Muletrain to Maggody

by Joan Hess

  Mrs. Jim Bob wasn’t sure how to take this, and she was trying to come up with a response when Sweetpea came strolling across the yard. “Did you enjoy your walk?” she asked like a proper hostess. “Would you like some lemonade and cookies? I’m afraid they’re store-bought.”

  “I’d love some, thank you,” Sweetpea said as she sat down. “It’s hard to imagine how terrible it must have been that morning with the confusion, the gunfire, and all those boys dying for the sake of a dozen mules and a cannon. Are any of them buried here? I’d like to lay some wildflowers on their graves.”

  Corinne sighed. “It was so tragic. More than six hundred and seventy thousand boys and men died during the war, and less than half of them were identified on the battlefield and taken back home for proper burials. Why, Sweetpea’s great-great-granduncle is lying in an unmarked grave somewhere, isn’t he?”

  Sweetpea nodded as she accepted a glass of lemonade from Mrs. Jim Bob. “From all accounts, he was quite the rake about town before he was pressured to enlist. The story is that he got into all kinds of trouble for havin’ dalliances with the general’s wife and daughters and was horsewhipped more than once. My great-granddaddy used to roar with laughter when he talked about it, which he did right up until the day he died. My grandmother would sit next to him and try to hush him up, but she might as well have been driving bees with a peach switch.”

  Corinne was not to be upstaged. “There were two boys on my mother’s side, identical twins and rumored to be so handsome they could have any girl in Charleston, who were caught running the blockade and summarily shot. All the girls cried for weeks because they couldn’t get bonnets from Paris and Belgian lace for their hankies.”

  “One of my ancestors back in England was hanged for poaching on the grounds of a royal estate,” Sweetpea countered. “Scotland, I seem to recall.”

  “Well, one of mine was caught consorting with a lady-in-waiting and locked in the Tower of London.”

  “One of mine was beheaded there.” Having neatly won the game, if not the set and match, Sweetpea took a sip of lemonade. “This is real tasty, Mrs. Jim Bob. My mama insists on making it so tart I just want to pucker up my lips.”

  “Then go right ahead,” Simon said as he came out of the house and leaned over her shoulder.

  Corinne pinched him on the backside. “Mind your manners, Simon. Would you care for some lemonade?”

  He sat down. “I’d prefer a gin and tonic.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob stiffened. “I am sorry to disappoint you, Simon, but this is a Christian household. I’ll be happy to fetch you some iced tea if you’d prefer that.”

  Simon glanced at his mother, who was staring sternly at him. “Maybe later. Come on, Sweetpea, let’s go for a drive. We can check out the site of the skirmish, or even go climbing up on this ridge to find the buried treasure.”

  “Oh, what fun!” she said, then smiled at Mrs. Jim Bob. “If you don’t mind, of course. We’ll be sure to be back in time to dress for dinner.”

  “No, don’t worry about that,” said Mrs. Jim Bob, feeling more and more miserable. “I’m afraid we’re just going to have a picnic out here this evening. I wasn’t quite prepared for you all, and now it seems Miss Hathaway and Mr. Streek are coming, too. My housekeeper will be here tomorrow, so I’ll have time to fix a nice meal.”

  Corinne patted her hand. “We don’t want you to go to any trouble. Perhaps we can all go out to dinner tomorrow.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob bit back the urge to ask her if she’d prefer country fried steak at Ruby Bee’s or corndogs at the Dairee Dee-Lishus. “Oh, I enjoy entertaining. I always look forward to the opportunity to have a dinner party for special guests. Sweetpea, you and Simon need to be back here by six o’-clock.”

  After the two had left, Corinne took off her shoes and massaged her feet. “The young are so energetic, aren’t they? Every weekend they play golf and tennis, go horseback riding, sail, and still are ready to spend the evening dancing. I must admit my life is a bit more sedentary. I attend an occasional luncheon or tea, but I spend most of my time at my desk, delving into the societal complexities of the South during the War and Reconstruction. What do you do to amuse yourself, dear?”

  Mrs. Jim Bob was about ready to mention scrubbing out-houses and frying chitlins for supper when an unfamiliar man came around the corner of the house. He was carrying a suitcase, which did nothing to elevate her spirits. “Who’s that?” she whispered.

  “Why, I do believe it’s Kenneth Grimley. I didn’t expect to see him so soon.” Corinne stood up. “Kenneth, darling! What brings you here?”

  “The same as you,” he said as he kissed her on the cheek. “Shall I assume this is our gracious hostess, Mrs. Buchanon?”

  The gracious hostess nodded. “It was my understanding you were coming later in the week. I haven’t made up a room for you, so you’ll have to take the sofa bed.” Which would leave no place for Wendell Streek, unless she put him with Simon. Which meant she might find herself on the cot in the utility room, and Jim Bob free to spend the night with whichever of his floozies was in favor. Unless, of course, she could bully him into staying with Brother Verber, presuming Brother Verber had the decency to appear after being gone all day. “Excuse me,” she added, “but I need to go inside for a few minutes. Corinne, would you please offer Mr. Grimley refreshments?”

  She stopped in the kitchen to take a handful of aspirins, called the rectory with no success, then tiptoed upstairs to make sure Sweetpea and Simon had not snuck in through the front door and gone to his room to indulge in sinful hanky-panky right under her own roof.

  When she returned to the patio, she was appalled to see a bottle of wine on her wrought-iron table. To make matters worse, both this Grimley man and Corinne appeared to be drinking it. She reminded herself that she was aware of Jim Bob’s weaknesses of the flesh, whiskey being high on his list, and said nothing as she sat down.

  “Could I offer you a glass of passable chardonnay?” Grimley said. “It’s not one of the better years, I must admit, but it was not inexpensive and I’m disappointed with it.”

  “No thank you.”

  Corinne leaned over to tweak the end of his carefully trimmed beard. “I suppose you’re going to try to convince us that General Wallingford Ames never set up his headquarters without a case of wine.”

  “Cases,” Kenneth said with a flourish of his arm, “as well as cigars, smoked chicken, hams, tins of caviar and salmon, imported cheeses, and pretty wenches to serve him. He weighed well over four hundred pounds when he died of gout in 1889.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob waggled a finger at him. “I’d like to think that’s not what you’ll be telling the young folks at the schools. Here in Maggody we don’t condone gluttony or dissolute behavior.”

  “Kenneth always behaves when he’s getting paid,” said Corinne.

  “And so do you, to my regret,” he said gallantly, “although I’ve always wondered if Mrs. Delphinia Tuttle might have cast a longing eye on one of those big black bucks chopping cotton out in the field.”

  Corinne put down her glass. “That sort of language is offensive, Kenneth.”

  “As was slavery, which is why President Lincoln saw fit to send in Union troops to put an end to it. You Southerners just can’t get over it, can you? You probably dream about sitting on the veranda, being served mint juleps by a servant girl who’s been raped by the master since she was twelve years old. Of course, once she got pregnant, you’d have to sell her down the river and buy another one.”

  “I will not tolerate this!” Corinne wadded up her napkin and threw it on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll lie down before dinner.”

  It was all Mrs. Jim Bob could do to nod as Corinne flounced into the house. For a moment she was tempted to drink the wine remaining in Corinne’s glass, but regained her senses and said, “I’d like to think you won’t be insulting members of the house party, Mr. Grimley. I must insist on common courtesy at the very least. If you feel unab
le to abide by that, you can go rent a room at the Flamingo Motel.”

  “I beg your pardon,” Kenneth said, his smirk only vaguely visible beneath his mustache. “I shall treat each and every member of your house party with only the deepest respect. Corinne and I are old friends. We are often invited to appear at the same events, and in the evenings there is little to do at the country inns where we’re usually lodged. She’s been known to slip out of her petticoats after a few glasses of wine.”

  “We’ll have none of that in this house!” Mrs. Jim Bob hurried into the kitchen to splash water on her face. First the obviously ne’er-do-well son and his fiancée, and now this debauched Yankee “general,” most likely with cases of wine and wenches in the trunk of his car. For all she knew, Harriet Hathaway and Wendell Streek might be overly familiar with the double beds in the Headquarters House, each with a hand-pieced quilt and a feather pillow. Her hand was trembling as she dialed Brother Verber’s number, but he still did not answer. Had she not been a God-fearing Christian, she might have cursed him for his lack of consideration in her hour of need.

  She snatched up a pen and a notebook, then went into the living room to work on the wording of the blessing she would offer before supper. It might turn out to be lengthy, but she had a long list of rules to be made clear to her guests.

  8

  “I’ve got some bad news,” Jack said as I sat down on the bar stool next to him.

  Ruby Bee stopped drying glasses and stared at him. “Somebody taken poorly back home?”

  “Nothing like that. Arly and I have been invited to a picnic. Miss Hathaway seems to think it’ll provide an opportunity for all of us to meet each other and discuss the logistics for the week. Both impressionists are already here, along with a smattering of other people.”

  “And just where is this picnic?” I asked without enthusiasm, since I already knew what the answer would be. Death, taxes—and Mrs. Jim Bob, equally inevitable, but no more palatable. If I were on the path to hell (as she’s so fond of telling me I most certainly am), she’d be standing on the shoulder selling asbestos cardigans to raise money for the ignorant heathens in Africa.

  “The mayor’s house. We can still pick up some tamales later.”

  Ruby Bee raised her eyebrows. “And just where are you planning to eat these tamales? Alongside Boone Creek?”

  I told myself it would not be seemly to lean over the bar and flick gray dishwater at her. “We’ll think of someplace. Come on, Jack; let’s get this over with. I do need to know the schedule.”

  “You better take some bug spray,” Ruby Bee said in a smarmy voice meant to annoy me. “The mosquitoes can be mighty fierce this time of year.”

  “So can I,” I muttered as I headed across the dance floor.

  While we drove to Jim Bob’s house, Jack told me what he knew about the various players, which wasn’t much. His friend, who was coming on Thursday, had met most of the players on both sides, since they often attended the same reenactments and put aside their political differences when the flasks came out at the end of the day.

  “No swamp water and hardtack?” I asked.

  “According to Frank, the camps are closed at five o’clock to sightseers, at which time the steaks are thrown on the grill and the premium booze flows freely. Only among the farbs, of course. The hard-core dudes huddle together in the middle of the pasture and pray for frost.”

  I could imagine CSA Private Jeb Stewart’s reaction if someone asked how he wanted his steak cooked. “Don’t you think this is all very creepy?”

  “Oh, yeah. If you could hear some of Frank’s stories about lying in the weeds all day while his neck turned beet red, because he was unlucky in the draw and had to go down early. Once he forgot what he was doing and fell down on his back. He ended up in the emergency room with a second-degree sunburn on his face and palms. I prefer spending my weekends watching my kids play soccer. And then there’s baseball on TV, but I never said I was perfect.”

  I hadn’t assumed as much—at least not yet.

  We parked behind several cars and went around to the backyard. Mrs. Jim Bob had assembled quite a crowd. Miss Hathaway pounced on Jack and dragged him away, leaving me at the edge of the patio. I spotted Corinne Dawk and Sweetpea seated at a round table with two unfamiliar men. Simon and Jim Bob were lurking behind a dogwood tree, no doubt passing a bottle back and forth in that timeless tradition of Southern hospitality that supersedes social and economic class distinctions. If Mrs. Jim Bob saw them, one of them might be sleeping in the garage that night, if he was lucky. I was surprised that Brother Verber wasn’t there. Lottie Estes wasn’t there, either, but most likely because she was still away visiting a friend or relative and unaware of the premature invasion of both the Blue and the Gray. No one else in town would have been deemed worthy of an invitation.

  Corinne beckoned to me, so I joined them. “How lovely to see you again,” she said. “You look so much prettier without that drab uniform. With a touch more makeup, you’d be quite the belle at one of our Charleston soirees. Don’t you agree, Sweetpea?”

  Sweetpea’s lips twitched. “I don’t make it to too many soirees these days, Corinne. When I’m not with Simon, I’m at the library studying.”

  My mama had taught me not to judge a book by its cover, even one whose purported autobiographer was named Sweetpea, so I was a bit ashamed of myself. “Where do you go to school?”

  “The College of Charleston. I’m doing my undergraduate work in European history, and considering law school.”

  Corinne managed a halfhearted laugh. “But only after the wedding, I hope. We wouldn’t want to disappoint the flower girl, would we? She’s Sweetpea’s niece and such a little angel. Her teachers at Ashley Hall say she has the nicest manners of anyone at the school.”

  Sweetpea’s smile was no more sincere than Corinne’s attempt at lightheartedness. “No, we wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone, including the caterer, the organist at St. Michael’s, and the florist. Little Caitland will be absolutely devastated if she doesn’t have the chance to sashay down the aisle in her lilac frock and matching shoes. She’ll stay cloistered, and presumably a virgin even if she has to be packed away to a relative for nine months, until she comes out at the country club cotillion, dressed in white and clinging to her daddy’s arm for dear life. Of course, her daddy’s been fucking the maid since Caitland was a daffodil in her first dance recital, and her mother’s been crouched in the wine cellar with all manner of dearly departeds. I suppose it’s crowded down there. I must be related to most of them.”

  After a moment of silence of the sort more often associated with eulogies at funerals, Corinne said, “Well, I could certainly use a lawyer in the family, what with all these confusing contracts and now this business about electronic books and POD. I had to hire two lawyers to deal with the entertainment rights when my books were optioned in Hollywood. I thought I’d go crazy as a loon.” She turned to the man seated next to Sweetpea. “Are you familiar with the miniseries, Mr. Streek?”

  “Please, call me Wendell.” He fussed with his wire-rimmed glasses for a moment, then settled them on his nose and nodded at me. “Wendell Streek, as you may have deduced. I’m the treasurer of the Stump County Historical Society, as well as the official genealogist. And yes, Mrs. Dawk, I did watch the miniseries, although I found many of the inaccuracies and distortions depicted on the screen to be downright distressing. At one point I became so agitated that I was compelled to write a letter to the producer, delineating each egregious factual error. After the widespread distribution of the Emancipation Proclamation, for instance—”

  “She writes fiction,” said the other man. He took my hand and squeezed it until I yanked it free and put it in my lap rather than knock him upside the head, a notion that held some appeal. “I’m Kenneth Grimley, known in classrooms across this indivisible nation as General Wallingford Ames of the Army of Illinois.”

  “If at first you don’t secede…” murmured Corinne, then s
miled at Wendell. “I do write fiction, but my research is impeccable. I had no control over the production company’s decisions to rewrite entire sections of the books to better accommodate the limited attention span of an audience weaned on graphic sex and violence.”

  Mrs. Jim Bob bustled over to us. “I do think we can begin to partake of our little backyard buffet as soon as I’ve offered a blessing. Arly, I need you in the kitchen. We have several things to discuss.”

  “Gee, I’d love to,” I said, flashing my teeth at her, “but I’m just dying for a salami on rye and a dill pickle. I’ve had such a busy day that I haven’t had a bite to eat.”

  “You poor thing,” Corinne said. “Let me help you fix a plate. Sweetpea, why don’t you fetch some iced tea? Wendell, won’t you join us?”

  Mrs. Jim Bob was obliged to retreat as we pushed back our chairs and headed toward card tables bearing the brunt of “our little backyard buffet.” I refused to allow Corinne to load my plate with potato salad and such, since I was saving myself for tamales in a more congenial setting.

  I sat down at a picnic table, and after a minute, Jack joined me. I noted that his plate held only a few spoonfuls of this and that, along with a lone carrot stick.

  “Not hungry?” I said innocently.

  “Not yet.” He stood up as Miss Hathaway joined us. “Have you met Arly?”

  “Yes,” she said, “when I was here earlier. Have you made arrangements to handle traffic on Saturday?”

  “I’ve been promised deputies, but I’ll need the specific times you need to have the road blocked.” I glanced at Jack. “Can you edit out the blare of drivers leaning on their horns? I’m afraid it’s going to sound like a rainy afternoon in Manhattan.”