“Hattie, Dear, open up,” Ms. Leach said. She must have run up the stairs, because she sounded winded.
“Come in, Ms. Leach.”
“Hattie, thank Jehovah you came back early. I wanted to give you this while the other girls weren’t around. I didn’t think you’d want them in your private family affairs, eh.” Ms. Leach handed me a letter. I turned it over to reveal the Kilby State Penitentiary postmark, dated December 18, 1934. I recognized Daddy’s handwriting immediately. He had addressed the letter to Miss Hattie Andrews. It must have arrived right after I left for Luverne. I was dying to see Meg, Billy, Albert, Aunt Mittie, and even quiet Uncle Melvin, so I had left as soon as I was released for the semester break. When none of us heard from Daddy over the holidays, I thought he had forgotten Christmas.
“I hid it under my mattress so no one would see it,” Ms. Leach continued, still breathing hard from the three flights of stairs.
I had almost convinced myself that Daddy had forgotten about us entirely. I hadn’t heard a word from him since we left Grove Hill. Aunt Mittie kept track of any developments regarding his trial, and sent him regular updates on all of us, but we never received word back from him. His attorney, Mr. Jones, provided routine updates, but we never heard directly from Daddy. So, when I saw the letter, I was honestly shocked that he had written me. I felt my face flush and couldn’t imagine what the letter contained.
Staring at the envelope in my hand, I felt incredibly exposed. Although Ms. Jenkins and Ms. Leach knew about my situation, no one else at Thorsby Institute did, and I intended to keep it that way. They knew nothing of gunshots and handcuffs. As far as my friends here knew, Momma died in a tragic accident, end of story, no details, no embellishments, and no lies.
“Thank you, Ms. Leach. I appreciate your discretion.”
Ms. Leach stood in my doorway and looked at the letter, waiting for me to invite her in so that we could read it together, as if we were going to have story time. I, unlike a few of the young women enrolled in my Poise and Grace class, didn’t need lessons to politely ask for privacy.
“Was there something else, Ms. Leach?” I asked while gently placing the letter in my pocket.
“Well, no, I just…”
“Ms. Leach, thank you again for delivering the letter. And thank you for taking such care with it. Now, if you will excuse me, I am just plum exhausted from my trip. I really must lie down.” With that, I quietly closed the door.
I sat on the foot of my bed and opened the letter, careful not to tear the envelope or smudge the writing. The letter itself appeared to be written on some kind of paper napkin. Couldn’t he find real stationary? As a man awaiting trial, shouldn’t he be given the necessary supplies needed to write a proper letter to his family? I had convinced myself that Daddy would be all right inside the windowless walls and metal bars of Kilby. For several nights after his arraignment, I prayed that he would be assigned one of the private cells with a private bathroom. I had read about the privileged wing in the paper when the facility was first built. I was sure that he would be placed on that wing. After all, he wasn’t a convicted criminal. No one had pronounced him guilty of the heinous crime he was accused of committing. He was an innocent man awaiting trial at Kilby because there was nowhere to keep him in Clarke County. Daddy was only there because the judge hadn’t given any thought to his guilt or innocence; rather Judge Bedsole threw him away like a piece of trash left over from his lunch.
I unfolded the napkin to see only a few lines scribbled in Daddy’s fluid handwriting. The ink had bled into the napkin in places.
Dear Sweetie,
I am so sorry I had to leave you. I know this has been a difficult time for you, and I am so sorry to have made it worse. I am in a private room at Kilby, and spend most of my days missing all of you. I wish we could celebrate Christmas and ring in the New Year together. Please do not worry. I am fine and will be home very soon. I am sure all of this will be worked out. Hattie, Dear, I would never hurt your mother. She meant the world to me. I am heartbroken without her.
Mittie sends me regular updates. I am so proud of my children, but mostly you, Sweetie. I hope you are enjoying your time at school and are learning all your subjects. The Lowmans are good people. They are good to take care of all of you while I am away. Please do not hold this against them.
I love you, Sweetie.
Daddy
I read the letter over and over again, obsessing over every word. I would never hurt your mother. Daddy didn’t do what the pathetic gossips of Frisco City couldn’t stop yammering on about. He didn’t hurt Momma. He never would. His love for her and me was there in black and white. What did he mean by please do not hold this against them? Were the Lowmans responsible for Daddy being arrested? Did they think Daddy killed Momma? Is that why it took Aunt Mittie so long to come check on us, to be the mother we needed? Did Aunt Mittie think he’s guilty, too?
I couldn’t sit there any longer. Any dream I had on the train ride back to school, of taking an afternoon nap, was dashed. I felt confused. I needed to ask Aunt Mittie what she thought of my father. I needed to tell Daddy that I believed him. I needed Momma. Frustrated by my inability to do anything about the situation, I went for a walk through the cold streets of Thorsby trying to distract myself with the Christmas decorations still hanging on the doorways of the Scandinavian style homes. Finding no comfort, I stopped in the Lutheran Chapel in the center of town. I sat on the back pew and prayed to God. I prayed that Daddy would be freed. I prayed that his trial would be soon and quick. I prayed that the family I had left would remain intact through this whole ordeal. I prayed for Momma and implored for God, Jesus, anyone, to let me feel her presence. After nearly an hour of praying alone in the chapel, all I felt in return was the draft from the crack under the heavy chapel door, and the sun beginning to set behind me.
Chapter 15
September 1935
Thorsby Institute, Thorsby, Alabama
After spending summer break standing over the hot iron in Aunt Mittie’s steamy parlor, I returned to Thorsby Institute ready to begin my new classes and thankful that the salve Uncle Melvin gave me for my birthday healed the cracks in my hands before I returned to school. The lye soap that was so effective in removing stains of all sorts from the laundry had wreaked havoc on my skin. I didn’t want my classmates at Thorsby to see what I really did over my summer vacation. I would happily allow them to assume I spent a leisurely summer riding horses, picking blackberries, reading on the sunny porch, and perfecting my peach cobbler recipe. Truth be known, those activities were reserved for Sunday alone. Most of my summer days were spent hunched over the iron in Aunt Mittie’s parlor. Ironing, however, was a small price to pay for another term at Thorsby.
I thoroughly enjoyed most of my new classes, if not for their entertainment value then for the benefit they could serve later in my life. My Advanced Stenography and Dictation class was fast-paced and competitive. The girls and I enjoyed weekly competitions to see who was most thorough or fastest in taking dictation. I excelled in Culinary Arts, which was far beyond the fried pork chops of our café in Grove Hill. Miss Stoddard, our Culinary Arts and Home Economics Instructor, started the semester off with a bang, or rather a flame, by teaching us how to caramelize sugar on the top of a Crème Brule. By the second week of our home economics class, I had already completed a lovely set of organza curtains that hung above the little window in my room.
The only class I didn’t enjoy was my poetry class. I understood the purpose of the class. Studying the art form aided in our transformation from country farm girls to socially graceful and educated young women, but the poetic drivel bored me to tears. As far as I could tell, poetry was nothing but a bunch of syrupy rhymes that didn’t tell much of a story at all. The class featured a collection of whiny writers who could probably stand a bit of hard labor with Aunt Mittie’s iron. But there was promise on the horizon. Ms. Klingenhoefer, our poetry instructor, promised to introduce us to Edgar Allan Poe.
I read several of his sinister short stories during my sleepless nights in Grove Hill, so I was curious to see what he did with rhyme. My third term at Thorsby promised to be filled with new, exciting experiences.
Shortly before Parent’s Weekend in September, I received word that Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin would attend the event. I had only been back at school for a few weeks, so I didn’t think that Uncle Melvin would be willing to make the trip so soon. I feared that I would spend the weekend alone while the other girls on my floor enjoyed time with their families. Aunt Mittie’s news of their trip proved that I did have a family, even if mine wasn’t the traditional mother and father anymore.
Ms. Jenkins, our fearless leader, had planned an exciting weekend for all of us. The weekend would kick off with a welcome assembly and chorale performance in the Congregational Church. I hadn’t inherited Momma’s gift for song, so I didn’t enroll in the music classes. I would participate in the welcome portion of the festivities as a spectator only. After that, a lavish lunch would be served in the dormitory dining hall. The Culinary Arts students didn’t have to prepare the meal, but we did have to report to the dining hall at 8:00 a.m. to dress the tables in white linens, fresh cut flowers, and full table settings. Rumor had it that Ms. Jenkins was watching and judging all of us to see whose table manners still needed polishing, including the parents’. That night, a light supper was planned and a dance to follow. At the time, square dancing was the only dance I knew Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin to take part in, so I wasn’t sure how that part of Parents’ Weekend would play out. The weekend was to conclude with breakfast and chapel services Sunday morning.
On the first morning of Parents’ Weekend, after setting the tables in the dining hall, I ran up to my room to freshen up before Mittie and Melvin were scheduled to arrive. I had just finished re-pinning the sides of my hair and securing my small hat at a very smart angle when I heard the bell on our floor ring. Immediately, the quiet hall sprang to life. All of us hurried out of our rooms and to the stairwell to see whose family was the first to arrive.
“Miss Andrews, your Auntie and Uncle are here, eh!” Ms. Leach called. I found it hysterical when Ms. Leach tried to be proper. She used our surnames rather than first names. She tried her best to use a demure tone. She forced herself to move at a slower pace, but in the end, she always yelled up the stairs. I think she could have used a few more lessons on grace from Ms. Jenkins.
In the foyer, I hugged Aunt Mittie and tried to hug Uncle Melvin, but he offered me his hand instead.
“Hattie, Dear, you look well,” said Aunt Mittie with a smile. “Thorsby seems to agree with you.”
“Thank you, Ma’am,” I said trying to remember all that Ms. Jenkins had taught me so far. I feared that she was lurking behind one of the antiques in the parlor, ready to chastise the first of us girls who crossed one of her sacred boundaries. “Perhaps, you and Uncle Melvin would care to take a walk with me in the courtyard?”
“That would be lovely, Hattie. Melvin will you join us?” Aunt Mittie asked Melvin.
“Uh, um, sure. Guess so,” agreed Melvin, as if he had other choices. I found Melvin’s devotion and obedience to Mittie endearing. I bet Momma found him boring.
I was pleasantly surprised at Aunt Mittie’s ability to immediately adapt to Ms. Jenkins’s version of polite society. Uncle Melvin, on the other hand, needed a little warm up, but by the time we saw Ms. Jenkins at the assembly, he had remembered the training of his youth. As soon as we were out of sight of the parlor though, my excitement for the weekend took over. I squeezed Mittie’s hand, delighted that she had come to visit.
I missed Aunt Mittie so much, even though her home represented backbreaking work that I detested. Unfortunately, over the summer, I had let my suspicion of her grow into anger. Daddy’s letter had made me suspicious of all the Lowmans, even Aunt Mittie, but by the end of the summer, I had decided that even if the Lowmans were responsible for Daddy’s arrest, Aunt Mittie could not be involved. She was tough on us and her expectations were high, but her love for us was obvious. There was no way that she could love me that much and be responsible for one of the worst days of my life. Unfortunately, this epiphany took weeks to come. I wasted day after day in silence, refusing to speak to her and trying my best to avoid her, even if that meant volunteering to iron inside alone while she and Meg washed, wrung, and hung the laundry outside together. I never told Aunt Mittie why I was so angry, and she never asked. She just let me be angry. I felt awful for the way I treated her and needed to make it up to her this weekend.
We had about an hour before the assembly, so we found a bench tucked under a massive oak tree in the far corner of the courtyard. The branches of the oak provided some much needed shade as the temperature climbed into the nineties. Mittie and I sat on the bench while Uncle Melvin leaned against the tree, fanning himself with his hat. Just as I was about to tell Aunt Mittie about my new class schedule and catch her up on the goings on of the other girls on my floor, she interrupted my thoughts.
“Hattie, Honey, we aren’t just here for Parents’ Weekend,” Mittie began.
“Oh?” I asked.
“No. Your daddy’s trial starts this comin’ Monday.”
“Oh,” I said.
The words hung heavy over the little bench. I hadn’t heard from Daddy since the one letter in January and had finally been able to put him out of my mind over the last few weeks. I had foolishly started to let myself believe that my life in Thorsby was my real life, but news of the trial brought me abruptly back to reality. No amount of crème brûlée, sheer curtains, or dark poetry could change the fact that Daddy was still sitting in Kilby awaiting trial.
“I spoke with Ms. Jenkins, and she has agreed to a leave of absence for you. Would you like to attend the trial?”
“Of course!” I answered without hesitation.
My hasty response surprised and irritated me a little. I hadn’t heard from Daddy since January, although I had written eight months’ worth of letters to him inquiring about his health and trial; telling him about school and my life in Thorsby; and mailing a letter to Daddy took extra effort and careful planning. I never put my letters to him in the regular post at my dormitory. Any envelope marked with the Kilby State Prison address was carefully placed in my purse and carried to the post office in downtown Thorsby. I would stick the stamp on the corner of the envelope myself and place the letter directly in the outgoing mail. Daddy never wrote me back, not even once.
My face flushed. Why, after all those months of silence from him, should I still care? But the fact of the matter was that I did care. He was still Daddy to me, and I had a responsibility to be there for him.
“Are ya sure?” asked Uncle Melvin, “You don’t got to.”
“Yes, Sir, I’m sure,” and turning to Aunt Mittie, “Will you be there?”
“Yes, Dear, from start to finish.”
“Will we stay at our hotel?”
“Yes, Dear, but it doesn’t belong to your daddy no more. He had to sell it for the lawyer bills. This trial’s been real expensive,” said Aunt Mittie.
“Oh…um, when will we leave for Grove Hill?” I asked.
“Bright n’ early, I s’pose. If we wanna make to Grove Hill before dark,” said Uncle Melvin.
“But I am doing a scripture reading at Chapel Service tomorrow morning! I don’t want to tell them that I can’t do it.”
Mittie squeezed my hand tightly, “Well, then we’ll leave right after the service, right Melvin? We would love to see you read.”
Thankfully, and as usual, Melvin agreed with Mittie.
Chapter 16
September 1935
Grove Hill, Alabama
Parents’ Weekend passed in a fog. My one persistent thought was that I was going to see Daddy. A weird mixture of excitement, fear, and pure dread came over me. I’m not sure what songs were sung at the welcome assembly, or if I used the right forks during lunch. Fortunately, Uncle Melvin remembered how to waltz, and I had
practically memorized my scripture reading, so I was able to get through the after dinner dance and Sunday chapel services without any embarrassing spectacle. By this time, packing my suitcase had become routine and required little thought or consideration. Every inch of my mind belonged to Daddy.
My classmates and dormitory neighbors were no more the wiser about my scandal-ridden family than they were before. Aunt Mittie and Ms. Leach provided my alibi for my absence from school to Rose and Lily, my two closest friends at Thorsby. The pug-nosed sisters from Birmingham were told that I was needed in Luverne to care for a sick relative and would be back as soon as possible.
“Hattie is her favorite niece and no one could care for her better. I’m so thankful Ms. Jenkins is permitting her to go,” said Aunt Mittie as Ms. Leach added more bless her hearts and Godspeeds than necessary. Rose and Lily were both extremely chatty, so I knew the lie would be passed around school before any rumors had time to begin. Aunt Mittie’s willingness to lie surprised me. She always seemed like such an honest, forthright woman. Protecting my reputation had become a group effort and required actions I never thought possible.
As promised and agreed to, we left right after chapel services on Sunday morning. Halfway to Grove Hill, in the cab of Melvin’s truck, I fell asleep on Mittie’s shoulder. When I opened my eyes again, we were parked in front of what used to be our hotel and café. I swear the place had shrunk. It had been renamed The Grove Hotel. That made no sense to me. Naming the hotel after the town required no originality, and there was no grove anywhere in the hotel. We didn’t even have a courtyard or patio out back, just an alleyway to carry the kitchen garbage through. I personally felt that The Andrews had a much more dignified ring to it. Of course, maybe Andrews wasn’t such a dignified name in these parts any more.
When we walked into the hotel lobby, I half expected to see Daddy behind the registration desk, and was completely disappointed when a short, round little woman handed Uncle Melvin a room key.
The Woods at Barlow Bend Page 9
