Call Your Daughter Home

by Deb Spera

  The Missus didn’t sleep last night. I know it’s my fault. When I took out her nightdress and sat on the edge of the bed to put it on, she wouldn’t let me. I held the gown in my lap for a long time deciding what to do.

  “My husband used to beat me, Missus,” I finally said. “For a long time I tried to think what I done wrong. I figured there must have been something to cause him to be so mad all the time, but no matter how I put my head to it, I couldn’t figure it out. And then he started in on my girls, and that just wasn’t right.”

  She watched me tell my story. Anybody could see the wrestle in her. She worked her fists over and over—open and closed and open and closed. A swarm of black flies gathered on the wall behind the bed. They were mating one on top of the other until they formed a tiny hill. I reached over to swat them, and they separated and flew loud and slow through the room.

  “I wish you could tell me what ails you, Missus,” I said. “Maybe I could help you like you helped me.”

  But she wouldn’t talk and I can’t blame her. I slept at the end of her bed on a pallet and woke up every couple of hours to check on her. Each time I found her lying awake staring at the ceiling. The cold is what woke me finally. I piled blankets on top of her and crawled in beside to warm her up. I felt how cold she was; for a moment I thought she passed, but then I saw her breath coming through curls of white smoke.

  “You’d be a whole lot warmer with clothes on,” I said.

  But she shook her head no. She’s a stubborn woman—I know that. She wants to go naked into the day, she’s got that right.

  At breakfast this morning, after Retta told him about the pudding, Mr. Coles flung his plate against the wall and yelled, “I’m not eating this garbage.” He strapped on his gun and stalked the house for an hour. When he went out for his morning constitutional we all breathed easier. I dressed Mary and Alma warm as I could, pulled on wool socks and stuffed newspaper up in their clothes, then told them to stay by the kitchen stove where it’s warm.

  In the yard, people run from place to place getting ready for the day’s events. A bandstand has been set up beside the tabernacle so the governor can come say his words. The tabernacle and the bandstand are next to one another, one for the word of God and one for the word of man. There are campfires in front of every tent. Eddie heaps so much wood on our fire it becomes worrisome. I see the side-eye people give, but nobody says anything. They feel sorry for the man, given what’s happening with the Missus. The flames rise higher and higher, and still Eddie keeps bringing more and more wood to throw on the fire.

  “Eddie,” I call out. “Can I ask you something?”

  He drops what he’s doing and comes straight to my side.

  “You trying to burn down Camp?”

  He laughs nervous-like and says no, but I know nothing that big is built without thought. By noon, I am ready and sitting on the bed holding the Missus’s hand when all three men enter the bedroom to take her from it. I stand by the Missus like I promised.

  “She ain’t dressed.”

  “Why not?” Mr. Coles asks.

  “She don’t want to be.”

  He pushes me aside and rips the blanket away. Eddie and Lonnie turn when they see their mother naked. The Missus lies shrunken, looking at her husband with so much hate that if she weren’t so weak I’d swear she was the pudding thief.

  “Get some goddamn clothes on her,” he yells at me.

  “I tried, sir. She won’t let me.”

  “Won’t let you? She’s an old woman and you can’t get clothes on her? Jesus Christ, I’ll do it myself.”

  He goes to the closet and tears a dress from the hanger. He’s so mad he practically rips the buttons off trying to get the dress undone. He goes to the bed and yanks her by one arm, but she goes limp and falls sideways. Mr. Coles loses his balance and falls on top of her. He pushes himself up and tries to force the dress over her head but can’t get her steady. Funny thing is, she don’t cry and she don’t fight. I keep looking for the sign to step in, but she don’t give it. It’s like she’s willing him to kill her and us to be witness. Eddie bites his bottom lip but does nothing. He’s frozen. Lonnie can’t take it anymore and pulls at his daddy’s arm, forcing him to stop.

  “You’re hurting her.”

  Mr. Coles lets go of the Missus, and she falls against the pillows. He throws the dress at her, then gets right up in Lonnie’s face and says low and mean, “If you can’t handle this, then get your pansy ass out of my sight. Your brother and I will see to this ourselves.”

  Eddie looks sideways at me, so slump-shouldered and sorrowful I take mercy.

  “Don’t worry, Eddie. She’s doing this the way she wants.”

  From where he stands, Mr. Coles reaches out his arm and points a finger alongside my nose. “You concern yourself with what I want, young lady. I’m the one hired you.”

  “Yes, sir,” is all I can say.

  He’s a bull in tight quarters and knows it.

  “If she isn’t dressed in five minutes,” he says to me, “you can find yourself another job. Without my recommendation, I can promise there won’t be a plantation or business in all of South Carolina that will take you on. You think about that.”

  He thinks his threat is the worst I’ve come across. I finally drop my eyes, but only for the Missus. When he leaves the room I race to cover her with a blanket. Eddie follows his daddy, but Lonnie stays. He’s shaking with rage.

  “Is this all a cruel joke, M-Mother? You brought m-me this far, to what end? Why won’t you fight him? All these years he’s treated us poorly but you r-refused to see.”

  Miss Annie reaches out to take his hand, but he backs away.

  “Whatever you’re trying to prove, I’m b-begging you to stop,” he tells her. “We need our mother.”

  After he leaves, the Missus presses the back of her hand to her mouth and shakes her head like somebody is trying to give her medicine she don’t want. Her moans come from someplace I don’t ever want to visit. She reaches for the dress Mr. Coles left on the bed and works to pull it over her head. When I go to help she holds her hand out to stop me, and I must wait while she fights to pull on the mantle she’s tried to tear off. When she finally gets her arms and head through, she allows me to help. Tired already from her efforts, she lies back while I pull the dress over her hips and button the top around her neck.

  “Gertrude,” she says with a quaver in her voice, “fetch me a glass of milk.”

  “Yes’m,” I say and run for the kitchen.

  38

  Annie

  The body doesn’t like to die. It fights even when the spirit is finished. Gertrude comes and sits beside me. She has kindness and grit. Maybe we all have two sides. What are mine? Cowardice and courage? I am a coin that has lain on one side for too long. If I mean to hasten this existence, I must turn. Gertrude holds the glass for me as I drink. Retta has added the brewer’s yeast. It tastes like pecans in porridge—delicious. After every sip Gertrude wipes the drippings from my chin.

  “Go slow,” she tells me when I begin to gulp from the hunger the milk awakens, “otherwise it’ll come right back up.”

  I nod, take a mouthful and swallow slowly, then wait and breathe. Her encouragement makes me feel like a child listening to her mother. I am pleased with the happiness she exhibits at my effort. I don’t want her to have false hope, but that is arrogant thinking. This capable girl doesn’t need my concern. When I am halfway through the glass, Retta comes bustling through the door with a small saucer of steaming grits.

  “I didn’t put no butter or bacon on these for fear of what that might do to your stomach, but these grits is fresh and warm just like you like ’em, Miss Annie. I put a little raw egg in there and stirred it around with some salt and pepper. You want to take a little bite?”

  How can I refuse? The smell alone is enough to have me walking on
two feet. The rough of the grit with the smooth of the egg is a treasure, a feast for every sense. Each component of the dish sits on my tongue in revelry. I hate to swallow for fear of losing the clarity of the sensation. The fog behind my eyes dissipates as nourishment courses through my body. As much as I want another, one bite is all I can stomach. Gertrude wipes my face with a warm cloth while Retta stands by the foot of the bed, happy to see even one bite swallowed. I take both their hands and say, “Thank you, my dears, for all your kindness.”

  They smile at the compliment.

  “I’m ready now.”

  Retta opens the door. Standing on the other side, waiting, is my husband.

  Retta

  Whenever fortune would turn on a person Mama would say, without surprise, “That is a story that was bound to happen,” like a person’s actions was the brick and mortar of a house. She always knew a person’s character. Always knew what was coming before they did, certainly before me. I got the sight, but it’s Mama that had the vision. When I come from Miss Annie’s room all my helpers are huddled by the cookstove warming their hands. They scatter as I come into the warmth, hurrying back to their work. Only Mary and Alma remain. I give them each a crisp piece of skin still steaming hot off the hog.

  “You got any pork skin left for Sarah and me?”

  I know that question as well as I know the voice asking; it’s been asked of me for as long as I can remember when Sarah and Molly was growing up. I look up so fast I’m dizzy from the speed. I got to hold Mary’s and Alma’s heads for balance. Miss Molly and Sarah have come plain dressed in Camp clothes, alone on foot, around the backside of the kitchen. They left their riches behind, but no plainness of dress can hide the ladies they’ve become. They were always pretty little things. They’ve grown downright beautiful. So many years gone but there’s the ghost of youth in their faces. Molly has grown soft and plump, and Sarah is taller than I remember, but I know my girls no matter their age. I helped birth them.

  Molly is upon me and in tears before I have time to think; her hardness is all but gone. It’s Sarah that holds back, watching her sister and me from a distance. I reach out my hand until she finally takes it, allowing herself to be folded into our circle. Even still Sarah holds herself erect, like she’s afraid of breaking. I kiss her cheek and tell her she smells like apple blossoms in springtime. Her laughter is all the release she needs, and she melts against me. If years could speak they would tell of the pain and suffering these girls know. The history is in their shaking bodies as they cry on my shoulders.

  We dry our tears and I tell them, “Your daddy’s taken your mama to the front yard.”

  Sarah takes deep breaths. When she was little, Sarah would have bouts of panic where she couldn’t breathe. She’d lie on the floor ’til the feeling passed, but it got so bad the Missus had to call for the doctor to give the child something. For a year she took a pill every day. She took to hiding when a spell came on, but me and Molly knew where to look. We’d find her under the stairs rocking back and forth hitting her legs to calm herself.

  “You’re all right,” Molly would say. “He’s gone, he’s gone.”

  Even now as grown women, Molly takes Sarah’s hand, just like she used to, and says, “We’ll go together.”

  “The governor will stop by like he always does,” I tell them. “Come then.”

  I can do now what I couldn’t do then. I remind them both of what I know to be true. “You’re grown now. He can’t do what you won’t allow.”

  Sarah kisses the back of my hand and pulls herself upright. I gather them both in my arms once more before turning them loose. After they go I look to make myself useful, but anything I could do has already been done. My hands are idle on the busiest day of the year. All the help has come to know my ways almost as well as I do. The desserts are lined up on the cabinet counter, so pretty they’re a shame to eat. Carolina rice simmers alongside two big pots of Frogmore stew. The hog is cut and ready for eating, the corn bread is golden and topped with butter and honey, the butter beans sit steaming and ready and the sweet tea stands waiting in tall pitchers. All we got to do now is eat.

  I make myself busy in the dining room, though I know counting plates and silverware is just a reason to be here. I shine each piece with my apron while I stand by Gertrude inside the screen door. Lonnie and Eddie are outside on the porch. It’s through them I see Miss Annie and Mr. Coles sitting side by side on the bench we bring every year from home. Mr. Coles made that bench many years ago for Camp when Miss Annie was pregnant with Eddie. He built it for two and put rockers on the bottom so she could use it for their children. She rocked many a little one to sleep on that bench right here in this yard. Gertrude’s got Miss Annie so bundled up with blankets and pillows she looks swaddled. Mr. Coles’s got his arm around her shoulder, and she leans into him just like when they was first married. I watch for the girls, but don’t see a sign, and I pray they did not lose courage.

  Gertrude

  I step out to the porch and stand in back of Lonnie and Eddie, so I can be of service to the Missus. I don’t mind the cold like some do. I always was able to stand it better than most. The shawl Mary made keeps the chill from seeping to the bone. More people have come to the yard. Seems like the whole state has come for the day. Mr. Coles looks around the side of every person he talks to. He’s waiting on the governor.

  A group of folks from the neighbor tents have gathered ’round to pay respects to the Missus and Mr. Coles. They gather in a half circle around the bench talking solemnly. Nobody wears their Sunday best today, though I thought they would, if only to air out the ripe of a long week with no bath. The cold has forced the practical, and folks are happier for the comfort. Men stand together in overalls and long shirts talking to each other about the coming winter, and women wrapped in shawls kneel by the Missus’s side and smooth hair from her face. They fuss over her so much I’d swear the Missus was witness to her own funeral. They can’t ignore what’s directly in front of them. To their credit they don’t try. Behind me from inside the screen door, Retta moves side to side looking for something in the yard.

  Golden horns, seven in all, shine in the light as the warm-up starts on the bandstand. Their sound is so pure and strong I wonder if Gabriel himself is blowing music through them. A ripple of energy goes through the Campground, and people turn to look when a child runs across the yard yelling to his people, “The governor’s here!”

  Annie

  “There we go now, Mother,” my husband says when I lay my head in the crook of his neck.

  “Isn’t this nice?”

  So many people have come to greet us on the yard I feel like the bride on the reception line. Edwin plays the doting husband well, kissing my head between visitors. His breath is hot on my forehead, a stark contrast from the cold. When we were newly married I was astounded that he never smelled poorly. I was raised with brothers, so I knew the smell of men, but Edwin was different, he was intoxicating. Even now, he smells like bark and berry. Everyone is drawn to him. He is who they want recognition from, not me. I am the means to an end, simply useful to gain advantage, nothing more. Each person that steps up to exhibit concern for me, for our family, does so in hopes of gaining or maintaining favor with my husband. What they don’t see is my husband’s desperate effort to maintain his good standing. If Edwin has his way, the banks will never concede that a Coles can fail. No one will.

  Women I’ve known for years press cold hands against my cheek as if greeting a child. I yank my face away enough times that they finally become uncomfortable, and my forearm must suffice. With every handshake and every touch the level of gratitude flows ever more in our direction. Gratitude from Edwin to me because I am behaving and doing as asked, and gratitude from everyone else because Edwin is paying them heed. These two sides feed one another, he to me, they to him, until both parties are convinced what they are feeding on is real.

  Poli
te make-believe is weary business, and there is no one better at this than Southerners. I am tired already and we’ve just begun. The gathered women attempt to include me in conversation, but I have no interest, so I call for Gertrude, who is at once by my side. Her entrance allows the women to excuse themselves, and once again I am grateful for this slip of a girl with the scrap of a barn cat.

  “Yes, Missus?” she asks.

  “Water, please, Gertrude.”

  There is no breeze in the trees, which is lucky, otherwise the cold would be exponential. As is, people aren’t venturing far from their fires. Ours is strong enough to keep a small crowd warm. The water Gertrude brings is cool and soothing on my throat. I’ve come to understand one thing in all of this. Dying is easy. It’s the suffering that’s painful. Not the physical agony, although that comes. The cramping from hunger and thirst is significant. My body has begun to shrivel without fluids. A single sip courses through every fiber of me, filling holes that have opened in its absence. My mouth is moist again. My eyes no longer hurt to blink. One glass of water and so much progress. Still, the body wants more. A river wouldn’t be enough to fill the incessant craving. There is necessity for speed in a fight. Without it you cannot survive. The body hurries to provide nutrients to dissuade the inevitability of death. Those facts don’t bother me. No, it’s not the physical suffering that troubles; it’s the wrestling with what I leave behind and how I’ve left it—that’s the real torture. It’s by far easier to sleep. But I am awake now, revitalized from just a touch of sustenance—food and water, the miracle of life. It is difficult to fathom how the body continues despite the heart’s condition, for if the broken heart ruled the physical body, I would have been dead long ago.

  When the governor comes, Edwin leaves my side and goes to greet him. They shake hands and talk. His wife hasn’t accompanied him; she hates these things, so I’m not surprised. We’ve dined with the governor and his wife, Lizzie, three times, twice in our home during the campaign and once in celebration just after their win at the governor’s mansion. She and I, despite our vastly different upbringing, understand one another.