She eased herself out of bed and everything hurt
like hell. She examined her features in a hand mirror
she took off the top of her bureau and saw the
bruises, the swollen places, touched them and winced.
Jesus, it ain’t as if I was a handsome woman before
they beat me, she thought.
She slipped out of the cotton shift and took a fresh
shirt and pair of trousers from the old trunk that
stood at the end of the bed and did not feel curious
about the rest of her body. When she thought about it,
what they did to her, she felt angry and ashamed. The
clothes were worn soft from so many washings and
she was grateful for the comfort they provided against
her skin. She didn’t bother to put on socks or boots
but instead, quickly ran a brush through her short
thick hair and went out into the kitchen.
Toussaint turned to look at her, said, “You
shouldn’t be out of bed.”
“I can’t stand another minute of being in it,” she
said. She felt slightly light-headed, weak, unbalanced.
“Sit down there,” he said and when she did he
brought her a cup of coffee and set it before her. “You
still take it black, or has your tastes changed over the
years?”
She looked at him.
“No, I take it with sugar now, when I got sugar to
take it with,” she said.
He looked around.
“Up in the shelf, that little brown bowl, same place
I always kept it, if you remember,” she said. He got it
down and set it before her and watched her as she
spooned out two spoons of sugar. The room was
filled with the smells of breakfast and it somehow
comforted her to smell them, to have him there in the
room with her and know she didn’t have to be afraid.
He fixed her a plate and set it before her, then set
one for himself and sat down across from her.
“You need anything else?” he said.
She simply looked at him for a moment.
“How come you to come out here the other night?”
she said.
“Hell, I don’t know,” he said. “Just something I
been wanting to do. We found Martha Dollar and the
man who took her. The marshal took her on into
town, my job was finished, I hadn’t nothing better to
do. Just thought I’d check in on you.”
“I see,” she said. Knowing him as she did, she
knew he had more in mind than just to pay a visit.
“That was it, then, just wanting to check on me?”
He nodded, didn’t feel like he had much of an ap-
petite.
“I guess it’s good you came along when you did,”
she said. “Or I might have . . .” She saw the way he
flinched when she implied what might have happened.
He said, “Eat your breakfast before it gets cold.”
She set to eating, her jaw and lips sore from every
bite, but her stomach practically begging her to fill it.
He watched her careful as he might a dreaming rab-
bit. She wondered what he thought was so interesting.
“You want to tell me about it now, you can,” he
said when he finished the last of his food.
“Why do you think I would want to talk about?
Don’t you think it was bad enough having to go
through it?”
“You don’t have to, but if you want to, I’ll listen.”
“No, I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Longer you don’t tell me who it was, the more
likely the ones who done this will get away.”
She gave a little incredulous laugh.
“Hell, they already got away.”
“Okay,” he said and stood and got the coffee pot
and refilled each of their cups and sat back down
again.
“How come you never found yourself nobody
else?” she said. “All these years living alone when you
could have had you another woman?”
“You was woman enough for me,” he said. “How
come you didn’t?”
“One go-round was plenty enough for me, too,”
she said. “I wouldn’t marry another man, even one
with money.”
“You think we ruined each other for anyone else?”
“No,” she said. “I don’t reckon we did. I guess
once drinking at that well is enough for anybody.
Nothing special about us.”
He looked toward the window, then back at her
again.
“Was it all that bad—I mean between us, so’s you
didn’t want another woman?” she said. “Was I that
bad a wife to you?”
“No,” he said.
“Then what was it?”
“Just the opposite, is what it was.”
He saw the tears brimming in her eyes and looked
away because he didn’t want to see her cry anymore,
didn’t want to see her hurt in any way that would
cause her to cry. She was tough as most men he knew;
not the crying type, and he felt embarrassed for her.
“Thing with us,” she said, “is, however bad it was,
