Page 37 of Junie

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Junie runs to the house and slips through the back door, creeping up the stairs and through the hallway. The door to Mr. Taylor’s bedroom is cracked. She sneaks inside and finds Caleb hunched over a half-full trunk of shirts.

Even before McQueen died, she hardly ever went inside the master’s room. Beau never changed the old master’s study; it is the same red brocade, with heavy mahogany furniture. The fabric wallpaper reeks of cigars and corn liquor—McQueen’s smell. Junie winces.

“Caleb,” she whispers, creeping up behind him.

“Christ,” Caleb hisses, ruining the sharp fold he’d made in Taylor’s dress shirt. “What in Sam Hill are you doing in here? You know what they’d do if they saw you in here?”

“It’s the last day of the month, Caleb.”

“If you say so—”

“Caleb, listen to me. The last day of the month .”

His eyebrows raise.

“You shouldn’t be talking about this,” he says.

“I love you, and I ain’t going to let you go without a fight. If I say it’s time, if you hear from somebody it’s time, you come and find me.”

“Delilah June, please, stop—”

“Caleb,” Junie says. “Caleb, don’t give up. Promise me, promise me you’ll find me.”

“I ain’t saying nothing to you here,” he says, sticking his back to the wall and looking out the window. His voice drops to a whisper. “He listens.”

Floorboards creak at the end of the hallway.

“You got to go now,” Caleb says, standing up to move her toward the door. His eyes are stony.

“But, Caleb—”

“Now, Junie, go,” he says, nudging her over the threshold. “They’ll beat you if they find you in here.”

The door shuts her out with a click.

He’s given up.

In twelve hours, the boat will be gone.

A few hours after that, Caleb will be at war.

Junie bites down on her lip, shoving her tears back down. Her head falls against the door.

“What’re you doing?”

She whips around. Violet stands a few paces down the hall, arms crossed and head tilted.

“I had to fetch something from Caleb, for Mr. Taylor,” Junie lies. She tucks her hands behind her back.

“You’re acting funny,” Violet says.

“I don’t mean to be acting funny, Mrs. Taylor.”

Violet wrinkles her nose.

“You know I hate being called that.”

Junie studies Violet for a moment. She wears a long-sleeved black dress that covers her neck. Her eyes are puffy and her hair is disheveled. She holds a letter in her hand. When she catches Junie looking, she tucks it behind her back.

“You ought to go see after Marilla,” Violet says.

“Yes, yes, I ought to,” Junie says. She slips by Violet, feeling those familiar eyes on her back as she walks out of the house.

—

Auntie hunches over the Fire, ignoring the drops of sweat that fall into her eyes.

“Auntie?” Junie calls, balancing the last of the dishes. Her aunt does not look up from the bubbling pot of chicken bones, her scarf off to expose her shorn gray hair as she fans herself.

Junie walks closer.

“Auntie, the master’s leaving for some war. He wants a big fancy dinner ready tonight. We only got a few hours to fix it.”

Auntie Marilla rolls her lips, leaning closer to the hearth until the reflected fire becomes the only light in her eyes. Her aunt has hardly spoken since Bess was taken away, moving from task to task with an apathy only possible after a lifetime of repetitive tasks. Junie’s heart wrenches; her aunt’s in no state to cook the meals she used to on short notice. She’ll have to prepare the dinner herself.

The afternoon is a frenzy of cans, knives, and broken dishes as Junie makes do, creating a grand meal from what remains in the smoker. By the evening, she’s prepared some ham from the larder, surrounded with mashed potatoes, roasted vegetables, and a leftover brandy fruitcake, forgotten after McQueen’s death.

She finishes the cooking with minutes to spare. Without Bess to help, she is out of breath from carrying plates by the time the dinner door creaks open, and Mr. Taylor enters the room, with Violet and Mrs. McQueen trailing behind him. Mrs. McQueen asks for a brandy, gulping one glass quickly before looking for another. She clears her throat as Mr. Taylor cuts into his second helping of ham.

“Mr. Taylor, may I have a word,” Mrs. McQueen says. Mr. Taylor looks at her with surprise.

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I was thinking during my leisure time today, and I simply wonder if it is best to have Caleb go. He is one of the only able-bodied men we have about here besides the field boys, and the only one who knows anything about domestic work. There will be no one else to tend to many of the house’s affairs.”

Mr. Taylor chuckles.

“My, my, you McQueen women are something else,” he says. “Ma’am, while I appreciate your perspective, I think it’s best you follow the advice you gave to my dear wife and leave the thinking to me. I am the man of the house now, and I will run things the way I choose.”

Mrs. McQueen nods, her lips rolling inward, before taking another long sip of her brandy.

Dinner ends within the hour, and Mr. Taylor retires to his library. Violet and Mrs. McQueen disappear into their rooms shortly after, leaving Junie to clean up the meal. Caleb will be alone in the stables by now; if she abandons the dishes, she’ll have time to talk to him. The house creaks around her. Is it the wind, or their footsteps?

The white folks are always watching, even if they aren’t here.

The clock chimes, ringing nine times. Three hours until midnight.

From the main house, it is a quarter hour through the woods to reach the river. And while Uncle George said the boat passed through Lowndes County around midnight, there was no telling how late or early it would arrive at Bellereine’s shores.

The clock’s chime also marks the time to dress Mrs. McQueen for bed. Junie curses under her breath; if she goes to Caleb now, Mrs. McQueen will notice that she’s gone.

There has to be a way. Even if she doesn’t make it to him in time, even if he leaves her behind, she has to try to leave this place. But, she can’t draw attention to herself, either.

As she cleans the last of the mess, she spots a stray steak knife on the dining table, the candle’s light reflected in its shiny, silver blade. Before she heads up the stairs, Junie slips the knife into the roll of her apron, a guard against any dangers that may befall her.

She’ll play the part of the maid, if only for one more night. If only to protect her one chance at freedom.