“There ain’t. And even if there was, there’s no point—nobody’s ever going to forgive me. Or my ma.”

“Well they sure can’t if they ain’t never been taught how.”

Arbuckle took the book that Lady Mae held in her hand and flipped through it quickly, searching the print for the thing for which he had brought the book in the first place. There was something there—there was always something there—and he seemingly wanted to share it with her as he had shared so many things.

“Here.” He pointed to a passage nearly halfway through the tiny book. “Go on, read it.”

Lady Mae took the book back and focused on the typed pages. The letters bent into each other, pressed close and blurred. She swallowed and read the sentence.

If there are those that do not wish to forgive, then surely the larger group cannot move forward until they have overcome their reliance on resentment as a tool to control.

“But I ain’t got no resentment.” Lady Mae handed the book back to Arbuckle, who kept the page marked with the tip of his finger. She was lying, of course, as the resentment burned deep inside her bones, but she did not know how to twist her tongue to say felt it my whole life.

“I ain’t talking about you.”

“And Ma only just started acting angry,” she said, trying to convince herself. “And it was toward them kids is all.”

“I ain’t talking about your mama, neither.”

“Who you talking about, then?”

He did not say, but instead widened his eyes and raised his brows at her. He did not say because he couldn’t say, because to say it aloud was blasphemous and dangerous, even there in the safety of Lady Mae’s front room. As she waited for him to respond, she felt the churning deep inside. It bubbled up, felt like blistering fire. If anyone heard them, they’d call treason and both would find themselves on the scaffold under the hot sun of midday, hundreds of eyes waiting patiently for the outcry to begin. They’d stand side by side, bodies inches away from each other. The residents would hurl words at them, spit at their feet, raise their butchered fists in the air, joyous to be witnessing the fall of the butcher’s daughter and the only boy that loved her.

“You talking about them—”

“I am.”

“Arbuckle, hush! Ought to know better than to go around saying things like that.” Lady Mae twisted her body around, parted the curtains ever so slightly, and looked out of the window. The sky, now a dark brown, was thick with dust. Tall grasses in front of the shack bent and whipped in the strong wind.

Arbuckle looked out the window, too. They sat there silently listening to the whistling cracks and creaking roof, to the hatch door banging against the side of the coop.

“Lady Mae… what if it could be different?”

“Different how?” she asked and turned from the window to look him squarely in the eyes.