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“I will have order in my court,” said the judge. Damned if I didn’t see a smile flash across Judge Warren’s face before he managed to swallow it.
I slid my arms around Gracie. One of us was trembling, and I realized it was me. My eyes, not hers, were brimming with hot tears.
“It be all right, Mr. Corbett,” she said quietly.
“It isn’t all right, Gracie. It’s a disgrace.”
Two D.C. blueboys were heading our way, coming to take her back to jail. I motioned for them to give us a moment.
“Don’t you worry, Mr. Corbett,” Gracie said. “Jesus works in mysterious ways.”
“God bless you, Gracie. We’ll file an appeal.”
“Thank you, Mr. Corbett. But now I got to tell you something.”
“What’s that?”
She leaned close to me, dropping her voice to a whisper. “I done the crime.”
“What?”
“I done the crime.”
“Gracie!”
“I got five chillun, Mr. Corbett. That old lady, she don’t pay me hardly nothing. I needed money. So I meant to take the silver.”
“And… what happened?”
“I was coming through the dining room with the silver chest in my hands. Miz Davenport walk in. She ’posed to be having a nap. Well, she screamed at me like she the devil. Then she come a-running at me.”
Gracie was composed, very calm, almost in a trance as she spoke to me.
“I had the bone-handle carving knife in my hand. Not for her—I don’t know, just in case of something. When she run at me, I turned. She run straight up on that knife, sir. I swear I never meant to do it.”
The policemen apparently felt they’d been patient long enough. They came up alongside us and, taking hold of Gracie’s arms, began to lead her away.
“But I tell you, Mr. Corbett…”
“What, Gracie?”
“I would do it again.”
Chapter 7
AS I WALKED all the way home from the courthouse on that hot June day, I still had no idea what life-changing things were in store for me and my family. Not a hint, not a clue.
Our house was quiet and dark that afternoon when I arrived. I walked through the front parlor. No sign of Meg, Amelia, or Alice.
In the kitchen a peach pie was cooling on a table. Through the window I saw our cook, Mazie, sitting on the back stoop, shelling butter beans into a white enamelware pan.
“Has Meg gone out, Mazie?” I called.
“Yes, suh, Mr. Ben. And she took the littl’uns with her. Don’t know where. Miz Corbett, she was in some bad mood when she went. Her face all red like, you know how she gets.”
How she gets. My Meg, my sweet New England wife. So red in the face. You know how she gets. The gentlest girl at Radcliffe, the prettiest girl ever to come from Warwick, Rhode Island. Burning red in the face.
And she gets that way because of me, I couldn’t help thinking. Because of my failure, because of my repeated failure. Because of the shame I bring on our house with my endless “charity cases” for the poor and disenfranchised.
