“Until tomorrow,” she whispered, and hopped twenty feet down to the forest floor, her body easily taking the impact.
Back at the cabin, Gogo’s pickup truck sat next to Bridget’s. It hadn’t been there when Vern left this morning. Gogo had been out the whole night. Vern sighed and considered staying outside, but the children didn’t like it if they awoke and Vern wasn’t there. As winter ambled slowly toward spring, the days were lengthening. Early sunrises meant Howling and Feral were waking up earlier and earlier.
Vern opened the front door gingerly so as to not make a creak. If she was quiet, maybe she could slip to her place in front of the woodstove before Gogo noticed.
“Vern?” whispered Gogo.
It had been a stupid plan anyway. “What?” asked Vern with such hostility it shocked even her.
“You know what? Never mind,” said Gogo, shaking her head and leaving the kitchen for her bedroom.
After a minute of internal grousing, Vern followed after her. She knocked lightly on Gogo’s door.
“What?” shouted Gogo from inside, with as much unnecessary bitterness as Vern had shown.
“I deserve that,” said Vern, and hoped that Gogo wouldn’t make her grovel too much. No matter her sin, Vern wasn’t built for that. “Can I come in?”
“Fine,” said Gogo.
Vern tiptoed inside and shut the door behind her. “Sorry for being a bitch,” she said.
“Don’t be sorry for being a bitch. That’s one of your finer qualities. Be sorry for treating me like shit for weeks over some infraction I don’t even understand.”
Vern nodded as she exhaled. “Sorry for treating you like shit,” Vern said. “There was no infraction. I’m just … like that.” How else was one to respond to insecurity but with enmity and aggression toward perceived offenders?
“I’ve missed you,” said Gogo, an accusation, not a confession.
“Yeah,” Vern said, and though it wasn’t in her nature to say it, she sensed she’d break what was between them if she omitted the truth. “I missed you.” She rubbed her eye with the butt of her palm.
“Good,” said Gogo. “You all right?”
Vern was, until she saw the adolescent girl sitting at Gogo’s desk with chalk and slate in hand. Black as earth and pretty as a sunset, she scribbled furiously. Vern, taking a deep breath, walked cautiously over to her.
The writing was recognizable only because it was two of only a very few words Vern knew.
Hello, Vern.
Vern tore the tablet from the girl and slammed it into the wall.
“Vern!”
Gogo pulled her from behind. There were indents in the wall where Vern had apparently slammed her fists.
“Fuck, sorry,” Vern said, breaking out in shivers. The girl still sat at the desk, a new slate in her hand. She scribbled, and held up her writing.
Hello, Vern.
Gogo tugged Vern toward the bed and made her sit. She grabbed Vern’s hand and placed it on her chest. “Feel that. You’re right here. Nowhere else,” she said. “Feel the rise and fall of my breath.” Vern’s hand moved with Gogo’s chest. Calmed by Gogo’s steady presence, Vern shut her eyes.
Earlier, she’d railed against the discomforts of the inside world and civilized life, but, touching Gogo, she felt perfect acceptance. When next Vern opened her eyes, the haunting was gone.
Vern’s breaths steadied, but she kept her hand on Gogo’s chest, absorbing her granite composure.
“Any better?” asked Gogo, but, entranced by brown skin, Vern was only half listening. She rolled her thumb over Gogo’s collarbone and dragged it along to the hollow at the bottom center of her neck and downward, toward the neckline of Gogo’s shirt.
“Hey,” said Gogo in reprimand.
It was times like this that Vern most felt Sherman’s influence in her. She could hear him at the pulpit now, preaching about the natural lasciviousness of women. If not controlled by a strong husband, that lasciviousness could be exploited by the white man to break up the Black family. Lesbianism, a proclivity of white women, was but one way Black women’s lust could be used to bring down the descendants of Cain.
“I’m sorry,” said Vern, jerking her hand from Gogo’s chest. “I wasn’t thinking.”
“Don’t be sorry. Please,” Gogo said. She reached out to Vern’s hand again and squeezed, pulling it toward her lips to kiss the knuckles softly. “It’s not that I don’t want to,” she said.