Absalom's Daughters by Suzanne Feldman Page B

sorry,” Judith said.
    They started walking again. Winter birds sang in the trees. Cold wind blew under the clothes they’d slept in. Cassie said, “Do you worry about getting robbed?”
    â€œI thought we shoulda brought a dog,” said Judith, the same way she always said anything—like she’d given it deep thought at some earlier date and had prepared the perfect answer. “Shoulda brought that little Justice boy. The one with the spotted hound.”
    â€œThat boy who thought he was a dog?”
    â€œHe din’t jus’ think it. He really a dog born into a boy’s body. They say when he was a baby he never cried. He whimpered, like he was a puppy.”
    â€œEven you don’t really believe that,” said Cassie.
    Judith put her nose up as though offended. “I do try to keep my mind open.”
    The sun had cleared the horizon when they saw a colored man driving a mule hitched to a wagon. The man didn’t seem to see them until he was very close; then the mule let out a snort, and the man looked up from under his hat. Cassie thought he’d been sleeping while the mule made his way to wherever they were going.
    The man pulled the wagon to a stop and tipped his battered porkpie hat. “Mornin’, ladies.” He looked like he thought he might be having a dream, and part of his dream was Judith and Cassie walking together. “What brings you-all out on such a fine day?”
    Judith elbowed Cassie as though it was her job to speak for the two of them.
    â€œMornin’, suh,” she said. “We got us a car done broke down back a ways.”
    His eyebrows went up when she said car as though he was sure he was dreaming now. “You gals got a car?”
    â€œAin’t much of a car,” said Cassie. “You know anythin’ about gettin’ ’em to run?”
    â€œMy nephew up ’crost the hills there, he know sumpin’ ’bout cars.” The hills were behind them now, on the other side of the railroad tracks.
    â€œYou reckon we could get a ride partways?”
    â€œI reckon you could,” said the man. “But you might think twicet ’fore you gets in.” He angled his head at the bed of the wagon.
    Both girls peered over the side at a pinewood coffin.
    â€œOh hail!” said Judith. “Somebody in there?”
    â€œOh yessum,” said the man. “That there my wife’s cousin, Lisette. Dearly departed just this mornin’. I takin’ her up to the church to her eternal rest.”
    â€œWe sorry for your loss,” said Judith, looking as repentant as she could after oh hail!
    The man moved over on the wagon bench, and the two of them got up next to him. He introduced himself as Ovid Beale, spoke to the mule, and the wagon lurched forward.
    Cassie, in the middle, told him their names and said, “We sorry to run into you on such a sad day, but we ’preciate the ride.”
    â€œIt sadder than it look,” said Ovid Beale. “Lisette was a young woman. She died from her heart done bein’ broke. Her man foolin’ round on her, and she found out about it. She run off. We look and look. Ain’t no one kin find her. She come back on her own, but she wasted away. She so sick that no matter what folk do—even the white doctor and the root woman—cain’t do nuthin’ to save her.”
    â€œThat’s terrible,” said Cassie.
    â€œWe sorry for you loss,” Judith repeated.
    â€œHer husband know it?” said Cassie. It felt good to be riding instead of walking, even if she was squashed into the middle of the wagon seat. And she was warm now, between Judith and Ovid Beale, which made her realize how cold the walk had been.
    â€œHe know,” said Ovid Beale. “He gonna make a good showin’ at the funeral, then he think he goin’ back to his hoochie mama.” The mule shook its head and laid its ears back. Ovid Beale let out