Before Gray Talbert got his act together, he was down to ten dollars a week. A thirty-year-old playboy can’t raise much hell on that, so the rowdies quit coming around. Daddy says at that point it was probably a combination of boredom and farm genes kicking in. Whatever, Gray took to messing around in one of the old greenhouses back of the house. Then he signed up for some horticulture classes at Colleton Community College and next thing you know, he’s started himself a little nursery business. That was eight years ago, and the single dilapidated greenhouse has expanded into at least a dozen sprawled around under the pines out there. He soon got out of the retail end and just does wholesale. I have the impression that he roots liner shrubs, mostly azaleas and boxwoods, things that don’t take a lot of intensive labor.
Like everything else Talberts touch, there must be pretty good money in wholesale shrubbery because he still drives a Porsche, although more sedately these days, in keeping with the low profile he’s maintained since buckling down to business. Unlike his father, Gray’s never involved himself in politics. If I’d been asked, I’d have said that along with G. Hooks’s work ethics, Gray has probably grown into a similarly conservative mindset as he nears forty. That’s what made it so surprising that he’d write a letter to the Ledger supporting me.
“Maybe he’s just being neighborly to Kezzie,” said John Claude. “Your daddy’s been helpful about providing Talbert with people who’ll work steady.”
“Maybe he’s sweet on you,” said Sherry, who’d come in on the tail end of our conversation. Never mind that Gray Talbert and I have hardly ever even spoken to each other. Sherry’s always on the lookout for potential romance.
At which point, there was a click of high heels on the stairway and we caught a flash of honey blonde hair and the rear view of a shapely female form as it sped though the wide reception hall, past Sherry’s desk, and out the front door. Then Reid followed, knotting his tie, his jacket slung over one arm.
“Y’all leave me any coffee?” he drawled, enjoying it that none of us had realized he’d spent the night upstairs again.
The pained shadow returned to John Claude’s face.
8 the race is on
I woke on election day to the smell of hot corn muffins entwined around fragrant tendrils of sage and fried pork. Country sausage. That comforting nostalgic blend of aromas took me straight back home to Mother’s kitchen, back to a time and place where no one worried about calories, much less cholesterol levels. As I remembered what day it was my appetite faded, but I still slipped on a robe and followed my nose down to the kitchen.
Barely six o’clock and Aunt Zell was already fully dressed to go out. She was one of the poll watchers and had to get over to the fire station early. A white denim chef’s apron protected her neat blue shirtwaist from splatters as she finished browning sausage patties in a cast-iron skillet. Corn muffins studded with blueberries big as marbles had just come from the oven, and her face was slightly flushed beneath short white hair neatly waved.
“Smells wonderful,” I said, pouring myself a cup of coffee, “but I’m not very hungry.”
Aunt Zell’s china blue eyes swept over me appraisingly. “Not feeling nervous, are you?”
She brought the sausage and muffins over to the breakfast table and took the chair opposite mine. Spring sunlight fell across the table and bounced off the cut crystal sugar bowl in splintered rainbows. The bright rays turned Aunt Zell’s hair to pure silver, and when she lifted her glass of orange juice, it glowed like liquid sunshine.
“At least try a little of this sausage meat,” she urged. “Your daddy sent it over yesterday evening, just special for you.”
I lifted one eyebrow in a skeptical tell-me-another and she smiled. “Well now, he did say it was for me, but then he went and slipped and said how he knows you like it with a little extra sage and not much red pepper.”
I nibbled the piece she put on my plate and God, it was good!
Hog killing used to be a two-day affair when I was little. I’d drag my footstool up to the kitchen table to watch Mother and Maidie, the black woman who worked for Mother, grind the pork and then mix it up in huge tin dishpans. They’d add salt and spices and then fry up a little “try” piece till the whole house was redolent of browned meat. The sample would be rolled around on their tongues with a critical thoughtfulness I’ve only since seen on the faces of serious wine connoisseurs.
“What do you think, Maidie?” Mother would ask.
“I believe a pinch more sage, don’t you reckon? And maybe half a dab of black pepper?”
More mixing, more try pieces, until Maidie said, “That’s it right there. We’ve got it just perfect.”
And it always was because if there’s one thing eastern North Carolina has over the rest of the whole damn world, it’s the way we know what to do with pork.
Just the same, delicious as it was on my tongue this morning, I wasn’t going to be mollified by a couple of sausage patties.
“Five whole months without even a phone call,” I said. “Not one single word of encouragement.”
“Oh, honey, what do you think this sausage is? Don’t you know yet how afraid he is that you’re going to wind up getting hurt?”
“I’m not little missy from de big house anymore,” I muttered.
“Saying something doesn’t make it so,” she said tartly.
“Meaning?”
“Meaning that even when you’re an old white-haired lady and he’s been in his grave fifty years, people around here are still going to remember that you’re Kezzie Knott’s daughter. He recognizes it even if you won’t.”
Her own breakfast finished-half a muffin and two bites of sausage-Aunt Zell stood briskly and began to clear the table. Before I could think of a withering retort, the phone rang.
As soon as the first syllables reached her ear she started smiling with pure pleasure. Five years dropped from her pretty face and she signaled for me to go get on an extension. Uncle Ash was calling from South America -he’s a buyer for one of the big tobacco companies-and, unlike my own father, who wouldn’t pick up the phone and him only fifteen miles away, Uncle Ash had called all that distance to wish me luck. His booming voice was like a warm encouraging hug. “And don’t worry, shug. I sent my absentee ballot in last week by registered mail. Bet I’m the first grain of sand in what’s gonna be a real landslide.”
Ever since I woke, I’d been assailed by doubt and misgivings. “I’ll be happy if it’s just not a sand bucket,” I said.
“Aw, naw, you’re going to do just fine, idn’ she, Zell?” he boomed.
“Well of course she is!” my aunt answered smartly. “And I want your solemn word right this minute, James Ashley Smith, that you’ll be home at Thanksgiving so you can see her swearing-in.”
“Already got it on my calendar, Miz Ozella.”
I knew the conversation was about to get mooshy-Aunt Zell and Uncle Ash sometimes act like they were married only four months instead of forty years-so I got off the phone and went up to brush my teeth and find something fitting to wear.
The flowered dress and cherry tunic I’d laid out the night before looked too sweet-sixteenish this morning; and I was rummaging in my closet when Aunt Zell called up that she’d see me later. “Now don’t forget to come vote-early and often!”
I finally settled on a red-and-white houndstooth skirt with a red patent belt, red patent heels, white silk shirt, and navy blue blazer. Bright red lipstick and bright red earrings.
I looked patriotic as hell.
Reid arrived at the office just as I was leaving for court, took one look at my clothes, and offered to send over to the little theater for an Uncle Sam top hat.
Everybody’s a comedian.
The polls opened at 6:30 a.m. and closed at 7:30 p.m. It made for a very long day.
Judge Harrison Hobart managed to keep his feelings reined in as I walked a couple of misdemeanor larceny cases by him. Now that primary day was upon us and he was barred from runni
ng again, the old fossil had decided to go out with dignified formality.
Judge Perry Byrd was a different horse altogether.
A horse’s ass, to get more specific.
With his broad face more florid than usual, he was sarcastic and snide and nitpicked every motion I made in the routine breaking-and-entering I had to argue before him. As soon as he’d rendered a guilty verdict and I’d given notice of appeal, I got out of his courtroom before I said something we’d both regret.
Most everyone around the courthouse wished me luck and swore that they’d either already voted for me, or surely would before the polls closed. I took it with a grain of salt big as a cow block and drove on over to the fire station.
Lunch hour had filled the polling place with familiar faces, and the usual jokes and glad-handing went on as we waited in line to vote. One of my high school classmates was tending the Republican register. “I’d wish you luck, Deborah, but you’re sitting in the wrong pew.”
“That’s okay, Kath,” I smiled. “Can’t everybody sing with the angels.”
We still use paper ballots in Dobbs. One of the party elders handed me this year’s sheaf of seven IBM cards and a soft pencil, and I went into an empty curtained booth to mark my choices. Aunt Zell was posted by the machine at the end and she smiled at me encouragingly as I fed in my ballots one at a time, face down.
“I’ll be home soon as the polls close,” she promised. “Folks’ll probably start coming in before nine.”
I told her I hoped she hadn’t fixed all that fancy food for nothing.
“Family’s going to come whether you win or lose,” she said. “But you’re going to win! You’ll see. Now go have some lunch and quite worrying.”
Following Aunt Cell’s advice, I drove through a fast-food lane, ordered a cheeseburger with everything, fries, and a drink, and took them back to the office. Sherry eyed the yellow-and-red bag hungrily when I came through the door.
“The phone hasn’t quit ringing all morning,” she said. “I haven’t had a minute to go eat.”
Since most of the calls were well-wishers for me, I guiltily pretended I’d been thoughtful and brought her lunch. “I couldn’t remember if you liked it all the way or not,” I lied, “but maybe you can scrape off what you don’t want.”
My appetite was gone again anyhow.
“Now isn’t that nice of you!” said Sherry, flipping on the answering machine before heading for the kitchen. “And you can just go right on in and work in peace,” she added officiously. “I won’t put through any phone calls unless they’re real business.”
Both Reid and John Claude were out, so I had no excuse to idle around the place, and Sherry was right in hinting about the work that needed my attention. There were pleadings to write, depositions to read, motions to draft, but I couldn’t concentrate. The afternoon dragged along on little snail feet, and the few calls that got past Sherry were more than welcome.
Eventually, the grandmother clock on my mantelpiece limped its way around to four-thirty and I was ready to pack it in when Reid stuck his handsome face in the door and started humming “Hail to the Chief!”
“Idiot!” I laughed as my spirits began to rise again.
“So what time do the games begin?” He pushed his way on in, followed by John Claude, who had to carry the firm’s mantle of dignity by default.
“Aunt Zell says around nine, but y’all can come on anytime. You, too, Sherry,” I called through the open door. “Bring that good-looking boyfriend, too, if you want.”
“Does that mean I can bring Fitzi?” asked Reid.
“What the hell’s a Fitzi?” I laughed. “That blonde we didn’t see yesterday morning?”
“Hey, you really didn’t see that particular lady,” Reid warned. “All the details of her divorce settlement haven’t been worked out yet and-”
“Dammit all, Reid!” John Claude was past pained shadows and into outright indignation. “You promised!”
“Promised what?”
“You know very well what,” our senior partner said icily.
“I promised not to fuck any more of our clients.” Reid’s face was that of an innocent child unjustly accused. “You didn’t say I couldn’t fuck Ambrose Daughtridge’s.”
“She’s Daughtridge’s client?”
“Well, of course. Didn’t I give you my word?” He drew himself up and put on an exaggerated drawl. “A Stephenson never breaks his word. Suh, you have impugned my honoh as a gentleman.”
“A gentleman doesn’t use the f word in front of a lady,” John Claude said crisply.
I gave Reid my fiercest glare before he could make the obvious rejoinder.
By ten o’clock, Aunt Zell’s whole downstairs was jammed with people. From the kitchen to the front veranda, it seemed like Knotts and Stephensons were there in their thousands, and Smiths and Lees in their ten thousands. Not to mention half the neighborhood.
The initial returns were in and just as I’d hoped, the two white men had knocked each other out of the race. Luther Parker and I were the front-runners, predicted to wind up with fifty-three percent of the vote, although our actual finishing positions were too close to call. Sherry had gone over to the courthouse, stationed herself in the lobby outside the board of elections office, and kept calling over with the figures till it was clear that the runoff would be between Luther Parker and me.
I finally managed to get through to him and we congratulated each other and someone on an extension line-whether his or mine I couldn’t tell-exclaimed, “And may the best man win!”
Parker chuckled. “You might want to rephrase that, Miss Knott.”
The party swung into high gear after that, despite the lack of anything harder than sparkling cider and iced tea. The dining table was loaded with platters of finger food, and there was too much laughing and talking to hear myself think. Minnie was so ecstatic about me passing the first hurdle that she wanted to sit down in the middle of all the hoopla and start mapping out the rest of my campaign.
“Not tonight!” cried Seth and grabbed her hand and danced her out into the wide central hall where fiddles and guitars were tuning up on the staircase.
Further up, near the landing, a bunch of teenagers-cousins, nieces, and nephews-camped on the staircase to watch their elders play. They always start out too cool to join in. Nevertheless, I saw toes tapping and signaled to my brother Haywood’s youngest son, eighteen now and a senior at West Colleton High. Stevie turned red, but he eased past his daddy, who was cutting loose on the fiddle, and met me at the bottom of the stairs. Someone had carted out the Persian rug that usually covered the parqueted floor and we two-stepped up and down the hall, following Minnie and Seth. Then Will handed his guitar to Reid and everyone clapped hands as he and Reid’s red-haired Fitzi did a cross between an Trish jig and mountain clogging. (A Fitzi, I’d discovered, was a gorgeous third-year law student named Patsy Fitzgerald, who was going to spend the summer clerking for one of the state justices in Raleigh.)
Most of the kids knew a little clogging and soon they were into it too. Minnie and I passed from hand to hand as more dancers crowded into the hall or spun off into the living room. Eventually, Stevie came round again.
“So whose heart are you breaking this year?” I asked him as we swung through the dining room for another glass of cider.
“Not me,” he shrugged, suddenly serious.
“Somebody breaking yours?”
“That’s what I need to talk to you about,” he said. “Could we? For just a minute?”
“Sure, honey. What’s wrong?”
We took our glasses out onto the side terrace and I sat down on the white brick wall. Stevie leaned against a nearby pillar. The mild night air felt good after the warmth of dancing among crowded bodies. Overhead, the moon was one night from full and shone in the sky like a battered silver platter handed down through the generations: most of the decorations polished flat now, but a precious heirloom all the same. I’d shed my jacket and ch
anged earlier into a more festive skirt, but I still wore my red patent heels and they glistened in the moonlight. I tapped my heels together lightly, experimentally, and looked up to see Stevie watching.
He grinned. “Does it feel like Oz?”
“Not yet. Ask me again after the runoff next month.”
“You’ll win,” he said loyally. “Aunt Minnie says you have poll appeal and Dad says she knows politics.”
“Yes,” I agreed, “but that’s not what you wanted to talk about, was it?”
“What’s going on with Gayle Whitehead?”
“What makes you think anything’s going on?” I countered.
He gave me a patient look. “She said there was. She said she doesn’t want to talk about it, but if I really wanted to know, you’d tell me.”
“Stevie-”
“Is this the famous attorney-client confidentiality you always hear about on those lawyer shows?” he asked.
I leaned back on my hands. “If you’re still planning to go to law school, you’d better quit thinking it’s like a Paramount sound stage. I didn’t know you and Gayle were going together.”
“We’re just starting,” he said. “We’ve been good friends for years, but lately- I don’t know. It’s like now that high school’s coming to an end, we’ve suddenly realized it’s maybe something more than just a friendship.”
Before I could say something wise and auntlike, he grinned, “Yeah, we know all about nostalgia and fear of the future. We also know we’ve got at least four years of college before we can do anything about it. All the same, right now…”
Ah, the sweet right now!
“Anyhow, she really did say you could tell me,” he finished earnestly.
I believed him, so I did.
When I concluded, he was quiet. All the kids had grown up knowing that Gayle’s mother had been murdered, but now that he cared for her, I guess it was the first time the edges had been taken off for him.
He gave me such a pure look of “Here am I, Lord, send me,” that I jumped up and hugged him hard. “Thanks for offering, honey. If there’re any dragons you can slay, I will ask you, I promise.”
Bootlegger’s Daughter Page 9
