Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(20)
Despite his advancing age and declining health, Maguire was still one of the most powerful men in Georgia. He could’ve been governor or senator if he’d wanted, but he wasn’t the kind of man who ran for public office; he was the kind of man who chose those who did. May had read enough of the official news and heard enough whispers to know that what Maguire didn’t outright own, he damned sure felt no qualms about stealing.
The younger man could only be his son, Sterling. Sterling was a tall fellow, pink and lean, with hair as light as corn silk. She’d only laid eyes on him once before, and then it had been from a distance. Up close, she could see he was a good-looking boy for his type, but something about him was off. A wolf in sheep’s clothing, the words came to May’s mind. Sterling had inherited his father’s sharp cold eyes. Something about the way those eyes took her in reminded her of last night, when those bright beams had illuminated her at the edge of the woods. May began to tremble.
Porter, who had been making a beeline toward the occupied table, slowed and looked over his shoulder, his hand fluttering to signal she should come forward. May did as he bade her. “This is her,” Porter said.
“Why, yes, indeed it is,” the elder Maguire said with a broad smile. “I knew your mama, Tuesday, well, my dear.” May forced herself not to react. The day of her mama’s funeral, Miriam had suggested the younger Maguire might have come to engage her mama’s assistance, but this was the first she’d heard for sure there was a connection between her mama and this man. Maguire reached up and adjusted his wire-frame spectacles. “And you are a picture-perfect copy of her.” He let out a laugh, but it came from his chest, not his belly where any good laugh should come from. “Yes, I knew Mother Tuesday well.” He paused. “Or as well as I reckon anyone could. As a matter of fact, our two families go way back,” he said, shaking his head and casting a satisfied glance at his son before returning his focus to May. “You do know, don’t you? My people used to own yours.” The words hung there between them.
May’s mouth went dry as her lips trembled but failed to find the words. Her entire body shook with the effort. “Pardon me, sir—” her voice came out sounding odd to her own ears, like a voice from a scratchy recording, “—but that was a long time ago.”
“Oh, not so long ago, really, May. Not in the grand scheme.” His expression softened and his focus fell to an invisible point between them, almost like he was remembering the slave times with a fond heart.
In her own mind’s eye, she saw herself grasping a knife and running it across this man’s throat in one quick deep slash, sending a shower of his life’s blood all over the white tablecloth and Venetian-red carpeting. The image had come unbidden, and she wished she could say it horrified her. But it lingered, and she didn’t feel horrified. She turned it around in her mind like she might turn a smooth pebble in her hand before sending it skimming across a pond’s surface. No, she felt no horror. What she felt was soiled, corrupted. This man, his words, his actions, his very thoughts, they were an infectious disease, and he was a malevolent carrier who sought to poison all those around him.
May managed to push the image of Maguire’s pale corpse from her mind, praying to be cleansed of the taint this man had put on her soul. She forced herself to stifle her rage. Not for the first time, and she knew not for the last one either, but she felt this might possibly be the most trying attempt she’d ever need face. May nodded and lowered her eyes, not daring to let her gaze meet his.
He motioned toward a chair across the table from him. “Sit,” he said. “Join me. Would you like some coffee? Shall I have Porter here fetch you a cup?” May’s eyes flashed at her boss, who looked as shocked as she felt—and full of quiet rage, besides. Maguire seemed to take note of his resentment. “You know that is the origin of your name, don’t you, son? Porter? One might even say you were born to fetch for your betters.”
“Oh, no, sir!” May said, astonished. “I could never . . .” She paused, hoping to find a tone that would avoid offending Mr. Maguire, but still placate her boss. “This beautiful room is for gracious white folk such as yourself.” She forced the biggest possible smile. “And Mr. Porter,” she tossed a quick glance in his direction, “he’s my boss, sir. I couldn’t let him go fetching anything for me. It wouldn’t be fitting. I know my place . . .” Her words died in the air, cut off by a twinge of the same anger she’d felt the night before. Why shouldn’t she sit here? Why shouldn’t she let that white boy who wasn’t half her age and who never did a lick of real work bring her coffee?
She caught herself, but it was too late; Maguire had picked up on her thoughts, had read them in her eyes maybe. A tight smile curled on his lips. “I insist.” He motioned again with his hand toward the empty chair. “Sit.”
May felt her knees weaken. She certainly could bear sitting down, but somehow she knew this was a trap.
“But Mr. Maguire,” Porter began, protesting for her. “We can’t have a colored sitting in here. It just isn’t done. This is a whites-only establishment.” May wondered at the pride she heard in his voice as he made this pronouncement. “Always has been, always will be. I’m afraid I cannot allow it.”
“You”—Maguire turned the word into a barb—cannot allow it?” Maguire tilted back in his chair and laughed. This time his laugh came from his belly. “If I say the woman sits, she sits. Afterwards, you can buy a new chair. You can buy a new table. You can burn this whole goddamned hotel to the ground and build it anew. And you can send me the bill, but by God, you’d better never contradict me again. You hear?”