Spinning the Moon by Karen White
I brushed my finger against the damaged wood again and stabbed my finger on a long golden sliver.
John took my hand and held it close to his face. His skin was still warm, nearly burning my own. He looked at me with the knowledge of what his nearness did to me, and my gaze retreated to my hand.
Gently, he slid the splinter from my finger and we watched as a small circle of blood pooled on the white surface. “This will stop the bleeding.” He raised my finger to his lips and I watched, spellbound, as he placed it on his tongue and sucked. I tried to pull away, but he held fast to my arm.
Slowly, he removed my finger from his mouth and reached in his pocket for a linen handkerchief. With steady hands, he wrapped it around my wound. “Press tightly on it and it will stop bleeding.”
I could not speak. I merely placed my hand in my lap and pressed the handkerchief tightly against my finger, waiting for the throbbing of my pulse to return to normal. He hovered near me, and the desire to ask him about Marguerite’s words was strong. But I hesitated. Perhaps there were things that were best left unsaid.
John stood abruptly at the sound of the front-door knocker. I stood, too, on shaky legs, while he opened the door to let in a large gentleman who oddly resembled a pear in shape, and who wore green pants and a green jacket to complete the image. When he was introduced as the mortician, I was sure I had misunderstood. The man who had seen to the removal and burial of my parents and of Robert had worn solid black, with a dour countenance to match.
Mr. Cumming greeted me warmly and with genuine sympathy in his eyes. I welcomed his presence and his intrusion. The atmosphere in the foyer had become charged with unseen energy. His gaze raked over the fallen portrait, but he refrained from comment.
I excused myself and went to find Rebecca. The child had just lost her mother and would need comfort. I found her on the back porch with Samantha, having a pretend tea party. I sat on the steps, smoothed my skirts, and watched.
Rebecca didn’t acknowledge my presence at first, and I remained quiet, waiting until she was ready. As she poured the tea she began humming the old familiar tune, and the sound teased at the hairs at the back of my neck. I leaned forward on my elbows, feeling the old, familiar sadness as I noted the odd similarity she had to my Jamie. They even had the same hands, small and square, and so unlike mine or Elizabeth’s. I wondered absently which ancestor had given them their unique trait.
She stopped suddenly and looked at me, her dark blue eyes wide. “Why do you not like my song, Aunt Cat?”
I drew up, surprised at her astuteness. “Why do you think that?”
She picked up Samantha and held her on her lap. “Because your face looks all sad.”
“It is not the song, child. It is just that you remind me so much of . . . of someone. Someone I miss very much.” I brushed long strands of blond hair off her face.
Rebecca resumed her tea party, holding a pretend cup to Samantha’s mouth. “I do not miss my mama. I am glad she is gone.”
I moved closer, wondering at the vehemence in such a small child. “You do not mean that, Rebecca. I know I miss her.”
She looked at me with those innocent eyes again, and said, “Maybe you did not really know her.”
I straightened, unsure how to respond, and searched for something else to say. “What is that song that you hum so beautifully? It sounds so familiar to me but I cannot quite give it a name.”
She said nothing, but began to hum the tune again. I watched as she methodically placed a girl and boy doll next to each other on the small blanket that was being used as a tea table. Abruptly, she stopped singing. “Mama liked it, too. But she told me not to tell.”
I moved closer to her. “Told you not to tell what?”
She shook her head, her blond hair flying. “It is a secret. Mama would be angry if I told you.”
Gently, I lifted her onto my lap, and she did not resist. “Rebecca, your mama has gone to heaven. There is no anger in heaven.” I held her tightly, wishing briefly for the respite of heaven instead of the residual anger and hurt living in those left behind.
“My mama is still here. Marguerite told me so.” She stuck her thumb in her mouth and rested her head on my shoulder.
I would deal with Marguerite later. No matter what secret she held over John’s head, surely its revelation would pale in comparison to the torment she inflicted on his beloved daughter.
I brushed her silky hair with my hand, feeling the soft slope of her skull, so small and perfect—like Jamie’s. I closed my eyes and buried my face in her sweet-smelling hair. “I would like to take you back home with me sometime to Saint Simons. Your mama and I grew up there, you know. It is so beautiful there.” I could almost smell the salty air and the incessant rhythm of the waves on the sandy shore. I made no mention of the water. It was no longer a refuge for me, but the sounds and the memories of it were.
“Maybe, when I have found a home to live in again, you can come stay with me for a while. I will show you how to open an oyster shell and where to find the beautiful great blue heron. He is very shy, you know, but I know where he likes to hide.” I smiled at the memory of lying in a shallow-bottomed boat on the edge of the marsh with my Jamie and seeing his eyes widen in wonder at the glorious bird.
A footstep sounded on the bottom step, and I jerked my eyes open to see our visitor.
“I beg your pardon, but my daughter is not leaving this plantation. She is mine, and nobody will be taking her anywhere.”
Without further preamble, John lifted Rebecca from my lap and held her close to him. She reached in my direction and I took heart, until I realized she was reaching for Samantha. I handed it to her and stood.
“I would never take her without your consent, of course. I simply thought that a visit to her mother’s home could be healing. . . .” I stopped, the cold expression in his eyes halting my words.
“It does not seem to me that you found Saint Simons healing in the least. When you arrived here, you were as pale and skittish as a rabbit.”
I sucked in my breath at his cruel words, and his eyes softened with remorse. “I am sorry,” he choked out. “I did not mean . . .” He closed his eyes briefly. “I should not have been so harsh with you. But when you spoke of taking Rebecca . . .”
I stepped back, feeling the pinpricks of tears. “I . . .” I could not think of a thing to say. He knew of my circumstances, yet he could slap me in the face with them. I slipped past him off the porch steps and ran across the yard toward the orange grove, intent on getting as far away from John McMahon as possible.
* * *
Elizabeth’s funeral was held on a wet Saturday morning. The family mausoleum was unsealed, waiting with gaping mouth to receive its next inhabitant. I had been inside of it once when I was eleven, during one of our summer visits, on a dare from Elizabeth. It had been opened to inter the remains of a distant cousin who had died overseas. It was cousin Peter’s wish to be buried at Whispering Oaks, and so his coffin had been shipped across the Atlantic and down the Mississippi toward its final resting place. Cousin Peter had died in Egypt, and it was rumored that he had been mummified to preserve his body on its long trip home. Elizabeth had had a wonderful time wrapping herself in strips of sheets and frightening me and our friends. She had made amends by allowing me to dress as the mummy while she transformed herself into Cleopatra. That was so very much like her; she always made sure that everyone had what they thought they wanted.
The mausoleum had been built into a sloping hill, covered on three sides by grass and the opening sealed with a heavy metal door and a locked gate. The door had been opened and the gate unlocked in preparation for cousin Peter’s burial, and the dark opening seemed to beckon to my sister with a call to mischief.
Elizabeth had given me a small stub of a candle to light my way and then told me to stay inside until the candle burned out. She had shut the door
But no one had come for me. After waiting for countless minutes, I had dropped to my hands and knees, praying I wouldn’t bump a shelf with a dusty coffin, and crawled out of the enclosure. The sunshine blinded me momentarily. When I could see again, I saw Elizabeth and Philip Herndon, from nearby Bellevue plantation, sitting on the ground behind the grassy slope of the mausoleum, and he was holding her very close. When he spotted me, he pulled away and stood, yanking Elizabeth with him. Her clothes were rumpled and covered with grass, and her lips red and swollen. Philip flushed with embarrassment, but Elizabeth gave me only a crooked smile and then merrily announced that I had earned her red cape—an object I had been craving—but only if I promised not to mention that Philip had been by for a visit. I agreed, too excited to have the lovely cape and not realizing the precarious position in which I could have put my sister had I told Grandmother.
And now, as I turned my face to the steady drizzle, Elizabeth would be placed into the crypt herself. All of her beauty and wit to be hidden forever under the green slopes of the mausoleum.
Just a few close friends came to the internment. I kept my somber thoughts at bay by studying the faces of those around me. Rebecca stood solemnly, clutching her Samantha close and holding her father’s hand. Clara and Daniel were there, as well as an older couple and an elderly gentleman I thought I recognized from my visits to my grandmother’s.
Following the funeral, a larger group gathered at the house for the wake. Daniel seemed drawn and reserved, Clara always at his side. At one point, as I leaned against a dining-room chair for support, Daniel sought me out. I was surprised to find him alone, and he looked relieved.
He kissed my cheek, then held my hand. “I cannot imagine how devastated you must be right now. Please know that my shoulder is always available for you. I . . . had great affection for Elizabeth.”
He looked as if he were about to cry, and I patted his shoulder. It was at that moment Clara appeared and promptly claimed Daniel’s arm, steering him away from me. Again, it struck me how incongruous the two of them looked together, like a mismatched pair of bookends.
The late arrival of a tall man caught my attention and I studied him closely as he moved behind an older couple. The woman looked at him with surprise and then squeezed his hand in welcome. I still could not place how I knew them. The young man looked vaguely familiar, and his soft hazel eyes flickered in recognition when he spotted me. He dipped his head in a brief greeting before turning his full attention to the reverend.
I spotted him again much later. He stood in a corner of the dining room, scouring the crowd as if searching for someone. When his gaze alighted on me, he approached with a singular determination.
He stood in front of me and looked down at me with soft hazel eyes. “Cat? It is me, Philip. Philip Herndon. An old summer friend.”
Now I remembered. And I recognized the older couple as his parents—old friends of my grandmother’s. “Yes, of course. I thought you looked familiar. It is good to see you again.”
His face sobered. “It was a shock to hear about Elizabeth. My deepest sympathy for your loss.”
I studied his handsome face, now fully matured, without the softness of his earlier youth, and saw true remorse. “Thank you, Philip. I shall miss her deeply.” I felt better, somehow, speaking to him. Just seeing him brought back memories of my carefree youth, the time of my life when death and loss were not my constant companions.
He looked down for a moment before speaking. “I would . . . If you do not mind, I would like to call on you sometime while you are here. I feel there is so much catching up to do. And I would like . . . I would like to talk about Elizabeth. Perhaps that would bring us both some healing.” He smiled a small, faraway smile. “You know, I thought for a long time that she and I might marry. . . .” His voice trailed away and his eyes seemed lost in thought.
His smile faded as he caught sight of something behind my shoulder. I turned and watched John approach, his face a mask of restrained thunder.
“Mr. Herndon,” he said brusquely, giving a brief nod. “I must say I am surprised to see you here. I thought I made it quite clear that members of the White League are not welcome at my home.”
Philip flushed deeply. “I do not know what you mean, sir. I am here with my parents to show our respects to our closest neighbor and old friend.”
John gave him a mocking smile. “I see. Well, consider your duty done, sir, and see yourself out. You may wait outside until your parents are ready to leave. But you are not welcome here, and if you don’t want to cause a scene, I suggest you do as I ask.”
The red flush in Philip’s cheek quickly faded to a pale white. Anger flickered in his eyes and I thought, for a brief moment, that blows would soon fall. Instead, with a brief nod in my direction, Philip excused himself, and I watched as he let himself out the front door.
Angrily, I turned to John. “What was all that about? You just insulted him gravely. He was here with a sincere offer of sympathy, you know. He was a friend of not only Elizabeth’s but mine as well.”
John gripped my elbow, pulling me close to him so he could speak without others hearing. “The man does not have a sincere bone in his body. If it were not for my personal dislike of the man I would dislike him on principle. He spent the entire four years of the war in Europe, miles away from the battlefields where his friends and neighbors were slaughtered. And now he has involved himself in the White League, whose main purpose is to take the law into their own hands and harass freedmen and Republicans. That group alone is responsible for more than a dozen lynchings in the last year.”
We were interrupted by the appearance of the elderly gentleman whom I recalled to be Judge Patterson, a contemporary and old friend of my grandmother’s. My heart leapt at the recognition, for this man had been like a grandfather to both Elizabeth and me. We had always suspected more than friendship lay between him and my grandmother, but they had never married. Regardless, he had loved and spoiled us like his own grandchildren, and I had loved him deeply in return.
Leaning heavily on a cane, he bent to kiss my cheek, his lips dry and withered against my skin. The judge offered his condolences, and we spoke of my grandmother for a while, until John excused himself to find Rebecca. I turned back to the judge to find his warm brown eyes examining me closely. His hand, with gnarled fingers resembling claws, grabbed hold of my forearm and he leaned close to my ear.
“I want you to know . . .” His next words were lost in a spasm of coughs. Still gripping my arm, he continued. “I have missed you all these years, my dear. You have grown into a beautiful young woman.”
I blushed, but thanked him and smiled.
“I remember you always telling me what lay in your heart—all your wishes and fears. If you ever need someone to tell your heart to, know that I am still here to listen.”
I wondered if I should dismiss his utterance as the ramblings of an old man, but when I looked into his eyes, I knew the sentiments were real and sincere. Patting his hand, I said, “Yes, Judge Patterson, of course. It is reassuring to know that I have friends who care about me.”
“There might be some unpleasantness regarding Elizabeth’s death. I am sure it has been kept from you, but you need to be aware that there’s talk that John may have got away with something because of who he is and whom he knows. You and I know this is not true, but the gossip is there. Just remember that I am here to help you if you need me.” He squeezed my arm, then left to go. I watched the bent figure of the old man as he walked away and felt no small comfort in know
I seemed to be the focus of attention and braced myself for the inevitable onslaught of neighbors and friends who sought me out to introduce themselves and examine me closely. From their curiosity, I feared that I must have grown three heads. But every so often, I would look up and find John’s eyes on me, and he never failed to send me a reassuring smile.
The scrutiny and constant attention left a throbbing headache at my temples. At my first opportunity I slid out of the room and hid myself in John’s library. I felt completely numb. I wanted to grieve for my sister in private and to relegate my memories of her to some sort of permanence while allowing the truths of whom she had become to slip through the thin fingers of my memory and evaporate into the firmament.
Taking off my shoes, I curled up into John’s desk chair and rested my forehead on my knees. I let my eyes flicker as the droning voices behind the door lulled me into a dreamless sleep, an enviable place where there were no mysteries or unanswered questions.
When I awoke, I noted that the sun no longer shone through the window and the purple cast of dusk had settled into the corners of the room. The guests must have left, because I heard no voices. The house nearly shouted its silence.
I sat up, my neck stiff, and knew instinctively that I was not alone. I slowly lowered my legs and stilled, my eyes struggling to focus on a dark shadow by the door. The steady rhythm of somebody breathing pulsed in the still room as I widened my eyes to see better. The shadow moved closer and my breath caught in my throat.
“Catherine.”
John’s voice did nothing to still the hammering of my heart. “I have been thinking about you. Your future, to be exact.”
I searched my sleep-muddled brain for words. “My future?” Something in the tone of his voice heightened all of my senses.
“Yes, Catherine. Your future. I have been thinking about it quite a lot lately.”