“I didn’t shoot my own wife, did I?” Uncle John yelled at Papa Lowman. “I’m not runnin’ around on Audrey am I?”
John kept at Papa Lowman, insisting that Papa should listen to his suspicions about that day in January and Daddy’s actions. He insisted that Papa Lowman at least consider that Daddy may have shot Momma in cold blood.
Uncle John may have failed many times in his life, but he succeeded in planting suspicion. I didn’t know it then, but a seed of suspicion began to grow in Papa Lowman’s ear that evening, then Aunt Audrey’s mind, and finally, the Clarke County Sheriff’s Office. On the night of Daddy’s questioning by the Clarke County Sheriff Department, two and a half months after my mother’s death, John Howard raised a toast of his best home brew to his own personal form of justice. Everything evens out in the wash, he probably thought to himself, unaware of how the cards would play out in the end for him, for Daddy, or for me.
Chapter 6
April 2, 1934
Daddy had been so quiet in the weeks after Momma died, and didn’t tell us anything other than “Your momma had an accident.”
Even though I wanted to, I hadn’t asked Daddy about that morning in the woods. I didn’t want to make him angry or more heartbroken than he already appeared to be, but the appearance of Cousin Stephen and the strange man in the dark jacket proved that I couldn’t ignore my curiosity any more. I decided that, as soon as I could get a moment alone with him, I’d ask Daddy what happened out in the woods. In my opinion, at the age of thirteen, I was old enough to know exactly what happened to Momma. I was no longer some little child who needed to be sheltered from terrible things. For God’s sake, the most terrible thing I could ever imagine had already happened. What else could I possibly need shelter from? Let Meg, Billy, and Albert be hidden from the truth. I needed to know.
I had also, in my opinion, earned the right to answers. I helped Aunt Matt each morning with breakfast, and got Billy, Albert, Meg, and myself ready and off to school. I was still at the top of my class despite coming home directly after school each afternoon to help Aunt Matt with dinner and daily chores. On the weekends, I made sure that all of us, especially Daddy, had fresh clothes for work and school the next week. I tended to Billy and Albert during church on Sundays, and had perfected Momma’s sit still or you won’t be able to sit at all look that she used to give all of us in the middle of Reverend Howlington’s long-winded sermons. I cleaned scraped knees, soothed upset stomachs, and drove away the boogeyman from under beds in the middle of the night. My shoulders were perpetually waterlogged from the tears of my siblings. Daddy worked, took long walks, went to Grove Hill to check on the hotel, or did whatever he did that made him disappear at odd times of the day and night. I kept this family afloat.
I also heard the whispers of Frisco City. From the co-op to the schoolyard, I heard their whispers. Momma was always a popular topic of conversation in our little town, but since her death, she was all people could talk about. At first, the good people of Frisco City appeared concerned for Momma and for us kids, as if they shared some deep, binding friendship with her. Once Daddy left in the police car, the outpouring of sympathy and pity turned to curiosity, suspicion, and downright nasty gossip.
According to the running mouths on every front porch and dusty street corner, Daddy visited with several disreputable women all over Monroe and Clarke counties, especially over in Grove Hill. They said the visits started long before Momma died. In church one Sunday, two old biddies sitting right behind me had the audacity to suggest that Daddy was carrying on with a woman right there in Frisco City! They hid their shame behind their fans when I turned to glare at them. One unbelievable yet popular story was that Daddy knew the woods near Barlow Bend so well because he had a girlfriend out that way. I couldn’t walk into Hendrix’s General Store without the place going silent. I constantly seemed to interrupt the debate of whether or not the dashing Hubbard Andrews shot the lovely, yet unconventional Addie Andrews in the woods at Barlow Bend.
Many believed Daddy regularly went by the alias Hubert Anders when circumstance required a surname other than Andrews. This, I found most curious. At the time, Andrews was a highly-respected and revered name in Alabama, especially Clarke, Monroe, and Crenshaw counties where every third house seemed to have some relation to the Andrews name. According to Daddy, our people, the Andrews, went all the way back to the Revolutionary War. He said that our people proudly fought the British tyrants from our plantations in the Carolinas before heading south to Alabama. Why would Daddy ever use a name other than Andrews when our name should make any man proud?
Many of the men who spat tobacco juice like grasshoppers while loitering in front of the shops in downtown Frisco City, appeared to relish the theories of Daddy’s guilt. They speculated on every detail of Momma’s death from the type of gun that was used, to the thick brush in Barlow Bend to the best squirrel hot spots and hunting techniques. They argued that Addie Andrews was too skilled to make such a fatal mistake. Several months before all of this mess, these same men would have gathered around Daddy as if he was the hunting messiah sent from God above to teach all of them how to hit the tiny head of a varmint from seventy-five yards out. Since Momma died and the police came to our house, these same ignorant men became self-proclaimed experts, overflowing with squirrel hunting wisdom.
Some of the inhabitants of our little town defended Daddy, saying that even the best hunters have accidents, and that Momma, however skilled she may have been, made one careless mistake. They also adamantly argued that Daddy wouldn’t have carried Momma through the woods for two miles if he had killed her. They said a guilty man wouldn’t have put himself through such a chore, that only a strong, enduring love would motivate a man to such a heroic act. Well, at least, Mr. and Mrs. Hendrix, proprietors of Hendrix’s General Store, offered me their support when I stood at the counter waiting to pay for the flour, sugar, and lard needed for one Saturday supper.
Tilting her face to the side, Mrs. Hendrix professed, “Your daddy carried your poor momma through those woods to bring her to rest, bless his heart.” She always placed a hand on her heart when she said this, a convincing, even if unnecessary, touch added to her frequent sentiment.
The worst part of the local chatter is what they said about Momma, “Crazy Addie was always so careless”, and “how could any man deal with her as long as Hubbard did?”
I heard them talk about her being mad, that our adventures throughout Alabama were strange, inappropriate, and unacceptable. They said that Meg and I were better off without her, and maybe the Lowman sisters would show us the proper way for a mother, and subsequently, young ladies, to behave. Some even said that momma had it coming; that they always knew her, “‘wildin’ ways would lead to a tragic endin’.”
Mrs. Williams shared the most hurtful rumors to a small gathering on her front porch one Saturday morning. Unfortunately, Mrs. Williams was hard of hearing, as one would guess from the bellowing of her radio every night, and didn’t realize just how loudly she spoke. I heard every word crystal clear from my seat on our front porch.
“You know, I heard Addie Andrews did plenty of carrying on herself! I guess she didn’t want ol’ Hubbard to have all the fun.” Mrs. Williams waited a few beats for the laughter of the small crowd to die down, and then, “Well, why else would she go gallivanting around the way she did? And with those sweet girls in tow? I only pray that our Lord and Savior will forgive her sinful ways and welcome her into His fold.”
I wanted to yell to Mrs. Williams that Momma didn’t need the prayers of a sad, lonely, old woman, and that no matter how much preaching she did from her front porch, her flock would always be just a bunch of pathetic gossips. I wanted to, but I didn’t.
I knew they were wrong about her. They were jealous because Momma always seemed bigger, better than Frisco City. She was too special for the confines of this tiny little town tucked away behind the thick pines and gray moss of Monroe County. She was unconventional and adventu
rous, but loving and everything a mother should be at the same time. If the sun was up, Momma was moving. We always had clothes that fit right; pretty dresses for every occasion, carefully stitched by her delicate fingers. She taught Meg and me how to bake cookies and tend the garden. Our table overflowed every day with scrumptious meals, prepared by her loving hands. The house was immaculately kept, with clean linens and fresh flowers in every room. We never missed Reverend Howlington’s sermons on Sunday mornings, and were reminded of his lessons every time we slipped up.
Sometimes though, I think Momma got bored of her daily chores. I think the walls of our little house started to suffocate her on occasion. Sometimes, she needed to remind herself that adventures could be found right around any corner.
“You just have to make the turn,” she would say to me as we rode with the ragtop down, feeling free as the wind whipped through our hair. Momma’s smile was never bigger than it was from behind the wheel, flying down an open road. In my mind, the world belonged to Momma. Momma shined in the center of our lives like the sun, and the rest of us were warmed in her light.
I had to know how and why that light was taken from me, so one afternoon in April, as my siblings and I trudged home down Bowden Street after school, I decided to ask Daddy how Momma died. Ignoring the rumors around town had become too difficult, and I felt that Daddy owed me an explanation. I needed to hear exactly what happened from his lips. When our little house came into view, Billy and Albert took off running toward the back yard. Being forced to sit still all day on the hard benches of our schoolhouse was pure torture for the two of them. Meg had plans to meet up with a couple of girls her age that lived two blocks over, so she handed me her lunch pail and borrowed books, and headed down Oak Street. Off she went, leaving me to walk the last block home by myself.
While I was consumed by confusion in the months following Momma’s death, Meg seemed to bloom, despite the grief that enveloped our home. At nearly twelve years old, Meg’s childish appearance of chubby cheeks and stocky gait had given way to the beginnings of a lovely young lady with porcelain skin, soft, honey brown curls, delicate features, and Momma’s blue eyes. Meg’s heart was crushed when Momma died, but if she was plagued by the same curiosity that kept me awake at night, she never let it show. She floated through life as if protected against the true reality of our situation. I must admit that I was a little envious of the peace she had found.
With the boys out back playing, and Meg down Oak Street out of earshot, that afternoon would be my only chance to ask Daddy about Momma’s death. When I saw him sitting on the front porch cleaning his pipe, I mustered up every bit of courage that Momma instilled in me. As I climbed the three steps up to our porch, I heard Momma’s voice in my head, “Speak your mind, Child. Whatever has put that look on your face is just itchin’ to get out.”
I sat down next to Daddy, took a deep breath, and spoke the words quickly so I wouldn’t chicken out mid-question, “Daddy, what really happened to Momma in the woods?”
Daddy turned and looked at me sharply, grasping his pipe tightly in one hand. “Hattie, I told you what happened.”
“You told me Momma had an accident, but you didn’t tell me how.” At this, Daddy got up from his chair and leaned against one of the front columns. His back was turned toward me, but I pressed on, “Daddy, people are saying you did it.”
I held my breath, waiting for a switch to come at my legs or for Daddy to order me to fetch his belt for saying such a terrible thing to my father. Momma always encouraged us to speak our minds, but Daddy reminded us to use respectful tones and engage only in approved topics of conversation. Sometimes, his reminders were harsh. Asking my father if he killed my mother was certainly not acceptable in the house I grew up in.
Daddy’s response surprised me. He didn’t chastise me for asking such a question or for listening to the town gossip. He didn’t banish me away from him or even ignore my question. Instead, he turned and looked straight into my eyes. He was crestfallen and weary, all of a sudden appearing to be exhausted.
“Hattie, Sweetie, I would never hurt your mother. She meant the world to me.” With that, he turned and went into the house.
I would never hurt your mother. That short sentence didn’t contain the details I was craving, but it told me what I needed to know. Daddy didn’t do what the pathetic gossips of Frisco City couldn’t stop yammering about. He didn’t hurt Momma. He never would. His love for her and me was right there standing on our porch. At the time, I decided that was all I needed to know.
Daddy remained silent through dinner and left soon after on one of his walks. Aunt Matt and I cleaned the kitchen and got the boys to bed. Meg drifted off around nine. I lay awake until I heard Daddy come up the porch stairs just before midnight. He must have tripped on the last step, because I heard him curse the planks after he stumbled. I considered getting up so I could make sure he was all right, but decided to let him be.
Chapter 7
September 1934
The Monday after the policemen questioned Daddy, he had gone back to work as he did nearly every day since Momma died. Along with owning a small hotel and café in Grove Hill, Daddy worked as the Raleigh Man for Monroe County. The usual stock of ointments, salves, and kitchen sundries seemed to move in and out of our house as they normally did in February and March, but in April of that year, sales slowed down to a standstill. Boxes bearing the trusted Raleigh name started accumulating first in the pantry, then the parlor, and finally, stacked to the ceiling near the back door. All through April and most of May, Daddy went door-to-door without much luck. Most of the good people of Frisco City tried to conjure up decent excuses for not buying Daddy’s stock, blaming their lack of money or bad timing.
“Oh, bless your heart, I’m plum full up from my last order,” Mrs. Williams told him one morning as I was leaving for school. Unfortunately for Daddy’s pride, that bellowing voice could be heard two counties over. She might as well have yelled, “Lock your doors! The boogeyman is comin’!” Three months earlier, Daddy couldn’t keep the products in stock. Now, most of his former customers wouldn’t even answer his knock at their doors.
For weeks on end, Daddy left the house at first light and was gone until late evening as he peddled his wares to nearly every small town in Monroe County. Finally, after several weeks of trying with very few sales to show for his efforts, he decided to get out of the Raleigh Products business.
Daddy blamed the low sales on the economy, saying, “Nobody has money to spend on this stuff right now,” but I knew the truth: No one wanted to give his or her hard-earned money to a man who may or may not be a murderer. The rumors and speculation spread like wildfire through the county. Most chose to avoid Daddy altogether to appear that they weren’t taking either side. His reputation in Monroe County was damaged beyond repair. Not even the upstanding Andrews name could bump sales.
By June, the overt chatter had evolved to hushed tones. The sympathetic sighs and tilted heads had turned into suspicious and curious stares. Daddy stopped attending church on Sunday mornings with us, claiming that he had too much work to do. I knew that was a lie. Daddy just couldn’t take the stares anymore. I, on the other hand, must have had more of Momma’s spitfire running through my veins than I first thought. I gladly met the challenge of walking into the Frisco City First Methodist Church every Sunday morning with my eyes fixed on the pulpit in front of me. I may not have had Momma’s pretty singing voice, but I sang every bit as loudly as she would, louder still if the choir was singing one of her favorite hymns.
At the end of June, Daddy threw in the towel.
“Dinner will be ready just as soon as the grits are done, Daddy,” I told him over my shoulder as I stirred a few potential lumps out of the grits.
Henry and the boys had caught a bunch of catfish, and after the fish were cleaned, fileted and deboned, I fried the nuggets to a golden brown. Paired with grits, fried catfish was one of Daddy’s favorites.
“Sweetie, I sold
the house,” Daddy said as he sat down at the kitchen table. He speared a big piece of fried catfish with his fork.
“You what?” I wasn’t sure what he meant.
“Frisco City just ain’t workin’ anymore,” he said through a mouthful of fish and breading. “I think we need a fresh start.”
“Okay?” I said and then, “Um, where are we gonna live?”
“I was thinking we go on to Grove Hill. To the hotel.”
“But this is Momma’s home.” I couldn’t bear the thought of leaving her, leaving the house that seemed to keep her. “I don’t want to go, Daddy. Please.”
The walls of the little kitchen began to close in on me. All of the sudden, the hot June air, combined with the heat from the stove was too much. I turned from the grits to open the back door, hoping for a breeze to slow the spinning in my head.
“I know, Sweetie, but it’s done and it’s the best thing for us,” Daddy said, but his words offered little comfort.
“Maybe you could buy it back,” I begged. Why would Daddy sell our house without asking me if I wanted to leave?
“No. We’re going.” Daddy dismissed my pleas without hesitation.
I stood in the doorway stunned for a few minutes, and then turned back to the grits. Unfortunately, the lumps had formed despite my early attempts at stirring, and I could feel the bottom of the pot sticking. I turned the flame off, but the damage was done.
“Well, these are ruined!” I snapped and tossed the pot into the sink.
Daddy retrieved the pot, gave them a quick stir, and said. “The grits are fine. Now, go on and get your brothers and sister and let’s eat.”
I did what Daddy told me to do. As always, Billy and Albert were far too slow coming to the table, but eventually, we gathered around the table for cold fried catfish and lumpy, slightly burnt grits. After washing the dishes, I spent the rest of that evening wiping tears and consoling broken hearts. Frisco City was our home, and none of us was ready to leave.
The Woods at Barlow Bend Page 4
