Mr. Jones, continued reading the letter, “That the within is a good and sufficient bond in the sum of $5000 and if the same were presented to me in my county, I would approve the same.’ And then it is signed at the bottom in his own hand as well as General Andrews and several others.” Mr. Jones handed the letter to Judge Bedsole for examination.
“Your Honor,” said Mr. Poole from the prosecution’s desk, “this ain’t Crenshaw County. And here in Clarke County, we all know that Mr. Andrews has the means to pay whatever bail we set, and now, thanks to that letter, we know that he has friends all over the state ready to help him in any way he wants. I fear that if we release Mr. Andrews today, that all his buddies over in Crenshaw will help him disappear into the night. We owe it to Addie Andrews and to her babies that this does not happen.”
“I tend to agree with you, Frank,” said Judge Bedsole and then turned to Daddy and said, “Mr. Andrews, bail is denied. You are hereby remanded to Kilby State Prison until your trial, which we’ll set after preliminary.”
The judge shuffled through some papers on his desk for a minute. “Preliminary hearing is set for December 3. And we’ll call that lunch, boys. Dismissed.”
Judge Bedsole banged his gavel once more before exiting the courtroom. The deputy walked over to Daddy and led him toward the door near the front of the courtroom. My heart sank as Daddy looked at me over his shoulder.
“Hattie, Sweetie, we’ll figure this out,” then he disappeared through the door.
I sat there feeling confused and foolish. The litany of everything I didn’t know raced through my head. How could I think $46.25 would be enough to save him when $5000 wasn’t enough? When would I see him again? How would I get from Grove Hill to Montgomery? Why didn’t I let Momma teach me how to drive? Why was I always too scared to try? When would Daddy’s trial be? What’s a preliminary hearing? And why, on God’s green Earth, does Mr. Poole think Daddy killed Momma?
“What am I going to do?”
My voice sounded so small and frail amidst the chaos of the courtroom. I couldn’t stop the tears that time. They fell from my cheeks and splashed on the purse that I was still clutching tightly to my chest.
“Well,” Mittie responded, “You’ll come home with me.” She squeezed my hand again. This time, I didn’t let go until we reached the hotel.
Chapter 10
September 1934
Grove Hill, Alabama
After leaving the courthouse, Aunt Mittie and I entered the hotel through the alley behind Main Street. Actually, Aunt Mittie led me around the hotel and through the alley to the staff entrance.
Before opening the door, she gently held my hand in hers, “The best place for you is with me. I know I’m not your Momma, but she was part of me.”
I mumbled a faint agreement, still wounded from failing at the courthouse.
“Go on upstairs and start packing…just your clothes and valuables. We have everything else you would need in Luverne.”
“Yes, Ma’am. And what about…?”
“Don’t worry with them. I’ll tell ‘em what’s happened. Go on now.”
I know I should have been panicked by the thoughts of Daddy going to jail, having to face a murder trial, and us moving again after barely being settled into the hotel, but for the first time in months, I actually felt like I could breathe. Aunt Mittie was not my mother, but she would help me.
Truth be known, Daddy was always busy with the hotel and had little time left in the day to care for us. He still disappeared at night now and then, with no explanation of where he was running off to or what he was doing. Sometimes, I heard him come back in through the staff entrance long after everyone else, including me, should have been sound asleep, and he didn’t even try to creep around. He would come barreling through the door, gulp water directly from the kitchen tap, and then saunter up the stairs. To my knowledge, he never saw my candle burning in the dining room, or me crouched near the front counter, peering into the kitchen. I might as well have been a ghost as much as he noticed me hiding in the shadows with my finger marking my place in my latest novel from the Bookmobile. Maybe, Aunt Mittie would pay more attention.
*****
Luverne, Alabama, lies three counties over from Grove Hill in Crenshaw County. A lot of our people lived there, so I was pretty familiar with it. Momma grew up in Searight at the south end of the county. Papa Lowman, Momma’s daddy, still lived there with his two youngest daughters. Momma’s mother passed away a few years before all of this happened, and was buried there in the family cemetery. If you travel north a few miles, you’ll reach Brantley, where Grandpa and Grandma Andrews live on a big, sprawling farm, with mostly cotton, corn, and soybeans, but it’s beautiful with gentle hills and lots of surrounding woods to explore. In the center is Luverne, the county seat. Every six months or so, Momma would get a hankering to drive to Luverne and sit in the little Methodist church where she and Daddy first met. I wonder if she still thinks of that little church. Maybe, from time to time, she leaves heaven for a bit and pays the wooden chapel a visit.
Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin owned a farm on the outskirts of Luverne and grew, of course, cotton, corn, and soybeans. They also had stables with four riding horses, and a big garden out back where any type of vegetable I could imagine was found. They also had strawberry patches, scuppernong vines, peach trees, and lemon trees. In the summer, if we were hungry and supper was too far off, we could sneak through the patches and trees for a snack. We just needed to make sure to check for bugs first and brush off the dust and dirt.
Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin had three children of their own: Lawmon, Mariah, and Malley who were close in age to Meg, Billy and Albert. As I packed my belongings from the wardrobe into my suitcase, I prayed that Meg would keep her spoiled mouth closed and the boys would knock their shoes off before tracking mud through Aunt Mittie’s kitchen. I was afraid that Aunt Mittie’s house was going to be too crowded and that we would wear out our welcome quickly. I don’t remember Mittie’s house being any bigger than ours in Frisco City. I assumed Meg and I would share a room with Mariah, and the boys would tuck in with Lawmon and Malley. I would have completely understood if our cousins resented us for taking up so much space, but no matter how crowded it would be, I refused to complain. Aunt Mittie was right. I was too young to be a mother to three kids. I needed help.
Up in my soon-to-be former bedroom in the hotel, I packed the contents of my wardrobe into a suitcase. In the bottom of the case, I placed all of my under-things and snugly tucked my nightgown around them just in case one of the boys started digging through my case. Next to those, I placed the old pair of work pants and shirt that Momma used to wear. Next in the case were my church shoes (I was wearing my everyday pair), three cotton frocks, my blue floral dress from Daddy, two silk church dresses, my straw hat, and two hats that used to be Momma’s, including the straw hat with the lily-of-the-valley detail on the side, then, finally, my two pairs of gloves. I laid my hairbrush, hand mirror, and toothbrush carefully on top, and wrapped the few pieces of jewelry that I owned (a brooch from Momma, the tiny cross pendant and chain given to me on my twelfth birthday, and the birthstone pendant I only wore on very special occasions) in my silk scarf, and tucked the bundle down in one side of the case. I carefully folded the dark winter coat I had barely worn since Momma insisted to Daddy two Christmases ago that, “a young lady needs a proper coat and one with some style!”
I placed it on top, then closed the case with a good shove.
I ran my fingers along the monogram near the clasp: AAL. The first big A was for Addie. The second big A was for Andrews. The L was for Lowman. I would have given all of the contents of the suitcase away, everything I owned, just to have her back.
I was finished packing and sitting on my bed reading when Meg walked in our room. Her face was flushed and swollen from crying.
“You should have told me,” was all she said before pulling her suitcase from under her bed and turning toward her wardrobe.
We didn’t say another word while she packed. Down the hall, I could hear Aunt Mittie packing the boys’ belongings. I wondered if they would ever understand why I chose not to tell them about Daddy. I wondered if Meg would ever forgive me for not telling her the truth.
Chapter 11
September 1934
During lunch on Monday, Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin announced their decision to close the hotel and café while Daddy was away. They informed all of the guests and helped them make arrangements to leave. Henrietta and I fixed one last supper for our guests, the kids, and Mittie and Melvin. Fried chicken, butter beans, white rice with gravy, and peach cobbler made for a delicious, albeit quiet, meal. I don’t think anyone knew what to say. Silence seemed more appropriate than the usual dinner pleasantries. After supper, we covered all of the furniture with sheets from the beds while Melvin and Billy boarded up the front street level windows, making sure to prominently display the closed sign. When we were finished, I hugged Henrietta goodbye and gave her the note I had written for Ruthie. In it, I apologized for the abrupt decision to close and promised to hire her back as soon as Daddy cleared up the mess.
Early Tuesday morning, just as the sun was coming up on Main Street, we loaded our suitcases into the back of Uncle Melvin’s truck. The hundred-mile haul to Luverne would take most of the day, so Uncle Melvin wanted to get an early start. Aunt Mittie and I packed a picnic lunch of leftover fried chicken and cobbler for the road. I locked the front door behind us and gave the key to Uncle Melvin for safekeeping. Melvin, Mittie, Meg, and I squeezed in the front seat. Billy and Albert climbed in the back of the truck. Two small suitcases served as their seats for the ride to Crenshaw County. By eight a.m. the sun beat down on us and promised to make it a sweltering drive. As we pulled away in Uncle Melvin’s truck, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the wind blowing in my face while we hurtled down the road in Momma’s Model T.
We reached Luverne around two o’clock, after trudging along behind all means of farm equipment, letting the boys run around in an open field sometime around noon, and giving Uncle Melvin some time to “close my ol’ eyes for a spell” somewhere in the middle of Butler County. The road to Mittie and Melvin’s place took us right through downtown Luverne. I couldn’t believe how busy downtown was in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon! There must have been thousands of people in Luverne. By that September in Grove Hill, I practically knew every face on the streets downtown if not the right name to go with each. As we drove through Luverne, I stared at the strangers, wondering how many I would meet before I got to go back to the hotel with Daddy. I wondered what the people were like; if they were nice like Aunt Mittie, or nasty gossips like old Mrs. Williams back in Frisco City. I wondered if they knew about Daddy. I wondered if they knew that Addie Andrews was my mother and that the four ratty kids in this truck were her “motherless babes.”
Melvin and Mittie’s place was even smaller than I remembered. The little wooden two-story house sat on the corner of several acres of cotton, corn, and soybean plots. It had four steps that led to a really nice front porch with two rockers and a big swing. There was plenty of room on the porch for the whole family, including the four of us if we sat on the stairs, to all be together. The inside of the house, however, was a different story. All seven of the children shared two small bedrooms on the second floor. I silently thanked the Lord that only three girls had to share the tiny room that Mariah, Mittie’s daughter, showed Meg and me when we first arrived. Mariah seemed thrilled at the prospect of having two sisters. I was sure her excitement wouldn’t last long once the cramped quarters began to take effect. I swear Meg’s and my suitcases took up half the room. I bet if I stood in the middle of that room and stretched out my arms, that my fingertips would touch opposite walls. But the room did have a window, which was good, because it felt like it was 100 degrees up there.
Billy and Albert’s room was identical to ours, only with one more body to contend with. Luckily, I don’t think they noticed or cared. As soon as they were allowed, the boys ran off behind the house to explore the farm. We didn’t see them again that day until it was time to eat supper.
Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin shared the larger room across the hall. According to Mariah, we were not allowed to go in there under any circumstances.
“Momma and Daddy’s room is strictly off limits,” warned Mariah when she noticed me peeking inside the room through the open door. Wallpaper covered the walls and surrounded the perfectly made bed.in a sea of pink and yellow flowers. “Want some lemonade? I just made some,” Mariah said as she pulled the door to Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin’s bedroom closed.
The rest of the house was a simple foursquare design with a tiny kitchen and attached dining room in the back of the house. A foyer and small parlor greeted visitors in front. A small, primitive-looking bathroom with a shower was set off the kitchen next to the pantry. I reminded myself that things could be worse: The bathroom could have been outside.
During supper that night, Mittie explained our chores and her expectations, or “House Rules” as she put it. Schoolwork must be completed precisely and energetically. She cautioned Meg, Billy, and Albert that she would give the school her blessing to use the rod if necessary, but warned the three of them that they better not need it or they would receive double in her house. Before school each morning and after school each afternoon, the boys would help Melvin with farm work; even little Albert would be expected to do his share. Meg was given a list of household chores, which she and Mariah were instructed to complete each afternoon. The list included sweeping the house and porch, dusting all the furniture and fixtures, mopping the floors every other day, cleaning the bathroom, and helping Aunt Mittie and me fix supper. I wanted to chime in that I was used to feeding a crowd and, therefore, would not need their help. Four people would never fit in that tiny kitchen.
“And, Hattie,” Aunt Mittie said, “you’ll help me with the laundry and cooking until you start Thorsby in a few weeks.”
“Until I start what?” I asked.
“Well, a young lady should have a proper education. I’ll send word tomorrow to the headmistress and request that you be admitted as soon as possible. I’ll explain your situation. I’m sure she will understand the need for discretion. If the Good Lord allows it, the school will show us a little sympathy and allow you to start the term late.”
“Ma’am, what is Thorsby?” I asked.
“Oh, Hattie dear, Thorsby Institute is one of the best high schools in the state. It’s up in Thorsby, in Chilton County. I think a secretarial curriculum will be best for you, as well as the social graces. You’ll live there, of course, but I hear they have a fine boarding house on the grounds.” Mittie misinterpreted the shocked look on my face for opposition rather than elation.
She continued without letting me get a word in, “Hattie, I’ll have no arguments. You need this.”
I would have never dreamed of arguing with such a wonderful and completely unexpected privilege!
For the first time in months, I was excited, truly excited. School would be a real adventure. I had read about boarding schools and fantasized about being sent to one. I thought my education was done and that I would spend the rest of my life in a kitchen or dining room somewhere feeding the hungry masses. Secretarial classes meant I could work in an office building, maybe in Mobile or Birmingham, far away from the dusty dirt roads of the farms and good ol’ boys of Alabama. I would rent a room in a ladies’ boarding house and eat in cafes rather than serve in one. Now, I got to go to the Thorsby Institute. The name sounded so prestigious. I won’t have to share a tiny bed in a tiny room with my cousin and my sister. But, a terrifying thought came to mind. It was the same thought that was at the heart of so many of Momma and Daddy’s arguments, and it had plagued Daddy since the rumors surrounding Momma’s death drove us out of Frisco City. I was sure this delightful fantasy was about to come to a fast end.
“Aunt Mittie, how will I pay for a school li
ke that?”
“Your Papa Lowman will pay your tuition, and we’ll help out, too, however we can, right, Melvin?”
“Oh, um, yes, Mittie,” said Uncle Melvin, looking up from his plate for the first time since saying grace.
Chapter 12
October 1934
Luverne, Alabama
Every night after Aunt Mittie told me about the Thorsby Institute, I went to sleep praying that the school would accept me, and that Papa Lowman could afford the tuition. One night, I suggested to Aunt Mittie that Grandpa Andrews might be able to help with the tuition, too.
“The Lowmans do not need any assistance from the Andrews family,” Mittie answered and quickly left the room to fetch another load for ironing.
Mittie was a laundress in Luverne which meant nearly every day, customers dropped off their dirty bedding, dresses, work shirts and britches, even their underwear, for Mittie to wash, dry, iron, and fold. The laundry was back-breaking work and seemed endless. Every day, Mittie and I would build a fire out back for the wash water, one bucket for the soapy water, one for rinsing and wringing the clothes out, and one for the starch. The starch was made from mixing flour with cool water, then slowly thinning it with boiling water from the bucket over the fire. We would take turns scrubbing the clothes on Mittie’s old washboard; wringing them out; dipping them in the starch water; and then hanging them on the line to dry. After only two weeks, the lye soap had caused my hands to dry out and crack. I needed to get away from the laundry. Thorsby became my dream escape.
Thankfully, Aunt Mittie had an electric iron rather than one made from actual iron that had to be heated over a fire. I think it was the only modern appliance in the whole house. For hours, I stood over the hot iron in the small front room of the house, ironing the linens and clothing of Luverne’s finest residents. Some days, I would find myself praying for a hurricane to blow in through the window to cool my face off and carry the stacks of laundry to kingdom come.
The Woods at Barlow Bend Page 7
