The Woods at Barlow Bend

by Jodie Cain Smith

  To be honest, I wasn’t sure what I was supposed to do with his invitation. What was the proper response? My training in social graces told me I should keep a proper distance from him. If he wanted to spend time with me, he should follow the rules. He should come to my house, introduce himself to my father, and ask permission to spend time with me, but that would mean he would meet Daddy and see inside the house and world I preferred to keep hidden. Momma would have made him work harder before she accepted an invitation. She would spend weeks teasing him as she walked by him without a word, only a coy look to keep him interested. All I knew was how badly I wanted to accept his invitation and to accept him into my life. Rather, I wanted to become part of his. I decided not to play Momma and Daddy’s silly game of chicken, and left my Thorsby education and all those well-meaning social graces on that corner. Gordon was kind, playful, and handsome, and I was his from the moment he said my name.

  Gordon and I made small talk as we walked down Oak Street to Snowden and eventually, Route 21, the road I began my first life on, the road that would turn into Bowden Street once you hit the Frisco City town limit, the road that I shared with a little white house with cedar trees for columns and Momma. Two years before, my heart had broken in two on that road, standing barefoot on the cold gravel staring at Momma’s blood on the back seat of her car. Before that moment, I loved Route 21. Maybe now, Route 21 could lead to something good again.

  From that first conversation on the corner of Main and Oak, Gordon and I were together. During that spring and into the summer, I counted the minutes between hours spent with him. After school on Mondays, Wednesdays, and Fridays, I rushed down to the entrance of the gymnasium to see him before he went to basketball practice, and I went to the dress shop. At 5 p.m. on the dot, I would quickly pin my hat and pull on my gloves before meeting him on the corner. We would walk a block down Oak Street, and then, out of sight of the curious shopkeepers and patrons, he would pull me to him and kiss me. The world stopped when Gordon kissed me. And then he would pull back, and I would open my eyes to see his handsome face smiling at me.

  Every Sunday afternoon, I hurried through the obligatory after-church meal with Daddy, Meg, Billy, and Albert. By the spring of 1936, I could fry a chicken in my sleep and could even keep the flour in the paper sack and on the tabletop, rather than dusting the floor, making clean up much faster. As soon as Meg and I cleared the table and washed the dishes each Sunday, I ran out front to find Gordon waiting behind the wheel of his daddy’s old car. We would drive up to Lovetts Creek, halfway between Uriah and Frisco City. Gordon would fish, and I would lie on a blanket and read, my head resting on his thigh until something inevitably nibbled his line.

  On several of our Sunday afternoon outings, Gordon sat, leaned against a tree with my head propped on his leg and his fishing pole in one strong hand. He waited until I was completely engrossed in my book and then reached his free hand down, tickling my waist. I nearly jumped out of my skin with shock. Gordon started laughing and then leaned down to kiss my neck. I put up a good fight, purely for show of course, proclaiming that my manners did not allow for such! Gordon then pinned me down and tickled me until I begged for mercy. When he was done torturing me, he sat up to find his fishing pole floating down the creek. He lost quite a few good fishing poles that way.

  By the look on Daddy’s face every Sunday afternoon when I left the house and later in the evenings when I walked back in, I knew Daddy didn’t want me with Gordon. He made comments meant to shame me into staying home, but being with Gordon was more important to me than Daddy’s approval. Where’s that boy taking you? That boy’s here again. You’re too young to be serious about that boy. You’re needed here, Hattie, not running around with that boy.

  Daddy always referred to Gordon as that boy, never by his name. He certainly never acknowledged his own hypocrisy. Just because Sunday was the only day of the week Daddy chose to be at home with us didn’t mean I had to stay home with him. Gordon and Sundays were my escape.

  I felt calm around Gordon, as if my life finally made sense again. I wasn’t pretending to be someone else or hiding the realities of my life like I did at Thorsby. I told Gordon all about Momma and the trial and Daddy’s betrayals. Gordon knew about Mittie and the laundry and the hotel in Grove Hill. He even knew about the illegitimate baby buried in Frisco City. Gordon accepted everything about my family and me. For the first time in over two and a half years, the sadness that pressed on my chest began to lift. Next to Gordon, I could breathe again. Every night, I prayed that he would stay in my life forever. I had found my Harry, and now couldn’t imagine my life without him.

  Chapter 27

  Winter 1937

  Uriah, Alabama

  Late in the summer of 1936, my life with Daddy went from bad to intolerable. Daddy had continued his pursuit of trash, both the metal and female kind. He never told us what route he was taking through the county or if he had made any sales. At first, in the house on Route 21, he rarely came home for supper, and when he did, he brought home not only a truckload full of junk, but also something dirty next to him in the cab. I never bothered to learn any of their names or even pay much attention to their faces because they were all pretty much the same: short hair, dirty fingernails, reeking of stale liquor. I don’t remember much about any of them except my view of Daddy’s rotating girlfriends through the kitchen window. I would see Daddy’s truck pull around the back of the house with a woman in the cab. She was never seated politely next to the passenger side door, ankles crossed, hands folded in her pretty lap. No, Daddy’s latest treat would always slide all the way over to him, like a dog next to her master.

  By the end of July, Daddy even stopped coming home for the occasional dinner with his latest piece of trash. He would sleep at home most nights, stumbling up the front steps long after the rest of us had gone to bed, and check in with us most mornings, but that was it. I told Meg, Billy, and Albert that he was at work. In truth, I didn’t know where he was, but I assumed he had a girlfriend tucked away somewhere, and, for whatever reason, didn’t want to bring her home.

  Right around my birthday that year, Daddy decided to change our lives again. I walked up the stairs to our tiny rented house one afternoon in August to the sound of a woman scolding a child.

  “Jerry, you’re gonna git the switch if you do that agin!” the woman screeched at the child.

  When I opened the door, I nearly dropped the bag of fresh strawberries, sugar, and Crisco that I had purchased on my way home from the dress shop, with the intention of treating myself with strawberry cake for my birthday. I saw a little boy, a toddler, covered in flour with spit running down his face. A woman around Daddy’s age was trying to wrangle the child. Daddy was in the kitchen; laughing at the top of his lungs, broom in hand, thick, white flour tracked from door to door. The bag of flour that I had purchased and intended to use for my cake had been wasted. On what, exactly?

  “Hattie, Sweetie, come on over here,” Daddy said, breathing hard from laughing, “This is Farrish Brisby. And the little ghost is her son, Jerry.”

  “Good to meet you,” I said and offered my gloved hand to Farrish while trying to avoid contact with little Jerry.

  Farrish wiped her hands on her skirt, and then, “Your Daddy’s told me so much about you.”

  “Really? I wish I could say the same. Daddy, what happened in here?” I asked, maybe a little more abruptly than I should have, but I was irritated that the floor I had left sparkling before school that morning was now gray with flour, and I would have to work an hour at the dress shop in order to buy another bag of flour.

  “Well, Farrish and I were makin’ supper, and little Jerry here got into the flour.” Daddy wiped beads of sweat off his brow and handed me the broom, “Go on and sweep this up, would you?”

  “That’s not what we were supposed to have for dinner tonight,” I said, looking at the stove, table, and floor. Daddy had given me orders, and grocery money, for chicken and rice, but I saw the b
eginnings of country-fried steak, okra and mashed potatoes. “Where did all this come from?”

  “I went by Blacksher’s. Tonight’s a special night,” said Daddy.

  “Come on, I guess bath time is early tonight,” Farrish picked Jerry up and carried him toward our bathroom, avoiding my stare as she left the room.

  I stood there with the broom, stunned. I wasn’t completely sure what I had just walked in on. Beef was far too expensive the week prior, according to Daddy. Billy and Albert would get Daddy’s belt if either of them tracked flour all over the house and, even worse, wasted good money by dumping a whole bag on the floor. I also saw a suitcase in the corner.

  “Are you going somewhere?” I asked Daddy.

  “No, Sweetie, ‘course not.”

  “Then what’s the suitcase for?” I asked and pointed toward the black case in the corner of the room.

  “Oh, that, well I need to talk to you about that.”

  “Uh, huh…”

  “Farrish and I have been seeing each other for some time now, and she’s in a real bind. So, she’s staying with us for a while.”

  “Oh…and Jerry?” I asked.

  “Well, Jerry and Marion, her daughter, and Malcolm, her oldest. Marion will be in Albert’s class. That’s what all this is,” Daddy motioned toward the table and stove, “a nice dinner to welcome Farrish and her kids to our home, to the family.”

  I was supposed to welcome a bunch of complete strangers into my family? Four more people were to live in this tiny house! Who the hell was this woman?

  “And where are all of these people going to sleep?” I asked.

  “Hattie, don’t take that tone with me. This is my house, and I can have anyone live here that I want. Marion will sleep with you and Meg, and all the boys will stay in the front room. We’ll make it work.” Then Daddy stood up, brushed off his pants, and headed toward the back porch. “Finish cleaning this up and get supper done. I’m gettin’ pretty hungry.”

  I wanted to run from the house and straight to Gordon, but knew he had promised his mother that he would do the weekly shopping for her that afternoon. For the next hour, I cleaned up the flour, sweeping and scrubbing in a futile attempt to get rid of my anger and the pasty mess, and then finished supper. Daddy didn’t say another word until he sat down at the table. Before he took his first bite, he introduced the four of us to the Brisby clan. Meg, Billy, Albert, and I crammed in on one side of the table opposite Malcolm, Marion, and Jerry. Daddy sat at the head of the table as usual. Farrish sat on the other end where Momma used to sit. Nine people gathered around the table that night, the handcrafted piece, built to seat six and salvaged from our home in Frisco City long ago. We sat, stared at our new housemates, and waited for Daddy to give us the signal to eat.

  Over the next several months, I got to know Farrish and her children well. In his search for every piece of junk in Monroe County, Daddy left very early in the morning and didn’t come home until right before supper went on the table, so he only really saw Farrish, Malcolm, Marion, and Jerry on Sundays. Anyone, even the Brisbys, could be on his or her best behavior one day a week.

  Living with the Brisbys Monday through Saturday was a nightmare. No matter how many times Farrish threatened to get a switch or pop his behind, Jerry continued to grab anything he could reach off the kitchen table, stove, wardrobes, and dressers. As soon as the object hit the ground, he would try to shove it in his mouth. Once, he nearly burnt himself with scalding water when he reached for the pot I using on the stove. Farrish pretended not to notice as I moved the pot out of his reach just in time.

  Malcolm and Marion Brisby ate more than any two children I have ever known. At first, I was surprised by Marion’s size. She was more than just pudgy for an eight-year-old. Her chubby cheeks morphed seamlessly into her neck, shoulders, and considerable abdomen. After the third time I caught her rummaging through the pantry only an hour after Sunday lunch, I knew she wasn’t going to grow out of her baby fat. Malcolm threw fits every morning claiming that Billy’s biscuit was bigger than his, which, according to Malcolm, meant that we hated him and wanted him to starve to death. I thought Malcolm was far too old for fits, but Farrish babied him like he was a toddler. He finally stopped screaming when Farrish would give him her breakfast, too. I doubt that Farrish had eaten a full meal since Malcolm and Marion cut their first teeth. Both of them were behind in school, which was Farrish’s reason for refusing to send Malcolm to work with Billy. She insisted that Malcolm needed extra time after school to catch up, which never happened as far as I knew. Sometimes, I was convinced that the little Brisby monsters were going to eat us out of house and home without chipping in a dime along the way.

  Farrish was, by far, the worst, though. Along with babying her children to a point that would have made Momma’s head spin; she used our house as her beauty salon. As soon as she moved in, so did the smell of burning hair and weird, pungent chemicals. She would push the kitchen table all the way to the wall, place a chair in the middle of the kitchen for her clients and occupy what little space the house had to offer from morning until late afternoon, even on Saturdays. I would come home after work to a kitchen floor covered in hair and a table covered in scissors, lotions, salves, shampoos, and curling devices.

  One morning, I caught Daddy before he made his daily escape. I complained about cleaning hair out of the sink and off the floor every afternoon in order to cook dinner for nine people. He told me that I was old enough to figure out how to live with the Brisbys and that I was not to interfere with Farrish’s business. By March of 1937, I realized that Farrish Brisby and her awful children were in that house to stay.

  One night, long after everyone had fallen asleep, I lay awake in my crowded bed, stewing. For God’s sake, I was about to graduate high school and was sharing a bed with my sister and some strange little fat girl! I couldn’t lie there and accept the choices that Daddy had made for me any longer. So, I did something I had never done before. In the dark, I quietly got dressed, pinned my hair back with the comb I had bought with a few pennies I was able to save the month before, and climbed out my bedroom window.

  I was going to run the mile to Gordon’s house, but when I came around to the front of the house, Gordon was sitting on the front steps. My heart nearly stopped when I saw him, sitting alone on my steps, his shoulders uncharacteristically slumped.

  “Gordon,” I whispered, “what are you doing here?”

  “It’s Momma.”

  Gordon didn’t have to say the words. I knew what had happened by the look in his eyes. Bessie Riley had been ill for some time. She had stopped eating a few days before and hadn’t been out of bed in weeks. The Rileys didn’t have much use for doctors, and without the help of a physician, I knew she wouldn’t last long. I was surprised, however, how quickly she died once she decided to. I sat down on the stairs next to Gordon, rested my head on his shoulder, and held his hand in mine for a long time while he quietly cried.

  “How did you know I was out here?” Gordon asked after about an hour in silence.

  “Um…I didn’t. I was going to see you. I needed to talk to you.”

  What I needed was for him to calm me down. I needed him to tell me everything would be all right and that I wouldn’t live like poor Alabama white trash forever, but once I saw him on the steps, knowing that he now knew the pain of losing a mother, my frustrations seemed less important.

  “Are you all right? What happened?” Gordon asked.

  I couldn’t believe it. Gordon’s mother had just died, but he was worried about me.

  “Don’t worry about me,” I told him. I wove my fingers through his and ran my thumb along the side of his hand. “I love you, Gordon.”

  “I love you, too, Hattie.”

  I squeezed his hand and kissed him lightly on the cheek. Whispering in his ear, I said, “I’m so sorry about your momma. I know what that’s like.”

  “Yes,” he said, looking deep into my eyes, “I guess you do.”

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bsp; “The pain is almost unbearable.” I kissed him on the lips this time. “Please let me help you. What can I do?”

  “Just being here with me, Hattie,” Gordon said, “that’s all I need.”

  The next words came out of my mouth before I realized their true weight. “Gordon, I could be your family now…if you’ll have me,” I told him, and leaned my head against his shoulder again, afraid to look at him in case his answer was “no”. It seemed like hours dragged by as I waited the few moments before he spoke again. My heart pounded in my chest, praying that Gordon wanted me as badly as I wanted him.

  “Would you, Hattie?” he asked after a minute or two. “Will you be my family now?” Gordon stared at my face for a moment before he kissed me softly on the lips, stood up, and took my hand.

  In silence, we walked over to the playground behind the grammar school building at Blacksher. There, in the darkness, on a pair of old wooden swings, we planned my escape from Daddy’s house.

  Chapter 28

  May 1937

  Uriah, Alabama

  My last day living under Daddy’s roof was also the day of my graduation ceremony from Blacksher High School in May of 1937. I was sixteen years old, had earned my diploma after several breaks in my education, and, unbeknownst to Daddy, I was married.

  A week after Gordon’s mother died in March of 1937, he and I drove to the Justice of the Peace in Monroeville, Alabama. My friend, Sandy, and Gordon’s friend and teammate, Milton Anderson, came with us as witnesses. I wore my pale pink suit, cream lace gloves, and a cream wide-brim hat that matched the pearl buttons and collar of the suit. The hat, which actually belonged to Sandy, was my something borrowed, and Momma’s brooch with tiny blue stones became my something blue and something old. I had carried that brooch from temporary home to temporary home since Momma died. That afternoon, as I changed from schoolgirl to bride in the ladies’ room of the Monroeville courthouse, I ran my fingers across the brooch, feeling the coolness of the tiny stones. I made a wish that Gordon and I would find a permanent home for the brooch and me very soon. When I emerged from the ladies’ room, Gordon was waiting in the hallway for me in his Sunday best, looking even more handsome than before. He gave me a white handkerchief embroidered with my new monogram, a small capital H, a large capital R in the middle, and a small capital A to the right, my something new.