He looked at me, surprised. That wasn’t a place folks like us just went to visit. “But that’s far, ma’am. Hop on the wagon. I’ll take you to the gate.”
I climbed up onto the wagon seat beside him without a word. The wood was hot against my legs. We continued down the road in silence, the wheels crunching over the gravel.
Silas Thorne’s place was a fortress compared to ours. It had a high wooden gate painted a stark white, a long driveway lined with oak trees, and a big two-story house with tall white columns that looked like teeth.
He had workers in the fields, livestock in the pastures. He had everything money could buy.
Mr. Banks dropped me at the gate. He looked at me with concern. “Are you sure, Miss Hattie?”
“Yes,” I said, climbing down. “Thank you, Mr. Banks.”
He tipped his hat and drove off. I stood there for a moment, looking at the house. I took a deep breath, opened the gate, and walked up the gravel path.
I climbed the steps of the porch, my boots echoing on the wood. I walked right up to the front door and knocked hard. Bang, bang, bang.
A servant answered—an older black man with white hair and a uniform that looked too hot for the weather.
“I want to speak with Mr. Thorne,” I said.
“Do you have an appointment?” he asked politely.
“I don’t need an appointment,” I said, standing tall. “Tell him it’s Hattie. Otis Washington’s wife.”
He looked me up and down, confused to see a simple farm woman, thin as a rail in a faded dress, standing on his boss’s pristine porch. But something in my voice must have told him not to argue. He nodded and went inside to call him.
I waited on the porch, my heart hammering against my ribs like a trapped bird. My hands were sweating, slick against the wood of the railing.
I was terrified, I won’t lie. This was Silas Thorne—a man who owned half the county, a man who could crush us without blinking.
There were heavy footsteps inside. Thump. Thump. Thump.
Then, the door swung open.
Silas Thorne appeared. He was a big man, filling the doorway. He was pot-bellied, with a thick gray mustache that hid his mouth and eyes that were cold as stones.
He was wearing an expensive linen suit, a gold watch glinting on his wrist, and he smelled of expensive cigars and arrogance.
He looked at me with a face of mock surprise, a predator spotting prey.
“Mrs. Washington,” he boomed, his voice deep and oily. “What an honor to receive you here. Come in, please.”
“I ain’t coming in,” I said, planting my feet. “I came here to settle a quick matter.”
He smiled, a fake, tight smile that showed too many teeth. “I see. I imagine what it’s about. Your husband sent you here to confirm the arrangements we made regarding the girl.”
“I came to undo the arrangements you made,” I said, my voice steady despite the shaking in my knees.
The smile wiped off his face instantly. His eyes narrowed. “How’s that?”
I reached into my pocket and pulled out the paper Otis had written. I unfolded it and held it up, though I didn’t let him touch it.
“My husband wrote this canceling the promise,” I declared. “My daughter is not merchandise to be traded for poker chips. She is not going to marry you.”
He laughed then—a loud, mocking bark of a laugh that made my skin crawl.
“That is worth nothing,” he sneered. “I have a document signed by him. Legal. With a witness. It’s a binding contract.”
“That document was made under duress and threat!” I shouted, stepping forward. “It has no validity whatsoever in the eyes of God or the law!”
“It does so,” he hissed, leaning down into my face. “And it will be fulfilled. In 1974, I am coming to get the girl. You can mark my words.”
“You are not coming,” I said, my voice dropping to a dangerous whisper. “Because if you get near my daughter, I will finish you myself.”
He laughed again, shaking his head. “You? You are going to do what? You are just a woman. A poor black woman with nothing but dirt on her boots.”
I took a step forward, looking him right in the eyes, refusing to blink.
“I am a mother,” I said. “And a mother protects her children no matter what she has to do.”
He stopped laughing. He saw the fire in my eyes, and for the first time, he looked unsure.
“Your husband owes me three thousand dollars,” he growled. “He lost it fair and square.”
“That’s his problem,” I spat. “Not my daughter’s.”
“The deal was made.”
“No deal,” I interrupted. “My daughter is not part of any deal. And if you insist on this, Mr. Thorne, I’m going everywhere. I’m going to the sheriff. I’m going to the reverend. I’m going to the judge.”
I took a breath and played my final card.
“I’m going to make the biggest scandal this county has ever seen,” I promised. “I’m going to tell the whole world that you—a fifty-two-year-old man—are trying to force a nine-year-old child into a contract. I’m going to spread that story all over town, all over the state of Georgia. Let’s see if your reputation holds up when folks know you prey on children.”
His face turned purple with rage. The veins in his neck bulged.
“You have no proof of anything!” he shouted.
“I have my husband’s word,” I countered. “I have the promise you made him write. And I have my daughter, who has been scared for months because someone told her. Put her on a witness stand and let her cry in front of a jury, Mr. Thorne. See how that looks for you.”
He took a step toward me, trying to use his size to intimidate me.
“I am not going to forget this debt,” he snarled. “Your husband is going to pay. One way or another, I will take everything.”
“Then collect from him,” I said, turning my back on him. “Not my daughter.”
I started down the steps, my legs feeling like jelly.
“You’re going to regret this, Mrs. Washington!” he yelled after me.
I stopped at the bottom of the steps and looked back one last time.
“I won’t regret it,” I called out. “You’re the one who will regret it if you ever come near my family again.”
I walked down the gravel path, listening to his heavy breathing behind me, expecting a bullet or a blow at any second. But neither came. I opened the gate, stepped out onto the road, and closed it firmly behind me.
My legs gave out then. They started trembling so violently I could barely stand. My whole body was shaking—the adrenaline crash hitting me like a wave.
But I had done it. I had faced the devil in his own house. I had told him no.
I started walking back home. The sun was high and hot now, beating down on my head without mercy. But I kept putting one foot in front of the other. I walked and walked until I couldn’t take it anymore.
About halfway home, I collapsed on the side of the road under the shade of an old pecan tree.
I sat there in the dirt and cried.
I cried everything I had stored up for seven months. I cried for the fear, for the desperation, for the confusion. I cried for Ruby, for her stolen childhood innocence.
I cried for Otis, for the weak, cowardly man he had turned out to be. I cried for the marriage that was never really a marriage, for the life we had built on sand.
And I cried for myself. For the tired, skinny, scared woman I had become.
I sat there a long time, letting the tears water the dry earth until they finally dried up. Until I could breathe right again. Then I got up, wiped my face with my shawl, and kept walking.
When I finally got home, the sun was setting. The sky was streaked with orange and purple.
Otis was sitting in the exact same spot where I had left him hours ago, staring blankly at the wall. When he saw me enter, he stood up quickly, hope and fear warring in his eyes.
“What did he say?” he asked.
“He said he’s not going to leave it like this,” I said flatly. “That you are going to pay the debt one way or another.”
“He’s going to come for me,” Otis whispered, terror in his voice.
“I don’t know,” I said, walking past him. “And frankly, I don’t care.”
