I looked at the bailiff and then back over my shoulder at the door, counting the steps that could lead me to freedom—agonizing over how fast I could make it out the door and to Junia. I chanced a peek back to the bailiff chatting with his fellow worker. I was sure he’d beat me like the lawman over in Thousandsticks did my parents, or worse. Worse always had a way of finding the Blues, I’d been told, and for the smallest infractions.
I’d seen the notes in my grandparents’ old Bible, heard the whispers between my folks. Several Blues had been hanged. A great-uncle had been thrown down a mine shift after standing up to a man who put his hands on his wife. Another was buried alive in Darby, a sinkhole that later turned into a pond. More were used in the coal mines and suffered “accidents” like my grandpa. There was 1936, Mama and Papa’s wedding… For a moment I felt like I would be sick and put a palm to my sticky brow.
Retta must have noticed because she turned around and searched her coat pockets and handed me a piece of angelica root. “It’ll settle the nerves some, child. Never leave home without having my angelica or peach-tree bark.”
I popped the root into my mouth and slowly chewed. Satisfied, Retta pressed her hand over mine. In a few minutes, my stomach settled and I stared up at the black-rimmed clock above the judge’s bench, watching the red second hand inch slowly around. Against the wall, a cast-iron radiator hissed and spit, its steam rising.
A full ten minutes passed before Mr. Morgan returned and sat down next to me. He glanced at his wristwatch, then took notes on a sheet of paper. Mr. Greene settled in at his table shortly after.
Another twenty minutes, and I looked over my shoulder to the door. I wanted to go check on Junia. Kiss her soft muzzle and say goodbye. The thought of losing that ol’ girl, the only living thing I had left now, struck deeply.
I took the root from my mouth and put it inside my coat. “Mr. Morgan.” I tapped his shoulder. He looked up from his papers. “Sir,” I whispered into his ear, “I know Mr. Faust took in my papa’s horse. If they take me, could you care for Junia until I’m free? I can pay.” I held up my coat partway. “Mama sewed money inside the lining. You can have it all—”
Before he could answer, the bailiff moved away from the doorway. Judge Norton stepped in, his robe swishing into the weary air as he climbed the steps to his bench.
We all rose and then sat back down as Judge Norton mumbled, “Be seated.”
I wrung my clammy hands beneath the table, twisted until my knuckles were hurting.
“Thank you for waiting,” the judge told us. “I had a devil of a time getting hold of Judge Taylor. He was in a hearing. When he telephoned back, I advised him of the current circumstances and the wishes of Miss Lovett and her father. I also let him know Knott County has no objection, per Mr. Greene’s earlier statement. But—”
“Retta.” I rested my head on her shoulder, squeezed my eyes shut, waiting.
“Shh, ’Tunia.” Retta kissed the top of my head, grasped my hands, and I latched on, pressing against her cool, dry ones.
Judge Norton continued. “Judge Taylor was not too pleased hearing Miss Lovett had fled Leslie County to escape apprehension. A bit agitated, in fact. The Leslie County state social worker even more so, Judge Taylor said.”
I opened my eyes and gawked fearfully at the Knott County social worker.
Mr. Greene tightened his mouth, hearing the judge’s words, then frowned and dropped his head to the notebook.
Retta stiffened and shot out an indignant humph.
I squeezed my eyes shut, fighting back tears.
“But,” Judge Norton said, “after I explained it, he agreed that it was in the best interest of the minor to rescind his order and release Miss Lovett into the custody of Miss Loretta—”
Retta cried out a hoarse, shaky cheer.