The Steep and Thorny Way by Cat Winters

laundry on a washboard in the kitchen, while out in the backyard a fire crackled and simmered beneath a large iron pot, stacked upon bricks, filled with water and Lux laundry soap. We rinsed and wrung out all the whites, and once the water outside bubbled to a boil, we carried the garments from the house and plunked them into the steaming pot.
    I jabbed the laundry plunger into swirls of fabrics the colors of cream and snow, while bubbles popped and spat at my fingers,threatening to scald. Steam dampened my cheeks and made me feel a little feverish. A little dizzy.
    â€œEveryone’s warning me to watch out for Joe Adder,” I said to Mama.
    She lowered the tulip-embroidered tablecloth into the pot, keeping her eye on the task at hand.
    â€œDid you hear what I said, Mama?”
    â€œWho’s ‘everyone’?”
    â€œRobbie. Mildred. Sheriff Rink.”
    She lifted her head. “You’ve spoken to the sheriff?”
    â€œI saw him on my way back home this morning.” I plunged the tablecloth down to the bottom of the pot, where the tangle of fabrics resembled a woman in a nightgown writhing in the blackness beneath the water. I wiped my forehead with the back of my hand. “Has Uncle Clyde ever said Joe was mentally unstable?”
    Mama took the plunger from me and stirred the mass of laundry herself. “He doesn’t want to talk about Joe Adder, which you should have known at the dinner table yesterday. Don’t ever bring up unpleasant topics during meals, Hanalee.”
    â€œWhy doesn’t he want to talk about Joe?” I asked. “I thought you said we’re supposed to be forgiving.”
    â€œYou can forgive him, but don’t dwell on him. He’s still not easy to talk about.”
    I watched her agitate the cloths and the undergarments in the tub and remembered Joe’s talk of white hoods and robes.
    â€œWhat does Uncle Clyde say about my future here?” I asked.
    Mama peeked up at me without lifting her head. “Why do you ask that?”
    â€œI’m not sure if I can imagine him paying for me to receive further schooling after I graduate. And we all know I can’t marry anyone around here, unless a nonwhite young man actually moves into the region. I’m not sure if anyone would hire me for work.” I drummed my fingers against my sides. “What on earth am I supposed to do for the rest of my life?”
    â€œWell”—she brushed a lock of hair out of her eyes with fingers red and cracked from the washing—“Uncle Clyde says you’re welcome to live here with us as long as you please.”
    â€œDoes he even like me?”
    â€œHanalee!” She jabbed at the wash with a force that splashed water over the edge. “The questions you’re asking . . .”
    â€œHow does he feel about the Negro race in general?”
    Mama’s jaw dropped. “Why are you asking such things? Uncle Clyde is most certainly not a bigot, if that’s what you’re insinuating.”
    â€œIf I’m going to be stuck in a house with him, I want to know precisely what type of man he is.”
    â€œHe’s a good man who wants you to have a decent future.”
    â€œI’m thinking of becoming a lawyer.”
    Mama wrinkled her forehead and placed a hand on a hip. “A lawyer?”
    â€œYes.” I grabbed the plunger back from her. “I would love to one day open up a newspaper and read the words ‘Hanalee Denney, a little lady lawyer descended from Georgia slaves, overturned Oregon’s exclusion laws and interracial marriage laws—and fought hard to bring justice to people like her father. People killed by cowards who hide their guilt behind others.’”
    â€œWhat did you just say?”
    I plunged the laundry deep into the scalding water until my back hurt from bending and straining.
    â€œWhat’s going on, Hanalee?” She shaded her eyes from the sun.