When the Jessamine Grows

by Donna Everhart

Genres: Family Life

Synopsis

For readers of Cold Mountain by Charles Frazier and Enemy Women by Paulette Jiles, an evocative, morally complex novel set in rural 19th century North Carolina, as one woman fights to keep her family united, her farm running, and her convictions whole during the most devastating and divisive period in American history.

Talk of impending war is a steady drumbeat throughout North Carolina, though Joetta McBride pays it little heed. She and her husband, Ennis, have built a modest but happy life for themselves, raising two sons, fifteen-year-old Henry, and eleven-year-old Robert, on their small subsistence farm. They do not support the Confederacy’s position on slavery, but Joetta considers her family to be neutral, believing this is simply not their fight. 

Her opinion is not favored by many in their community, including Joetta’s own father-in-law, Rudean. A staunch Confederate supporter, he fills his grandsons’ heads with stories about the glory of battle and the Southern cause until one night Henry runs off to join the war. At Joetta’s frantic insistence, Ennis leaves to find their son and bring him home.

But soon weeks pass with no word from father or son and Joetta is battered by the strain of running a farm with so little help. As the country becomes further entangled in the ramifications of war, Joetta finds herself increasingly at odds with those around her – until one act of kindness brings her family to the edge of even greater disaster.

Though shunned and struggling to survive, Joetta remains committed to her principles, and to her belief that her family will survive. But the greatest tests are still to come – for a fractured nation, for Joetta, and for those she loves . . .

Release date: January 23, 2024

Publisher: Kensington Books

Print pages: 400

Sample

Joetta McBride could not stomach conflict. What was transpiring in the country was certainly troubling; however, the growing discord within her own family was most concerning to her. Like her evening primrose, it had bloomed swiftly overnight, and what had been merely a nuisance grew into a matter of significance. Her father-in-law, Rudean McBride, was who she blamed. The topic occupying Mr. McBride’s mind of late was war. He spent a good deal of time nattering on about the shoddy job Lincoln was doing now that he had been voted in. Lincoln was to hold resolute to his word and not interfere with the institution of slavery. Despite this, he was distrusted by many, including Mr. McBride. These issues would only have been a distraction to Joetta except for the effect it had on fifteen-year-old Henry. To her dismay, Mr. McBride reveled in the details of Northern and Southern dispositions, while Henry’s questions began to fixate with uncanny interest on the possibilities of a war.

Only the other day a sunbeam cast light across her eldest son’s face, highlighting the dark hair sprouting on his upper lip and along his jawline. He was becoming a young man, and with that, Joetta supposed, came a desire to think for himself. Henry was not the only one Mr. McBride captivated with his talk. Eleven-year-old Robert paid attention too, although Henry was the one who plied his grandfather with questions. Mr. McBride, enthused by his rapt audience, went on about heroic deeds and a soldier’s bravery, describing how they ran full tilt toward their adversary and engaged in mortal battle in the name of honor. What he never brought up was no matter how virtuous he made it, winning should never be assumed. Men were not invincible. War was anything but how he depicted it with his elaborations on the cause and seeking justice, the grandeur of a righteous struggle. He left out the misery of exposure to extreme temperatures, hunger, thirst, disease, horrific injuries, and the ultimate price, death. He treated it like some fanciful fairytale life.

Mr. McBride expounded on the chance to see new places, meet new people, as if war were a social event. Henry’s eyes glowed, his imagination ignited by what could be discovered beyond this patch of land where he had grown up. This troubled her immensely. They were yeoman farmers. They raised pigs and chickens, owned a beautiful golden milk cow named Honey, and a cooperative plow mule named Pal. They sold white corn and sorghum in order to purchase sugar, flour, salt, and coffee. They wanted for nothing and they owed no one.

One cool evening on the cusp of spring, the boys and their grandfather were gathered in the sitting room while Ennis worked in the barn repairing a harness. The boys took turns using a whetstone to sharpen their jackknives. Mr. McBride, his hands draped over his small paunch, spoke softly, like he was picking up where he had left off from some previous conversation.

“No sir. If you can’t own lots of land, life on this farm and what you see here is your future. You might be all right with that, what do I know? Now here’s something I often thought I should do. I believe I’d have made a fine soldier. Point is, there will come a time when you’ll have to make up your minds about what you’ll do in life. Don’t look to this. This ain’t your future.”

The boys stopped what they were doing and looked at her, expecting a response. Joetta flushed with irritation at her father-in-law’s statement, and yet, she said nothing. He would love nothing better than to spar with her, so she kept her head down and hummed as if she had not heard a thing while she stirred a pan of gravy. Robert rubbed the edge of the blade with his thumb.

“But, I like it here.”

Joetta smiled inwardly. Mr. McBride leaned forward and put his elbows on his knees.

“Take Mr. Poole down the road yonder with his thousands of acres, and hundreds of slaves at his beck and call. He’s living high on the hog over there. Making enough money to travel and go places worth seeing. He recently come back from Europe. You got to have acreage along with slaves to handle that kind of work and to have that sort of life. He’s able to travel ’cause he can afford it, but he’ll go flat broke if Lincoln has his way. He’s got that new carriage with them horses to pull it. Why wouldn’t anyone want the finer things in life?”

Henry said, “If there’s a war, Mr. Poole won’t be rich anymore?”

“It’s about money, more ’n anything. The South’s too successful according to some. He’s successful, wouldn’t you say?”

The boys nodded. Mr. McBride appeared to ponder his own question.

“How can you be too successful, one might ask, and why is the South richer? Cheap labor, for one. But here’s the reality. If them darkies go free, how’s Poole gonna manage all that crop he’s got? Imagine. Work all your life to get where you are only to have the government and the damn Yanks telling you what to do. That’s why it can’t happen. It ain’t right.”

Robert said, “What if we win?”

“Why, things would go on like always, what with everyone knowing their place and such. That’s the God’s honest truth. Listen to me now. I’m telling you, farming like this”—he gestured out the window at the rich land, which gave Joetta comfort, but apparently fueled his derision—“ain’t doing nothing ’cept breaking your back day in and day out. If you have a lot of land, and the slaves to run it, you got something then.”

Joetta banged the lid onto the pan. Where did he think his food came from? It was difficult to watch as he sat stuffing himself full with that which had been planted, picked, and prepared by her hands. What she and Ennis did was nothing to be ashamed of. She began setting the table, loudly placing supper plates, glasses, and silverware on the table, then interrupted the infuriating discussion with a question.

“How about Idiot’s Delight for dessert?”

She stared at Mr. McBride and he paused. Then, as if she had not spoken, he moved on to recount a bloody battle, this time with Indians. She shut him out and his voice became a drone. This was how she managed even as she dwelled on the insults, and the meaning behind them. However, the more she reflected on what he said, the more indignant she became. She would certainly speak to Ennis about his horrible influence, and how he was tainting their sons’ minds.

Once they finished eating, with Mr. McBride holding his plate out wordlessly for a second piece of dessert, Joetta noticed, she took up the plates and began washing them. Ennis came to her side, and she spoke quietly to him.

“He is poisoning them against our way of life. I do not understand it. As if all this”—she swept her hand around—“is not worthwhile or admirable.”

Her husband leaned against the worktable.

“Pa’s always been like that. He ain’t never been happy with where he’s at, or with what he’s got. He’s always had it in his head what would make him successful was to own more land, and slaves. I’ll speak with him.”

“Good. He certainly will not listen to me.”

Ennis draped an arm over her shoulder, and squeezed.

“Does he listen to anybody?”

“Himself.”

Ennis smiled, kissed her cheek, and went back outside. In the evening light, she noted, like she did on many occasions, the way he walked, his long-legged stride, his height, his hair, and his shoulders. His shape was as familiar to her as her own form. She wished when they were together like husband and wife it would result in another child. She could not see this taking place, not after so long. She did not want to think about the babies she had lost, most too small to know their sex. It did no good, but it made her ever more grateful for Henry and Robert.

She moved into the sitting room and sat in her chair, reaching into the basket she kept beside it for her sewing. After she selected some thread and began working, she looked at her sons.

“Henry, Robert, your great-grandfather actually fought in that other big war, remember?”

Mr. McBride looked at her, and huffed.

“We already heard about this.”

“Not everything.”

She faced the boys again.

“My grandfather, your great-grandfather Smith, died in the War of 1812 before I was born. Do you recollect my family once lived near the Albemarle Sound?”

Robert moved closer to her, while Henry remained where he was, his expression aloof.

Joetta went on. “He was working at a port when a press gang forced him into service. Do you know what a press gang is?”

At this Henry paid attention, and both boys shook their heads.

“They were men from the British Royal Navy who took sailors and other men against their will. They would grab anyone with any amount of know-how about ships and sailing the seas. It was an underhanded way of going about it, but Great Britain was at war with France, and as it went on, they took whoever they could get. For a long time my mother and grandmother held on to the possibility he was near Canada, where fighting was going on. He was not in Canada. He died overseas. They never knew where he was buried. We never forgot how he went to work one day only to never come home. I tell you this because war is not a glorious affair.”

Henry, his tone bordering on rude, said, “I know that.”

The way he spoke caught Joetta by surprise, and while she was still digesting his tone, he shared a bit of news that further alarmed Joetta.

“Benjamin says if he got the chance he’d go fight.”

Benjamin. Of course. His tendency to brag and make such declarations was typical. Bess and Thomas Caldwell, his parents, were friends with Joetta and Ennis. Harold, their thirteen-year-old son and their youngest, spent time with Robert. The Caldwell farm lay two miles to the east and abutted the McBride farm, and because the properties were divided by dense woods and several acres of uncultivated land, the boys often hunted in that area together.

Mr. McBride said, “By God, I’d sign up to fight too, if I won’t so damn old, and didn’t have this bum knee.”

Henry said to no one in general, “I’d sure go.”

Joetta frowned.

“Enough about this. Your grandfather is too old, and you are too young. Besides, what is going on has nothing to do with us.”

Robert scrutinized his older brother.

“They wouldn’t want you anyway; you’re too puny.”

That led to a small-scale scuffle, more of a shoving match. Henry, ever sensitive about his height because the younger Robert was already taller, shoved his brother while Mr. McBride slapped his knees and laughed, enjoying the fracas. Joetta stood, and clapped her hands.

“Stop it.”

After one final shove, they obeyed, although each continued to glare at the other. She pointed at the door, and they slumped away to do their evening work, crossing the yard peacefully enough. She turned around to find Mr. McBride peering at her from over the rim of his cup. He lowered it and wiped his mouth.

“You can’t keep’em from doing what they want forever.”

It was the way he said it. His comment was not about this small clash; it went beyond that. She did not respond because deep down, she knew it to be true, and like any mother, she did not like having to face the fact of their autonomy one day. But they were not there yet, and though the time would come, she did not expect it for a few more years. By then, they would be more mature, able to make decisions based on facts, not the urges or notions of an old man’s mind. Mr. McBride picked up his cup and slurped. She decided to set aside her sewing for now and go pull weeds. It was always a good way to vent her vexation when he was right.

That night as she and Ennis prepared for sleep, she worried out loud about Henry. Ennis sat on the bed, patting an empty space. She dropped beside him, laid her head on his shoulder, and he snugged an arm around her waist.

“He’s only a boy talking big, trying to figure himself out.”

Joetta could not resist.

“Your father?”

Ennis snorted in agreement, and then set her mind at ease.

“Don’t fret about the boys. Henry and Robert know how their grandfather is, how he goes on and on. More important, we know our Henry, right?”

Joetta believed what her husband said was true, even while some of Henry’s latest behaviors gave her reason to question this. She chose to believe Ennis was right, and that Henry was merely trying to find his way.

The next morning as Ennis read The Farmer’s Almanac, he talked about the crops as she put breakfast on the table. Mr. McBride was already in fine form, having started in on Robert, telling him he needed to eat because he looked like a starved cat. Robert’s lankiness matched Ennis, while Henry’s shorter, stockier stature was more like Mr. McBride. Robert sat with a glum look, wordlessly picking at an old stain on his overalls, and Mr. McBride quickly lost interest. He snapped open a newspaper, procured on a trip to town, and within seconds began reading aloud, his derision over the latest news spilling forth.

“Lincoln won’t keep his word, I’d bet on it.”

He took up a snifter of whisky and dumped some in his coffee as Joetta set eggs and grits in front of them. Ennis closed the Almanac and tossed it aside.

“Pa, let’s eat in peace.”

Mr. McBride waved his fork in the air and mumbled, distinctly aggravated.

“Peace. Best get used to not having it. Ain’t gonna be much peace around here, not if them bastards get their way.”

Ennis stopped eating and stared at his father intently.

“How does any of this affect you, or us?”

Mr. McBride’s mouth dropped open and a bit of egg fell out.

“What? You can’t mean that! Of course it does! Where the hell you been?”

Ennis calmly responded, “I care nothing about what’s going on. Neither should you.”

“Good God. You teach these boys such, and they’ll grow up ignorant!”

Henry and Robert watched this exchange with great interest, while Joetta banged a spoon around in the kettle of grits, her annoyance growing by the minute. It was utterly ridiculous the things he said. They did not need anyone to tell them what to do, or how to do it. They were on their land, minding their own business. Let the ones who wanted go and fight. The McBrides would be having no part of it. Ennis pointed at his sons with his fork.

“As long as they know how to keep a family and livestock fed, that’s all they need to worry about.”

Joetta scooped grits onto Henry’s plate and paused, spoon hovering in the air, astounded by the look of derision he aimed at his father. This was something new. She glared at him, and noticing her irritation, he ducked his head to eat. Ennis did not see this exchange, but Mr. McBride had. His smug look was condescending, and she was all too aware her opinions were valued by him no more than what Lincoln himself thought, even in her own home. Whether he liked it or not, she would speak her mind. She dropped a blob of grits on his plate.

“It is ignorant and a waste of time to argue over things that do not matter.”

She continued to move around the table, serving the food. Mr. McBride shoved his chair back and wagged a finger at her and Ennis.

“Watch and see don’t them boys grow up middlin’. Like somebody else I know.”

His gaze swept over Ennis as he snatched up his plate, and stomped out the back door, heading for his cabin. Although his father had insulted him in front of his children, Ennis kept eating. The tension in the air diminished, and Joetta sat down.

“Looks as if we will have peace after all.”

With Mr. McBride out of the house, her mood eased. It would be fine. Ennis would handle his father, the sooner, the better. She tasted the eggs. Not bad. Food always tasted better without the company of Mr. McBride.

Ennis went to Whitakers around midmorning and took his father with him. Joetta appreciated this gesture knowing full well it was done to give her a bit of peace. She sat on a squat stool in the kitchen doorway, sorting through the vegetables she had brought in from the garden, then dropping them into a pail of water. The boys walked back and forth in a distant field, creating a checkrow of hills to hold corn seed with the variety their father preferred, gourd seed. After she’d cleaned the vegetables, she moved on to the wash, and with her mind free, she enjoyed the peacefulness of the farm. Other than the rhythmic scrubbing sounds she made, and an occasional bird chirping in a nearby tree, it was a quiet spring day.

Joetta paused in her scrubbing and inspected the order of her domain, the swept yard, the bright spot of color from the crocuses and daffodils pushing up out of the ground while breathing in the familiar heady, sweet scent of jessamine. Her gaze moved on to the new barn built last year with the help of the Caldwells and the Browns. Nearby, the smokehouse was filled with ham, sausage, and bacon from the fall slaughter. There were her chickens pecking about the yard, including her two Pilgrim Fowl, Josephine and Agnes, gifts from Ennis a couple of weeks earlier for her thirty-fourth birthday. There was the shed filled with wood and finally, the orderly fields where they planted everything they needed. How could anyone be critical? Frankly, what they had done in sixteen years of marriage filled her with pride and immense satisfaction.

She gathered the material of Ennis’s overalls and scrubbed, the suds making them move easier against her washboard. With the warm sun on her back, she began to hum a little tune. In these found moments of serenity, she recognized there were a few troubles here and there, but overall she was happy, contented. After her morning’s work, she set about preparing the noon dinner expecting the return of the men. The squeaking of wagon wheels announced they were back, and she pulled the pot of beans and ham hock from the stove. She went through the house and stood at the front door watching as Ennis halted the wagon. As he climbed down he threw her a telltale look before he went to the back to unload flour and cornmeal. In from the field, the boys in their dusty clothes and faces red, hair damp with sweat, began to help their father. Mr. McBride carefully lowered himself down from the wagon’s seat, relying heavily on his cane and rubbing his bad knee. He wasted no time sharing what he had learned in town.

“I tell you what, I knew if it ever got started, it was gonna be a Confederate win! We got them on the run ’fore they could even git their muskets half loaded. I bet we could beat’em with popguns and cornstalks!”

Henry hefted a sack of newly ground cornmeal onto his shoulders, but his grandfather’s comment got his attention.

“There’s fighting already?”

Ennis pointed at the fields.

“Did you get done what I told you before I left?”

Robert said, “Yes sir,” while Henry sent an impatient look toward his father and did not answer.

His gaze returned to his grandfather.

“Are we at war?”

Ennis kept working, and Joetta did not understand why he permitted such impudence. Mr. McBride banged his cane on the ground with enthusiasm.

“Them damn Yanks thought we wouldn’t stand our ground. Well, we showed’em at Fort Sumter! Now Lincoln’s calling for seventy-five thousand men to ‘quell the’ . . . what’s he call it, ‘the Southern rebellion.’ Ha! He can go to hell! Ain’t nobody with the good sense the Lord gave’em gonna help him fight his war and if they do, they ain’t nothing but traitors, and we’re better off without’em.”

Henry acted as excited as Mr. McBride. “Our side’s bound to win!”

Ennis was quick to respond. “Son. We ain’t got a side in this thing.”

Henry dropped his head. This kept his face partially hidden, but Joetta had seen enough. Ennis was right; they did know their Henry, and his expression said there would be trouble.

What had flared in Henry’s eyes contradicted what Joetta and Ennis had always believed, that through their hard work and example, their children would respect them and their chosen way of life. Always willing and obedient, Henry’s transformation had been subtle, as obvious as seconds passing in a day, until it was not. Joetta was steeped in these thoughts as she left the hen house, where she had been gathering eggs the following morning. Mr. McBride, favoring his bad leg, limped by her. She greeted him as always for she never liked holding grudges.

“Good morning.”

He grunted a greeting—of sorts. Ennis spoke to his father as well, but Mr. McBride had no time for niceties. He was headed for his grandsons, who worked near the wood pile, chopping and stacking to replenish the day’s supply. He called out to them.

“Listen! I been thinking on this most of the night. We have a side, and it’s the very same one as them rich planters. Don’t matter we ain’t got their kind a money.”

Henry paused to look at his grandfather, his interest flickering and growing, the way the flame on a wick lengthens when extended. Mr. McBride stopped near him. Before Henry could react, his grandfather scraped his shirt sleeve up to expose his forearm.

“Look a here. What do you see?”

Mr. McBride’s big knuckled finger jabbed repeatedly the area he’d exposed. Ennis interrupted, his warning like a rumble of thunder.

“Pa. That’s enough.”

Mr. McBride twisted around to look at him.

“What. Henry here, he’s sensible. I’m teaching him something. What’s the harm in that?”

“I know what you’re doing.”

“No, you don’t.”

He turned his back and his voice became urgent as he poked Henry’s forearm again.

“It’s this here white skin! Same as them big planters got, don’t’cha see? Them Yanks get their way, they’ll elevate the Negro to the same dispensations as you, me, any of us. Next thing you know, they’ll be coming after our womenfolk, doing all manner of terrible things.”

He pulled Henry close to him, murmuring in his ear as Ennis raised his voice.

“I said enough!”

Mr. McBride sputtered with outrage.

“It’s the very reason we got to fight. Ain’t no way ’round it. They abolish slavery, they’ll be roaming about the countryside, and any woman, whoever she is, will be in danger, mark my words!”

Mr. McBride resumed whatever he had to say, keeping hold of Henry by the back of the neck. Henry’s eyes grew rounder with each passing second until he began to struggle to pull free. Ennis was beside his father now, and thumped him on the arm.

“Let him go, Pa.”

Mr. McBride shrugged Ennis off, and whatever he said next made Henry go still the way a rabbit caught by a hawk gives up. His face turned ruddy, the color deepening with each passing second. He flicked at his ear as if bothered by a gnat.

“Stop saying those things.”

Mr. McBride scowled.

“You got to know what this war means. Wouldn’t you want to do something about that? Hell, I’m done. You got a good understanding now, I reckon.”

Mr. McBride released Henry, who swiped at his ear as if he could remove what he had been told. He avoided his mother’s eyes and went back to work. Ennis went to Joetta and let out a sigh.

“He’ll be fine.”

“And you?”

The corner of his mouth curled, and he tried to lighten the mood.

“That’s always been questionable.”

They watched Henry yank the maul free from the stump before swinging it over his head and letting it land with force against a piece of wood. Joetta’s arms filled with goose bumps. She involuntarily crossed her arms as if she had caught a chill. Such anger. Was it directed at them, or was it what his grandfather said? He brought the tool down swiftly again, splitting each piece in two on the first try. The change was remarkable. He did not behave like her Henry anymore. Joetta faced Mr. McBride. He had talked this nonsense time and again, the value of his white skin something he put above money. She pointed at him.

“For shame talking of such things.”

Mr. McBride sniffed.

“What’s a shame is y’all gone ruin that boy.”

Ennis approached his father again with a determined look and Joetta backed away. She did not need to hear this. She went inside, pulled her skillet out, and restoked the fire, wondering what Ennis might say this time that would make any difference. She dared to glance out, and he was gesturing like he would when frustrated while Mr. McBride stood with his arms crossed. He shook his head and grinned like a fool. He actually laughed a time or two until Ennis said something that made him stalk away, waving his hands in anger. Ennis pointed at the boys, who became very busy with the rest of their wood chopping. Finally, he appeared in the kitchen doorway, and Joetta paused in her cooking.

“What did you say to him?”

“I informed him he wouldn’t be allowed around the boys, or to eat with us, if he kept it up.”

Joetta cracked some eggs into the pan.

“Good,” she said.

That day Mr. McBride kept his distance, quietly working on his whittling, and did not come to the table at noon. What a pleasant change, Joetta thought. Of course it was noticeable to everyone when he limped into his cabin later that evening as they ate supper. Joetta sighed, put food on a plate and took it over to the cabin. She knocked, and he opened the door, whining immediately as he took it from her.

“He said I couldn’t eat with y’all.”

“That is not exactly what he said.”

“Sure it is. Ask him.”

“Breakfast is at the usual time. See you then. Sleep well.”

She made her way back across the yard, the silence behind her as loud as a gunshot.

For a while, calm was restored. Mr. McBride behaved and Joetta was pleased. One morning she sent the boys into Whitakers to pay on the bill at the store, and when they returned, they huddled together and spoke in subdued voices. Joetta smiled, noticing Robert’s mouth tinted dark from eating licorice. She had allowed if there were any coins left over, they could buy some candy. Henry, however, eyes glassy bright and face flushed in such a manner he appeared as if he had taken on a sudden day fever, kept one hand clenched. Perhaps he held the remaining money, or candy, only his expression yielded an uncommon excitement. She stopped beating the rug she had draped over the porch rail. He almost vibrated with whatever it was, excitement or nervousness, she could not tell.

“What is it?” Joetta asked.

There it was, so obvious, yet so subtle only a mother might notice the shift from exhilaration to caution. He spoke carefully, signaling an effort to not sound any particular way.

“Secession. North Carolina’s left the Union.”

Robert spoke around a piece of candy still in his mouth. “Everyone’s talking about it. Everyone. Will Papa go fight?”

Joetta supposed she should have expected it, the way things had been going since Lincoln’s election, yet the news gave her a moment of uncertainty. Even so, she held no particular feelings of alarm. She shook her head.

“Of course not.”

She wanted to follow this assertion with more reassuring words, if only for herself. The doubt on Henry’s face made her feel he knew more than she did, and she found herself looking away, searching for Ennis. She spotted him in the nearby field, walking between the small hills the boys had created, positioning his jab planter every so often. She knew from previous years of planting corn, there would be four seeds to each mound. One for the blackbird, one for the crow, one for the cutworm, and one to grow. Mr. McBride limped out of his cabin and came toward them. Joetta sighed inwardly. He would be happy about this, she was certain. He called out.

“What’s the latest news, boy?”

He never said their names. They were “boy,” the both of them, and it was one more issue Joetta found particularly irritating. Henry eagerly informed him.

“North Carolina’s seceded, Grandpa!”

Joetta picked up the rug beater and went back to work. She did not want to hear about this, and certainly did not like Henry’s eagerness over it. It was only talk, though, as Ennis said. Ignoring them, she went inside and brought out another rug from the hall, observing straightaway Mr. McBride scrutinizing a small object in the palm of his hand. Henry saw her looking, and took it back. She heard him address his grandfather.

“Most everyone’s wearing them.”

Joetta caught a flash of red, and gold. Was that what he had done with their hard-earned money?

“Henry, where did you get that?”

Robert, not wanting to be left out, reached for the item.

“Let me see it again.”

Henry handed it to him, reluctantly.

“You ain’t keeping it.”

His eyes stayed on the odd little symbol, even as it rested in Robert’s . . .