“Come on out of there, Josie!” It was Vause, standing at the barn door. “You don’t know how to drive.”
She’d been eleven; she’d been running away from home. She’d planned it all out: Vause and Felix were going to drive her to the ferry. She’d given them a dollar, even, to do it, and they’d promised. And then they’d forgotten, or pretended they had. And then they’d laughed at her.
“Go away! I hate you!” She wished she had something to throw at him. “You better get out of my way or I’ll run you down.”
“Josie—”
“Shut up! I hate you, and I hate Felix, too! I don’t need you anyway!” Heaving herself to the very edge of the seat, she stomped on the pedal she thought was the right one and whacked the self-starter as hard as she could. The engine coughed.
Somewhere behind her, Felix hooted. “You can’t even get it started!”
“I’ll get it started!” she hollered. “And then I’m going to kill you!” Praying that she had it right, she jammed the stick shift into the reversing hole, hit the self-starter again, and lifted her shaking foot off the clutch. “You better watch out!”
The car shot out of the barn with shocking speed, flinging her backward on the seat so that her feet no longer touched the floor. She was glad to hear Felix’s laughter turn to a grunt of surprise.
“Step on the brake, Josie!” It was Vause yelling, but he was in front of her now. Alarmingly. “The brake!”
Using the steering wheel for leverage, she pulled herself forward on the seat and tried to peer through the windshield, but all she could see was rain, drops and splashes flooding her vision. Where was Vause? Where was anyone? She didn’t care. Angrily, she kicked at the pedals—she’d hit one of them, anyway, and drive away as fast as she could; they’d never catch her, they’d never see her again, they’d never pick on her again, they’d never—
There was a shuddering crunch, and the car thumped to a halt, tossing Jottie sideways like flotsam. What? What? She scrabbled upward and saw, directly behind her, where the back of the car normally was—the maple tree.
On the front lawn, Felix was doubled over, laughing.
Jottie erupted into tears of rage. “It’s your fault!” she cried. “I hate you!” She flung herself out of the car, seized a branch from the ground, and rushed at her brother.
But he was too fast for her. Laughing, shouting, he danced away. “That sure was a short trip!” he yelled over his shoulder.
She whirled around, swiping her sleeve over the mixture of tears and raindrops on her face, seeking Vause. Sometimes she could catch Vause. There he was, by the barn.
“I hate you!” she cried, rushing at him. “I hate you, Vause Hamilton! It’s all your fault, and now Daddy’s going to kill me!” Raging, she flailed at him, hoping to hurt him at least a little before he ran away to laugh with Felix.
He caught the branch as it hit him and pulled it away from her. Now she was defenseless. He was so much bigger than she was; he’d probably knock her down, but she’d get him good before he got her—she raced forward and kicked him as hard as she could in the ankle.
“Ow! Josie!” His arms came around her, tight. “Stop that.”
She struggled, trying to bite his shoulder. “No! Let me go! I hate you!”
“Shh,” he whispered, holding her. “Shhhh.”
“I’ll kill you,” she sobbed. “You took my money and then you wouldn’t drive me to the river and it’s all your fault and I’ll kill you and Felix both.” She tried to jerk her arms free so she could hit him, but he gripped her tighter.
“Hush, shhh,” he crooned, rocking her.
He wasn’t mad, she realized. He wasn’t getting ready to punch her. He was just holding her arms. Even though she’d tried to run him over, he wasn’t mad. It surprised her into wonder and then reflection. Why was he holding her so? Why? In spite of herself, she let him soothe her and fell quiet in the cradle of his rocking. But as her rage ebbed, her fear grew to take its place. What had she done? What madness had come upon her? The enormity rose until it towered over her. She had smashed the car. She had smashed her daddy’s car that she wasn’t even supposed to touch. No one was supposed to touch it, not even Felix, though he did. She began to sob again, against Vause’s shoulder.
“Daddy’s going to whip me,” she wailed. “He’s going to, he’s going to—”
“Hushup, you,” Vause murmured in her ear. “Your daddy ain’t going to whip you. I’ll tell him I did it. ’Cause I practically did, didn’t I?” He shook her gently. “My Lord, it’s no wonder you lost your temper, with me and Felix taking your dollar and making fun of you and not driving you to the ferry like we said. I’ll tell him it was me that did it, and your daddy won’t whip me because I’m not his boy, so he can’t.”
A sob came out in a burp. “But your daddy will. Won’t he whip you?” she asked anxiously, lifting her tear-mottled face to look at him.
“Oh, him,” scoffed Vause. “He’s so skinny and feeble he can barely lift up the switch and bring it down. I don’t hardly feel it.”
She sniffled thoughtfully. “Vause?”
“Huh?”
“Why would you say you did it when you didn’t?”
“Well.” He glanced at her and burst into a grin. “I sure liked seeing you mad, Josie. I’ve never seen such a sight in my life.”
She found herself smiling back at him in the dark. Oh my dear, she thought gently. My dearest. It was a minute or two before she pulled herself free. He didn’t care, she recited to herself. He never loved me. Still, though, she felt herself rocked in the warm cradle of his arms.
—
The morning pall hung heavy on the kitchen. At the table, Willa, Bird, and Minerva sat, stunned and lumpen, while Jottie stepped about, stirring and pouring.
“Coffee, please, honey?” muttered Mae, dropping into a chair. Jottie poured a cup of steaming black and pushed it gently toward her.
“Families in magazines are always laughing while they eat breakfast,” Bird observed. “Nobody around here laughs.”
“Anybody laughs, I’ll shoot ’em,” muttered Mae, leaning on her hand.
There was an interval of chewing.
Willa looked up from her bowl. “Mrs. Roosevelt suggests calisthenics,” she said. “To combat torpor.”
“Mrs. Roosevelt wouldn’t know torpor if it came up and bit her,” yawned Minerva.
Bird glugged her milk and stood. “I’m going over to Berdetta Ritts’s house. I bet they laugh at breakfast.”
Bird passed Layla in the doorway. “Morning, Bird,” Layla said cheerily. “Good morning, everyone!”
This was met with grunts. Mae flapped her hand wearily. Jottie smiled. “Morning. Coffee?”
“Grand.” Layla sat down and scanned the table for the sugar bowl. “Looks like another hot one.”
“They’re all hot this time of year.”
“Hey, everybody!” It was Emmett, outlined against the back screen.
There was a flurry of attention—Willa sat up and smiled—and Jottie bustled over to let him in. “Emmett! Honey! What’re you doing here?” She reached to touch his shoulder. “What’s in the poke?” He was holding a sack.
“Got some apple butter and things.”
“Mmm,” said Layla. “I love apple butter.”
“Do you?” said Jottie, but she was looking at Emmett. “You came all this way to bring us apple butter?”
He put the sack down on the table. “And some bacon. And a couple other things. I’m meeting someone in town.” He drew out a jar of apple butter and set it in front of Layla. “Here you are.”
“Thank you very much.” She smiled at him. “Do I have to share it?”
“No,” he said. “I brought another jar. They can have that.”
“Good,” she said, and closed her hands around the jar. He laughed.
“Good God. What is this, old home week?” said Felix, coming into the kitchen. “What’re you doing here, Emmett?”
Jottie looked at Felix. “You’re up early.”
“Too hot to sleep. Coffee, coffee.”
“It’s right here,” Jottie said. “Just keep walking.”
“Mm.” He tapped Layla on the shoulder as he passed her, and she lifted her face to smile at him. At the stove, he fumbled with the pot, groaning mildly as he poured himself a cup.
Emmett watched him for a minute. Then he said, “I brought you a book, Miss Beck. In case you want to know more about what we were talking about yesterday.” He reached into his sack and brought out a little brown book. “It’s a history of the mills in the Eastern Panhandle.”
She took it up. “Why, thank you, Mr. Romeyn! That’s kind of you. It’ll come in real handy, I’m sure.” She opened the front cover and glanced over a few pages. “Looks like just exactly what I need.” She smiled. “Apple butter and history. What more could a girl want?”
Felix turned around swiftly. “You got apple butter? You’d better give that here, miss. I like apple butter.”
“You can have the other jar,” she said. “This one’s mine.”
“Uh-uh,” he said. “Don’t be greedy.” He reached over her shoulder and picked it up, unscrewing the lid with a pop. He scooped out a fingerful and ate it with relish. “Mmm.”
“Felix, you are undoing the work of years,” scolded Jottie. “You want your children to behave like pigs? Willa, ignore your father. Pretend he isn’t here.”
Felix laughed. “Fine. I’ll leave.” He went out of the kitchen with the jar in his hand.
“That’s my apple butter,” said Layla, following him. “Isn’t it, Mr. Romeyn?” She looked at Emmett over her shoulder.
“It is,” Emmett called, but they were gone by that time. He leaned against the counter. Mae slid down in her chair, her eyes closing.
“Well,” he said, after a minute or two. “I guess I’ll be on my way.”
Jottie looked up quickly. “Oh, sweetheart—” she began, but he was already pushing himself off the counter.
“Bye, girls. Bye, Willa.”
With one hand, Jottie pushed aside the limp curtain at the window to watch him walk, tall and straight, to his truck. The other hand curled around Willa’s shoulder. Was there no one she could protect?
The little brown book lay, unwanted, on the table.
25
Layla waited patiently on Mrs. Lacey’s silken love seat for the old woman to emerge from her reverie. She didn’t mind. Alone in all of Macedonia, Mrs. Lacey’s parlor was cool. The cool was old, like its mistress, a relic of long-ago gusts that had curled through the house and been captured and preserved by the heavy drawn curtains and never-opened windows. When Layla had stepped over the threshold into the grand, gloomy room, she had even, for one moment, shivered. But perhaps it wasn’t with cold, she mused. Perhaps it was with fear.
For Mrs. Lacey was terribly old, frighteningly old, slumped with time, knotted and lined and half belonging to another world. Jottie had called her “the last of the great ladies,” and Layla saw what she meant. There was something monumental about her, a dignity of endurance, of being the only one left.
Mrs. Lacey lifted her bowed head and turned her cloudy eyes on Layla. “It was covered with soldiers,” she said suddenly. It wasn’t, as Layla had thought at first, that Mrs. Lacey was confused; she was simply indifferent to the triviality of the present. “Covered,” she muttered again.
Mrs. Lacey’s maid, Sallie, standing slightly behind her chair, leaned forward. “You mean the lawn, ma’am?”
Mrs. Lacey smiled at her. “Yes, the grass. They died there, before they could get in the house.”
“The hospital was inside, wasn’t it, ma’am?” said Sallie.
“Yes, inside.” Mrs. Lacey nodded slowly. “Mama’s room was for the operations, the cutting, but everywhere else was soldiers, without an inch between them.”
“Were they Confederate or Union soldiers?” asked Layla.
“I don’t know,” said Mrs. Lacey. “I don’t remember.”
“Blue or gray uniforms?”
“Bloody uniforms.”
“Both, miss,” said Sallie softly. “Both sides at different times.”
Mrs. Lacey nodded. “All bloody.”
“Yes’m.”
Mrs. Lacey spoke. “Mama buried all the silver under the big branch of the hickory, and she didn’t take it out no matter who was winning. She said she wouldn’t trust those South Carolina boys with a toothpick.” She paused. “We had a New York boy died here one day and they buried him up on the creek, where the dirt was soft. He was a long way from home.” She gazed at Layla without seeing her. “Mama took off his shoes so I could have them. Then they carried him away, and I saw his poor bare feet joggle out from under the winding sheet. It was a terrible sight, his feet joggling like that. I couldn’t even cry out, I just gripped his shoes tight against me.” There was a long silence. “Mama got after me—why didn’t I wear those shoes, they were good shoes. I told her what I’d seen and she got Clarence to dig him up. So I could see he was dead.”
Another hypnotic silence fell. To break the spell, Layla ventured, “Did your mother favor one side or the other?”
Mrs. Lacey lifted her head, returning from wherever she had been. “Favor?” she said slowly. “I can’t say I know. We didn’t know who was winning. The boys who came here didn’t know. They fought up in the mountains, in the trees, and they couldn’t see three feet ahead of them. They didn’t know anything.” Mrs. Lacey nodded slowly to herself. “There came a boy,” she sighed. “He’d got turned around and shot at his own. He’d killed his own. The poor boy was so frightened, he burned his uniform.” Pause. “Sauk Reston said he could tell which side they were on by their noses. Secesh had thin noses, Sauk said, with points at the end. Yankees had soft red noses.” Mrs. Lacey smiled. “After he told me, I could see it clear as day.” She mused for a time. “Sauk’s dead now. He died on a fence.”
Layla lifted her eyes to Sallie, inquiring.
“Blood poisoning, miss,” whispered Sallie. “From the barbwire fence.”
Mrs. Lacey nodded. “But that was after.”
Miss Beck was walking real slow along Winchester Street, just inching along, and when I caught up close behind her, I saw why. She was peering into her notebook, reading what she’d written. I’d spent practically my whole life trying to read and walk at the same time, and I knew it was a perilous endeavor. “Hi, Miss Beck!” I yelled, hoping she’d fall over and maybe break a tooth.
She didn’t. She turned around and gave me a big smile. “Willa! How’re you?”
She didn’t seem to realize that I didn’t like her. “Hot,” I said.
“I’ve been visiting Mrs. Lacey’s this afternoon, and my goodness, her parlor is just as cool as an icebox.”
“I know,” I said grumpily. “I’ve been there plenty of times.”
“Have you?” she looked at me, real interested. “Why is that?”
“She was my grandmother’s friend,” I said. “We go to see her.”
“Ah.” There was a silence. I was thinking about telling her I had to go somewhere, when she spoke. “Was this grandmother Felix’s mother or your mother’s mother?”
Oh! I was just about speechless with surprise. Calling him Felix, to me! You didn’t call grown-ups by their first names to children! And how did she dare talk about my mother, as though she knew anything at all? The sneak, trying to weasel tidbits about Father from me. The Delilah! I could have kicked her, with pleasure. But then I got a better idea.
“Well, I was talking about Grandmother Romeyn, but I’m sure Grandmother Peal knows her, too.” This wasn’t even a lie. She probably did know Mrs. Lacey. Everyone old knew Mrs. Lacey.
She fell on it like a duck on a June bug. “Does your, uh, Grandmother Peal live here in Macedonia?”
“She did. She lives in Grand Mile now, to be near my mother. To comfort her broken heart.”
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“Her broken heart?” She was practically gulping.
“Yes, my poor mother is just heartbroken. About Father.” I didn’t mind lying to Miss Beck atall. She deserved it. “And of course, Father is brokenhearted about her, too.” I shook my head sadly.
“Really?” said Miss Beck. Her voice had gotten a little distant. Good.
“Oh yes! Even though they divorced, they’re brokenhearted about each other,” I said. “You see”—I leaned in, like I was confiding in her—“I think it was all a terrible misunderstanding, due to my mother being so beautiful. She was the most beautiful girl in town—everyone says so—and she had so many boyfriends, or admirers, I mean, that I think Father got jealous.”
“Jealous,” repeated Miss Beck. She was looking at me hard.
“Yes, but it wasn’t her fault! She only ever loved Father. And he only loves her,” I said. “And I expect they’ll be reconciled any day now.”
Miss Beck nodded. “Any day now,” she said. “And you’ll be happy then, won’t you?”
She was taking it too calmly. “Yes!” I said, loud. “Yes, I’ll be happy because Father will be so happy. If you think you’ve ever seen him happy, you haven’t.”
Miss Beck stopped still. “Listen. Willa”—she put her hand on my shoulder—“I think I know what you’re trying to say—”
I snatched my shoulder away. “Good.”
We walked the rest of the way home without talking. A couple of times I peeked sideways, and I was pretty sure her face was etched with despair. I’d blighted their romance and saved Father, even if I’d had to lie through my teeth to do it. That’s ferocity and devotion, I thought proudly.
And just the way teachers are forever saying, my pride went before a fall. We came through our front door and there stood Father with a newspaper under his arm. “Hey, honey,” he said to me. “Where’ve you-all been?”
“At Mrs. Lacey’s,” I answered. “For her book.” I jerked my head at Miss Beck.
He looked up and smiled at her, and my heart shriveled some. He’d thank me in the end. I glanced, kind of stealthy, at Miss Beck, expecting to see her turn away from him in anguish. And do you know what she did?
The Truth According to Us Page 23
