Duet for Three Hands by Tess Thompson Read Free Book Online Page B

a white boy from England and she was a black housekeeper’s daughter in Atlanta, Georgia. They both longed for things they couldn’t have. She wiped her face on the bottom of her apron, feeling as hot and wet as a bowl of boiled collard greens. It was impossible to imagine that the season would change in a few weeks, bringing relief to Atlanta from the early September air that felt so thick and moist it slowed your every movement.
    Even the garden seemed lethargic, the squash and pumpkin leaves wilted like spent athletes. Dogwood leaves hung from their branches as if they might at any moment unfurl from their precarious attachment and float unfettered to the rust-colored, thirsty soil. Only the sweet, pink-skinned potatoes hidden under the red dirt were unbothered by this relentless summer. She envied them their cool shelter from the sweltering heat.
    Mama returned an hour later, flinging the screen door open with her foot, carrying a small package wrapped in brown paper.
    Jeselle, at the table, placed her finger on the last sentence she’d read. Mama’s dress was wet, clinging to the muscles of her back. Without taking off her hat, she set the parcel of meat on the table, her eyes settling briefly on Jeselle’s book, then roaming to the spotless sink and stove, and finally to the hutch, where plates were stacked in their usual places and cups hung from the tiny hooks. Presumably seeing no errors in Jeselle’s task, Mama poured a large glass of water from the tap and drank it in one fluid swallow, her other hand squeezing the rim of the sink. Then, pulling the hairpins from her hat, she took it off and fanned her face.
    “Do you need me to do something, Mama?”
    “Go out to the garden and dig up some of them potatoes. Bring in five or six.”
    “Yes, ma’am.” She closed the book, silently repeating, “Second paragraph, page fifty-six,” three times in her head.
    Outside, the morning sun was bright in the vegetable garden, and it burned into the middle of her bare scalp where she parted her hair. After she pulled the potato plant from the ground, she used a small shovel to dig several inches into the dirt and burrowed her fingers into the dry ground, feeling for the round, hard potatoes huddled together like eggs in a nest. There were five altogether. She brushed the dirt from them until their pink skin was visible and then gathered them into her apron.
    Back in the kitchen, Mama had pulled the yellow curtains over the windows so the room had a yellow glow that made the white walls and hutch seem dingy. Mama trimmed blue-tinted fat from the raw meat but stopped when Jeselle came into the kitchen and pointed to the hutch. A tray with biscuits, peach jam, and a pot of tea sat waiting. “You run that up to Miss Frances.”
    “Yes, Mama.” Jeselle took the tray, walking slowly, like she was in quicksand. She hated to go to Frances’s room in the morning, especially the last several weeks. Frances stayed in bed most days.
    Jeselle came to the open door of the sitting room. Mrs. Bellmont looked up from where she was writing at the secretary’s desk. “Morning, baby girl.”
    “Morning, Mrs. Bellmont.”
    “Please see if you can cajole Frances into eating something.”
    “Cajole, Mrs. Bellmont?”
    “Coax, entice, convince. Spelled c-a-j-o-l-e.” She lowered her voice to a whisper, pointing to the locked box next to the desk where they kept Jeselle’s schoolbooks secret from Mr. Bellmont. “I’ll put that on our vocabulary list for next week.”
    “Thank you, Mrs. Bellmont.” Feeling fortified, released from quicksand, Jeselle went up the stairs quickly, holding onto the top of the teapot with one hand, spelling c-a-j-o-l-e under her breath.
    Frances reclined on a stack of pillows on the bed, a light sheet covering her. The shades were drawn, but even in the muted light her usual alabaster skin appeared sallow and yellow. One hand was on the covers, limp; the other held a handkerchief to her nose.