Together is All We Need (6 page)

I mentioned all this to Henry next time I saw him.

He nodded as he listened, but then began to chuckle. ‘‘You's right to be a mite cautious, Miz Mayme,'' he said. ‘‘But hit ain't likely folks'll be talkin' anytime soon. I went out from da livery in da opposite direction from Rosewood jes' in case, an' speshully so's we wouldn't go past da store. Effen we could jes' keep dat ol' Hammond woman from layin' her eyes on us, I figger we'd be safe enuff.''

Even with Henry's precautions, however, we knew that if Katie's uncle caught sight of Josepha, news would spread just like it had before. Neither Katie or I wanted to spoil Josepha's happiness at being away from Mrs. McSimmons, but we had to tell her how things stood with Katie's uncle, and that it wouldn't be much longer before we were all going to have to leave. And for the present, we knew that if he came back, we had to keep him from seeing Josepha for Emma's sake.

And indeed, Katie's uncle did begin coming around again, though I think he might have gone back home in the meantime to Charlotte where he lived. But when he did come back, he acted more familiar than ever, as I said before, like Rosewood was already his.

We had no warning of his coming until he was riding into the yard and dismounting from his horse.

‘‘Uncle Burchard!'' yelled Katie into the house. ‘‘Uncle Burchard's here!''

There was no time to scurry Josepha upstairs, and as it turned out it was a good thing because that's right where Katie's uncle went when he came in. And we certainly had no intention of trying to hide her in the cellar like we had Emma do before. Josepha would never fit through the cellar door!

We were in the kitchen, and without even thinking about it, Katie motioned quickly to Josepha and stuffed her into the larder and closed the door just about the same second her uncle walked into the opposite side of the kitchen from outside— as always, without knocking.

‘‘Oh . . . hello, Uncle Burchard,'' said Katie, hurrying away from the larder door.

‘‘Never mind your hellos,'' he said, glancing toward me. ‘‘I see you haven't gotten rid of her yet.''

‘‘She's got no place else to go, Uncle Burchard.''

‘‘What's that to me? She'll have to go soon enough. Are the others still here too?''

‘‘Yes, sir.''

He shook his head in annoyance, then headed into the house and toward the stairs. We watched him go, wondering what he would say when he saw Emma and William in one of the upstairs rooms. He paused in the parlor and looked back.

‘‘Well, come on,'' he said to Katie. ‘‘I want you to show me where your father kept his papers. Did he have a study or secretary or something?''

‘‘Yes, sir,'' replied Katie, going with him. When they were out of sight, I slowly followed.

I reached the upstairs landing and heard their voices coming from the room that had been Katie's Mama's office.

‘‘ . . . deed to the place?'' her uncle had asked.

‘‘ . . . don't know, sir . . . what does it look like?''

‘‘Never mind . . . must be here.''

It was quiet a long time and I heard nothing but papers shuffling as he rummaged through the desk and all its drawers.

‘‘What about a safe . . . did your father have a safe?''

‘‘Yes, sir.''

‘‘Well . . . where is it? Are you a simpleton?''

‘‘Over there on the wall,'' said Katie, ‘‘behind the picture.''

‘‘Why didn't you say so in the first place?'' said her uncle.

I heard the clomp of his boots walking across the floor. ‘‘It's locked,'' he said a few seconds later.

‘‘Yes, sir.''

‘‘And I suppose you have no idea of the combination?''

‘‘No, sir.''

‘‘You're a big help! Well, I'll have to find the combination. The deed's got to be inside. All right, leave me alone now. I'll look for it myself. There's always a hidden record of the combination somewhere nearby.''

Katie left the room and saw me standing there on the landing. We didn't say anything. I tiptoed down the stairs beside her.

‘‘What's a deed?'' I whispered when we were back in the kitchen.

‘‘I don't know,'' replied Katie. ‘‘I think it's something about who owns things, or a piece of paper that says you own something. He said he was looking for the deed to Rosewood.''

‘‘Is that what would make him own it?''

‘‘I don't know. . . maybe.''

‘‘What if you had the deed? Maybe that would make
you
the owner.''

‘‘I don't think it works that way,'' said Katie. ‘‘I'm not old enough to have a deed. And I'm a girl. I don't know if girls can own things like houses, can they?''

‘‘I don't know. Coloreds probably can't either. I reckon that puts us in a fix.''

‘‘No worse than the one we've been in all along.''

Our conversation was interrupted a few minutes later by the sound of Katie's uncle's footsteps coming down the stairs. When he walked back into the kitchen there was nothing in his hands.

‘‘Did you find it, Uncle Burchard?'' asked Katie.

‘‘No, if that combination's there, they hid it good. Doesn't matter. I don't need the deed. It'd just make it easier, that's all. And I'll get into that safe one way or another.''

‘‘Are you . . . are you going to take Rosewood away from me, Uncle Burchard?'' asked Katie timidly, but being pretty blunt at the same time.

He turned and looked at her as if the question was ridiculous.

‘‘I'm not going to take it
away
from anyone,'' he said. ‘‘It
belongs
to me because of what happened to your pa and ma. You're underage and I'm the nearest kin. Ain't you got it through your head yet—Rosewood is mine. Or at least it will be in sixty days. That's why I'm telling you to get rid of all these coloreds.''

‘‘Why do you want to find that deed?''

‘‘Because I want to make sure everything's done legal so the likes of you don't grow up and marry some Northern lawyer who thinks he can file some claim against me ten years from now, that's why!''

Her uncle's harsh tone finally broke down Katie's defenses and she started to cry.

‘‘But . . . but
why
do you have to take Rosewood, Uncle Burchard?'' she asked. ‘‘You have a place of your own . . . why can't you just let us all stay here? We're not bothering anyone.''

‘‘Why?'' he laughed, again as if what Katie had asked was the most ridiculous thing he'd ever heard. ‘‘Because it's mine. What other reason do I need than that! Do you actually expect me to let a houseful of brats stay rent free in a plantation that will add thousands of dollars to my income? If you keep on with notions like that, I might not even let you stay.''

He turned and walked out the door and was gone. We didn't see him for another week.

At about this same time, though we didn't know anything about it, someone in Charlotte had heard about the scheme of the two Shenandoah County girls. I don't know how. I doubt Mrs. Hammond's influence extended quite that far. But however they found out, they did, and a small article about it appeared in the newspaper. Maybe Jeremiah had been right, and we
were
the most famous people in Greens Crossing!

And after that, one at a time a few newspapers in the North picked up the story about us too. Of course, we didn't find out about this until much later.

All we were thinking about was why Papa hadn't come back yet. We needed him now more than ever. We were in trouble!

T
HE
L
UMP IN
A
LETA' S
H
EART
10

O
NE DAY
I
CAME UPON
A
LETA SITTING BY HERSELF
out behind the barn. She was unusually quiet and was just sitting there staring down at the ground. One of the dogs, Rusty, lay sleeping next to her, but Aleta hardly seemed to notice him and wasn't petting him like she usually did. As I looked at her face, I had the idea she'd been crying.

I went over and sat down beside her. She didn't even look up.

‘‘What are you thinking about?'' I asked after a bit.

‘‘My mama and daddy,'' she said softly.

‘‘What about them?''

‘‘I was wondering if my daddy knows about Mama.''

‘‘No way he could, is there?'' I said.

‘‘I suppose not.''

Again it was quiet for a minute or two.

‘‘I miss my mama,'' said Aleta.

‘‘I miss mine too,'' I said.

‘‘You're lucky . . . you've got a nice papa.''

‘‘I'm sure your papa has nice things about him too.''

‘‘I don't know what. He was mean.''

‘‘No man is perfect. No father is perfect.''

‘‘But your daddy's nice.''

‘‘He's done some bad things, though,'' I said.

‘‘Like what?'' she said, glancing up at me with a puzzled expression on her face.

‘‘I don't know,'' I answered. ‘‘But that's what he's doing now, trying to take care of some of those things he did that he regrets now.''

‘‘Take care of them—what do you mean?''

‘‘Making them right, however he has to. I think he's going to pay some money back to some people. Maybe he's going to apologize . . . I don't know, he didn't tell me. But everybody's got things in their life they've got to make right one day or another.''

I half expected Aleta to get up and walk away. She was a pretty smart girl and I figured she knew what I was getting at and wouldn't want to listen, like when Katie had tried to talk to her after Reverend Hall's visit. But this time she didn't take offense but just sat there. I had the feeling things were starting to get inside her in a new way. Maybe she was finally ready to listen to some things she needed to hear.

It was quiet a moment and then I got up my gumption to press a little harder and see how ready she really was. ‘‘You remember when the minister came out visiting a while back?'' I asked.

Aleta nodded.

‘‘You remember what he said about your papa?''

‘‘Yes.''

‘‘You reckon maybe he's doing what my daddy's doing— trying to make some things right that he's done wrong in the past?''

‘‘Maybe,'' she said.

‘‘What if he wants to make it right with you too?''

‘‘He can't make it right with Mama. She's dead.''

‘‘No, maybe not. I don't reckon we can make everything right. But don't you think you ought to give him the chance to make right what he can?''

‘‘But he yelled at my mama and beat her sometimes.''

‘‘Yeah, those are terrible things. I can't say how a man makes them right. I reckon that's between him and God. But it ain't too late for him to make it right with
you
. . . or for you to make it right with him.''

‘‘Why should I have to make it right? I didn't do anything wrong to him.''

I heard a sound behind us and looked up. There was Henry ambling toward us from the direction of the barn. From the look on his face, I had the feeling he'd been listening.

‘‘Miz Mayme's right, Miz Aleta,'' he said, leaning against the wooden fence of the horse corral. ‘‘Makin' things right's a two-way street. Mos' ob da time it ain't sumfin' a body kin do all by demselves. Hit may be dat yo papa needs yo help ter make his life right agin.''

‘‘What could I do, Henry?'' asked Aleta.

‘‘I reckon you's gotter do yer half ob da makin' right.''

‘‘But what's that? I didn't do anything wrong.''

‘‘You may hab dun mo wrong den you know.''

‘‘Me . . . like what?''

‘‘You got sum unkindness in dat heart er yers tards yo papa, an' dat's jus' as bad a sin as whateber he dun hisse'f.''

‘‘But I didn't hurt anybody.''

‘‘Ah, Aleta, chil', din't you, now? You don' think hatred an' unkind thoughts kin hurt folks?''

‘‘I don't know,'' she said softly.

‘‘I reckon dey's jus' 'bout as hurtful as anything yo papa's dun. Da way I see it, you's got a heap er makin' right ter tend to jus' like he has—jus' like we all hab ter ten' to in our own lives sooner er later.''

‘‘I don't know what you mean, Henry,'' said Aleta.

‘‘Jus' dat everbody's gotter ten' ter makin' things right in dere own hearts, not jus' wait fer udder folks ter do da makin' right. Miz Mayme's gotter make things right in her heart, an' I gotter make things right in my heart, an' Miz Kathleen's gotter make things right in her heart.''

‘‘Miss Katie! She could never do anything wrong.''

‘‘Everbody does wrong, Miz Aleta. Dere's wrong an' dere's wrong. Dere's da kind er wrong yo daddy's dun, but dere's wrong dat happens inside dat nobody else kin see, wrong ways of thinkin,' selfishness, hatred, and the like. An' dey kin be jus' as wrong in God's eyes as da udder kin'. So you see, everbody's got things in dere heart dey gotter make right, wiff God an' wiff folks dat hab hurt dem and wiff folks dat dey've hurt demselves. Miz Kathleen an' me an' everbody.''

It got quiet again.

‘‘And me too?'' said Aleta finally.

‘‘Dat's right, Miz Aleta,'' said Henry. ‘‘You too. You got sum makin' right ter do wiff yo papa. It ain't yo business how he makes right da wrong dat he's dun. Dat's atween him an' God. It's yo business dat you make right da wrong you've dun tard him. Dat's da only way things can git right atween you.''