by Harper Lin
When Becky reached the clearing and was just a stone’s throw from her house, she heard the words on the wind, and they hit her ears like nails on a chalkboard.
“You saw the fire.”
Chapter Eight
That night Becky found it nearly impossible to sleep. She’d shinnied up the trellis outside her window to avoid a chance encounter with her mother. She wasn’t sure which was worse, the woman with the head wrap or Kitty catching a glimpse of her in her ruined dress and shoes. After washing up and trying to figure out what it really was that she had seen, she gave up and just propped her vanity chair in front of the window and watched the darkness.
Part of her was terrified that a fire might start in Daddy’s tobacco field. If whoever was messing around in the graveyard had anything to do with the fire at Mr. Ruthmeyer’s, they had made it clear that burning a man alive made no difference to them. What did a couple thousand acres of tobacco mean? But as Becky watched with wide, dry eyes, she saw nothing. She was tired. Exhausted. But the minute she tried to lie down, she saw those men with the stitches over their mouths and that woman in the head wrap leaning over that open grave.
Whatever they were doing was sacrilege. During her visits, Becky might have accidentally walked over a couple graves or spilled a glass of sweet tea, but she would never think of disturbing those laid to rest by digging, scratching, or otherwise altering their final resting places. Visiting the dead was a gesture of kindness. Spoiling their graves was an act of evil. And whoever had found the Old Brick Cemetery thought they could claim squatter’s rights.
Finally, as the sun was coming up, Becky crawled into her bed and fell into a deep sleep. She didn’t dream, but she jumped out of her skin when Fanny came barging in calling her name.
“What happened to you? You look like something the cat dragged in,” Fanny said as if she hadn’t instigated more hard feelings between the two of them.
“Nothing,” Becky muttered before rubbing her face. “When did you get home?”
“Oh, it had to be around one, maybe two. After you left, Willie’s seemed to come alive. The drinks were flowing, and the beaus were lining up to dance. It was a grand time,” Fanny gushed.
“That’s funny. I thought I was awake at that time,” Becky muttered. She looked at her chair, which was still in front of her window, and swallowed hard. Obviously she’d drifted off before Teddy brought Fanny home and hadn’t heard his boiler when it pulled up. But stranger things than that had happened.
“Well, Aunt Kitty told me to wake you up. We’re going into town.” Fanny put her hand on her hip. “She says you need a new frock or something for a visitor that will be coming within the next few weeks.”
“Visitor? Who?”
“Beats me. She said he is the cousin of Lucille and will be visiting Savannah within the next few weeks and will be looking for someone to show him around town.” Fanny batted her eyes.
It was obvious to Becky that Fanny was already plotting how to insert herself into any meeting Becky was going to have with a member of the opposite sex. Why didn’t her mother just fix Fanny up?
“Not another one,” Becky groaned, flopping back down on her bed.
“The shops in Savannah aren’t nearly as quaint as they are in Paris, but the sizes do run larger here. Lucky for you,” Fanny chuckled.
“Is there anything else?” Becky snapped.
“Just that Aunt Kitty said to hurry.” Fanny took a step out the door before turning and leaning on the knob. “Oh, and Mr. White told me to tell you he sends his regards. He is a divine dancer. You feel like your feet don’t even touch the ground when you’re in his arms.”
Becky’s mouth went dry as her eyes flooded with tears. The last thing she wanted to do was go out with Fanny or her mother and have them both telling her how she could be just as pretty as so-and-so or she’d be more popular if she just did such-and-such. She was a one-legged man in a keister-kicking contest.
She had stripped out of her clothes the previous night, and there was still some dirt beneath her fingernails. She hurried into the bathroom, filled the sink, and washed herself up. Her hair was a wild, unruly red mess.
“Of course I’m a mess today,” she said to her reflection in her hand mirror. “I’m going out with my mother and Fanny. I have to look like Quasimodo.”
Then she looked down and saw her knees. They were still black with dirt and scratched as if she’d been dragged through the cemetery instead of running through it. Quickly she hopped up onto the bathroom vanity and stuck her feet in the sink. Even after she’d cleaned herself off from head to toe, her knees still looked like they had when she was twelve and constantly crawling around outside, digging up worms or studying ant hills or playing hide-and-seek with Teddy.
“What I wouldn’t give to play a game of hide-and-seek right now,” Becky muttered. “I’d hide from Fanny all day.”
“Rebecca Madeline MacKenzie! You get yourself downstairs this instant!” her mother shouted up the stairs.
Just then, there was a gentle rap on the door. Becky hopped off the vanity and, dripping water on the floor, opened the door a crack. To her great relief, it was Lucretia. She had a cup of steaming coffee in one hand and a wedge of cornbread in the other.
“Miss Fanny’s been making a point to dump out the coffee early if you ain’t had none yet, and poor Moxley nearly lost his hand trying to swipe you this last slice from her before she could force it down,” Lucretia whispered. “That gal don’t know we’re on to her.”
“Oh, thanks, Lucy. You are just top drawer,” Becky said softly.
“Leave the dishes in your room. I’ll pick them up later.” She winked and hurried down the back steps that led around to the kitchen.
Quickly, Becky slurped the hot coffee and gobbled up the cornbread. Normally, she would have wiped a huge pat of butter on Lucretia’s already moist cornbread, but beggars couldn’t be choosers.
“I’m coming, Mama!” she yelled as she tip-toed back into her room and shut the door. When she finally emerged, she was feeling much better about things.
“What are you wearing?” Kitty asked, looking Becky up and down.
“What’s the matter?” Becky smirked.
“Ladies in the North might wear trousers, but here in Savannah, a lady wears a skirt when she’s out at midday,” Kitty huffed.
“Why, Mama. I was just perusing one of Cousin Fanny’s French couture magazines and saw that trousers were all the rage in Paris. I don’t think a million Parisians can be wrong.” Becky tittered. “Isn’t that right, Fanny?”
Kitty whirled around and stared at her niece.
“Uh, well, it is common for some of the less fortunate women to be seen in slacks.” Fanny cleared her throat. “It is rather common, I suppose.”
“What is the world coming to?” Kitty shook her head and, clutching her purse, exited the house. Fanny followed closely behind as Becky brought up the rear at a casual stroll. As soon as she got into the car, she pulled out a fedora she’d bought ages ago and had yet to wear. It covered her unruly hair and drove both Fanny and her mother crazy.
“It seems we are just in time to find you a new wardrobe.” Kitty exhaled. “No daughter of mine is going to look like a man. I don’t care what they’re wearing in Paris.”
Becky could have kissed her mama for uttering those words. But instead, she relaxed in the back seat and tried to figure out what she’d seen and heard the night before. More importantly, what was she going to do about it?
Chapter Nine
As the trio were walking down the bustling sidewalk in downtown Savannah, Fanny kept up a constant dialogue with Kitty about her vast knowledge of French cuisine.
“Don’t get me wrong, Aunt Kitty. I love fried chicken and grits as much as the next girl. But there is something about a baguette with brie and strawberries on a summer afternoon at an outdoor café in Paris that screams culture.”
“You would be the expert on that,” Kitty replied. “None
of us have any reason to cross the ocean. However, if Becky ever wanted to, I know her daddy and I would be happy to send her anywhere she might like to go. So long as she was chaperoned.”
Becky chuckled but said nothing. As she let Fanny and Kitty talk, she couldn't help but count how many blocks she was away from Adam’s newspaper presses. He’d be hard at work right now. Maybe hanging around outside with his pals with his overalls rolled down to his waist while he drank a Coke in the alley or had a cigarette. His hair would be tousled and hanging in loose curls across his forehead. Oh, how she hated him for being so adorable. And the nerve of him dancing with Fanny! Of all the dames he could cut the rug with, he chose her.
It had to be for spite. He was mad at you. Just do what Cecelia said. Apologize. You know Fanny isn’t half the woman you are.
As Becky thought that thought, a row of fellows conversing on the corner stopped what they were doing to watch Fanny walk by. It was the odd man out, wearing glasses so thick and a bow tie nearly devoured by his second chin, who winked at Becky. She couldn’t help herself. She winked back and chuckled.
Heck, he could be a great dancer and maybe knows his way around the dives in town, she thought. And there is the real difference between you and Fanny. The difference that Adam sees, that Martha and Teddy see, that Cecelia sees. You are a good egg. There’s just no denying it.
Her internal pep talk made Becky smile and lift her chin to look at all the folks on the street. Just as she did, she saw Mrs. Tobin. She was carrying a small paper bag and hurrying down an alley, looking all around her as if she were afraid she was being followed. She was wearing a long coat for such a pleasant day. Becky’s first thought was that Mr. Tobin had worked her over.
“I think I just saw Martha and her mother,” Becky lied. “I’ll catch up with you at Maxwell’s for lunch.”
“All right, darling,” Kitty said.
“Be sure to give Martha my love,” Fanny quipped. “We did have such a fine time last night after you left.”
“You left Martha last night?” Kitty asked. “What in the world for?”
“I had a real pain,” Becky replied, looking at Fanny. “I’ll see you at lunch.”
Without waiting for another word, Becky hurried off toward the alley where she was sure she had seen Mrs. Tobin.
As Becky rounded the corner, she saw the woman hurrying along. It was a sunny day, but the sun never reached its fingers between the two brick buildings. The alley was lined with bricked-up windows and doors that had either clunky padlocks on them or wooden planks nailed across them. Long, thin gutters ran from the roofs all the way down to empty on the cobblestone street, which made the shape of a V so the water wouldn’t collect and instead found its way to run down the sewer grates.
Becky wobbled slightly, as the sloped street surface was tricky to maneuver. She kept her distance as she tailed the woman who, just three short days ago, looked to have been ripped in two with grief. Now she looked like she was on a very serious mission that required she wear a long coat that covered her from chin to shin.
Just before Becky was sure Mrs. Tobin was going to slip into the foot traffic on the next street over, the woman slipped into a dark, narrow gangway and pounded on the door. When the door opened, a man with hairy arms, wearing a sleeveless undershirt, tan trousers, and a fedora, stepped out.
From Becky’s angle, it looked like Mrs. Tobin was flashing whatever she was hiding underneath that coat. But before any unsavory images came to her mind, Becky saw the man take a flask the size of the Holy Bible from under Mrs. Tobin’s jacket. He reached into his pocket, pulled out a wad of money, and handed it to her. With no more than a nod, Mrs. Tobin was hurrying in Becky’s direction, buttoning up her overcoat.
Becky pressed her back against the wall and waited for the woman to pass. As soon as she did, Becky followed her again. Once they were both on the busy sidewalk, Becky inched up closer and closer behind her. Finally she reached out and tapped her on the shoulder.
Mrs. Tobin’s face contorted into a frightened grimace when she turned around.
“Yes, can I help you?” she snapped.
She looked much different from the agonized woman Becky had seen the other day. She wasn’t what the gents would call a ripe tomato, but she had striking, distinctive features. Her thin nose drew a long line down the middle of her face. Over the bridge were dainty freckles that matched her brown hair. Her cheekbones were high, giving her face a thin, elegant look that went with the rest of her delicate frame. Her wrists were thin, as were her ankles. If she was carrying hooch around in giant flasks, she had to be a lot stronger than she appeared.
“I wanted to offer you my condolences,” Becky said.
“Condolences? For what?”
“I was at the fire at Mr. Ruthmeyer’s house. My father helped put the fire out,” Becky replied. “It looked like he meant a lot to you.”
“Yeah, so what’s that to you?”
“It’s nothing to me. I just wanted to say I was sorry for you.” Becky watched her reaction.
Truthfully, Becky didn’t want to hurt the woman or embarrass her or even question her. She had just felt so genuinely bad for her that she wanted to say something. Plus, had she actually been having an affair with John Ruthmeyer, she might be in trouble from the people who had burned his house down. She might be in trouble with her husband. It was not uncommon for a man to take his belt to his wife for such an indiscretion. Becky tried to see if Mrs. Tobin had any such marks. If she did, they were well hidden.
“Look, I don’t know you from a hole in the ground. But let me give you some friendly advice. Don’t go sticking your nose where it doesn’t belong.” She pointed one of her long, bony, elegant fingers at Becky.
“Why are you running hooch under your coat?”
“What? I’m doing no such thing,” Mrs. Tobin said quietly while looking around.
“Who was that woman with you at the fire? The woman with the purple wrap around her head?” Becky pushed.
Those words were like shards of ice down Mrs. Tobin’s back. She frowned and shivered.
“I’m trying to be as polite as possible. Mind your own business.”
She turned to leave, but Becky took hold of her arm. Becky wasn’t that big herself but her hand completely encircled Mrs. Tobin’s arm. She could feel her muscles tighten beneath the material of her coat.
“That makes two of us. Mrs. Tobin, I saw you crying at the sight of Mr. Ruthmeyer’s house on fire. I saw that woman in the head scarf arrive, and you stopped and went off with her. Who is she? Why would you go with her and not stay to help the man…”
“Stay and help John Ruthmeyer?” she hissed. “Stay and help the man who ruined my life? There are things that go on on these country roads that you don’t know about, girlie-girl,” Mrs. Tobin said.
That was the second time someone had called Becky girlie-girl. The first had been at the dive with the moonshine, and the gent who’d said it did so with the same contempt as Mrs. Tobin.
“What kind of things? Who was that woman?” Becky asked bravely.
“That woman is my housekeeper. She’s been with my husband’s family for over three decades. When we married, she came with us. That’s all.” Mrs. Tobin began to tremble and look around nervously.
“Is she here in the city with you?” Becky pushed.
“You seem like a very nice girl. I’m sorry if I was short with you, but please do as I say and don’t ask any more questions.” Mrs. Tobin was starting to get flustered.
“Mrs. Tobin, my name is Becky Mackenzie. My father’s tobacco farm was right against Mr. Ruthmeyer’s homestead. Daddy never had a dispute with Mr. Ruthmeyer. He never had a negative thing to say about the man. In my book, that makes him a good egg. If there is something you know about that fire, you can tell me, and I’ll help…”
Mrs. Ruthmeyer’s eyes began to water. Her bottom lip started to tremble, and she was clenching her jaw as if chewing the words before they came out would
prevent her from saying anything.
“You can’t help me. You can’t help either one of us. If anyone saw us together, I don’t want to think of what could happen. Now please, before someone sees you,” Mrs. Tobin urged.
“Mrs. Tobin, I’ll be having lunch with my mother at Maxwell’s at noon. If you want to get me a message, you’ll find me there,” Becky said. “You aren’t alone, Mrs. Tobin.”
For a second, Mrs. Tobin looked at Becky as if she wanted to start talking and never stop. But no words came out. She parted her lips, but nothing happened. Just when Becky thought she was going to spill the beans, Mrs. Tobin became angry.
“I know what you are. You’re just a busybody. I don’t see a ring on your finger. You don’t know what it takes to make a man happy and keep a household running,” Mrs. Tobin said, lifting her chin.
“What?”
“A wife does what she has to in order to keep the wolves from the door. You’d do well to remember that if you ever find some halfwit to marry the likes of you. Now I’ll thank you to leave me alone.” With that, Mrs. Tobin was off and lost in the lunchtime crowd.
Feeling like she had snapped a piece of the puzzle into place only to realize she’d lost a separate piece along the way, Becky headed for Maxwell’s. She hadn’t had anything but that wedge of cornbread since her ordeal the night before, and her stomach was growling and fussing to beat the band. When she stepped into the restaurant, Becky was instantly greeted by the maître d’, Mr. Linus Morrell.
“Hello, Miss Rebecca. My, you are looking lovely today,” he said, offering her his elbow. “Your mother and cousin are waiting for you.”
