Free Orleans by Sherri L. Smith

it’s over and Brother William announce the meal being prepared and we all welcome to stay. He and Sister Henrietta work they way down the aisle, shaking hands and talking to the handful of lost souls they got. I start to think of a story for when they get to me.
    It come soon enough, especially since they both avoid the smuggler, who still be sweating up a storm in his half-worn suit. Sister Henrietta smile all big and tender when she see Baby Girl in my arms.
    “Blessings, sister, and to your little one. Welcome to the House of the Rising Son,” she say, hands clasped in front of her like she be praying with every word. They drop down on the bench beside me and I feel trapped. But they just two little church people—nothing I can’t handle.
    “Sister, you seem tired,” Brother William say. “You are welcome to rest in our House as long as you require. Indeed, if you are in need of a Home, you are welcome to join ours. Sister Henrietta here is quite smitten with young ones, and you would be most welcome, along with your babe.”
    “Never let it be said there was no room at the inn,” Henrietta say with a chuckle that I don’t like, but seem harmless enough.
    “Thanks, but we just stopping for the night. Got people to meet come morning.”
    Brother William nod and rise from the pew. Henrietta be a bit slower to accept. “Are you a freesteader?” she ask me.
    I raise an eyebrow. “Do I look it?” I sound sharper than I should. These people be feeding me and I don’t got to bite they heads off just for asking obvious questions. Then I see her eyes drop down to my arms. She ain’t looking at Baby Girl; she looking at my scars. I tilt my chin up and dare her to say something. She pull her eyes away and clear her throat.
    “My apologies, Sister . . . ?” She wait for my name, but I don’t give it. What can I say? It hard to be nice sometimes.
    “I only ask because we offer care for the little ones, as Brother William implied. I am the nursery attendant. Several of the freesteaders in the area rely on our services with their children. If you find that you are in need . . . Well, please think of us as your friends.”
    I smile then, and it ain’t a nice smile. Anybody in the Delta say they your friend, you best be watching your back when they come ’round.
    “How nice,” I say. “Thanks for your offer, but my chief wouldn’t be too happy with me if I be leaving my baby with strangers. That what the tribe be for.”
    Henrietta sigh and stand up, her pillowcase dress swaying with the movement. “Certainly. Tribe is life,” she say like she heard it before. Probably lots of folks come in for a nap and got to put up with her pushy form of friendship. She ain’t never had a tribe of her own, or she’d know what it be about.
    “Tribe is life,” I agree, and nod. She walk away, and I be left alone waiting for dinner. She got me thinking, though. In Orleans, you either a tribe, a religion, a hunter, or a freesteader. Better a tribe than a religion, but freesteader be as good as free-deader, so you choose second best sometimes. Leastways ’til you figure something else out. And I got to keep reminding myself that I ain’t tribe no more. Least not for the time being. That make me a freesteader ’til I get to Father John. Or maybe a member of the House of the Rising Son.
    I look down at Baby Girl in my arms. She look peaceful. Probably because it so warm in here. “What do you think?” I ask her. Ain’t like she gonna answer, though. She wiggle at the sound of my voice, and I wonder what her mama’d think of me leaving her here. “These folks used to handling babies,” I tell her. Maybe I stay on a little while to make sure it all right, then I make my own way. Lydia want a better life for her daughter. I look around the dim little church. It ain’t paradise, but it be safe above the ground, protected as a church. No blood hunters burning her out of here in the middle of the