Free Three Rivers by Tiffany Quay Tyson Page B

“Don’t ask questions for which there are no answers, son. Curiosity kills more than cats.”
    â€œWhere should we go?”
    Pisa stroked her chin, touched a mole on the right side of her face and plucked at the wiry hairs that sprouted there. “I know a place. Let me draw you a map.”

 
    Chapter Nine
    Geneva had a thirst for prophecy, even as a child. Sometimes, when the preacher of her childhood was droning on over a particularly dry bit of scripture, Geneva would play a game. She would open her Bible at random, close her eyes, and let her index finger travel down the cool, onionskin pages until she felt compelled to stop. Then she tried to read the future from whatever verse she’d found. It was at least as accurate as her horoscope in the newspaper and far more interesting. In Geneva’s experience, damnation lurked everywhere. Even now, in the cool morning air as she squatted and peed between rows of young cotton, she was overcome with a strong sense that things might go to hell at any second.
    *   *   *
    â€œLet’s get moving,” she said to the woman who was shaking out the wool blanket. She might as well have spoken to one of the cotton bolls for all the reaction she got. These women, the guides, seemed to delight in being as abstract and mysterious as possible. And unhurried. Not one of them ever seemed to hurry, no matter how badly Geneva needed to see Pisa. She’d never been more desperate than today, but to admit that might just inspire this woman to waste the better part of the day walking Geneva in circles across the Delta.
    â€œI know, I know,” Geneva said. “In time.”
    â€œThat’s right.” The woman stuffed the blanket into a satchel. “Patience is a virtue.”
    â€œIf only I gave a damn about virtue,” Geneva muttered.
    The woman turned her back to Geneva and lifted one hand into the air. She looked like she was testing the direction of the wind. “Be like the river,” she said.
    Geneva stared at the woman’s back, waiting. Surely there was more to her advice than that. When Geneva was convinced the woman had turned to stone, she swung around and pointed an accusing finger. “Rivers know this: There is no hurry. We shall get there someday.”
    She was quoting someone, obviously, but Geneva wasn’t sure if the quote was biblical or historical or literary. Frankly, she didn’t care. As long as someday was today, she would flow along.
    She followed the woman across the cotton field and through a patch of thick forest. It was familiar and strange at once. Soon enough, they emerged from the trees and Geneva spotted the familiar house. The river flows on, she thought. I am the river. She was a solid fifty yards from the house when she saw Pisa step out onto the front porch. The woman never changed. Geneva would recognize that squat, sturdy body, the long dark braid, the flowing dress from a million miles away. She was the same at thirty as at fifty. She’d be the same at 110 and Geneva figured she’d live that long. Pisa’s hands moved like playful birds when she spoke. She spoke now to a man and a small child, who followed her onto the porch. Geneva had never seen men in that house. It was a female place, full of female energy.
    The woman leading Geneva stopped and put an arm out like a barrier. “Let’s wait.”
    Geneva resisted the urge to tell her that rivers might slow, but they didn’t wait. She watched Pisa hand the man a package, then kneel to hug the child. She helped the child into the passenger seat of a dusty gray hatchback. The man climbed in behind the wheel. The car pulled away and Pisa stood watching until the dust trail behind it settled. When the car disappeared, Pisa’s shoulders sagged and she walked back into the house. Pisa had never looked less powerful. Maybe coming here was a mistake. Maybe Pisa was just an ordinary woman, prone to