Free Mockingbird by Sean Stewart Page B

where everyone can hear it. And after each woman confesses, the Preacher grabs her chin in one white hand, and with a brand in the other he presses the image of a snake onto her forehead. It doesn’t seem to hurt exactly, but the Little Lost Girl can tell that afterwards many of them are crying. Once a woman is branded, the Preacher waves her over to the tables of food. There are clean clothes over there too, and clean white panties and hose and sturdy shoes.
    Once, not long after Sugar and the little girl get into the church, a pretty, red-haired woman says, “No.” At that the Preacher shakes his head, and asks his question again, and then once more, and each time she says no. The Preacher says, “And if ye not repent, how can ye be saved?” and he sends her away without any food.
    â€œSugar?” the little girl whispers. “What should we do? He won’t give us any food if we say we didn’t go with Mr. Copper. But if we do, we’ll be fibbing.”
    â€œSometimes you have to tell a man what he wants to hear,” Sugar says, a little sadly. “It’s not your fault for telling a lie, then; it’s his fault for hearing it.”
    The Little Lost Girl wasn’t sure what her mother would have said about that, but her mind was made up by the sight of all those candles and all that food, and the thought of the darkness outside, and the men sitting on their porch steps watching her go by.
    When they get to the front of the line the Preacher glares at Sugar. “Daughter, have you climbed into Mr. Copper’s car?”
    â€œWell, hang it all, I must have done,” Sugar says, good and loud, so he won’t make her say it again. Then the Preacher reaches out and grabs her chin with one cold hard hand, and with the other he presses the snake brand into her forehead.
    Then he points at the table and pushes her and the little girl along. He doesn’t even look at them again, like he doesn’t care a lick about Sugar except for getting her confession. The food is wonderful, and the Little Lost Girl is grateful for the clothes, especially the shoes, as she has worn hers about down to strings. Sugar helps the Little Lost Girl load up her plate with cornbread and ribs and black-eyed peas and stewed okra and a big slice of sweet potato pie. Then, when they are done, they go together to a little room at the back of the church to sleep.
    The next morning, when Sugar wakes up, the Little Lost Girl says, “Thank you so much for having me along, but I b’lieve I’ll make my own way from here.”
    â€œWell, if you must,” says Sugar, who doesn’t seem any too broke up about it.
    â€œI don’t think your days are any much easier than mine, and if I’m going to be always walking, maybe I better look for my very own house with the yellow trim and the white picket fence,” the little girl says.
    Then Sugar kisses her on the cheek and gives her a hug and wishes her well, and the Little Lost Girl goes back to walking on her lonesome, where she doesn’t have to care so much about Pierrot and Mr. Copper and the Preacher, and she can just think about getting back to her very own home. And if she hasn’t found it, she’s walking still.
    My mother takes another sip of her Coke.
    â€œIs that the end of the story?”
    â€œNearly,” Momma says. “Not quite.” She reaches over and to my surprise she takes my hand, the one holding my Coke, and brings it to her lips and kisses the back of it, on my knuckles, and lays it against her cheek. “The only other thing to tell is how some time later—I don’t know how long; a few weeks maybe—the Little Lost Girl is out walking in the middle of the night. It’s late, really late, but she’s too scared to fall asleep, she’s back in a bad part of town, so she just keeps walking. Finally she sees a building up ahead that looks empty and she thinks maybe she