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The Known World - Edward P. Jones [72]

By Root 1646 0
lightning earlier in the day but now there was only rain, falling on the porch, tapping the window, watering the plants in the garden that had gone so long without. “Let me, if that be fine with you,” and he gently worked through her hair. When the brush had done its work, he reached around without asking permission and took the comb, which had been resting in the very center of her lap. There were a few strands of hair in the comb and he took them out and they took their own time falling to the floor. She leaned back in the chair and closed her eyes, thinking, Yo sister got nothin on you. He spent an hour on it, brushing and combing and applying a little sweet oil, and before he was done, she had fallen asleep, which was unusual for her because she always said the bed was the only place where her body could sleep. She awoke hours later to find Ralph gone and her hair in plaits, soft to her fingers, callused and bony. She called his name, once and once again, and when she saw the candle, dancing with a feeble light, and became aware of a silence that seemed to have a kind of voice, she thought there was something wrong in calling him like that and so closed her mouth. She sighed and leaned back in the chair. She soon fell asleep again and stayed much of the night in the chair. The rain went on for another two days and he did her hair each of those days but never again after that. “That should do, Ralph,” she said that final time. “That will do for now.” “Yessum.”

As they drank their coffee, Clara said again to Skiffington, “I’d like you to talk to him.”

“Now what would I say to him, Clara?” Skiffington said.

“I don’t know. Somethin sheriff like. Somethin a sheriff would say to a miscreant. A possible miscreant. ‘I have my eyes on you, you possible miscreant.’ ”

Winifred laughed. She had been drinking coffee at that moment and now set the cup on the tiny table beside her. The laughter came from what Clara had said but also because the word miscreant reminded her of school days and spelling tests in Philadelphia. Her husband had been sheriff for about a year. He called her “Mrs. Skiffington,” and she called him “Mr. Skiffington,” except when he had displeased her or made her unhappy, and then he was “John” for days and days.

“It is all so very serious, John,” Clara said. “It really is. You have no servants to speak of, only a child you have raised. But Ralph is not a child, and the world is changing from once upon a time.”

“But you’ve known him for a very long time, haven’t you?” Skiffington said.

Winifred turned to Skiffington. “Since before God sent the flood to Noah, probably.”

Clara said, “Time has no meaning anymore, Winnie. Loyalty either. The world is turning upside down.”

“Has he said something to you to make you afraid?” Skiffington said. “Something,” and he winked at his wife, “something I could arrest him on.”

“No, no, Lord no. There is just . . . ,” and Clara held her hand out before her and fanned it a few times. “There is just the miasma. The miasma he and I have.”

Winifred thought: “M-I-A-S-M-A.”

“What is that?” Skiffington asked. “What is that word?” It certainly wasn’t one he had ever come across in the Bible.

“It’s the air, Mr. Skiffington,” Winifred said, then tapped her forefinger to her closed lips as she fought with her memory for a better meaning. “It’s the atmosphere. It’s the air.”

“Bad air,” Clara said. “Bad air.”

“I’ll go out to talk with him before I leave,” Skiffington said.

“What will you say?” Clara said. “Don’t say anything to hurt his feelings. Please don’t say anything mean, John.”

“Clara, either he is a miscreant or he isn’t. I don’t know what I’ll say. None of it will come to me until I’m standing before him. But it won’t be anything harsh because I think he’s a good servant, and I have to tell you that or I wouldn’t be honest with you. He’s served you all these years and he will go on serving you, despite all the foolishness you hear from somewhere else.”

Clara sighed. “A half a loaf is better than nothin.”

“A slice of bread is better than nothing,” Winifred said.

After

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