Belle City

by Penny Mickelbury

  From the Diary of Jonas Farley Thatcher

  November 1927. I left the state of Georgia for the first time in my life. I didn't go far—just to South Carolina—but it was exciting anyway, and very pretty where I was. It was a golf resort on the coast and the golf course looked like something out of a magazine. I felt country and out of place except when I was on the golf course. Then I was the one everybody looked up to. I won all my rounds. When I'm with people like that, I don't feel like a rich man, though that's what I am. And they all had wifes. I wouldn't want a wife like those women. I don't know exactly why. I just know I don't, even though I don't know much about wifes. My Ma was sick most of the time and my sisters, well, they're just my sisters. So, I'll think about golf not a wife.

  From the Recorded Memories of Ruth Thatcher McGinnis

  We thought we had seen hard times, thought we knew hard times. What was to come was child's play in comparison. It's a good thing that nobody knew what was coming or that we weren't warned because nobody would have believed it. I think back on it and still can't believe it—not only how bad it was but how long it took some of us to really understand how bad it was, and I put myself in that category. Remember I told you how spoiled we were living in Belle City? Well, I didn't understand then that there can be a negative side to good fortune, and that is if you're fortunate, you don't think about what it is to be unfortunate. That's the hard lesson I learned when the Roaring Twenties came to a screaming close.

  ***

  Part Two

  Carrie's Crossing and Belle City, Georgia

  and

  The Mountains of North Carolina

  1934 - 1945

  ***

  – Carrie's Crossing –

  Jonas

  Jonas swung the golf club like the pro he often imagined himself to be. He was on the driving range at the Belle City Country Club, but he imagined himself on the newly-opened course designed by the great Bobby Jones. He already had a set of Bobby Jones golf clubs, and he'd imitated the Bobby Jones swing so long and so often that he had all but perfected it. He watched the ball smoothly lift and soar for what seemed like forever before it began its descent. It was a thing of beauty, golf was, and Jonas easily could spend the rest of his life in pursuit of perfecting it. He certainly could afford it, but he was almost thirty years old. Bobby Jones had quit the game before his thirtieth birthday.

  Jonas sighed deeply and as he bent to place another ball on the tee, he felt, rather than saw, someone approaching from the rear, and it annoyed him. All this space out here and somebody wanted to practice next to him. When he turned to face the interloper his annoyance increased, tinged with surprise.

  "Young Jonas Thatcher, all grown up."

  "Mr. Edwards," Jonas said sourly, noting that the man still wore plaid knickers with striped knee socks.

  "Mark of every good business man that he remembers the names of the men he does business with," Horace Edwards said, sticking out his hand.

  Jonas shook it. "We haven't done any business together, Mr. Edwards," he said.

  "Not yet, Jonas, but I'm hoping that we will." Edwards looked all around. They were alone on the golf course. "Practically every businessman in America is wringing his hands—those who haven't already jumped out the window—and I hear you spend several days a week practicing your swing, sometimes even playing a round. When there's somebody to play with." He gave Jonas an appraising look. "And a mighty fine swing it is, too. You look like Bobby Jones from a distance."

  "Practice makes perfect," Jonas said, wishing the man would go away. He didn't like Horace Edwards—hadn't liked him when he'd met him all those years ago, in the parking lot of this very club, and he didn't like him now, though if pressed he wouldn't have been able to say exactly why. Something to do with the man's arrogance. And his insistence, all those years ago, that Jonas "rent out" Beau Thatcher to him.

  "I'd like to know what else you were practicing that's let you survive this great depression perfecting your golf swing." Horace faked a drive and gave Jonas a hard look. "If you don't mind me asking."

  "Not being greedy," Jonas said, getting the kind of reaction he knew Edwards would have: Anger. With Horace Edwards and men like him, the anger was always just beneath the surface.

  "You wanna explain that?"

  "What I want is to get back to practicing my off-the-tee shot."

  "Your drive is perfect, Jonas, and you know it. What I want to know is what you meant by that being greedy remark. What I hear is that you didn't lose any money when the market crashed because you didn't have any money in the market. Or in the bank."

  "Since you already know that, what is it you want me tell you?"

  "How, dammit, did you know the market was gonna crash?"

  "I didn't. I just don't believe, number one, in giving my hard-earned money to another man, no matter that he calls himself a banker or a stockbroker. He's a man just like me, and I can't think of a single reason I should give him my money on his promise to give me back more than I gave him. And that's where the greed comes in: This notion of getting something for nothing. I give a man—a banker, a stockbroker—a hundred or a thousand or ten thousand dollars, and in a year or two he gives me back a hundred twenty or twelve hundred or twelve thousand dollars, and I'm supposed to be so excited that I'll then give him all my money. And what happens if he's a thief, or worse, a fool? All my money is gone is what."

  Edwards gave Jonas a long appraising look then said, "I'd like to make you a business proposition, Mr. Thatcher."

  "Why me, Mr. Edwards? You don't like me and I don't like you."

  "That's true, Son, but you're the only man I know who's still got any money."

  Jonas had to laugh. He wasn't interested in any proposition Horace Edwards had to offer but he'd listen; that much arrogance deserved to be heard. Jonas believed that you had to ask for what you wanted, that you didn't get anything or anywhere waiting for something or somebody to come to you. There were only two possible responses to a request, which meant a fifty percent chance of getting what you wanted. "What is it, Mr. Edwards?"

  Horace nodded his head, as if he'd already gotten the answer he wanted. "I've bought up a lot of land in and around Carrie's Crossing. Stupid name, by the way, needs changing. Anyway, I can't make the notes on the loans for the land. I don't want to forfeit because that land is valuable, and it's going to be even more valuable when the economy gets itself right again."

  "What land in and around the Crossing?" Jonas asked, and when Horace Edwards told him, Jonas knew the man was right: The land alone was worth a fortune. Anything built on it would be worth two fortunes, whether residential or commercial. "I won't give you a loan, Horace, but I will partner with you."

  Edwards gave a nasty bark of laughter. "I don't want a partner, boy. I am the H.L. Edwards Real Estate Company all by myself, and I intend to keep it that way."

  "Until the bank forecloses on you and puts your land up for auction. And with me being the only man around with cash money, I'd end up with it all anyway."

  "You little bastard." Edwards opened and closed his fists at his sides. He wanted to punch Jonas, that was clear, but Jonas, still holding a golf club, was younger, taller and stronger, not to mention richer.

  They stood looking at each other for a long moment, each man standing his ground, but only one of them from a position of strength, and they both knew which one. Then, almost simultaneously, they shifted their gaze to the green lawn of the practice range, an expanse that no longer was nearly as lush as it should have been, and the fact that it was mid-October had nothing to do with it. Jonas hadn't noticed before now; all his attention had been focused on his ball and its flight. Looking at the country club's lawn, he saw the Depression. He looked at his watch. "I need to go," he said, returning his club to the bag.

  "I'll be at your store first thing in the morning with the partnership papers for you to sign," Edwards said, his expression speaking the self-disgust his words did not convey. "Or shou
ld I look for you out here?"

  "I'll be in the store," Jonas said. "I open at seven o'clock sharp."

  Seven is when he opened, but Jonas had been there since six. He finished washing the front window, a task he'd enjoyed ever since his father first opened the store more than ten years ago. He always used a mixture of vinegar and water, and he scrubbed the glass with newspaper until it squeaked. He'd once wondered why he liked washing the store's window until he realized that standing on the ladder, looking out at the street, gave him a bird's eye view of all that happening on the town's main street among the town's principal merchants and their customers, drawn from the most prosperous and or socially elite segment of the town's population. That was back when he was a child and intimidated by people and commerce. Now, at ripe old age of twenty-nine, he was one of the town's leading merchants, and while he no longer was intimidated by people, he'd still rather observe them than interact with them. And he could do all his observing without seeming to be observing because he was, after all, merely washing the window. However, Jonas also liked—had always liked—order and cleanliness and the sparkling front window screamed order and cleanliness. These days, of course, there wasn't much to see from the front window. Yes, those merchants lucky enough to still be in business were, as he was, preparing to open for the day, but unlike in times past, there were no car-loads of customers jockeying for parking spaces on the street, just a cluster of fallen leaves scurrying past, pushed by a brisk, fall breeze.

  He climbed down from the ladder and put it in the storeroom and got out the mop and broom. These tasks he took less pleasure from, but since the onset of hard times that people were calling The Great Depression, he couldn't afford to pay anybody to clean up, even if there had been someone willing to do the job—and for the last few months, there hadn't been anyone. The poorest of Carrie's Crossing's citizens had all left, though Jonas wasn't sure where they'd gone. Doc Gray said they'd gone to Belle City, where it was possible to get a bowl of weak soup and crust of day-old bread, even if it no longer was possible to find work—in Belle City or anywhere else.

  "The Great Depression," Jonas muttered to himself as he pushed the mop back and forth across the tile floor, emphasizing the word great. "Like everybody being broke is a wonderful thing. Like they called the war The Great War. Nothing great about it," he said of the war that had left his older brother dead in the French mud in 1919 at the hands of Germans.

  Jonas knew he was more fortunate than most of the other merchants in town simply because, like Horace Edwards said, he still had his money. So much money that he literally could not count it all, the large majority of it the proceeds of the bootleg whiskey business he'd run with Beau Thatcher for the thirteen-year duration of Prohibition. The thought of Beau and their business brought a quick smile. While they both were relieved when the law finally was repealed last year, they had, for a while, enjoyed flouting it—and not just the law that forbade the selling or drinking of whiskey, but also, and perhaps more importantly, the one that made it illegal for a Colored man and a white man to do business together.

  Jonas finished mopping and sweeping, wondering if it was wasted activity, wondering if any paying customers would cross the threshold of THATCHER'S MARKET this day. It had been three days since anybody had bought anything, though he'd given away quite a bit, his reasoning being that having somebody eat it was better than having to throw away spoiled food. He'd closed the furniture store until further notice. His only employees were his sister Rachel and her husband, Cory, and he'd asked them to come in an hour later than usual today. He didn't want them to be affected if things got ugly with Edwards. He didn't expect that, but matters pertaining to money these days often led to unexpected places. People were broke and desperate and therefore were unpredictable. It was a testament to the sorry times they lived in that there were people who'd do more work for less money, just in order to have some money at all, even if there was precious little to buy with it. The price of everything was sky high, and people were buying only what they truly needed. That's why he'd closed the furniture store: Nobody really needed a table or a chair or even a bed, if the choice was between the furniture and food.

  One of those Jonas felt most sorry for was old Doc Gray, who had lost every penny of his savings between the failed banks and the crashed stock market. Jonas, who'd never been sick a day in his life, had taken to visiting the doctor every week, each time with a newly imagined ailment. Mrs. Gray was acting as his nurse again—a job she'd relinquished two dozen years earlier—and she'd greet Jonas the same as always: "And what brings you to see us this fine day?" He'd feign embarrassment, say it was something he needed to discuss with the doctor, and she'd usher him into the examining room where the doctor would listen to his heart and lungs, look down his throat and into his eyes and ears, thump his back, take his pulse, and then ask Jonas to describe in more detail his new ailment. Then the old doctor would take out his pad and write some instructions for Jonas to follow: Eat more vegetables. Get more rest. Soak tired muscles in hot water. Drink warm milk with honey before bed. Jonas would thank him, get dressed, and go out to the front. Doc Gray would follow him and give Mrs. Gray the chart and Jonas would give her an envelope of cash. Neither of the old people would look at the envelope. They looked at Jonas, directly into his eyes, told him to take better care of himself, smiled at him, and kept the smiles in place until he'd left. Of course, Jonas wasn't the only one showing kindness to the Grays; he was just the only one able to give them money. Any number of others brought them food—cooked dishes as well as chickens, eggs, freshly caught fish and freshly killed rabbit or deer—because it was well and widely known that Doc Gray had never turned away a patient who couldn't pay in good times. He certainly wouldn't in hard times. The grass was cut, the hedges trimmed, the gutters cleaned, the trim painted, and it was the patients who took care of the doctor and his home because he no longer could pay his hired help, either.

  Jonas shook his head, as he often did, at the truly sorry state of affairs, and wondered, as he often did, how much longer it could last. He wondered what ultimately would happen to those who, like Doc Gray, had lost so much, and he wondered what would happen to those like himself who were holding on by sheer force of will. He returned the ladder and cleaning supplies to the storeroom, removed his smock and replaced it with a dress shirt, tie, and suit jacket. Business men wore suits to business meetings, even if the meeting was in a grocery store. He checked his reflected image in the sparkling clean glass, straightening his tie, before he unlocked the front door and turned the CLOSED sign around to OPEN. He took his place behind the counter. He was open and ready for business if a hundred people came today—or if nobody but Horace Edwards came. He reached down to the low shelf and turned on the radio, which had become a constant source of companionship and comfort to him, as well as his primary source of entertainment. He still relied on the newspaper for news and information, though the radio people were getting pretty good at that, too. Classical music was playing now. He didn't know what, just that it probably was coming from New York or Chicago or Detroit and that he liked it. He also liked that jazz music but people were trying to make the radio station in Belle City stop playing it because it was nigger music. As if music had a color.

  The bell over the door tinkled, and Jonas looked up. Horace Edwards walked in the door, briefcase in hand. His hat looked newly blocked, his brown suit was freshly pressed, his white shirt crisply starched, his shoes highly polished. He gave the store a top-to-bottom and front-to-back scrutinizing. Then Jonas got the same treatment when he stepped from behind the counter and Horace's eyes widened as he saw how Jonas was dressed: Exactly as he himself was except Jonas's suit was navy blue. "Nice place, Jonas," he said, covering his surprise. "Top of the line. Especially the black and white tile floor. Saw one like it in a market in New York City but never one down here." He stopped studying the store and turned his appraising gaze to Jonas. "You been up North?"

  Jonas shook his head
. "I saw it in a magazine and liked it."

  "Where'd you come by the tiles?" He bent over and rubbed the smooth floor. "Not from around here."

  "North Carolina," Jonas said.

  "That suit didn't come from North Carolina," he said. "Those shoes, either."

  Jonas smiled. "No, they sure didn't. Might not have cost so much, though, if they had." He'd custom-ordered both from New York, but he suspected Horace knew that.

  Horace smiled, too, then nodded, more, it seemed, at the thoughts in his own head than at anything Jonas had said. He touched the place on his face where he'd cut himself shaving. "You're a natural, Jonas. You were born to be a business man. You could not have been anything else."

  Jonas looked down at the floor, looked at the pattern of the tiles. He did like his floor. He also liked people's reaction to it—to its uniqueness. He looked up at Horace. "I wanted to be a writer, but we didn't have money for me to go to school. Then when we did have money, I was needed in the store. Then my pa died and, well, there didn't seem to be much point after a while. School is for young people. I missed my chance." He paused a moment, seemingly as surprised as his audience that so many words had poured from him at one time, then added, "Besides, I think you're right: Best to do what comes naturally and, to tell the truth, writing was hard work. Reading's easier."