“Who?” he asked, puzzled.
“Wrenna’s rooster.”
Looking back at the well, the lawyer scratched his chin. “Well, I imagine the law won’t look too hard at the grave injuries of a murderer.” He tucked his teeth in a grimace. “Roosters can be damn fickle about family. Downright protective. I saw it with my own aunt Frannie’s rooster. And I’ve seen them fight to the death for their hens.”
Hens. My thoughts batted back and forth between Wrenna and Bonnie, Tommie’s hens.
“You did a good thing here today, Honey.” He cupped his chin, worrying a finger over his knotted lips. “But I would advise you to make yourself as scarce as possible in town, especially around Gillis’s kin—and especially the sheriff—until all this dust settles. Even if we win your emancipation, be mindful, you still won’t be free. As you know, Honey, your color makes you a target for cruel folks like Gillis and his clan…” He paused, deciding whether to say more, but glimpsed the fear spreading on my face. “Let’s get you back to Junia.”
Thirty-Six
The bird’s wings batted the flames in the fiery air, its long spurs raised dangerously in front of me as the rooster’s loud whirring folded into my strangled screams. Tommie haunted my dreams, and he was the last thing I’d see before my eyelids fluttered open, awakening me and leaving me gasping for breath. For nights he appeared, sometimes alone or with Guyla Belle and a crying Johnnie, other times with Wrenna and Bonnie, or Pearl. But the worst was when the rooster showed up with a blood-soaked Perry Gillis and the screams would get locked in my throat, bolting me upright in a drenched, shivery sweat.
The nightmares lingered, draining me during the days, spiraling me into mere restless dozes throughout the long, rough nights.
I’d heard that Gillis was still in the hospital, and I began to worry if they didn’t move him to the jail soon, he’d escape or have his kin seek revenge. Soon, I was tormented by other nightmares that had Gillis and the law chasing me through a darkened courthouse while I desperately searched for my freedom. Once I found it, I would raise my hands triumphantly in front of my face, then violently shudder at the stained-blue flesh, suddenly realizing I’d never had it.
Finally, I searched the root cellar, going through Mama’s herbs. I found a jar of catnip leaves and some skullcap root and began brewing teas before bed. But somehow, the visitors still broke through, leaving me perspiring and exhausted in the mornings.
Today was no different. Spent, I rode my Monday route letting Junia poke slowly along.
Emma McCain crouched down on her knees, working on a worn upside-down rocker on her porch, her long, frayed skirts bloused around her. “Morn’， Book Woman. I’m just felting the rockers for spring. Wrenna keeps walkin’ ’em off the porch so I thought I better fix ’em ’fore the chil’ breaks a bone.” She glued a long, narrow strip of felt onto a curved rocker rail.
“Morning, ma’am. I brought some books for her.”
“Sheriff stopped by an’ Wrenna took off with Tommie.”
“Do you know where she is? I can take the books to her.”
“When Wrenna takes off, she’s good ’n’ gone till she wants to come back.” She searched the trees. “Reckon she’ll get home sometime.”
“Yes, ma’am, I’ll just leave these for her,” I said, wanting to ask more but not wanting to pry. I wiped my damp brow with a glove, hoping the girl was okay.
“She brung the books with her. Sorry we’s late on the loans, Honey.” Emma put on the last strip, stood, and wiped her hands on the hem of her apron.
I handed her The Young and Happy Rooster. “Wrenna might like this one. And those others aren’t due till next week, Mrs. McCain.”
She inspected the book, then stooped to pick up a rocker.