Free Balm by Dolen Perkins-Valdez

“Peeee-cans!” The woman draped a piece of cloth to shield the yard from the dust kicking up from the street.
    Madge thought of how his voice had hushed the clickety-clack inside her. Few things reminded her of home. The comfort of familiarity was that it lacked surprise—teeth biting into something that, whether bitter or sweet or both, made sense. His voice had sidled up to her like an old friend she had not even known she missed.
    When she arrived back at the widow’s house, she saw that Richard had washed down the steps, Olga had put out a salted triangle of ham on the table, and the sun was brightening the darkly painted parlor where Sadie held her sittings.
    M ADGE SAT ON THE STEPS , a fresh plug of tobacco in her jaw. The big man had visited Richard twice that week, and each time she had been inside working. She had determined that the only way to catch up with him was to wait outside. It meant she would have to endure Olga’s sideways looks, but she did not care. She fingered a sack of dried soup herbs inside her dress pocket. She planned to give it to him even if she did feel foolish.
    Thinking about him brought to mind the sisters, how they would disapprove of her waiting on a back step for some man. It was badenough she cleaned up after a white woman. They had taught her about plants so she would never have to sweep a white woman’s steps. It was a rare thing to feel within a person’s depths and know when to use a poultice and when to make a tea. Each week, Madge tried to remain faithful to the gifts granted her, squirreling away what she could in the pantry: sacks of powder, jars of gelatinous muck, crocks of dried leaves, flowers strung together in necklaces. She had planted a garden in the back, and it was finally beginning to produce. The kitchen was like her own personal workroom, but she still needed to get out of the city, be in the presence of the Lord King, prod the earth with a stick. To take off her shoes, feel the cold earth beneath her toes, pick burrs out of her dress, scratch bites at her ankles came as natural as breathing. The city was not a place for a woman who had learned to walk by holding on to branches.
    She’d managed to come by some pokeberry and arrowroot, but most of it wasn’t any good. Picked too early or too late. Missing the roots or the caps. She had done what she could with it, but now the need to get out of the city was urgent. Madge touched her brow and kicked a rock toward the garden. Tomatoes a bright green. Cabbage leaves swollen and yellow. The patch of plantings would barely do for eating, and it would never do for working. She’d mixed in a few things the cook wouldn’t notice, herbs that could pass for weeds.
    When she saw him walking toward her, she quickly spit the tobacco into the grass behind her. She took out the bag of herbs from her pocket.
    â€œI mixed up some soup for you.” She handed him a bag, the crunch of dried leaves between her fingers.
    â€œDeacon.” Richard startled both of them, as he strode up clapping dust off his hands. Madge stood on the top step. Hemp stood on the ground, three steps below, his eyes even with hers.
    â€œDeacon?” she repeated.
    â€œYes, Hemp is a deacon at my church.”
    â€œThat surprise you?” Hemp asked.
    â€œShould it?”
    â€œWhich church you belong to?”
    â€œI don’t belong to nobody.”
    Richard cleared his throat. “Deacon, Miss Madge been looking for somebody to take her out to the country to pick some plants. I figure, seeing as you got time on your hands and all, you could be the one.”
    â€œTime?”
    â€œI tell you how to get there.” Richard ran a hand over his gray streak.
    Hemp turned to Madge. “What kind of plants?”
    â€œI just need to get out there.”
    â€œYou can take the train,” said Richard.
    â€œA train?” Hemp did not want to admit he had never been on one.
    â€œI can