Sapphire's Grave by Hilda Gurley Highgate Page B

bear the passing of this heinous and inevitable torch to yet another child.
    Perhaps even more, Prince dreaded the thought of Queen Marie, her once adoring face twisted in contempt; Queen Marie, the only person in his life ever to insist upon giving without taking. He could not bear to see her transformed into an angry mother, making him painfully aware, again, of his own failings, but helpless to correct them.
    Queen Marie could rant and rage, her eyes narrowed and accusing him of selfishness and distrust; but Prince would have no more children. He would have no more reasons for feeling unworthy to live.
    At first she told herself that it wasn’t Sister that she sought. Yes, Queen Marie rationalized, she
could
buy her cornmeal and flour at the store in Inez; but the one near Lickskillet was larger, with a greater variety of produce and sundry items that might catch her eye, reminding her of something that she needed or that Prince would like. And yes, Sister did her shopping on Thursday evenings, her children following as she moved down the aisles, the boy mischievous and given to antics, the girl giggling at his performances. But Thursday evening was also a good time for Queen Marie to shop before going to work, with Friday being her night off and a good day to prepare the sumptuous meals that Prince enjoyed.
    And so Queen Marie made the four-mile trek to Lickskillet each Thursday to do her shopping, not caring, she argued with herself, whether Sister was there or not! But once Queen Marie was there, curiosity never failed to draw her, stealthily, toward Sister and her son; careful to keep sufficient distance between them and herself, so as not to draw their notice, but straining to see what curiosities might be contained in Sister’s basket.
    Tossed in with the salt pork and cornstarch and pepper, Queen Marie occasionally glimpsed a tin of lilac-scented talcum powder, or lavender water; perhaps a few red peppers or ground nutmeg, small clues to Sister’s tastes and habits, hints at what she cooked or did or wore that made him love Sister, love her hair her scent her touch her feel her taste, the way he did not, could not, love Queen Marie.
    Next she began to attend services at Bull Swamp, a hat perched on top of her head, heavily veiled to obscure her face. It was only after she was seated strategically at the rear of the building—this allowed her a maximal view of the church and its parishioners—that she would allow herself to wonder if, by chance, Sister might be here this fine morning, and her eyes would pan the small room. She could not bring herself, after being disappointed several weeks, to ask the faithful members whether Sister still attended. After all, Queen Marie reasoned, she really did not care whether Sister still attended church. That was why she was returning to her former habit of sleeping on Sunday mornings, not rising until noon. A working girl did need her rest.
    Soon, she began to take walks—long walks on Sundays or in the evenings before work; walks that took her to Lickskillet, past Sister’s shotgun hut, to which Queen Marie carefully paid no mind, then back to it again on her return walk home. Occasionally, she would see Sister hanging clothing on a line or chasing chickens back into their coop.
So,
Queen Marie would think as she noted the opulent silk or satin dresses and pantaloons and shirts,
Sister is taking in laundry now;
or,
Sister is raising chickensnow,
she would whisper to herself. Sometimes, the children would be playing outside, alone or together or with other children who lived nearby, and she would stop to watch them, especially the boy, with longing in her heart. At other times, Queen Marie would find the children carrying tubs full of water from the well to the house, or burning refuse in the yard.
    But mostly, Queen Marie found the small house silent, its residents inside, its mystery beckoning. More than once, she had toyed with the idea of sidling up to a window and