“A bath is a luxury,” she said. “A wet towel should do. The friction of the air will dry you. It is no different than washing dishes, which I may have you prove out once we have you clean.”
This was Taffy’s first lesson. Many more would come. Bedmaking was an involved process—with the creasing of pillows, the proper turning of a mattress—and it would take long stretches of the afternoon for Taffy to finish the steps correctly. Yet not all was physical, and Taffy excelled even in the domestic mental exercises, memorizing containers （the necessities of a kitchen: tinware; basket ware; a box for darning needle, thread, and twine; etc.） with the same thoroughness in which she de-lumped the soil for the flower seeds in season. George never asked why Taffy had come, when his mother seemed perfectly happy to clean and tend to the house herself. And not until Taffy was gone, a few months after his father’s death, did it occur to him that, more than anything, his mother had simply wished for someone else to pass her duties onto, knowing so well the eccentricities of her son: his steadfast wish for privacy, his lack of interest in others, the little care he showed in keeping even his own room in order. Perhaps she thought he might never have a woman of his own, and Taffy was being made to fulfill the role.
He gained from Taffy in many ways. When he was outside alone—his usual place in the world—she would meet him after completing her own work, a piece of fruit in hand, delivered at the request of his mother, and ask if he might wish to have her along. He always said yes. They would carve spears together with his hatchet, then fling them into the woods and pretend they’d felled the dark beast his father spoke of so often. She could throw farther and climb higher than he could, but never put her amusement above his own. He knew this was the task assigned her, but he did not let this knowledge affect his inviolable belief that she cared deeply for him, and understood him in ways others did not. He told her once that he loved her, although he did not know the meaning of it beyond the fondness he felt for his parents. When his mother lost sense after his father’s death and sold Taffy, George took refuge in the idea that it had not been love, but something more distant, which allowed him to forget the makings of her face; the thudding joy in his heart when her shadow crept over him on the front porch; the soft wind upon his shoulder when she overtook him in a sprint and the sight of her back as she disappeared before him, all of it stamped out until now, in his middle age, he remembered her as nothing more than something forgotten.
George carried on past the tavern. Puddles in the mud reflected the glare of the moon, and with those shards of light he knew where not to step. He’d meant to go home, but now another stop felt necessary, one he had told himself he would not make when setting off that night. He took the side road before him toward the old section of town. It was silent, and the pathway narrowed as he went, so much so that even the moonlight was blocked from view. He’d peered over his shoulder more than once but he was not followed.
He came upon the whorehouse. The windows were the only ones alight on the row, and the sounds from inside were rowdy, although he hadn’t ventured through the front door in ages and had little interest in what he might find there. Rather, he went around the back and up the winding steps to the second floor. He did not know if she would answer, but the door swung open on the second rap. He shared only a glance with Clementine, in whose face he’d always detected Taffy’s, before following her inside and sitting at the end of her bed. Was it a bad time? he asked. He’d figured he might catch her before her night began.
“You always have my ear, George. Tell me how you’ve been.”
This was all he asked of Clementine: to listen. Which wasn’t to say he’d gleaned nothing of her from his time in her company. He knew she had a child—had seen her walking with the girl one morning, before their first encounter, which was when he’d tasked himself with tracking her down, unable to shake Clementine’s resemblance to Taffy. Her family, he discovered, were mulattoes from Louisiana. Against her will her husband had swept her off to Georgia to live as his property. She had escaped his bondage with the child to fend for herself, and had earned enough to make do on her own. If few men were fooled by the white wax and paint she applied to her face, they were more than willing to indulge themselves on a lonely night—regardless of her tawny complexion, the rumors of her past, her heritage—eager to experience the revelation that was her presence. Given how few spoke ill of her, they apparently did not regret their time. Society made exceptions in matters of great beauty.