by Julie Kibler
The beauty of her little face convinced me. I wanted to be with Robert. I wanted to bear his children. I was prepared to live with the consequences.
But I was terrified for him. I couldn’t ask him to make this choice.
“Robert, you can’t do it,” I said, pulling him to face me. “I’d never forgive myself if what happened to that young man happened to you. I’d die, too. This is a mistake.”
Robert focused on the corner of the room, where a unique display shelf backed into it at an angle, built to fit. The shelf held photographs—the young pastor and his wife in their wedding finery, others I assumed were parents, siblings, relatives. Robert drew closer, his attention caught by one of a family gathering—a faded photograph from an earlier generation—in which a lone white woman held a baby on her knee in the midst of the others. He beckoned me and pointed. Her eyes were filled with both joy and sorrow. “Here’s why he marries folks like us.”
“Maybe so. It doesn’t change things, Robert.”
“Maybe we can’t change the world, Isabelle. But we can’t change what we feel for each other, either. I can’t anyway.” He looked into my eyes. “Can you?”
I knew then I could never, ever lie to him, no matter what happened. I shook my head. “You know I love you, Robert. With all my heart, my soul, and every last ounce of my strength.”
It was as if we’d exchanged our vows then, solemnized our marriage in that moment, though Reverend Day returned and accepted our request. His sweet wife knew what I needed, too. She asked if I wished to prepare for my wedding. She led me upstairs to a small bedroom, where I pulled my best dress from my case, smoothed my hair and rested my hat over it, gazed at myself in the mirror atop the dressing table, knowing the next time I studied my reflection, I would no longer see a girl. I’d see a married woman.
“It’s a shame you can’t get a picture of your wedding day,” Sarah Day whispered as she showed me back to the parlor, where Robert waited with her husband. She patted my arm. “But you’ll have a picture in your mind. That’s enough.”
“Wait, though,” she said, and hurried to another part of her house, returning a moment later with something tiny, which she handed to her husband. She whispered to him while he slipped it into his pocket. During the ceremony, when the reverend asked if we had a ring to use as a symbol of our love, Robert shook his head and his chin fell a fraction. But I didn’t care. He’d worked hard to pay the first month’s rent on our room and the fees for the marriage license and the wedding, there was nothing left over.
“It doesn’t matter,” I said.
But then Reverend Day reached into his pocket and retrieved a tiny silver thimble, engraved with an intricate design of interlocking flowers. Three words encircled its band.
Faith. Hope. Love.
It was beautiful, polished to a high shine, though loving use showed in its surface—some of the indentions on the top had worn all the way through. I wondered if it was a family heirloom; it had been so obviously cared for and treasured. “We can’t take it,” I protested.
Sarah brushed away my objection. “I won’t take it back. It’s small.”
So Reverend Day took my hand and turned it up, then pulled Robert’s close beneath it and laid the thimble carefully on my palm. He said, “Whatever happens, wherever this life you’ve chosen takes you, these three remain.”
He folded our fingers tightly around the thimble and stepped away.
We were married.
20
Dorrie, Present Day
THE STORY OF Miss Isabelle’s simple wedding gave me goose bumps on my heart. As I drove through southern Kentucky, I remembered standing up before old Brother Willis, my mother, and a few friends when I pledged my love to Steve on a muggy day nearly two decades earlier, my belly already pooching out some—Stevie Junior attended the wedding, too, though we wouldn’t see his face for several months. I loved Steve, but I already worried about his ability to take care of a family. He spent more time running around with his friends than hanging out with me. He even disappeared for hours on our own wedding night, returning so drunk, I pushed him away when he tried to kiss me. I was already pregnant; what did it matter?
But Miss Isabelle’s wedding, plain as it was, young and alone as they were, without family or friends other than kind Reverend Day and his wife, Sarah, seemed like the real deal. They’d married for all the right reasons—in spite of what anyone else thought.
I saw women in my shop who married for all kinds of reasons—and plenty discovered their mistakes before the ink on the license had dried. They told me things they didn’t tell anyone else. Some of those stories would make you shiver, and not in a good way, about husbands and the things they did sometimes.
I was often the first to see bruises hidden behind hair purposely brushed forward, or scabbed-over places where it had been pulled out by the roots. The state licensing office mailed letters explaining how I might be the first line of defense—I could refer clients to agencies that helped victims of domestic violence. They said it was my responsibility. So I kept little stacks of brochures in the waiting area and on my front desk, where clients could casually slip them into purses or pockets. The trifold pamphlets rarely left my shop, but the top few were creased and soft from handling and maybe—I hoped—committed to memory by those who needed the information. I thanked my stars Steve was never violent to me or the kids, even if he wasn’t much good at being a husband or father.
Domestic abuse wasn’t the only secret I knew about. In fact, being a hairstylist was kind of like being an unlicensed therapist.
I recognized the sorrow in a woman’s eyes when she came in, hoping a pretty new style or hair color would pull her wandering husband back to her. I never said it probably wouldn’t work. I held my tongue when women fantasized about turning their men around—if they could only lose a little weight or get a boob job or tummy tuck or some other fix that had no bearing on a man’s ability to be faithful. They believed it was their fault their men couldn’t stick to the commitments they’d made. I’d believed it myself for years. Then I wised up. The only thing that made a man keep his word was the man himself.
I mainly listened. Now and then, though, a customer would ask for my opinion or advice. Then I was blunt and honest. It made me happy to see the same woman a visit or two down the road, glowing and sure of herself after a good decision that filled her with self-confidence and purpose—whether doling out tough love to her partner or starting a brand-new life, where she might have a chance at real love.
But the customers who really broke my heart were the ones who shared in tiny, terrified whispers how they’d discovered lumps in their breasts. And sometimes I had to tell them I’d noticed a dark, scaly patch on a scalp or a new scary-looking mole on a neck or shoulder. Sometimes I was the only one who saw those stretches of skin on a regular basis. And sometimes I was the only one who knew about secret appointments for second mammograms or biopsies—they were too scared to tell their spouses or children; telling might turn possibility into reality. I was their safe place.
We rejoiced or mourned together when they returned with news, good or bad. I helped with new cuts or styles to compensate for hair falling out in handfuls, and more than once, I shaved a head bald and gloriously smooth when a woman decided she’d rather boldly embrace her new identity than watch it emerge, strand by strand, clump by clump.
There I was, an uncertified therapist, social worker, and diagnostician, and I couldn’t keep my own family from falling apart or find it in my heart to trust another man.
I admitted it now: I was terrified.
Seventeen-year-old Isabelle had been so brave, determined to follow her heart and spend the rest of her life with a man I was sure had been the real thing—one who would care for her and love her and their children to the best of his ability, no matter what life flung their way. How on earth had that girl—child, really—done it?
I wanted to listen carefully now, to figure out how she’d ha
ndled the mess she surely got herself into with that wedding. I wanted to find a graceful way to navigate Stevie Junior’s disaster. I wanted to see if there was a way to salvage the muddle I kept making of my love life along the way.
If anyone knew how, it was probably Miss Isabelle, and if she could do it, maybe I could, too.
21
Isabelle, 1940
SARAH DAY FED us an early supper from the plentiful meal of roasted pork and potatoes she’d prepared. “You need a celebration. Most folks come in here with friends or relatives, and maybe they have a little party somewhere after. But it’s just the two of you. You stay. We’ll celebrate with you!”
I was thankful. Her invitation allowed us a buffer between the ceremonious signing of our wedding certificate and the hour when Robert and I would be alone. Suddenly, I felt shy. I had little idea what to expect when we reached our rooming house. Whispers among the girls I knew were the sum of my preparation for my wedding night.
We finished our meal, and Reverend Day wouldn’t hear of us leaving alone. For our first venture out as a married couple, he insisted I must be escorted by another woman. As darkness fell, the neighborhood where Robert had rented our room would become rowdy with both Negroes and whites visiting less than respectable businesses nearby. He and Sarah would walk us to our new residence.
Robert and I spoke at once, protesting, but Reverend Day insisted. “We’d like an evening stroll, wouldn’t we, Sarah?”
Sarah’s smile exposed her nerves, but she didn’t disagree. Her face revealed the truth: Their evening strolls didn’t usually reach my new neighborhood. But still, she said, “Just for tonight, we’d like to be sure you reach your destination safely.”
They donned their coats, and we retrieved ours, along with our luggage. As we left their warm, cozy home, Sarah insisted she and I walk ahead of our husbands. Husband. The word took me by surprise; it was the first time anyone had used it in reference to me. I’d dreamed it, but spoken aloud, it sounded different.
We were weary by the time we reached the rooming house, though our journey was uneventful, aside from a few curious looks from folks we passed by. I was sorry the Days had to turn around and walk the same distance home.
On impulse, I hugged Sarah, though I’d known her less than twelve hours. She pulled me close and whispered, “If you need anything—anything at all—you know where you can find me. You’ve got a tough road ahead, but I’ll be saying a prayer for you every single day, you hear?”
Robert waited with Reverend Day near the steps that led to our new home. He shook the preacher’s hand, then leaned to grasp our cases.
A Negro woman answered the door. She inspected me with surprise but led us upstairs to a plain but clean room. The faint aroma of food left simmering on the stovetop too long lingered throughout the house.
“No fires, no candles, even when the power goes out—which is more often than you’d think. This is old wood, and I can’t have nobody burning down my place. I take laundry on Wednesdays, but it’ll cost you extra. I don’t do meals on Sundays, so you’re on your own tomorrow, and it’s too late for the rest of this week, too—I already shopped. Be sure and turn off the hot plate after you use it. Anything I forgot?” She waited a half second, then hurried out the door and down the stairs. It seemed our new landlady was a no-nonsense kind of woman—fine by me—but she was also a bit hard around the edges. I already missed Nell and Cora. But Nell and Cora were family now, for real. I longed to see them soon and hoped they wouldn’t be too furious with Robert or me.
My new husband pointed out empty drawers and wardrobe space where I could store my belongings, which appeared even more scant now. It took me all of a minute to hang my dresses and tuck my other garments into the creaky, mothball-scented dresser. I left the drawer open a crack, hoping the aroma would dissipate and my clothing wouldn’t smell too much like chemicals by morning. I didn’t want to complain or make Robert think he hadn’t found us a fine place.
He watched from a chair near a tiny table in front of a built-in pantry while I explored. On a small wooden chest nearby, I found a one-burner electric hot plate, an enamelware cooking pot, and basic utensils. The chest contained two each of chipped crockery plates, bowls, cups and saucers, and dull metal flatware. I knew even before I scanned the room that I wouldn’t find any place for cold storage. We’d have to consume dairy products or other perishable items we purchased almost immediately. My family had been one of the first in Shalerville to get a refrigerator. I was spoiled.
But I could manage.
I’d learned basic homemaking and housekeeping skills while watching Cora and Nell work around the house. The things I’d learned from my mother, on the other hand—embroidery, fancy needlework, flower arranging—would be useless here.
“Will it do?” Robert asked, interrupting my inspection of the compact space. It was short steps from the bed to the eating area, and one easy chair crowded the room’s remaining corner, though its springs looked none too springy.
“It’s our home—I love it.” I tried to reassure him with a nervous smile.
Robert cleared his throat. “The, um, bathroom is down the hall. We share it with two other lodgers.” He shrugged his hands apologetically, though I would have been surprised had it been any other way. In my family home, one bathroom was shared by all the upstairs bedrooms, too. This wasn’t so bad. We were lucky it wasn’t in an outbuilding.
“Of course we do,” I said. “What do you think I expected? A suite at the Palace?” I didn’t even know anyone who’d stayed at the fancy downtown hotel.
Robert pulled me down to sit close to him at the edge of the bed. “That’s my girl,” he said. “Now.”
His voice trailed off, and it became obvious the piece of furniture on which we sat caused his sudden loss for words. I waited. I didn’t know how to put him at ease any more than he knew how to voice what he wanted to say.
“Isa. You know I love you.”
I nodded, my eyes growing wide and the muscles of my cheeks and chin cold and stiff as though from lack of use, though I knew it was simply fear of the unknown that immobilized them. But I’d never loved him as much as I did at that moment. He smoothed a hand across the coverlet. “Been a long day for both of us. You are probably exhausted. We can ease our way into this part of things. If you like.”
I appreciated his concern. I was grateful for his patience. He was more of a gentleman than any male I’d known in my life—though I still believed my father was a gentleman, too, and would prove it once he discovered my elopement. I answered Robert with a kiss on his lips, long and lingering and—I hoped—leaving him with no doubt I was prepared to participate fully in every aspect of our marriage.
Preferably, the sooner the better.
I carried a small bundle—nightclothes, hair and tooth brushes, toothpaste, and a rough towel from the drawer—to the shared bath down the hall, where I prepared myself for bed and Robert. When I returned, he waited in the dim room. He’d shut off the overhead light, but a reading lamp glowed on the nightstand.
I regretted not having a proper negligee to wear for my wedding night, but Nell had laundered and ironed my best summer nightgown, sewn of white pin-tucked lawn with narrow ribbon straps that barely covered my shoulders. She’d rinsed it in rose water, and I felt as much like a bride as I could under the circumstances. What had she thought as she prepared the garment for me? Had her face glowed when she considered its purpose—especially given that it was for her brother’s bride? I pulled my old, worn bathrobe tight. It had taken more room in my valise than I’d wanted to sacrifice, but now I was glad I had. Our room was chilly, and I was grateful for the extra coverage.
Robert had pulled down the coverlet, and I slipped between the sheets, still encased in the robe, but too embarrassed to remove it. Robert went down the hall, and when he returned, he stripped off his trousers and shirt and climbed in beside me, wearing only his white shorts and undershirt. He smelled of soap and water.
“Robert,” I finally said, almost whispering. “Have you—have you ever—” I couldn’t finish the question.
“No.” His simple answer both comforted and terrified me. I’d halfway hoped one of us would have an idea how to go about things. But I also breathed a sigh of relief that I’d never need to contemplate his being with anyone before me.
“But,” he said, “I, uh … I talked to some people. Well, not girls. I talked to some of my good buddies. I think I have the mechanical aspects under control.”
I chuckled at his description, and it served to relax us both.
Suddenly, Robert sat up and then dropped to his knees beside the bed. His long arms still reached me, and he gently scooped his hands beneath me and pulled me closer to the middle of the mattress. He stayed there, still, for a moment, stroking my hair and shoulders through my bathrobe. He slipped a finger beneath the threadbare cloth to touch the skin of my shoulder where the ribbon did no more than divide its span. I shivered.
He looked up and into my eyes. “I have a promise to make, Isabelle Mc—Prewitt!”
