The Children's Blizzard(25)

Dropping back into his seat, Gavin rubbed his face with his hands, over and over—the actions of a man just one act shy of the asylum, he realized. Then he began to jiggle his left knee. He was ignited with the need to do something, anything—anything but write a joke. Or tell another lie. He needed to do something true, something heroic. Gavin rose, dropping his pen, scattering the blank pages; he hitched up his pants, filled with purpose.

    But then he saw his reflection in the window—the soft jowls of his face, the expansive gut straining his suspenders to capacity. He plopped back down in his chair, stumped. What on earth could he do?

His only worth lay in his pen and his imagination. And for the life of him, he couldn’t figure out how to use them for anything heroic, not while the storm was still raging.

Christ, he sure could use a snort. Maybe the Lily was still open, for what did a man like Ol’ Lieutenant have to do but keep his doors open for poor sons of bitches with no real use in the world—

Like himself.





CHAPTER 12


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OLLIE TENNANT, COATED IN SNOW, his long lashes beaded with ice, pushed the door open to the little storefront where his children attended school. He nearly fell inside, given a mighty shove by the bullying wind.

He had to take a few minutes to catch his breath, let his lungs expand in the dry, marginally warmer air, blink his glazed eyes until he could see again. The journey to the north side of town from the Lily, even for a giant of a man like him, had taken its toll. He’d never lost his way, but for damn sure, the storm had played every trick it could on him, obscuring street crossings, muffling the sound of horses and wagons, tickling up the back of his coat with its icy fingers, kicking at him from all sides so that he had to inch his way, holding on to every available hitching post, streetlamp, street sign, and doorway.

But he’d made it, and now he was aware that he was being gaped at by a handful of children, including the two who resembled him and bore his last name. And by a young white woman who was cowering in a far corner, away from the colored children; she seemed to press herself into the very wall, her eyes wide with horror, as she registered his presence.

    Finally his two children broke into a grin and shouted joyfully, “Papa!” as they ran to pull him farther into the room, closer to the small potbellied stove that radiated some heat.

“Papa! You’ve come!”

“Hasn’t anybody else?” Ollie’s coat and gloves began to thaw, dripping water on the floor; he went over to the row of empty pegs—the children all had on their coats and scarves or jackets and shawls—and hung up his ponderous coat. Returning to the stove, rubbing his hands together, he counted the children—there were six, including his own. Plus the teacher.

“Grayson’s papa came and got him and his sister and then Jenny and Charles went home because they live down the street but the rest of us stayed put even though Teacher told us we could leave if we wanted to but we didn’t and now you’re here!” Little Francis, Ollie’s boy of nine, finally paused to take a breath. Ollie rubbed his son’s head and tugged gently on his ear, his sign to tell him to be quiet for now. Francis was well known for his ability to produce great quantities of speech on very little air.

“Teacher said that you could leave? In this weather?” Ollie looked at his daughter, Melissa, aged eleven. She nodded, her braids—curling up at the ends like little smiles—providing an emphasis.

“Miss?” Ollie, remembering his manners, took off his hat, shook out the melting snow. He took a step toward the schoolteacher—he had no idea what her name was, that was his wife’s department—but stopped when she cowered farther into the corner of the room where she seemed to have set up camp.

    She was a very young woman. A girl, barely more. Slight, no figure yet, but attired in women’s clothing—a long green skirt, black belt, white shirtwaist with a cameo at the throat, and a big paisley shawl clutched tightly about her shoulders. Her eyes were wide with fear, and they only grew bigger with each step he took toward her. So Ollie—recognizing her behavior, for he encountered it too often, the behavior of a white woman terrified to be in such proximity to a colored man—instinctively gentled his voice and his movement. He must not give her any reason to fear him, because who knew what she would do or say? He had seen other men’s lives ruined—or ended, swinging from a tree—because they had not read the signs, not until too late.

It was almost like dealing with a wounded animal, Ollie sometimes thought. You had to understand the mind of a creature, you had to anticipate its movements, and its fear. You had to know when to back off, when to duck your head, cross to the other side of the street, avert your eyes.

“Miss—” Ollie turned to his son and hissed, “What’s her name?”

“Miss Carson!” Francis said too loudly, and Ollie winced.

“I’m sorry, Miss Carson, is it? I’m Mr. Tennant. Francis and Melissa’s father. How are you all doing? Have the children eaten their lunch? Have you had anything to eat?”

“Stay away from me,” Miss Carson said in a choked voice; she drew her knees up against her chest, pressing herself even farther against the wall, although Ollie hadn’t thought that was possible. “I don’t know—it’s so awful outside—don’t take one more step toward me, you—you—”