“Not for me,” Norman said. “Spring water’s all I want.” Eyeing it where the iron pipe ran in through the wall, ending over the soapstone sink, the line laid the summer before the war by Norman and his father from the spring high on the hill above the house, the water fed by gravity, running in a steady thin stream year round, draining through clean cheesecloth clamped in a small pouch over the end of the pipe. He said, “I’ve drank more mud than water, enough so that spring ran in my dreams.”

“Perhaps Lee would—”

“Leah,” she said.

“Yes, that’s right.” Mrs. Pelham said, agreeing to nothing. “Perhaps Leah would care for buttermilk.”

“Thank you, no. Water would be fine. But I could get it.” She started to rise.

“Set. There’s no servants here but we can take care of a guest.” Inflecting slightly on the last word and moving to the sink, filling a pitcher and placing it on the table, this time coming around to stand behind them and reach the pitcher through, placing it between them. She stayed there, her hand on the pitcher until Norman looked up at her, her eyes stark with brightness, a faint flutter around her mouth as she gazed on the bright slender band on his left hand. Her voice a husk, stripped of fluid as she said, “Oh Lord, Norman. What have you done?”

Leah swung her head sideways to look up but Mrs. Pelham was gone, her skirts swept by her movement. She opened the door of the small parlor and closed it after her. The sound a small clap in the stillness. Leah released a held breath. She said to him, “Go after her. Go talk to your mother, Norman.”

“No.” Connie stood up fast, her chair a rough scrape backwards. “No. I’ll go. You two just set there. Set there and eat your damned beans.” When he spoke her full name, she turned back as if his speaking had not lessened her angry confusion but charged it further, her small face pinched upon itself, her curls tossed adrift by the speed of her movement. “You waltz on in here in your own sweet time without a word about Father or how we made out alone here and set down to eat up the supper in the middle of the day and that’s not enough, no sir, not for you, but you drag along home with you this … this … colored woman and set her down at the table to feed her while your own mother stands waiting a kind word or embrace from you, feeding her up our supper—”

“That’s enough,” Norman said. “Leah’s my wife. We’re married.”

“Married?”

“That’s right.” His tone meant to settle the matter.

“Norman Pelham,” his sister said all in one breath, “you’ve lost your mind,” as she walked a mannered step through to the closed parlor and shut the door behind her soft as nothing at all.