Chapter 39
BETHIE’S EYES, so much like her uncle’s, narrowed. “You do know how to shoot, don’t you, Mrs. Dunham?”
Josephine looked down at her plate. Her first inclination was to say she was born and raised in Atlanta, Georgia, not the wild, wild west. But she couldn’t say that without revealing more than desired.
“No. In fact, I do not know how to shoot. I’ve never had opportunity to learn, so have not acquired that particular skill. ”
“But Uncle Dodge says all women ought to know how to shoot. Ain’t that right, Uncle Dodge?”
“Isn’t that right.” He nodded. “And yes, that is what I say. I believe every woman should know how to defend herself . . . should the situation arise.”
Keenly aware of the lingering physical reminders of Clay Darden, Josephine knew what Dodge was thinking—that she’d already been in just such a situation and hadn’t been able to defend herself.
Likely, Bethie and Calla were thinking the same.
“I’m not saying that using a gun for self-defense is wrong, Dodge. I simply—”
“So you’ve never shot a gun before?” Bethie asked, an almost hopeful quality slipping into her voice.
Reading a similar question in Dodge’s expression, Josephine placed her fork by her plate. “No, I have never shot a gun.”
Bethie stared. “No birthing cows? No shooting a gun? For being a teacher, you sure seem to have a lot left to learn, Mrs. Dunham.” Not a trace of sarcasm laced the girl’s voice.
Bethie leaned over and whispered something to Dodge, and the edges of his mouth pushed into a reluctant smile. Josephine was certain the child was finding pleasure in her lack of experience.
When Bethie straightened, a mischievous gleam lit her eyes. “Mrs. Dunham, I’m inviting you to go shooting with me and my Uncle Dodge this Sunday afternoon.”
Caught off guard by the girl’s invitation, Josephine clearly saw it for what it was. A chance to show her up. To put her in her place, as it were. And yet . . .
Before the suffragist rally, before her life had changed so drastically, she had tried—despite her doubts—to embrace the virtues of peaceful protest over aggression while citing Miss Anthony’s unwavering “Firm, not forceful” stance.
She’d read all about Miss Anthony famously voting illegally in 1872 then being arrested for it, found guilty, and yet refusing to pay the fine.
Miss Anthony’s act of civil disobedience had been intentional, peaceful, and designed to challenge the absurdity of unjust laws through public scrutiny, not through force.
But remembering Clay Darden dragging her into the alley and recalling what she’d done, Josephine knew that if that brick had been a gun, she would have used it. If she’d known how.
“I appreciate the invitation, Bethie. And gladly accept.” She read pleasure in the girl’s expression. “But I’m counting on you to teach me. To show me how it’s done.”
Bethie grinned. “Oh don’t you worry, Mrs. Dunham. I will.”
The next morning, Josephine awakened before dawn to the sound of crying. She’d gone to bed late after washing and drying all the dishes, pots and pans, and putting everything away. By the time she had fallen into bed, Calla had been asleep. But clearly wasn’t anymore.
Josephine slipped from her cot and padded across the cool wooden floor to where Calla lay facing the wall. Moonlight shone pale and silvery through the thin curtain covering the window.
“Calla,” she whispered, gently touching her shoulder. “Can we please talk about what happened?”
Calla’s hand covered hers. “I’m gonna tell her,” she said quickly. “I promise I will. I just need time to find another place, ’cause she gonna throw me out for sure.”
“That’s not what I meant. I was going to say that I’m so sorry for whatever happened that caused you to start drinking. And I won’t tell Miss Mary, I promise. But please, I want to help you if I can.”
Calla gradually turned over, wiping her eyes, the faint scent of soured whiskey on her breath. “You a kind woman, Josephine. But there ain’t nothing you or anybody else can do. ’Less you can bring back the dead.”
Josephine’s heart squeezed tight, having wondered if that was it. “Who was it you lost, Calla?”
“Oh they aren’t lost. I know right where my husband and son are, both of them. They’re with Jesus, but that almost makes it worse. That the Lord just stood by and let it happen when he could’ve stopped that wagon from going over.”
Josephine held tightly to Calla’s hand as her own chest ached. “How long ago did it happen?” she whispered.
“Four years back now. The world just went right on spinning but every day, especially at night when the darkness moves in close like, I’m back in that field, trying with everything in me to pull them both from underneath that wagon.
But I can’t. Just like I couldn’t that day four years ago.
” She covered her face with her hands. “They say the axle snapped clean through, then the mules must’ve spooked.
Wagon, loaded full, rolled on top of them both.
By the time I found them, there weren’t no life left in either of their bodies.
Trouble is, they took my life with them, Josephine.
I’d give anything if I could’ve died that day, too.
I’ve asked the Lord Jesus to take me. But he won’t.
I’ve even had the thought to—” She shook her head. “I can’t even say the words.”
But she didn’t have to. And Josephine wept with her. She laid her head beside Calla’s on the pillow, and for the longest time, neither of them spoke.
Finally, Calla sighed. “I tried everything I know to stop the drinking and ain’t nothing worked. I’m gonna lose my place here ’long with the only shred of family I got left in this world.”
Josephine squeezed her hand. “You’re not going to lose your place here, Calla. Miss Mary loves you, that’s plain to see.”
“You ain’t seen her when she finds out a tenant been drinking in her home.
She takes their belongings and casts it all to the street!
Only day she allows a touch of liquor is on Christmas.
In the eggnog. But every other day—” She made a slashing gesture in the air with her hand. “You gone in no time.”
Josephine wanted to reassure Calla that Miss Mary wouldn’t cast her out. That she would give her another chance. But she honestly didn’t know. Just like she didn’t know whether Miss Mary would send her packing once she discovered the chapter Josephine hoped no one would ever read.