“By heavens, Tammy,” Pete said, taking the handful she held out to him and moving toward the furrowed line, “you’d put heart into a turnip.”
“I ain’t considering turnips; it’s tomatoes I’m heartening.” She filled her skirt with plants and ran ahead of him, bending to lay them spaced along the row for his setting-out. Some of them wouldn’t know the difference, others might weather the beating they had had. They were going to have a chance to live. “If they’ve got any guts, they’ll make out,” Tammy called back over her shoulder as she went ahead with another lapful. And again, bending to set down a plant, moving on and bending again, she shouted, “The sun’s coming to warm them.” And starting a new row, she stood with her feet planted far apart, straddling it, and called to him how she’d heard tell that hail did wonders for the ground, and he’d better make his stakes stout to hold a mighty crop.
After a while old Prater came, shaking his head and mumbling about how the Lord giveth and the Lord taketh away. But after a moment he shuffled over to another one of the cold frames and began sorting out the broken plants from the whole. Then Steve and Lena, knowing untold the urgency, joined them, and they worked all together, drawn close by disaster, to salvage what they could before the warm sun should wither the plants.
When Tammy straightened once to rest her back, she looked round and saw how they were strung out in a row across the field under the wide pale sky. “Seems like it’s a line, a long line, Pete, going back beyond the time of knowing, a line of all the people ever wrestled with the earth, to get a living from it. I can nigh on to make them out behind us yonder, Pete. You don’t feel so odd and lone and weak when you know you’re one of a line.”
Pete looked at her with a kind of wonder in his face, then bent again doggedly to his task, and they all worked on while the sun mounted higher in the sky. At last he said, looking the field over, “It’s more than I hoped for.” Turning to Tammy he told her she’d done enough, she’d better get back to the house because after all the Pilgrimage would begin today. He put his hands on his hips and looked at her and smiled, and that was better than any spoken thanks could be.
The Pilgrimage, Tammy thought, going past the sweet olive trees and along the brick walk to the ell steps. She’d plumb forgot that this was the day when people would stroll through the yard and the gardens and come through the house to look and hear its story and the manner of its living these hundred years and more. This was the day—she had to keep telling herself as she washed and put on fresh clean clothes—the day when all things were to be spread out for strangers, come from far parts, to read and marvel at. Even this little room, which she must remember to make neat and straight, would have people walking through it because of Miss Renie’s painting on the walls. It was one of the wonders of the Pilgrimage and once had had a piece in the paper about it.
She rinsed out her muddy dress and hung it out of sight behind Miss Renie’s painting rack. Then she went toward the sound of voices in the back hall.
“Oh, there you are at last, Tammy,” Mrs. Brent cried. “I called and called you but you didn’t come.”
Miss Renie, coming down the hall with a painting in each hand, said, “She’s been out helping with the tomatoes. Have you forgotten already that the hail wiped out——”
“I haven’t forgotten anything, Aunt Renie—how could I when I’ve had nobody to help around the house all morning? There’s no use trying to gather up spilt milk and it may be all for the best in the long run, sorry as I am.” She turned to Tammy again. “It’s not a girl’s place to be out in the field working alongside Negroes. I should think you’d have more pride than that.”
“I was proud to be aworking with them, helping Pete.” Tammy’s eyes flashed.
Miss Renie, going on to the porch, let out a wicked chuckle, the way she always did when anybody stood up to Mrs. Brent. Like night before last when Pete insisted on her promising not to put ribbons across the doorways to keep the pilgrims outside—like it was a museum, he said. He had made her agree to serve ice water to them too, and Mrs. Brent had given in meek as anything.
Now she just said, “Oh, dear me,” and brushed a lock of her reddish-brown hair with the back of her hand and sighed heavily. “Oh, Tammy, if you’d just help me and not talk! This rug—take hold and help turn it, so the hole will be under the sofa.”
Miss Renie came back with two more paintings which she carried on into the front parlor, murmuring something about having to get the light right so when Mr. Fernan saw them——
Tammy had just got the rug to Mrs. Brent’s liking when there was a wrenching sound in the parlor and a crash. When they rushed one behind the other to see what had happened, Miss Renie turned around with impatience. “Nothing’s wrong, Ena. I’m just trying to get this shutter open to let in some light from that side and——”
“Aunt Renie, please. Will you leave that shutter closed?”
“Dear me,” Miss Renie said. “After all the to-do about having them open, now you——”
“It’s just this, Aunt Renie,” Mrs. Brent said and the way she was holding on to her temper made Tammy feel for her. “Those curtains went to ribbons when Steve shook them, and I can’t have people seeing——Oh, don’t you know if things look too shabby, we’ll be taken off the Pilgrimage list and then where’ll the tax money come from?”
Miss Renie went on looking at her paintings, shifting them this way and that, saying nothing. After a moment Mrs. Brent turned to Tammy and said in her usual tone, “You did the books so nicely in the library, Tammy. But the chairs and the table are still to be dusted.”
“I’ll do them right now, Mrs. Brent,” Tammy said and ran for the dustcloths. But even hurrying so, she heard Mrs. Brent say, “That girl—sometimes she is so provoking, and then again——”
In the library Professor Brent was reading as usual. It was a wonder, Tammy thought, how everything was going on just the same, as if there’d been no hail come out of the sky at daybreak. He said now, “I suppose all the fuss and feathers are proceeding as per schedule, Tammy?”
“There’s plenty of proceeding going on. Looks like Miss Renie will be changing pictures right up to the last minute, account of Mr. Fernan’s coming.”
“Mr. Fernan, yes. I hope for all our sakes that he comes up to expectations.” He opened his book, but Tammy, trying to get the dust from the carved legs of the table beside him, noticed that he did not turn any pages. After a minute he laid the book on the arm of the chair. His fingers rapped on it with a worried little tapping sound. “Tammy,” he said, “how did he take it?”
She knew what he meant, and she saw now how it was that Mrs. Brent had been so vinegary. They were both worried sick. “He’s taking it all right.”
Professor Brent drew a long breath. “I hope so. You don’t know what we’ve been through, Tammy. I don’t mean just this tomato disaster, but ever since he got home from the war, so taut and tense, with this terrible indecision.”
Tammy sat back on her heels and looked up at him in wonder. “I seen it in Pete, but I didn’t know you all did.”
Professor Brent got up and began walking back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. “Of course we knew he was in the plane crash...though we didn’t hear till after he was recovering from pneumonia and perfectly safe. Then we didn’t know what to do. He’d said so...so violently that he wanted to get away, by himself, go west. He hadn’t let us know about the accident, so I said we must wait. But his mother...I hope I never have to go through another such time.”
“I didn’t know,” Tammy murmured.
“That’s why...this hail...I’m so concerned to know——”
“He’s taking it all right, I reckon,” Tammy said again, wishing there was more she could tell him. “I think it might be it will help him make up his mind.”
He turned on her quickly, whipping off his glasses to study her. “You think so?”
Tammy nodded. “He just said, well, that settled it.”
&
nbsp; “If it does, I’d be glad of the hail, much as he needs the money. It doesn’t matter really what he decides on. Though his mother...has ideas, and I think he ought to take advantage of the government help and go back for another degree.”
“Grandpa says he’s got power. Says it’s dammed up, but when the strain gets more than he can bear, it’ll find the way. All ready to hand, he said it would be.”
“What did he mean by that?”
“I don’t know exactly. Grandpa has a way of going on from this to that, and might be he was talking more about the world and how it is confused and afraid and how when it is fit to blow up, then it’ll see the way that’s been under its nose all the time.”
“Well,” Professor Brent said, “patience—we’ll have to wait and see.” He came back to his chair as Mrs. Brent bustled in with two bowls of red japonicas.
“These were down underneath the leaves and escaped the hail.” She tried them on the table, then on the mantel and again on the table. “I cannot get my mind on what I am doing,” she complained. “Osia’s being so difficult about wearing a bandanna. I don’t know what I’m going to do with her. If I hadn’t been right there she would have burned a hole in Barbara’s dress. She just stood there with the iron resting on the front of the blouse.”
“Why is it necessary for Osia to press Barbara’s dress?” Professor Brent inquired.
“Barbara will get here at the last minute, Joel, you know that, and she’ll have no time. I have to see to everything. Are you nearly through, Tammy?”
“In a minute,” Tammy said.
Miss Renie came to the door with a picture in her hand. “Roots is so talented. I would like to put this one in a prominent place.”
“Please, Aunt Renie—it is out of key with the period.”
“It should be in a place of honor, but I will consent to having it up there with Shakespeare, if you feel that way about it. Tammy, will you run up the ladder and set it there?”
“It is sure a curious one,” Tammy said, when she had placed the picture to Miss Renie’s liking. “It’s a pity you can’t tell what it is.”
“Perfectly clear,” Miss Renie said. “Symbolic, and really interesting. He calls it ‘Eel Eating Violets.’ Remarkable composition.”
“Why does the eel eat violets?” Professor Brent asked.
“That’s what makes it interesting.” Miss Renie stopped looking at the painting and turned her narrowed gaze on Tammy, who was still studying the picture with wonder. “What is Tammy going to wear?”
“Tammy?” Mrs. Brent set down the bowl of roses with a small bang. “Why, she doesn’t need to wear anything—I mean, she doesn’t have to appear. She will be helping Osia keep the water pitchers filled. That’s going to be quite important.” She gave Tammy a brief smile.
Miss Renie snorted. “Of course she has to appear. I don’t know why this hasn’t been thought of sooner. She ought to serve the ice water.”
“Peter is going to see to that.”
“Pete must be at the front door, Ena. After all, this is to be his house when I go on. It is his place to invite the guests in. I don’t know what you are thinking of, Ena.”
“Well, Tammy has no costume,” Mrs. Brent said with finality. “So it’s quite impossible. I won’t have my arrangements upset by any last minute makeshifts. It would ruin the artistic effect, Aunt Renie. You should know that.”
“Art is truth,” Miss Renie said haughtily. “I have a costume for Tammy. One that would fit her very well. Come, Tammy, I’ll get it out for you. It probably needs pressing.”
“Aunt Renie! What are you planning? Oh, haven’t I got enough to worry me without——”
“I’m not planning anything, except to have Tammy properly dressed. I have my grandmother’s gray dress she wore all the way here when they came by ox team from Virginia.”
“Aunt Renie, you wouldn’t! That unsightly old thing! That calico fright—and besides I always thought your grandmother came from Virginia in the family barouche, drawn by two blooded horses. Joel, you know—surely you must know how your own grandmother came.”
Professor Brent looked up from his book. “My dear, the steps by which historical fact is transmuted into myth are many and varied. It is often difficult to lift the veil of antiquity and separate truth from legend or mark the exact moment when the one passed into the other. There are many classical examples.”
“Meanwhile,” Miss Renie said, “you come with me, Tammy, and I will find the dress.”
Tammy stood hesitating, looking from Miss Renie to Mrs. Brent, undecided which one to mind. “Looks like I’m kind of ground between two wheels,” she said and turned her head away so they would not see how terribly she wanted to be dressed like the rest.
Professor Brent settled the matter. “The prospect of seeing you made into hamburger distresses me, Tammy. By all means go with Aunt Renie and get the dress in order for the Pilgrimage. It will be interesting to confront romance and myth with simple fact.”
Miss Renie beckoned and Tammy followed before Mrs. Brent regained her power of speech.
In Miss Renie’s room, they pulled the little hair trunk that was like Grandma’s from under the bed. Miss Renie lifted the lid and took out the dress. It was gray calico with sprigs of pale purple flowers, black-centered, small and scattered far apart. “It’s a lovely dress,” Tammy whispered and pure delight spread through her.
“Just your size, I’ll warrant.” Miss Renie held it up to Tammy. It had a plain front with a seam down the middle and it came up to a tiny standing collar. The sleeves were wide at the hand. Miss Renie laid it on the bed with the wide full skirt spread out. The back of the waist had tiny buttons down it.
“There’s a white standing collar, sort of a dickey—” Miss Renie rummaged in the trunk till she found it—“a bit yellowed with age, but all the more becoming. It’s linen.” She laid it down beside the dress. “You must do your hair like the portrait.”
“Which one?”
“There in the corner. Ena won’t have it in the hall or the parlor with the others. Not glamorous enough. But it’s Grandmother Cratcher just the same, and she walked barefoot beside the wagon from Virginia, and her father was murdered on the way by a bandit. She came to the house to sell eggs—that’s how my grandfather saw her first, if you want to know the truth.”
Tammy studied the portrait. It showed an elderly woman with a wide, flat face. A plain woman with her head held high. “What’s that in her hair?”
“Oh, yes, I must find that for you. It’s a comb.” Miss Renie went to search through the trunk again. “You must do your hair like that—parted in the middle and smoothed back, showing your ears. Let the figure-eight knot start low and come up high, so that when you get the comb in—here it is—the comb will show from the front. See how it’s done?”
“Oh, yes, Miss Renie, I know I can do it.” Tammy was breathless with excitement.
Miss Renie held up the comb for her to see. “Carved bone. My grandfather made it for her. He could make anything with his hands. Pete takes after him in that.” She laid the comb on the bed and it was delicate as gray lace against the creamy spread. “Come in when you’re dressed and I’ll put it in your hair. Now I suppose I’ll have to array myself like the lilies or something. At least my costume is artistic.”
“I reckon anything you have is bound to be that.”
“Well, I made it myself, batiked my own design—you’ll see. Run along now.”
“Thank you, Miss Renie,” Tammy said, her eyes shining. “I’ll go iron the dress now whilst the irons are hot.”
“Wait a minute. Take these hairpins for your hair. And here’s the sunbonnet that matches the dress. Press it too. Ena will have a tantrum.” She chuckled to herself. Tammy could hear her as she went down the hall.
“Osia, Osia,” Tammy cried, whirling into the kitchen with the dress held up before her, “I’m agoing to be costumed like the rest of them!”
Osia looked up from the iro
ning board, standing the iron on its tail. “Reckon you got as good right as any of ‘em to be all got up. But it’s a kind of plain dress you got there, ain’t it?”
Tammy stopped short in her prancing, seeing now the dress Osia had just finished pressing. It lay like a delicate pink cloud across the ironing board. Barbara’s dress. It was all ruffles, top to hem, and there wasn’t much top to it. Where the sleeves ought to be, there was no more than puffed-up ruffle looping round. It shone and glistened in the light. It must be pure silk for sure. It was the most beautiful dress in the world.
“I’ll go spread this-here on the bed in the room Miss Barbara gwine dress herself in, then I’ll come iron yourn, Miss Tammy.”
Tammy looked down at the dress in her arms. How drab and dull it was, and plain, as even Osia could see! “I’ll do it, thank you, Osia,” she said soberly.
But as she ironed away on the wide skirt that spread over the ironing board and looped down to the floor, she got back her satisfaction in it. When Osia came, she told her with only a faint, small sigh, “I reckon this-here suits me better’n something fancy. I reckon I ain’t a fancy person, and it wouldn’t be no use putting on.”
“Naw’m,” Osia agreed, “you ain’t fancy, Miss Tammy. You ain’t neither silk nor satin, but you’s pure one hundred percent whatever you is. Now you gimme that iron. I done ironed everybody’s else’s clothes and I don’t grudge doing yourn. Besides, seems to me like you ain’t had no food in your stomach this day. Even Mr. Pete took a sandwich and some coffee upstairs when he went up to his room a while ago. Umm-mm, pore Mr. Pete! I declare, look like trouble pursue him and seek him out.”
Tammy out of Time Page 20
