The Well and the Mine by Gin Phillips Page A

Lola? Lord knows she’s got plenty young’uns around.”
    I sighed. “She’s a sweet woman. She’s got a good heart.”
    “There’s somethin’ about her, though. Can’t ever tell what that one’s thinkin’. Or Eleanor Lucid—she’s never been quite right. Living like she does with no man or children around. Wouldn’t know what she might do.”
    I stirred while she talked. Charlene never expected much talking back. She kept right on, and I never did understand where she thought Eleanor Lucid could’ve got her hands on a baby, touched in the head or not.
    Anna Laurie Tyler came in when all the pear preserve jars were lined up on the back porch, lids off, cooling. I was starting the figs.
    She looked near tears when she came through the door—she’d come up the back way like she did a few times a week. She was just a’staring at the well when I looked over.
    She felt my eyes on her and looked up. “Up for company?”
    “Come on in and set a spell,” I called back.
    “So this is where he was. It’s a horror—just makes your blood run cold.”
    She seemed to think it must’ve been a girl, Virgie’s age or so, not married. She named a few women’s daughters she thought were the most likely. I put her to work stirring figs while I started scalding more quart jars.
    The Bingham sisters—married, though, so they weren’t really Binghams anymore—came after lunch. Didn’t even sit. They wanted to know if the baby had marks on him, if it looked like he’d been beat. Seemed they thought they’d heard a baby screaming too loudly at the neighbor’s place the week before.
    “Not normal baby hollerin’—sounded different. I told Johnny it made shivers run down my spine,” one of them whispered. “Haven’t seen that baby in days and days.”
    The next one had heard it was two babies. And the one after that thought his head had been missing. Those two helped me lay the paraffin over the preserves.
    Celia stuck her head through the door before the girls and Jack were due home. “Got a porch full of preserves out here,” she called. “And looks like you’ve done gone and pickled yourself along with the cucumbers.”
    I smiled to see her. My apron was splattered with vinegar and fruit juice, my hands flecked with wax. My head felt hot enough that I swore I could feel my brain swelling with the heat. I did feel unsteady, light-headed. “Get yourself in here, Celia.”
    “You get yourself out here. Get some cool air on you.”
    “I ain’t even started supper.”
    “Won’t be startin’ nothin’ if you keel over into the stove.”
    I took off my apron and followed her. The back porch wasn’t as social as the front—it looked out over the trees instead of the road. “Like some tea?” I asked, pausing at the door.
    “Sure would,” she said, but grabbed hold of my arm and steered me outside. “Stay there.” She disappeared, then popped back with two glasses, walking over to the silver pitcher near the well. She pulled back the cloth covering it and poured the tea quickly, without spilling a drop.
    “Need to drink you three or four of these,” she ordered. “Done sweat out all your fluids.” Her dark hair was sleek as ever, curls smooth and tidy tucked into a twist. I’d never seen Celia sweat, even though she could crank the Model T with one hand or snatch up a bale of hay like it was a toddler.
    The tea tasted good. Sweet enough to cut through the layers of fumes and hot air stuck in my throat.
    “Saw all the cluckin’ hens come through here,” she said. “Showin’ Christian concern?”
    I smiled again, nearly chuckled. We were standing right by the well, and all I could think was how much I’d like to pour a bucket of water on my head. Or have a run down to the creek like one of the girls. “Mainly they was namin’ names. So horrified by it they just can’t quit talkin’ about it.”
    Celia finished her tea and pulled out her snuff. It was an awful habit, but she’d done it for