The Rebel Wife by Taylor M. Polites

Judge. She smiles, almost winking at him. She must have been a coy flirt in her youth. Judge is discomfited and takes unwilling steps toward her. He takes her hand and leans over it, placing cold lips against her papery skin.
    “There, now,” she says with almost a sigh. “That wasn’t so bad, was it?” She laughs out loud again. “The Heppert men are always so courtly.”
    “And the Tunstall women are rightly known for keeping their beauty.” Though Judge does not smile, Bama is undeterred.
    “You must call on me, Judge. Imagine the compliments we could exchange!”
    Judge blushes again and looks at his shoes. Bama knows how to render a man speechless. She gives Judge a wide smile as if trying to expose the gap in her teeth and the ashen color of her gumline.
    “Well, Gus,” she says, turning to me, “I’m sure you and your cousin have much to discuss. I’ll leave you. And remember,” she goes on, taking my hand and looking into my eyes, “you’re very beautiful. You’ll have whatever you want. But take a trip. Come to Monte Sano. I hear the fever has already started—as I thought it would. This infernal heat.”
    “The fever?”
    Bama smiles and narrows her eyes. “The yellow fever. Nothing to worry about just yet as long as old Greer is doing his job!” She stomps her umbrella twice on the floor. “I’ll come again soon. And I’ll bring reinforcements with me next time!” She waves the umbrella like a standard-bearer on a charge. She gives a quick nod to Judge and a coquette’s wistful laugh. “I hope to see you again very soon, Judge.”
    Her coachman, sitting in the sweltering heat, hops down to take her to the next call.
    Judge grimaces and shakes his head. He turns his eyes to me and scans me up and down as if under instructions from Bama.
    “You’re looking well. Is that a new dress?” His mouth curls down to pinch his white beard at the corners. “Gather the servants together. On the back porch. I need to speak to them.”

Seven
     
    THEY ARE TAKING THEIR time in coming. Even the shade is hot. A frayed palmetto fan lies on the glossy white planks of the porch. Henry climbs into my lap, and I wrap an arm around his stomach. I pick up the fan. It moves the air but does little to cool.
    Judge stands on the gravel path, pacing. The servants arrive slowly. First Emma. Now Rachel comes out through the dining room with Little John. They sit on weather-beaten chairs arranged in a row.
    Big John takes a seat next to Rachel. He is not tall but is solidly built, with broad shoulders and big hands. He is a handsome Negro, square-jawed, with close-cropped hair that curls tightly against his scalp. He is darker than Rachel. His skin is close to Emma’s in shading, dark brown and even, like a chestnut. His eyes are pale gray, almost blue. Ghost eyes that suggest white blood in his veins, though we all pretend we don’t see it, like Rachel’s yellow skin.
    Simon ambles from the carriage house to the porch. Judge is impatient, walking up and down the path, watching the servants line up before him. He steps up to the porch and stands next to my chair, facing them. Henry squirms against me and I shush him.
    They sit in front of me, in front of both me and Judge. Simon. John. Rachel. Emma. They are my household now. The things that I once called Eli’s, I may now call mine. What a strange reversal. I look at their black faces, shaded so differently but all black. These are not slavery days, not anymore. Life has not changed so much as all that, I guess. They are free, but they work for me, don’t they? The work they do is for me. There is something satisfying in that. Judge can have his few minutes to lord it over them. To lord over me, too. With Eli gone, he is the paterfamilias . He is so old-fashioned, but he will do right by me. He is my kin. I just have to learn how to handle him. I can’t help a smile as he steps up to the porch. He rests a hand on the back of my chair. Of course he makes me