THE UNORDINARY PATH: ASH & EARTH

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It had only been a few weeks since a local family’s servant had been murdered and found headless on the north edge of Austin near Waller Creek. The constables interviewed a few folks but not much came of it. One old man had been locked up but was let go shortly after. Everything hadn’t been quite the same—folks were on edge—but the air had finally started to settle.

But today, all was wrong on Congress Avenue again. It was the kind of wrong that made the skin at the back of your neck prickle. For midday in Austin, the main street felt strangely alive. Crowds of locals lingered in front of the shops and saloons, keeping their chatter to low whispers while Mother, Orson, and I walked by. We were making our usual weekly trip from our family’s inn on Hickory Street to the J. Lewis General Store.

Each Monday, we walked the four blocks east and two blocks south for kitchen staples, soaps for the guest rooms, and other odds and ends. But as we continued south, the city’s rhythm felt off.

A buggy slowly creaked by. Women walked arm in arm, clutching their parasols too tightly. Men held their hats in their hands despite the sun overhead. Mother walked at a brisk pace, her bright-yellow skirt brushing against mine. My little brother hurried beside us as his short, quick steps kicked up pluming clouds of dust. His ash-blond hair crept onto his forehead, clinging to it with sweat from the day’s warmth. Even he noticed the strangeness in the air.

“Why’s everybody whisperin’, Mama?” he asked, as his pale-green eyes darted around.

Mother didn’t answer right away. Her fingers fidgeted around the handle of her parasol until her knuckles went pale.

I knew she didn’t know, but I asked anyway. Leaning in, I whispered, “Do you suppose they’ve caught the man?”

Mother’s eyes flitted to mine, then she lifted her brows. “Hallie—don’t start in with gossip.” She let out a soft, subtle sigh. “But I surely hope they have,” she whispered back. I hated when she spoke to me as if I were still a child, but I’d expected it. We passed the new ice cream saloon that had opened only two weeks prior. Mother tried to smile. “We’ll go soon,” she said, keeping her voice light. “Perhaps we’ll trade our afternoon tea for a scoop or two.”

I tried to smile, too, but the weight in the air made it difficult. “Sounds—”

“I want to go! I want ice cream,” Orson yelled out, cutting me off with a bounce and a grin. His two front teeth were still coming in after falling out, making him look even younger than his seven years.

“Not today,” she said. “We have responsibilities, and you know it.”

He slumped the soles of his leather shoes across the dusty road. “What about the square? Are we going to see the man play music today?”

Mother shook her head. Not one lock of her honey-colored hair moved from its pinned place. Most Mondays, we’d stop at the square after the general store to listen to a young man play guitar while the little ones danced. But not today. I didn’t blame her.

The store’s awning offered a patch of blessed shade. We stepped onto the porch boards, and our boots knocked the dust loose from our soles. The bell above the door chimed as we entered. Inside, it was cooler. Mr. and Mrs. Lewis, the shop owners, stood near the back by a tower of crates, mid-conversation. She looked flushed as she fidgeted with fabric in her hands; it was her apron, wrinkled and streaked with oil. Her red-brown hair frizzed near her temples. Mr. Lewis moved slowly, distracted, his hands lifting a crate.

Mother stepped through the center aisle, her list folded neatly in her hand. I followed closely behind her. Orson wandered toward a low shelf of glass bottles, tracing the labels like they were part of a game.

Mrs. Lewis’ voice lowered. I caught the pinched tone in her words. “...the second girl. Early this morning, they found her. Can you believe it? Just awful.”

Mother and I approached the counter, but they still hadn’t acknowledged us. We didn’t interrupt them.

“They’re bringing in dogs,” she went on, passing a bottle to her husband. “Nightly patrols, I’m sure of it.”

Mr. Lewis shook his head.

Mother waited, pretending to browse the soap tins. Mrs. Lewis had a way of knowing who was up to what—whose husband had been seen where, whose daughter had eloped in the night. She kept her nose in everyone’s butter, and Mother never minded getting a bit of the news during our weekly visits.

Mother cleared her throat softly.

Mrs. Lewis turned and looked up, startled. “Oh, Mrs. Braam. Apologies. Be with you in a moment.” She fussed with a wooden crate on the shelf near the alley door.

“I couldn’t help overhearing,” Mother said, lowering her voice. “Is it true? Another girl?”

Mrs. Lewis straightened up, her hands now set on her hips. “It is. Over at the Porters’ place. Behind the house, in the pasture. Poor thing. They say she was... well, same as the last.” She hesitated, then added, “No head.”

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