Page 33 of Junie

Chapter Thirty-Three

“See, I came from right underneath the bush, lined it up, and shot that fat hog straight between the eyes,” Mr. Taylor says, mimicking the hold of a rifle for the party. The parlor of men breaks into applause at Mr. Taylor’s reenactment, followed by the quiet claps of their wives. He is surrounded by planter families: the Mr. Percy Eliots, the Mr. Thomas O’Brodys, and Uncle Taylor, who all sip mint juleps and eat canapés filled with the onions Junie spent the morning chopping.

“Capital work, nephew,” Uncle Taylor adds with a laugh. “A sharpshooter, just like his uncle!”

“I reckon I’d like to send a shooter like him to Washington, to show that Yankee Lincoln what happens when you mess with the South,” says Mr. O’Brody.

“Now, Mr. O’Brody,” Mr. Taylor says, “if it all goes the way it seems, I’m sure there will be hundreds of trusty Southern shooters on their way to Lincoln’s front door before the year is up.”

Junie hovers in the corner of the parlor, her empty drink tray across her forearms. Why would they send shooters to Washington? Who is Lincoln? This is the sort of topic she’d have asked Caleb about in whispers while the white folks weren’t looking, but he’s in the stables, fixing up the horses after the hunt.

She’s sure he’s happy to be away from her.

“I wouldn’t be so quick to claim that hog, Beau,” Mr. Eliot says. “If I’d have been a little closer, I reckon I would’ve gotten an even cleaner shot. Y’all know they call me the best shot in Lowndes County.”

“Oh, Mr. Eliot, don’t be cross. I’m certain Mr. Taylor is right. You ought not to keep such talk in front of ladies,” Mrs. Eliot, who is at least two years Violet’s junior, adds demurely. She leans back against the sofa, her hands resting on her pregnant belly.

“I suppose your old lady here is right, Percy,” Mr. Taylor adds. “We ought to talk about more suitable topics. Besides, you’ll be able to prove your shooting in the Confederate army soon enough.”

“I certainly hope so, Mr. Taylor,” Mrs. O’Brody adds, rubbing her belly. “Nothing would make me a prouder wife than sending my Thomas here away to fight for the cause, even in my condition. I bet Mrs. Taylor feels the same.”

From the corner of the room, Junie watches Taylor’s eyes drop to Mrs. O’Brody’s midsection, then to Mrs. Eliot’s. His jaw stiffens before he takes a deep gulp of his drink. Violet sits whispering with Miss Taylor—she doesn’t notice.

“Mrs. Taylor?” Mrs. O’Brody says, raising her voice a bit. Violet looks up, startled.

“Oh see, just look at that shock on her face,” Mrs. Eliot says. “A new bride! She ain’t ready to let her husband go just yet.”

“Oh well, yes,” Violet murmurs, catching on to the conversation. “I’d be awful heartsick if Beau had to go off to war.”

“But you’d be proud of him? You’d want him to go off and fight for the Glorious Cause, of course?” Mrs. O’Brody asks.

The bodies in the room all shift to face Violet, their muscles tensed like cats set on a hobbled bird.

“I will do whatever my husband thinks is best,” Violet says with a soft smile.

The women’s eyes narrow, unsatisfied. Junie wrings her hands behind her back. She has almost forgotten how painful white folks’ socializing is, and how inept Violet is at playing her part.

“I know I wouldn’t mind sending my brother off to war,” Miss Taylor adds. “Then we could finally get his dirty boots out of the hallway.”

The room laughs, but Mr. Taylor remains quiet, his eyes on Violet and Bea.

Junie’s pulse begins to rise. War? She has heard nothing of war the last three months in the cookhouse. How is it possible that something so monumental could be happening without a word passing out of the house?

“Miss Taylor, do you intend to stay in Alabama, then? Or will you be on your way back to Louisiana?” Mrs. Eliot says.

“I may go back sometime, but as long as my brother here extends his hospitality, I hope to stay on. I’ve found I like country life a bit more than I thought,” Miss Taylor says, taking a sip of her mint julep.

“Capital! We’ll have to find you a beau. Surely there must be a gentleman about the county for you. Maybe a widower?” Mrs. Eliot says with a grin.

“That’s kind of you, Mrs. Eliot, but I quite hate children and don’t have a bit of interest in raising anyone else’s,” Miss Taylor says. Mrs. Eliot stares in shock. Violet flicks her fan to hide a laugh as Mr. Taylor’s jaw stiffens. He tosses back the last of his drink.

“What a thing it is to be a guest here,” Mr. Eliot cuts in. “You know, I’ve lived in the county all my life, and I’ve never set foot in this house. My grandfather always spoke of it as such a grand home when it was first built.”

“Yes, Mr. McQueen wasn’t much for entertaining—” Mrs. O’Brody gasps, throwing her hands over her mouth in embarrassment. “My goodness, Mrs. Taylor, I apologize greatly for speaking out of turn. You know I of course deeply admired your father.”

“Oh,” Violet stutters, coming to attention. “That’s all right, Mrs. O’Brody, I’m sure of your regard.”

“We ought to toast the late Mr. McQueen,” Mr. Taylor says. “Girls?”

Junie and Bess straighten up.

“Yes, sir?” Bess says.

“Bring us another tray of drinks. Mint juleps.”

Bess and Junie curtsy, then leave the room to fix the drinks.

“I must apologize for havin’ such a dark nigger for a maid,” Junie hears Mr. Taylor say behind them. “My wife’s got a soft spot for her and I’m sure y’all know how hard it is to find good help in the country.”

Junie clenches her hands into fists, her pulse throbbing.

“How do you stand him all day?” she says.

“Don’t pay him no mind, I do my best not to,” Bess says. “You get the ice. I’ll fix the liquor. You always make ’em too strong.”

“Did you hear what they said in there?” Junie asks, ignoring her. “About a war?”

“I just told you, I don’t pay too much mind to the white folks talking if I can.”

“That ain’t just any white folks talking, Bess,” Junie says. “This is serious. Have you heard something around the house?”

Bess sighs.

“Well, from what I understand, now that Alabama’s gone and left the union, there’s talk of the North coming and taking back what they think is theirs. The white folks formed some government in Montgomery last month, and I suppose they intend to fight.”

“What are they fighting over?”

“Lord if I know, Junie. Something about the ‘Southern way of life,’ whatever in Sam Hill that means.”

“So the North wants us to have the Northern way of life, then?” Junie’s mind races.

“Maybe. I don’t know.”

“They ain’t got slaves in the North, Bess. What happens if they win?”

“I swear you’ve got a tongue looser than a dead snake,” Bess says. “If these white folks hear you whispering about this, they’ll have you whipped before you can even walk these drinks to the table. Now c’mon and finish with that ice. Mr. Taylor’s ripe to get antsy.”

“You never see fit to wonder, Bess? About what else is out there?” Junie asks.

“?’Course I wonder, Junie. I got all kinds of things I wonder about. I just have enough sense not to run around thinking I’m ever gonna see ’em. Now you take that tray and I’ll get the other.”

Junie lets Bess go first, noticing her once speedy gait has dulled to a stumble. The three months in the house with the new master have aged her. Junie takes her tray in hand, walking it over to the opposite side of the parlor from Bess to serve. The white folks are listening to another one of Beau’s stories—this one about a marvelous stag hunt in the highlands of Scotland, a place no one else in the party aside from his sister has ever seen. Bess steps behind him with her tray, hoping to pass drinks without interrupting. Junie pauses her serving and watches Mr. Taylor’s dramatic gesticulation.

She sees what will happen before she can warn Bess to move.

Mr. Taylor’s hand swings backward, miming his shooting rifle, colliding with Bess’s tray of mint juleps. Bess does her best to save the tray, but the drinks cascade directly over Mrs. Eliot’s and Mrs. O’Brody’s heads.

The women shriek, their dresses soaked in sugary alcohol, hair decorated with mint leaves. Junie gasps, unsure if she’s going to giggle or scream at the sight of the two drenched women. Violet and Miss Taylor barely conceal their raucous laughter behind their fans on the sofa. Junie’s mind jumps to Bess, knocked to the ground behind the wet sofa.

At first, Mr. Taylor is completely still. Then the room swirls like a storm around him; the wives wave their arms in the air, husbands jumping to console them. Bess rolls to her feet, tears filling her eyes as she apologizes to anyone who will hear her. Mr. Taylor turns toward Bess, stooping to pick up an empty glass, and Junie sees the stony coldness in his eyes, the same she saw before he brought the belt down over her.

Junie tosses aside her serving tray, running to stop him.

She doesn’t get there fast enough.

Mr. Taylor brings the glass down over Bess’s head in one powerful stroke. Bess collapses to the hardwood floor. Blood begins to stain her headscarf.

“Beau, stop it!” Violet cries in horror. “Stop it!”

“You stupid darkie!” he shouts, ignoring Violet as he kicks Bess in the abdomen. “You will not humiliate us in front of our guests!” Bess screams, pleading for him to stop. Junie’s vision blurs.

If someone doesn’t stop him, he will kill Bess.

A second stretches into what feels like minutes as Junie runs toward Mr. Taylor.

Then Miss Taylor leaps to her feet. Before Junie can reach Bess, Miss Taylor jumps in her way.

“Stop this, Beau! Stop this now!” Bea yells, throwing herself on the ground in front of Bess, catching the toe of her brother’s boot across her eye. He kicks her twice more before Uncle Taylor’s yells cut through the noise. Mr. Taylor has kicked Bea unconscious.

The guests shriek again, this time grabbing their things to leave the house. Mr. Taylor falls back in his chair as Caleb rushes into the room. Violet jumps to Miss Taylor, rocking her unconscious body in her arms, pulling Miss Taylor’s head to her chest. Bess lies folded behind the sofa.

“You’re an animal,” Violet screams at her husband. “You’re a beast!”

Mr. Taylor’s hands ball into fists. He pushes himself up, grabs and throws another empty glass at the wall, and storms out of the room.

Caleb rushes toward Violet with a towel. Violet pushes Miss Taylor’s hair back, dabbing the blood from her face.

“Wake up, Bea, wake up,” she pleads. “I’m here, I’m here with you. Wake up.”

Uncle Taylor awakens to the debacle around him as the guests shuffle to the door in horror.

“Please, Mr. Eliot, Mr. O’Brody, don’t be so quick to go! It’s just a sibling spat, nothing to be worried about,” Uncle Taylor says. “How about another round of drinks? Or a bit of cards?”

“With all due respect, Mr. Taylor, if this is what you call a sibling spat, we want no part of it,” Mr. Eliot says. “It’s one thing to punish a darkie. But to hit a woman is another thing entirely.”

“This house has always been cursed,” Mrs. O’Brody says, latching on to her husband’s arm. “Daddy always said it was full of devilish spirits. I knew we shouldn’t have set foot in this place, even if old drunk McQueen is dead.”

They take their leave, rushing to the front door and toward their horses. Uncle Taylor stiffens. He looks at Violet and Bea.

“You stupid, stupid women,” he says, before following his nephew out.

Junie rushes to her cousin’s side. Bess is conscious, sitting on the ground with her knees curled in.

“Bess—” Junie says.

“I’m all right. Don’t tell Momma,” Bess mumbles.

“You ain’t all right, Bess,” Junie says.

“Don’t tell Momma. Please, don’t tell Momma. She ought not to worry herself.”

“Please, Bess, we got to get you cared for,” Junie says, looking around the room. Violet holds Miss Taylor, still unconscious, in her arms. She runs her fingers over Miss Taylor’s swollen brow, tears dripping down her face.

“Violet,” Junie says. Violet looks up, surprised to hear her name.

“What do we do?” she whispers.

“Ice and alcohol,” Junie says. “For them both. I can fetch it if you get some towels.”

Violet nods, leaning Miss Taylor against the arm of the sofa as she slowly comes to. Junie fills her bare hands with all the ice she can stand to carry as Violet pulls towels from the linen closet. They wrap the ice in towels together, making two bundles that they hold to Bess’s and Miss Taylor’s heads. As the swelling goes down, they pat gin into the cuts. After both Miss Taylor’s and Bess’s heads are bound with rags, and their wounds are cleaned, the women sit together in silence.

“Why did you do that?” Bess whispers.

Miss Taylor rolls to face her, one eye covered.

“I’ve watched my brother hurt a lot of people,” she says. “More than I can count. And every time, I’ve just sat there. Once in a while, I’ve said something, other times it’s been something I said that made him do it. I…I guess I couldn’t stand to live another day knowing I hadn’t at least tried.”

Bess nods, then starts to push herself to her feet.

“Don’t try and stand, Bess,” Violet says.

“It’s all right, ma’am, I can do it,” she says, getting her balance.

“Take the rest of the day off, please. Go to the attic and get some rest.”

“That’s kind, Mrs. Taylor, but I—”

“I insist, Bess. Go, rest.”

“Well, thank you, ma’am.”

Bess does a feeble curtsy and looks at Junie before climbing the stairs. Miss Taylor leans against the sofa’s back, her eye turning from red to purple.

“I ought to be able to care for her myself,” Violet says to Junie, leaning to touch Miss Taylor’s forehead. The parlor is scattered with plates of half-eaten headcheese and boiled eggs. Overturned cups of sticky mint liquor stain the sofas and armchairs. Even the rug is filthy with crumbs and broken glass.

“We can’t leave the parlor this way,” Junie says.

Violet glances at the mess and sighs.

“It’s Beau’s fault. If he’s mad, he ought to be mad at himself.”

“That ain’t the way he’s gonna see it. I’ll stay and clean it. You take Miss Taylor upstairs.”

“Won’t Auntie mind that you’re gone instead of helping with dinner?” Violet asks.

She will. Of course, Junie will have to do both jobs, but there’s no sense in explaining that to Violet.

“I reckon Auntie can take care of the cookhouse alone for an evening.”

Violet smiles her thanks. She wraps an arm underneath Miss Taylor and helps her up the stairs toward her room.

—

It is night by the time Junie finishes cleaning the parlor, her attention over her shoulder the whole time. She slips up the staircase, noticing the candlelight that glimmers from the crack in the door of Miss Taylor’s room. There is no need to tell Violet she’s finished, yet the light beckons Junie forward. She knocks with the same four taps she used every time she would visit Violet.

“Come in,” Violet says.

Miss Taylor is sleeping, a fire burning across the room. Violet sits at the foot of her bed, her day dress exchanged for a white sacque, her red hair along her back. Miss Taylor rolls over, and the firelight catches the darkness of her black eye.

“How’s she doing?” Junie asks, crossing her arms.

“All right now. She was real shook. Once I got the fire ready, she went right to sleep.”

“I didn’t know you could fix a fire,” Junie says.

“Watched you enough times to get the hang of it,” Violet says with a smile. “You learn a lot when everybody thinks you’re just reading a book.”

“Suppose that’s true,” Junie says.

“Is Bess all right?” Violet asks.

“She’s sleeping.”

“Good.”

“I suppose I ought to go, then,” Junie says. “You want me to light a fire in your room?”

“No. I mean, it won’t be necessary. I’ll stay here. Truth be told, I stay here most nights.”

Junie nods. There are questions she wants to ask, about what Mr. Taylor does to her when they are alone. Whether the purple circle under her eye is by his hand.

Violet watches Miss Taylor’s chest rise and fall like each of her breaths is a miracle. She’s living as Junie once thought she herself could: enduring horror to love in the margins.

“All right, then, good night, Violet.”

“I’ll see you in the morning?”

Junie’s brows furrow in confusion.

“I thought I was going to see to your mother from now on,” Junie says.

Violet raises her eyebrows, her cheeks pale.

“Well, that was before today. I thought you’d want to come back now.”

Junie’s eyes widen. She tightens her arms around her body. Another version of herself would have said yes, would have taken this day as a sign of Violet’s goodwill and contrition. Another version of herself would have been desperate to protect Violet from the world she was entrenched in, to protect the love her friend has found.

Looking at her pleading face, Junie knows she will always love Violet in some way. But love in any form demands equality.

And no equality will ever be found in Bellereine.

“I do appreciate the offer, Violet. But I still think I ought not to be your maid.”

Violet looks away into the fire, covering her mouth. The flames crackle impatiently.

“Junie, why didn’t you come to my wedding?” Violet asks. She is illuminated in orange-red light.

“I did—I was with the others,” Junie answers.

“ I didn’t see you,” Violet says. “You didn’t come talk to me, or congratulate me the whole day.”

“I was working behind the bar.”

“That ain’t a reason not to congratulate me properly on my wedding day.”

Heat starts to rise in Junie’s blood.

“You told me not to set foot in this house again unless I wanted to be whipped, Violet.”

“You weren’t at Daddy’s funeral, either.”

This is true. Junie hadn’t gone—the guilt had been too consuming, and Violet’s banishment had served as the perfect excuse to avoid it altogether.

“I wasn’t invited.”

“It hasn’t been easy like this, you know, Junie. You act like it’s only been hard for you. You don’t know what it’s like to live in secret, or to be married to someone like him,” Violet says, her voice trailing off. “I thought, since we’re old friends, you’d give a damn enough to be by my side, but I suppose I was wrong.”

“Why do I have to be your maid for that?”

“Because that’s the way things are. You’re meant to be my maid and my friend.”

The way things are. The words sting.

“Friend?” Junie says with a laugh, raising her eyebrows. “I didn’t think we were still friends, Violet. Not after Montgomery.”

“Junie, you’ll always be my fri—”

“Stop,” Junie says. Violet’s eyes stretch with surprise. It’s brazen to keep talking, but she can’t stop herself.

“Violet, I ain’t some doll for you to play with when you’re bored, then beat on the floor and throw in the basket when you’re angry. I know you ain’t used to being told no, but you can’t have it both ways. You told me I had a choice, and now you’re punishing me for the choice I made.”

“Because I thought you’d want to make up. That you’d want to come back. That you’d rather be with me again instead of chopping onions and taking care of my witch mother all day.”

“Why would I want to come back to you? After what you said to me? What kind of beaten dog do you think I am?”

“I’m not the one who hit you, Junie! It was Beau. He’s a brute, you know that. You think I can control that man? You think I’d let this happen if I could stop him?” she says, gesturing toward Miss Taylor.

“Do you know how I spent the night after he hit me?” Junie says. “On a straw mat, in a stranger’s home. I didn’t have any ice, nobody to fix a fire for me. You never saw about me, not once . And now I’m supposed to be your friend?”

“I thought you were my friend,” Violet says, tears starting to run down her cheeks. “My only friend.”

“I ain’t your friend, Mrs. Taylor. And now, I ain’t sure that I ever was,” Junie says, her chest aching. “I was your maid. I washed your chamber pots and cleaned your clothes. I’m your property. It ain’t real love if you gotta own the person to keep ’em with you. Better you get that straight sooner rather than later if you’re gonna be a proper mistress.”

Junie doesn’t wait for Violet’s reply. She lets the door close quietly behind her.