Those Across the River by Christopher Buehlman

prettiest cloth I ever saw. I remember askin my mama would the angels wear gowns made a that? It was silk. First time I ever saw silk. He let me touch it.”
    I looked over at Dora to make sure she was getting this. Her pencil flew.
    “You look like your mama in the head. In your long, pretty head. But you got them soft eyes like she did. Like you’d let a lot of bad happen to you afore you’d stand up.”
    “I hope you’re wrong.”
    “I ain’t. So you’re Katherine’s?”
    I nodded.
    “Who’s she?” she asked, pointing arthritic fingers at Dora.
    “I’m his wife,” she said. “Do you remember the Savoyard Plantation?”
    “Course I do. Mama rode me by it on the mule once or twice, and I even got to go in one time. Just before the war. He threw a big Christmas party and opened his house up to all them from Whitbrow and Morgan wanted to come. He had put up these painted angels from France and all these glass icicles that caught the firelight. All the grown-ups were dancin. He danced once with my mama and that was fine, but when he danced with her again, Pappy made us go home. I didn’t want to go. All them candles and ornaments and peppermint candies. The house nigger had oil on his face to make it shine. It was a magic night.”
    “Did they have a lot of slaves?” Dora said.
    “Lord, yes. Always comin and goin. Always different ones.”
    “How did you feel about that?” said Dora.
    “They was lucky. They was rich. We didn’t have no slaves. My daddy was a pateroller afore he volunteered.”
    “Pateroller?” I said.
    “Used to ride the roads lookin for coloreds without a pass from they master.”
    “I mean how did you feel about slavery?” Dora said.
    I shot her a look, but she shot one back.
    “Wasn’t no way to feel about it, that’s just how it was. That was slave days. Now, some of it was done right and some of it was done wrong.”
    “Who did it right?” Dora said. “I mean were there actually people who owned other people and did it right?”
    “You make me tired,” Mrs. Wilcox said. “I don’t much like you.”
    “Shall I leave?”
    “No, sugar, you just keep sittin there like the world owes you somethin. And reach me some more sweet tea.”
    Dora didn’t move this time, so I did it. Mrs. Wilcox got more on the chin, so I got up and got a towel from the sleepy black woman. When I came back, Dora was walking towards me with pursed lips. She handed me the notebook and pencil.
    “She called me a whore. I’ll be in the car.”
    “Do you want us to leave?”
    “No. She really is a splendid resource. But I might punch her if I stay.”
    I kissed her cheek and took the notebook. She strutted out of the Sunny Rest nursing home, giving me a warm look over her shoulder to let me know she was all right. A dazed-looking little bald man in a wheelchair waved a purplish claw at her in farewell, though she didn’t see.
    Mrs. Wilcox spoke for another half an hour after Dora left. She sang more songs to the faded glory of the Savoyards and what a shame it was the Yankees won. She told me that when the slaves killed him, the pastor told his congregation to weep like the Israelites wept for Zion.
    When she ran out of things to say, Mrs. Wilcox looked at me like she didn’t know who I was, and called for the twitchy white woman, saying I wasn’t her nephew and she wanted me thrown out. I played it cool, assuring the woman that I was, but that my aunt got confused sometimes. She nodded and went over to the old woman, who was thrashing her head back against her pillow.
    It was time to go, and then some.
    But I didn’t make it out the door.
    A very thin, very old man two beds away motioned me over. He had cancer on his face that was hard to look at, and huge spectacles that made his watery, yellowish eyes look like owl’s eyes. He pulled my ear close to his face, but I turned my head so my better ear was closer.
    “Don’t you believe them horsefeathers about Savvy-yard,” he