Hank returned to the Pacific with the rank of ensign, and his ships began invading islands and atolls all over the place. He himself never fired a gun, nor killed an enemy, but his expertise with radio helped conquer the foe, and by the time of the invasion of Iwo Jima his rank was captain, in charge of all the radio operations of his entire fleet. The officers and enlisted men under his command still referred to him as “Rube” behind his back, and did bad imitations of his country accent, but they respected him and never gave him any trouble. In the invasion of Iwo Jima, another Stay More boy, Gerald Coe, who had been a boyhood friend of Hank’s, made a heroic charge of a machine gun nest that was instrumental in taking the island, but was killed in the process, and posthumously awarded the Congressional Medal of Honor. There is a bronze plaque in his memory in a hallway of Jasper High School. When the war ended after the surrender of the enemy, Hank was promoted to commodore and offered a stateside desk job, but he wasn’t interested, and came home to Stay More just in time for the birth of his fourth daughter, Patricia.
He didn’t hold it against Sonora, but he somehow felt that it cast aspersions on his manhood that he had been unable to produce a son. It was hard for him to hold his head up in Stay More. Also, there wasn’t much use in Stay More for a highly trained electronics technician. Stay More didn’t even have electricity yet. Also, Swains Creek and Banty Creek put together weren’t much water compared with the ocean. Hank dreamed, nearly every night, of that ocean. Finally he could stand it no longer, and said to Sonora:
“Let’s go to California.”
“Anytime,” she replied, thinking he only meant to show her the place. She did not know the story of Benjamin Ingledew, who had tried to go to California and got as far as Mountain Meadows. Nor did she know of the curse that Jacob Ingledew had placed on any Stay Moron who dared try it again.
When they left for California, Hank had forgotten about the gold chronometer wristwatch. Perhaps he had even forgotten where he had buried it.
Chapter sixteen
During the war there came to maturity, in Stay More, two twin sisters, Jelena and Doris Dinsmore, who were destined to intrude, indirectly, into the Ingledew saga. It was Bevis Ingledew who first referred to them as “the Siamese twins.” Those listening to him didn’t know what that meant, but he could remember being taken as a child to the St. Louis World’s Fair, where he had seen a pair of Siamese twins in a sideshow. So when Bevis started joking in his high-spirited fashion about Jelena and Doris Dinsmore as the Siamese twins, the rest of the Stay Morons picked up the habit.
Jelena and Doris (their full names were Jelena Cloris and Helena Doris, but this confused their mother when she was yelling at them) were inseparable, not physically, but in all other ways. One was never seen without the other. Never. The men loafing and joking on the store porch had a ready mine of mirth in the inseparability of the Dinsmore sisters, speculating, for instance, that the two girls probably “went out back” together too, since it was known that the Dinsmore outhouse, though primitive and airy, was a two-holer. Although they were twins, there was a very slight difference between them, which gave rise to rumors that their fathers had not both been Jake Dinsmore, who, when the sisters were five years old, had gone out to California looking for a job, and had never returned, abandoning a family of fourteen children to a mother who did her poor best to feed them.
The mother’s name was Selena—her father had named her that because he had been an admirer of Salina Ingledew but didn’t know how to spell. Selena Dinsmore had first noticed the closeness of Jelena and Doris when they were infants: she had only one crib, and the two girls began very early the practice they would continue for the rest of their lives: sleeping in the same bed. Their mother nursed them together one to a breast, a not very difficult balancing act to those who saw her doing it. As soon as they were old enough to sit up and eat at the table with the other children, they always made certain that their chairs were side-by-side and their identical chipped bowls contained the same amount of gruel. From the first through the eighth and last grades, the two sisters shared the same desk, and the teacher of those years, Estalee Jerram, could scarcely ever tell them apart and was always calling upon one of them by the other’s name. The difficulty was compounded because Jelena and Doris insisted that their mother sew their clothes from identical patterns of flour-sack gingham and calico. If one of them was punished in school for some infraction of the rules, the other would insist that Miss Jerram mete the same punishment to her. If one of them was hurt and cried, the other’s tears were no less profound. They had few friends and seemed to need none.
The men who loafed on the store porch and made joking allusions to “the Siamese twins” began to speculate jokingly about what was going to happen now that the sisters were growing up and filling out. There were not, to anyone’s knowledge, two brothers anywhere hereabouts who were sufficiently twinned themselves to make a proper match for Jelena and Doris. But that was not what Jelena and Doris had in mind anyway, it seemed. What they had in mind became apparent at the first play-party they attended, Etta Whitter’s birthday celebration, where the games played were “Marching ’round the Levee,” “Build the Bridge,” “Post Office,” and “Snap.” All of these were kissing games, and whichever boy kissed Jelena had to kiss Doris too. Some of these games involved being “it,” and whenever Jelena was “it,” Doris would also be “it” at the same time, which some of the others felt was unfair in the running and catching games, because it made the sisters doubly quicker to catch when they were “it.” Usually, when they were caught by the boy who was “it,” they would both kiss him at the same time, Jelena on the right cheek, Doris on the left. The men on the store porch, hearing about the party afterward, made jokes about what was going to happen when Jelena and Doris were old enough to start going to square dances. As a matter of fact, the sisters did nearly wreck the first square dance they attended. Tobe Chism, the caller, had to stop the music and take the girls aside and try to explain to them that it is simply impossible for two girls to square dance with the same partner at the same time. When he was unable to persuade them to take turns, one doing one dance and one the next, he at least worked it out so that they wouldn’t both be moving with the partner at the same time, although this didn’t work too well either because Jelena or Doris or both would be inclined to forget to stand still and let the other do the moving. Folks were laughing at them so, they finally walked home together and didn’t go to any more of those romps.
They decided to get religion, because religion held that any kind of dancing was sinful, and even frowned upon the play-parties, because kissing was involved. On the next rare Sunday when a passing evangelist came to Stay More to give a meeting and baptism, the sisters offered themselves up for salvation, but when the congregation gathered at the creek for the baptizing, the revivalist discovered that the sisters wished to be baptized simultaneously. He argued that they ought to be baptized in the order of their birth, Jelena going first, but they refused. He protested that he didn’t think he was stout enough to submerse them both at the same time.
“You got two hands, ain’t ye?” Jelena observed.
“Yeah,” said the minister, “but generally I clamp one of ’em on yore face to keep the water out of yore nose and mouth.”
“We kin clamp our own faces,” declared Doris.
So the baptist, after studying and pantomiming the possibilities for a while, standing with his legs spread wide in the waist-deep water, had the girls face one another, and put one of his hands on the back of each, and lowered Jelena to his right and Doris to his left into the water. But to get them both completely under in this position required him to go under too, and there was no sign of any of them for a long moment; then the man’s head emerged, his hair plastered and his spectacles all wet, struggling mightily to get both girls back out of the water.
The men on the store porch got a lot of mileage out of that story, and began to make jokes about what would happen
when Jelena and Doris were old enough to receive their first caller.
Although most of the old-timey ways were forgotten or unused, courtship was still formal and old-fashioned. Couples, especially those who had got religion, did not go off on “dates”; a respectable girl would never find herself alone with a young fellow before marriage, which was why Sonora Twichell’s premarital conduct with Hank Ingledew had scandalized a small segment of the population. For proper folks, the suitor or swain, if he had matrimony in prospect, would call at the girl’s house, be invited to spend the night, and have the privilege of staying up late and talking with his intended after the others had gone to bed—in the same room, usually within earshot of anyone who could not, or did not want to, sleep.
The Dinsmore hovel (there is no other name for it), shown in our illustration, is perhaps typical of lower class dwellings built throughout the “Hoover” years when “things was so bad we’uns jist stood around lookin at one another and wonderin who to eat next.” In fact, it was built during the Roosevelt administration, but it still represents the decline of architecture in the Ozarks. It had but two rooms, and when Mont Duckworth, son of the canning factory owner, came to court Jelena, he would sleep in one room, in a bed with three of her brothers, Willard (named after some peddler), Tilbert and Baby Jim. In the other room he would do his courting while Mrs. Dinsmore slept with Ella Jean, Norma and—Mont hoped—Doris. But Doris, and Jelena too, could not conceive that anyone would court one of them without the other. Thus, when the others had gone to bed, Mont found himself sitting in front of the woodstove, Jelena on one side, Doris on the other.
“Well, uh…” Mont began. He had heard some of the jokes that the men on the store porch had made. If he had listened well enough, he could have remembered what they had suggested that he say or do in a situation like this, but he could not. To help his nervousness, he bit off a chaw of tobacco and began chewing. From time to time he would make some idle talk such as: “Right airish tonight, aint it?” and from time to time he would spit accurately into the open door of the stove. Doris and Jelena would both smile and make dove’s eyes at him. After midnight, when the fire in the stove was almost out and no move had been made to rekindle it, Mont announced, “Well, uh, reckon I’d best turn in,” and he went and slept with their brothers and departed early on the dawn.
The men on the store porch made jokes at the expense of Mont as well as Doris and Jelena. But one of the younger of them, Boden Whitter, declared, “By God, ole Mont aint got the melt to spark them gals proper, but I kin shore give it a try.” Boden Whitter did not report back to the men on the store porch about the outcome of his attempt, but word got around anyway, and Boden became no less a victim of the men’s jokes than Mont had been. It seems that at one point during the evening he had suggested to Jelena, “Well, honey, you keer to traipse out fer a look at the moon, or somethin?” and Jelena said she didn’t mind, and rose, and went out, but Doris was right on her heels. Boden followed, trying politely to get them to take turns, but Jelena said, “It’s jist as much her moon as it is mine.” Boden sat down on a big rock, and the sisters sat on either side of him; by and by he put an arm around each of them, and a little later he started in to kissing Jelena, but then he had to kiss Doris too. The kisses got longer and harder and Boden began to think he could talk Jelena into lying down, but then he realized that Doris would be watching or, worse, lying down beside Jelena, and he began to doubt if he could do anything if he was being watched, and in any case he might be expected to do Doris too, and he wasn’t at all certain that he could. The more he thought about it all, the less sure and more nervous he became, and finally he gave it up.
The men on the store porch speculated endlessly about alternative outcomes to Boden’s experience, and had a lot of fun.
A year or so went by, both Mont and Boden got married to other girls, and Jelena and Doris were getting to the far end of marriageable age, and then the war came and took away nearly all the young bachelors of Stay More. When news came of the first of several deaths of Stay Morons in the war, the people threw a pie supper at the canning factory for the purpose of raising funds for some kind of War Memorial. Ostensibly a pie supper is for the purpose of raising funds, but it is also a means of promoting conviviality and courtship between males and females. All the women and girls bake a pie, and these are wrapped and sealed and auctioned off one by one to the highest bidders among the men and boys. The males aren’t supposed to know who baked which pie, and are thus obliged to sit with, and eat with, and talk with, the female who baked the pie that they bid on. The organizers of the pie supper paid a visit to Mrs. Dinsmore and said she ought to make sure that both Doris and Jelena each baked a separate pie, no foolishness of both doing the same pie, and Mrs. Dinsmore said she would see to it that each girl did her separate pie, and sure enough, Jelena and Doris showed up at the pie supper with two different pies.
To the men on the store porch who had missed the pie supper, it was afterward Uncle Tearle Ingledew who told the tale, told it on his own nephew, William Robert Ingledew. “Billy Bob,” as we have seen, was Hank’s youngest brother, and was not drafted into the service because all three of his brothers were already serving. Although just as tall and strong and handsome as his oldest brother, he was, if anything, even shyer toward females, the shyest of his generation of shy Ingledews, but he somehow persuaded himself that there was no connection between bidding on a pie, of which he was uncommonly fond, and courting a girl. “So he made him a good bid,” related Uncle Tearle to the men on the store porch, “and he got this here pie that Jelena had fixed, and he took the wrappers off, and saw it was sweet pertater, which he don’t keer fer too mighty well, so he figgered he’d take him another chance, and bid on the next pie that come up, and damn if he didn’t git the one Doris fixed! It was coconut cream. The folks thar got pervoked and says you wasn’t supposed to bid on but one pie, but ole Billy Bob, he says by God he likes coconut cream and for that matter he aint too unpartial to sweet pertater neither, and he reckons he’ll jist eat ’em both. And he did. Jelena and Doris set on each side of him while he et their pies, but he never minded. They never bothered him much, and he give ’em a slice or two of their pies. After they done eatin, he was right well full and satisfied, and didn’t even mind when both them gals set in to talkin his ear off.” Strangely, the men on the store porch did not make any jokes over this news. They nodded their heads gravely, spat their tobacco juice, whittled their sticks, stretched in their chairs. At length one of them remarked, “Wal, if they is a-gorn to be jist one, then maybe ole Billy Bob is the one, atter all.”
He was. The next summer, Billy Bob, who was a carpenter by trade, more or less, built himself a modest frame house on the south bench of Ingledew Mountain. It too resembled the plain, modest dwelling which is the headpiece of this chapter and which represents the further architectural decline of the Ozarks. The only difference between Billy Bob’s house and the one illustrated here is that while the latter is bigeminal the former is trigeminal. When Hank Ingledew came home on another shore leave, he paid a visit to his kid brother’s house, and reported back to the village the news that Billy Bob had two housekeepers who were sisters, Dinsmore girls, and everybody knew who he meant, but one of them said to Hank, “Yeah, but they aint exactly housekeepers.”
The next time the revivalist who had revived the Dinsmore sisters happened to be passing through Stay More again, he learned of the situation and paid a call on the sisters and pointed out to them that their “man” wasn’t even a member of the church; in fact, like all Ingledews, he was an atheist; but even if he was a member of the church they would still be living in sin and they had better agree to one of them getting legally married to Billy Bob. When this had no effect, the minister went to their mother and reasoned with her, but Selena told him, “Why, Reverend, them gals is happier than I ever seed ’em in their whole life, and I aint aimin to git in the way of their happiness.” The preacher gave up. But the men on the st
ore porch did not. Whenever Billy Bob came to the store, which was seldom, they would pester him with questions which made him blush all the redder and at last manage to stammer out, “Aw, you fellers is all wet.”
But were they? To their sharp eyes it began to appear increasingly plain that Billy Bob, who had never been noted for great energy, was becoming almost indolent. He moved with slow, unstudied aimlessness, not exactly abstracted but with the corners of his mouth ever so slightly uptilted in what was not a grin nor a smirk so much as an expression of felicity. If the store-porchers’ conjectures were true, they could not help but feel, to a man, a profound envy which they never dared express to one another. Yet the only question which Billy Bob ever deigned answer was a question that one of the men on the store porch posed in the most general terms and as a kind of observation, twelve months after the sisters had gone to live with him: “Hit’s been all of a year now, Billy Bob. How you like it?”
And Billy Bob scratched under his hat reflectingly and, with that expression on the corners of his mouth, allowed, “Wal, they tend to kind of talk a little more than I keer to listen.”
Not long after, Tilbert Dinsmore circulated the report that not one but both of his sisters, he had observed on a recent visit to Billy Bob’s place, seemed to be swelling out around the middle. Now he didn’t know what others thought, he said, but as for himself he didn’t take kindly to the idea of having a damn pair of woodscolts for nephews or nieces or one of each. The next time the preacher happened to be passing through Stay More, Billy Bob’s many uncles, led by Tearle, ganged up on him and “persuaded” him to join William Robert Ingledew in holy matrimony with Jelena Cloris Dinsmore and Helena Doris Dinsmore. They were no longer referred to as “the Siamese twins” but rather as “the Mizzes Ingledew.”
The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks Page 38
