11
SHIRLEY was, our local paper claimed, the recent and unmistakable central belle at a tony Hunt Club Ball in faraway Raleigh. Me, married off, in a house alone a lot, minus the fired Castalia, pregnant with my first (it happened about this quick, too, child), I had long afternoons to think back on my long spell with Miss Shirley Popular. I heard, through local tongue-waggers, how the girls what’d taken up our stablekeeper’s daughter sure did rue the day. Quick study, that quiet Shirl. Why, just after she quit me cold turkey, Shirl switched to the Episcopal Church, leaving me and her own folks stranded as abandoned Baptists. She’d taken to wearing white and left all us cheap earnest pastels behind. The Baptist preacher’s wife and daughter, ladies who’d first “discovered” Shirley, let it be known around town that they felt, yeah, right … well, used. They’d been Miss Shirley’s total-emersion stepping-stones towards high-society sprinklers. Episcopalians thought that liquor was just a digestive aid. They thought good genes were the equal of good works. They thought the Godhead had stationery with a list of charter members engraved on it. They believed God was a club. Shirley, she agreed. Shirl joined.
Soon she was attracting—at musicales and charity benefits (first in Falls then on up to Rocky Mount then Durham and finally to Raleigh itself)—attentions of the very boys her fancy early friends expected to interest. Emily Saiterwaite was, you heard, just livid over it. Ha ha ha.
Shirl still remembered how to keep her mouth shut: a asset. The Summit gang had fixed Shirl up a mite too good. They’d even hinted early on as how she should use her middle name—the neutral Ann—to help offset a certain low-class brassy aftertaste that Shirley left in folks’ mouths.
I sat breast-feeding my Louisa—eager eater, that one. I had Shirl’s picture (in the daily paper) propped on my right knee. I realized afterwhile that my knee was rocking, like you’d keep a colicky baby amused. It was just a picture. The leg jiggled it happy anyways. I sat remembering a certain clean dairy smell she carried with her. I did wonder. Maybe if I hadn’t said old Ain’t so much? Maybe if she’d stayed plain Shirl and my good friend, maybe then I wouldn’t have married quite so young? Maybe. Of course I knew better. Still, it pleased me to think that a finer-quality speech might’ve let me rise. (I’d still be fifteen but someway unpregnant, a non-mother—not that I regretted my dear hungry baby Lou here.) I would rise then, to a safer lighter life. Who knew? Maybe because I spoke rude Ain’t so much, I had to say “I do” so early.
ONLY Animal cancels Animal.
MY FOLKS regretted losing me. They hadn’t known what a round-the-house spark plug Lucy was till they’d done shipped her off. The first time they visited me in my husband’s big underfurnished house (two pieces of bachelor furniture in the middle of each huge room) the two had to go home early, holding on to each other, their faces fists. I played like I didn’t understand exactly what—in the sight of me, dressed up and trying—had saddened them so much. But soon as they were off our land, I run upstairs and sobbed, too proud to follow them, follow them home.
Maybe my parents then decided that without me around they each needed projects. Who knows? But things changed for them not three months after my June wedding. Momma was sitting on the porch watching a squad of hired black yardmen rake first September leaves up and down Summit. The men all knew each other and often stopped to jaw, leaning against the cast-iron lacy fences, leaning on their rakes and brooms. “Look at them,” she said, never too patient with black servants’ slack. “They don’t know how to work.” And while Poppa sat blinking, she dodged into the house, put on old white gloves, grabbed a broom, and set to work on our own yard—one that Poppa had fitfully took swipes at or hired boys to clean. It was low maintenance till that day. From then on, she started a contest with hired gardeners along the street. By spring, she was wearing Poppa’s oldest clothes and chose to work in garden gloves but liked to show you that her palms were still starting to get brown and tough as pecan husks. She did fear bugs and once had to be sedated after finding three mantises riding her hat. But people—seeing her out there, scraping—spoke to her more often and seemed to feel less scared of her haughty tongue. They liked her sudden mannish getups. “Bianca seems almost ‘human,’” they said. Only Poppa, stranded on the porch, appeared doubly lonely.
But even that changed when the postmaster—still on speaking terms—brought over a newspaper article about a new grownup night-type class being offered by a certain Harvard College. Harvard gave official certificates and everything, so Poppa wrote away for their list. To make a six-week story quick, him and Momma soon boarded a train, took many suitcases, found nice rooms up in Cambridge, Massachusetts. On his happy return, my three aunts threw Poppa a party. One beautifully hand-lettered banner read: “Welcome to Our Sam, Returned in Triumph, Gentleman and Scholar.” In six weeks, proudened toward a kind of quietness that pleased me, my own poppa come back with his certificate of graduation framed.
“To Whom It May Concern, This Asserts that one Samuel Honicutt has completed to the satisfaction of the Harvard College Extension Night Annex course work for Introductory Carpentry. Be Informed He Is Entitled to ALL THE RIGHTS AND PRIVILEGES Thereof.” This he hung right in the homeplace foyer, he showed it to a trail of visitors. Poppa stood beside it, scratching his head and admitting, “Things moved faster up there than here in Falls, folks talk about a mile a minute, and there was times I literally doubted I could keep up. But my darling Bianca believed in me throughout. Many’s the day I’d come home with my britches covered in Harvard sawdust, hands covered with Harvard nicks and Ivy scratches—but she had only tea and kind words. Said she, ‘You’re Harvard College material and all the more perfectly preserved by that rough-hewn manly Burgaw County exterior.’ So Bianca said, and well, turns out … must of done something right—says here ‘to the satisfaction of that school in Cambridge.” He was now so much in awe of his own Alma Mater that he sometimes—religious-like—didn’t want to say its name direct but used the town instead. “During my time … in Cambridge,” began many of his sentences. He wrote news of his certificate to his folks outside Bear Grass. And there was a happy ending, at least for the school in Cambridge. Happy for them considering how much of my mother’s money the graduate-husband wound up willing to his favorite college and not to the settled married daughter down the block.
As for Shirley Goodness and Mercy: I told myself—a sad public nod is all I’d ever get from her now. But, reading papers, keeping up, I felt proud of her and happy for Shirl’s folks. She did take them along to this big “do” at the Governor’s Mansion, coaching both in advance (according to rumors) to talk only when spoke to direct and then to see if they couldn’t weasel out of answering by using a nod or shrug. But, still, she took them with her. I knew it must have meant her mom’s idea of Heaven come to Earth. Seemed like, as I whipped through each day’s “Society Comings and Goings,” ready for my friend’s advances, Shirl was my own daughter, not a girl my age. I felt right old already. Maybe I looked it. I spoke right to her picture sometimes, talked so loud that my baby daughter looked up from a teat now vexed by uses, I half hollered to the paper, “You show them, child.”
Was three full years later, I spoke to Shirl. In person. Just the onct. The shortest conversation on record. Whilst shopping downtown with Lou new to walking, with Ned in my arms, it happened. Lou had just turned three, acting headstrong from her birthday forward, like she’d read the warning Baby Books. Ned talked early and explained he wanted a second piece of horehound candy at Lucas’ All-Round Store. Then Lou chimed in. I’d tugged her out onto wooden sidewalk, her squalling that she was so planning to have that extra piece. The boy in my arms said, “Am too.” “You ain’t.” “Am.” “Ain’t.” “Am so.” “Ain’t, pip, I’m here to tell you, you just ain’t, ain’t, ain’t.” I stomped sidewalk.
Was just that second, I moved to let a lady pass. She wore this cream-colored silk dress, a hat, a veil. All her motions, even from a distance, whispered news of might
y finery. She was just sweeping past when, slowing, this lady stopped, looked down at me. She’d kept on growing. I’d stayed nearbout child-sized, still had to stare up at her. Mrs. Wren remeets Miss Still-a-Swan. She smiled through the star-shaped speckles that netting cast over her features. We stayed locked like this a minute, her toting two packages and a hat box. She didn’t let her eyes stray down over my tired wash dress, my favorite stretched-out cardigan. It was my appreciating face that Shirl’s face still held, considering. We said nothing, but our eyes lived again through everything good.
She shifted her parcels to one arm, reached for pearl buttons on her left glove. Maybe moving to show me a new bracelet or watch. All during, her features stayed aimed right flush with mine. But then, fickle like she’d always been, the lady made a face, changed her mind, grew brisk again, rearranged her shopping, she appeared about to leave.
And that very second, Shirley, maybe noting my allegiance to old Ain’t—my four-letter word—she spoke. In a new voice, through the netting, a pressed and beautiful mouth said, “Incorrigible.” Sounded like she approved.
I smiled back, not knowing what else to do. Finally, with a nod all curt yet dreamy, the lady gathers up her hem, sweeps past me and my hushed scruffy brood. Louisa stared after, she’d been put on best behavior. Kept peeking over one shoulder in the lady’s direction, then back at me like asking who that was, like she could no way connect the two of us. And in my arms, Ned turned to Little Lord Fauntleroy, behaving all the way home, improved by just the sight of Shirl. That sight had perked and stunned me, too. I strolled, openmouthed, moony, going over what’d happened. I’d said, “Ain’t,” right? And she’d said, “Incorrigible,” which meant—I reminded myself (not quite recalling how I knew)—a toughness akin to stubborn, unbeatable.
Well, I figured I could settle for that. Was something anyways. And, honey? I held on to it.
I WAS expecting my third when I read that Shirley (her Ann had sprouted a e by now, spelling’s pinky finger up) was to marry. Her choice was the tall son of the second-richest lawyer in Raleigh/Durham. (The very richest only had daughters.) She’d made the finest match locally available, both society-and money-wise. Her young man’s granddad had been governor and there was, the paper said, “every reason to expect the new generation’s prospects are similarly august.” I’d seen her choice just onct, buying gardenias from a black lady downtown. His face was smoothed and upright as the celluloid collar that held it—like a vase—from underneath. Of course, I didn’t get no invitation. Didn’t expect one—though, of course, you hope.
My poppa was bitterly let down, not to be asked. Now that he’d been to … Cambridge, he expected his prospects to improve. “You reckon she’s even heard?” he asked me of Shirley and his college standing. Momma only nodded at our being overlooked, both confirmed and pleased to be off that list.
But I sure studied every last word written about the event. Two full pages got devoted to it in the Herald Traveler with, thank heavens, plenty of pictures. I hung around the florist charged with decorating the Hunt Club for the local reception. (It was the same florist shop Momma had picked to prettify my unhatched coming-out party.) I learned that white garlands of gardenias would be swagged everywhere, floor to ceiling, and to heck with the expense. Ballroom all done in white, like her dress, the only pink there would be the bride’s now famous complexion. Rumor hinted that the in-laws, while right taken with young Shirley Anne’s natural looks and manners, were somewhat worried by her strawy history.
A year later this changed when her first child was born a boy. He was the only male grandchild on either side, he got dubbed something Hamilton the Fourth. Then Shirley (Ann or Anne or nothing extra), why she’d arrived. She was Mrs. White Lady born to bear Blue Bloods. It was plain she’d outgrown Falls and everybody in it. To save face, all ambitious local folks claimed her now as “our” lovely Shirley Anne. Emily Saiterwaite got Shirl to turn up at one of Em’s Books and Issues club meetings and you’d of thought that Victoria herself popped in for a quick tea break. Summit Avenue mothers now held up Shirl as Mrs. Example to their own cakewalking piano-tinkling girls.
When Shirl left me at age twelve, she quit speaking to my folks, my aunts. Seemed to feel a wee bit ashamed for taking all them years of hospitality and free lessons, giving nothing back. Since Momma had long since ceased even nodding at Shirl, Momma took this silence to be her own idea. But Poppa, hurt and interested, stayed posted on every tidbit about his old Shirley Goodness and Mercy. Momma called this pathetic, but Pop kept me abreast of every detail about Shirl’s second pregnancy. It’d commenced, rumor had it, whilst the young folks, away on Cook’s Tour, were visiting Venice, Italy. “Probably at night in one of them long ski-nosed canoes,” Pop guessed, still a regular romantic about our old yellowhead. He seemed—through solid postal gossip sources—to know of Shirl’s every morning sickness by that selfsame afternoon.
ONE EVENING I wheeled my babies to their grandfolks’ place two blocks away. “Care to know something new about your old buddy-ro?” Pop waved me out onto the porch. Momma, in her gardening getup, sat playing piano (same five preludes) for my three wee ones. Can you feature childish me with that many of my own? that many a two o’clock feeding? I couldn’t either, sugar.
Pop settled on the weathered swing. Since he “graduated,” he seemed both happier and sadder. Was like—having got most everything he wanted—he could think of nothing else to wish for. Both his folks had died within three days of each here recently. He spoke about them now with great new tenderness. He forgot how they had whipped him just for wasting time, reading. Now he sat here checking his hands like some fine farm map might yet be stamped across them. In fading daylight, I saw how much he’d aged, the stripes of gray now added value to his spiny orange hairs.
He smiled but a tired sickly smile. “I been remembering: Was one summer evening when your Shirl slept over here. I did something. I don’t know what got into me, Runt Funny. I found a little candle. (It’d been your birthday, a long loud dinner. The three of us had such a lively time, your mother’d left the room with a headache, remember? No?) Anyhow. I lit the candle, I walked up into your room. I told myself it was to see if you-all were safe. But, my Second Hand, I knew better. I lifted up the sheets … off of Shirl, I mean. I studied our Miss Shirley Goodness and Mercy …”
Waiting for the rest, I nodded. But he just shrugged, like there won’t no more, he squinted at his palms, his dwindling calluses. I commenced to fill in what he meant. He must of done something like: hitch up covers off the girl child’s muslin nightie, then hiked it up. Then considered all the candle showed under the sheets, sheets I knew would be filled with a fond milky smell she trailed like a cure. After, eyes full, he maybe resettled linen, kissed both our foreheads, tiptoed out. I was just guessing, of course.
My older wiser Poppa sat watching me—he nodded, like he saw I’d got it. “Me,” he pointed at his chest. “I did that.”
He confessed all this to a grown woman, nineteen.
“Next morning Mr. Card here woke up,” his voice grew raspy. “Heard you children a-bouncing on them beds, chanting, ‘Ain’t you ‘shamed, you sleepyhead?’ Well, that flat spoke to me, gal. Couldn’t hardly believe that a fellow such as myself would do a thing so low. And all these years I’ve just played like I didn’t—but, my old Minute Waltz? Did. I did. I only just wanted to see. Even then I felt like she might up and quit us cold. Before she got the chance, I hoped to check for one second only, just to study all of it, what I’d never get to be … near my own self. Wicked, wicked—go on, say it. I knew better, I know better. Now I have my diploma, I own most everything I want. But that’s been on me all these years—how I let everybody down.” He sat beside me, hands open on either knee, eyes lowered, braced like for a verdict.
Indoors, Momma played two full selections whilst I twisted my fine wedding ring in circles. I finally tried explaining. “Poppa—it’s just … we both loved her so much. Was only natural, probably
. We hoped to save her, to make stuff easier for her, cause it’d been so hard for us. You loved her. So you peeked. And, listen here, Pop, in my own way, me, I looked, too.”
Then I saw he sat ripping at the coin-sized bunions that wouldn’t never go away, I saw he was near crying. “Shouldn’t ought to have, is all. That, I know. But I appreciate your hearing me out. Had to tell. I thank you, my Lucy Luck.”
I slid nearer, he put his big head on my shoulder. Brushing my cheekbone, one of his cowlicks, cactus-stiff as ever. My husband was off in Dare County, buying/selling. My mother and children were one room away.
“Why did you leave here?” he asked me. “If I’d of known what I was trading to a stranger and right off my own porch, why I’d of shot any man looked at you. It ain’t ever been the same, gal. I ain’t. My own blind Cambridge-type ambition, it seems to undo me every time.—Us climbers suffer.”
MIDWAY through Shirley’s second pregnancy, two specialists got hired. I grilled Castalia, my favorite midwife, for news. Of course, richest families used white doctors and not her. Still, Cassie stayed privy to news of carryings for sixty miles around. She told me, “They done sent telegrams to doctors from away far off. And that baby ain’t been but five months in the oven.”
I fixed a ring of homemade aspic. Poppa buggied me to their fine home out of town, set up on its own green hill. We rode fast so my present wouldn’t melt. On their polished veranda, a live pinky-white cockatoo in a frilly cage give me this look like “What do you want, white trash?” Pop, waiting—shy—out by the horses, signaled I should go ahead and knock. I handed my present to a brown maid. All in black and white, uniform and cap, she looked stern, starchy, printed-like as the Queen of Hearts.
Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All Page 71
