by Joanna Scott
Though Georgie had never officially married Steven Jackson, the Jacksons treated her as one of their own. They were the only family she had. They didn’t mind that she was going to marry another man. They were pleased she’d found someone to love. Harvey Fitzgerald wasn’t taking Steve’s place. Those are shoes no one can fill was the line Georgie used most often to assure the Jackson family that Steve wouldn’t be forgotten. But Harvey Fitzgerald was a dependable man, by all accounts, and he’d be a good father to her boy.
Even if she wouldn’t admit it, not even to herself, Sally felt envious of Georgie. Yet she also felt tender toward her, like she would have felt if her little sister Tru were getting married. And she was looking forward to dancing at the wedding, spinning fast enough to turn her new yellow dress into a blur of gold.
Really, though, the dress wasn’t exactly new. Gladdy Toffit’s daughter had worn it once, to her senior prom, and Gladdy had given the dress to Sally — for keeps, she said. It was a rich yellow color with sparkling sequins around the neckline and a creamy chiffon waistband.
At nine o’clock she folded the dress carefully and put it in a shopping bag, along with the dress shoes she’d borrowed from Erna. Then she called good-bye to Uncle Mason and walked over to Erna’s Beauty Parlor. Georgie was already there when she arrived, her hair pinned in preparation for an updo. Sally volunteered to help with the Fitzgerald girls, fourteen-year-old twins who were having their hair curled.
The rest of the morning passed quickly. Swill stopped by the parlor to pick up Georgie. He waited in his truck while Erna put on the finishing touches, winding glittery ribbons through Georgie’s hair. There was a moment of panic when Georgie stood up from the chair too suddenly, her high-heeled shoe slipped from under her, and she turned her ankle. At first it seemed as though she had a real sprain, but the ache passed quickly, Georgie declared herself miraculously mended, and she headed out the door at a run.
There was another sign of trouble when one of the Fitzgerald girls started crying because she didn’t like her curls. But Erna managed to comfort her, whispering something in her ear, which aroused the suspicion of the other Fitzgerald girl, so Sally took it upon herself to assure this sister in a whisper that she’d catch the boys’ eyes that day. Both girls left contented. And while they waited for Gladdy Toffit to join them, Erna fixed Sally’s hair in a French braid secured at the end with a ribbon that matched her waistband. They kept waiting as long as they could without being late for the wedding, but Gladdy never showed up.
The ceremony was held in the gazebo at the edge of the lawn, along the bank of the narrow Tuskee. There’d been plenty of rain that season, and the current was stronger than usual, the water running so loudly over the loose stones that it was hard to hear the minister who was presiding, or the bride and groom as they were led through their vows. At that point there were about fifty guests either sitting on wooden chairs or standing about the lawn. But as soon as the vows were completed and the bride and groom had kissed, other guests started to arrive, some appearing at the back door of the Party House, as though they’d been given the signal to emerge, and others coming from their cars in the parking lot.
Uncle Mason was dressed in an old-fashioned white tie and tails that looked, to Sally’s eyes, more than a little ridiculous, especially since the waiter pouring the champagne was wearing a similar outfit. Swill wore a plain black suit, as though in mourning, Sally thought — a contrast to the contented smile on his face. He made dozens of toasts, and when the fiddler played a fast jig, Swill was out there on the platform bouncing higher than any younger man, catching the girls by the elbows and swinging them around. At one point he even grabbed hold of Sally, skipped along with her, and called to her over the music, “You’re looking lovely,” as though the weight of his disapproval had lifted in an instant.
His wife watched serenely from her chair, Uncle Mason by her side. During nearly three years in Fishkill Notch, Sally had never met Swill’s wife face to face. She didn’t even know her proper name. She was only ever Swill’s wife. People called her that as though she didn’t have another name and wasn’t even real enough to fill up the passenger seat of a car. Sally had come to think of her as a woman who existed only in a shadow form.
But there she sat in a polka-dot dress and red hat, a plump woman with freckled arms and cheeks already brown from the spring sun and a heavy bosom that she propped up with her folded arms. Sally was surprised to see Swill’s flesh-and-blood wife — and even more surprised to see her tapping the foot of her good leg to the music, tipping her head back and forth in time, and grinning a grin that matched her husband’s.
Life felt good and simple again at Georgie’s wedding. Sally was reminded of a day when she was eight or nine and had gone to watch her father and uncle help the Jensons raise a new barn. The way the boards came together into a frame was like the way everyone here came together to make a celebration. Georgie looked lovely in her sky blue satin dress trimmed with rose point lace. Swill and Mason Jackson, unused to their suits, managed to look more like themselves as the day went on, Swill more ruffled and messy, Mason more modest. Little Stevie strutted around with an air of being someone very important and held out his hand to greet every stranger in his path. Harvey Fitzgerald was a bearish man, burly, with a heavy beard, but his face expressed shy sweetness, and he let Stevie ride on his back while he was dancing with Georgie. And what a fine dancer he was, stepping nimbly across the crowded floor.
“Well, won’t you look at that,” Sally said to Erna over by the banquet table. “Georgie has found herself a real fox-trotter for a husband.” She’d meant it as a true compliment, but Erna looked at her suspiciously and said, “He’s a decent fellow,” and Sally had to explain in defense that she’d meant to say just that.
It was a trite exchange, without consequence. Erna and Sally went on to taste and compare the hors d’oeuvres together. But later, when Sally thought back to the wedding, she’d wonder if that’s when she started to become aware of feeling slightly removed from everything, as though she’d come in late and didn’t quite understand what was going on.
Surely it didn’t help her effort to blend in when the bandleader announced that he had a special song to play, and a special girl to sing it for him. With everybody watching and waiting, he called, “Sally Werner, will you come up here and join us?”
Erna shoved her with an elbow. “He said your name,” she whispered. But Sally was too stunned to move and just stood there pretending that she’d disappeared, which would have been better than continuing with her life right then, for even a twitch of a nose would give away her secret to all those staring eyes, and they’d realize that she was still standing there dumbly — in reality a living, breathing girl who was terrified of singing in public.
“Is Sally Werner here?”
No, she wanted to call back. I’m not here.
“Here she is!” cried Erna.
“Hush!” Sally caught Erna’s arm and pulled it down.
“Sally Werner,” said the bandleader into the mike, “come sing us a song!”
How did anyone know that singing was her secret pleasure? By keeping it secret, she’d meant to avoid scrutiny and judgment. She felt like she was becoming aware of some sort of deep betrayal. And here she was being called upon to defend herself.
But wait a second — she didn’t even know if she could sing.
“Sally Werner!” someone in the audience shouted.
“Sally Werner!”
“Sally Werner, Sally Werner,” others began chanting.
She cast a searching look at the faces, mostly strangers, and then her eyes met Uncle Mason’s; their gazes locked for a moment that was long enough for him to offer her that understanding nod of his, conveying his confidence in her and revealing that he was the one who had come to know more about her than she’d ever intended to let him know. When she was singing along with the scrolls on the player piano, when she was belting out those songs on Sunday afternoo
ns — why, either the furniture in the house had ears, or Mason Jackson wasn’t always quite as far away as she’d thought. And that meant… she couldn’t think clearly about what it meant.
She kept her gaze on him as she would have gripped a rope rail along a wobbly bridge, holding him in view as she moved toward the band.
“Sally Werner, Sally Werner!”
All those people watching, calling, waiting for her to prove to them that she was worth something.
“Sally Werner! Sally Werner! Sally Werner!”
The bandleader, a neatly groomed, ruddy man nearly a foot taller than Sally, leaned toward her and murmured a song title in her ear. She looked at him in confusion, not because she didn’t know that song — she did know it, backward and forward — but she couldn’t imagine how he knew she knew it.
“Sshh, hush,” people said impatiently. “Let her sing.”
Sally looked over the faces, seeing in them what she interpreted as a particular kind of anticipation; she recognized it as the same kind of interest that she herself felt when she was at the county fair watching a man dressed up as a clown come into the ring riding a bull. It was the anticipation of people waiting for a fool to perform.
The band was already playing, moving so quickly through the opening chords that Sally couldn’t enter the song on time. The bandleader made a discreet signal with his finger, and the musicians repeated the opening chords. Sally stepped forward toward the microphone. She’d never sung into a microphone before.
It’s easy to smile…, she sang, and then she stopped, startled by the strange volume of her voice and scared of the audience’s concentrated attention. But the band kept on playing, and the audience remained silent with expectation. She didn’t know what to do. She thought she saw a woman in the crowd mouthing I-told-you-so, and Sally worried that she was getting ready to call out a loud boo. They were all going to boo at her. They were going to boo her out of Fishkill Notch.
She searched for Uncle Mason, but the place beside Swill’s wife was empty. Swill’s wife was looking like she’d rather be sitting there than anywhere else in the world, stationed in the audience at Georgie’s wedding waiting for Sally Werner to sing. Sally focused on her, mesmerized by her cheerful face. Swill’s wife grinned widely, communicating her pleasure. It didn’t matter what Sally did — Swill’s wife was going to enjoy the show no matter what.
“It’s easy to sigh…,” the bandleader whispered to her.
“It’s easy to sigh,” she sang…
It’s easy to know
That you and I
Were meant to fall in love.
It was strange to hear her voice amplified and coming back to her as a new sound. She felt stupid and vulnerable. But she also felt an unfamiliar strength filling her, making her bend her fingers into fists. She sang louder:
It’s simple to wish,
And simple to dream…
It was helpful to watch Swill’s plump wife nodding and grinning, grinning and nodding.
It’s simple to guess…
That you and I…
Were meant to fall in love.
A hoot of praise rose from somewhere in the audience. Someone else yelled, urging her on. Sally kept her eyes fixed on Swill’s wife as she sang,
Oh, you and I,
Yes, you and I,
Were meant to fall in love.
There, she’d done it, sung like there was no tomorrow. And in the empty space following the end of the song came applause, loud and merry applause, whistles and calls for an encore.
“Ladies and gentlemen,” said the bandleader, “that was your own Sally Werner.”
“Sally Werner,” called the audience. “Sally Werner, Sally Werner, Sally Werner!”
“How about another song, Sally Werner?” the bandleader asked her through the microphone and then murmured to her, “You know ‘Walk with Me’?”
Sure she knew “Walk with Me.”
Walk with me, walk with me,
Darlin’, won’t you walk with me…
She sang with full confidence right from the start. She sang because she liked singing. She liked it more than ever now that other people wanted to hear her. For the first time in her life, she was worthy of admiration. It didn’t matter that she was singing with a bunch of farmhand-musicians in front of an easy-to-please crowd. She might as well have been singing in a concert hall before an audience of thousands.
After singing the two songs from start to finish, she stepped off the stage to the clamor of applause that wouldn’t fade. They wanted more, more, more! Sing another song, Sally Werner! Keep singing until the cows come home!
But she felt wise beyond her experience right then and knew that she should stop while she was ahead. She waved to the audience to signal that her part of the show was over. She returned to the mike to say, “Thank you, thank you very much,” and then offered a quick curtsy.
The applause faded slowly, reluctantly. Sally held on to the sound until the last person had stopped clapping and the fiddler had begun a new song.
“That was fine singing, Sally Werner!” someone said to her as she brushed past.
“Oh, young lady, you have talent!”
“Sally,” said Georgie, giving her a hug, enveloping her in the satin folds of her dress. “My friend Sally!”
“That took some guts,” said Erna, handing her a glass of champagne.
Everyone was praising her, even surly old Swill, who raised his glass to her and said, “You brought down the house!” He might as well have said, You’re part of the family now, and you can’t go on hating me forever. That motley Jackson family — they were ready to take in any stray that made it over the top of Thistle Mountain. But where was Uncle Mason? Sally wanted to hear directly from him that she’d done fine. Better than fine. Everyone looked happy because Sally Werner had sung for them. She hadn’t known she could sing like that. Or if she’d known, she hadn’t known what an audience would think of her. But they all thought she was special, all of them except Mason Jackson. Why hadn’t he sought her out to congratulate her? What was taking him so long?
With the champagne and the dancing and the music, she soon forgot about Uncle Mason. She was swept into a blur of motion and felt herself snug in the arms of men she didn’t even know, men who called her “doll” and turned her in circles. She felt as though she were getting married, too, and had finally earned the right to fall in love.
Finally, after hours of dancing, she had to stop and rest. She retreated to a back corner of the dance floor, where tables were set up and guests were still gnawing on cold corn and chicken. She didn’t want to be noticed right then — she didn’t want to be asked to dance until she’d gotten her breath back — so she stepped behind a stack of plates. She touched her hand to her face to feel the warmth of her cheek. She realized she was hungry and scooped up a handful of sugared almonds. Chewing absentmindedly, she let her thoughts wander. And that’s when she heard someone nearby say her name.
“Sally Werner.”
She turned toward the voice. But the woman wasn’t talking to her. The woman was sitting at a small table in front of the banquet table, with her back to Sally as she leaned toward the fat woman — Swill’s wife — who was seated next to her.
The woman, whom Sally didn’t recognize, spat out the next word as if she’d just discovered the rotten taste of it in her last bite of chicken. The word was “slut,” or at least that’s what Sally thought she heard.
“Dear little Sally” — it was Swill’s wife speaking now. “She’s a good girl.”
“Then you don’t know?”
“What’s there to know?”
“The girl… with her own cousin!”
The voice faded behind the rise in the music and then came out forcefully. Her own cousin. Sally pressed closer to the table to hear better.
“And birthed a monster.”
Did she really say monster? But Sally’s baby wasn’t a monster. Sally had seen enough of him to know tha
t he was an ordinary baby with ten fingers and ten toes. He had come out pink and mewling and then promptly fallen asleep when she’d laid him in the basket. Those words, though — slut and cousin and monster— a stranger was using those words to tell her story. The story of Sally Werner. Wretched Sally Werner.
“My husband works with her brother,” the woman said, her voice suddenly as clear as a bell. “Her own family won’t have anything to do with her. Go up to Tauntonville yourself. You’ll hear what they say about her there. Frankly, they all think she’s dead. There’s a rumor that maybe she drowned herself in the river. But they’ll be hearing otherwise soon as I get home. And won’t they be disappointed.”
Sally Werner wasn’t dead. She was only desperate. Desperate to get out of there.
Run, Sally!
She backed away, knocking against a chair and freezing. Everyone was staring at her. No, no one was staring at her. She wasn’t there. She didn’t exist.
She moved the chair to the side and kept backing up for a dozen or so steps, then turned and fled from the tent and across the lawn and around to the front of the Cadmus Party House.
Fuzzy, motionless trees around her. Champagne bubbles bursting in her head. Sandal heels sinking into mud.
Dragging, stumbling, running.
How dare you raise your voice in song after leaving your baby to rot on the kitchen table! Daughter of Sodom! Run as fast as you can, but you won’t run faster than the devil. Feel the heat of his breath on your neck. He’s there with you, wherever you go. You slut.
All she could think to do was to follow her running legs up Marsh Lane to Main Street to Brindle Street to the dirt road that led to Mason Jackson’s house, the only home she knew.
Running, running, running.
The quiet of aloneness was a hard pressure, the weight of air squeezing against her ears. Deep fathoms of an empty room. Nothing in the process of change, no one to observe that Sally had entered the room, no one to hear her breathing, the silence beyond her only partially relieved by the distant gurgling headwaters of the Tuskee.
