On the third night, August heard the doorbell again. Everyone was home that night: unusual. Miriam had to work most nights, but she’d pulled back on her shifts that week. It was far past everyone’s bedtime. Midnight had come and gone. But no one could sleep, so no one told anyone else to go to bed. August, Miriam, and Joan sat around the kitchen table, forks in hand, eating directly from Miss Jade’s pan of chicken noodle casserole, which she had pushed into August’s hands earlier, shaking her head and exclaiming what a shame it all was, somehow every lady up in this house loses a daddy.
Wolf raised her head from Joan’s feet and growled.
August turned to her sister. Perhaps it was instinct. The basic, intrinsic knowledge of danger can overwhelm a body. Or perhaps August, born on a Wednesday, had been accustomed to woe. But she knew that knock on the door was no neighbor.
“Fetch Mama’s gun,” she whispered to Miriam.
August saw her sister nudge herself out of the booth and walk, very calmly, into the quilting room. When Miriam came back, walking in those same slow strides, she tossed the Remington to August, who caught it midair, nodded for Miriam to follow her.
The door pounded again. The bell rang.
Wolf uncurled herself with some effort from Joan’s feet. The years were getting to Wolf. She moved a bit slower, but her protective instincts had kicked in. She got into a stalking position, crouched low to the ground. She had stopped growling; now she crept, inching toward the door, whimpering slightly.
“Mama?” Joan asked. “Auntie?”
August led, and Miriam was her shadow. The sisters walked as calm and graceful as some ancient African queens: out of the kitchen, down the hall, through the parlor, and up to the door. The bright yellow of the door dulled in the dark of the September night; the door now resembled tall maize in a night field. The door became something August had to wade through, a field of yellow poppies that August had to cut back, regardless of their Siren’s power. But she made it to the door, and just as August leaned to peer through the peephole, the door’s golden hinges shook with more pounding.
Her head jerked, and she jumped back. She didn’t get a chance to take a good look, but she’d seen enough to know that two unknown men stood on their porch steps at nearly two in the morning.
“Mama?”
August heard her niece. Heard the worry in her voice. Joan must have followed them to the parlor.
Gently, Miriam pushed August out of the way and took her place at the door. She held the door handle. August could tell Miriam sought her approval.
August gave it with a quick nod. In one swift motion, she aimed the rifle, and Miriam swung the door open.
“No!” Joan cried.
As the September wind rushed in and August tried to make out who was standing there in the dark, the first thing she became aware of was Wolf. She stood up straight and made an unexpected sound—not a threatening bark or a growl, but a submissive, almost curious whine.
August kept the Remington aimed. Her eyes adjusted, making out the figures on the porch, and involuntarily, her shoulders contracted, then relaxed, then contracted again. For a second, she thought about pulling the trigger anyway.
“Well, damn, Jax. We survived all hell just to get killed by some crazy Negresses in North Memphis.” The voice was male, foreign, and yet familiar.
August felt herself grow nostalgic. She lowered the weapon so it hung loose at her waist, and then, after a few deep breaths, rested the handle on the hardwood floor, barrel toward the ceiling. August had opened that same door for this same man many, many years before.
“Joan,” August said, breathless, panting the adrenaline out of her system. “Your daddy and ’em here.”
CHAPTER 25
Miriam
1968