Peaches

The house had been deadly silent for at least an hour. Though the place was near bursting with people, no one spoke. It was as if the entire residence was on mute, save for the occasional shuffling of feet from one room to another.
When the first words were finally spoken, several things happened at once. Jane dropped the peach she had been holding with the intent to eat, which landed with a soft thud on the ground and was soon forgotten. Celia gasped loudly, covering her mouth with her hand. And Wade, who had been rocking in the corner, began to moan loudly, and his rocking became quite obviously more agitated.
Four simple words stirred that silent house up to such a frenzy, one could assume it would never know such silence again.
“They found the body.”
For a beat, a moment so brief you had to search to find it, there was nothing else to be said. That final chapter of Martin Bell’s life was officially over, the book slamming shut with such forcefulness that it took everyone a moment to catch their breath. The reality had been there all along; they just couldn’t see it. Now, in an instant, Martin had gone from missing to dead.
It took a moment, but not long, before the house itself seemed to wake up and come to life. As if taking the life of a man could somehow breathe life into a building itself. The very boards on the walls seemed to have an opinion suddenly. Everyone in that big, bursting place was full of questions, one thing heavy on each person’s mind: the killer was likely in the house. And the only innocence you could be certain of was your own.

On the Porch
The porch, it seemed, was as much a part of the house as anywhere. If Reverend Hills and Leland Stowe had felt they could escape simply by walking out the front door, they were wrong. It seemed that living, breathing house didn’t need the confinement of walls to make you feel trapped. Both men had the desire to run, to flee that place that had one too many people in it, but neither could. The Reverend, bound by his duty to his flock, felt that he couldn’t leave at such an awful time as this. Mr. Stowe, being the owner of the home, had nowhere else to go. For either of them to leave now would only look suspicious.
“All in God’s will,” Reverend Hills said finally, staring out into the night. His long white beard, which was always stained with tobacco, practically glowed in the dark. Leland Stowe had to force himself not to laugh at the Reverend. A man who pretended to know God, who cast out devils and spent his weekends declaring his congregation sinners from the pulpit. Yet as Leland had learned years ago, he spent his weeks gambling and drinking himself into a stupor nearly every night in Savannah. He had a mistress there, a young, naïve girl with a child who looked remarkably like the Reverend. Of course, Leland only knew all of this because he himself was attending the same poker games and bars, and his own young, naïve girl was good friends with the first. The difference was, Leland didn’t try so hard to pretend to be a man of God.
“That’s easy to say, Reverend,” he responded, his voice gravelly and strained.  “But I’ve found myself short one farm hand right at the start of harvest time. I’ve got peach trees as far as the eye can see, and not enough time in the day to pick them all myself.” The Reverend looked at him strangely.
“One man makes all that difference?” he asked. Leland nodded, trying to make it convincing.
“Oh, he was my best worker. Don’t know what I’ll do without him.” He reminded himself to look distressed, maybe even force a tear. Though he wasn’t normally a crying man, perhaps it would draw unwanted attention. He felt the Reverend’s eyes boring into him, felt the judgment that had stopped him from attending church years ago. Was it for his usual transgressions, or something more? Did the Reverend suspect him? Leland was so tall he towered over the Reverend, yet he somehow always felt smaller in his presence.
“I heard about the negroes wanting to use your church house,” he said. He said it casually, but he could tell his comment hit its mark. He watched the Reverend’s face turn red enough to be obvious even in the dark.
“Well, I shut it down quickly,” he said, though he sounded flustered. “Terrible what happened to their building, but I can’t have them using mine while they rebuild. Like I told them, even at different times, even if the church was empty, we’d best not mix those areas of our lives. Best to keep those things separate.” Leland turned away, barely hiding his smile. He may own slaves, but he’d never met a man who hated negroes more than the Reverend. Some people in town, even those who didn’t know about the Reverend’s secret life, speculated that it had been him who set the negro church on fire, just for the thrill of it. For himself, Leland didn’t believe the man had it in him to burn down a church, even a black church. But he also hadn’t shown a lick of compassion for the congregation looking for a place to settle while they rebuilt.
“I sure hope Martin wasn’t one of the ones bothering you about it,” Leland said after a pause. He heard the Reverend take in a sharp breath. Leland knew, of course, that Martin was in fact the very man who asked the Reverend for use of his church. Unlike the other freed slaves Leland knew in Georgia, Martin was brave. The man practically thought he was white, thought he had certain privileges that should just fall into his lap.
Yes, Leland knew all about Martin. He knew, because he had known Martin since he was a boy. He had owned him and his family as slaves, before that whole mess with Abe Lincoln tore everything up. Martin stayed on even after he was freed to work at Stowe manor, and he’d been giving Leland trouble ever since.
“I assume you were able to sort everything out as far as payment for your… workers?” Reverend Hills responded. Leland stiffened. So he had heard. But that meant nothing. Mr. Stowe was far from the only person in Georgia to refuse to pay the people who had once been, and would always be, his slaves.
Of course, Martin had seen things differently. Martin wanted wages for not just his own work, but everyone out in the orchards. It was mindless work, simple work, but the kind of work Leland himself was too good for. The President might have freed the slaves, but Leland Stowe never said he would pay them. There was a difference between being free and being equal.
The tension in the night air thickened. In the suffocating darkness, they managed to catch one another’s eye. Neither would break eye contact, neither would show weakness. Both silently daring each other, Go ahead. Challenge me. Accuse me of murder.
Neither did. Both suspected each other enough, but not enough.
“That Jackson boy,” Leland said finally. “What do you make of him?” The Reverend sighed loudly, glad for the change of subject.
“That boy’s possessed of a devil even I couldn’t rid him of,” he said. “Some are born that way.”

In the Kitchen

Some children are born with devils who take their hearing, or their sight. A young girl just down the road from the Stowe manor had been born with a devil that took her ability to walk. She just sat in a chair all day, staring forlornly out the window at the kids running by, betrayed by her own limbs.
Wade Jackson was born with the worst kind of devil. His momma called it “her greatest curse”, and told anyone who would listen that even if her husband hadn’t left, she never would have had more children anyway because Wade was just too much work. She loved him, of course, the way mothers are supposed to love their children, but he also scared her. He frustrated her. Frankly, he was just plain hard to love sometimes, the way he would lose his mind over the smallest things. The way he would break things, or hit her when he got upset. And then there was the rocking. The constant, back and forth, back and forth, always accompanied by that low moan. Thirteen years she’d lived with it, and the constant rhythm of his rocking had almost become a comfort. The one thing Jane could count on.
Being cursed with a child like that, Jane knew that things would have been easier for her if her husband had stuck around. Jane did her part to take care of herself, to wear the nicest clothes she could afford and keep her posture stiff as a board. Her dark brown hair was always pulled up, never a single hair out of place. But despite her best efforts, having a son like Wade made it nearly impossible to find a husband. Who could love a child like that if not even his own Father? Certainly no one else would, which left Jane pretty much alone, other than the sparse companionship Wade provided when he wasn’t in one of his fits.
“I just can’t believe they haven’t stormed in here to arrest him right now,” Betsy was saying, not bothering to keep her voice low. She twirled a long, graying curl around one bony finger, her green eyes wide with girlish excitement.
“Jonathan? You really think so?”
“Oh, I’m sure of it! The way Martin carried on with his fiancé? And she didn’t seem to mind it.” Betsy shuddered as if she couldn’t bear the thought of it. “I can’t say I blame him either. Get rid of the problem before the wedding day. Now he has nothing to worry about.” Jane watched Betsy carefully, examining her. She had a wild, frenzied look about her, and her voice seemed to burst out of her before she could stop it. She didn’t even seem to realize how lightly, how easily, she spoke of murder. Jane supposed it got lonely being married to a husband like the one Betsy had. He was so quiet, and always working. He provided a nice home (next door to Stowe manor, in fact) and plenty of money for her to live off. But once their children were grown, she started going crazy in the silence of that old house, and often wandered over to the Stowe place to see if there was anything to comment on over there.
Of course, on this particular night, she had stumbled onto a gold mine.
“I just don’t know,” Jane responded slowly. “Celia doesn’t seem the type to have an affair. And their wedding is next week! It’s a great story for gossip, sure, but that doesn’t make it true.” At this, Betsy looked truly offended.
“It’s not gossip when it’s true, when you have proof!”
“And you have proof?”
“I do!” she said indignantly. She placed her hand over Jane’s and leaned in close, though the volume of her voice remained the same. “I saw them myself out in the orchard just a few weeks ago. Celia looked mad, and Martin was talking really fast and quiet, just real suspicious-like! And Celia stormed off all out of sorts.” Jane rolled her eyes.
“Oh, phooey. That is no proof.” They both paused as Wade suddenly stood up in the corner, moving across the room with surprising speed, to lay his head in his mother’s lap. Jane stroked his wild black hair absentmindedly, trying in vain to flatten it down. “He really is a sweetheart,” she said, almost to herself.
“It was a lover’s spat if I’ve ever seen one!” Betsy continued, ignoring them both. Wade moaned loudly, burying his face into his mother’s dress. “Besides, have you ever seen a young lady like that get so worked up over anything a negro said?” This, finally, she whispered.
Jane sighed, finally nodding in agreement. What did she care if Betsy thought it was Jonathan who killed Martin? Or even Celia, for that matter? She wasn’t placing her suspicions on the more obvious person in the room, and frankly, that was all Jane could ask for.
“I just wish I could be a bigger help for poor Mr. Stowe. That man does so much, and with no wife to help keep things in order! I don’t know how he’s managed for so long!” Betsy gave her a strange look, as if she was reassessing what she thought about Jane.
“Is that why you’re here tonight? To help out the Stowe’s?” Jane flushed bright red, suddenly becoming very interested in her hands.
“Just a concerned friend,” she said with a shrug.
  “I’m telling you,” Betsy when on, as if suddenly remembering where she had left off, “I bet the whole sordid affair, and I do mean affair, happened right out there in that orchard. I’ve spent hours over here watching what those negroes do when they think no one is watching.” This made Jane freeze.
What else had Betsy seen out in that orchard? Jane herself was no stranger to spying out there, hidden by the trees. Of course, she wasn’t a busybody neighbor like Betsy, she was just a concerned mother. Leland, wonderful man that he was, had only taken a little prodding to give her sweet son a job working in his orchard. “Wade will be no trouble at all!” she assured him. But, to herself, she thought, At least, I hope he won’t. And then, Of course he won’t. He really can be such a good boy.
But Wade was never a normal child, and he was so susceptible to everything going on around him. The racism in the South had been at an all-time high, so although Jane certainly wasn’t a racist, Wade had still picked it up somehow. He felt the hatred in the air, and there was plenty of hatred in him to spread around. Perhaps it wasn’t the best situation for him, to work in the orchard with the negroes when he had such strong feelings towards them that he didn’t understand, or couldn’t control. Jane had seen the way he hissed like an angry cat when they came near him, or how he yelled frantically if he thought there were too many around. They mostly ignored him, and Jane was grateful they seemed to have the sense to let him be.
But he could be such a kind boy. He wasn’t always so bad.
Although there had been that unfortunate situation a few weeks back. Jane arrived just in time to see Wade, staggering around with an armful of stones he was throwing clumsily at the negroes. They all scattered, but one hit its mark on the back of a young black woman, and she fell to the ground. Jane watched in horror, but of course the girl was fine. And the rest of them were fine, because they were able to run far enough that his rocks didn’t reach them He got bored, and the nightmare was over.
Well, other than when Jane laid awake all that night thinking of it, wondering if Wade had any rocks hidden in his room. She had never been a very fast runner.
Suddenly, the door to the kitchen burst open and Leland came in, his face red and his hands clenched into fists. Jane immediately forgot her previous worries and jumped to his side.
“What an awful night for you, sir!” she said, reaching hesitantly for his arm. When her hand made contact with his forearm, he brushed it off, barely noticing her.
“The officer needs the name of his wife. Marta!” Leland shouted. Jane stepped back, sulking. Wade appeared at her side, clinging to the edge of her dress rather harshly.
Promptly Marta, the maid, came bustling into the room. She was a rather large woman, with dark skin and wild black curls that refused to stay put. She wasted no time shooting both Jane and Betsy a dirty look as she entered the room, acting as if she owned the place. Everyone knew that after Mrs. Stowe passed away giving birth to her only child, Jonathan, Marta had gone on to raise him. Mr. Stowe occasionally stepped in to force Jonathan onto this path or that, but overall Marta was his mother. There were whispers around town about whether it was smart to let a negro raise your child, but no one told Leland Stowe what to do. That was one of the perks of being a tall, intimidating man with lots of money.
“Good,” Leland said when he saw her. “I didn’t know the name of his wife. They need to inform her what’s happened.”
“Goodness, the man’s wife doesn’t know?” Jane asked. Leland shot her an agitated look.
“They haven’t had time to tell her yet, I assume,” Marta said. Although she was a negro like the rest of them, she acted like a white person. Jane was always irritated by how easily Marta met her eye, or spoke without being spoken to. She rarely ever seemed to associate herself with the other slaves in the house, a troubling fact in itself. Jane wasn’t a racist, but she found it disturbing when the negroes seemed to think they were white.
  “Her name is Sarah. They live over on Mayberry Road.” Marta said. Leland nodded, quickly exiting the room without another word. As he left, Jane gestured as if to reach out after him, but Wade caught her hand and held it back to her side.
Left alone in the room with two white women and a strange white boy, Marta quickly became cold. The very air in the room stiffened, and everyone grew silent. The only sound was the creak of the floorboards as Wade shifted from foot to foot, resuming his rocking.
Marta busied herself gathering the dirty teacups from the table, and hastily left the room, but not before casting a hateful glance at the boy anxiously swaying at his mother’s side.

In the Parlor
Celia had turned down three marriage proposals before finally agreeing to marry Jonathan Stowe. Of course, the first proposal she turned down had in fact been Jonathan, which shows there is something to be said for persistence and patience.
Celia was beautiful, but that was of little matter other than when it came to simpleminded men who looked for nothing more in a companion than that she be a piece of art he could admire. Celia had no interest in that, so when she saw that Jonathan seemed to like her for more than her face, or at least he pretended to hear the words she spoke, she felt that this was the most she could ask for.
Jonathan himself was considered rather handsome, but again, Celia had no time for that. She knew all too well that beauty was fleeting, and it was a fool’s errand to marry someone for something so trite. Still, to say she loved him would be a massive overstatement. It was more that she hoped through years of tolerating him, she would one day grow to love him.
For his part, Jonathan knew Celia didn’t love him the way he loved her. But having her was enough.
“Darling, as usual, I can’t tell what you’re thinking. What are you feeling right now?” Celia sighed, staring out the dark window for much too long before responding.
“A man is dead,” she said finally. “And all of us are in here thinking of ourselves.”
“I’m thinking of you, my love!” Jonathan protested. He wrung his hands nervously in front of him, and although he was sitting, he slouched low in his chair. Jonathan was nearly as tall as his father, but carried himself to appear shorter, smaller. Some days it was as if he was trying to disappear entirely. Celia shook her head.
“You are so quick to try to please me that you forget to listen to what I want.” Jonathan sighed, as usual feeling defeated. He loved her, he wanted her, but she was just so hard to hold on to. It was like trying to cup water in your hands. If you were careful and held very still, you could keep some of it while the rest slipped through your fingers.
The door to the parlor swished open loudly, and Marta entered. She was sweating and looked tired, and Jonathan worried that the night had all been too much for her. Realizing Martin was missing, everyone gathering to await the news, and then finding his body… it was a lot for anyone to take in, but especially sweet, caring Marta.
“How are you doing?” he asked her as she set down a plate of biscuits and tea in front of them.
“Oh, kind boy,” Marta said, bending to kiss him on the cheek, doting on him the way a mother might do. “Don’t you worry about me.” When Jonathan turned to Celia, he realized she had been watching them carefully. Celia’s eyes were so dark they were nearly black, and they were so piercing Jonathan could always feel when she was watching him. When he caught her eye, she quickly turned away. After fussing with Jonathan for a few minutes, Marta bustled out of the room to attend to everyone else.
Look,” he said softly, hoping no one else would disrupt them. “I want you to know I forgive you. For loving a negro man. You didn’t know what you were doing.” Celia turned to him, her expression giving away nothing, as usual.
“I knew exactly what I was doing. Are you suggesting I was under some sort of spell?”
“No, just- “
“Everyone in this town has to think and believe the way the Stowe’s think or else they are wrong, is that right?”
“Celia, my love! That isn’t true. Surely you don’t really believe that.” Celia didn’t respond. “And come next week, you will be a Stowe yourself! Then you can convince everyone of whatever you’d like, my dear.” Jonathan went on hurriedly.  smiled, and briefly considered crossing the room to embrace her, but decided against it.
“Oh, Jonathan. That sort of manipulation only works for your father.” Although her tone never changed, Jonathan felt the ice in her remarks.
“I wish you would give my father a chance. I know he will grow to love you.” Celia watched him for a while, until Jonathan felt himself start to squirm under her gaze.
“Leland doesn’t trust me, so he can never grow to love me,” Celia said. She paused, then continued, “You are so unlike him, aren’t you? You don’t trust me either, but somehow you love me.”
“That’s what I am saying, Celia dear! I am saying, I still want to marry you. Despite the affair.” Celia sat quietly, as if she hadn’t heard him. “He’s gone now, so it’s not as if I have to worry about it happening again.”
“Again?”
“Yes. I do trust you.”
“Who says I was with him in the first place?” Celia asked, finally turning her gaze to him. Her dark eyes burned through him.
“You never denied it.”
“That’s terrible evidence.”
“Well, did you?” Celia sighed, turning back to the window. She sat perfectly motionless, not a nervous twitch or jitter in sight. She seemed her usual self: cool and collected, without a care in the world. Only the slight furrow in her brow gave any indication that she was distressed. “Celia?” Jonathan asked more softly. “Do you even still want to be married?”
Without looking at him, Celia nodded slowly. “Yes,” she said. “I suppose so.”

On the Front Step
When the Sheriff returned, despite the late hour, the entire house was anxiously awaiting any news. They all gathered on the porch, the screen door swinging wide open to allow everyone to spill out down the steps and onto the lawn.
“Well, folks,” the Sheriff said, rubbing his eyes tiredly. “It’s all taken care of.”
“What does that mean?” Celia asked. She swayed slightly, although she held tightly to the porch railing. The Sheriff eyed her carefully, and everyone there could see he, like them, had his own suspicions about what had happened.
“It means we notified his family. He’s been buried. It’s over.”
“It’s over?” Celia said. “There won’t be a funeral?”
There was a long pause. “No,” Jonathan finally confirmed, if only to break the silence. “There won’t be a funeral.” From his left, Marta reached out to squeeze his hand.
“Mr. Stowe, the man was your property,” the Sheriff continued, turning to Leland. “I understand the loss this will be for you. And, well, it wouldn’t be typical, but if you’d like us to investigate…”
Leland glanced at the faces around him. The large black woman who raised his son. His negro-loving soon-to-be daughter-in-law, his nosy neighbor. The boy who had been causing all sorts of trouble in his orchard, and the mother who forced him to hire the kid. The god-fearing Reverend with a secret life. And his Son, the only heir to his fortune, who had been very angry at a man who was now dead.
“That’s all right, Sheriff,” Leland said, not too quickly. “I don’t think an investigation will be necessary.” The Sheriff nodded, tipping his hat in their general direction.
“Quite right, Mr. Stowe. Thought I’d leave it up to you to decide. What does it matter, really?”