The Pecan Man

by Selleck, Cassie Dandridge

Blanche helped me deposit him in Walter’s old room. He looked decidedly out of place in it, uncomfortable even. He looked around for a place to put his hat and then, finding nothing he deemed suitable, folded it in half and tucked in his back pocket.

  “I hope you’ll be comfortable here, Eddie,” I said, absurdly. The man had been sleeping in a jail cell for weeks and outside for who knows how long.

  “Yes’m, I reckon I’ll be fine,” he nodded.

  “Is there anything I can get for you?” I asked, ever the hostess.

  “No’m, I’m all right,” he mumbled and fidgeted quietly. “’Cept…”

  “Except what?” I asked.

  “I wonder could you show me where’s the toilet?” he asked.

  “Oh!” I blushed furiously. “It’s down the hall on the right.

  He nodded and rocked back and forth on his feet.

  “I’m going to put on a pot of tea while you get settled,” I said and left the room quickly.

  Blanche had dinner warming in the oven when she left an hour later and Eddie and I took our first meal together in the formal dining room. We sat at opposite ends of the long mahogany table that had once belonged to my mother. Neither of us spoke much. I assume that Eddie felt the same discomfort I did, but I doubt he was thinking the same thing, that the table itself seemed like a river of blood between us. We took all our future meals at the kitchen table.

  I had no fewer than twenty calls that week about my “harboring a criminal.” If only they knew who the real criminal was, they’d have called the sheriff and not me. Eddie made himself scarce every time the phone rang. Funny that none of them showed up on my doorstep like I expected. I guess they truly were afraid of Eddie, as unlikely as it seemed to me. But they didn’t know what I knew, so in a way I could understand. I handled the calls as best I could, assuring each caller that I would not be foolish enough to open my home to the man if I had any doubt whatsoever about his innocence. Nothing seemed to make a difference to any of them, though, and eventually I stopped answering the telephone.

  I briefly entertained the thought that a few of the townsmen might show up at my door with shotguns and ropes in hand, but I soon chided myself for imagining such drama.

  Eighteen

  School was out the week before Christmas and Blanche’s girls were giddy with excitement. Even Blanche managed to suppress her sadness enough to get into the spirit of the season. I think it was hard not to anticipate the opening of all the presents under our tree. The three younger children spent most of their time with us, but Patrice had taken part-time job as a cashier at Winn Dixie and worked most evenings.

  It’s funny how, just when you think you’ve settled into a routine and you know what to expect, something seemingly insignificant becomes a revelation.

  We decided to bake cookies, a task I previously thought to be a necessary, but not particularly heartwarming, part of the holiday routine. I helped Blanche by planning, shopping and organizing before the cookies were baked, and by packing and sorting for the various charities afterwards. That was before we had children in the house.

  Knowing I had resigned from most of my civic duties, Blanche assumed we would omit the baking part of our routine when she asked about the cookies one night at the dinner table.

  “I don’t reckon we go’n be bakin’ them Christmas cookies this year, 'less you got something I don’t know about.

  Three little heads snapped to attention and the younger girls all spoke at once.

  “Cookies?”

  “Aw, I done said it now,” moaned Blanche.

  “I’ll help, Mama,” Patrice said, more eager than resigned.

  “Pleeeease…” came the chorus.

  “I don’t see why not,” I said and Blanche smiled in spite of herself.

  “Of course, we won’t bake quite as many as last year,” I added, as Blanche’s smile turned to a chuckle.

  We decided to make Christmas Butter Cookies, so the girls could use the cookie cutters and sprinkles, and Lemon Squares, Blanche’s favorite. Then I said I’d add Bourbon Balls to the menu. They were easy to make and required no baking at all, so I thought I could handle those myself while the girls decorated their cookies.

  “Bourbon Balls?” Blanche asked. “We entertainin’ this year?”

  “Not on a grand scale,” I replied. “I just remembered that I invited Clara Jean and her date to stop by for eggnog after their Christmas Eve dinner plans and, to my surprise, she accepted.”

  “Bourbon Balls and eggnog?” Blanche cocked her eyebrow at me disapprovingly.

  “I’ll get the non-alcoholic eggnog, if that’ll make you feel better,” I said.

  The thought flashed through my mind that Blanche must have some newfound system of ethics because we had always had alcohol in the house, despite our Baptist affiliation. Walter was by no means a drunkard, but he did like to have his one glass of Scotch and water when he got home. I had personally never cared much for liquor, but we kept several bottles in our cabinet for the rare entertaining we did.

  Blanche glared at me and I must have looked puzzled because she cut her eyes pointedly in Eddie’s direction. He was picking slowly at his food and did not look up. I got the distinct feeling that he was well aware of the current exchange and wished he were anywhere else but there at the moment.

  I may be a little slow, but I’m no idiot.

  “You’s all outta whiskey, Miz Ora. ‘Member you had me pour all that out when Mr. Walter passed. Said it reminded you too much o’ him to keep it around.”

  Well, I said no such thing, but I went along with the charade.

  “That’s right, I’d forgotten all about that. Well, there’s no sense buying a whole new bottle of Jack Daniels for just a few little bourbon balls. I’ll come up with something else to impress Clara Jean and her new beau.”

  I tried to sound nonchalant, but my response was stilted at best.

  Later that night, after Blanche and the girls went home and Eddie turned in, I checked the liquor cabinet. It was empty, as I suspected. I didn't have time to ask Blanche about it at supper, but I assumed she had indeed poured out what little had been there. I'm not sure why I didn't know Eddie was an alcoholic. I suppose I should have wondered why a hardworking man was homeless, but instead I’d taken it for granted that he wanted it that way. It was years before I understood what Eddie would do for a roof over his head and three meals a day, and how much he would sacrifice for the daughter he loved.

  I couldn’t for the life of me figure out how Blanche knew to pour out the liquor, so I asked her the next day before Eddie got up.

  “Some things you just know,” was all she would allow.

  We sat down later to make a list for our cookie baking adventure. I got out the recipes and Blanche calculated what we would need.

  “Baking powder?" I read from the book.

  “Pro'bly want to add that. What we got is pretty old," Blanche said.

  “Vanilla extract - should have plenty of that," I said and tried to skip over it.

  “We out of vanilla, Miz Ora."

  “We can't be out, Blanche. I just bought a huge bottle."

  “We still out of it," she grumbled.

  “Humor me and check, would you?" I was annoyed.

  “I can check all day long, Miz Ora, and we'll still be outta vanilla."

  She went to the pantry and brought back the eight ounce bottle I had recently purchased. She held it up to the light to prove that the bottle was indeed almost empty.

  “What in the world happened?"

  Blanche gave me the look that I'd become accustomed to getting from her. I don't think she meant to, but she had a way of making me feel like a pitiful old fool.

  “Some things you just know," she repeated.

  I added vanilla extract to the list.

  Eddie tried his best to stay out of the way as preparation for the holidays proceeded, but Grace would have none of that. She was determined to have all the members of our improbable fam
ily together as much as possible. We grew accustomed to seeing Grace clutch Eddie’s hand in both of hers and drag him down the hall toward whatever event or task we had going on at the time.

  I thought that Eddie would eventually relax and allow himself to enjoy the attention, but he seemed to grow sadder by the minute. I made up my mind to ask him about it after the holidays passed and the excitement died down but, as usual, Gracie beat me to the punch.

  We were up to our elbows in flour and sugar, our cookie baking expedition in full swing. I was rolling out cookie dough, ReNetta was cutting the shapes, Danita and Gracie were decorating and Blanche was baking the cookies and washing up dishes between batches. Eddie’s job was to hold the old shoebox full of cookie cutters and dole them out at the appropriate time. We had stars of all sizes, bells and wreaths, snowmen, snowflakes, Christmas trees, reindeer and sleighs.

  The girls were having great fun deciding how to decorate the cookies for maximum effect. When Eddie pulled out the Santa face cookie cutter and the girls cut the shape, Gracie was quick to point out a serious design flaw in our cookie project. Once the white sugar crystals went on for the beard and the red crystals adorned his hat, Santa was left with a decidedly pale complexion.

  “Mama, how come we makin’ Santy Claus's face so white?”

  I’m not sure who was more horrified, me or Blanche. I thought back to the painting of the Last Supper above Blanche’s red couch. It’s funny what you take for granted when your view of the world reflects your own skin color.

  Before Blanche could say a word, I roared, “Blanche! Get the cocoa!”

  Well, that sent us all into fits of laughter that had Blanche and me crossing our legs and clutching our chests. I had never heard Eddie laugh before and I have to tell you, it was a magical sound. We laughed until our sides hurt, quieted down briefly and then started right back up again as soon as one of us replayed the scene in our heads. The little girls were only mildly amused and rolled their eyes in disgust when it took too long to collect ourselves.

  We did pull out the cocoa, though. I blended it into one batch of buttery dough and let the girls cut it all into Santa faces. I have to admit, I liked the end result and I found myself wishing I’d thought to do it years earlier, when my cookies were being delivered to the families in Blanche’s neighborhood.

  We were putting the last batch into the oven when Grace noticed that Eddie had gone quiet again.

  “Aw, Mr. Pecan,” Grace crooned softly. She climbed gently into his lap and, resting her head back onto his shoulder, said, “Why you always so sad?”

  He hugged her then. Tucked her head up under his chin and wrapped his arms around her little body.

  “I’m sad ‘cause I’m go’n miss you when I’m gone,” he said.

  “Where you going?” Gracie asked.

  “I don’t rightly know for sure, but I can’t stay here forever.”

  “Why not?” Gracie wondered.

  “’Cause this here ain’t my home.”

  “Where is your home, then?”

  Blanche interrupted then. “Gracie!”

  “S’awright. She ain’t botherin’ me,” Eddie said to Blanche. “I ain’t got a home right now, child. I done left my home a long time ago.”

  “Can’t you go back?” she asked.

  “Too late to go back now,” he said.

  Nineteen

  Christmas Eve dawned cold and crisp and the girls could barely contain themselves. Blanche and her family had been staying over every night since the weather turned too cold to walk home. Blanche and I opened the fourth bedroom upstairs, which had previously been used only for storage and was inclined to be a little cold in the winter and hot in the summer. I worried about putting the little girls in there until I remembered that Blanche’s little house had no air-conditioning at all and only the one gas stove in the living room for heat. With one double bed and a pullout couch that had been bound for the Goodwill store just before Walter’s death, there was plenty of room for the three younger girls to sleep and they were thrilled with the extra space. Blanche and Patrice took the pink room.

  Out of all the events I had coordinated over the years, arranging a visit from Santa was nearly my undoing. I couldn’t imagine how parents around the world handled the delivery schedules with a houseful of children underfoot. I had to make an excuse to send Eddie out to the garage when the bikes were delivered, while I entertained the girls inside. It took a bit of convincing to keep Grace from tagging along with him. She had become his shadow and was not inclined to let him out of her sight. I had a few last minute gifts to wrap and I enticed Grace to stay with me by sacrificing my usual gift-wrapping standards and allowing her to wrap them “all by herself.”

  The twins were excited to use the good china and silverware again and busied themselves with the now familiar process of setting the table. Blanche, thank goodness, had the dinner and dessert preparations under control or I’d have had a heap of trouble getting everything done.

  It was decided that the girls would be allowed to open one gift that night, just after dinner. We had finished dessert and were just about to retire to the living room when Clara Jean and her date arrived. I was stunned to see Chip Smallwood without his uniform on. He looked as handsome as ever and I wondered why I had never thought of the two of them as a match.

  Eddie looked a bit nervous when Chip entered, but he soon relaxed as we all sat by the fire sipping non-alcoholic eggnog and enjoying the excited chatter of the children opening their presents.

  We sent the girls, even Patrice, to bed soon afterward. I pulled Chip aside and asked if he would help us get the bicycles from the garage once the girls were asleep.

  It was no easy task getting those bicycles into the living room without waking everyone in the house. Even though I had them delivered fully assembled, it was after eleven o'clock when we finally got everything arranged just right.

  I barely remember walking Chip and Clara Jean to the car.

  “I’m so glad you could join us tonight,” I said as Clara Jean leaned over and hugged me. “I hope it didn’t take too much time away from your families.”

  “We enjoyed it, Miz Beckworth,” Chip said. “I don’t ever remember such a peaceful Christmas Eve.”

  Chip opened the passenger door, holding it long enough for Clara to slide gracefully into the low bucket seat. She winked at me as Chip went around the back of the car and opened the driver-side door.

  “You approve?” she whispered.

  “Very much so,” I said.

  “Merry Christmas to you both,” I added as Chip slid behind the wheel and leaned over to smile at me.

  “Merry Christmas!” they said at once.

  Already synchronized, I thought as they pulled away. That’s a good sign.

  I have never heard such a racket as I did the next morning. The squeals of joy and excited laughter shook me from my sleep and I rushed to put my clothes on so I could join the family downstairs. Gracie met me at the top of the stairs.

  “Miz Ora! Mr. Pecan,” she called. “Come look at what Santy Claus brought us!”

  I thought she would pull me off my feet going down those stairs.

  Most of the gift-giving I’d done in the past had been accomplished anonymously or at least at arm’s length. This was the first time I’d really experienced the joy firsthand. Gracie was beside herself with glee.

  “It’s got a real horn,” Gracie squealed as she squeezed the bulb attached to the handlebars of her new pink bike.

  “Oh, Gracie,” I exclaimed. “You must have been a really good girl this year.”

  “I was, Miz Ora. Really, really good.”

  ReNetta and Danita were equally thrilled. Danita pounced on the purple bike, proclaiming purple her “favoritest” color ever. ReNetta was happy with the orange one, since orange and black were her school colors.

  “Oh!” she gasped as the thought came to her. “I can ride it in the spirit parade next year!”

  “You b
etter keep that thing nice, if you plannin’ on doing that,” Blanche spoke up.

  “I’ll wash it every day!”

  I laughed. “I wouldn’t go that far, honey.”

  After the other odds and ends were unwrapped, Eddie took the girls outside to try out the new bikes. Patrice stayed in to help clean up the living room.

  Patrice was quiet as she picked up the crumpled wrapping paper and bows and stuffed them into a garbage bag. She liked her bicycle and the clothes I'd gotten at Penney's, I was sure of that, but she seemed distant and sad. I asked her about it after Blanche went to start breakfast for us.

  “I'm all right, Miz Ora. Really."

  “Something's bothering you, though. Is it Marcus?"

  She nodded and her lips began to tremble as she fought for composure. She sat on the edge of the ottoman, resting her forearms on her legs.

  “It's the first Christmas we've ever had like this."

  “Without him, you mean?"

  “Yeah. He was so excited about the Army, about having a real job and money to spend. He wanted to help Mama." Her voice broke and I waited, unable to speak.

  “He wanted Christmas to be big this year. He was going to…"

  My heart ached for her.

  “He was going to get bicycles for the girls," she barely got the words out before breaking into sobs.

  “Aw, honey," I said, moving to kneel before her, my hands on her knees. “I'm so sorry."

  “It's okay, Miz Ora. You didn't know about the bikes. You didn't mean any harm."

  I stood then, leaning over to catch Patrice's face in both hands. I pulled myself toward her and planted a kiss on the top of her head. When I looked up, Blanche was standing at the edge of the dining room, wiping her hands on a kitchen towel and watching us intently. Without a word, she turned and went back into the kitchen.

  The gaiety of the house returned when the girls came in to eat breakfast. Eddie's eyes were shining and the creases in his face seem amplified somehow. He kept his mouth closed as usual, but the rest of his face wore a happy grin.