still shook from her encounter with the foreman, she began to
prepare a spell for revenge.
54
My Reaper’s Daughter
A few hundred yards away, Mystery sat upon one of the twin beds Mr. Simmons
had provided for her and Valda and watched her little girl playing with her doll. The
child was dressed in a soft cotton nightgown, sitting tailor fashion on a blanket, her bare
little toes peeking from beneath the hem.
“What are you and Angie talking about?” Mystery asked her daughter.
Valda didn’t look around at her mother. “Angie doesn’t like it here,” the child said,
brushing the doll’s long black hair, “and I’m telling her she’ll get used to it.”
Mystery’s heart ached. The room was as clean as she and two of her sisters-in-law
could make it, but it was depressingly small with two small windows opposite one
another for air circulation, a small wood stove, a large porcelain basin for bathing and
chamber pot tucked into a small cabinet with a wooden seat. Other than the twin iron
beds, there was a small table with two chairs and an empty bookcase. Light came from
three oil lamps scattered about the bare-floored room.
“I know it ain’t what you’re used to, petite ,” Monique, Colton’s wife, had told her.
“But it is all that is available right now.”
“It will do,” Mystery had replied. Any roof over their heads was better than none,
and since Mr. Simmons wasn’t charging her for the room and would pay her a small
pittance for a salary, she hoped to save what she could—augment it with monies she
could get from sewing—and hopefully buy a small cabin of her own in the village.
But the walls were closing in on her and her heart was breaking as she realized she
had even less now than her own mother had when she and Mystery’s father had Joined.
What furniture and belongings Odell and she had during their marriage had been sold
just to pay her and Valda’s passage home and to give them a little something for food
along the way. She had come home to Charlestown with little more than the clothes on
her back and a portmanteau of outfits she’d made for her daughter.
“Mama, why are you crying?”
Mystery looked up, swiping at the tears that she realized were rolling down her
cheeks. She tried to smile but there were no smiles left in her.
“You were thinking about Daddy, weren’t you?” Valda asked.
Able only to nod, Mystery held her arms out to her child. “Come here, sweetheart,”
she asked.
Valda lay her doll aside and came to her mother, putting her little arms around
Mystery’s neck and crawled into her lap. “I wish Glynnie was here, don’t you, Mama?”
At the mention of the handsome Reaper, Mystery’s heart clenched in her chest.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I really do.”
“Maybe he’ll come visit,” her child said, and lay her head on her mother’s shoulder.
“Maybe so,” she agreed.
They sat like that for a few moments with Mystery rocking her little girl, humming
to her, then Valda raised her head.
“Mama, tell me a story.”
55
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Mystery smiled. “Okay.” She scooted up in the uncomfortable bed so she could lean
against its iron headboard, Valda moving with her then snuggling close under her
mother’s arm. “What story do you want to hear?”
“About the princess and the prince,” Valda said. “Where he kisses her awake after
the evil witch put her to sleep.”
Reclining there with her daughter beside her, Mystery forced her mind from the
cramped little room where there was less than eighteen inches between the two beds.
She would not look at the chipped porcelain basin or the scarred table and rickety
chairs, the dented coffee pot sitting on the wood heater or the bare floor over which a
palmetto bug slowly crawled.
“Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess…” she began.
An hour later, Mystery eased from the bed, lifted Valda and carried the child to her
own where she
prepare a spell for revenge.
54
My Reaper’s Daughter
A few hundred yards away, Mystery sat upon one of the twin beds Mr. Simmons
had provided for her and Valda and watched her little girl playing with her doll. The
child was dressed in a soft cotton nightgown, sitting tailor fashion on a blanket, her bare
little toes peeking from beneath the hem.
“What are you and Angie talking about?” Mystery asked her daughter.
Valda didn’t look around at her mother. “Angie doesn’t like it here,” the child said,
brushing the doll’s long black hair, “and I’m telling her she’ll get used to it.”
Mystery’s heart ached. The room was as clean as she and two of her sisters-in-law
could make it, but it was depressingly small with two small windows opposite one
another for air circulation, a small wood stove, a large porcelain basin for bathing and
chamber pot tucked into a small cabinet with a wooden seat. Other than the twin iron
beds, there was a small table with two chairs and an empty bookcase. Light came from
three oil lamps scattered about the bare-floored room.
“I know it ain’t what you’re used to, petite ,” Monique, Colton’s wife, had told her.
“But it is all that is available right now.”
“It will do,” Mystery had replied. Any roof over their heads was better than none,
and since Mr. Simmons wasn’t charging her for the room and would pay her a small
pittance for a salary, she hoped to save what she could—augment it with monies she
could get from sewing—and hopefully buy a small cabin of her own in the village.
But the walls were closing in on her and her heart was breaking as she realized she
had even less now than her own mother had when she and Mystery’s father had Joined.
What furniture and belongings Odell and she had during their marriage had been sold
just to pay her and Valda’s passage home and to give them a little something for food
along the way. She had come home to Charlestown with little more than the clothes on
her back and a portmanteau of outfits she’d made for her daughter.
“Mama, why are you crying?”
Mystery looked up, swiping at the tears that she realized were rolling down her
cheeks. She tried to smile but there were no smiles left in her.
“You were thinking about Daddy, weren’t you?” Valda asked.
Able only to nod, Mystery held her arms out to her child. “Come here, sweetheart,”
she asked.
Valda lay her doll aside and came to her mother, putting her little arms around
Mystery’s neck and crawled into her lap. “I wish Glynnie was here, don’t you, Mama?”
At the mention of the handsome Reaper, Mystery’s heart clenched in her chest.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Yes, I really do.”
“Maybe he’ll come visit,” her child said, and lay her head on her mother’s shoulder.
“Maybe so,” she agreed.
They sat like that for a few moments with Mystery rocking her little girl, humming
to her, then Valda raised her head.
“Mama, tell me a story.”
55
Charlotte Boyett-Compo
Mystery smiled. “Okay.” She scooted up in the uncomfortable bed so she could lean
against its iron headboard, Valda moving with her then snuggling close under her
mother’s arm. “What story do you want to hear?”
“About the princess and the prince,” Valda said. “Where he kisses her awake after
the evil witch put her to sleep.”
Reclining there with her daughter beside her, Mystery forced her mind from the
cramped little room where there was less than eighteen inches between the two beds.
She would not look at the chipped porcelain basin or the scarred table and rickety
chairs, the dented coffee pot sitting on the wood heater or the bare floor over which a
palmetto bug slowly crawled.
“Once upon a time there was a beautiful princess…” she began.
An hour later, Mystery eased from the bed, lifted Valda and carried the child to her
own where she
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