The Flip (9 page)

“I don’t want you to forget me.”

“Do you think you’re forgettable?” she taunted, her eyes sparkling. “I never forget anybody.”

Their eyes met over the chicken-skin fan, and Gerald sighed, thinking of the many available men that would be left to dance with her after he returned to the war.

He escorted her back to a crowd of young women giggling in the corner. He bowed elegantly, and Tessa watched his retreating back as he left, a grim look on his face. She didn’t know why she couldn’t love him. He was amiable enough, richer than her father, respected in the community. His blond hair was parted neatly, his skin clear, his figure trim from all the riding. Yet no matter how much she knew he loved her, Tessa
couldn’t keep her eyes from watching every other man in the room. There was Howard with his bright blue eyes, and Thaddeus with his wicked smile, and Lewis, who knew how to make a woman feel all tingly. How could her father expect her to settle on just one man, when there were so many? As soon as one walked away, there were ten more with hungry smiles on their lips, admiration in their faces. Tessa felt her insides bubble with anticipation. Men and their compliments made her skin glow, her lips swell, and her heart beat faster. How could she think that Gerald was all she needed? she wondered. Tessa looked at the fan, considering the Asian ladies painted on it. Their feet had been bound, so they were unnaturally tiny. It was a mark of aristocracy—or, she frowned, imprisonment. With
their crippled feet, their freedom was curtailed. Hobbled and riddled with pain, all they could do was sit and be available. Trapped with a single man whether they liked him or not. She dropped the fan onto a passing tray with dirty glasses. Gerald caught her look of distaste as she discarded his gift. The music began, and Tessa found herself pulled into yet another set of strong arms, the embrace on the verge of too tight, the breath of desire filling her lungs.

The party wore on into the night. The room had closed in on Gerald. Too much heavy perfume, too much smoke from the gas lamps. Too much Tessa, teasing him with other men. His eyes smarted; his throat burned. He wandered out into the gardens, the cooler air having forced
lovers back into the heated corners of the main salon. He lit a cheroot, inhaling deeply, letting the bite of the tobacco take away his bitterness.

Gerald leaned against the iron gates, the early morning dew turning the grass silver. Horses neighed, and the distant sound of men carousing on Bedlam Street by the harbor carried across the chill night. He debated walking down to the tavern to spend the remainder of his night there, when a rustling deep in the bushes disturbed the peace of the early morning hours. Grinding out his cigar, he turned, listening to feet scrambling through the foliage. Quietly, Gerald edged up the long drive to stand in a thicket behind a huge maple tree, its trunk as broad as a man’s back. Whispered words carried in the sharp
air, gravel crunching with urgency. A man in evening dress walked quickly from the trees, four people trailing behind him. Lighting the way with a single lantern, Kurt Hemmings led four escaping slaves—crouched low, dressed in rags—toward the basement entrance of the house.

A twig snapped and everyone froze. Gerald could hear the harsh breathing of the four escapees. Kurt lifted a revolver in his direction, his face no longer soft and dreamy but hard with determination mixed with fear.

“It’s me, Kurt.” Gerald appeared, his hands raised.

“What are you doing here?” Kurt demanded, the poet’s voice gone.

“I was blowing a cloud. What’s going on?” He looked at the four runaways behind Kurt.

“What do you think?”

“You’re a guide?”

“No, a station master,” he said, referring to those who participated in the Underground Railroad. They set up safe houses where escaping slaves could stay on their journey to freedom in Canada. It was illegal as well as dangerous. Gerald could see there were three men and a female. They were frightened, standing close to Kurt as though he were a human shield. One was injured; his left thigh had a filthy cloth covering a bleeding wound. One of the bigger men was holding him up. “Follow me,” Kurt whispered
urgently. “I have to tuck them away, and then we’ll talk.”

“You’re hiding fugitives? You’re in the Underground Railroad?” Gerald whispered furiously as they walked in a group to the house’s basement entrance. Kurt urged him to be quiet.

Gerald followed them through the entrance, where Kurt used a key on a rusty lock. He opened the door, urging them in. Gerald heard their bare feet padding down the stone steps into a cellar beneath the basement. Though he had played here with both Kurt and Tessa, he never knew of the existence of the room he soon found himself in. The lantern lit the inky darkness, and Kurt whispered, “Almost there.” Kurt’s long fingers felt along the wall until he depressed a
spot and a small door swung open. Bending over, the woman rushed in, followed by the rest.

“You have to keep your voices low.” Kurt got on his knees to distribute supplies. He rolled out an army bedroll. “There are bandages, water, and food. I will be back tomorrow and direct you to the next station.”

They lowered the groaning man to the bed.

“This man needs a doctor.” Gerald bent down to examine his leg.

“Impossible,” Kurt responded. He turned to the woman. “You are so close, so close to heaven.”

“Praise God.” The woman fell to her knees, tears streaming down her face.

“You followed the signs?”

“Left foot, peg foot,” one of the men offered. It was one of the trails they used to guide slaves to different safe houses. He was broad-shouldered and tall, with huge calloused hands.

The smaller man bent down to tend to the wound on his friend’s leg. Gerald saw that the wounded one was little more than a child, perhaps twelve or thirteen, no more. He got on one knee and lifted the ragged edge of his pants. The boy skittered away, and Gerald grabbed his leg. “Stop. I won’t hurt you.” The wound was festering and swollen, with red streaks traveling up his leg. It was hot to the touch. “Kurt, he won’t make it.”

“The slave catcher almost got us. He shot Cicero,” the big slave told them.

The woman took a cloth to wash the wound.

Kurt hunkered down, putting the lantern on the floor. “Where?”

“Two days south of here. We hid—”

“I know where you hid,” Kurt interrupted him. “We may have to keep you a day longer.” He touched the young man’s burning forehead. “You won’t mind our Northern hospitality, I’m thinking.” He rose, motioning for Gerald to join him. “Do what you can for him,” he told the fugitives. “I’ll see what else I can arrange. Remember to keep quiet.” He left them the
lantern and closed the door to their hideout.

“Are you crazy?” Gerald rounded on him as soon as they left the basement.

“Are you?” Kurt responded coolly.

“This is madness,” Gerald insisted.

“Yes. It is,” Kurt said quietly. He caught Gerald’s arm. “You won’t tell?”

Gerald looked him full in the face. “You put your whole family at risk. Does your father know?”

They locked eyes, the silence heavy between them.

Kurt shook his head. “Does it matter? To me, this is more effective than being cannon
fodder. I can really make a difference doing this.”

“That boy needs a doctor.”

“I can’t risk it. If they are found out, local judges are paid to rule against letting them go.”

“What?” Gerald asked incredulously.

“They get ten dollars a head to cooperate and return them to their owners. It’s too risky. I don’t know if Doc Newton will report them.” He paused and exhaled a long sigh. “I don’t know what he’ll do. There are so many of them.”

“How many?”

Kurt shrugged. “I’ve helped twenty-two escape to heaven.”

“Heaven?” Gerald asked.

“Canada,” Kurt repeated. “Not all wars are fought on a battleground, Gerald. You do your part; I do mine.”

Chapter 11

Julie didn’t realize she was shaking until she tried to reach Brad. Her finger trembled so much, she tapped on his number and ended up calling DirecTV instead. Clutching her phone to her chest, she closed her eyes, forcing herself to calm down. Taking long, slow breaths, she replayed Mr. Wilson’s attack, outrage filling her chest. Her cheeks burned, righteous anger replacing the fear. Calmer now, she looked at her phone. Thoughts tumbled through her head. She could start a lawsuit, but the banker she worked with was Mr. Wilson’s best friend. Her boss had introduced them and cosigned the first loan they had taken out. He had done it as a favor, when every bank
had amped up requirements after the whole mortgage meltdown. Financing was so tough. They had barely made a dent in their home mortgage and had next to nothing in equity. He had done them an enormous favor. It was a small bank, and Mr. Wilson was their largest customer. What would she do if they called in her construction loan? How was Brad going to react? Her finger paused over his name. What if he went after Mr. Wilson? Brad was a big guy, and she knew, when provoked, he could get angry enough to administer some rough justice. What if he punched him? Brad could go to jail. Tears sprang to her eyes. They would have to dump the house as fast as possible and hope the bank would continue working with them.
Oh, we are screwed
, Julie thought, panic replacing her heat.
My boss
screwed me. Without touching me, he managed to really screw me
.

By the time she got home, her heart was heavy. She’d had that job for nine years, and there was never a hint of anything from her boss. She couldn’t go back, that was for certain. Her mind feverishly went over her limited options. She had quit, so unemployment was out of the question. She threw her keys onto the pitted Formica countertop and quickly stripped off her clothes. Turning on the hot water in the shower, she let it steam up the bathroom, hoping it would clean the dirty feeling away. Julie stopped in her tracks, wrapping an oversized white towel around herself. Spinning slowly, she felt violated, as if she were being observed.

“Brad?” she called softly. Opening the door to one of the extra bedrooms, she looked around, taking in its sparseness. She walked into the living room, noting her husband had taken both the paintings and the box. He must have brought them to Sal’s, she reasoned, as a chill shook her body.
Delayed shock
, she thought, her eyes darting around the room. Shaking her head, Julie raced to the bathroom, closing the door firmly as if to lock herself away from the world.

Tessa emerged from Brad’s closet, where she had been caressing his clothing. His manly scent permeated the enclosed space. She oozed into his shirts, squeezed into his pants, played with his shoes. He was a male, every inch of him. She skittered around the house, flipping through
their wedding album, hissing angrily at the picture of Julie wrapped in his arms, bathed by the sunset. Her white dress billowed in the breeze; they were both barefoot and happy, absorbed in each other, the sun lighting their faces.

Tessa trolled through Julie’s drawers, slithering among the frilly lace thongs, wondering what they could possibly do for the figure. She smiled, materializing, running her hands down her voluptuous body.
What figure?
she thought. The girl was as flat as a board.

She tried the bathroom door, letting the knob spin in her vaporous hands. Julie was washing her hair, a giant bubbly pile of suds topping it, her eyes closed. Tessa surrounded her.

Julie’s eyes sprang open. Instinctively, she covered her private parts, shampoo running from her forehead to sting her eyes. “Ow,” she complained, putting her face to the hot water to rinse her eyes. They stung with the burn of a bee sting, and though she wanted to look around, they hurt too much. She placed the towel on her face to dry them, hoping it would stop the sensation.

As soon as she was able, Julie pushed the curtain aside to look at the empty room. Shrugging and feeling foolish, she returned to the shower, rinsing her hair first to get rid of the shampoo once and for all. Silly as she felt, she wanted to finish her shower, wrap herself in Brad’s robe, and make a drink.

Tessa left the bathroom to wander into the
kitchen. She spied an old outlet over the dilapidated counter that she looked at with distaste. “I’m probably doing you both a favor.” She turned transparent, then vaporous, becoming a thin stream of smoke to disappear inside the outlet. Seconds later, the outlet sparked, flames shooting out to catch on the paper towels hanging from their holder. Both the roll of paper towels and the plastic holder lit up, spreading flames across the counter that then jumped onto the floor. Flames danced to the living room, igniting the Berber rug.

Tessa laughed as she rose above the flames, knocking over Julie’s purse to watch her exposed license shrivel into ash.

Smoke replaced steam, and the small
bathroom filled with it. Julie moved the curtain, turning off the water to stare at the smoke drifting in under the bottom of the door. Sopping wet, she wrapped up in Brad’s oversized robe and then grabbed the bathroom doorknob with her slippery hands. The knob sizzled against her skin, and she released it with a curse, panic filling her. She tried using a towel to open the door, but the material would not catch on the knob. It was getting hard to breathe; her body was wracked by coughs. Panting with terror, Julie clutched the doorknob, the pain of the heat nothing compared to the fear filling her heart. It jiggled uselessly. Taking a huge bottle of mouthwash, she pounded at the knob, tears springing to her eyes. She was trapped. The air was thick with smoke; Julie doubled over, having a hard time breathing. With
both hands, she turned the knob desperately. The door gave, opening into an inferno. Covering her head with a towel, Julie dashed out the front door, escaping into the fresh air and hearing the sound of sirens wailing in the street.

Later, draped in a blanket, she sat in the back of a police car until an ambulance came, watching despairingly as her little house burned to the ground.

Brad met her at the hospital, his face white with worry.

“What happened?” He brushed her smoky hair from her face.