After he leaves, Red turns to me, nostrils flaring. “From now on, you sleep with me.”

“He won’t likely come back to check,” I say, but Red’s too shaken to listen to “likely.”

“Could be your blacksmith gets you out of here, but until then we do like he says. I ain’t lying for you no more. And I ain’t getting no stripes ’cause of your blacksmith.”

Chapter 65

Henry

When Ennis leaves, I order another whiskey. I hate that there’s a truth in what he says. I can’t get Sarah out. And, if I could, where would we go? A white man with a Negro wife who I can’t even marry under the law. We’d be walking through life with both hands tied behind our backs. Like I’m Henry O’Toole again, but worse, because even if no one would hire me for being Irish, at least they couldn’t arrest me for it. Did I give up my father’s name for nothing?

Every time I come to see her at Jubilee, I put her in jeopardy. I can’t protect her. I’d make it worse to try. And if God was feeling in a prayer-answering mood and let us flounce off that plantation together, what then? Do I want folks chasing her from town to town at the wrong end of a pitchfork just because she’s stuck by my side?

There’s a thought that I’ve been shoving into the back corners of my mind that slips out, demanding to be considered. It’s that maybe she’s better off with me walking away. Maybe it’s better for both of us.

I throw back the shot of whiskey and it burns something fierce going down. The Americans can’t make it like the Irish, but I wave for another.

I watch the clear brown liquid rise in my glass as the barkeep fills it. It seems somehow right that it’s this bad. It ought to be bad. Good whiskey would be too much like a celebration.

I stare into my glass, at the chestnut brown of it. Clear and bright like Sarah’s eyes. The tavern whore comes sidling up next to me at the bar.

“Your friend said you could use some company.” She lays her hand on my thigh.

I tip the whiskey back and hold out my glass for another.

“He said you need to get your mind off someone.”

“She’s got the prettiest eyes you ever saw,” I say.

“Come on with me,” she says. “I’ll make you forget all about her eyes.”

My brain is fogging, and my tongue feels heavy in my mouth. She takes my hand and leads me up the stairs to a cramped and dingy room filled with a large bed. It smells of unwashed bodies and mold. It’s not a place I would ever want to bring Sarah, but, as foul as it is, they’d never let us in here as man and wife.

I sit heavily on the bed and pull off my shoes. Ennis is right. I have to give her up. There’s no future in a forbidden match. We’ve not got a chance, I tell myself, but just thinking the words makes my chest squeeze in tight with pain, collapsing to where I can barely breathe. I fumble at my shirt trying to open the buttons for some air, but my fingers are numb, tingling sticks that won’t obey. My heart races beyond what’s safe and, as I break out into a sweat, I know I’m going to die in this stinking tavern room because I turned my back on the woman I was made to be with. This is God’s punishment, plain and true.