by Lisa Gregory
"Well, I declare, it's about time. Dr. Jimmy."
"I'm sorry, Lurleen. You shouldn't have waited for me. Hello, Dovie."
"Hello, Dr. Jim." Dovie stood up, too, to help her mother serve the food she had kept warm in the oven. Dovie was a tall, slender woman, handsome to look at, with large dark eyes, well-modeled features, and smooth skin the color of coffee and cream. James wondered why a nice-looking woman like Dovie hadn't married by now, instead of living with her mother in the servants' quarters above the carriage house. But there was something very contained and controlled about Dovie that he guessed kept men at bay. She wore her thick, curly black hair pulled back from her face and subdued into a tight knot. Her dark skirt and white high-necked blouse were plain to the point of severity. Dovie carried herself ramrod straight, and her face was stem. She looked the epitome of a schoolmarm, which was what she was at the small schoolhouse for the town's black children.
The two women set a platter and bowls of food on the table in front of James. "Mmmm." He began to fill his plate. "Why don't you join me?"
Lurleen snorted. "We done ate already, Dr. Jim."
"Then have a cup of coffee and keep me company."
Dovie was quick to accept. She clasped her hands in her lap and leaned forward, eager to talk. "I heard you treated a man down by the tracks this morning."
"Yes." James smiled slowly. He knew Dovie; she wanted to hear every last detail. Ever since he could remember, Dovie had been at his heels, wanting to know something— pestering him to teach her to read and write and figure numbers, asking to read his books, interrogating him about his college courses. She was the most intellectually curious human being he had ever met. One day James's father had found her struggling through one of his thick medical tomes when she was about sixteen, and he had given Lurleen the money to send Dovie to the college at Tuskegee.
Dovie shot James a fulminating glance. "Now, don't you tease me, James Banks. I remember you when you were still in short pants."
"Dovie! That ain't no way to talk to the doctor!" James chuckled. "Don't get on her, Lurleen. She's right; I was teasing. Okay. One of the railroad crew got his leg crushed this morning."
"What did you do? Were you able to set it?"
He shook his head. "No. It was too severe. I had to amputate." He began to describe the operation.
Lurleen threw up her hands and rose quickly. "Lord, Dr. Jim, you drive me right outta this house." She glared at her daughter. "Girl, you crazy, sittin' there listenin' to that without turnin' a hair."
Dovie's lips quirked into a smile. "Sorry, Mama."
"I promise we'll talk about something else," James put in, and Lurleen sat back down.
Dovie hesitated, then said, "There's a boy at my school who worries me."
"What's the matter?"
"He has a long cut on his arm, says he got it from barbed wire, and it's not healing. His arm's starting to puff up and look a funny color."
"Bring him in to see me tomorrow."
"His parents don't have any money."
James shrugged. "That doesn't make his arm any better, does it?"
"No." Dovie smiled. "Thank you."
"Don't mention it."
James finished eating and went upstairs to his mother's sitting room. She was reading when he came into the room, but she set aside the leather-bound book with a smile. At fifty-two, Anthea Banks was still a lovely woman, and she carried herself regally. She came from one of the best families in Willow Springs; her ancestors had been among the first to settle in Farr County. Her sister was married to a judge, and her cousin was the bank president.
"James, dear." She held out both her hands to him.
"Hello, Mother." He clasped her hands and sat down on a hassock near her chair.
"Working late tonight, dear?"
"You know how it is."
Anthea gave a wry grin. "I'm afraid I do."
She squeezed his hands. Anthea wasn't an expressive woman; but she loved her son deeply, and she was very proud of him. He was all one could hope for in a son: handsome, intelligent, and kind. But he was a lonely man. His whole life was his work, and though now and then he called on an eligible girl, he hadn't been serious about anyone since he'd moved back to Willow Springs, It bothered Anthea to think of James living without the love of a wife and children. She suspected, from a look he got in his eyes sometimes, that there had been heartbreak somewhere in his past; but she was not the sort of mother to pry, so she didn't bring up the subject.
For a few minutes, they chatted about their days. Anthea told him about the Baptist Women's meeting that afternoon in Rachel Corbell's house, and James related a few amusing anecdotes from his work, carefully expurgating anything that might be ugly or harsh. When Anthea began to look tired, James kissed her on the cheek and went back downstairs.
The kitchen was dark, and Lurleen and Dovie were gone. James went into the dining room and took out a bottle of Kentucky bourbon from the sideboard. He poured himself two fingers, and, glass in hand, strolled out onto the front porch. He stood for a moment sipping his drink and gazing out at the dark, silent street. The honeysuckle bush along the side fence was in bloom, and the air was heavy with its sweet, heady scent.
James closed his eyes, a wistful sadness creeping through him. Honeysuckle had grown wild behind the Turner house, and all that sweet, short June while he and Julia lay in the shelter of the trees there, he had smelled it. He had never been able to smell honeysuckle since without thinking of Julia.
He took another swallow of bourbon. It was pointless to think about it after all this time. Eleven years. Yet he could still see her as she had looked that day in Harper's store, when he was home for Christmas. It had been years since he'd seen her, and he had had trouble placing her for a moment. She had looked so much like a woman at seventeen, so little like the child he had seen at school. She had worn a faded pink dress and a shawl, and a saucy red knitted cap had sat on her pale golden hair, hanging loose and silken around her face. Her eyes had been a clear, startling blue. Her face was delicate, her eyes huge, and she had a sweet, vulnerable air. He had thought she was the most beautiful woman he'd ever seen.
James wondered where Julia was now and what she was doing. Probably had a passel of kids and looked twice her age. He didn't know why he still thought about her sometimes after all these years. He guessed it was because she had been his first, and you didn't forget your first woman, your first real love. Your first heartbreak.
James tossed down the rest of the drink. It was a smooth fire in his throat and stomach.
He could never forget Julia—the softness of her body beneath him, the sweet taste of her mouth. He would always carry the memory of their lovemaking inside him—just as he would always carry the pain he had felt when he had learned she'd married Will Dobson.
At first he hadn't believed it. She had lain with him, and James knew he had been her first man. She had told him she loved him. He had loved her desperately, had wanted to marry her. Then, suddenly, she had married Will Dobson— without even telling him. He had had to hear it from her father.
He hadn't understood it. He had thought about it a million times, and he never had understood it. Julia had said she loved him. How could she turn around and marry another man? But she had, and all he could think it meant was that she hadn't really loved him. She must have deceived him, used him for some hidden reason of her own.
At first he had been angry and bitter. He had drank too much and spent too much time in New Orleans's Storyville. But eventually the pain had eased, and he had gone back to his studies and qualified for medical school. Over the years, his life had returned to normal. He had become a doctor. He enjoyed his work. He rarely thought of those few, brief months when he had been in love with Julia Turner.
Just sometimes. . . like tonight. . . when he smelled the strong scent of honeysuckle in the air.
James sighed and turned away. It was time to stop mooning about on the porch and go to bed. His d
ays started early. He turned and went back into the house, shutting the door on the evening air.
❧
Julia Dobson glanced over at the bed in the corner of the room. Vance and Bonnie lay curled up together, their eyes wide open and fixed on their mother, Bonnie's thumb was firmly planted in her mouth. They were too frightened to go to sleep. They had been scared of their father in life. Now they were scared of him in death, Julia wished she could have put them in another room where they wouldn't have to see Will's dead body stretched out on the table, but their house consisted of only one large room, and there was no other place for the children to sleep.
Julia sighed and turned her attention back to the table where her husband lay. Will's death had stunned her. He was only thirty-seven years old; she had expected to live out most of the rest of her life with him. But Vance had come running to the house this morning, screaming that Daddy was sick, and she had found Will stretched out on the ground beside his plow, the team waiting patiently. He had been unconscious. She had sent for the doctor, but Will was dead by the time he came. The doctor had said it was probably a heart attack, uncommon in a man Will's age.
With her neighbor's help, Julia had washed the body and dressed it, folded his hands across his chest and weighted his eyelids with coins. Now all that was left was the long night of sitting up with the body. She supposed she ought to pray for Will, or recall pleasant memories of him. But there had been precious few pleasant memories, and at the moment she couldn't summon up a prayer, except maybe one of gratitude.
She was glad he was dead. Well, not glad, really; she didn't wish harm to anyone. But she was relieved. Yes, certainly she was relieved. She would no longer have to be afraid that he might hit her. She would no longer have to worry about protecting the children from him if he was mad or drunk. She wouldn't have to listen to him curse her or be reminded of the favor he had done her by marrying her. Nor would she have to lie quiescent under him, enduring his clumsy hands and the violation of his entering her.
He hadn't been a terrible husband. Julia guessed. He hadn't hit her as often as some men hit their wives, and he'd never taken his belt to her. He had kept a roof over their beads and food in their mouths, even if it had never been fancy. And he had given her child a name.
The trouble between them hadn't been all his fault. She didn't love him, had married him not loving him, just so the baby she carried would not be illegitimate. Will had wanted her so much that he had been willing to marry her, knowing that she carried another man's child, but the knowledge had always been a bitterness within him. Julia had cried on their wedding night, loving Jimmy, aching for his tender caresses instead of Will's rough fondling. Though she had cried into her pillow, trying to muffle the sound. Will had heard it. If Will hadn't been very good to her, neither had she been fair to him.
Even now when he was dead, she couldn't feel anything for him.
All she could feel was relief that he was dead and fear because she didn't know what she and the children would do. Will was sharecropping this land, so the house didn't belong to them. The owner of the property would want to put someone else here to work the land. Where would she go? How would she take care of two children all by herself?
She tried not to think about that. She folded her hands together, closed her eyes, and tried to pray for the repose of Will's soul. But Julia knew that deep inside, she was really praying for herself.
Chapter 2
Julia buried Will Dobson in the cemetery beside the Antioch Baptist Church, three miles down the road from their house. Only Julia, her children, and their neighbor, Lula Braswell, and her two sons were there. The preacher said a few words over the grave, and Mrs. Braswell's sons lowered the pine casket into the open hole. Julia stood for a moment, staring down at the grave. Bonnie and Vance were on either side of her, dressed in their best clothes, holding Julia's hands.
"Is Daddy down there?" Bonnie asked.
"Yes, sweetheart."
"How will he get out?"
"He won't," Julia smoothed her hand over her daughter's hair, neatly captured in braids. "When you die, you don't get up anymore. You lie in the earth."
"How will he meet Jesus, then?"
"It's not his body that goes to Heaven." If, in fact, that was where Will was headed; Julia had her doubts. "It's his soul, and that's already left his body. When he died, his soul flew away to meet Jesus."
"I don't think Daddy—" Vance began, but Julia squeezed his shoulder sharply, casting a significant look at his younger sister, and the boy subsided.
Lula Braswell came up to them and hugged Julia affectionately. "Why don't I take the children on over to our place? You could have some time here to yourself, then you all could eat dinner with us. How about it, Bonnie? Would you like some of my gingerbread cookies? Vance?"
"Yes, ma'am," Vance answered, casting an uncertain look at his mother.
"Thank you." Julia smiled at the older woman. "But you've done too much for us already. I don't know what I'd have done without you." Mrs. Braswell had been more than kind. She had helped Julia lay Will out, and her two sons had built the casket. Julia couldn't have afforded to buy a coffin. Just paying for the pine slats for the box and giving the minister a stipend for the service had taken almost all of the money she had saved.
"It's no more than what you'd have done for me. Than what you have done for me." The Braswells' youngest girl had come down with a terrible fever the year before, and Mrs. Braswell herself had been so sick she hadn't been able to care for her, so Julia had nursed both of them until Lula was back on her feet. Mrs. Braswell had been Julia's fast friend since then, despite Will's obvious disapproval.
Julia smiled. "Thank you. I would appreciate it."
Lula led the children to her wagon while the Braswell boys lowered the coffin into the ground and shoveled the dirt back in on top of it. They patted the black earth down into a mound, and Lee, the youngest, stuck a crude wooden cross into the ground and held it while the other boy hammered it in with the back of the shovel. They shouldered their tools and tipped their hats to Julia.
"Sorry, ma'am."
"Sorry, Mrs. Dobson "
"Thank you."
They joined their mother and Julia's children in the wagon and drove off. The preacher took Julia's hand and offered his final condolences before he, too, left. Julia turned back to the fresh grave. She was alone. She stared down at the mounded grave. Now was when she should make her peace with Will. Now was when she should cry.
No tears came. Julia leaned over and placed half of the handful of wildflowers she had gathered at the base of Will's marker. She turned to the grave beside his. It was short, only half the length of Will's, and the earth had settled so much it was flat. It had, after all, been almost nine years. It, too, bore a simple cross of two small lengths of wood hammered together, so weatherbeaten that the words scratched into it were almost unreadable now: Pamela Dobson, b. January 3, 1895, d. Nov. 8, 1896.
Weeds had sprung up on it, as they did every year. Julia yanked up each shoot and tossed it away. She knelt beside the marker and laid down the rest of the wildflowers. She took off her gloves and slid her hand over the ground in a kind of caress, as though it were the baby she touched.
"Pammy." She had been Jimmy's daughter, the child for whom Julia had married Will Dobson, and Julia had loved her to distraction. She had looked like Jimmy, with his thick, dark hair and chocolate brown eyes, and she had had a smile like sunshine. A thousand times over the past nine years, Julia had longed to sec that smile again.
But she had died of scarlet fever when she was less than two years old. Only the fact that Julia had just had Vance, who depended on her utterly, had kept her going after Pamela's death.
Julia touched the rough cross. She wished she had the money for a granite marker. Before many more years passed, no one would know that a sweet child lay here beside the man who was not her father but the man who had given her his name.
The tears that would n
ot come for her newly dead husband gathered now in Julia's eyes and rolled down her cheeks. She had lived with Will for almost eleven years, cooked his meals, nursed him through sickness, borne his children because it was her duty, because she owed him. But she had loved Pamela.
Julia leaned her head against the faded marker and cried.
He glanced around the room. Julia realized with astonishment that he was nervous, too. He sighed. "I reckon you know why I'm here."
"Yes."
"If it was winter, I wouldn't hurry you none. I let the Widow Hall stay in their place all winter, you know, after Arthur died."
"Yes, I know."
"But with it being spring and all—well, I have to get this land planted soon, or there won't be a crop this spring. I have to give it to another tenant."
"I know."
He cleared his throat. "I talked to Gerald Miller about it this morning, and he and his family are going to move in here." Julia nodded. She didn't know what to say. "He— I'd like him to start as soon as possible. So I'm going to have to ask you to leave the house by day after tomorrow. That's when I told Miller he could move in."
Julia's eyes widened. She hadn't expected it to be quite this soon. She had thought she'd have a week, at least, to pack their things and decide where they would go.
Harrington's eyes darted around nervously. "The thing is, ma'am, your husband owed me some money. I loaned him the cash to get through that winter three years ago after the drought wiped out all the crops."
"Yes, I remember." Julia smoothed her hand across her forehead, pushing back the wisps of fine hair that had come loose and clung there. "I—how much did he owe you?"
"Well, I also loaned him the money to buy the new team and the wagon last month. Of course, he thought he'd have plenty of time to pay it back."
Of course. No one ever thought about a thirty-seven-year-old man dropping dead.
