“Whose fault is it?”

Her mother did not respond. She instead wrung her hands, spinning the ring that she wore on her middle finger. Her eyes searched the empty space in front of her, and she twisted her lips, pursing them, narrowing her eyes as though she was making up her mind something good.

“Sometimes it ain’t the people that are the problem. I want you to try to see that—it ain’t any one boy or girl. It ain’t even ten boys and girls. The problem—the trouble—goes deeper than that. And it’s up to you whether you can see that or not. I can’t always do it for you, and I ain’t in a habit of telling you what to think. You’ve got to make your own way, decide for yourself. You hear me?”

“Yes, Ma.”

“We’re all capable of doing something great, Lady Mae. I don’t ever want you to forget that.”

“Okay.”

“And you’ll know when it’s time to do it. You’ll feel it growing inside of you long before you even know what it is. And when it finally surfaces you’ll be surefooted and clear. Remember my words always, Lady Mae.”

“I will, Ma.”

As Lady Mae fell asleep that night, she thought of the fingertip and of what her mother had said. She’d been trying to tell her something without speaking directly, and the only sense that Lady Mae could make of it was that it had not been just a warning. There was more behind the I reckon and you hear and remember my words. And though Lady Mae could not understand why, a worry pressed upon her. She leaned over to blow out the candle and watched the flame flicker, thinking of how the children had also bent and twisted around her body the day before. But just as she was about to extinguish it, a gust of wind came through the open window, and the candle went out.

3

During the walk into town the next morning, Lady Mae noticed the shops along the way were shuttered, the crescent road quiet and still. As she and her mother came around the corner of the square she saw why: a throng of residents nearly ten deep waited by the entrance to the courthouse. Word had spread quickly; they had woken early and readied themselves, made breakfasts large enough to keep them full through the testimonies and verdict. Their attendance at trials was expected at least a few times a year, but this was different, and their heads and shoulders shifted and moved with excitement. They were going to hear Lady Mae and watch her small mouth and bright eyes for any kind of tell. She’d speak through her still swollen lips and she’d name the children—one, two, three, four—pointing at them from the stand as she told Deputy Daniels what they had done to her. Don’t know if I got it in me, Mama.

To the left of the crowd, over by the old well, stood Arbuckle. That he was there was both shameful and comforting to Lady Mae. She had not told him of the trial, of the way she had felt in the dust, and seeing him felt like a lie undone. She hoped he would understand; when he’d told her to charge the children, he meant it. But though he’d not said to think twice or go easy, she had on account of him. One atonement each, the least she could ask for. The humiliation shot through her, and it wasn’t just that she hadn’t defended herself. It was that there was a need at all, that simply existing required such self-preservation. Her mother was right—Arbuckle wasn’t wrong. She wanted to call to him, to put her hand in his and squeeze it three times like they used to when they were scared. He’d hold her close, and she would burrow her face into his chest. But she did not want to draw any more attention to herself than there was already, and so she followed her mother and pushed through the mass of residents to get to the courthouse doors.