Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters

by Emily Carpenter

  I shifted uncomfortably, my muscles screaming in protest. “I got a text from Griff. At least, I thought I did. I forgot he lost his phone.”

  “Who’s this Steadfast guy he supposedly showed you?” Althea asked.

  “I have no idea,” I said. “I didn’t know Dove that well, but I never heard her mention anyone called Steadfast. But that doesn’t mean anything. She knew a lot of people.”

  “And Dove supposedly murdered this guy, hid his body, then stole a coin that belonged to him?” Griff asked. “That’s a lot for a young girl to do all on her own.”

  “And if she did, I can’t imagine she’d sign a confession,” Althea said.

  “Also, if she stole the coin, why wouldn’t she sell it?” Griff said.

  “I don’t understand any of it.” I threw up my hands. “He implied she wanted to hang on to it, I guess for the kick of knowing she’d stolen something so valuable. He called it the Flowing Hair. I’m assuming it’s well known. I don’t know. None of this tracks.”

  “You better believe it doesn’t track!” Griff spat out. “I’ve just spent the past three months, day and night, meticulously researching Dove Jarrod. Reading everything I could get my hands on, interviewing every single person who’d ever had any kind of personal interaction with her and her husband. And not one of them said anything about her spending time in Alabama after she left Pritchard. Not one!” He shook his head, exasperated. “My own parents have followed her career religiously for decades. They’re from Alabama, for Chrissakes, and even they didn’t know. How is that possible?”

  I buried my face in my hands. He was right. But I didn’t have the words to tell him how, in some bizarre way, this was the real Dove, the Dove I’d known since I was fourteen years old. The woman who kept secrets.

  “I guess Dove really wanted to keep her past hidden,” Althea said quietly.

  “Sorry, Eve. Not trying to make this about me.” Griff glanced at Althea. “Mind if I borrow your phone?”

  She handed it over and he started tapping on it, so loudly it sounded like he was going to break the screen. Althea winced, then turned to the coffee table where she’d dumped the contents of Dove’s box.

  “Okay, let’s think. We’ve got a scrapbook with a few yellowed newspaper clippings, a handful of faded photographs, and an old family Bible. Maybe there’s some kind of clue in all this stuff that’ll tell us who Steadfast was. We should split it up, go through the articles and photographs.”

  The newspaper articles seemed to be mostly announcements of engagements, weddings, and births. One was a brief write-up, dated June 5, 1934, about a Mrs. Magdalene Kittle, wife of Mr. Eli Kittle of St. Florian, Alabama. Mrs. Kittle had been taken to the Lauderdale County jail on suspicion that she had caused the death of her middle son, Jasper, age seven, by forcing him to spend three days and nights in the woods. Mrs. Kittle had been repentant, and the judge was inclined to leniency in his sentence. Especially as the woman had eight additional children who still needed looking after.

  Althea shuddered and refolded the yellowed paper. “My God. Why would Dove hold on to something so morbid?”

  I shook my head. “No idea.”

  Griff lifted a finger for our attention, then read from Althea’s phone. “Per Wikipedia, there are only fifteen Flowing Hair Dollars left in circulation. First dollar coin, designed by a Robert Scot, was minted by the United States government in 1794 and 5. One side has a bust of Lady Liberty. The other side, an eagle surrounded by a wreath. Ninety percent silver, ten percent copper. Last one sold for ten million.” He looked at us. “Long story short, it’s purported to be the most valuable coin in the world.”

  We stood, absorbing this in stunned silence.

  I looked down at a tissue-thin piece of paper that had fallen out of the Bible. “Listen to this. Dear Mr. Jarrod, I hope this letter finds you in fine mettle and blessed by the Almighty. I am Miss Ruth Davidson, the girl who sang the alto part on ‘Throw Me Overboard’ (and other selections) along with Miss Bruna Faulk at your tent meeting in Florence, Alabama, on April 21. There was quite an outpouring of the Spirit that night, which all were heartened to see, and I do believe many were saved. I was in the green dress. Miss Faulk and I have continued with great and blessed success as the Hawthorn Sisters—”

  I paused. There it was. The Hawthorn Sisters. Just like Margaret Luster said.

  “Go on,” Althea said.

  “—singing and ministering here and there, managed by Mr. Arthur Holt. However, Miss Faulk and I now find that we have run through near about all west Alabama and east Mississippi, and we would very much like to attach ourselves to someone such as you, in order to travel to further states, especially California.”

  I flipped the paper over, but there was nothing on the other side.

  “Missing a page or two,” Griff said.

  “But clearly she wanted out of her situation,” I said.

  Althea waggled her phone. “I googled Steadfast. He’s either an internet company, a brewery, or a real estate leasing firm. No person that I can find.”

  “We’ll have to look up death notices, I guess.” I sighed. “Just add it to the list of things Dove lied about. Or omitted.” I inhaled and let my breath out slowly. The adrenaline had ebbed, and I was starting to feel the effects of being roughed up as well as, thankfully, the alcohol. I scooted back on the bed and rested against the headboard.

  “What do you think made her do that?” Althea said. “Be so secretive about her life?”

  I shrugged. “Dove had my mom later in life, when she was forty. That was the late fifties. She and Charles were still traveling, doing meetings, conferences, seminars. Sometimes, Mom went with them, but mostly she stayed home. I think Dove was better at helping strangers. She had a harder time with the long-term, family commitment stuff.”

  Althea settled back on the tiny sofa and lifted an eyebrow. “She definitely kept her past shrouded from me. I know a lot of people thought she was the half sister of Dell Davidson.”

  Griff perked up. “Oh, right. The outlaw from Mississippi. I did hear about him. Maybe that’s how she got mixed up in this Steadfast guy’s death.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “She never directly admitted she was Dell Davidson’s sister, but she didn’t deny it either.” I shrugged. “That was Dove. She didn’t feel any compulsion to set the record straight about anything.”

  “Not even with your mom?” Althea asked.

  “No. Mom acted like those stories didn’t exist. Dove was her touchstone. She dedicated her life to preserving her legacy and continuing her ministry in any way she could. I mean, quite literally—she made it her career.”

  “It made her feel close to her mother,” Althea said.

  “Yeah. My father left us when I was young. And Dove was already living in Alabama then, and I guess, for Mom, the foundation became a substitute for the real person.”

  Althea nodded, but she seemed lost in thought. I felt strange, spilling my guts to a near stranger and one of my employees. But who else could I talk to? I was alone. Completely alone. A wave of despair washed over me.

  “Eve?” Althea said. “You okay?”

  I lifted my chin. “I should tell you. I’m not that surprised that my grandmother might’ve been connected to some trouble. There’s something you don’t know about her.”

  Griff sat up. “What?”

  “I had a problem with my arm, something I was born with—and she tried, but Dove wasn’t able to heal me.”

  They were quiet.

  “I was okay with it for a while, but then, when I was fourteen years old, I changed my mind. I went to Alabama to see her. Alone. Just booked a flight and . . . went. I was going to insist she try again. Pray or whatever. Finish the job she started and give me my miracle.”

  I held out my right arm, dispassionately, like it wasn’t even a part of me. But it was. It made me who I was. Just an arm, slightly softer and smaller, the muscles less defined than those in my left arm. No one would
ever know by looking at it how hard that arm had worked. Still did.

  “I was a kid. I wanted to not have to always be thinking about it. Hiding it from people.” I kept my eyes down, reluctant to see their reactions. It felt easier that way. And easier not to know if this new revelation was having any sort of adverse effect on Griff. But then I forged on, telling myself that if he was bothered by my arm, he could well and truly go fuck himself.

  “I landed in Birmingham. Caught a cab to her house in Tuscaloosa. Knocked on the door. She invited me in, and we had spaghetti and sweet tea and Oreos. We talked. But there was no miracle.” I paused. “Then she sent me home. A few years after that, I heard about a specialized type of treatment, constraint-induced movement therapy, and fixed myself.”

  Althea looked puzzled. “I don’t understand. Why wouldn’t she pray for you?”

  “It’s not that she wouldn’t. It was that she knew it wouldn’t work. She started crying. Confessed to me, all of it, that she’d been a fraud from day one. That she’d built a life, a career, all on a lie. She said any time someone claimed to be healed by her, it was either a plant in the audience or someone who got carried away with emotion and convinced themselves of it. Like a psychosomatic thing. She said she’d never had a gift, never worked a single miracle, and she couldn’t do anything for me.”

  They stared at me.

  “How can that be true? I mean, all those people . . .” To my surprise, Althea’s eyes had filled.

  I clenched my jaw. “She scammed everyone and people let her. For decades. That’s how.”

  “God, what a blow,” Griff said. “You must’ve been devastated.”

  I nodded. “Basically, in the space of fifteen minutes, my entire understanding of life was upended. The next day, when she dropped me off at the airport, she asked me not to tell my mother. She said she knew it was wrong, letting Mom believe it all, letting her live her life in some pink-cloud la-la land. But she said sometimes you had to do the wrong thing for the right reasons.”

  “She knew you could handle the truth,” Althea said quietly. “She trusted you, Eve.”

  “Hell of a thing to trust a kid with, though,” I said. “Let me tell you, it’s really hard to keep a secret your whole life. Add to that the constant worry that the truth will somehow come out anyway and send your family and its only source of income down the toilet. Which, by the way, is exactly what happened tonight.”

  “What almost happened,” she said.

  I stood and tossed the ice pack on the desk. “We’ll see. But yeah. Bottom line is, I’m not completely shocked that my grandmother was involved in some shady business and didn’t bother to tell any of us about it. That was one hundred percent her style. Here’s the thing, though. Whatever she did or didn’t do, right now, I just need the foundation to stay strong. For Dove to keep being Dove—” I waggled my hands, jazz style. “Because that’s been the one constant in our lives.”

  They just watched me.

  “I know the foundation probably can’t go on forever, and I’m not saying Mom and Danny can’t live without it. But . . . for now . . .”

  . . . right before I leave . . . escape . . .

  “. . . I need things not to change. If that guy finds proof that Dove was a thief and a murderer, it will destroy my mom. And I can’t let that happen. I just can’t. I love her and I can’t—” My voice cracked.

  Griff shifted his weight. “Maybe you should sit down.”

  I sat on the edge of the bed, and my resolve finally gave way. I started to cry.

  “Sorry,” I said between sobs. “I just . . . I’ve spent my whole life trying to protect them. To keep them safe from anything that could go wrong. And now it’s just all shot to hell. And it’s all because of Dove.”

  “You have every right to cry,” Althea said. “And we really should call the police.”

  “Please, no. No police. My brother is a—” I blotted my nose. “He’s not the most stable person in the world, and my mom’s got panic disorder. It’ll completely freak them both out, to an unsalvageable degree. I just need to think. To calm down and figure out how to fix this. Because I know I can.”

  “Wait,” Griff said. “The guy said he was going to take the bones of the man Dove supposedly murdered to the police and say she did it? They might be able to prove it’s Steadfast Coe, whoever that is, but there’s no way they can definitively prove Dove had anything to do with his death. Not even with this supposed signed confession.”

  Althea shook her head. “I don’t know. It seems bad.”

  “She’s right,” I said. “Human bones are an irresistible story. And even if the confession is some kind of forgery, it’s going to make enough noise to cause a problem. Accusations like this can torpedo a nonprofit in a heartbeat.”

  And could send my mother straight back to the hospital.

  I suddenly felt so helpless. All these years, I’d thought I had this thing under control. But Dove’s lies hadn’t lain dormant. They’d germinated and multiplied, sending out a million runners that clung to whatever they encountered, smothering, strangling, crushing everything in their path. And now I was supposed to find one of those curling, pernicious vines and rip it out by the root before it reached my family? I didn’t even know where to begin.

  “. . . that’s why we should try to find the coin,” Griff said.

  I didn’t realize he’d even been speaking. “Wait, what?” I stared at him.

  “I’m just thinking—your family went through Dove’s belongings after she died, right?”

  “Thoroughly,” I said. “We cleared everything out and the foundation catalogued and archived every single item of significance. There was no coin.”

  “So if she really did spend some time here in Alabama before hooking up with Charles in California, maybe she hid it here.”

  “What?” I said.

  “Eve,” Althea said, sounding excited.

  “We could find it,” Griff said.

  “Sounds like a long shot to me,” I said.

  Althea piped up. “Okay, yes, a long shot, maybe. But think about it. If you did somehow manage to find the coin, at least you’re still talking to the guy. You keep him close. Keep control of the situation. And maybe then, we can figure out what the hell is really going on. Get a real investigation started before he just starts spouting off lies.”

  “Okay, okay,” I said. Then shook my head. “But how in the world am I supposed to find a coin that’s been missing for a hundred years?”

  “Eighty-six years, to be precise.” Griff pulled aside one of the curtains. Outside the lights of downtown Tuscaloosa twinkled. “I’ve got files and files of notes. Hours of footage. We’ll figure it out.”

  “We?” I said. “No way. No. This is my personal disaster. You guys don’t need to involve yourselves in this.”

  Althea folded the flaps of the box. “You need a local. Somebody who knows their way around. I’ve been full-time mom-ing lately, and honestly, I think it’s driving Jay and the kids around the bend. He’ll thank you for getting me out of the house.”

  Griff planted his hands on his hips. “You hired me to research Dove and Charles, and I have, as much as was available to the public. Tonight, I got some pretty interesting stuff from that woman, your donor Margaret Luster. She’s certifiable, no doubt, but she knows a ton about Dove. All that stuff about the Hawthorn Sisters. How they traveled all over Alabama, preaching and stuff.”

  “Oh my God, that’s right,” I said. “I’d completely forgotten about her.”

  “She might have some insider information about the coin,” he said.

  Althea had already retrieved her phone and was dialing Jay.

  “Hey, babe,” she said, and she stepped into the hall.

  Griff put a hand on my shoulder. “We can do this, Eve. I really think we have a chance.”

  I raked my fingers through my hair. It was probably just my imagination, but it felt like the fetid smell of minty chewing tobacco and putrid hum
an bones had permeated my clothes and skin and hair.

  Griff looked pensive, like he was choosing his words carefully. “I’m not defending Dove for turning you away or for lying all these years about who she was—if that’s really what she did. But if she did lie, she must’ve had her reasons. Right?”

  “I guess,” I said. Even though I wasn’t sure I agreed with him.

  The truth was, I had no idea who my grandmother was. Dove Jarrod was a complete stranger to me. But I was about to do everything within my power to change that.

  Chapter Ten

  Tuscaloosa, Alabama

  1934

  The Reverend Robert Singley had not enjoyed a full night’s sleep in four years—the time that had passed since he’d first laid eyes on the girl. And this night, standing by the well behind his sister’s white house and drawing on his dead brother-in-law’s pipe, he felt like he might’ve entered into some kind of lovesick delirium.

  He could see her soft red hair around her china doll face. Her smooth skin and cupid lips and those tiny, perfect white teeth, just as if she were standing right in front of him. His stupid nephew Jimmy wouldn’t know what to do with a cherub like that. She’d be wasted on that oaf.

  But she’d make a dandy preacher’s wife.

  He’d stuck around in Tuscaloosa mostly because he knew the situation in Enterprise was still rather unwelcoming. But it was also because he couldn’t shake the girl’s memory. Luckily, his sister, Jimmy’s mother, was a docile woman, and uninclined to questions. When Singley had first arrived, his sister’s husband was stilling living, and she’d been glad to offer their upstairs room and a nice supper every night at six-thirty.

  Four years had passed in a blink. No sheriff had come for him from Enterprise. His sister’s husband was buried down at the Baptist church, and Jimmy had persuaded a cow of a girl to marry him. They’d moved to Birmingham, where Jimmy had taken a job at the furnace, leaving the reverend and his sister the only occupants of the house.

  At his sister’s request, the reverend stayed on, now enjoying an expanded meal plan—breakfast at seven, soup at noon, and supper. She missed her husband, so he allowed her to fuss over him, laundering his shirts and trousers and drawing him a bath each night. Other than the occasional odd job around the house, he didn’t work. He didn’t have to. His sister’s new job at the asylum brought in plenty. He didn’t feel much like preaching either, lovesick as he was. Not to mention, the churches around Tuscaloosa only paid preachers in collard greens and live chickens.