by C. Ruth Daly
“Hi, again Mrs. Randall. I’m sorry but I forgot about the errands you need me to run.”
“Well, it’s okay Donna. I know you need to eat lunch. But before I send you on these errands, I want to give you a piece of maple walnut candy that my daughter-in-law sent me in the mail for Christmas.”
Now in the kitchen I sat at the round melamine table with its yellow top and silver edges. Mrs. Randall brought out a shiny red tin and moved her aged fingers around the edge in an attempt to open it.
“Oh dear, Donna, can you get this for me?”
I moved my fingers around the rim and the lid popped off.
“My fingers are just too stiff to open these things anymore.” Mrs. Randall shook her head in disgust.
“Here, Mrs. Randall. Why don’t we keep these in an empty bag so you can get at them easily?” I offered as I took an empty bread bag from her kitchen drawer. Then Mrs. Randall proceeded to engage me in conversation and tell me about the order of the Eastern Star. Secretly, or maybe not so secretly, Mrs. Randall wanted me to join Rainbow, which was an order of Eastern Stars for girls. She’d always tell me of a meeting and ended with “Ohhh, but you’re Catholic.” Then click her tongue.
Eastern Star was an organization of descendents of Masons and you had to believe in one supreme entity to join. I guess that’s why Catholics were excluded. Some people in town viewed us as idol worshipers.
So Mrs. Randall began telling me about the meeting last week and the sad tale of the nice young man named Ned Hollis who gave the slide presentation.
She began with how Ned Hollis was born in Indianapolis, Indiana, in 1944 and he was raised by a rich woman in Atlanta. He grew up tasting the wealth of Atlanta society and lived in a majestic house which was surrounded by magnolia trees. Ned had no siblings, as far as he knew, for he never knew his biological mother, although his mother knew him. She knew him for a few weeks before the pressures of unwed motherhood bore down upon her and the realization that, because she was just eighteen and barely out of school, she couldn’t care for a baby. Ned never knew his biological father. It was reported to him that he had been a young man who sought the comfort of a senior girl before the draft.
Mrs. Randall smacked her lips. “Yes Donna, his family is very prominent in county history. Ned’s adopted mother was named Hattie McCormick. Hattie was born around 1880 in Gardenville and raised near Burgenton. She was one of Edgar and Elizabeth McCormick’s ten children. The McCormick family was one of the original settlers of the county, and they retained their prominence in Burgenton and Gardenville society for many years, but of course now they are just a part of county history.”
“I’ve heard of them, Mrs. Randall. Don’t some of the McCormicks still live around here?”
“Yes, Donna. A few. Mr. Hollis said that when he was born his biological mother did not give him a name. It was a few weeks after his birth when the Indiana birth certificate read: Ned C. Hollis—legally changed upon adoption.” Mrs. Randall folded her hands in her lap.
“I do remember the story of Hattie McCormick. Why folks still talk about it, especially at the historical society.”
“How does the story go, Mrs. Randall?” I was anxious to hear a good tale and I wasn’t in a hurry to start the afternoon errands.
“Let me see, Donna. Hattie McCormick had met her future husband, Franklin Hollis, when she was just seventeen. Hattie was beautiful and the young men of the county adored her full figure and exquisite charm. Hattie McCormick was sought by many suitors and one boy in particular had a liking for her, but she shunned them all until a stranger came into Burgenton one summer. Franklin Hollis was an actor and singer who traveled with a theatre company touring the small towns of the Midwest and enlivening the local stages with drama and music. Towns like Burgenton rarely saw a big show usually only local groups performed at the Opera House with the exception of an occasional summer troupe that came through. And it was the summer of 1901 when Hattie McCormick happened into Franklin Hollis.”
“You mean actors used to come to Burgenton? That’s cool, Mrs. Randall.”
“You see, Donna, F. James Hollis as he was known on stage was performing with a Chicago theatre troupe in Macbeth when he appeared on stage in Burgenton. The story goes on about how Hattie arrived at the Opera House that July evening with her parents and two sisters dressed in their finery and transported by a fringed horse-drawn buggy. The Opera House was located above the dry goods shop. Of course the dry goods shop is now the hardware store, Donna. You can still get up to the Opera House by climbing those steep wooden stairs and then through the narrow entry way to its single door entrance.”
Mrs. Randall resumed the story and with a sigh: “You see, a certain young gentleman had a liking for Hattie McCormick, but when he saw how Hattie had taken to Mr. Hollis, problems began. What I’ve heard is this young man stood around after the play to wait for Hattie. You know, the Opera House has those dark side stairs by the entrance going up to the balcony. This boy watched as Hollis left—the actors were the last to leave, and he hid back in those shadows ‘cause the place is not lit any better today than it was then. Next thing you know, Hollis’s leaving down the unlit stairs and that boy jumps on Hollis, wrestling with him on the stairs. Hollis rolled down those steps and lay unconscious and that young man disappeared. Folks thought he had taken off down the fire escape behind the stage. Hattie and her family, like everyone else in town, waited outside the Opera House to catch a glimpse of the actors. But Hollis never came. The other actors had already come out to greet the public but no sign of Hollis. Mr. McCormick went looking for him after about a half-hour and stumbled right over that actor lying there like a dead man. Folks down below heard him yell and they came running and thought Hollis was dead, too, but they carried him out and the McCormicks took Hollis home with him. He came to later that night and told what he remembered to the sheriff, but by that point, the other fellow was gone. Sad thing is folks found that young boy hanging from the wrought iron of the balcony a few days later. Don’t know what got in to him. People say that boy must’ve thought he had killed the actor.”
With a slight smile, Mrs. Randall looked out the window. “Of course when Hollis woke up and saw the angel, Hattie McCormick, taking care of him he was smitten. It was love at first sight, Donna. The courtship was brief, as was F. James Hollis’s stay in the area. Hattie, and Franklin Hollis, as everyone now knew him were soon married at the Methodist Church here in town. It was an elaborate ceremony. Not because Franklin Hollis had substantial means, mind you, but because Hattie was the first of Edgar and Elizabeth McCormicks’ daughters to marry. Of course, she would only be one out of two of the ten children to marry.”
“Wow, Mrs. Randall.” I leaned forward, “Go on, would you?”
Mrs. Randall turned her head toward me. “Franklin Hollis left his bride with her family and continued his summer tour. In late August he returned and gathered up his wife, a small dowry from Mr. McCormick—people gave dowries during those days, and Hattie and Franklin boarded the train to Chicago. Chicago was what Franklin Hollis called home.”
“You see... Hattie was expecting a little more than what she got when they arrived in Chicago. Home was a humble apartment near a theatre, but Hattie loved Franklin so she was tolerant. After a year though, her tolerance wore through. Franklin worked late and spent summers on tour. Hattie traveled with him throughout the Midwest but the touring grew tiring.”
“This is the part that Mr. Hollis spoke on.” Mrs. Randall slowly stretched her legs in front of her. “At Hattie’s insistence, Franklin gave up the theatre troupe and became a banker, grew through the ranks and prospered in the banking business.”
“Soon the couple moved to Atlanta where Franklin became president of an established financial institution. Using some of the dowry from her father and much of their newly acquired wealth, Hattie and Franklin bought a grand house. Hattie returned to the life of finery—more than what she had been accustomed to growing up in Gardenvill
e, and grew in Atlanta society. The only problem was that she grew alone. Franklin of course worked long hours and again traveled frequently. After seven years of marriage Hattie and Franklin were childless. So Hattie involved herself in her social and charitable functions and occasionally traveled to the Gardenville and Burgenton area to visit her family and flaunt her wealth.”
“One day while Hattie was sitting in her southern garden the maid brought a minister to her. The minister told Hattie that Mr. Hollis had died. He had dropped dead at his desk.” Mrs. Randall laid a finger against her cheek and shook her head. “The doctor around the corner from the bank believed it was a heart attack. Hattie was devastated. She was thirty-four years old, childless, and a widow.”
“It wasn’t until nine lonely years later that Hattie became a parent when she received an anguished phone call from a desperate young woman. The agreement was that the child would not know his real mother and the mother could move on and make her own life. So Ned C. Hollis grew up in Atlanta and later went on to college to become a photographer. He was just a young man ready to head to college when his mother died in her sleep. After college he worked all over the country taking pictures of models and he even took a picture of Bob Hope that was put in a newspaper. Mr. Hollis said he was engaged to be married, but a few days before the wedding he and his fiancée were in a nasty car accident. Mr. Hollis was driving, and his fiancée died instantly. He ended up in the hospital with a concussion and when he got out weeks later he decided to leave California and go back to his Mother’s roots and start a new life. That’s why he came to Burgenton. And that’s how he came here. And my, did he have some nice slides to show us and the girls in Rainbow.”
“Wow.” I said. “I don’t think I would tell anyone about my life. My mom and dad just met at work. There was no money and no dowry.”
Mrs. Randall and I sat in silence. I absorbed the tales which had just been told to me while Mrs. Randall began to nod off to sleep.
“What errands do you need me to run, Mrs. Randall?”
Mrs. Randall opened her eyes and handed me a list.
FIVE
New Year’s Eve had arrived. Lori Bell’s grandpa dropped her off at my house at six-o’clock and the two of us walked over to the Myers’ house to meet Glynda before heading to her grandma’s house and our night in the apartment. LBJ and I were full of excitement. My clothes, a blanket and pillow were stuffed in a grocery bag. LBJ had a round green overnight bag with a leather handle in one hand and a red sleeping bag in another. The night was cold and crisp and we were ready to welcome in 1974. Glynda told us her grandma had a little black and white TV we could use to watch the ball drop in Times Square. It would be our night of independence. A moment in our present lives when we could slip from the reality of Burgenton and dwell in another existence: the world of Times Square and the freedom of the apartment.
Up the steps, across the porch and we were at Glynda’s house. Glynda was waiting by the front window and she opened the door before we could even knock.
“Hi, guys!” Glynda giggled. “Let’s get going while the night’s still young!”
We yelled our good-byes into the emptiness of the house and somewhere, from the recesses of the kitchen we heard a faint, “Okay, bye. Be good,” from Mrs. Myer.
Back across the blocks and past my home, I could see night’s shadow creeping across the eastern wall of the house. The moon was waxing as was our impending adventure.
“Grandma!” Glynda was first to walk through the screened porch and past the stairway which led to our domain. We put our stuff down, and headed to the kitchen where we found Mrs. Becker with her full figure and round red face framed by bobbed gray hair stirring something in a pan over the stove.
“I’ve got fudge for you girls. What do you have planned?”
“We’re just going to talk and watch TV, Grandma.”
“Well, I hope we can get some sleep tonight. It looks like that young Mr. Hollis is having a party. He does seem like a respectable young man so I don’t imagine he will be too loud.”
“I saw Mr. Hollis at the drugstore.” I said. I was thinking about the bottle of pills and his fancy clothes—or at least fancy for Burgenton.
Everyone looked at me as if I had more to say, so I felt like I needed to add to my comment. “He seems tall.”
I received three blank stares and then Mrs. Becker returned to talking. She poured the soft mass of chocolate into a pan, “You girls be good tonight. I’m head’ in to bed. Come back down quietly if you want some of this fudge.”
“Your grandma is real cool.”
“Yeah, she is.” Glynda smiled.
We headed up the oak staircase with its wide banister and ornate-leaf trim. The apartment was to the right of the top of the stairs. The door was open. Inside was a round aqua green circular sofa with an end table on one side and across the room sat a card table with the TV on it. The glorious TV that would connect us with New York City and Times Square. Behind one half of the sofa was the kitchenette and to its left was the bedroom. We threw our stuff on the bed and scouted out places to sleep. Glynda pulled on the blind and it flipped up, bouncing off the rod and onto the floor. The bare window gave us a good view of Ned Hollis’s front door and his big picture window.
“Oooohhh... we can watch the party tonight.” Glynda was enchanted.
Some women were dressed fancily with evening attire and there was even a catering truck from Kokomo parked outside.
“Wow. A catering truck.” I was amazed. “They drove all the way from Kokomo to bring him supper.”
“Let’s see who’s going in.” LBJ said.
We stood and watched for a while as Ned Hollis greeted guests at the front door and welcomed them into the marble foyer. We recognized many of the people including the mayor’s son, Edgar, and the county sheriff.
“Oh my Lord!” Glynda was aghast. “It’s Thelma Carson! I’ve never seen her without that billed farmer’s hat.”
We were stunned by the fact that Thelma, despite being a relative to Ned, was invited and dressed for the occasion. She wore a black dress that hung above the knees and her hair was pulled back in a twist.
After the last of the one group of guests arrived, Mr. Hollis spotted us. He stood and stared while we jumped out of the window’s view and Glynda grabbed the fallen window blind, unrolled it and plastered it against the window with her body.
“Oooohhh... he spotted us! I better get this blind up.”
And Glynda dropped it again which gave us a good view of the next person approaching Mr. Hollis’s house. It was my sister Irish on the arm of all people, Stewart’s brother—the one with the cigar, black slits for eyes and pock marks.
“Oh God! What is she doing now?”
And we watched as Irish emptied herself into the marble foyer, while Stewart’s brother gave Mr. Hollis a reluctant shake of the hand.
“Oh God! What is she doing with him?
“Oh calm down Donna. You know your sister is a slut. Don’t worry about it. My sister was a slut, too, but she got married and has a kid” LBJ looked at me with those big doe eyes of hers, and without blinking continued, “She hasn’t even divorced yet.”
“You’re not much help, Lori Bell. This is serious.
You know what we smelled when we left Stewart’s house that night—you know Stewart’s brother is a drunk and a stoner.”
“I heard he’s real mean, too.” Glynda added.
“Hey, let’s sneak over and spy on them. They’ll never know, after all they’ve got them big juniper bushes in front of that picture window. How could they spot us?” LBJ was in her detective mode. “Well?”
“Yeah! Let’s go! Let’s go!” Glynda was thrilled to be a part of the adventure.
I was hesitant, but agreed, so down the staircase and into the darkness of the night we crept.
“Oh these juniper bushes are so itchy!”
We hid beneath the large shrubs after making zigzag maneuvers in a crouched posi
tion across the lawn as if there had been snipers on the rooftops blazing bullets at our feet.
Glynda was panting, I was scratching my arms and hands and Lori Bell was “Johnny on the spot” at the window.
“Careful LBJ. What are they doing in there? My grandma will kill me if she knew what we were up to.”
“This is serious, Glynda. My sister is in there.”
By now the action behind the picture window was more distracting than my itching arms. Most people were dancing and drinking liquor from shiny glasses. Thelma was sucking down an amber liquid, laughing, and snorting in Ned Hollis’s face. Hollis had a drink in one hand but rarely touched it. I scanned the room for other recognizable faces and spotted Linda Miles, Evan’s sister, who was on the arm of one of the creeps from Stewart’s house.
“Hey, LBJ! There’s that guy from Stewart’s house. Remember? He was one of the guys with Stew’s brother that night. I wonder who he is.”
“Oh, Oh, I know!!” From her crouched position, Glynda bounced up and down on her chubby legs. “That guy is a Reynolds. He graduated from Burgenton High last year with my brother. His grandmother was a McCormick. She was the only other McCormick to have children besides Hattie McCormick Hollis. So he must be Ned Hollis’s cousin. I think that’s Brian, you know, he’s Brian Reynolds...” and Glynda gestured toward the window, “...well, Brian has just one sister, but she’s in college in Terre Haute. His mom and dad live out on the Steeple Road to Gardenville.” Glynda gleamed with pride to have made the connection.
Like good spies we sat and watched. And we also watched as Ned Hollis remained the perfect host, paying cordial attention to each guest. Thelma sat in a leather wing-backed chair and chatted with the sheriff’s wife, who leaned back in the twin chair with her long legs crossed before her. It was an odd comparison to Thelma’s short and fat limbs which barely reached the floor. Stewart’s brother, who was smoking a cigar and sucking down shots from a bottle with a German name on it, stood with his back to Irish and Ned Hollis. Brian Reynolds, who had a loose arm around Linda Miles and was drinking a beer, hung on to his every word while Linda’s roaming eyes caught those of Edgar Gerber, the mayor’s twenty-something year old son.
