Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters

by Emily Carpenter

  “Oh? The Tuscumbia Davidsons? Or the Memphis Davidsons?” The girl looked completely earnest, her eyes wide. She was pretty in a wholesome way—brunette with the rosiest cheeks Ruth had ever seen. She wore a simple but expensive-looking housedress in a sedate brown plaid.

  Ruth shifted on the settee. There was a spring directly under her bottom. “Hard to say.”

  “Age?”

  “Seventeen.”

  “Me too!” The girl seemed to catch herself then, realizing she’d strayed from her composed employer role. She folded her hands again. “You’re the youngest they’ve sent but it’s no matter. You seem strong.”

  “Oh, I am. And I sing too.”

  “Do you like Cab Calloway?” The girl gave her a wink. “Hi-dee, hi-dee, hi-dee, hi.”

  Ruth grinned and echoed back. “Hi-dee, hi-dee, hi-dee, hi.”

  “Whoa-oh-oh-oh-oh . . .” they sang together in perfect harmony. “Hee-dee, hee-dee, hee-dee, hee. He-e-e-e-ey . . .”

  The girl giggled. “You like Cab Calloway?”

  “I like that song especially.” Ruth had only ever heard “Minnie the Moocher” on the radio when she was passing a store or the open window of someone’s house. She didn’t know Cab Calloway from a hole in the ground.

  “Grandy might like you to sing to him. I do it sometimes. You have a pretty voice. Like a dove. And you look like a dove too. Soft and delicate.” She pointed to the coat. “And gray.”

  “I do love to sing.” That part was true enough. She’d never minded the mandatory chapel services at Pritchard when the chaplain told them a Bible story and they sang a hymn.

  “And your references?”

  Ruth dropped her gaze. “Mrs. Scott didn’t mention that I needed them.”

  “Well, never mind that,” the girl said briskly. “We’ll get back to that if need be. In the meantime, I’ll tell you about myself and the job. I’m Bruna Faulk, Mr. Coe’s granddaughter. I live a couple of blocks away with my parents, which is why we need a housekeeper, cook, and companion for him.” She inclined toward me and spoke in a low voice. “He’s gone a little bit soft in the head, I’m afraid. Forgets things, people, his family. And he wanders off, which is a primary concern. The last time, he made it all the way to the bridge. And he had that with him.” She pointed to the rifle on the mantel. “He wasn’t in any war, but he does like his guns.”

  Ruth took mental note of that. Not that she planned on stealing anything, but it was good to know the old man wasn’t afraid to wield a weapon.

  “Anyway, you’ll clean and cook three squares for him. Our housekeeper, Vesta, will drop off the groceries for you, so you don’t have to leave.” She took note of Ruth’s expression. “You’ll have Sundays off. That’s the day my mother comes over. We’re Jewish so we don’t have church. Well, my father’s Jewish. My mother used to be Presbyterian. Anyway, you’re welcome to go to church, of course. I go to the Methodist church some. There’s a boy I know there.”

  She smiled, blushing even more and pausing briefly. “Or you can take a walk, see a picture at the Shoals, whatever you like.” She hesitated. “I know the house is an absolute mausoleum. But he wouldn’t let the last girl do anything with it. And he won’t let Mama clear out the old furniture or buy him any new. I just want you to know. It’s not that we don’t care for him. We do.”

  After the long speech her face looked so bereft that Ruth felt she had to say something. “Probably he just likes things how he likes them,” she offered. “Old folks are like that.”

  “I told them I could stay here, to cook and clean for him, but my parents said—” She stopped abruptly.

  “It was beneath you,” Ruth said. She could see Bruna was from money. That dress was made of expensive wool and cut well.

  Bruna made a flustered sound. “I don’t know why. I like to cook and clean and I have all the time in the world. What difference does it make, as long as Grandy feels loved?”

  Ruth nodded.

  “I graduated from Mount Vernon Seminary and Junior College last spring and was hoping to go on to Smith, but my parents didn’t . . . it didn’t work out.” She fell silent. “Have you done this sort of work before?”

  Ruth considered fibbing, then thought better of it. “Truth be told, I’m not one of Mrs. Scott’s girls. I just took leave of my employment at Dr. Asloo’s Wild Menagerie. I watered the animals, mucked out the cages, and tried to keep from being eaten.”

  Bruna didn’t seem bothered at all by her confession, but she was gaping at her all the same. “I’ve heard of him! The man who puts his head in the lion’s mouth!”

  “The very one.”

  Her eyes shone. “You work for him? What a gas!”

  Ruth eyed her skeptically. Was the girl pulling her leg?

  “Why in the world did you quit?”

  “I didn’t, not exactly. Last night, I accidentally got locked in the lion cage.”

  “With the lion? Jiminy!”

  “I prayed, though. Declared the Word of the Lord over him and said I was a daughter of Eve and he better listen to me. And then he fell right to sleep—and I did too.”

  Bruna let out a shocked sound. “Well, what do you know. A miracle.” She blinked. “You got a fellow?”

  “When I was a little kid.” Ruth wouldn’t say Dell’s name, but she couldn’t resist telling Bruna about him. “We used to hide presents for each other in a hawthorn tree at the . . . out in front of my house. Where I lived.” Then she remembered she was there for business. “And the pay? What would that be?”

  Bruna’s hands drifted down to her lap and folded demurely. “Five dollars, every two weeks. Minus expenses.”

  Ruth didn’t have any idea what kind of expenses she could possibly incur, living in this grand house, having food delivered right to the front door, but she was so elated, she nearly screamed out loud.

  “Are you all right?” Bruna asked.

  Ruth nodded, and Bruna stood. Ruth stood too.

  “Well,” said Bruna, looking immensely pleased and relieved. “If you agree to it, it looks like you’ve got yourself a job. As long as you don’t mind the . . .” The girl looked around the room uncertainly, then finally at the mantel and the gun. “And the . . .”

  “When do I start?”

  “Right now, if you’re agreeable.”

  Ruth was more than agreeable, and after they shook hands, Bruna gave her a tour of the house. Ruth saw the drafty upstairs consisting of four bedrooms with four-poster beds, two tiled bathrooms, and a central hall the size of a gymnasium. The downstairs had an identical layout: massive hall, library, sitting room, dining room, and kitchen. The ceilings soared. They were punctuated by finely painted murals and a half dozen plaster medallions that dangled crystal chandeliers—but everything below was ruin and rot.

  Bruna said the house locked from the inside as well as out. She showed Ruth where they hid the house key—behind a loose brick at the edge of the porch—and told Ruth not to tell Steadfast or he’d take it. Vesta, the maid, would be by first thing in the morning with groceries, but in the meantime, perhaps Ruth could persuade Steadfast to have some toast and tea for his supper. Ruth said she’d try, then walked Bruna to the door.

  She put a hand on Bruna’s arm. “If you don’t mind—what happened to the last girl? The one who watched him before?”

  Bruna’s face took on a pained expression. “Well, now . . . that was an unfortunate thing. And not entirely my grandfather’s fault. He is soft in the head, you know.”

  Bruna looked uncomfortable, but Ruth took her hand. “I’d just like to be prepared, you see, for all eventualities. Something I learned from working with the animals.”

  Bruna nodded. “I understand, I do. But you must promise you won’t let it color your opinion of my grandfather. He’s a good man. A kind one, just not himself these days.”

  “No, no. Of course not.”

  Bruna flushed and her hand felt damp. “Well . . . I’m sorry to say that the last girl . . . Well, h
e shot one of her toes clean off her foot.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Tuscaloosa, Alabama

  Present

  I was the first one downstairs in the hotel’s bustling red-leather and stacked-stone restaurant the next morning, fogged with exhaustion and fear. The night before, I hadn’t slept for longer than thirty minutes at a stretch when finally, around five, Mom came into my room to tell me she and Danny were leaving for the airport.

  I buried my face in the pillow. She kissed me, and my nerves felt so raw, I almost changed my mind about everything. But she seemed unusually jovial, buoyed by the success of the previous night, and I let her go without a word.

  The light of day—along with the throbbing headache and giant purple lump over my eye—brought everything into sharp perspective. I’d gone to work at the foundation because I’d been determined to take care of my family, to protect them from whatever fallout might result from Dove’s big lie. But the reality of that had always been a bit murky in my mind, a vague, unformed threat that, like an old-time Hollywood press agent, I would handily dispatch with a public statement and an overseas getaway.

  Never once, in all that time, had I considered Dove’s lying in a broader sense. If she’d lied about one thing, there was the strong possibility that she’d lied about more. Not once did I dream that she actually could’ve committed real honest-to-God crimes that would have lasting consequences on a larger, life-shattering scale.

  I hadn’t given my grandmother enough credit, apparently.

  Though truth be told, I think on some level I’d always known this day was coming. One way or the other, there was always retribution for a person’s sins—and that was why I’d stayed. To fight the fallout. So now I had to stay. For my family, I had to see this Steadfast thing through to the bitter end.

  I swallowed two Advil I’d bought at the hotel shop and nursed a cup of coffee while Althea and Griff circled the breakfast buffet. Althea was in head-to-toe black: yoga pants, sneakers, and a zip-up hoodie, a grimy olive-green backpack slung over one shoulder. Griff, wearing an ivory-colored beanie and heathered T-shirt, sat down with a plate loaded with scrambled eggs, grits, and every conceivable kind of breakfast meat, but all I could focus on was how kind and compassionate his expression was each time he looked at me.

  They both started in on me again about the police. So to shut down that line of conversation, I promised I’d report it after the three days had passed. At this point, I said, I couldn’t risk anyone contacting Mom and Danny or word getting out and affecting the foundation in any way. Griff and Althea weren’t happy about it, but they conceded that it was my choice.

  We split up for a couple of hours—Althea to square everything away with Jay and her kids, Griff to finish up with Liz and Naveen and buy a new phone, and me to wander through the aisles of Target, stocking up on extra clothes and toiletries. At noon, we regrouped at Dreamland, a tiny barbecue joint on the outskirts of Tuscaloosa that Althea said was to die for. I ordered racks of ribs for the group, while Griff and Althea both excused themselves to make calls. Althea’s expression when she returned told me the news wasn’t good.

  “So that was Beth Barnes at Pritchard. I made up some BS story about Griff misplacing his phone last night. She said the hospital installed security cameras during the reno, but they haven’t been connected yet. So no tape of your guy.”

  “Shit,” I said.

  Griff returned then. “Naveen and Liz will return the van and the rest of the equipment and wait for my call. I don’t know if you want me to film any of this, but I’ll have my camera, just in case.”

  I rolled my eyes. “I have a feeling whatever it is we’re about to find is going to be less than upbeat and inspirational.”

  “It’ll be real,” Althea said. “Maybe that’s better.”

  Real—whatever that turned out to be—would probably not encourage donors to open their wallets. At this point, the most important thing was to shut down the real stuff, if it turned out to be bad. To lie, in other words. I sighed, my head throbbing.

  Althea nodded at my plate of untouched food. “Forgive the mama bear routine, but you really should eat something. You’re going to need your strength.”

  I picked up the rack of ribs in front of me and she nodded approvingly.

  “What’s our first move?” Griff asked.

  “Margaret Luster,” I said. “Our first and only move, at this point.”

  Althea raised her eyebrows. “Can you call her? See if she’ll meet with you—us?”

  While they obliterated the plates of ribs, coleslaw, and white bread, I wiped my fingers and scrolled through my donor contacts. I dialed Margaret and pushed my plate away. The smell of the place was making me queasy and the throbbing in my head had become unbearable. I didn’t know how I was going to make it through an interview with this woman.

  “Hello?” Margaret Luster said on the other end of the line.

  I set my jaw. “Margaret, it’s Eve Candler from the Jarrod Foundation.”

  “Eve! I’m so glad you called. I tried to find you again last night, but your mother told me you were under the weather.”

  I touched the lump on my temple and smirked at Althea and Griff. “Yes. Something really hit me out of the blue. Margaret, I have an unusual request.”

  “Sounds interesting.”

  “I’ve decided to dig a little deeper, try to get to know more about my grandmother’s time in Alabama when she was young. If I was to drive over to Birmingham today, would you be available to answer some questions?”

  “I’d love that.” She sounded excited, giddy even. “Maybe we could figure out where those bootleg tapes are as well.”

  “Maybe so. But mostly I’m interested in any stories you’ve heard about Dove when she was in Alabama . . . what she did here . . . and who she did it with.”

  “Well, that’s my favorite subject, you know,” Margaret said in her rich-lady drawl. “We’re just wrapping up Bible study here, but after everybody clears out, I’m all yours.”

  “Thank you,” I said. “I’ll be bringing a couple of friends. And if you don’t mind, could you keep our meeting just between us? I’d rather not broadcast what I’m doing.”

  “Oh, honey, I get it, I really do. The Hawthorn Sisters were full of the anointing. They made quite a splash back then, and I expect folks did whatever they could to get close to it.” She hesitated, lowering her voice. “The fire of God is like a magnet, Eve. It draws both sinner and saint. But it also attracts another kind. A wicked kind. I’ve lived a long time, and believe me, I’ve seen what some people—a certain ruthless type of person—will do to get ahold of that fire.”

  She paused a moment, then spoke again. “This might sound silly, but . . .”

  “What?”

  Her voice was kind. “I think you should be careful, Eve. That’s all.”

  Chapter Fourteen

  Florence, Alabama

  1934

  As it turned out, Steadfast Coe did indeed harbor a strange animosity toward human toes, both the male and female variety. He continually railed against barefoot dandies in the park, barefoot ladies on the banks of the river, and barefoot children any place at all.

  There were a variety of other things he didn’t like either: being awakened at any hour of the morning, flowers of any sort, dogs that lacked the skill to hunt, undercooked toast, overcooked toast, the smell of lemon verbena cleaner, singing, conversation, rainy days, cloudy days, overly sunny days, Yankees, Anabaptists, Republicans, Democrats, beef stew, oatmeal, fresh air coming in through open windows, Aimee Semple McPherson, the Music by Gershwin radio show, and most especially his eldest daughter, Edith, who had dropped out of high school to marry a Jewish atheist.

  None of this bothered Ruth, especially not the toe matter, as she had no desire to walk unshod through the swales of dust bunnies, rat pellets, and various puddles of mysteriously congealed goo that covered the floors of the Coe house. She was happy enough to keep her shoes
on at all times and retain her digits, fully intact.

  The first night she was in the house, after Mr. Coe had retired to his upstairs bedroom, she stayed up into the wee hours cleaning. She worked her way through the entire first floor with a mop, bucket, and scrub brush, starting with the parlor, the room where she and Bruna had first talked, and ending with the wide central hall. She swept, mopped, dusted, wiped windows, shook out curtains, polished brass, and scrubbed floors. She decided to ask Bruna if the heavy Persian rugs could be sent out for cleaning. And perhaps she could even convince Mr. Coe to let his daughter repair the torn upholstery and order new curtains. The family seemed to have plenty of money.

  She had proof of it now. As Ruth moved through the house, she’d discovered a closet of chinchilla coats, fox capes, and mink stoles. Silver tea and coffee services, trays, and serving dishes were haphazardly stacked in several large buffets and sideboards. There was a glass-fronted cabinet of tiny Chinese men carved into jade. And a treasure trove of coins that Ruth found hidden in the darnedest locations all over the house. Every time she found one—in a fireplace grate, or between the pages of a book or two floorboards—she’d drop it into her pocket. She found a crystal jar with a silver lid that sat on a dresser in the mint-green bedroom and poured the coins from her cupped hand into the glass. They made a beautiful tinkling sound.

  Later, Bruna would explain that the coins were the result of mint errors—pennies, nickels, and quarters that’d been double-struck or struck off-center or had the wrong planchet on their face. Apparently, it drove Old Steadfast to distraction that some things that wrong and mistaken were floating around in the world, and he felt compelled to hide them away. They had some value, Bruna thought, but she wasn’t at all sure what it amounted to.

  But even without the coins, Ruth felt sure Steadfast Coe had to be one of the richest men in Florence.

  Tackling the second floor proved a much more daunting task, and one she didn’t accomplish until later in the week. For one, she had to devote more time to cooking Mr. Coe’s meals and seeing to it that he didn’t escape the confines of the house in the daylight hours. She repeatedly had to drop whatever she happened to be scrubbing or polishing or sweeping and rush out the back door to wrangle her charge.