Before We Were Yours(13)

He locks eyes with Briny and shakes his head a little. “Queenie girl, we’re gonna git you offa the boat, ya hear me? Gotta carry you on down to the hospital in the Jenny. Be a rough trip, across-water. You be a brassy gal fer me now, ya hear?”

He helps Briny lift her from the floor, and her screams tear the night like the women shredding funeral veils down in New Orleans. She goes limp in Briny’s arms before they can even get her in the boat.

“Hold her now,” Zede tells Briny, and then he looks at me and points the crooked finger that was broke in the Spanish War. “You take the young’uns in the shantyhouse, and you git ’em all to bed, sis. Stay inside. I’ll hist on back ’ere, ’fore mornin’ if’n the storm holds off, but if’n it don’t, the Lizzy Mae’s tied up downwater just a bit. Yer skiff’s there. Got a boy on the Lizzy with me. He’s a rough looker just now—tried hoboin’ the train, and the railroad bulls got after ’im. He won’t hurt you none, though. Told ’im to row on up here come mornin’ if’n he didn’t hear elsewise from me.”

He cranks the Waterwitch motor, and it rumbles to life, and I stare at the sludge churning in the lantern’s glow. I don’t want to see Queenie’s eyes closed and her mouth hanging slack that way.

Camellia casts off the line, and it lands neatly in the jon boat’s bow.

Zede points a finger Camellia’s way. “You mind yer sister, li’l spitter. You don’t do nothin’ without askin’ Rill first. You savvy?”

Camellia’s nose scrunches up so tight the freckles on her cheeks run together.

“You savvy?” Zede asks again. He knows which one of us is most likely to wander off and roust up trouble.

“Mellia!” Briny’s clouds clear a minute.

“Yessir,” she agrees, but she ain’t happy about it.

Briny turns to me then, but it’s like he’s begging me, not telling me. “You watch over the babies, Rill. Keep care of everybody, till we get back—Queenie and me.”

“We’ll be good. I promise. I’ll look after everybody. We won’t go nowhere.”

Zede turns the tiller handle and cranks up the throttle, and the Waterwitch carries my mama away into the dark. All five of us hurry to the rail and stand there side by side, watching until the blackness swallows the Jenny whole. We listen while the hull slaps over whitecaps, rising and falling, the kicker roaring and quieting and roaring again. Its voice gets a little farther away each time. Off in the distance, the tugs blow their foghorns. A boatswain’s whistle sounds. A dog yaps.

The night turns quiet.

Fern wraps around my leg like a monkey, and Gabby wanders inside the cabin with Lark because she’s his favorite. Finally, there’s nothing more to do but go in the shanty and figure out how we’re gonna eat. All we’ve got is the one cornpone cake and some pears Briny traded for over in Wilson, Arkansas, where we stayed three months and went to school until it let out for summer. By then, Briny had the itchy feet again. He was ready to take to the water.

Any normal time, he’d never bring us to shore nearby a big city like Memphis, but Queenie’d been complaining of cramps since day before yesterday. Even though it was sooner than she figured it should be, after five babies, she knew we’d better tie up the boat and stay put.

Inside the Arcadia now, everyone’s whiny, and worried, and hot, and cranky. Camellia complains because I’ve shut the door instead of just the screen, and it’s sticky hot, even with the windows open.

“Hush up,” I hiss, and get the dinner ready, and we sit in a circle on the floor, all five of us, because it doesn’t seem right to be at the table with two spots empty at the end.

“I ’ungee.” Gabion’s lip pooches out after his food is gone. He eats faster than a stray cat.

I tear off a scrap of my cornpone slice and twirl it close to his mouth. “You gobbled yours up too quick.” He opens up like a bird every time I get near, and finally I pop the bite in.

“Mmmmm,” he says, and rubs his tummy.

Fern plays the game with him, and so does Lark. By the time it’s all over, Gabby’s gotten most of the food. Except Camellia’s, because she eats all of hers.

“I’ll run the trotlines in the mornin’,” she says, like that makes up for her selfish streak.

“Zede told us to stay put,” I say.

“When Zede gets back. Or the boy comes. Then I’ll do it.”

She can’t run the trotline by herself, and she knows it. “The skiff ain’t even here. Briny rowed it down to Zede’s boat.”

“It will be tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow, Briny’ll be back. And Queenie with the babies.”

We look at each other then—just Camellia and me. I feel Lark and Fern watching us, but it’s only us two that understand enough to share the worry. Camellia looks toward the door, and so do I. We both know that nobody’s gonna walk through it tonight. We’ve never stayed alone in the dark before. There’s always been Queenie, even when Briny was gone hunting, or hustling pool halls, or gigging frogs.

Gabion topples over onto Queenie’s braided rug, his eyes closed, long sandy-brown lashes touching his cheeks. I still need to get a diaper on him for overnight, but I’ll do it after he’s out cold, just like Queenie does. Now that Gabby’s using the potty during the day, he gets mad if we come at him with a diaper.