The Healing by Jonathan Odell Read Free Book Online

hunched her shoulders and squinched her face, as if she were expecting the mistress to flare up and slap her other eye blind. But today Mistress Amanda hit no one. She abruptly swung aboutand tromped from the kitchen, uttering not a word. Chester released Daniel Webster, who went scurrying after her. Lizzie’s good eye circled the room once. She breathed deeply and then sped off, hurrying to catch up.
    Everyone held their tongues until the hollow sounds of heels clopping down the covered walkway connecting the kitchen to the great house died away.
    “She worse ever day,” Aunt Sylvie said, making no effort to hide her disapproval. “Just ain’t right. Acting like she don’t remember she got a little boy still alive and breathing. No, the only one she thinks about is the dead one. I reckon Little Lord looks too much like his daddy to suit her.”
    Little Lord was Granada’s best friend, and it pained her to hear Sylvie say he was never noticed, either.
    Sylvie gently stroked the satiny softness of the gown draped over her arm. “I remember the first time Miss Becky wore this frock. It was for a children’s tea party up in the bluffs at Delphi. Bless her baby-doll soul. One day Master Ben is going to put a stop to this mess.”
    Granada pulled at one of the velvet ribbons dangling from the cook’s fingers. She touched the soft fabric to her lips, kissing it gently. “Put it on me, Aunt Sylvie,” Granada pleaded.
    “You keep wearing a dead girl’s clothes,” Aunt Sylvie warned, “and you’ll get her haint after you.”
    Granada shrugged. She didn’t believe in ghosts. “The mistress likes me to wear them. And Little Lord said I looked pretty all dressed up.”
    Aunt Sylvie planted her fists on her broad hips. “Just because Mistress Amanda is mad enough to parade you around in her dead baby’s frocks don’t make it right. And they don’t make you white and they don’t make anybody love you any more. Little Lord likes you just fine in your kitchen dress.” Aunt Sylvie slapped her hands together. “Look at me, girl, while I’m talking!”
    Granada crossed her arms over her chest and gave Sylvie a look of pure exasperation.
    “Mark my words. Just as sure as Judgment Day, they going to comea time when the mistress reaches inside that wardrobe for another pretty costume and come up empty-handed. Only one left to wear be the one I put on Miss Becky before I laid her in her grave box. Then what you going to do? Go dig it up?”
    Before Granada could think to protest, Sylvie had already drawn her hand back. “And if I see you raising up that stomping foot, I swear to merciful God I’ll—”
    Chester laughed at the cook’s outburst. “Sylvie, you think that white girl was the Jesus child.” He turned to Granada with kind eyes. “Them dresses look just as fine on you as they did Miss Becky. And she didn’t have those pretty licorice-drop eyes and skin as fine as the mistress’s best velvet. You just listen to old Chester here. Go on and have yourself a big time. Don’t pay Sylvie no mind.”
    “Ain’t no danger in this girl paying me no nevermind,” Sylvie groused, stooping over to pick up the bowl of tallow that had been warming by the fire. “One day, girl, you going to learn that every fine road comes to a stopping place. Better be careful, one day your momma is going to show up and drag you off to them swamps. Then what you going to do? I’ll tell you. You’ll be sad you didn’t pay Aunt Sylvie no heed.”
    Aunt Sylvie drew a chair from the table and sat down. “If you can tear yourself away from Chester and his foolishness, come on over to me, baby,” Sylvie said warmly. “I’ll grease your hair.”
    This was the Sylvie that the girl loved—the nice one who wasn’t shouting orders and fussing about her kitchen. The one who called Granada “baby.” She hurried to Aunt Sylvie and plopped herself on the floor, wedging between the cook’s knees.
    “I don’t know how to explain it