Willow Springs

by Jan Watson

  Alice picked at her plate. Everyone—even her friend Margaret, who should be miserable out of loyalty—seemed to be having a good time. Church would be an ordeal for Alice in the morning. If gossip were a newspaper, she could see the headline: “Local Doctor from Prominent Family Marries Hillbilly of Questionable Heritage.” Tittle-tattle for those who had nothing better to do than sit in judgment.

  She waved her hand at a pesky fly and looked across the table at Benton. He was laughing with his mouth full and gesturing with a squirrel leg, making a proper fool of himself. Stiffening her spine, Alice reached down inside her stubborn heart and pulled her pride up around her shoulders like a coat of mail. Some things just had to be endured.

  Sunday morning, Copper and Simon walked, her hand in the crook of his arm, to the big redbrick church on the corner. She marveled at its stained glass windows and would have stood on the sidewalk staring, openmouthed, if Simon hadn’t nudged her on toward the door.

  Right in front of them, two ladies in old-fashioned full skirts tried to enter the vestibule at the same time. Their hoops collided and recoiled wildly, flinging one of the women out onto the lawn. She lay on her back like an overturned turtle, her feet churning the air, her white pantalets exposed to the knees among a froth of petticoats before Simon rushed to help her up.

  Copper approached the door with caution. Her church dress was rose-colored washed silk. The overskirt was caught up with ribbon rosettes and pulled back to form a bustle. A moss green, silk shantung mantle covered her shoulders. Her hat was of the same material on a buckram base and boasted satin ribbon and veiling, and she wore moss green spats over her patent leather pumps. Simon was as nattily dressed in a black morning jacket over a gray silk vest and a dark blue tie. His trousers were gray wool, and his high-topped shoes had the newly fashionable boot-cut toe.

  The sanctuary was nearly full as they made their way to the pew bearing the Upchurch name. Simon held the low door open, and Copper slid into the seat beside Alice. Giving Copper’s gloved hand a squeeze, Simon removed the hymnal from the rack in front of them.

  A young boy hurried to the front of the church. Standing on tiptoe, he whispered a message to the minister.

  The reverend tented his hands and addressed his flock. “It seems our pianist has suddenly taken ill. Would someone serve in her place?”

  Every woman who had ever taken a piano lesson suddenly seemed to become dumb as a stump. Even Alice squirmed in her seat beside Copper.

  “Surely, ladies, one of you could grace us with your talent on this fine Lord’s Day,” the reverend pleaded. “My voice is not harmonious without an instrument. Anyone?”

  “Hester?” Copper whispered behind her glove.

  “She goes to the Methodist church on High Street,” Simon whispered back.

  Without thinking, Copper said, “Then, perhaps, with your permission, Simon, I should . . .”

  As if the congregation truly were one body, every head turned in unison as Dr. Corbett rose from his seat to hand his wife into the aisle. Gasps of surprise escaped pursed lips as he escorted her toward the pulpit. Hats bobbed as mouths whispered behind pasteboard church fans. Every neck crooked so every eye could take in Alice Upchurch and watch the color drain from her face. Then everybody settled in to watch the show.

  Copper conferred with the reverend before positioning herself on the piano bench. Her foot hovered over the pedals for a moment as her fingers gently stroked the keys.

  After playing one verse of “Upon the Mount,” she honored the preacher’s request and lifted her voice to the Lord. The words to the sweet hymn stilled the murmuring voices:

  “My soul is on the mount today, and life’s glad bells are ringing,

  While unseen angels round me stay, their songs of sweetness singing.

  Sweet and low, sweet and low, are the joy-bells ringing.

  While the golden harps resound, and angel hosts are singing.”

  With a flutter in her stomach, Copper played on. She had sung nearly every Sunday at the church in the valley of her mountain home, and her stepmother had tutored her in piano from a very young age, but this was different. She didn’t know these people. Sneaking a sideways look, she could see the reverend’s foot discreetly tapping out the tune, and in the front row smiles creased every face, save one. Alice did not appear so easily swayed.

  Following the service, the young couple took a circuitous route home. Simon often stopped to introduce Copper and exchange pleasantries with people they met during their promenade. Every church they passed disgorged beautifully dressed women who raised parasols against the sun and stylish men who tipped their hats in greeting.

  Copper had never imagined such wealth. No one was barefoot or shabbily dressed. Even the children wore silk and satin. It made her sad somehow, sad and homesick. Her own dress seemed like a betrayal of the folks on Troublesome Creek. In her church, Brother Isaac would be promising hellfire to every backslider there. So different from the proper, controlled sermon she’d just heard. There’d be no frilly hats, just shapeless sunbonnets, no hoops or bustles but simple cotton or feed-sack shifts as often as not covered by clean, starched aprons to hide a tear or a stain.

  She wished to be back there, where the afternoon would be spent reading the Bible and doing chores, but Simon’s firm clasp on her elbow claimed her for himself. Copper prayed a silent prayer that she would learn to like the big city she lived in and that she would learn to love the people she was now a part of.

  Searcy stood right outside the dining room door, near enough to hear if she was needed but not close enough to be seen, just as Miz Lilly had taught her many years before.

  She hoped Miz Alice was pleased with the meal she’d set on the table just minutes before she and Mr. Upchurch swept in for Sunday dinner with Mr. Doctor and Miz Corbett. She’d made roasted chicken, mashed potatoes, snap peas with pearl onions, cucumbers in sugared vinegar, wilted lettuce with green onions, rhubarb, yeast rolls with fresh-churned butter, and Miz Alice’s favorite dessert, banana pudding piled high with meringue.

  Miz Corbett’s little supper last night had set Searcy back some. She’d insisted on preparing the Saturday evening meal and serving it to her guests without any help from Searcy. She even had a notion that Searcy and Reuben would join them at the table and that she, Miz Corbett, would serve them! My, oh my, that woman child had heaps to learn.

  Shifting her weight from one swollen foot to the other, Searcy kept her ears pricked toward the dining room. Her shoes were cutting into her ankles; she’d put her house slippers back on when Miz Alice went home.

  Tink . . . tink . . . tink . . .

  Oh no. Miz Alice was pinging on her water glass with her fork. Searcy had put the bell by Miz Corbett instead of by Miz Alice. She should have known better.

  Searcy approached the table. “Yes, ma’am, Miz Alice?”

  Miz Alice never even looked at her. She just said, “The peas are cold.”

  Searcy was mortified. Had she forgotten to heat the bowl before she filled it?

  “Goodness, Searcy.” Miz Corbett’s chair scraped across the floor. “You don’t need to be waiting on us after cooking all morning. I’ll heat up the peas.”

  “Laura Grace, keep your place,” Miz Alice said, her voice frosting Searcy’s heart. She had threatened more than once to find a replacement for Searcy if she couldn’t keep up her job, and Searcy knew it wasn’t an idle threat. Searcy never figured Mr. Doctor would let that happen, but you never could take nothing for granted. Miz Alice had a way about her.

  Mr. Upchurch looked up from his plate and asked, “Is there any squirrel left over from last night?”

  Searcy beat a retreat to the icebox, where she found two squirrel legs wrapped in waxed paper. After heating them and the peas, she carried the serving pieces back to the dining room. Cold sweat stained the front of her uniform as she served Mr. Upchurch before taking the peas to Miz Alice.

  “No, thank you,” Miz Alice said. “I couldn’t ea
t another bite.”

  After their company left, Simon and Laura Grace sat on the porch in companionable silence, reading the Sunday paper. Every once in a while someone would stroll by and stop to chat for a short time, conversation passing from the sidewalk to the porch.

  “Shouldn’t we ask them to join us?” Laura Grace asked at one point.

  “No need, my dear,” Simon replied. “It wouldn’t be good form to visit unannounced.”

  “We sure had some strange forms up in the mountains then,” she said. “Anyone might come unannounced and stay for supper or a week.”

  Simon polished his spectacles with his perfectly ironed white handkerchief. “This is much more civilized, you must admit.”

  “Civilized but surely not very Christian.”

  Just then Paw-paw stuck his grizzly head around the corner of the porch. Alice had gone to pieces earlier when she saw him sleeping by the front door in a patch of sunlight. She’d summoned Reuben to tie him up out back, but the dog had obviously chewed through the rope and now dragged the tail of it behind him up the steps.

  Laura Grace patted a place for him on the swing.

  “Laura Grace, I thought we agreed—”

  “You agreed,” she said, an edge to her voice. “I don’t understand why Alice was so upset.”

  “She’s right,” Simon answered, although Laura Grace made him feel a little pompous. “Dogs don’t belong on the front porch.”

  “And servants don’t belong at the table?” Laura Grace took Paw-paw’s rope. “Come on, buddy. We mustn’t upset the master.”

  Simon folded his newspaper in precise squares as his wife disappeared around the corner of the house. He knew Alice was not pleased with her behavior. Must every lesson Laura Grace needed to learn be met with such stubborn resistance? He had been much too lenient. After all, he’d let her bring the dog, not to mention the cow, with her from Troublesome Creek. Was it too much to ask to keep Paw-paw off the porch? Who was the master at 212 Willow Street? Laura Grace needed to find out.

  Copper stomped across the backyard. Paw-paw’s yelps from his exile in the stable followed every step and made her feel like crying. Passing the garden on her way from leaving him, she spied a tomato plant heavy with green fruit. One fit her hand like a ball in a glove, and she could not resist the temptation. A tiny tug and it was hers, then another and another, all lobbed with a vengeance against the side of the barn.

  “They be better if they ripe,” Searcy said, startling Copper out of her anger. “Then they go splut and slide down the wall in a satisfying way when you throws them.”

  Copper bet her cheeks were as red as a ripe tomato. “I’m sorry, Searcy. That was childish of me. And I ruined one of Reuben’s tomato plants.”

  “We got plenty,” Searcy replied. “Reuben, he plants enough for Cox’s army. Come on in the house now and let Searcy fix you some sweet tea.”

  Copper drained the tea and set her glass on the kitchen table. “Searcy? May I ask you something?”

  “Yes’m. Ask away.”

  “When do you go to church? Seems you’re always here, and you always cook Sunday dinner for us and our company, so when do you get to worship?”

  Such a perplexed look clouded the housekeeper’s face that Copper might as well have asked, “When do you feed the alligators?”

  “Searcy don’t expect that’d be proper, Miz Corbett.”

  “But don’t your friends go?”

  “Some do. Now Mallie, Miz Lauderback’s girl? She’s one to run off to service anytime she’s a mind to. But Miz Alice, she liked me close to home.” Searcy turned to face the window and wiped the already-spotless sink with her sun-bleached dishrag. “Who would cook if Searcy be singing and shouting on Sunday mornings?”

  Paw-paw’s yelps faded away, and the kitchen became so quiet that Copper could hear the tick-tock of the grandfather clock from the foyer. She went to stand at the sink beside Searcy. “Do you know the Lord?” Copper said gently.

  “Know of Him . . . this dream come sometime of my mama singing ’bout Him. ‘Swing low,’ Mama sang so pretty whilst she stirred the wash. . . . ‘Swing low, sweet chariot.’”

  “What else do you know of Jesus?”

  “Know He be in that big black book in Mr. Doctor’s study. Searcy looks in there sometimes when she be dusting.” She shook her head. “Can’t figure them little squiggly lines nohow.”

  “Would you like to? Would you like to learn more about Him?”

  “How that happen?”

  With a gentle touch on Searcy’s arm, Copper replied, “I could teach you if you’d like.”

  One worn hand patted Copper’s own. “All right, child, but don’t let’s tell Miz Alice.”

  Monday morning saw Simon off to the office as usual. Searcy refused to let Copper help with the wash, so Copper spent the morning dusting the dining room furniture. She carried the dishes and crystal from the china cupboard to the table and then wiped the shelves. When that was done, she put every piece back exactly as she had found it.

  Next she dusted the chocolate cabinet, a gift, Simon had told her, from his father to his mother. The glass doors on its front had intricately carved wooden inserts that revealed the serving pieces behind the glass. Ever so carefully opening the door, she removed the ornately painted pitcher, tipped it, poured air into a dainty gold-rimmed cup, and sipped pretend cocoa. She wondered if Miz Lilly had ever served chocolate from the pitcher. It seemed like something to look at rather than to use. Like everything else in Lexington.

  While she worked, Copper thought of the letter to Mam she’d posted this morning. All her questions and Alice’s comments were contained in that missive sealed with mucilage, stamped, and sent on its way to Troublesome Creek. What a relief to know she’d soon understand why Alice didn’t like her. Then she could mend some fences.

  Finished with the dusting, she inspected the hand-crocheted tablecloth for stains; finding none, she stripped it from the table and carried it to the backyard for a shake. The morning was beautiful, so warm and inviting. She’d put the tablecloth back, then spend some time in the garden.

  Barefoot, Copper was tamping dirt around the last of Mam’s morning-glory seed, her work overseen by the mangy cat, Old Tom, when Alice appeared with a lady Copper remembered from the dinner party, Mrs. Robert Inglepond—or creek or something like that—cochair with Alice on the hospital auxiliary.

  “Good morning,” Copper said. “What a pleasant surprise.”

  Alice’s black eyebrows arched. “Laura Grace, you remember Mrs. Inglebrook.”

  After dusting her hand on her apron, Copper held it out. “Of course.”

  Mrs. Inglebrook touched just the tip of her white-gloved fingers to Copper’s. “So lovely to see you again, Mrs. Corbett.”

  “Come sit on the porch, and I’ll fix us some sweet tea,” Copper replied. “I made a jug this morning.”

  “Not today,” Alice said, cold as a frozen-toed rooster. “We have a committee meeting. Did you forget?”

  Copper’s mind raced. Oh no! Alice had said something at Sunday dinner about taking her to a meeting, but between the cold peas and the banishing of her dog, she’d forgotten. How could she be so stupid? Feeling the heat rise from her neck to her face, her fingers sought the little creek rock in her pocket. “I’m sorry, Alice. I guess it slipped my mind.”

  With perfect timing, Paw-paw lumbered up, snuffled around Mrs. Inglebrook’s shoes, then stuck his nose under Old Tom’s tail.

  Old Tom took offense and dashed under Alice’s skirt. The cat sailed out from under the froth of material, propelled on the end of one polished shoe. Landing on his feet, the fur on his body stuck straight out, like a dandelion gone to seed. “Meeerowh!” he screamed, then shot up a little plum tree. The skinny branch he chose wavered under his weight, and he bobbed up and down like a dunking apple directly over Alice’s head.

  Copper could fairly see the chits stacking up against her in Alice’s eyes. “I could get dressed . . .
,” she offered.

  Alice turned on her heel and started off across the yard, her back a stiff reproach. “Another time. We must hurry, Charlotte, or we’ll be late.”

  Copper leaned on her hoe and watched them until they were out of sight. Mollified, Old Tom wound himself around her bare ankles. “Paw-paw!” She shook her finger in the old dog’s face, then sank to the ground, pulled off her faded sunbonnet, and laughed until her belly ached and she couldn’t catch her breath.

  Finally spent, she got up and headed to the house for a glass of tea, a remembered caution from Mam ringing in her ears: “Laugh today and cry tomorrow,” she’d say when Copper was too merry.

  Stopping at the door, she wiped her feet on the rug Searcy kept there. “Better than not laughing at all, Mam,” she said as if her mother could hear her—and, oh, how she wished she could.

  Copper and the cat spent the rest of the afternoon in the garden. She would be glad when the morning-glory seeds sprouted. Maybe she’d be less homesick by the time the vines climbed the trellis she’d planted them under.

  It was almost time to wash up and change for supper, so she laid her hoe aside and cut some red zinnias and a few sprigs of forsythia leaves, carried them to the house, and arranged them in an old, crackled, white pottery vase she found in the pantry. They’d look pretty on Simon’s desk.

  The library was cool and dark after the bright sun of the garden. Tomorrow I will dust his bookcases. A force she couldn’t resist drew her to the books. So much to learn. Giving a happy sigh, she pulled on the knob of one bookcase door; it was stuck. She gave a yank, but it didn’t yield so she tried another.

  Hmmm, this is odd. They’re all stuck. Then it came to her. Simon had locked the doors against her. Her face flushed as tears stung her eyes. She was just a little girl playing hob again. Always in trouble. Mam might as well be here with her wooden spoon.