“Sounds like Ralph,” said Jottie.
“Yeah, well, it’s not right, and he wouldn’t dare try it on if there was a union. I got kind of riled up about it and told them they should strike—”
“Oh God, Emmett! They’ll lose their jobs, every one of them.”
She sounded panicked, and I understood why. Losing your job was just about the worst thing that could happen. I thought of all those poor people with hungry eyes and dirty children, how they held up signs that said Will Work for Food.
But Emmett didn’t sound scared. “No, they won’t. Not if they do it right. And if they get a union out of it, it’d be worth it. Once they’ve got themselves a union, their jobs are safe.”
“Not once they’ve got a union! If! If they get a union! Which will be when hell freezes over, if Ralph has anything to do with it. And until then, he can replace each of them five times over without even thinking about it. Everyone in town is out of work except for the folks at the mill.”
“But look at General Motors!” He was excited now. “If they did a sit-down, they might have a chance; that’s what I was telling them. They’re skilled workers, a lot of them! Shank’s not going to be able to—”
“Are you trying to start a war? Emmett, what were you thinking? I hope they didn’t listen to you.”
“I think they did, a little.” He sounded uncomfortable. “It’s because of Daddy. They still think he walked on water down there, and they take my word on anything because I’m a Romeyn. That’s why I need to tell Sol.”
“You’re going to tell Sol that you encouraged his men to strike?”
“Well. Yeah. Feels like going behind his back, otherwise.”
“Emmett, honey, you don’t even work there. It’s not your problem and it’s not your strike if they’re fools enough to try it.”
“I know. I know that. But Charlie and the others—well, I felt like I should tell Sol what I did. Sol’s always been real good to me.” I could hear the floorboards creak as Emmett stood. “I guess I’d better get on with it.”
“Give Sol my best,” Jottie said.
Emmett made that sound again, but this time Jottie didn’t laugh.
All of a sudden the back door slammed. “Don’t anyone care about lunch around here?” Bird yelled from the kitchen, so I quick slid out of my hiding spot before she caught sight of me and told.
I went into the kitchen with my elbows out. “ ’Bout time you came in,” I said, real huffy. “Jottie told me to make you a sandwich.”
Bird didn’t scare easy. “I don’t want a sandwich you make. You cut it wrong.”
Cicadas seethed in the motionless landscape of Dolly’s Ford. A trickle of sweat dodged down Layla’s back, and she resisted the urge to swat at it through her dress. “Wait,” she said, taking a gulp of nearly liquid air. “He was in prison for three years?”
“Yup. By the time he got back to the ford, he weighed about eighty pounds. They didn’t feed them much in Confederate prisons. Rats, mainly.” Felix bent to pick up a stick and tossed it carelessly into the massed green beside the path.
She smiled sideways. “They did not.”
“They surely did.” Felix stopped walking to face her. “Rats were a treat in Danville, a real delicacy. Better rats than the other prisoners. You can make a nice soup from rats.” He smacked his lips.
“You’re making that up.”
“I’m not making it up! They made soup from rats when they could or mixed up wormy cornmeal and river water when they couldn’t, and that was dinner.” His eyes searched her face for signs of belief. “Dolly said it was like a nuthouse there in Danville—the prisoners were so hungry they couldn’t think straight; they made big plans to escape, forgetting that they couldn’t walk more than a few feet. The lucky thing was, the guards didn’t have much ammunition left. They just let them lay where they fell, and most of them lived.”
The frenzy of the cicadas broke, and in the silence Layla turned to look back at the small, muddy landing that was Dolly’s Ford, imagining an eighty-pound man lying on its banks. The way Felix talked, you’d think he’d had the story from Dolly himself. “Did you know him?”
“Joe Dolly? Sure. He was still around when I was a kid. Still weighed about eighty pounds, too. But he carried a big paddle, and if you got fractious on the ferry, he’d knock you off.” Felix’s eyes crinkled with laughter. “Right into the water. My mother was like to die.” He began to walk again.
“I bet you were an awful little boy,” murmured Layla, stealing another sideways glance to see his smile.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, his eyes catching hers. “I was an angel-child. Every mother in town used to pray her children would turn out like me. Ask Jottie.”
“I will.”
Their feet kept pace as they walked.
“Why do you think they want a history book?” Layla asked suddenly.
“Who?”
“The town council, Mr. Davies, whoever it was that decided on it.”
“I guess they want to make Macedonia look respectable. Enduring and steady and all.”
“You know what I think?” Layla said. “I think they want history to show that what they are now was inevitable.”
Felix swung around and looked at her intently. “Smart girl.”
Layla blushed. “They don’t want to think it was luck or someone else’s bad luck or just chance.”
“Luck is too damn democratic, isn’t it? Lots of riffraff get lucky.”
“They want to be foreordained, especially Mr. Davies,” Layla said. She looked up at Felix. “But that’s crazy, isn’t it? If history is, well—destiny, then we’re all completely trapped forever. And that’s ridiculous. That’s not the way it is, is it?”
“Whew,” he said, breaking into a smile. “You’re pretty young to be so smart.”
“Pooh. And, anyway, you don’t know how old I am.”
“You’re twenty-four,” he said.
“How’d you find that out?” she asked, surprised.
His eyes were amused. “I got my ways.”
“No, really.”
He shook his head. “Trade secret.”
She smiled. “Fine. How old are you?”
“A lot older than you.”
She burst out laughing. “Very cagey. Well, I like old men,” she said. “I like them old and wise.”
“That’s good news.” He nodded soberly. “That takes a load off my mind.” For a moment they stared at each other, and then he brushed the back of her hand with his fingers. “You hot?”
His fingers were warm and dry, she noticed with embarrassment, while hers were damp with sweat. “Yes,” she said a little more emphatically than necessary. “I’m broiling.”
“I know someplace cold.”
She looked at him, dubious.
“God Almighty, the girl doesn’t believe a word I say!” he cried. “Come on, you. Let’s get in the car. I’ll take you there.”
Sol opened the door to his study. “I’ll walk you out,” he said to Emmett.
“Honey, maybe Emmett would like some ice-tea,” said his sister, Violet, as they appeared in the front room. She smiled encouragingly at Emmett.
“No thanks, Violet,” said Emmett. “Thanks anyway, but I got to keep hungry or Jottie will be after me about not eating enough.”
Violet nodded brightly, looking between her brother and Emmett. “Well.”
“Back in a minute,” said Sol, leading the way to the porch. He stopped by the screen door and pulled a cigarette case from his pocket. “Thanks for telling me,” he said, eyeing the neat row of cigarettes. “You goddamn rabble-rouser.”
Emmett, who had been watching his face anxiously, laughed with relief. “Thought you might take it that way, you capitalist.”
“Red,” said Sol, patting himself in search of a lighter. “Smoke?”
Emmett shook his head. “No thanks.”
“Oh, that’s right. Pure as the driven
snow.”
“Ah, dry up.”
Sol sighed. “Emmett, you know I agree with you. But they signed that pledge when they got hired, and Shank’ll fire anyone—man, woman, or child—who says union at American Everlasting. I figure the best I can do for them is try to keep them employed.”
“But they’ve got no guarantee of that. He can fire them for nothing.”
Sol nodded. “He doesn’t, though, not unless he loses a big account. That’s why he did it last week; we lost—well, never mind. Anyway. That was tough.” He grimaced, remembering, and rubbed his face. “I’m the one that has to do it, too. God help me, I fired Jerry Gale. You know how many kids he has?”
Emmett shifted on his feet. “Well. I guess Jerry knows it wasn’t your idea.”
“Maybe. He’s pretty dumb. He’ll probably come and shoot me when he runs out of money.” Sol sighed again. “Eh. They should unionize. They have to unionize. But don’t say you heard it here.”
Emmett nodded. “Heard what?”
Sol smiled. “And if they strike, I won’t tell Ralph that a Romeyn was at the bottom of it.”
“Funny you should mention getting shot,” Emmett said. He hesitated. “Listen, Sol, I know you’re in bad if they strike, and I—well, thanks for not being sore.”
Sol nodded and looked out at Emmett’s truck, parked before his house. “How the hell old is that jalopy, anyway?”
Emmett followed his eyes. “Eleven years, almost twelve. My father got it for the farm.”
“Ah.”
“Go ahead and say it. Everyone else does.”
Sol smiled. “Nice truck.”
Emmett put his hand on the screen door. “Well, thanks again, Sol. I appreciate—”
“How’s Jottie?” Sol asked quickly.
“Why, she’s fine.” Emmett looked at the floor. “She sends you her best.”
Sol’s hovering smile disappeared. “Did she? Well, give her the same from me.”
“She’s real busy with the girls,” Emmett said hastily. “And she got a new boarder, too. A girl on the WPA. She’s writing up a town history. You know, for the sesquicentennial.”
Sol nodded gloomily. “I heard she was a looker, that WPA girl.”
“Yeah,” Emmett said. “But Felix already got her, seems like.”
Sol looked gloomier than ever. “What else is new?”
“You sure you don’t want some ice-tea, Emmett?” sang Violet, her bright teeth flashing through the front-door screen. “I just hate to see you standing there like an old horse. Whyn’t you sit down? I baked some real nice cookies….”
“Thanks, Violet, but I’d better be on my way,” Emmett said, smiling gratefully at Sol.
Sol and Violet watched as the old Model T fired to life and coughed away down the street. Sol bent to smash his cigarette into an ashtray. “You and I should stay away from Romeyns, Vi.”
Violet stiffened. “I don’t know what you’re implying, Solomon McKubin. Emmett is just a boy, and I certainly don’t think of him in—in—any way at all.” She picked up the ashtray between two fingers. “I was just trying to be hospitable.”
16
I felt his hand on my head before I knew he was there.
“Father.”
He leaned on the back of the sofa and read over my shoulder, “ ‘Uttering a shrill cry, the youth flung himself forthwith upon the slavering catamount.’ ” He twisted the book around so he could see the front cover. “Cato: Boy of the Lake, huh?”
I rolled over so I could look at him. “It’s not very good.” I checked the edges of the room. “Where’s Miss Beck?”
“Who wants to know?” He smiled. “Listen, sweetheart—”
“Did you have a good time?”
“Where?”
“Wherever you were, you and Miss Beck.”
He pulled my ear gently. “Had a swell time. Listen, Jottie’s run downtown. When she gets back, will you tell her I got a telephone call and I have to meet a man tonight?”
I tried to summon myself up to say, real casual, Oh, you going to Cooey’s Red Apple again? But I couldn’t. “Business?”
“Mm-hm.”
I hesitated. “Who—when you sell those chemicals and things, who do you sell them to?”
He watched me without saying anything for a second. “Different people.”
“Tonight.”
He smiled. “A fat man. A big fat man named Clayton V. Hart.”
He’d answered me. I couldn’t believe it. Just like I was a grown-up, only he didn’t tell grown-ups much, either. He was telling me a secret. He was trusting me. I flushed with pride.
He reached down and pulled my other ear. “I don’t know why you like that.”
“It makes room in your head,” I said. I was so happy. I put my hand up and pulled his ear. “See?”
He gave his head a little shake. “Now my brain’s all loose. Tell Jottie, huh?”
I nodded, trying to look businesslike and responsible. “You going to be gone for a long time?”
“Nope. This’ll be short.”
“How short?”
He smiled at me. “I’ll be back yesterday.”
“Father.”
“It used to work. When you didn’t know the difference between yesterday and tomorrow.”
“I know. I’d go ask Jottie which one it was, and then I’d start crying.” By that time, he’d be gone.
He drummed his fingers on the back of the sofa. “It was a lousy trick to play on a little kid.”
I shrugged. “It’s okay. Can’t you stay to supper? Emmett’s coming.”
He lifted an eyebrow. “That right? He still here?”
“No. He went out, but he said he’d be back.”
“Huh. Well, I can’t, honey, much as I’d like to. I’ve got to get gone.”
I pinched the cloth of his cuff between my fingers. “You want me to tell Miss Beck?”
“Tell her what?”
“That you’re gone.”
“Think she won’t notice if you don’t tell her?” He grinned at me. “You trying to hurt my feelings?”
I shook my head. “I meant like a message from you.”
“I see. No need. But thanks, anyway.” He looked down at his sleeve. “Unhand me, would you, sweetheart? I got to go.”
I didn’t want to, but I unhooked my fingers and watched him slide away. Sometimes he moved so fast he seemed imaginary. I opened Cato: Boy of the Lake again, to the page he’d touched, and pressed my face against it. Nothing was left of him there, either. I dropped the book on the floor and stood. I could go in his room. No one had ever said I couldn’t, and, anyway, no one would know. I was pretty sure I could open the door without making any noise.
But his door was open. I stopped at the head of the stairs. It was never open. I walked softly down the hall, cat-foot, and looked in to see Miss Beck, standing there as if it were her own room, as if she had some right. I was appalled. I was so appalled I almost gasped, but then she would have turned around and seen me, so I swallowed my gasp and watched her. She didn’t touch anything, not really. She dropped a paper on his desk and then she stepped back to the middle of the room and just stood there, breathing in and breathing in. I thought maybe something was wrong with her, until I realized she was sniffing—she was smelling Father’s room, just like I had smelled the page he touched.
I wanted to slap her.
Layla—
I never saw a girl eat so much ice. I sincerely hope you haven’t got a frostbitten mouth, as that would cast a pall on the sesquicentennial celebrations, especially mine. If you thaw out by next week, I’ll take you down to the United States Fish Hatchery, which is a site of moment if ever I saw one and offers better eating besides.
Did I wear you out, marching over hill and dale this afternoon? I’m meeting a fellow on business tonight, so I won’t see you at dinner. Be a good girl and leave me a note, so I know you’re alive.
F
Felix,
A
s far as I can tell, my mouth and I remain in status quo. I wish I had some ice, though.
Layla
P.S. Thank you for taking me to Ice Mountain. I loved it.
In the shadow of Sandy Mountain lies Dolly’s Ford, which traverses the False River between the settlement known as Licksburg to the south and, to the north, the terminus of the old False River Turnpike. A natural gorge formed by sheer two-hundred-foot walls of granite borders the landing, where a ferry has tirelessly plied the waters for over a hundred years. During the War Between the States, Joseph Dolly, the proprietor and ferryman, made a reputation for himself as a vehement Unionist. So ardent a patriot was he that, upon the requisition of his ferry for Confederate supplies, he poled to the middle of the False River and there sank the goods, together with his own vessel, for the sake of his country. He was held in one of the infamous Confederate prisons in Danville for the next three years, but upon his homecoming, he declared, “I’d do it again, twice.”
Twelve miles to the south of Licksburg on Cold Stream Road is Ice Mountain, a formation of stone chimneys where ice may be found on even the hottest summer days. Ice Mountain was used as a local refrigerator by early settlers, and even today it remains a favorite spot for Fourth of July picnickers, who come with their freezers and take advantage of nature’s bounty to make ice cream in honor of the day. Nearby, the euphoniously named Raven Rocks were Confederate strongholds during the difficult winter of
Layla Beck seemed to glow in the dim dining room, radiant against the dull luster of wood and tarnished silver. There was a kind of electricity coming from her, Jottie thought. You could almost see it, a thin rim of gold hovering over her brown curls and the soft curve of her cheeks. Emmett had clammed up even more than usual in the presence of such splendor, and without Minerva or Mae to help bear the load, Jottie plodded through inquiries about Dolly’s Ford, the weather, and the ride. The dullness of the material freed her thoughts to glide and hover in their own private jungle. Emmett hadn’t said a word about Sol; had he been angry? Sol, angry? It wasn’t a thing she’d ever seen much. And Emmett, why was he so grim? Felix, of course, taking poor pretty Miss Beck; it wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair, but Felix didn’t care about fair, not when it came to women; he never had, he never would. Oh dear, she fretted, look at Emmett, so solemn, Miss Beck would never look at him twice with Felix in the room; he acts like someone died. My Lord, she is just beautiful and real smart, too, about Parker the old stuffed shirt, him and his first families! Maybe she’ll be smart enough to have Felix’s number, maybe she will. She’s sophisticated, been around, New York, probably—what was it, the Rainbow Room? I bet she’s been there, dancing or something. Champagne cocktail? Why, thank you, I do love a champagne cocktail. I’ll tell her about Felix, I’ll warn her—but she won’t listen. I warned Raylene and Letty, and they didn’t listen. I even warned Sylvia, for all the good it did, but this girl, maybe she’s not what I think. Oh God, look at her, look at the way she’s shining; she’s already crazy about him and he’s going to break her heart—maybe she won’t let him, maybe she’s one of those pure girls, maybe she’s a big Christian, though so was Mrs. Selman and it didn’t stop anything atall. I guess I’ll find out tomorrow if she goes to church. I guess I’ll wear my pink, it’s ironed. Emmett, honey, why don’t you talk, you used to talk, to me at least. If she gets pregnant, I’ll kill Felix with my bare hands. And Willa! She’ll know, she’ll know what it means—wonder what she saw at Mae’s. At least they’re married. She’ll have to learn about Felix and women sometime, but not yet, not yet. She’s too young now, she’ll—what?—she’ll hate it, she’ll think it’s her fault—oh Lord, they’re waiting on me again. Talk, Emmett, show her that you can talk! Oh! “Now, Miss Beck, did you know Emmett here teaches history over in Morgan County?” she asked brightly.
The Truth According to Us Page 14
