Daddy drove to the city park, pulled under the canopy of a large tree, and turned off the engine.
“We’ve got thirty minutes before we need to be at the auction,” he explained.
Local auctioneers hire Daddy to remove anything left over from their sales. We take the stuff home and then appliances are repaired and sold to vendors in Cookeville or Monterey; furniture is stripped, painted, and resold. The best money is in scrap metal.
I went through the bags and handed out burgers, onion rings, and little packets of ketchup.
“Hey, Mr. Mayhew,” Benzer said, tearing the wrapper off his burger, “you think we’ll get anything good today?”
Daddy winked. “You know, Benzer, I’ve got a feeling we just might.”
“That’s right,” I piped in. “Daddy says Mr. Wilson is from the Chandler Wilson line. Civil War descendants.”
“Or the War Between the States, as your grandmother likes to call it,” Daddy said.
Benzer shook his head as if to clear it. “What you’re saying is this was an old geezer with a lifetime of junk?”
“Exactly,” Daddy answered.
“Daddy,” I said, “why didn’t you and Mr. Wilson like each other?”
He looked surprised. “What makes you say that?”
“Last night Bertie said he’s probably having a heart attack in Hades ’cause you might make a buck off his stuff.”
“Oh, just old family animosity. It’s ancient history, really.”
Benzer leaned forward. “What happened? Did somebody run off with his wife?”
Daddy laughed. “Nothing like that.” He paused, taking a long sip of his cola. “Years ago, the Mayhews owned a lot more land than what you see now. It was all pastures and woods back then, of course. After the war, our family had to sell off just about everything—the horses, most of the land and livestock. The worst part, though, was selling family heirlooms. Guess who bought most of that?”
“The Wilson family!” I said.
“That’s right.”
“What happened?” Benzer asked.
Daddy wiped his mouth with a napkin. “Times were tough, I reckon. When Louise Mayhew died, her son sold off some stuff. Families do what they have to do. It probably wasn’t too different from the auction we’re going to today.”
“I’ve never heard this story. Was Louise the one I was named after?”
“That’s the one.”
I was puzzled. “If they held an auction, why didn’t they sell the house?”
“The family sold most everything, but not that,” Daddy said, a grim line to his mouth. “Somehow, we managed to hang on to that.”
He didn’t say it, but the phrase “so far” hung in the air.
The Wilson property was about eight miles from town. We parked in an open field next to several rows of cars.
“I’ll get some boys to help with the heavy stuff,” Daddy said, jumping down from the truck. “Y’all make yourselves useful.”
We spent the next hour running back and forth between the house and Daddy’s truck. We had to wait for Daddy and the auction workers to load a beat-up freezer and a dryer missing its door before we could start throwing the smaller stuff in the back.
My arms felt like cooked noodles.
“Do you see anything else?” Benzer asked.
“I don’t think so. We better ask.”
We found Mr. Tate, the auctioneer, going through receipts with an odd-looking man in black-rimmed glasses. He was wearing a suit, even though it was already sweltering, and a gold pocket watch peeked out of his vest.
“Are you sure that’s everything?” I heard him ask.
Mr. Tate shrugged. “That’s everything the family authorized us to sell. You might talk with them if you’re looking for something specific.”
The man shook his head. “No, that’s not necessary. I was just checking.”
Noticing us, Mr. Tate gestured to the side of the house. “Lou, there’s a few pieces of junk down in the cellar. If you and Benzer can grab that, you’ll be done.”
We could smell the mold as soon as we opened the door.
“Yuck,” I said, putting a hand over my nose.
Benzer pulled his T-shirt up over half his face. “Hurry.” He led the way down a set of rickety stairs.
An old wooden box, covered in cobwebs, stood in the corner. We picked it up and piled a toaster, four moldy books, two stained lampshades, and a chipped shovel inside it. Working together, we were able to carry it up the stairs, out of the house, and into the sunlight.
“Whew,” Benzer said, “that was nasty.”
I bent down and looked at the box. “This is kind of cool.”
Even painted a marine green and covered with mildew, there was something pretty about it. One of the iron hinges was missing from the top, and both handles were broken, but otherwise the box seemed in good condition. A carved border ran the length of the wood.
“Hey,” Benzer said, running his hand across the surface, “these look like birds.”
“Y’all ready?” Daddy asked, walking toward the truck. He was frowning, and I wondered if Mr. Tate had tried to avoid paying.
“As soon as we put this on the truck,” Benzer answered.
I helped clear a spot in the truck bed. “Hey, Daddy. Can I keep this box?”
“Sure,” he answered without looking at me. “You know the rule—workers get first dibs.”
Daddy was still frowning, and Benzer shot me a puzzled look.
“Is everything okay, Daddy?”
“Not really, ace. Mr. Tate just told me that Isaac didn’t win last night, and I know he needed a scholarship of that size to afford UT, where he was really hoping to go. But the coach gave it to the Canton boy.”
“Drew Canton?” Benzer asked. “He’s not nearly as good as Isaac.”
“Well, according to Coach Peeler he is. Stupid son of a—uh, gun.”
“But everybody knows Isaac is the best!” I said, jumping down from the back. “He even broke a school record last year.”
Daddy opened the truck’s door and sighed. “Let’s get going.”
I crawled in and leaned against the cracked upholstery. Daddy started the truck and pulled out of the parking area. He looked like he was as bummed as I was.
“But, Daddy,” I said, “why would Coach Peeler give the scholarship to Drew Canton and not Isaac?”
“Well, I’m guessing he’d probably say that Drew was more involved in civic stuff, as well as having good grades. The scholarship is actually based on more than just athletics.”
“What do you mean, ‘civic stuff’?” Benzer asked.
“Community service, volunteering, that sort of thing. I’ve seen Drew’s truck parked at the food pantry every now and then.”
I stomped the floorboard. “But that’s not fair. Isaac has to work on Saturdays.”
“These things are subjective, Lou. Do you know what that means?”
I shook my head. “Not really.”
“It means something is based on perspective, not cold, hard facts. It’s like the difference between judging a beauty contest versus a bike race. A bike race is the first person across the finish line, but a beauty contest would depend on who was judging and what they considered good-looking. See?”
“I guess so. So you think Coach Peeler gave Drew the scholarship because he volunteers more than Isaac?”
“No, I don’t think it’s that simple.” Daddy let out a long breath. “I’ve known Coach Peeler since I was in high school. I wouldn’t say this about just anybody, but he had a reputation.” He stopped the truck in front of Benzer’s house.
“A reputation?” I asked. “What kind of reputation?”
Daddy’s mouth turned down at the corners. “For treating blacks differently.”
“What?” I asked. “You mean he didn’t pick Isaac because he’s black?”
“I think so,” Daddy said.
“But that’s ridiculous! Who thinks like that? It’s
1999 for crying out loud!” I said.
“Wow. Isn’t there anything Isaac can do?” Benzer asked. “Can’t he sue or something?”
“Maybe, but it might be hard to prove, and it would cost his family a lot to fight,” Daddy said. “I’ll have a talk with Isaac and see what he’s thinking. I’m sure he’s disappointed, but he probably knew it was a possibility.”
“This really stinks,” I said.
“I know.” Daddy fished a bill out of his wallet and handed it to Benzer.
Benzer opened the door and jumped out. “I’ll see you later, Lou. Thanks, Mr. Mayhew.”
I slumped down and avoided talking the rest of the ride home. Daddy pulled into our driveway and turned off the truck.
“I’ll put your box in the shop. Let me know if we’re out of stain. I think that old dresser we fixed up used most of it.”
“Okay. I better go help Mama get ready for tonight.”
“Hey, don’t forget your money,” he said.
I stuffed the cash into my back pocket. “Thanks.”
He put a hand on my arm. “You know I’m proud of you, right?”
I attempted to smile. “I know.”
Daddy leaned forward to put his wallet in his back pocket. “You’re going to make a good big sister.”
I jumped down from the truck. The way my luck was going, Mama would have twins!
I spent the rest of the afternoon helping Mama clean the house. Normally I would have complained, but since learning we might have to move, things seemed somehow different. Instead of thinking about how hard it was to mop the wooden floors, I noticed what a nice shade of caramel they were. In fact, I noticed all sorts of things I’d seen but never really thought about, like how the windows had counterweights attached so they’d stay up and how pretty the glass doorknobs were.
“Bertie and I are walking to Upchurch’s to get some snacks for tonight,” Mama said. “You want to come?”
I shook my head. “You guys go ahead. I’m beat.”
I watched them from the parlor window until they were two blocks away, then I went over to the bookshelf and pulled out the Bible.
The hole I’d torn in the cover stared at me like an accusing eye. I flipped the pages until I found the same picture of baby Jesus, and put my hand across it. “God, sorry about that last prayer. Can we just say never mind? I’ll still go to church and all, but if you wanted to just forget the excitement part, that’d be great. Amen.”
I opened my eyes. Last time the wind had blown so hard the window fell, but this time, all was quiet. “Bummer.”
I flipped through the pages absentmindedly, and they gaped open toward the back of the Bible, where a thin envelope was wedged deep inside. Across the top were the words Confederate States of America.
“What the heck?” I opened the envelope and pulled out a handwritten letter. The script was spindly and hard to read, and I struggled to make sense of it.
March 12, 1864
Dear Louise,
I received your kind letter a few days ago. I was glad to hear that you are fareing well despite the circumstances. Mrs. Reagan is indeed a true friend but her kindness to you is a credit to your own charm and goodness. I pray you will remane well until I am home, which I am hopeful will be soon. As to the other matter you referenced, I indicated at our last meeting that my feelings on the issue have quite changed, but I urge you to be caushus my dear Louise, as reports are that the enemy is nearby. Your bravery in the midst of all that has transpired and the memorey of your sweet smile carries me through these long nites.
Your love,
WLM
I didn’t know who WLM was, but he wouldn’t have passed fifth-grade spelling. And this was the second time today I was hearing about my namesake, Louise, which was strange and exciting.
I read the letter once more before slipping it back into the Bible.
The letter mentioned Louise’s bravery. Well, that was something. I could only hope that some of it had been passed down to me.
From the diary of Louise Duncan Mayhew
April 1861
Mother attempts normality through garden parties and hosting friends for whist, but the men are on fire with talk of war. Tennessee has rejected secession, though the vote in Nashville proved what everyone feared, that Tennessee is divided in its stance on secession. East Tennessee supports staying in the Union, while people in the western part of the state are against. Here in the middle, we’re just as divided. Yesterday, while shopping, Mrs. Nolan Paul pointedly ignored me. I glared at her back in a way that I hoped would raise blisters. A friendship lost because my betrothed and I support secession.
Patty was the first to arrive, all decked out in a black sundress with matching black sandals. With her skinny frame and red hair, I thought she looked like a matchstick. Aunt Sophie jumped out of the car and ran past where I sat on the front porch. “Sorry, Lou, but I drank a large glass of sweet tea, and I’m about to wet myself.”
“Mother!” Patty shook her head, causing curls to bounce. “What if Franklin and Benzer were here?”
“I’m sure they have bodily functions too, dear.” Aunt Sophie closed the front door behind her.
“She’s trying to make me crazy. Oh!” Patty threw herself down on the steps next to me. “Speaking of crazy, Sally Martin’s been telling tales about you. She said you were bragging about how you’ve got awesome summer plans. What’s up with that?”
I groaned. “Great. I should have known she’d tell everybody in the state what I said. If gossip was an Olympic sport, she’d win the gold medal.”
“I can’t believe you told her that. Sally already tries to make your life miserable. Now she’ll have more ammunition when school starts and you haven’t done anything …” Patty shook her head and poked me. “Maybe you can be homeschooled.”
A car honked, announcing that Mrs. Kimmel had arrived. Franklin’s grandmother had been Bertie’s bridge partner for years. My earliest memories of Franklin were of us playing on the floor beneath their card table. Now the two women were trying hard to teach Mama and Aunt Sophie, because, as Bertie said, “We need some young blood. Everybody our age keeps dying on us.”
Franklin climbed out of the backseat just as Benzer, wearing an old baseball uniform and covered in dirt, walked into the yard.
Bertie opened the front door and stood at the porch railing. “Finally, the whole gang’s here.”
Patty and I stood to let Mrs. Kimmel pass, then sank back down on the porch steps. Benzer and Franklin sat down cross-legged on the grass in front of us.
“Have you told them yet?” Benzer asked.
I shook my head. As much as I wanted to tell them about the house, just saying it out loud made it somehow worse. I rested my chin on my knees. “You tell it.”
Patty looked from me to Benzer. “What? Somebody tell it, whatever it is, before I go nuts.”
Benzer leaned forward and began to tell them the story, from the praying over the Bible to the part where we overheard my parents talking about the house being demolished.
Patty only interrupted once. “You two were hiding behind the bookshelf? Is that something you do a lot?”
“No! I just didn’t want to get caught holding a ripped Bible,” I said. “Besides, that’s kinda not the point of the story.”
Franklin pulled a small book out of his back pocket and rolled it into a tight spiral. He tapped it against his chin, looking off into the yard.
“Oh, Lord, Franklin’s in his thinking pose,” Patty said.
Franklin ignored her. “Did you hear them say how they were going to take the house?” he asked. “Perhaps you’re breaking a city ordinance, or a code, with the junkyard?”
“No, we went through all that a couple of years ago,” I said. “Daddy said they’d had a vote, and it could be demolished by the end of the summer.” My voice sounded funny, and I cleared my throat.
“Hmmm.”
“What are you thinking?” Benzer asked. “Is there a wa
y out of this?”
Franklin dropped his book on the concrete in front of him. “I’m not sure. There are only three reasons that I can think of that would result in Lou losing her home. Of course, there could be others that I don’t know, but three main reasons.”
“Oh, get on with it, Professor,” Patty snapped.
Franklin held up a finger. “One, nonpayment of some kind—mortgage, taxes, et cetera. But that would be a bank issue, or perhaps a government issue, not something people would vote on.” He held up a second finger. “Number two would be if the property had become uninhabitable or dangerous. Black mold or a fire that had made the home too dangerous to live in, for example.” He looked around the house. “I guess that’s not it?”
“We don’t have mold, Franklin, geesh.”
“Well, it might be better if you did. Mold can be removed. Since we’ve ruled out the first two”—he held up a third finger—“then I would say that your home is being threatened by eminent domain.”
“Eminent what?” I asked.
“Eminent domain. It lets the government seize private property without the owner’s consent for government use—roadways, civic buildings, power lines, and so on. It’s actually very broad.”
“Dude,” Benzer said. “Tell me you’re making that up.”
Franklin shook his head. “It’s really quite common. It’s how many of our state parks were formed.”
I could feel anger growing like a mushroom cloud inside of my chest. “You mean that they can just decide they want your land and make you move? That’s horrible!”
“Well, they do have to pay you a fair price.”
“What if you don’t want to sell it for any price?” I asked.
Franklin frowned. “Then they can go to court and get it condemned.”
Benzer looked around the yard. “I wonder what they’re planning on using it for.”
“It is a prime location,” Franklin said. “There are not a lot of homes on this much land in the middle of town. I’ll look on the city website when I get home. If they had a vote, there’ll be a record of the meeting somewhere.”
Patty leaned her thin shoulder into mine. “So what are you going to do? What’s the plan?”
“Plan? There’s no plan! What can I do? You heard Franklin, if the government wants your house, they can take it!” I was so frustrated I wanted to scream. I jumped to my feet, accidentally kicking Franklin’s book across the yard. “By the end of the summer, I’ll be homeless, and there’s nothing I can do about it.” I stormed over to the oak tree. A small branch had fallen, and I picked it up and threw it toward the ditch near the street. “This stinks.”
Last in a Long Line of Rebels Page 3
