The kettle whistled, and I poured a cup of tea. After a bit, I looked over on Retta’s shelf lined with the children’s books she had bought me when I was little. I pulled them down, thinking of my collection at home. They were my favorite reads that always brought a great comfort no matter how old I was. I pored over the illustrations, sipped on the verses. Soon, I was safe, back in Retta’s embrace, home and in Mama’s arms, reading about Mei Li and the adventures of The ABC Bunny.
I jumped up when I heard the knock, almost kicking over my chair. I’d been so lost in the storybooks, I hadn’t heard Junia’s warnings.
Again, two more knocks and a third, more loud and urgent.
Slowly, I cracked open the door, and a man and woman in tattered clothes greeted me. The woman’s coat was threadbare, and the man wore none, but a knitted cap. I searched for their mount and couldn’t find one. Red mud clung to their shoes, and they looked like they’d walked a long way.
“We’re here to speak with ya, ma’am, ’bout Miss Adams,” the man said.
“Come in,” I said, somewhat shaken but relieved it wasn’t the law, rushing over to the table and pulling on my gloves. I glanced back over my shoulder. “I have a nice fire going.”
The man nodded, stepped over the threshold, and the woman followed, her eyes downcast as she entered the home.
Amara must’ve published the news. “If you’re here to pay your respects, I can show you Retta’s grave, Mr. and Mrs. uh—”
The man removed his hat and cleared his throat. “Ma’am, Miss Lovett, I’m Howie Spencer, and this is Mrs. Spencer.”
I searched their eyes, but neither would meet mine.
Mr. Spencer pulled out a paper. “We own this place now.” He held the document up to me, and I chewed over the legal words, my heart pounding in my ears.
Staggering back, I gripped the table for support.
“’Lonzo sold it to us yesterday,” Mr. Spencer said into his wife’s nod.
The couple looked like they didn’t have two nickels to rub together, much less money for this tract of land and a home.
“We done went to the county clerk, recorded the new deed today. Got ’Lonzo’s signature notarized all legal. Real sorry, ma’am, ’bout Miss Adams passing and all.”
His wife stared down at her feet, bobbing her head in testament, sneaking glances at me.
A new grief latched on and shook, and I lifted a glove to my mouth in surprise and anguish.
Mrs. Spencer drew her eyes to my bare feet. Alarmed by my color, she gasped and recoiled, taking several steps back.
“Well, er, good day, ma’am,” Mr. Spencer said, sneaking glances, too. Putting back on his cap, he took his wife by the arm. “Jus’ thought we’d tell ya we’s taking possession on Monday. That’d be Monday at noon, ma’am.” He darted his eyes greedily around the room, taking stock of his new possessions, then hurried out the door and right past Alonzo without a greeting.
Alonzo stood there under a half-broke thorned locust, head buried in his hands.
I ran over to him. “Is it true? Alonzo, is it true? Alonzo, please, tell me it’s not…” I shook the small man’s shoulders. “Dammit, tell me!”
He raised his ruddy face and nodded tearfully. “I’m sorry, Honey. Lawsy, I’m so sorry, child. W-what have I done? Lord… Dear Auntie, I’m sorry. Please forgive me. Didn’t mean to disrespect your wishes, but I sorely needed the money.” He whimpered, folded his hands in prayer, and looked up to the heavens. “Please forgive me, Heavenly Father.” He hiccupped and wiped his nose on the back of a calloused, dirt-stained hand. “Lord knows I tried to rustle up what I needed. Even sold off my two chickens, but it weren’t never enough. My ol’ wagon down the hill an’ that nag of mine wouldn’t fetch nearly enough. Sorely needed the money to pay off debts, buy some victuals an’ stuff.”