Four of a Kind: A women's historical fiction

by Russell, Vanessa

“Pearl, listen to me, it’s more than that. Oh, so much more!” I paused, my mind racing, my eyes set on the board of keys. I began to focus on them as an idea came to mind. I wouldn’t have much time before one of the two came back. The telephone box had been hung high, suitable for Joe, but not for Harriet. I tiptoed up to speak closely into its mouthpiece, cupping my hand over my mouth “Pearl, listen to me carefully. You’re my only hope in getting out of here. You must come down by train to the town of Pickerville, Georgia. It’s a small town about seven miles west of Savannah. Borrow money from Victor for train tickets and a hotel room for both of us.”

  “I’ve got my own money. Bess, what’s wrong? What’s going on?”

  “They won’t let me go home, Pearl! I’m trapped here, please, please help me.” My whole body trembled so that I could barely breathe. I had allowed my fear to surface and it was all I could do not to throw the receiver down and start running. The panic in my voice relayed across the hundreds of miles.

  “Oh my God … Bess … I’ve never heard you like this. I’ve never been on a train – but I can do it, I’m sure of it! I’ll be on the next train down there, where did you say, Pickerville Georgia? Okay, don’t you worry.”

  “I’ll leave now, Pearl, and motor to the hotel. I’ll meet you there. You can’t miss it; it’s right next to the train station.” I silently thanked Thomas for pointing that out during our drive through the town. “Ask for … Lizzie Washington. Got that?” Using Lizzie’s name was not in vain. I understood her more than ever.

  I heard static, clicking, more than one breathing – damn it, this was a party-line!

  “Got it,” Pearl said. “But I might not get there until tomorrow or the next day. It must take a train a long time to go all the way down to Georgia.”

  “Whatever it takes, I’ll be waiting. Pearl, thank you and I can’t wait to see you.”

  I heard a noise and jolted around to face Kipper, stretching in the doorway. Joe obviously had her well trained to sense escape. I didn’t pat her head this time. Not that I was superstitious but the last time I did that, I got caught in the act.

  I returned to the board of keys, turning keys to look for any identification. Most were not marked from the motor car manufacturer, bringing to mind the question of stolen vehicles. I suspected the worst in Joe by this time. With trembling fingers, I reluctantly brought several down with no choice but to try them out on the twenty-five or so parked in the field.

  Clutching these in my sweaty palms, I closed the screen door behind me quietly and entered the yard, scattering chickens and geese. They hadn’t been fed yet and clustered around, pecking at my feet. This reminded me that I too would require food. With no money and a possible two-day wait, I would need to pack a picnic. Hardly the appropriate word for this state of affairs but I focused on it as such to search for the appropriate foods for my journey. With rising panic in getting out, I went back in and returned to the bread loaf, wrapping a tea towel around this. The covered butter dish was there along with a jar of apple butter. The icebox held only buttermilk and raw eggs.

  I needed something to carry my “picnic” in. I glanced into the dining room and there across the back of a chair was a blue-striped ticking cover for a pillow. One end of the rectangle had been left unstitched for stuffing feathers. Silently thanking Harriet, I gratefully stuffed it instead with bread, apple butter, and peaches. Keys went in on top. I was ready to go.

  Hustling past the fowl, my heart raced faster as I passed the barn. Joe had hired colored help but I saw no one. Perhaps the day was too hot for their kind. The sun blazed and I had no hat or gloves with me. Of course this was the least of my worries, but vanity does speak at the oddest times.

  With trembling fingers I at last stopped in front of the first motor car, without care for its condition and brought out a key from my sack. It didn’t fit the ignition, nor did any of the other keys I brought along. Just as I feared. I ran to the next one. In the bright sunlight I then noticed the name Buick etched into the key I grasped. It was God I thanked this time in enabling me to recollect Joe’s comments on an old Buick where the driver’s seat was on the right side. It was easy to spot. The leather top was down and badly worn and torn. I would consequently be easy to spot. But I had no time to pick and choose and no time to lose. The sputtering of her engine and its eventual grasp of gas-and-go was a blessed sound and we pulled away from its companions and out into the barn yard, chickens squawking our break out.

  Somehow sensing that this was my last time going down the plantation’s lane, I could almost visualize our Duesenberg heading in on our first day’s arrival, dust billowing behind us as we neared Thomas’s childhood home. How were we to know we were going the wrong way?

  It seemed years ago. In a million years I would not have imagined this as my way of departure, but this old stutter had become my companion now and would take me away from here. The breeze cooled as we turned onto the road blowing a sense of freedom through my careless hair. Not since our arrival here had I felt this elation, as my blouse and skirt stirred and vibrated about, tingling my flesh alive. I pushed to the back of my mind who I was leaving behind. The good buried with the bad. I would have to concentrate on what lies ahead. I patted her large steering wheel, standing tall it was, on an exposed pole from the floor. “Let’s just move on with it then!” I shouted above the sputter and stutter.

  In due course, I could see Ethel Warner peering into her mailbox by the road. As I slowly puttered by, I could only smile and wave to her gaping mouth. I would be her next topic of gossip, of a woman motoring alone in the heat of day with a naked head and bare hands to bake in the sun. She could almost run beside me at the speed I traveled, or worse yet, jump inside, and this brought to mind Joe’s eventual discovery. I could only pray that her tattle-tale was later rather than sooner.

  Just outside of town the Buick exhausted, regardless of my increased pressure on her gas pedal. Steam puffed out from the cap on top of the hood. I could find no gasoline or water container inside. Just as well. I would not have been able to park this in front of the hotel and give away my hideout, so I patted her bench, as crusty and split as brown bread, and stepped down with my sack. She and I had gone as far as we could go.

  The railroad tracks were off on the right and these I walked parallel to, guiding me to the hotel. Along the boardwalk, women discreetly eyed my disheveled appearance from under large floppy hats and umbrellas. My blouse was now blemished with perspiration, my breasts sagging shamelessly behind a loose-fitting camisole. I was thinking how easy I would be to identify - just when I almost ran into the back of Joe who was coming out of the general store carrying a sack of feed. His attention more on avoiding a passing motor car than of passing pedestrians, gave me time to step inside the dimness of the next door business. I watched him from the large front window, my eyes darting between bold white backwards lettering across the plate-glass reading, Soda Fountain. He walked across the street to his waiting truck, dumped his load and came back. I stepped back into the shadows while he returned next door and brought out another sack of feed. This he did repeatedly while I watched and waited, the room’s interior giving me refuge and a place to cool down.

  Or so I thought.

  “May I help you, ma’am?”

  I turned from the window toward the voice and could scarcely make out a large counter with a gentleman standing behind it. As my eyes adjusted to the diffused lighting, I noticed most of the stools in front of the counter, and small tables around, were filled with folks staring back at me. The room was oddly quiet.

  “Oh dear,” I said, my hands immediately going to my hair to smooth down. “I just came in out of the heat for a moment.”

  “Well, look here if it isn’t Thomas Pickering’s widow!” he said much too loudly, coming out from behind the counter. “You just sit yourself right down, Mrs. Pickering. Now what can I bring you?”

  I opened my mouth to deny, but as he came closer I recognized him as one of the pallbea
rers at Thomas’s funeral. He would know me for certain. I sat in the chair he offered. “Just a glass of water, please. I have many errands.”

  His thick sandy hair painfully reminded me of Thomas. He could be his cousin for all I knew.

  “You must have come into town with Joe. He’ll be in directly to buy his ice cream soda like he does every day he’s here. It’s good to see one of the Pickering women for a change. Joe keeps a tight rein on his wife; I haven’t seen her in a month of Sundays. How is she fairing?”

  Why is he so boisterous? I wondered as I nodded and answered, “Finer than a frog’s hair.” I wished Thomas was there to hear me say that.

  Others returned to their melting desserts. “I’d rather be buried in a Croker sack!” a well turned-out lady whispered forcefully from behind. Everyone appeared as if they’d just stepped out of a bandbox. Coming to the soda fountain was a social event, just as Joe had said. Joe. He could show up any minute. Now that my eyes were accustomed, I glimpsed saloon-type swinging doors to the back. Natural lighting could be seen, indicating a back entrance. I drank down the water and while the proprietor’s attention was averted to another customer, I scurried through the swinging doors, through a tiny storage room, and out the back door.

  “Joe!” I heard from within. “I was just telling your sister-in-law here – where did she go?”

  I ran through the alley to the general store’s piled crates and dropped down behind these, afraid if I ran any further, I’d be spotted. It was only moments until I heard Joe’s voice out there asking, “Are you sure it was her?”

  “Sure as rain,” was the answer. “Definitely not put together like she was at the funeral, but it was her alright. Falling apart, poor thing. Her hands were shaking. She’s taking this hard, isn’t she? She didn’t come with you?”

  “Nope.” Joe kicked a box. “Damn! I told that woman to stay put!”

  “Just calm down, Joe. She’s not here so maybe she turned around and went out the front. You better go look for her. She must have walked all the way here from your place. Said she had errands to run so she’s probably over at the dress shop. You know these women; once they get into town they don’t want to leave. I’d say somebody needs to drive her home.”

  “She’ll leave alright, when I find her,” Joe said.

  The footsteps faded and I waited a few more minutes to be on the safe side. I stood up straight and then froze. Mr. Soda Fountain’s sandy head was peering from his doorframe and saw me at once. He brought his hand to his mouth and I had the horrible first thought that he was going to blow a whistle, like a policeman would in spotting a criminal. Instead, he put a finger to his lips and shook his head. Then his hand shooed me away. I understood instantly and took off running.

  The alley ran beside the railroad tracks and this led me to the hotel back entrance. Tables sat out there as an extension to the dining room. Table cloths, lit candles, men in light suits and ladies in frocks and wide hats of many colors almost broke my heart in remembering our last dinner together and in what could have been and would never be.

  My head down, I scurried past, praying these were all ‘foreigners’ that would not recognize me. Once inside the cool dark lobby, I registered as Lizzie Washington – and then scratched it out in remembering the telephone party line. I wrote the name Ruby Wright instead and asked the clerk to give Pearl Wright a written note with my room number on it when she arrived the next day. The clerk took forever and a lifetime, eyeing me warily because I had no luggage. When he finally handed my key to me, I avoided the elevator and took the three flights of stairs to my room. Once inside, I stood motionless, relieved and then alarmed. I would be forced to stay in this room until Pearl’s arrival and I had forgotten my sack of foods at the Soda Fountain.

  As I paced, there was a knock on the door. I paused, checked that the door was bolted, and then paced again. I could not answer, no matter what. I had only been in the room a short time so Pearl’s arrival was out of the question. I wished for a radio or a book, something to do. I had tired of peeking down to the front street, everyone living his or her lives normally out there, walking freely. The slice of bread from breakfast had digested long ago, my stomach reminded me, although how long ago I didn’t know. I wished I had Thomas’s pocket watch, his first wife’s engravings included. I had no keepsakes, save for this gold wedding band. His personal favorites, such as his first edition of Mark Twain’s What is Man? were now unwillingly donated to his childhood home. I recalled one of its quotes that Thomas used often, once when I complained about Mary Sue: Everything has its limit – iron ore cannot be educated into gold.

  How would I get beyond this grief and know my own favorite quotes, my own thoughts again?

  More time passed, the shadows on the wall deepened. My stomach cruelly nudged when I heard trays clatter in the hallway. Perhaps later, when the lucky recipients had finished their meals, there might be a slice of uneaten bread—

  A knock again upon the door. “Room service!”

  I went to the door, longing to open it, but only leaned against it.

  The knock repeated. “Room service, Miss Wright!”

  He didn’t know who I really was. I could answer. But I hadn’t rang for room service. I heard the tray settle on the floor. I waited for silence. Moments later I pulled the tray in across the threshold and was about to close the door when I spotted my striped ticking sack beside the tray. Inside with my picnic items were chunks of fudge, a large bag of peanuts, a bottle of soda, and a note.

  Your sack gave your intentions away, but don’t worry, your secret is safe with me. If you need anything let me know. I owe Tom – he introduced my pretty wife to me. Enjoy your meal. Mr. Burton, proprietor of Soda Fountain.

  He must have been the one who knocked first; perhaps throwing in what he had on-hand in his confectionery and soda fountain and then following me here. When I didn’t answer, he had tried room service. It was a guess but it didn’t really matter. My faith in southern men had been restored. The living ones were not all drunken blind pigs as the speakeasy’s name had suggested and as Joe had attested to. How ironic I had been served pork on my dinner tray.

  Pearl arrived the afternoon of the following day. Seeing her familiar family face was too much and I broke into sobs on her shoulder. Solitary confinement had made me think and reflect, regrets popping up unexpectedly, many over sister Pearl. Why had I given her so little attention, even during her many miles of walking door-to-door campaigning for Thomas? I had decided to be a more emotionally charged woman – passion was what Thomas once said I lacked - but this outburst was more than Pearl was prepared for.

  She patted my back, speechless, finally asking, “Why are there so many good-looking bell bottoms around here?”

  “You’re close to a port,” I answered, drying my eyes on my sleeve. “Where there’s a port, there are ships. Where there are ships, there are sailors.”

  She gave me a pitying smile but I didn’t care. I felt sorry for myself too.

  “That whiskbroom down in the lobby,” she said, looking out the window, “gave me a hard time when I asked for Lizzie Washington. It wasn’t until I gave him my name that he remembered your note and then of course when I read it and saw you used Mama’s name, I played dumb. Thanks for the change. I’m the one that ends up getting a lecture on how unhealthy it is for young ladies to travel alone.”

  “Whiskbroom?” I asked her.

  “Yeah, you know, the fellow with the cultivated whiskers. You can see the handlebars from the back of his head.”

  I laughed, suddenly enjoying her slang. “I can’t believe you’re here.”

  “Nor I.” She sat on the bed and bounced. “I changed trains three times to get to these sticks. Lucky me had a brush-ape sit beside me for the last part, telling me how fortunate I was to be in God’s country and how northerners think they’re such big shots. What do they think the north is, anyway? Hell on earth? I guess they don’t bootleg down here.”

  She wal
ked over to the side of the window again and barely moved the curtain to peek out, reminding me of a bimbo readying for a caper. “We’ve got to get a wiggle on. The train leaves in two hours and I’ve got to make some changes to your appearance before we leave. Policemen were walking around the platform and I heard one say your real name. And another one was asking around for a Lizzie Washington. How would they know that name? Did you really steal an automobile? Isn’t that the same thing as a motor car? Gave me the heebie-jeebies. Whatever you’ve done, they’re looking for you. I have to buy some things so I’ll be right back, okay?”

  I nodded, swallowing questions, resolved to trust her judgment.

  Soon she returned, breathing as if she’d run up the stairs. “I had some trouble finding this, but it was worth it.” She pulled out a wig, a wig of short-cropped hair and bangs, much like her own. That meant it could only be intended for me. “Don’t look like such a wet blanket. Hair bobbing is so jazzy these days that the state of Connecticut says you have to have a barber’s license to bob someone’s hair. You learn a lot on a train.”

  I backed away. “I can’t go out in public wearing that!”

  “You will if you want to get out of here,” she said, throwing the scalp onto the bed and reaching back into her shopping bag. “It’s the real thing; women sell their hair all the time. You should see the cosmetics I brought to paint your face.”

  I began to dread what next came out. It was a straight, loose dress, banded around the hips like a waistline, in a flimsy, almost silky material. Matching flat shoes and a hat band with an ostrich feather completed the ensemble. The bright red color was ghastly but I again swallowed hard against my refusal, especially since Pearl wore bright blue of the same sort of garment. But at least, I encouraged myself, neither were sequined and frilled as I’d seen Pearl wear in the past. Nonetheless, we would look like a vaudeville act.

  “It’s so berry!” she said, sounding as if we were dressing for a party. “If we draw attention to ourselves and doll up, we won’t look suspicious, you know?” She held the dress up in front of me. “Hmmm, you’ve lost some flesh. All the better that this might fall to below your knees and you won’t get fluky on me. And nobody will say to you what I heard on the train from a hick with her teenage daughter.” She picked up the hat band and smoothed out the feather. “They sat across from me and were the perfect example of the nineteenth century bumping into the twentieth. She smacked her daughter’s stocking leg and said, “Lord, child, pull that dress down. That lady can see plumb to the Promise Land!”