The Whip by Karen Kondazian Page A

we’ll talk about this later.”
    She picked up her copy of Emerson from the table and hurried out.

Twenty-Eight
    Late the following evening, Charlotte stoodather bedroom window watching the snow fall. She exhaled against the pane, her breath condensing in a cloud against the glass. She turned from the window and glanced into the small mirror above her bureau, stopping for a moment to straighten the frizz of curls on her forehead. Over and over she hummed a maddening fragment of song.
    After what seemed like forever, she heard Mrs. Bidwell move down the hallway and disappear into her room. Charlotte opened her bedroom door a crack. Already dressed in her coat and hat, she looked down the hall toward Mrs. Bidwell’s room. Light shone under the closed door and then was extinguished, leaving the hallway in darkness.
    A short time later, carrying a small parcel, she slipped out the back door leaving it unlocked. From her window Mrs. Bidwell, in her nightdress, stood looking down at the street and Charlotte’s departing footsteps in the snow.

    Byron was sitting at his wooden table, whiskey in hand, staring out into nothing. There was a knock at the door, followed by a familiar voice. He hesitated but let her in. Charlotte smiled at him as she removed her hat and gloves, setting the parcel down on the table.
    “Did you eat? I brought you some supper.”
    She hung up her coat, and began to unwrap the parcel of food. “I hope you like dumplings. And pumpkin cake. Old Biddie Bidwell would wring my neck if she knew. She’s so proper and respectable she puts stockings on her piano legs.”
    She looked up at Byron’s solemn face. “She really does.”
    “Charlotte, I told you not to come here again. What words can I use? How can I say this so you will understand?”
    She put her fingertip close to his lips. “Don’t,” she said. “Just don’t.”
    “Damn it, Charlotte. You’re like a child. You don’t know what the world is like. You don’t know the viciousness. You act as though our friendship is just an ordinary thing. It’s not. It’s dangerous. I don’t think you understand that.”
    “My God, do you think I’m stupid? You’re a Negro man and I’m a white woman. I know that. To hell with what people think. The person I loved most in this world was a Negro man. He was my father. Well, like my father. He taught me everything. He used to say, ‘This one mysterious life you got, what you gonna do with it?’ I wasted a lot of years…not doing anything with it. So I figure you either put your arms around it and be free or you don’t and you live feeling like you missed something but you don’t know what it was. It’s like you’re afraid of…”
    “Stop it. Stop talking gibberish, damn it. You aren’t listening to me. You really think life is that simple? You think that all you have to do is to put your arms around it and people will let you be free? The world can be cruel and wicked and ignorant.”
    “I know that. I grew up with wickedness all around me in the orphanage. Children…Lee…were tied to trees with rope…beaten. I was beaten. But I also remember butterflies and Lee by my side. And when I got older, I had Jonas and the horses. I was lucky. Until I went out into the world…it wasn’t easy to be a woman on my own. Men get to have dreams. Women don’t. I couldn’t depend on anyone but myself. I know I’m rambling. What I’m trying to say is…I know you’re right. The world is harsh. I don’t understand how some people can do the things they do. But we’ve found something here. I’m not going to let go of it because it’s hard.”
    Byron sat down at the table. He took a long swig of whiskey. “I want to tell you something.”
    “All right.” She sat down across the table from him. “Just don’t tell me to leave.”
    “Please be still, Charlotte. Just listen to me. Alright? I’ve always thought the reason people act the way they do is because way down deep most people are