do. They’re not like Mama at all.
“In any case,” the Major says, “I’m concerned about Miss Russell, but I’m even more concerned with how Hardwick is using her. Her fortune-telling is giving him an edge in all his dealings.”
Becky shakes her head. “I bet she can’t do anything at all. Not like our Lee. It’s a confidence game.” She’s feeding bits of scrambled egg to the baby, who tries to grab them from the spoon with her chubby hands. “She’s fishing for information,” she explains. “‘That thing with the gold?’ That’s just her way of getting you to reveal how you attained so much. I mean, you were in a gambling parlor owned by Hardwick, and she said that you aren’t going to get any of his money.” She waves the spoon in the air. “I could make that prediction.”
The Major says, “But the things my aunt Lizzy knew . . . of course, with her, it was only family members. Or people she was well acquainted with. I don’t think her sight ever worked on strangers.”
Becky reaches over and pats the Major’s hand. “Now, Wally, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to impugn the memory of your beloved aunt Lizzy. I just think there are good reasons to be skeptical.”
He covers her hand and smiles at her, and she smiles back. Maybe Jefferson and I aren’t the only ones who think they invented falling in love.
I grab the napkin and wipe my mouth to cover my smile.
Henry taps the table like he’s forming a message in Morse code. “I think we’re missing the point here. What is Hardwick’s goal?”
This is exactly my question. What’s the picture in his head? The perfect life he envisions for himself?
Henry’s eyes light up like a city on fire. “What if . . . ?” And then his mouth stops, to make room for his spinning brain.
“What if what?” I ask.
“What if he’s going back to New York to get into politics?”
“Then good riddance to him,” I say. “But why would he have to go to New York to get into politics? He already controls every politician in California.”
“No, think about it,” Henry says. “California isn’t even a state yet, not officially. And it’s way out on the far edge of the country. It takes weeks or months for news to reach us. Being governor here is like being a bullfrog in a washtub. It makes a big noise, but it’s still just a washtub. But New York is different! Just think about who ran for president in the last election.”
We all shake our heads until the Major says, “Well, Zachary Taylor ran—that’s how he ended up being our president.”
“But why did the Whigs put Millard Fillmore on the ballot with him? Because he’s from New York. Why did the Free Soil Party pick up ten percent of the vote with Martin Van Buren on their ticket? Because he’s from New York.”
This is the most passionate I’ve ever seen Henry on a topic. But I’m pretty sure everyone else is staring at him just as blankly as I am, because I don’t know what he’s getting at.
Seeing our confused expressions, he opens his hands, like he’s begging for understanding. “New York has thirty-six votes in the electoral college—no other state is even close. Didn’t any of you vote in the election of 1848?”
Becky folds her hands on the table and sits up primly. “Henry, dear, I’m not allowed to own my own property, much less vote.”
“I’m not old enough, but if I was, I’ve got the same problem,” I say.
“Well, of course,” Henry says, looking from us to Jefferson. “But . . .”
“Don’t look at me,” Jefferson says. “My mother was Cherokee. Government says I can’t be trusted to vote.”
Henry’s mouth drops open. Then he turns toward the Major. “What about you, Wally?”
The Major shrugs. “I never worried too much about politics—as long as the system works for me I’m happy. The system always seems to work for me.”
Henry throws up his hands in disgust.
“You’re awful worked up about this,” I observe.
“Think about it,” Henry says. “A self-made millionaire returns from California to New York—a man who is now rich beyond imagination. People will love that story. He decides to get into politics on his claims of being a successful businessman—because it was the frontier, it’s like being a war hero, only more glamorous. Meanwhile, nobody in New York knows his character, what he’s really like. Someone like that could get nominated to run for president. It doesn’t even matter which party.”
Jefferson leans forward. “You think that’s Hardwick’s plan? He’s going to take the millions of dollars he’s made and go back to New York to get elected president?”
“I’m not sure,” Henry says. “The timing is good. It’s three years to the next election. He goes back now, invests his money in a bunch of legitimate businesses, spends the rest to establish himself. He’d be in prime position.”
“I don’t know,” Becky says. “It seems far-fetched.”
“He mentioned something last night,” I say. All the faces turn toward me. “I accused him of not respecting the law. He told me he respected laws so much, he wanted to make them.”
Henry leans back in his chair and folds his arms, as if putting a period on his argument.
“This is a good thing, right?” the Major says. “He’ll be out of California and out of our hair. We can go back to living our normal life.”
“How can you think that?” I snap.
The Major looks at me, genuinely confused.
“He paid to exterminate Indians—whole tribes of them, all of their families, destroyed. Muskrat is probably dead, and it’s because of him. He ignores the rights of free men, and profits off buying and selling people’s lives. He takes advantage of the poor and people without legal protection, and gets rich by using the law to rob people of their hard-earned wages.” I point across the table at Becky and the kids. “He steals from widows and children. It’s bad enough that he does it out here, but what if he’s in charge of the whole country? Think about everyone he’ll hurt.”
By the end, I’m shouting. My face is hot with anger. The longest silence yet follows, broken only by the uncomfortable shifting of Becky’s children in their chairs.
“Ma, may I be excused?” Andy whispers.
“Olive, take your brother, and the two of you go play in our room for now,” Becky says.