Free Caleb by Charles Alverson

this seating arrangement as a pretty good tactic, as it meant that he would have to talk to SallyAnne. But he also saw that Martha had made a rare mistake by putting SallyAnne at his side. Full face, with her high cheekbones and vivid color, SallyAnne was pretty enough. But in profile, her slightly hooked nose made her look a bit like a young turkey. Jardine suspected that if she ever stopped smiling—which she hadn’t yet—she would look like a very depressed young turkey.
    When Jardine had arrived earlier that day, Martha Bentley had looked searchingly at his left sleeve. Oh, damn. He realized that he’d left his black armband on the bureau in his dressing room. Not that he cared whether Mrs. Bentley thought he was making enough display of mourning Nancy. If he’d cared enough about her opinion, he might have reminded her that true grief was in the heart, not on the sleeve. But the armband might have been a useful barrier between himself and SallyAnne, who was now leaning toward Jardine and giving him a good look at her slightly freckled cleavage.
    “I believe you live not very far from here, Mr. Jardine,” she said.
    He allowed that he had a small place on the other side of the turnpike and had to suggest that she might like to come over for a visit while she was in the neighborhood.
    “Oh, I’d love that,” she said. “What do you grow?”
    “Cotton, Miss Carter,” he said. “That’s mostly all people in these parts grow. There are a few putting in some acreage of tobacco these days, but I don’t think it’s got any future. This always was cotton country and always will be.” Jardine was nearly boring himself into a coma.
    “How’s the boy, Jardine?” Doc Hollander called from the other end of the table, saving Jardine.
    “Just fine, Doctor,” Jardine called. “Getting bigger every day. Soon I’ll have to get him out in the field behind a plow.”
    “Give him a few more months,” said the doctor good-naturedly. “I’ll get over to see him one of these days.”
    “You do that.”
    In truth, as much as Jardine loved the boy, he couldn’t yet see him without feeling a stab of fresh grief at the loss of Nancy. The price he’d paid for a son was too high. Not that he’d been allowed to forget him. Dulcie was always coming to Jardine with little reports about how he was getting along with Sukey. You could sum these reports up with two words: all right. He’d lost that yellow color, gained some weight, and—according to Dulcie—was a good eater and a fair to middling sleeper.
    “Oh, Mr. Jardine,” SallyAnne asked, “how old is your baby?”
    “Four months soon,” Jardine said.
    “How precious! And what’s he called?”
    “Boyd, I suppose,” Jardine said. “Like me.” Realizing how strange and offhand that sounded, he added quickly, “He hasn’t got an official name yet.”
    “We’ll have to take care of that soon, Mr. Jardine,” said Pastor Buchanan, the Baptist minister, from across the table.
    “We surely will, Pastor,” Jardine said.
    After lunch, while a croquet match was raging, Martha Bentley trapped Jardine in the gazebo.
    “Oh, Boyd,” she said, “I understand you’ve got a new slave. Someone said it was a girl.”
    “Yes, ma’am,” Jardine replied coolly. “I bought her over in Lynche’s Landing last month. My man Caleb has been getting a bit lonely, and I think maybe I’ve found a wife for him.”
    “Caleb,” said Mrs. Bentley thoughtfully. “I’ve heard quite a bit about that darkie. When are we going to get a look at him?”
    “And his bride!” laughed Rafe Bentley, who had just walked in.
    “Why, next Friday, ma’am,” Jardine said. “That is, if you and your company will accept my invitation to visit Three Rivers.”

21
    That night at Three Rivers, Caleb was in his room reading by the oil lamp when he heard soft tapping at his door. Marking his place with a bit of paper, he got up and opened the door.
    It was Missy. She stood in the hall