Page 26 of Junie

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Taylor house is silent when Junie arrives, save for the crackle of the hearth and the creak of the walls in the winter winds. Junie walks to Violet’s room, where she struggles against the layers of ties and cinches to free herself from her gown and return to her simple dress. She removes the pins in her hair to let her long braid fall and rubs oil on her face to take off the traces of makeup. She hangs the dress, folds the undergarments, and organizes the pins. By the time she is done, the room is as it was before—carriage back to pumpkin, gown back to rags, princess back to maid. She puts on her apron, careful to check its usual contents are in the pockets. She takes the page of “Snow White” and slides it inside along with all her other prized wonders with a smile.

When she is finished, she tiptoes downstairs, holding her breath so as not to disturb the sleep of the elder Mr. Taylor and his wife on her way outside.

She stops first at the water pump to fill Violet’s water pitcher before going to the cookhouse to fetch a tray and some snacks for Violet. This one is farther away from the main house and spacious; it would take at least three Auntie Marillas to run a kitchen this size. Yet it feels empty and austere, lacking the curtains, paint, and other decorations she’s used to seeing at home.

Junie smiles as she finds a glass jar of shortbread biscuits, sandwiched with fig jam. She lifts the lid of the jar to smell the buttery cookies and takes a few. These are Violet’s favorites.

She takes a step outside, where midnight has turned the air bitter cold. The reflection of the moonlight in the pitcher makes the liquid inside look more like a magical potion than ordinary water. The bare tree branches leave a clear view of the heavens, where the moon, like a single pearl on a necklace, drowns out the shimmer of the stars. It is nearly the solstice; the night’s strength grows, enveloping them all in shadow and moonlight.

Moonlight. How many full moons have passed now for her sister?

Her stomach knots as her eyes fall to the two tallies still marring her wrist. Junie made her choice. She won’t let the guilt consume her, not when choosing to stay is what is best for her. She swallows and breathes in, Caleb’s earthy scent still on her neck and the taste of his mouth still on her lips.

Tonight is proof enough that her decision was the right one.

When she gets back to the side of the house nearest the stables, she peers around for Caleb but does not see his horse. She assumes he has gone inside, as she did, to remove the signs of his evening out. A trail of footprints in the dust signals that the white folks have returned while she’s been outside. She pushes her shoulders back before turning around to gently kick the back door open with her foot.

The house remains silent. She climbs the stairs, placing her feet on the carpet so as not to cause them to creak. The slightest candle glow flickers from underneath Violet’s door. Excitement tugs her belly as she readies herself to describe her evening to Violet and hear about hers, as well. She twists the knob and pushes the door open without knocking.

Violet and Miss Taylor are lying at the foot of the bed, their ballgowns removed and bodies intertwined through their white chemises, their lips pressed together in a deep kiss. Violet’s hand has crept underneath Miss Taylor’s dress, touching the outside of her thigh, while Miss Taylor’s hands weave through Violet’s auburn hair.

It is an unmistakable moment of love, one Junie is certain she is not meant to see.

She starts to close the door, but as she does, her momentum topples the water glass, sending it clicking against the metal of the tray. The air leaves her lungs. Miss Taylor is the first to see her. She gasps, pushing Violet off and crawling back toward the other side of the bed. Violet jumps, pulling her nightdress sleeve back over her shoulder.

“Come back later, Junie!” she calls, her cheeks turning red in the candlelight.

Junie starts to walk away but Miss Taylor speaks.

“Tell her to come in here.”

“Why? She just—”

“Get her in here!” Miss Taylor says.

Junie stops, closing her eyes and hoping Violet will send her away.

“Junie?” Violet calls. “Come in, will you?”

“And close the door,” Miss Taylor says. Her voice slices the air like a knife. Junie presses it shut, then places the tray next to her feet.

Miss Taylor looks at Junie, eyes burning in the candlelight.

“What did you see?”

“I didn’t see anything,” Junie replies, her voice cracking slightly. Sweat begins to bead on her palms. She pushes her hands into her apron pockets.

“Say it again,” Miss Taylor says.

“Bea, it’s—”

“Say it.”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Again.”

“Bea, please—”

“I didn’t see anything.”

“Bea!” Violet says, raising her voice. “She knows. I told her. I told her before.”

Miss Taylor looks at Violet.

“You told?”

Violet’s eyes dilate. She scoots toward Miss Taylor, trying to grab her hands in her own.

“Oh, don’t be cross with me, Bea. It’s only Junie. She keeps all my secrets. You won’t say nothing, will you, Junie?”

Junie shakes her head.

“See, Bea? Everything’s all right. Junie will go on, and it will all be as it was before,” Violet says, running her fingers over Bea’s hair.

Junie digs her fingernails into her palms. She curtsies quickly, hoping to get away.

“What about Junie’s secrets?” Miss Taylor says as Junie turns the doorknob. “Do you keep those, too?”

“Junie and I ain’t got secrets, Bea.”

Miss Taylor looks at Junie and smiles.

“You don’t believe that, do you? Come now, if our secret is out, I believe we ought to know all of hers, too.”

Violet looks nervously at Miss Taylor, then back at Junie. Junie’s mind rushes to itemize what she’s kept from Violet. It quickly becomes a long list.

“Bea, Baby, I’m not sure I know what you mean,” Violet says, the sweetness in her voice shaking with nerves. Miss Taylor smiles again, her eyes like Critter’s when she’s trapped a mouse under her paw.

“Check her apron.”

“What?” Violet says.

“Look at how heavy it hangs. You don’t think there’s something in there? I know your mother and daddy are lazy folks, but anybody with eyes could tell that sneaky Negro’s got things she ought not to have. Look, go in her pockets.”

Violet looks back at Junie, eyeing the pockets in her apron.

“Junie, could you…show me your apron?” Violet says in a whisper.

Junie’s eyes expand. She clings to the fabric. She wants to run, wants to throw the door open, and see how far she gets.

“Why are you asking her? She’s yours, ain’t she?”

“Just, could you show me the apron?” Violet asks again.

“Did you hear her? Give her the apron!” Miss Taylor says, her eyes blazing with fire.

“No,” Junie says, her hands shaking. Violet’s gaze stretches with shock.

“Give it to her now or I’ll scream for my brother. Then you’ll wish you did,” Miss Taylor says.

Junie runs her hands along her back, her hands violently shaking as she undoes the knot on the back. She passes the apron to Violet, who takes it before Miss Taylor snatches it into her hands.

Miss Taylor flips the apron upside down and shakes it. Junie’s notebook plummets to the floor, slips of poems flying around the room, and charcoal rolls along the wood floors. Minnie’s necklace also falls with a hard thud. Junie throws her hands to her mouth to cover her gasp.

“What’s all this writing?” Miss Taylor asks.

“I told you she reads and writes—”

“I write poems,” Junie says, her voice strong with rage.

Miss Taylor looks at her briefly before digging through the pile, taking each of the poems, crumbling them, and tossing them aside. She rolls the necklace in her palms.

“How’d she get this?” Miss Taylor asks.

“It belonged to her sister. Ain’t nothing she took. Bea, please just stop this,” Violet says, handing the necklace back to Junie, who hastily hangs it around her neck.

“There ain’t nothing in there,” Junie says.

“See, like I said Bea, there ain’t—”

“What’s this, then?” Miss Taylor asks.

She holds the torn page of “Snow White” in the candlelight, a page covered in Junie’s and Caleb’s names. Junie’s blood goes cold.

Violet is looking away at first, but she turns to see the paper.

“I knew it. I knew I saw Caleb reading signs the whole way here. Caleb hasn’t been able to read his name until after we visited Bellereine. See for yourself,” Miss Taylor says, passing the page to Violet.

Violet reads it, then comes to her feet.

“Is this ‘Snow White’? My ‘Snow White’?” Violet says, thumbing the ripped edge.

“Violet, I—”

“Answer the question.” Her voice is colder than Junie has ever heard it, more like Violet’s mother than her own.

“Yes, but—”

“So you stole from me?” Violet says. “You stole ? I let you have any book you want, and you steal?”

“I didn’t intend to steal. I was teaching Caleb to read and—”

“You lied to me. You did! You lied to me!” Violet says, her voice turning into a yell.

“Violet, I didn’t lie, I—”

Junie doesn’t get to finish. Violet’s hand swings around, slapping her hard across the cheek. Junie’s cheek burns like chicken skin on a hot pan. Rage boils in her gut at the thought of Violet’s walls lined with more books than Violet will ever be able to read, more things than Violet will ever be able to touch. Before she can stop herself, her hand swings, hitting Violet across the face.

Violet’s hand goes to her own cheek. Junie lunges to embrace her friend and beg for a truce, but before she can, Miss Taylor’s scream cracks open the room. Violet lunges back at Junie, and Junie struggles to hold her off, trying to push away the clawing hands and limbs coming toward her.

“Stop it, Violet, please!” she screams, closing her eyes and covering her face.

The door swings open. Violet’s hands are gone. Junie prays someone has come in, someone has come to stop this, to stop Violet from ripping her apart.

She opens her eyes and sees Mr. Taylor, holding a belt in his hand. He brings the buckle down on her skull.

Pain sears through Junie’s body. Violet screams.

Violet throws her hands out to stop Mr. Taylor, but she’s too late. He slaps Junie, then brings the hard metal down on her skull again. The room swirls. Junie collapses to the ground, hitting her head on the hardwood floor. One of her poems floats into the fireplace flames as the world goes black.