The Whip by Karen Kondazian

and I didn’t know what I was doing till it was done.” He contrived to look both apologetic and outraged.
    She glared at him, then rose from the table and tried to leave the room.
    Lee blocked her way, his rough hands grabbing her.
    “I don’t understand you Char. You took that darky’s name back at the orphanage, too. What the fucks the matter with you?”
    “Go to hell, Lee.”
    “You listen to me. This town don’t take kindly to mixing of the races. Maybe that would work in Boston, but not here. As your brother, I’m obliged to warn you.”
    “You’re not my brother.”
    Her words stung, and his grasp loosened. She took advantage of the moment to shake free. She lunged and ran through the door into the dining room, disappearing into the interior of the house.
    Lee stood by the kitchen door, full of familiar hurt and anger. He turned and walked out, slamming the door hard behind him.

    That evening, Charlotte still fuming over her altercation with Lee, made the decision. She grabbed her new copy of Emerson and marched her way over to Byron’s cabin.

Twenty-Six
    The shopkeeper held the door open for Charlotte. She smiled her thanks.
    “Now you have a wonderful afternoon, Miss Parkhurst. And keep yourself warm. It’s chilly outside,” he said.
    “Thank-you, Mr. Bronson. I’ll see you tomorrow.”
    How nice everyone was she thought. How blue the sky. How crisp the air felt on her face. Even the run-down buildings seemed to sparkle. It was a grand day. Days in general had been grand. She let out a long easy sigh and headed back to Mrs. Bidwell’s to prepare dinner. Even that didn’t seem like a chore today.
    It had been almost a week since she had gone to his cabin. She couldn’t stop thinking of him. It was the first time in her life she’d ever felt this way. God, the sweet way he looked at her.
    It was time to go and surprise him again. As soon as she was done with the dishes she would leave…maybe take him some leftovers as well.
    He’d been surprised at her spur of the moment visit last week but welcomed her in anyways. They’d sat and read together till dawn. He’d explained his love of Emerson to her…that the poet’s words gave him courage and inspiration to not only live the life that had been given to him, but also to find a way to sculpt something good from it.
    It had been hard to leave. Harder still to go an entire week without going back. Tonight could not come soon enough.

Twenty-Seven
    Charlotte and Byron were sitting at his rickety little table. By the light of the lantern, she read aloud from Emerson:
    Be true to your own act, and congratulate yourself if you have done something strange and extravagant, and broken the monotony of a decorous age. It was a high counsel that I once heard given to a young person, “Always do what you are afraid to do.” A simple manly character need never make an a-po-lo-gy…
    She paused, stumbling over the word. Byron reached over to find her place on the page, his hand brushing hers as she pointed it out. In that moment an electric shadow passed over them. He moved his hand away from hers.
    She blushed. “Oh Lord…”
    “What is it?”
    “It’s…it’s late,” Charlotte said.
    She jumped up knocking over the chair as she pulled on her coat. Embarrassed, she picked it up. As she was fumbling with her hat and gloves, Byron stood up.
    “Charlotte,” he paused for a moment, struggling with his words. “I’ve been thinking a lot…since the last time. Please don’t come here again.”
    “What? What do you mean? What are you talking about?”
    “I’ve been thinking about our friendship. You don’t know what people can do. I have found the strength to be here and make a life for myself. But I don’t know if I have strength enough for the ugliness that could happen to you. Please Charlotte…don’t come here again.”
    She listened, dumbfounded, trying to absorb his words. “I don’t care what other people think. I have to go now, but