The Woods at Barlow Bend

by Jodie Cain Smith

  “Did she?”

  “I don’t know. That was the last time I talked to her. She was dead a few weeks later.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Mathis. That will be all.”

  Divorce? I had heard the word and had heard rumors of people far removed from my world getting divorced, but no one in my family had ever been divorced. Divorce happened to other people, not my momma and daddy!

  “Cross, Mr. Jones?” asked Judge Bedsole.

  “Yes, Your Honor,” said Mr. Jones as he stood and quickly referenced his notes. “Reverend Mathis, you have testified that you and Mrs. Andrews were childhood friends?”

  “Yes,” Mathis responded.

  “Wouldn’t childhood sweethearts be a more accurate description?”

  “Well, we were sweethearts at one time, but that was ages ago.”

  “Ages ago? Are ya sure ya’ll didn’t start back up again?”

  “No, Sir. Absolutely not!” Reverend Mathis protested.

  “Weren’t ya’ll doin’ a lot more than prayin’ in that little church?” asked Mr. Jones.

  “No, Sir, and I take great offense at the suggestion that I would…”

  “Didn’t you care for her?”

  “Well, of course, but I wouldn’t…”

  “And weren’t you supportive of Addie leaving Hubbard?”

  “I didn’t see any other way for her…”

  “So you were pushing for the divorce?”

  “I would never push someone towards…”

  “And weren’t you prepared to leave your own wife for Mrs. Andrews?” Mr. Jones fired away at Reverend Mathis without hesitation until he finally broke the good preacher.

  “Hubbard humiliated her! You ruined her!” shouted Reverend Mathis, who stood in the witness stand and pointed at Daddy. Reverend Mathis leaned toward Daddy’s table and glared at him with more hatred than I have ever seen on one man’s face. The crowd erupted again.

  “Reverend Mathis!” Judge Bedsole banged his gavel to silence the room, “Remain seated, Sir!”

  Reverend Mathis quickly sat, visibly embarrassed by his outburst and flustered by the line of questioning.

  “So,” said Mr. Jones after the crowd fell silent, “You feel quite passionate about this woman, your beautiful childhood sweetheart, the one that got away but returned to you to cry on your shoulder about her supposed unhappy marriage. An unhappy marriage to a man you obviously don’t like. A man that I am sure you would say anything about to ruin. You hate the fact that Mrs. Andrews chose to marry Mr. Andrews instead of you, don’t you? But you want all of us to believe ya’ll were just prayin’? Just doin’ the Lord’s work in that chapel, huh?”

  “Objection!” shouted Mr. Poole.

  “Withdrawn. Good to see you, Reverend. My best to Ruth. That’s it, Your Honor,” said Mr. Jones and took his seat again looking no worse for the wear for the heated exchange. The crowd smirked at Jones’s mention of Reverend Mathis’s wife by her first name. Mr. Jones’s moxie in the courtroom would dominate the dinner conversations all over Clarke County that night.

  “Your Honor, I have a follow up for the Reverend,” said Mr. Poole.

  “Go on,” said Judge Bedsole.

  “Reverend Mathis, was Mrs. Andrews eager to ask Mr. Andrews for a divorce?” asked Mr. Poole.

  “No, Sir.”

  “And why not?”

  “She was afraid of what his reaction would be,” answered Reverend Mathis. His face fell again with the words. This time his expression had a hint of guilt. He looked like a sad little boy, like Billy did in the weeks following Momma’s death.

  “Thank you. Nothing further.”

  “Thank you, Reverend Mathis. You’re dismissed. We’ll take a short recess. Be ready in fifteen.” With that, Judge Bedsole rapped his gavel again and disappeared through a door behind his bench.

  Chapter 18

  September 23, 1935

  Grove Hill, Alabama

  Uncle Melvin offered to hold our seats during the recess so that Aunt Mittie and I could get a bit of fresh air. The temperature in the courtroom had risen quickly once the mid-morning sun poured in the windows and mixed with the dozens of spectators. The thoughts that Momma might have been as unhappy as Reverend Mathis described, and that Daddy could betray her in such a way, combined with the hot and humid air of the courtroom and swirled around my stomach. I jumped at Uncle Melvin’s offer to escape for a few minutes.

  Unfortunately, in my haste to leave the room, I nearly ran smack dab into Mrs. Williams in the hallway. I was completely shocked to see her, and even more so, that I didn’t hear her first before laying eyes on her. She was standing in the middle of the foyer, practically holding court for the Ladies Auxiliary. Of course, in her courtroom, she acted as both judge and queen. Why on Earth is that old gossip here? I thought to myself. Never having to hear Mrs. Williams’s obnoxious pecking again was supposed to be the one good thing about leaving Frisco City.

  “I should be testifying next. I’m just as nervous as a wet cat,” Mrs. Williams told her adoring fans. “I just pray to the good Lord for strength. I have heard that Mr. Jones is a bulldog with his cross-examination. Well, I’ll just remind him that I know his momma quite well, and I’m sure she wouldn’t mind a ‘tall if I were to bend him over my knee and remind him of his manners!” Mrs. Williams’s shrieking laughter bounced off every hard surface in the foyer.

  If it had been possible for Mrs. Williams to speak at a remotely polite and soft volume, I would have questioned what I heard, but there was no point. Every word was crystal clear. Mrs. Williams was a witness for the prosecution. She wasn’t there to support Daddy, but rather to assist in my losing both of my parents over the course of two years.

  “Hattie, Honey,” I heard Mrs. Williams call after me as I rushed by her. “Hattie, you must meet the Ladies’ Auxiliary!”

  I know it is rude to ignore your elders, but thankfully, Aunt Mittie abetted my transgression and helped me move quickly, without stopping, through the river of onlookers. We swiftly walked around the group and out the front doors of the courthouse before having to speak to Mrs. Williams or her adoring fans, and before I gave in to the temptation to point out the old crow’s hypocrisy. How she could accept help from Daddy for years and then stab him in the back, was beyond my comprehension. “Hubbard, Dear, the front latch is fussin’ with me again,” and “Hattie, Honey, when your daddy gets home, would you send him over, please?” Disgusting.

  Those were just two of the seemingly endless requests that came out of that uppity hag’s mouth over the years. Mrs. Williams had conveniently forgotten the good things Daddy had done for her, and just in time for her to be a star witness. Standing in the courthouse foyer, I heard Momma telling me in one ear to tell the old cow exactly what I thought of her, and then Ms. Jenkins’s reminders of poise, grace, and dignity in my other ear. Ms. Jenkins won that day, but I promised myself that I would never forgive Mrs. Williams. Were I an old lady from Sicily, I would have spat three times on her grave.

  *****

  Back inside the courtroom, Mrs. Williams tottered to the witness stand. Her round hips shifted up and down as if independent from the rest of her body. Between her crooked back and her considerable derrière, the skirt of her pale blue suit was at least three inches shorter in the back than in the front. Still, she managed to sit as if she was the Queen of England and the wooden chair was her throne.

  “Mrs. Williams, please tell the court how you know the defendant, Mr. Andrews,” said Mr. Poole.

  “Mr. and Mrs. Andrews, bless her soul, lived across the street from me for nearly fourteen years in Frisco City.”

  “So, you knew the family well?”

  “Oh yes. You see…I try to keep an eye out for everyone in town. Make sure everyone is safe. These are troublin’ times, ya know.”

  As Mrs. Williams spoke, I couldn’t help but notice the juror’s faces strain as she got louder and louder. Throughout her testimony, she fanned herself with a fan from a r
evival two summers ago, and kept dabbing her forehead with a handkerchief. I knew it was wrong, but I asked God to make her faint from the heat right there on the stand. He refused my request, of course, but I think a few of the jurors wished her testimony to be short as well, if for no other reason than to protect their ears.

  “Did Mr. and Mrs. Andrews appear to have a good marriage?”

  “Oh, they were quite smitten with each other, at first,” said Mrs. Williams.

  “At first?” asked Mr. Poole.

  “Objection,” said Mr. Jones, “Mrs. Williams is by no means qualified to cast judgment on my client’s marriage, Your Honor.”

  “I disagree,” said Mr. Poole, “Mrs. Williams was witness to the marriage for nearly its entirety.”

  “Well, I also object to this line of questioning. My client’s marriage is not on trial,” said Mr. Jones.

  “The state of the marriage speaks directly to motive, Your Honor,” said Mr. Poole.

  “Agreed, Mr. Poole,” said Judge Bedsole, “overruled.”

  “Go on, please, Mrs. Williams, you said the two seemed ‘smitten at first.’ Did the marriage appear to change?” asked Mr. Poole, picking up the line of questioning again.

  “Over the last few years, their marriage seemed to change quite a lot, I’d say.”

  “Really? How so?”

  “Well, at first, they were perfectly in love and were quickly blessed with four beautiful youngins. But a few years ago, things started to change. I would hear them argue all the time, day and night. I mean, I tried not to listen, seems unchristian to eavesdrop on them, but sometimes you just hear what you hear.”

  “And what did you hear?”

  “Oh, you know, they’d be yellin’ about this and that.” Mrs. Williams began to wave the fan even more energetically. “I can’t repeat those words with a Christian tongue, Mr. Poole!”

  “Of course, Mrs. Williams,” answered Mr. Poole.

  “I felt so bad for the babies havin’ to hear their foul words,” continued Mrs. Williams, trying desperately to appear sympathetic to the four of us. “And Mr. Andrews would come and go at such strange hours.”

  “Strange hours, Mrs. Williams?”

  “Yes, Sir. Ever since my dear husband died, bless his soul, I just don’t sleep too well. So at night, I sit up with my bible. Do you know I have seen Mr. Andrews leave his home well after dark and not return till nearly dawn? Now, you just got to be up to no good stayin’ out all night. And with poor Addie and those babies all alone at home. Just no good.”

  “In your recollection, how often would Mr. Andrews leave his home in the evenings?”

  “At least twiced a week, sir. Only the Lord knows what he was up to.”

  “Did he leave the night of October 30, 1933?”

  “Well, now, let me think. That was a long time ago.”

  “Do you remember the night of October 30, 1933? Do recall anything from that night?”

  “Oh, of course! That’s the day that The Romance of Helen Trent premiered on CBS. Do you listen to the radio much, Mr. Poole?”

  “Um, can’t say that I do.”

  “Oh, you should get one. After my dear Thomas passed on, bless his soul, I bought a real nice one. You can hear programs from all over the country!”

  “Well, that sounds nice…”

  “Makes good company for an old widow like me. And you should listen to Helen Trent. It’s a wonderful program, very exciting.”

  “I’m sure it is,” said Mr. Poole as he tried to get Mrs. Williams back on track.

  “It is! I never miss an episode, that is, until today.”

  “Well, I apologize that you’re missing your program. Now, Mrs. Williams, do you recall anything else from October 30, 1933, from that evening?”

  “Well, I do recall there being a dance at the church that night. I still try to go, even though I’m not much for the dance floors anymore, I get terrible pains sometimes. Doc Stallsmith calls it arth-a-ri-tus. Well, my artharitus was flarin’ up real bad, so I went home early. I sat up soaking my feet in the parlor most of the night…”

  “Mrs. Williams,” said Mr. Poole sharply and then paused, rolling his shoulders back and wrapping his long fingers around either side of the podium. “do you recall anything from the Andrews residence on the evening of October 30, 1933?”

  “Oh, yes! Mr. and Mrs. Andrews came home a little while after I did. I had just sat down with my soak and my bible when I heard Addie yellin’ at Hubbard as they come up the street. They went in the house pretty quick, so I couldn’t hear as good once the door shut, but then, not even a minute later, Mr. Andrews stormed back out. He stomped down the front steps and started headin’ downtown.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Williams.”

  “I don’t know where he was off to in such a state,” said Mrs. Williams, unable to stop herself, “but I betch you he was in search of that devil whiskey.”

  “Mrs. Williams…”

  “You know how you men get when you’re all rowed up!”

  “Mrs. Williams…”

  “Even my own sweet Thomas was tempted now and then. You men can be awful weak creatures. Full o’ sin.”

  “Thank you, Mrs. Williams. That will be all.”

  “You are most welcome, Mr. Poole,” said Mrs. Williams in a nauseatingly sweet tone.

  As Mr. Jones rose from his seat for his turn, I said a quick prayer in my head. Please, Lord, please. Let Mr. Jones rip that old hag apart.

  “Mrs. Williams, how are you today?” asked Mr. Jones “I am so sorry to hear about Mr. Williams. He was a good man.”

  “Thank you, Paul. I mean Mr. Jones.”

  “And how is your health, Mrs. Williams? Are you getting on all right on your own?”

  “Oh, yes, just a little artharitus. I guess I have slowed down a little bit.”

  “But it sounds like you keep up with the world with that radio of yours?”

  “Oh, absolutely. I listen as much as I can. Singers and sermons and news stories and, of course, Helen Trent.”

  “Mrs. Williams,” said Mr. Jones as he turned away from the old woman and walked toward the door, “what volume do you set your radio to?”

  Mrs. Williams did not answer.

  “Mrs. Williams?” asked Mr. Jones still turned away from her. She still did not answer. Turning back to face her, Mr. Jones asked, “Mrs. Williams, are you going to answer the question?”

  “I’m not gonna speak to your back, young man.”

  “I apologize. Now,” as Mr. Jones walked back toward the witness stand, “please answer the question.”

  “I already did. I listen to singers and sermons and news stories and my dramas.”

  “No, Ma’am, not that question. I asked you what volume do you set your radio to?” The crowd gave a knowing and sympathetic sigh. Mrs. Williams crossed her arms and pursed her lips. Mr. Jones continued the cross examination without forcing Mrs. Williams to admit she was hard of hearing.

  “Mrs. Williams, do you still live on Bowden Street in Frisco City?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you have a pretty good view of the Andrews home from your house?”

  “Yes, from my parlor window there’s a straight shot to their porch.”

  “Nothing obstructs your view, like say, a large oak tree?”

  “Well, yes, there’s that big oak.”

  “I bet that provides some nice shade,” said Mr. Jones, leaning once again on the jury box.

  “Oh, yes, keeps their porch nice and cool in the summer.”

  “That must be nice. And to the left of their house, what’s over there?”

  “An old barn.”

  “And more trees?”

  “Well, yes, Mr. Jones, more trees.”

  “So on the night of October 30, 1933, as you soaked your feet and read your Bible and listened to your radio, you looked up from your Bible just in time to see Mr. Andrews clearly leave his home, turn left, and walk all the way downtown? You saw him walk all the way downto
wn?”

  “Well, I…”

  “Was it a full moon?”

  “I don’t recall whether it was or wasn’t.”

  “Was there light comin’ from the surrounding homes?”

  “Well, I don’t know…it was very late.”

  “Is it possible that you did not see exactly where Mr. Andrews went?”

  “I suppose.”

  “Is it possible that Mr. Andrews exited his home, turned left, and then went in that barn, not downtown?”

  “I guess he could have.”

  “Mrs. Williams, with all due respect, I think your soap opera programs have heightened your imagination. Would you agree that it is possible that Mr. Andrews was, shall we say, sleepin’ in the dawg house that night, as many of us men have had to do from time to time when we tick off the missus? Only, in my client’s case, the dawg house is that old barn next to his home?”

  Folding her arms, Mrs. Williams looked directly at Daddy as she said, “I saw what I saw, Paul!”

  “Mrs. Williams, did you and your dear Thomas, God rest his soul, ever argue?”

  “Of course, we disagreed sometimes.”

  “Did you ever send him out to the dog house?”

  “Well, I’m sure…”

  “Did you ever yell so loud that the neighbors might hear ya?”

  “Well, Mr. Jones, I’m sure we had our moments, but…”

  “As all married couples do, Mrs. Williams, as all couples do. Thank you, Mrs. Williams. I’ll tell Momma you said ‘hi’,” and Mr. Jones took his seat.

  Judge Bedsole ordered a lunch break after Mrs. Williams’s testimony, allowing her an opportunity to hear the reviews and sympathies of the Ladies Auxiliary and other adoring fans crowded in the hallway. I had hoped that I would get to see Daddy during the break, but his attorneys rushed him off to a back room before anyone could get to him. Aunt Mittie explained that they were probably trying to avoid the reporters and photographers, but Daddy’s quick exit without even a look at me, still hurt. At the café, I tried to eat the chicken salad sandwich Aunt Mittie ordered for me, but the act of chewing only increased my nausea. I was pleased with the way Mr. Jones had handled Mrs. Williams. Maybe she’d be more careful in her future assumptions and accusations, but one big question still hung over my head. Did Daddy betray Momma? Did Momma cheat on Daddy in return? I always thought their fighting was just part of their personalities, too strong-willed to be defeated. Was I wrong? Mr. Jones didn’t answer that question. He examined the question. He momentarily distracted all of us from the question. He provided plausible theories and more than enough tit-for-tat, but no one answered the question with any degree of certainty. And Daddy ran off before I could ask him directly. Did Daddy betray Momma? Did Momma have her own secrets to hide?