“Wait, is that our towel, Guyla? Did you go and let her use it?” Mr. Gillis asked, looking at me like I had grown two heads.
Trembling, Guyla Belle took the towel from me, mumbled an apology. “Perry—”
I placed a protective hand on Guyla’s arm, and she jerked away like I’d scalded her. “Mr. Gillis, I got wet on my route and asked your wife for a towel. She didn’t want to, but I begged her.”
Mr. Gillis’s face was ripened with a mixture of fear and distrust, the hate pouring out, deeply anchored to his kin and the kin before that. I could see that the rot had set to its work. And I knew that nothing could ever change it—or his kind. I glanced at Mr. Gillis’s son, knowing he would pass on the hatred, keep it alive and rooted in the boy and the boy’s children and those children who came after.
“You tryin’ to make me catch somethin’ and get sick?” He jerked the towel out of her hands, threw it on the ground, and stomped a dirty boot across it. “Burn it! And take us off her route, and quit lazing ’round with them damn foolish books you’re bent on soaking up in your dim-witted brain. Give ’em back to her, right now. You got chores to do,” he said through tucked teeth, kicking the lunch pail at his wife.
It bounced off her shin, and Guyla Belle cried out, dropped her books, and pressed a palm atop the deep gash. The boy rubbed his eyes and began bawling. Mr. Gillis grabbed his cheek and shook hard. Junia shrieked and I jerked on her reins, fearful she would go for him.
“Shut up, boy. Woman, git me a beer and git my gawdamn supper on the table!” He carried his son up to the cabin, the boy’s tearing eyes never leaving mine.
A rawboned, tailless dog slunk out from beneath the porch and skittered away. Guyla scrambled to pick up the beer, cap, and lunch pail. “Please don’t take me off the route, Book Woman.” She grabbed my arm. “He works late a lot of days, and I’ll leave an empty milk bottle on the well if it’s safe and the loans from the week before,” she whispered, handing back the books. “Don’t have any kin here or anywhere anymore. Not a soul, I’m a far piece from my home in Greenville. And all I got is them books. I’ll keep them hid from him. Please.” She limped up to the cabin, looked back at me with pleading, weak eyes before slipping inside.
It was haunting, like looking into Bonnie’s eyes. Though I was afraid of him, too, I thought about the brave coal-mining woman and nodded a promised yes. Then once again and more determined.
I had to believe the books would give her power—free her from Gillis’s mistreatments.
Junia lifted her head off my shoulder, but a sorrow still perched, weighing heavy. I exhaled loudly. “You did real good, ol’ girl.” I lightly tickled her neck. “Going to give you that fat apple when we get home.” I stared up at the Gillis home and felt a shiver latch on and circle my neck, prickling skin.
After loading the pannier, I pulled on my coat and stuffed my damp gloves into a pocket. The door opened and Mr. Gillis stepped onto the porch with a beer in his hand and a pistol tucked inside his waistband. He cut a mean eye to me as he guzzled down his alcohol, then tossed the empty bottle in our direction. “Git on down the path and outta here!”
Junia shrieked at him, and Mr. Gillis’s hand moved to his gun and gripped the handle. I tugged on her reins and quickly led the mule out of the yard. Several times, I looked back over my shoulder, making sure Gillis hadn’t decided to come after us.
Twenty-Two
Amara Ballard stood outside the horse stall, hands hitched to her hips. “I’m so sorry about Miss Adams’s passing, Honey, but it’s good to see you again, and under favorable circumstances. How are you holding up?”
“I miss Retta, but I’m grateful for the memories, grateful for your visit,” I told her as I slid off Junia.
“Are you still needing a ride to see your parents tomorrow?” she asked.