The Rebel Wife by Taylor M Polites

there. Mama and Henry and I always went to the Presbyterian church. Eli hardly went to church anyway.
    Peekum is ascetic, with rough stubble on his chin and cheeks. He says that we all face a final accounting before God that will make the experiences of the late war a trivial dance. He says we must beg forgiveness for our sins and that even contrition may not be enough to save us. He agreed to give a short sermon, but he keeps talking. He shouts about Jesus in the garden at Gethsemane, alone, kneeling in prayer and knowing he would be crucified. He sweat great drops like blood as he prayed.
    The heat rises in the parlor and chairs creak. Fans make a rush of sound without seeming to stir the air. The murmur of voices comes in from the street. We sit with our backs to the windows.
    Pastor Peekum says that we sin, and the ineffable stains like blood are on our hands. That we are like beasts that ravage through God’s garden. We walk the winding path of salvation and stray from it, indulging our avarice, our lust, with gluttonous indulgence. “Turn back,” he cries, “turn back and follow the Lord before you are washed away in a flood of holy blood poured down on us from heaven. Repent.”
    Is he condemning Eli or praising him? I grab Henry’s hand, and he looks up at me, frightened. I shake my head at him. What sins might I have committed to warrant such a sermon? These backwoods preachers will take any opportunity to shout the devil at you.
    Henry is beside me on the gravel drive. A horse stands harnessed to a black hearse. The animal is dressed in black leather bridles and black silk bunting. Black ostrich plumes spring from his black blinders. The hearse has clear glass windows on all sides, and the coffin sits displayed inside it, piled with greenery and lilies of the valley. Henry’s hand is fast in mine, and we watch the crowd milling on the lawn and Greene Street. The hearse rolls forward and then back with the anxious movement of the horse.
    The group of Negroes on the street has grown. I cannot count them all, but they stand watching and waiting, maybe one hundred of them, maybe more. They fill the street up to the corner, fanning themselves in the sun with palmettos and newspapers and hats. They are waiting for a sign, for a movement—and I have to give it. I lead Henry away from the group of ladies gathered at the corner of the house. Judge watches as we approach.
    Buck is a few steps behind Judge. He is with Mike, who weaves on his feet, obviously drunk. Buck holds Mike’s arm. He looks at me and gives a subtle bow. His face is sad but so handsome. I am glad he cannot see me through my veil. Heat burns my cheeks. Still so handsome. It has been two years since I last saw him. His hair is black with a hint of gray coming in at the temples. He has a long mustache like a cavalryman. Like General Custer. A dashing look. I squeeze Henry’s hand and walk past without a sign. I can feel that hunger, like an itch deep in my belly, dead so long I didn’t think I could feel it again.
    Judge meets me as we near the hearse and scowls at me. “What’s all this about?” he demands.
    “I am going to walk behind the hearse, Judge. It’s my place and my son’s place.” I say it breathlessly. He stands silent. He believes women and children should be hidden in the carriage. He can tell me no. Surely he would not insist with the whole town watching. I have pushed him too much already today.
    “Fine, then. Let’s get on with it.” He walks back and speaks to Buck and Mike. They are all waiting, black and white, men and women, watching me. The breeze presses the veil against my face and shoulders. It flutters against Henry’s arm. I nod at Simon to begin, and he tugs on the horse’s bridle. The horse jerks forward, but Simon’s hand steadies him into a slow, even pace.
    There is a rumble of steps behind us as we enter the street. All of those people like some solemn army marching along, men and women, friends and