#Josephine Duplanchier

[aheathen-conceivably]

The tour was going better than even Josephine could have imagined. Despite the melodramatic resignation with which Antoine had gotten in the car the morning they had left Strangerville, or the brooding quiet he adopted on their drives between performances, he was a different person on stage. 

So much so that when Jo watched him perform she knew that this was where he was always meant to be, even if he had tried to pretend otherwise. After all, she had been the one who had been there from the first moment he had ever sat in front of a piano, advocating for him first at the club with their mother and then with men all over town. She had been the one who had believed in him, even when he hadn’t believed in himself.

And for whatever cowboy fantasy he may have been living in Strangerville, seeing him like this was like watching him come alive all over again - until finally, it was as though the best of the artist he had been under the heavy weight of the Storyville air had been set free, colliding and enmeshing with some idea of himself he had found on the open mesas.

With every cheer and every show it grew stronger; and even as he might have grown more homesick or quiet with her, something else was growing in him. Away from the stage, she would catch him at all hours of the day and night, huddled with his guitar and clutching a pen, working quietly but furiously on compositions and lyrics.

It didn’t seem to matter how shabby their accommodations were, or that each bed and each view was different but woefully the same as the one before. He only had himself and his guitar, and whether that was enough or just a distraction from the fact that it would never be, she was unable or unwilling to discern.

As the weeks wore on, they fell into a sort of rhythm, one governed by constant movements and brief moments of respite. Antoine would wake when Jo turned on the lights only to know without words that they would have to load up the car to get to their next stop, check in another hotel, unload their bags yet again, play another show, and end up back in the same room by evening. Day after day, the same routine was governed by blurred vistas from a car window, tinged with movement and restlessness, just like Jo's soul had always been.

So it was in those brief moments of stillness that Antoine would just simply sit and write, allowing whatever stained carpet he was sitting on to become home for just a moment. Only Jo could still see it even when she was meant to rest - the freshly paved black asphalt shivering in the ever present sun, stretching out all the way to the Pacific Ocean. It was impossible to ignore, not when she knew what was waiting for her just outside.

So she would tell Antoine that she would be home soon, a quick nod telling her that he had barely heard her. Moments later, she had left the hotel in her rearview mirror. Then, without fail, the feeling of freedom rushed over her as the wind roared past her ears and deafened her to every noise swirling around her, even those coming from inside her own head. She never wanted to stop the car once it got going, the asphalt burning hot under the incessant movement of the tires and the charged touch of the accelerator as it gave way under her heel, finally meeting the metal below as the car groaned under her.

But eventually, begrudgingly, she would realize that she had gone too far to be back home by sunrise, or to know where the nearest gas station was, so she would turn around back to the hotel that she called home for only a few nights at a time.

Sometimes when she returned, he would be asleep, run ragged by the driving and shows that only made her more energized than she had ever been in her life. Other times he was still sitting exactly where she left him, guitar clutched in his hand and seemingly surprised that hours had gone by while she was away. Those nights it was like they had both caught the one another in a daydream, Jo’s mind still racing as fast as the car had been and Antoine’s numbed to the outside world by the lyrics that flowed from it like whiskey.

Only when they met each other's eyes did they realize another day awaited them - one filled with the promise or dread of yet another faceless room and a cheering crowd. Then there was little left to do but sleep with the hope that you had the energy to face it.

When the sun broke through the curtains, it brought with it another drive, another hotel, and another show - another day of the movement that had carried them along like waves for weeks at a time. So Antoine would brush the sleep from his eyes, only half aware even as Jo clasped the pearls behind each ear. Then he would rustle up his papers, slow to fit each shirt back into his suitcase as though it shrank with each stop.

By the time they were back in Val's car, the wind took over for the silence of a long drive, grown more poignant by the fact that part of her knew that he didn’t want to be there, and part of him saw that she would push them forward nonetheless.

Except at the end of every drive was yet another show, softening the tension between them with his lyrics that reinforced to her that this was where he was meant to be all along. He never faltered as he played, reminded that despite whatever had kept him awake the night before, this was always waiting for him. Every song and every note like an outlet for his pain, his feelings free to roam through him and escape from him like nothing else.

All their lives, Jo had watched him hide the words he had wanted to say, or the frustrations he felt. She was proud, and even more deeply, joyful that she had gotten him here. Finally, singing on a stage where people listened to him and appreciated him for the artist he was, even if it was in the corner of some dusty bar in the middle of some desert state. She was smart enough to see that if he just allowed it for himself, this was only the beginning. So when Hosa caught up to them on the last leg of their tour and offered her not one but two more tours, she didn’t even hesitate before saying yes.

[aheathen-conceivably]

Part 2/3

[aheathen-conceivably]

The sounds of the desert kept pulling Antoine back toward them, away from the loud lull of the bar that was pouring out onto the porch beside them. There was one reason he wasn’t giving into their comforting call, and it was standing in front of him waiting for him to speak. When he did it was exactly what she expected him to say, “You know she only hired me because of Jo, right?”

Her response came soft and kind, as though it wasn’t the fifth time she has allayed the same fear since Jo had approached them with the offer. “I know no such thing, because it isn’t true. She hired you because you can play.”

He almost said exactly the same thing as the last time he had voiced this concern. They had been alone in their bedroom, far away from the roar of a bar, which was coincidentally where he would have preferred to be at that very moment. But she wants me to sing, Zelda. I can’t sing. I’ve never sung. But he didn’t have to, because she already knew. “Are you sure you don’t want to sing it?”

Zelda looked down briefly at her feet, hesitant to say no to him at all. She didn’t want him to be afraid, to have to get up in front of a crowd and perhaps be even more vulnerable than he had ever been on the piano. Only she couldn’t. Not again. Her time away from the stage had only convinced her that it had never really happened at all. It had become even more powerful than a dream, because now, it was just a memory. A memory so laced with magnolias and champagne that it could only be revisited through hazy eyes and swaying limbs when you were alone on the edge of sleep or fully immersed in a book. It couldn’t have once been her life. 

But still, she would have said yes for him, taken the stage in some Western bar and swallowed her fears alongside a shot of whiskey for him. But that wasn’t the point. 

“It isn’t my song, Antoine. Or anyone else’s. It’s yours and only yours to play.” Then she brought her hand to his cheek, “Just play. See how it feels, if it comes to you. If you don’t sing it no one but us will know the difference because it will be great either way.”

Zelda settled into her chair once he was already crooked over his own, cigarette dangling from his fingers and hands busied on the lighter he always kept in his pocket. Jo swung around her shoulder, placing three beers in front of her before whispering some barely heard reassurances in her ear. 

Zelda left her eyes on Antoine while she tried to ignore the tense glances between the couple next to her, or those Gio was throwing over Jo's shoulder to the bar beyond. Antoine’s hand returned the lighter to his pocket and then rose to the tabs that decorated the top of the guitar. She waited with bated breath for him to look back up at her, to need her again before his hand left the cigarette and found the strings. 

When he didn’t even glance at her or the crowd before he started playing, she couldn’t tell if she was relieved or disappointed; but then he slipped into a trance where neither she nor anyone else seemed to exist.

The song should have sounded exactly the same as it had the other dozen times she had heard it. In truth, she knew the notes and the words just as well as any of her own performance pieces. But now, even though she recognized every one, they were all different. Like the crowd in front of him had somehow added life to the way his hands moved, even if they were in exactly the same places as every other time he had played it.

She knew that it was because underneath his dented guitar and plain white shirt, he was the same jazz musician he had been in the club ten years before. Only now he was on an instrument that added more honesty and rawness to the notes he had composed, even as his skill and improvisation stayed the same. For a moment Zelda forgot to be upset that he seemed to have forgotten her, because it was like watching a transformation through time. He was the same, only somehow, even better than he had ever played before.

The crowd magnetized on him without even a single word sung, and the consistent playing of the notes and the heavy cloud of cigarette smoke hung over the bar like electricity.

Gio turned to Jo, raising an impressed eyebrow as she smiled back at him with pride, forgetting to lace it with superiority or malice for the first time in months. Zelda caught the look between them and didn’t even have time to feel guilty like she usually did when she saw Jo now, because a moment later the words she hadn't really expected began to float down to them from the stage. With them, Jo’s face transformed from simple pride into something much more intimate, like an overwhelming emotion that she had been trying to forget.

As the song went on it was like all three of them were back there in the House of the Rising Sun together, just like they had once been when they were twenty-something and without the weight of worries they wore now. Not an ounce of the betrayal or open wounds still simmering between them were left for those few minutes. Only memories of over a decade together, of shared joy and pain that bound them together like nothing else could. 

On stage, Antoine remained oblivious to them. His eyes were closed and not a trace of his fear from outside remained, because he may as well have been back at the piano he had left behind. They didn't exist, because part of him was back home…🎶

[aheathen-conceivably]

New Year’s Day 1934 had come and gone. In the desert, it hadn’t seemed that much different than the height of spring or the dawn of fall. The day had been hot while the night was filled with the rage of dusty wind. Only with it had come the news that they would have celebrated with gusto five years prior: Prohibition Ends At Long Last! Instead it was marked in a silent kitchen, the first bottle of legal liquor they could purchase in over a decade sitting precariously between them. No one knew if it was there to enjoy or to numb.

Each one of them clutched their own glass in guilty silence, maybe even imagining the clinking of champagne flutes that could have once accompanied this occasion. Rather than carouse in a frenzy of dance, they studiously avoided each other’s eyes, afraid to break the silence with even a sip. Everyone except Josephine. 

She threw back her drink so that when she spoke her voice was slurred with anger and alcohol, “So you’re telling me you don’t even own the goddamn farm, Gio? The farm you lured us all out to.”

“Of course I own the farm, Josephine. It’s just a loan, it just means…”

“I know how a loan works. Better than you do apparently. It means if you don’t have their money in six months they take the house. It means they own you.” She turned to Antoine and Zelda, pointing her finger and her blame directly at them, “And you two knew? What the fuck have you been doing, lying and playing at being farmers while the roof over our heads slowly falls into someone else’s hands?”

Antoine remained impassive, the anger and guilt swirling in his glass turning him to stone; but Zelda’s eyes watered as she futilely tried to answer. Gio saw her panic and spoke for her, “Its my loan, Jo, and mine alone. I was supposed to have until the end of the year, okay? The bank moved up the terms on me. I mean this can’t be legal — just scooping up someone’s land like this when we had an agreement.”

“Oh the end of the year, was it? Then you could have swept it under the rug so that poor little Josephine never found out, huh? That it? Well you’re an idiot. All of you. Idiots.” She covered her face in her hands, unsure if the burning in her throat was from the whiskey or the sob she had suppressed, “Does it even matter if it’s tomorrow or December? You don’t have the money. Antoine barely earns shit, and your little farming pipe dream does nothing but keep us hand to mouth. Where’s the money going to come from? The same imagination that told you any of this was a good idea in the first place?”

Her insults finally succeeded in burying the sob so deep that she could look back up at Zelda, “I’m right aren’t I? We can’t make shit off this land?” Jo’s eyes dared Zelda to so much as try to challenge her, so all she could do was muster a guilty nod of her head in affirmation.

Jo looked back toward Gio, the anger rising as the words she really wanted to cry out stayed trapped in her throat. You all let me think you were happy. That our life was perfect and I was the problem. You let me sink and disintegrate while you lied to my face! I stayed because I love you, and this is how you repay me!

Instead she sharpened her words and her eyes into razor sharp daggers, “I’ve had enough of this shit. I’m going into town tomorrow. It’s been over a month. The saloons and the bars have to be opening back up. I’ll sling a drink, I’ll do anything. We lose the roof over our heads and it’s right on the route with the rest of the Okies, fighting for scraps and scrounging for gas while Violette starves. Pathetic, Gio. All of you. Idiotic and pathetic..."

Her speech was cut short by the sound of Gio’s chair scraping against the wooden floors, “Enough, Josephine! I told you to leave them out of it!” Then he went quiet, hands gripping the table as her steadfast gaze told him she would never be the first to back down. When he spoke again it was in a low, chilling voice that none of them had ever heard before, "And I won't let you do that. To go down there and sell yourself again."

Antoine and Josephine rose to their feet at the same time; the former’s eyes burned with threats all the while Gio stayed staring at Jo. Within a split second his voice returned to normal, full of remorse and pleading as he ran after her in a rush of apologies and reassurances.

Their footsteps echoed on the hollow porch before they disappeared on the sand below. Zelda’s fingers remained locked on Antoine’s wrist, anchoring him in place until his rage could subside. His mind was vibrating with Gio’s final words; but he looked down to Zelda, internally counting to ten as he let her face replace the images of wrapping his hands around Gio’s neck, making him feel just as trapped and suffocated as his sister did before he let him go, gasping and desperate for air.

By the time the image faded, there was nothing left in the room but silence.

He sank back into his chair, moving it closer to Zelda. The look of guilt still hadn’t left her eyes, and seeing it, Antoine’s anger settled into worry. She didn’t hesitate to speak to him the way she had to Jo, “I should go after her, shouldn’t I? I should have told her. I’m her friend. Her sister…”

As her words dried up his stepped in, “I know, Zelda. I know. But we couldn’t. How could we?” He already knew that she didn't have to answer, because they had tried to absolve their complicity a dozen times. At their most avoidant, they had told each other it wasn’t their lie to tell. But beyond their deepest desire to avoid the conflict at all costs, they both knew that with each lie to Josephine’s face they had made it their betrayal just as much as Giorgio's. Only they were backed into an impossible corner, simply hoping the loan would be paid off and it would never come to this; otherwise, it meant they might lose Josephine or their home, perhaps even both.

Now that it had, all they could do was repeat what they had told themselves and each other for years. “They love each other, you know that. They’ll work it out. They have to.”

Zelda answered with a small nod, still unable to take her eyes off the door left open to the desert beyond. Across its stillness she could swear she heard arguing. She knew that she couldn’t convince Josephine to stay, the same way that she couldn’t have told her and jeopardized her daughter’s home and happiness.

So she let Antoine pull her head down onto his shoulder, gradually coming to the real question boiling under the surface. But where are we going to get the money? Only it was no use voicing it, not when they and Gio had already discussed it a dozen times over. Both of them had looked for work, and however many times Zelda offered to do the same, they all came to the same conclusion: they couldn’t sell what they grew, but at least they could eat it. She was the only one who could really ensure they wouldn’t go hungry, and the one who’s presence at home was actually the most vital of them all.

So all they could do was sit and wait to see if Josephine would stay. Wait and hope.

[aheathen-conceivably]

🎶 I ain't looking for a lie to believe, my own'll do me fine 🎶

Strangerville’s saloon was in full swing. Men who were worried about feeding their families or women scared their men may never come home from California finally had a place to drown their worries or lose them in the high of a shared laugh. Where illegality and excess had amplified the spirit of drink a decade before, now palpable relief and struggle had taken its place.

In between pouring a never ending stream of whiskey and beer, Josephine watched the woman across the bar. She had thought that outselling her would be easy. She had been dismissive, gruff, and even downright rude; and if there was one thing that Jo had learned in New Orleans, it was that she could sell anything with a suggestive glance better than the disdain she often really felt. 

Only this woman made no effort to hide the ribs and insults she seemed to lay out like easy jokes. She would swoop down to tables, seemingly calling each and every patron by name, laughing roughly and loudly before bringing them one beer after another. Part of it infuriated Josephine, but another part wouldn’t let her tear her eyes away from her every move.

She seemed comfortable running the place entirely alone, throwing Josephine a wink in between customers as though to say: I’m going to win, city girl. And there’s nothing you can do to stop me.

At the end of the night with the last drink served and the final stumbling patron seen to the door, Josephine and the woman sat at the bar, tallying their earnings. As Jo reached the end of her stack and set it on the counter, the woman was still counting. She finished with painfully slow fanfare and put the pile neatly beside Josephine’s. It was clearly and discernibly higher. “Well looks like we have a clear winner here, and we know what that means, don’t we?” 

Then she smiled in the same dismissive way that she had earlier that day, and moved her gaze to the stack of ones Jo had set down, “Not too shabby for a first night though. Most people in this town don’t trust a new face but you did better than I expected. And I’ll admit, the extra help was nice. A decade of sitting at home did nothing to temper these drunks, and I could use you around most nights.”

Jo straightened her spine and covered her eyes. Suddenly the job seemed like pity, the money nothing but a tether to a place she hated and people who had betrayed her. It wasn’t hers, and it certainly didn’t give her the sense of self or freedom she had expected to find. All the stacks told her was that she had lost. Lost to some tall and stocky woman at her own game in someone’s else’s bar in some fucking desert town she couldn’t even give a damn what the name was.

Her head swam and she started to separate from herself, to forget where she was or who she was. If she could feel her legs she would have stood to run, run to the edge of this town into the desert, away from this place and these people and all of these feelings…

“Jesus Christ, are you okay?” The words had come like static from a radio, from a voice she didn’t recognize or really care to please.

“What? I – I just,” Josephine stubbed out her cigarette straight on the bar as she gathered herself and turned to stand. Only she couldn’t, because she still couldn’t feel her legs or sense where she was, even as her pride and anger started to flood back to her flushed face. “I was just thinking on your offer. I’m afraid I can’t take it.”

The woman laughed, the sound shaking off the remaining clouds around Josephine’s head. “That sore of a loser, huh? Well that pride’ll earn their respect a lot faster than your pretty grins. Come back tomorrow night, we’ll go again. I’ll teach you a few names, see if we can tip the scales.”

Josephine looked up at her. By that point she could have moved to stand, walked back across town with her head held high and the secret of her loss hidden carefully away from the man waiting for her at home. Only there was no pity in the woman’s face, only a wry if good natured sense of superiority that Jo was more than familiar with from her own mirror; and up this close it was hard to deny that even with its hardened lines, there was a beauty to the woman’s face, so much so that Jo wanted to reach out to the hand extended to her even more.

As she did so the woman let her hand stay in Jo’s a moment longer than she expected. “Welcome aboard Miss Duplanchier. Now's as good a time as any to introduce myself. I’m Valcita. Valcita Grove. But you can call me Val.”

Then Jo realized that she was right. Her face was beautiful, the same way that the shadowless desert was beautiful in the full heat of the midday sun. Her heart beat faster as she imagined running into it again, not in fear this time, but in freedom, smiling as her world went up in flames behind her.

[aheathen-conceivably]

Porch Light - Josh Meloy

[aheathen-conceivably]

🎶 Ain't gunna run on lovin', gotta keep moving, never gunna slow down 🎶

From the moment he walked in the door Josephine knew that the man who sat at the bar that night was different. His eyes held none of the worry or desperation of the other patrons, and he moved with a sense of fluid determination that told Jo he knew exactly why he was there. 

As he ordered her finest whiskey, she caught sight of the gold rings on his fingers, each carefully embossed with a different emblem or inlaid with diamonds. Glittering amongst them were nails unmarked by the dirt of hard physical labor of nearly every other man in the bar, although the lines on his hands told her that hadn’t always been the case. She set the glass down in front of him and he held her gaze for a moment before turning back to Antoine, sipping his drink slowly and appreciatively.

After a few songs his glass ran dry, and once Jo had poured him another, he looked straight at her, addressing her more directly than most men ever did, “Who’s that playing? He’s new or something, isn’t he? Definitely not from here or I’d remember that face.”

The light glittered on his rings and Jo steadied her voice, “His name is Antoine Duplanchier, all the way from New Orleans. Trained under the piano greats down there, even heard a rumor he played with the Louis Armstrong back in his day.”

The man swirled the whiskey in his glass as his voice took on a bit of a mocking tone, “Why’s he playing guitar, then?”

Without missing a beat Jo smiled, “Well, sir, get me a piano and we can find out.”

He gave her an approving glance, a tinge of humor in his eyes telling Jo that she had judged his character correctly, “And what are you paying him here?”

Jo brought her hand to her hip and looked him square in the eye, “Now it wouldn’t be very prudent of me to discuss money with a strange man, would it?”

He let out a hearty laugh and a voice rang out behind them. “Father! When did you get here? You’re meant to be gone another week!”

He jumped to his feet, leaving his whiskey behind as he rushed to where Val stood. “Yázhí! Look at this place! You’ve done fine work, little one! I finished the opening in Gallup sooner than expected, so I wanted to see how things were running here. Swimmingly, it seems.”

A sort of innocent excitement crossed Valcita’s face as she pulled away from his hug. It was so different from her usual expression that it made Jo smile. She didn’t seem to catch it as she gestured over to the bar where Jo stood, “That’s in part thanks to Josephine here, father. She’s come along quite nicely. 

“We’ve met, Yázhí. She was telling me about your guitarist. Antoine, yes?” He left his eyes trained on Jo, looking for confirmation that everything she said had been true. As soon as she nodded her head yes, he gave her a pleased grin and turned back to his daughter. “I must say, it’s a smart move. Adds a certain atmosphere that’s missing at the other roadhouses. Lifts some of the depression you can’t seem to escape these days, even on the route.”

His next words came quickly, as though he had already made the decision even before asking Jo who was on the stage. “Say, Miss Josephine, you ever considered going out on the road? I’ll double whatever Valcita here has offered you.”

“Father!”

He looked at her shocked expression and brushed it off with a laugh, “Well you must lure a snake out of its hole somehow. Besides, the roadhouse numbers are promising. More and more Okies on that route need somewhere to stop, something to drink. Then anybody with a lick of money has been sold Route 66 like it’s some sort of promise land. I’ve got more white people in cadillacs stopping at the courts than I thought possible. Competition will catch on soon though, so we’ve gotta differentiate ourselves now. So what do you say, Miss Josephine, a few weeks, just a tour of our places in New Mexico? Maybe a few in Arizona.”

For the briefest of moments, the victorious smile vanished from Josephine’s red lips. She looked toward Antoine, who’s consistent playing and dazed eyes told her that he knew none of what was transpiring at the bar right in front of him. She knew that she should speak to him before saying another word, to formulate some sort of plan with him, Gio, and Zelda; but this didn’t seem like the sort of man who’s patience you tested, and the loan on their farmhouse matured in a little over a month. 

She rounded the bar, eyes angled straight at the man whose offer promised to save and ruin their lives in a single handshake. She reached out toward him first, ignoring both Val and Antoine in her periphery. “I’d say you’ve got a deal, Mr. Grove. But I want half up front, both for him and me as his manager.”

The sparkle in his eyes matched the gold of his rings and he stuck out his hand out to meet hers, “Only because I like you, Miss Josephine.”

[aheathen-conceivably]

Far atop the dusty downtown of Strangerville stood what felt like a different world. During the decades of the gold rush Eastern settlers had flooded the town and the settlements around it, displacing the people of the land even further as they dug into it for their own ends. The ones who succeeded ended up here, in Shady Acres, where they could look atop the empire they drilled into the ground.

Now, most of the houses sat abandoned, left to the disrepair of time and the harsh desert sands as the promise of ever greater riches took their owners further West to California and Oregon. There were little signs of life on the streets other than a lone truck making its way up the hillside, inhabited by two people who still weren’t quite comfortable being alone together anymore.

Gio directed Jo to pull to the edge of the cliff face, overlooking the town they had just driven from. She struggled to get the turn just right, but it was better than her other practice attempts, so he gave her a quiet smile of approval as she shifted the gear into park. Even from inside the metal truck they could hear the wind howling. It had been their constant companion on these near silent journeys up this road the past few weeks. 

He knew that the road further West was filled with places like this, miles and miles of winding curves and jaw dropping heights that would take a steady hand on the wheel. Antoine had taken one look inside the car and immediately refused to learn how to drive it. So burying whatever remaining fears and anger he had deep inside, Gio had gotten in the passenger seat with Jo and offered to teach her how to drive.

With every lesson, he knew that he was essentially giving her the tools she needed to leave him, the one thing he had been so afraid of that he was willing to lie and cheat to prevent it from happening. Now he felt like all he could do was sit by hope every inch he gave or silent acquiescence would serve to bind her closer to him rather than push her further away. Still in the back of his mind his fears kept nagging, so much so that as the day for her to leave came closer he couldn’t stay quiet anymore.

The wind kept howling, threatening to drown out his voice as he reached toward her. “Jo, mi raccomando…”

She braced herself for the same apology about his lie over the loan that she already had memorized. What more did he want her to say? She had stayed, hadn’t she? Stayed outwardly for Violette but really, quietly and inwardly, for all of them. Because she loved them all, but more than anything, because she loved him.

Only how was she supposed to tell him that? That she had fought back every instinct to leave so that she could stay with him, even if the price to pay to do so was that she would never trust him again. Because he had shown her that she had been wrong about him. He could hurt her, just as well as any other man she had ever known could. Except now that she had let him inside, now that she loved him, he could hurt her all the more. So she had to compensate somehow, to regain some sort of ground to stand on or she would be left weak to him doing it all over again.

“You don’t need to answer, okay?” Her head stayed turned just as he knew it would, and her hand went to the wheel as though the steady the car from the roar of the desert wind. It grew stronger as his voice grew more emotional, shaking the car and whipping across the top of the mesa.

“I can’t make you forgive me for any of what happened, but I’m sorry I didn’t support you and Antoine going on tour, or even really put you in the position where you could have chosen to do it for yourself and not to save us from some choice I made. I just…every time you walk out the door I’m afraid you won’t come home, that you’ll find someone or something else and I’ll never see you again.”

The sun was hitting directly in her eyes, mingling there with the stinging of tears that she tried her hardest to hold back. Only it was too bright, and she couldn’t possibly fight it, so one small tear after another rolled down her face while she stayed staring at it.

Whatever else he said after that was inconsequential as she let the sunbeams dry her unexpected tears; because he had already broken through her carefully constructed armor, made brittle by anger, restlessness, and love. But he couldn’t know that, or it would make everything she had done up to this point meaningless. The portion of the farm that was now hers, betraying Antoine, Zelda’s pained resolve, Violette’s angry confusion. She endured it all in some effort to regain control and hope for her own life; only it was so tenuous that she was convinced a few stray tears could undermine it all, so she made sure her face was completely dry before she turned to face him.

By the time she did so he had gone quiet and only a sliver of his profile could be seen. The rest of him was pretending to study the desert landscape, visibly struggling to adhere to his promise that he wouldn’t speak again until she answered him.

As it always did in moments like this, his vulnerability astounded her. He had meant every word he said, and he had spoken them without pause, trusting her to meet him halfway despite her track record of never having done so before. He had signed over a portion of his lease with a clenched fist only to climb into the passenger seat of his own truck, giving patient instructions with an anxious edge as she drove them further and further from town. Every choice he had made was in pursuit of some twisted idea of love, all the while she was guided by some nebulous idea of strength, the undeniable compulsion to never feel trapped again even if her own love had tried to temper it time and time again.

Jo reached over to touch his face and turn it toward her own. He gave no hesitation as he leaned into her touch, no questions and no judgement for the streaks on her face that must have still been visible from up so close. “Gio, look at me. I’m going to come home, okay?”

She left out that she wished this wasn’t home, some place she had no connection to or hope for, one filled with harsh desert winds barely keeping failed dreams afloat. A land of drought and struggle so incessant that it had almost worn down even her will. Some days it still felt like it was trying to accomplish what it nearly had when she was afloat in that bed, miserable and useless.

But shielded from it all inside the confines of his truck, with only his earnest expression and kind but well worn hands to anchor her down, suddenly it did feel like home. Or at least he did. So in a rare moment, she spoke without a single ounce of pretense or calculation, letting the need to keep herself in control float away on the howling wind. “I promise you, I’m always going to come home. No matter what.”

[aheathen-conceivably]

Somewhere on the other side of downtown Strangerville the town’s shopfronts pettered off into the desert, and an old road led through stone buildings falling to the sands of time. Like everything else in this town, Jo figured they had been toppled by the wind and the air; but the people who lived there knew better.

It was just as far from the farmhouse as Jo was willing to walk in heels, although not much further from the bar than her own house was. The fact that she could now call it her house added some spring to her step, even if she had no plans for it to remain that way forever. But for now, it was at least enough to anchor her to her promise to Gio, and the knowledge that she would be leaving it in less than 24 hours made every sight and sound more appealing than ever before, especially since she was there to pick up her ticket out.

Not long after Jo had agreed to her father’s offer, Val had approached her with a smile like she held a secret or had somehow already outwitted Jo in a game she hadn’t even realized they had begun to play.

From the depths of one of her pockets she had fished out the keys to a 1932 Ford Roadster, laughing at Jo’s confused face. Almost as quickly as she had produced them, Val had tucked the keys back into her pocket where they most likely rarely saw the light of day, then explained that the car was Jo’s if she needed it for the tour. All of Jo’s subsequent questions were met with simple shrugs or smiles, so when she approached the house the day before they were set to leave she was still surprised to see Val actually leaning astride the car she had promised.

Before either of them could say a word Jo’s eyes began to wander the scene in front of her. None of it was anything like she had expected. The car was sleek but sturdy, modern and flashy, and utterly at odds with the woman using it like a simple fence post in the desert. Behind it was a small white house with bright shutters and a daring red door, juxtaposed against dilapidated wooden shacks flanking either side of it. Jo didn’t quite know where to look or what to take from the whole scene, so her eyes lingered on the rocking chair on the front porch and wondered if Val ever sat there near sunset.

Val caught her curious gaze and crossed her arms, “What? Were you expecting me to live in a teepee like the guidebooks told you I would?”

A flush crept up Jo’s face as her eyes darted back to the woman she was set to meet. “Val! That’s…that’s not it at all. It’s just so colorful, so new…” So unlike anything I imagined from you. From the house I thought about you going back home to night after night while I tried not to think about where you slept and undressed on my own walks home. Only now I’m here and you’re here and does the inside look like this too? Does your bedroom look just as warm and modern and…

Valcita’s laugh broke the tension settling over the air with every unspoken thought racing across Jo’s mind. “Jesus Christ, Jo, relax. I’m kidding! Come here, would you?”

She leaned off the trunk, gesturing for Jo to walk nearer as she began to explain the mechanisms and workings of the interior. Jo ran her hand along the swooping edge of the car, open to the sky above so that you could drive with your hair blowing in the wind. Already she could hear it deafening her ears, throwing off the protective cover of the truck’s thin metal roof where she had learned to navigate the winding curves at breakneck speeds and made a promise that was getting harder and harder to remember.

As Val kept talking, explaining which buttons to press and gears to shift, Jo couldn’t help but look at her standing between the glittering black paint and small porch. Her ever-present turquoise necklace caught the light of the sun and reflected the color of the shutters. It was usually her only adornment, but now it seemed like just a rock in the desert alongside this treasure she had never expected to find at the edge of the dust bowl.

Val was mid sentence, pointing to the levers for the windows and the locks when Jo’s question finally slipped from her lips. “Why do you have it anyway? The car, I mean. Do you leave? The bar is so close, and I’ve never seen it outside…”

Immediately Val’s arms went back across her body, although Jo was beginning to realize it wasn’t a stance of defensiveness for her the way she had originally thought. It was always paired with some sort of smile that told her it was usually amusement. Or even more likely, defiance. She shrugged her shoulders and confirmed it was the latter. “It was new. Suppose I didn’t need much more of a reason than that, did I?”

The keys now firmly in her own pocket and some modicum of knowledge on how to work the thing thanks to Gio, Jo followed Val around to the driver’s side door. She waited purposefully for Val to lift her hand to the door and pull it open before placing her own neatly beside hers.

As she went to step inside she lifted her right hand to the door, forgetting to move her other one away from Val’s as she looked at the interior of the car laid out before her like a new world. It was nothing like the truck she had learned to drive in, the same one she had dreams of stealing in the night and driving off into the desert with. Only she could already tell that this one was even faster, fast enough to take her all the way to California, or maybe even back to New Orleans. By the time anyone realized, she would be too far gone for them to ever find her again.

Her breath caught in her throat as she composed herself to look back at Val. “I’ll be back at the bar before you know it. It’s only a few weeks after all.”

Val pulled her hand away from Jo’s, as though to tell her she had seen exactly what she had been thinking and had no intentions of holding her back. “No you won’t. I’ve seen your brother play, and I saw how you handled him with my father. They’ll be another tour, and another, until you’re out in California with the rest of the women that look like you.”

Suddenly Jo felt her feet lock in place, and she hesitated to get into the car that she had considered running away in seconds before. “What’s - what’s that supposed to mean?”

As though she could sense the shift in Jo’s posture, Val leaned her weight onto the door. “I said it the day you walked into my bar, ain’t nothing about you that belongs in this town. Not sure how you got out here anyway. But here,” she said, nodding at the steering wheel and moving to shut the door behind Jo as soon as she stepped inside, “There’s your ticket out. Just try and return it to me in one piece, will you?”

[aheathen-conceivably]

From the moment Jo and Antoine arrived back home it was clear that something was different. Antoine had grown quiet, contemplative even, while Jo’s newfound confidence was even more pronounced than it had been these last few weeks. She proceeded to the cabin and then the farmhouse, calling out for Gio and Zelda before walking away without an explanation to either. As she did so, Antoine remained outside, throwing branches into the bonfire and staring at them as they went up into flames.

That was the way Zelda found him - staring forward and unmoving even as she looked to him for acknowledgment. Her eyes roamed upward from him to Gio, who was on the opposite porch looking just as confused as she felt. A sort of sympathy passed between them alongside the knowledge that something had fundamentally shifted while they had sat alone in their houses, unincluded and unaware. Jo reached Antoine first, patting him familiarly on the shoulder as though to awaken them all from a dream.

She had a plan. That much was clear from the start. That, and the fact that the reactions she was eliciting would do nothing to change it. So she told them every detail of Hosa Grove’s offer without stopping to let anyone speak, until she had finished reciting each and every date, number, and location he had given her. But as soon as she did, Gio was the first to answer. “Jo, I-I don’t know about this…”

She interrupted him before he could go any further, “You got us into this mess, Gio. If this is what it takes to get us out of it then it’s what I’m going to do.” He dropped his eyes to the sand and went quiet, which was precisely her intention. “Now it's not the full loan amount, but it should be enough to get them off our backs for a while. I can’t imagine there’s a line of people waiting out the bank. Still, it's only enough with me and Antoine’s money combined, and I’m not putting any in unless I get part ownership in return.”

Gio turned toward her incredulously, his obedience momentarily forgotten. “You can’t be fucking serious. Why the hell would you want any of this farm? You hate it and you know my share is as good as yours…”

Her eyes set and the look on her face told them all that the conversation was over before she even said a word. She met Gio’s gaze straight on and lowered her voice into a cold, measured tone. “You offered Antoine half. It’s no different. He can’t pay the full share, but if we split it, then he and I each get a fourth of the ownership.” She paused briefly, letting the gravity of the choice sit on them all for a moment, “Otherwise we lose the house.”

The very fire seemed to cackle at him, punctuating her words and feeding into his guilt-ridden idea that this was simply retribution, some sort of divine justice that placed him neatly beneath the heels of her red shoes after he had tried to tuck them away at the back of their closet. “Fine,” he finally relinquished, the uneven tone of the word signifying that it was anything but, “The farm will go half into Duplanchier ownership, split evenly between the two of you.”

Jo finally turned her full attention to Antoine, leaving Gio’s defeated face happily in her periphery. “Now, Antoine, what about you? All of this is moot if you don’t agree.”

He knew that the question was rhetorical. Jo had already made an agreement with Hosa, and so he had very little choice in the matter. The deal was nothing without him, and it was the only thing standing between them, bankruptcy, and the fate of the Okies. Even knowing that, he didn’t want to do it. He wanted to stay there on the ranch during the day and wake up next to Zelda every morning. To go outside and see his daughter before she left for school, only to still be there when she returned. He wanted to be home.

But home would cease to exist if he didn’t leave it. His daughter’s dollhouse, his wife’s books, Gio’s fields, Jo’s vanity - their very lives fell on his shoulders and his unwillingness to say yes. Still, he knew he would never make the choice to leave if she didn’t as well, no matter what it cost them. He looked at her profile, which was staring wordlessly into the fire like his had been moments before. 

When Zelda looked back at him she misinterpreted the hesitation in his eyes as worry for her, so she did her best to put on a brave face and looked back at Josephine, “I meant what I promised you all those years ago. Both of you. When the time came for him, I’ll do whatever you need of me.”

With her words, the deal was sealed, and Antoine looked back at his sister with a begrudging nod. He and Jo were going on the road.

[aheathen-conceivably]

🎶 Sounds pretty good to me. Can I do one more? 🎶

Night after night, Josephine worked harder than any bar she’d ever been in. Val had been right, her pride and humor got more tips than the smoldering looks she was used to casting. So little by little, their nightly competition became tighter as it turned into some sort of shared ritual they waited for each day. 

Once the last patron was seen to the door they exchanged shared glances, at first instigated by Val, who knew that she would win just as she had the night before, and the one before that too. She always had a smug smile on her face when she asked Josephine to tally up her tips, the same one she invariably wore when her pile was still higher at the end of the night.

It was that look that taunted Josephine in bed at night, lying next to Gio and waiting for the next day to roll around so she could see it again; until eventually, she was the one taunting Valcita, telling her that tonight would finally be the night she would win. Until one night, she was right.

The odds had shifted ever so slightly, just enough that for once, Jo was the one who got to look over her pile of money with a smug smile. She jumped to her feet, letting her good nature take over her desire to stay and gloat. Without a word she rushed behind the bar to grab a bottle of whiskey. Lifting it triumphantly in the air, Val waved her away, prompting a confused and defeated look from Jo. Val’s answer came quickly and without unnecessary explanation, just as everything seemed to with her. “Don’t drink, never did.”

Jo hesitated and moved to put it back on the shelf where it belonged, but Val laughed. “No no, go ahead, don’t let me stop you. You won fair and square after all.”

It was easier than drinking at home, where even after a month had gone by, tension still lingered in the air like cigarette smoke. Everyone there seemed to tiptoe around her, trying to make up for the perceived wounds between them while ignoring the existential tick of a clock. It was in every one of their heads: a constant, ever-present reminder that their loan matured soon. It was easier to ignore here, even if the whiskey was the same and there was a clock in the corner chiming at the top of every hour.

On and on it ticked, but neither Jo nor Val noticed it, as Val rolled one cigarette after another and Josephine admittedly teetered past the point of a celebratory drink into drunkenness. It was simply too pleasant to hear the clock the way she did at home, so Josephine stayed until her bottle grew lighter and the melancholy drone of the hand of time faded in favor of a loud chime, one after the other signaling that it was 4 AM.

Suddenly she saw the thin sliver left in the bottle and registered just how bleary her eyes had become, not quite as used to drinking straight whiskey now at thirty-four as she had been a decade before. Half of her could already feel the headache setting in and hear the purposefully suppressed worry in Giorgio’s voice as she returned home. Fuck. Giorgio. She was usually pleased to know he waited up for her every night; but it would do her no good to push him to his breaking point now.

Jo mumbled some sort of half-hearted apology as she cut Val’s sentence short and stood to look for her gloves and hat. Whatever smug smile Jo had worn upon winning their game was now back on Valcita’s face, who watched her curse under her breath as she struggled to find her belongings. As she ran up the stairs to find them, Val watched her heels disappear and then looked down at her own feet and shook her head.

Before Jo could return the saloon door swung open and a man walked into the room. Val took one look at him and knew that he was in need of a stiff drink. “You missed last call, pal. No more being served here tonight.”

He straightened his collar and looked around, “I, uh, I’m not here for a drink. I’m here for Jo. She’s here, right?” Val looked at him again, seeing the worry in his eyes in a new light. She had been wrong. It wasn’t worry; it was jealousy. Jealousy mingled with inadequacy. She smirked, “You must be Jo’s beau.”

His eyes stopped roaming the room in search of Josephine and settled on the woman addressing him. He couldn’t have said why, but there was a tangible hostility coming from her, like she was assessing her competition and finding it lacking.

“Gio, what…what are you doing here?”

He tore his eyes away from the hard stare of the women he didn’t know to see Jo standing at the foot of the stairs, “I…well, it was getting late and I know you close ‘round midnight. I just…I just wanted to make sure you were alright. Or that, uh, you didn’t have to walk home alone so late.”

Josephine looked back to Val, who needn’t say a word for Jo to read the tone of her expression. He came to fetch you, like a little girl. To catch you in the act of whatever he convinced himself you were doing with another man. It would be a man, wouldn’t it, Josephine?

Josephine bristled under her gaze, unsure if it was the whiskey making her dizzy or if she had really just read that in Val’s expression. How could she know that Gio’s jealousies extended even into this small barroom where only two women sat, not a man to be found?

Josephine turned her gaze onto him, more sure of what she’d find there than if she continued to look into Val’s eyes. It was as easy with him as always, because it was written all over his face: the worry, the panic, the suppressed anger. His eyes told her that he had waited for hours, convincing herself that she had lied about working here, or maybe even found some John at the bar. Right after the clock struck three, he finally reached the conclusion that she wasn’t coming home at all. Of course she wasn’t. Not after what he’d done. He had to find her. To make sure she was still there, that she hadn’t left him like she’d threatened…

All of it was plain as day, reflecting off of him like moonlight on the sand. Jo could sense it, and she knew that Valcita could too. 

Josephine pulled her glove up higher on her wrist, as though in doing so she could hide how exposed she felt between the pair of eyes on her. After looking at Val and her cigarette one final time, she turned for the door and pushed past Giorgio and his lingering questions. She didn’t even bother to answer him, because through one lie, he had started a game with her that he was never truly armed to win.

All it took was one look for her to tell him that in coming here, he had shattered whatever peace he had bought back in the last month. Now he was right back at step one of apologies and deference. As she moved a gloved hand to the saloon doors, Jo didn't even bother to turn around to make sure that he was behind her, because she knew that he would follow her now no matter what. The clicking of his loafers on the floorboards told her that she was right, and about that, at least, she couldn’t help but smile.

[aheathen-conceivably]

July 1st 🎶

[aheathen-conceivably]

Take a look in my eyes Tell me what you see Besides the bright blinking lights Stretched out in front of me I wonder if you'll notice Would you even care?

Well, I hope you're feelin' welcome To hard times... 🎶

[aheathen-conceivably]

Part of Zelda loved the last few years of their lives. At its simplest, it reminded her of being in England again, of standing in the fields with her father and making every recipe from scratch with her mother. Life felt warmer here than it had in New Orleans, calmer and quieter and more akin to something she had envisioned for herself. 

Of course there was pain as well, backbreaking constant pain and endless drudgery. Sometimes it reminded her of how much she liked standing in a crowded cafe or club and feeling everyone’s energy come together in one tumultuous surge. Compared to that, it often felt like she had only known two extremes in her life, and she had swung between the two without ever really finding herself in the middle. 

Then there was the desperation, constantly turning and monitoring the soil, adding any and every shell or skin she could spare, and hauling countless buckets of water from the nearby stream. It was knowing that living or dying fell upon your back and the roof over everyone’s heads relied on your efforts. But in doing so it sometimes felt like a spirit overtook one, one that actually understood her purpose and called her Little Robin on even his darkest days.

Only recently the desperation had taken on a new tone, one independent of Gio’s debts or her child’s hunger. One that even her father wouldn’t have understood. It was her burden, and her burden alone, seen and shared by Antoine but really only felt by her. Because she could till this soil; she could monitor it and will the crops to grow as though through sheer willpower and knowledge alone. Only she couldn’t do the same for herself. 

Because at least this seemingly barren soil was growing something. There was life and hope in it, fully grown plants and crops on the edge of being harvested. She had poured her soul into it, and it had responded in turn. She needed them to grow, not only for the reasons everyone else did, but because she couldn’t seem to grow anything within herself.

She was walking the fields, picking away dead leaves and checking under each one for bugs when she saw it: a sapphire glittering amidst the greenery in the ever-present sunshine. She reached forward slowly, moving each leaf aside hesitantly as though half expecting to look down and see yet another dashed hope that had existed only for a moment.

But then she bent down into the soil and it was real: a perfectly grown ear of corn. Untouched by bugs or drought or heat. She had done it. It had grown. In an inaudible whisper she called out to Gio across the farmyard. Realizing that he was probably preoccupied still trying to dig out their well she called out again, and again, until her amazed voice finally rose to an audible volume.

He rounded the fence, his eyes filled with apprehension that another bud had been eaten in the night or the leaves inexplicably wilting. Instead he saw Zelda standing there, an ear of corn in her hand and a smile on her face. 

He immediately threw his shovel into the dirt and ran toward her, “We did it, Zelda! We really fucking did it!” For a moment he just held her in shared amazement, and Zelda could swear that he was going to cry. All of his emotions poured out onto her so that she could feel he had no way to contain his gratitude, until he picked her up and swung her amidst the tall verdant plants growing all around them, “Jesus Christ who am I kidding, you did it! This farm…it, I was nothing until you got here, until you made all this happen!”

Zelda let herself be swept off her feet, lost in his characteristically infectious joy. Because he didn’t know why she had worked so hard on these fields, or that she often walked the rows thinking of them in relation to herself. He only knew she had given him something, everything he seemed to dream of in that moment, and that together they had actually done it. They had made life grow from nothing.

Across the farmyard, Josephine watched them, and a small fire started in her heart. With a jolt she realized that this was what jealousy must feel like. She had never given a fuck about who Gio or any of her partners had danced or laughed or flirted with, so long as she knew and they didn’t use it against her when the time came. But it couldn’t be, not here, not now. Not her. 

This was Zelda. Her best friend, her sister. They worked and lived there together day in and day out, but then he set her on the ground and her laughter rang out through the farmyard, and Josephine realized that it was her. It was the joy she and Gio shared over a goddamn ear of corn. One single ear of corn. It was as infuriating as all of life was here, because it didn’t feel like living at all. It felt like a constant game of survival that transformed your life into a series of meaningless tasks without purpose or delineation rather than something that was actually yours to live.

Because life here wasn’t simpler for Josephine the way it was for Zelda. There was nothing nostalgic or calming about it. No sound of her father’s voice to guide her through the pain or personal drive tying her to the constant, backbreaking work. She tried, every goddamn day she tried, just like she promised Giorgio and herself that she would; but it felt like the land itself was draining her soul bit by bit.

Yet here was Zelda, who seemed like some sort of old world fertility goddess standing amongst the plants she had grown from soil that wouldn’t yield for anyone else. For years, she had done nothing but give and give as she worked alongside Giorgio to make his damn dream come true, all the while thoughts of running away continued to plague Josephine in the night. Zelda had poured her soul into the desolate land to make it grow. Josephine dreamed of setting it on fire. 

Jesus, she didn’t want to. She wanted to fall onto the orange sands of Strangerville and somehow sprout into the perfect farm wife too. That’s why she was jealous. She wanted to be that happy when a single goddamn ear of corn had grown, to share in the simple joy of the man she loved over something she couldn’t help but find infuriating. It seemed like he was happy because he had someone to share that joy with now, someone who could make his dreams come true and give him all of herself so totally. It made her think that maybe the problem was her; she had simply not given enough of herself to be happy. But she didn’t quite know how.

[aheathen-conceivably]

🎶 I gave him my heart, but he wanted my soul 🎶

It was just after sunrise and Josephine was in the kitchen, a sunbeam warming her hands as they worked. She had woken early to take care of the chickens. Their tiny, prehistoric beaks and beady eyes still repulsed her, but at least it was easier than tilling soil or scrubbing clothes. 

Over and over again she folded the dough that Zelda had taught her how to make. A perfectly baked loaf already sat before her as she worked on another. My mother’s recipe, Zelda had said nostalgically as she recited it from the depths of her memory. These years with Zelda had been full of moments like that, ones where you could practically feel the domestic warmth radiating from her memories as she spoke of them.

A small, bitter laugh escaped Jo's lips. For all she may still love her mother, the closest thing Delphine ever had to a recipe was how to bat your eyelashes to earn enough money to pay someone else to make your bread. Josephine had thought that if only she could learn how to make it herself now, that she would finally be free of that, of her mother’s overbearing jasmine perfume and the inherent message that the only way to free yourself from a man’s grasp was through his touch.

Jo was taken aback by a pair of arms as they wrapped around her waist. Lost in the smell of jasmine perfume, she didn’t recognize them at first. She left her hands busy on the dough as she felt the lips trail over her silk blouse, along her neck, and to the base of her skull. He brought his cheek to hers and she tried not to pull away.

By then she knew who he was, not some figment of her past or her mother’s design. He was a man she loved, one who had made her feel more free than anyone else ever had. One who’s arms felt safer and happier than any of those memories. Only she hated the scruffy feeling of his face now, unshaven as it was most of the time and plastered with an expression that seemed to trigger all her anxiety for a reason she couldn't quite explain. “Good morning, mi raccomando. Is that what I think it is?"

“Bread, Gio. The same as always.” But really, she wanted to pick it up and throw it across the room, I did it! I fucking did it just like I told you I would. I tried and tried until I succeeded and still I’m unhappy. Still I feel trapped!

She spun around to face him and his eyes had the same expression as the first time she walked in this house. Happiness. It was the one that she avoided when she could, the same one that made her feel like her feet were glued to the spot and she had no choice whether she wanted to stay or leave.

Because it was sheer happiness that she was there; that he could wake and find her so near. A simple joy that the bread she was making was for him, and he would wake up to a house warmed and filled with the smells of clean laundry before he even put on his work clothes. Then in the farmyard it was knowing that he could come inside to see the woman he loved whenever he pleased, that she was there for him and only him.

It made her want to slap him, and she only knew one way of dealing with that.

So she moved back toward the table, wrapping her arm around his neck in a signal he understood immediately. He lifted her legs and moved the bread aside, small specks of flour rising into the air and staying suspended there for a moment, settling back down around her thighs as he started to kiss her.

She could swear that she smelled jasmine perfume in the air, but it was only bread. The ever present smell of bread and domestic subservience. Stop thinking about the fucking bread. Don’t think about the truck in the driveway, or how deeply he sleeps. Don’t think about how far you could drive before anyone would even know you were gone. Just run. Run away.

Only it wasn’t working, no matter how tightly she closed her eyes or grabbed his hair. Just run. You’re trapped here too. The same way you were there. With every thought the raging restlessness clawed its way back up her throat, mingling there with the bitter taste that this was her life now.

For so long, this had been enough, and the smell of jasmine perfume in the air was gone when he was near. At least for a little while. Only then it appeared again, whenever the chickens screeched at sunrise or she saw that look in his eyes. So what do you want to be then, my child? Some glorified maid for a man? Like that’s any life either.

When had she said yes to this life? She had denied his proposals a dozen times, only to end up here at his beck and call anyway, a farm wife in practice if not in name. Forever, mi raccomando. This is forever. The louder her thoughts became the more tightly she closed her eyes, only it wasn’t working anymore. Not at all. Her last bastion of control, the one place she could free herself from her past and her anxieties, now it all just smelled like jasmine perfume and some man she had never wanted, bringing with him the feeling of entrapment in the guise of freedom.

Josephine pushed him away with more force than she intended to. Her eyes were full of hatred for someone else’s touch, one far less kind and attentive than this one. The moment the smell of jasmine cleared from her head, she realized who was actually in front of her: a man who immediately saw the discomfort his hands were bringing and stepped back accordingly, giving her space to gather herself and her surroundings. Then he kept his head bowed and looked back at her in apology, no stranger to when she reacted this way or why that was. 

Only it was easier for him to think that was the extent of it, because neither of them really understood that the smell of jasmine perfume and fresh bread were all the same to her, and that sooner or later the heady scent in the air would make her snap regardless of which one it was. “Not - not now. That’s all it is. I’m tired. The chickens woke me again.”

He seemed to sense there was something beyond what he already knew; but her eyes stayed glassy, focused on locking away every thought she had so deeply that even if he wanted to see her unhappiness, she wouldn’t let him. When he brought his hands to her shoulders she was sure not to pull away again. “Okay, mi raccomando. I love you. I’m right outside if you need me.”

As he looked back at her, there was a small beat. A brief pregnant moment he left just for her. I love you too, but I’m unhappy. Maybe saying it would have been easy, but it was pointless. 

Antoine, Zelda, Violette. Gio. Each and every one of them was happy. What good would her words do? Ruin everyone else’s small sanctuary amidst a world in ruins? Force them to overturn their peace for an aimless restlessness she couldn't really explain, and maybe could never even mend? No, they were happy. All of them, and Gio had seemingly done nothing to deserve this.

It was simply easier to think that the problem was her, and her alone. Maybe her mother had broken her, and ruined her ability to let herself go to anyone else's desires. Maybe this was being happy, and her whole life all she had known before was excitement, not happiness. She couldn’t ruin it for all of them when she couldn’t even explain it, much less when none of them could be blamed either. She was trapped by guilt and love all the same as she had been by duty and need.

So she turned back around and acted as though she were redirecting her attention to the bread. The bitterness in her throat and the rising smell of jasmine in the air tried to choke back her words, “I love you too, Gio.”

Mollified, he walked back out the door.

[aheathen-conceivably]

It had felt surreal to make up her face and feel the thick fabric of a party dress on her skin. Then even more surreal to actually leave her room, get into Giorgio’s truck and drive out to the mesa to meet a family of strangers. The world seemed to blur and tunnel into a stream of noise as they walked through the ranch toward the smiling faces waiting to greet them.

On unsteady heels she stood behind her brother, Zelda, and Violette, leaning onto Gio’s arm as they introduced themselves: Abraham Hines, third generation rancher and Antoine’s new employer; Jessamine Hines, Abraham’s grandmother and lifelong resident of Strangerville; Mabel Hines, local cook and native of Chicago; and then finally, their children Adeline, William, and Lillie Mae Hines.

As they proceeded with the awkward machinations of first time introductions, Josephine smiled in the background. With envy she thought back to all the moments she had been able to bring a group together with a witty retort and a laugh. Instead she stayed quiet as they got acquainted, their comfort with one another growing with every word, until finally the child who had introduced himself as William went to Violette in a stream of happy chatter.

Although she looked up toward her parents quizzically, unsure of how exactly to interact with anyone her own age, his movement and the subsequent giggles that rippled amongst them seemed to finally bring the party together. Smiling and chatting, they retreated inside for dinner. The children walked off first, Violette’s reservations still palpable, and then Zelda, Jessamine, and Mabel as they engaged in easy conversation on the state of the schoolhouse as Antoine and Abraham chuckled together quietly at the success of their plans.

Even as their voices disappeared behind the wooden walls, Jo’s feet remained firmly planted on the desert sand. Take a breath, Josephine. Go inside. Speak like you used to. You know how to do this, you must. For Violette.

Yet her legs seemed unwilling to move, to fall in line and follow everyone else. She wanted to turn and run, to throw her red heels into a valley and disappear amongst the orange rocks. Maybe no one would find her out there. Maybe Violette would be fine with her mother and father; maybe these new friends were all any of them needed. Maybe they didn’t need her, maybe she could disappear, she could run….

But then Gio turned around, his eyes soft and worried as he searched her face and read her thoughts. He extended his hand and whispered words of reassurance that he’d be with her every step of the way, ready to start up the truck and run with her if she needed to. His hand on her shoulder seemingly held her in place as the buzzards circled and the desert called. Run, Josephine. Run. Run before it’s too late. But he lifted her face to his and nodded, pulling her toward the house and away from the desert.

Throughout dinner the merriment of the table seemed to come from the other side of a glass, the rich and abundant food a memory from her past and not a current reality. Through it all she told herself that she was doing it for Violette. She was smiling and speaking and simply existing for Violette. She couldn’t have said at what point in the night that determination began to shift in favor of herself or when the words and the faces moved past the glass and into her reality, enriching her soul rather than draining it.

Maybe it was Giorgio’s constant attentive gaze, or Violette’s growing smile and dwindling fear, or perhaps it was just being surrounded by laughing strangers again, buoying her from herself and the empty space she had found in the silent room. But little by little Josephine found that she was enjoying herself more and more. Perhaps more importantly, as forks clattered to the table and children began to play in the adjacent rooms, she could recognize the smile on her face and the tenor of her own voice as it spoke to others. For the first time in months, she felt like herself.

After Mabel had cleared the plates and returned to her seat next to Abraham, the room was filled with quieter, adult conversation carried along by scratchy music coming from the small radio. They sipped their coffee as they discussed the state of the town and employment, until Abraham cleared his throat and looked toward the parlor, where the children sat gathered near his grandmother’s feet. Satisfied that they were too engrossed in her story to hear him, he turned back to his guests.

“Now as I told Antoine, getting Violette enrolled at the schoolhouse shouldn't be any problem. There’s only a handful a’ black children in town, and most of their families been here too long for any efforts at segregation. Luckily this town’s got a long history of safe harbor since before the war, back when my granddad settled here, and barring any Texan influx it should stay that way. But with that new road running through town and the price of our crops tanking, you’ve got to forgive myself and anyone else for the cold welcome you might have gotten these last months.”

He paused for a moment to look at the photo over his shoulder before his eyes settled back on Antoine, “But I’m no stranger to the rest of this country. Neither me nor Mabel. I know what you must have dealt with down there, and we’ve got to stick together. You’ll make it here, all of you. I’ll try and make sure of it.”

His tone was imbued with such a warm note of certainty, brighter and more steady than anything any of them had heard since they arrived, that each one of them actually believed it, even Josephine.