Southern Son

by Victoria Wilcox

  “You mentioned he was feelin’ poorly. What’s the matter?”

  “Nothin’ in particular. But he gets worn out so fast and has such a hard time workin’. He’s been that way, on and off, ever since he came home from that awful prison camp. Oh, how I hate the Yankees, John Henry! They didn’t have to be so cruel, just to win the War! Was it just awful, livin’ up there in the North?”

  “It was hard at first,” he admitted, “like livin’ in a foreign country, almost. They don’t understand anything about us or what we were fightin’ for. They all talk about the ‘Emancipation of the Slaves,’ like that’s all the War was about. Keepin’ a slave isn’t somethin’ worth dyin’ for! But the right to choose what you will do—now that’s a cause. Seems like we’ve lost our own freedom, when the government can tell us how we ought to live our lives.”

  Mattie gave him a long look, like his words were the solution to a puzzle she’d been working over. “I guess I never understood what you were so angry about, that summer your father sent you to Jonesboro. I thought you were just a hot-headed boy lookin’ for somethin’ to fight about. You used to slam the screen door every time you came in, like you needed to hit somethin’.”

  “I reckon I was hot-headed, back then, but I wasn’t lookin’ for a fight. But when there’s one I believe in, I can’t just stand back and stay out of it.”

  “I was so worried about you that summer. You were so very unhappy.”

  He stared at the woods across the way, dark shadowed in the moonlight. “I wasn’t altogether unhappy, Mattie—you were there. And now, you’re here,” he said, turning to look into her eyes, and smiling.

  It should have been the perfect moment for the conversation to take a more romantic turn, but instead, she said:

  “Thanks to Robert. He arranged the whole thing after my father had to go back home. Robert has friends all over town and found me the teachin’ positions, and the summer tutorin’ as well. Wealthy folks are always lookin’ for tutors. Then he insisted that I come live here instead of stayin’ with my students. Most tutors take room and board in their employers’ homes, but Robert wouldn’t hear of it.”

  “Cousin Robert sounds like a real hero,” he said slowly, watching her face.

  “He’s been wonderful! I don’t know what I’d do without him.”

  And seeing the tenderness in her eyes, John Henry felt something tearing at his heart. Then he started to cough, that same troublesome cough that had plagued him on and off ever since his bout with the pneumonia.

  “John Henry, what’s wrong?” Mattie asked in sudden concern.

  It took him a moment to catch his breath, the wheezing leaving him dizzy. He put his hand to his forehead and felt the cold perspiration that always came with the coughing fit. From somewhere in the folds of her dress, Mattie pulled out a handkerchief and started dabbing at his face.

  “Oh honey, you look awful! What’s the matter? You didn’t tell me you were ill. Here, hold onto me until you get your breath back,” and somehow tiny Mattie was steadying his whole weight and helping him to the porch swing. Then she sat beside him wiping his brow until his breathing came slow and regular again.

  “I’ve had the pneumonia . . .” he started to explain.

  “I know. But that was last winter.”

  “It’s hard to get over. The doctor warned me to watch out for relapses.” Her touch was so gentle, her nearness so comforting.

  “That’s nonsense. You don’t relapse all of a sudden on a warm summer evenin’. Has this coughin’ happened before?”

  “I don’t remember,” he lied. “Maybe once or twice. But I’m fine, Mattie, really. It’s just that leftover cough, that’s all. I am not sick.” Although he was enjoying her attentions, he had never forgotten his father’s philosophy that illness was weakness. He was not weak; he would not be ill.

  But Mattie peered into his face, her head to one side, not believing him. “I never heard anybody cough like that who was altogether healthy. We must have Uncle John listen to that cough first thing in the mornin’.”

  “I don’t need Uncle John to examine me. I am a doctor now myself, and I tell you I’m just fine.”

  “And still as stubborn and arrogant as ever! I don’t believe your dental degree makes you a physician, not like Uncle John. You may be a wonderful dentist, but you are not a medical doctor.”

  It was good to have her attention, even though she was fussing at him. And since she was still holding his hand in hers, stroking it while chastising him, he couldn’t let the evening go completely to waste.

  “Mattie, do you remember what I told you last summer in Jones-boro?”

  “I remember you sayin’ you were in a bad way for some lemonade after mendin’ that fence all day,” she said, smiling. “I never saw anyone drink a whole pitcher full down so quick!”

  “You know what I’m talkin’ about. I told you I was gonna kiss you when I came home again. Well, I’m home now. And I still want to kiss you, if you’ll let me.”

  She dropped his hand and looked away bashfully, just the way a lady should, and said softly, “I don’t mind.”

  But when he put his hand under her chin, lifting her face to his, she suddenly turned her head, giving him her cheek instead of her lips.

  It was such an unexpected rebuff that he didn’t know what to do but kiss her on the offered cheek like a good cousin. Had she misunderstood his intention, as Thea Morgan had misunderstood in a different way? Did she think that all he felt was a brotherly sort of affection for her? Or worse, was a sisterly affection all she felt for him?

  But before he could ask her to explain her sudden aloofness, she looked up at him with glistening eyes, and whispered:

  “Oh, I have missed you, John Henry!”

  Then she slipped off the porch swing and ran into the house, leaving him alone with his unanswered questions.

  The dental office of Dr. Arthur C. Ford occupied a second-floor suite of rooms above a confectionery shop at the corner of Whitehall and Alabama Streets, right in the middle of Atlanta’s business district—which meant that it was in the middle of Atlanta’s railroad business, as well. Indeed, Whitehall might have been more properly named Railroad Avenue, with the tracks of the Atlantic Rail and the Macon & Western Railroads running alongside each other down the middle of the street. Crossing Whitehall during the business day was an act of faith and fortitude, dodging wagons and buggies, and listening for the warning whistles of oncoming locomotives, and it wasn’t unusual for an incautious pedestrian to be hit by a train. Only then did the traffic on Whitehall Street slow while an ambulance came around to carry the victim off to the hospital or the morgue. Then as soon as the road was cleared, business started up again right where it had left off. Atlanta didn’t have time to stop long for anything.

  Any other dentist might have found the constant noise of Whitehall Street distracting. But John Henry had spent two years in bustling Philadelphia, and he found the commotion less of a bother than the uncomfortable heat rising up from the big candy stoves in the confectionery shop below, though all in all, Dr. Ford’s office was a pleasant place to work. The two small rooms were well-appointed with velvet upholstered cast-iron dental chairs facing toward the light of the long windows overlooking the street, fancy brass cuspidors beside the chairs, and a carved rosewood cabinet for the instruments. Dr. Ford had even installed a Morrison Dental Engine, the new foot-powered machine that drove the dental drill, as modern as anything at the dental school. And with all that, it was likely the best-equipped office in Atlanta, and a far sight better than Dr. Frink’s crowded little storefront where John Henry might have had to spend his professional life.

  Dr. Ford’s fine office seemed a reflection of the man himself, for in a society in which birth and breeding still meant something, Dr. Ford had the best of pedigrees: English by birth, trained in his profession by an eminent New York dentist, and a Southerner by choice and service to the Confederacy. His manners were impeccable, his grooming fla
wless, his speech cultured and refined. And compared to him, John Henry felt like a county rustic, although Dr. Ford had been impressed enough by his credentials to offer him a temporary position. Young Dr. Holliday was, after all, not just a graduate of the Pennsylvania College of Dental Surgery, but also the nephew of Dr. John Stiles Holliday, and thereby kin to Dr. Crawford Long whom Dr. Ford had known in Jefferson, Georgia, his home before moving to Atlanta. Birth and breeding, it seemed, had worked in John Henry’s favor as well.

  Dr. Ford announced their association in the professional card section of the Atlanta Constitution of Friday, July 26th:

  CARD

  I HEREBY inform my patients that I leave to attend the session of the Southern Dental Association in Richmond, Virginia, this evening, and will be absent until about the middle of August, during which time Dr. John H. Holliday will fill my place in my office.

  Arthur C. Ford, D.D.S.

  Office 26 Whitehall Street

  It wasn’t the first time John Henry had seen his name in the newspaper, as there had been a brief article in the Philadelphia Ledger listing the graduates of the dental school there. But it was the first time a newspaper had printed his name with the title of “Dr.” preceding it, and seeing it that way made John Henry feel he’d already made a success of his professional life. And just in case he might never see his name in the papers again, he cut out the advertisement and tucked it away inside one of his dental textbooks, as a memento of his coming-of-age.

  Aunt Permelia had her own idea of how a coming-of-age ought to be celebrated. So on the Sunday afternoon before John Henry’s twenty-first birthday, she had Sophie pack a lunch and the stable boy hitch up the phaeton, then instructed her husband to carry them all out to Ponce de Leon Springs, the popular resort just outside the city limits where mineral waters bubbled up out of the rock and flowed into Peachtree Creek. It was a lovely picnic spot and quite fashionable for social gatherings, though John Henry had to laugh at the way his aunt mispronounced the name of the place, slurring the Spanish syllables together until they came out sounding something like “pons-da-lee-on,” and barely recognizable as the name of a famous explorer. Her brief history lesson, taught as they rode out to the park, was almost as amusing.

  “They named the springs after the gentleman who went lookin’ for the fountain of youth,” she explained. “But he got lost and found Florida instead. The real fountain was back here in Georgia all along, and now we have a nice park built around it.”

  In spite of its adventurous history, Ponce de Leon Springs was civilized recreation, well-mannered and well-dressed. Ladies in bustled gowns strolled along the stone paths with gentlemen in light summer jackets and wide straw Panama hats, the woodland quiet only occasionally disturbed by the rumble of a passing train on the trestle of the Air Line Railroad or the sound of waltz music drifting down from the bandstand where the old 5th Georgia Regiment band played. And every leisurely idyll ended with a stop at the springs, where the little colored boy in attendance dipped an iron cup into the mineral water and passed it around—health and happiness for only a penny a drink.

  Picnics in the park were elegant affairs, and Aunt Permelia was not to be outdone. Her table under the trees was spread with linen and set with bone china and the family silver, and even the sweet tea seemed like something special when it was poured from a cut crystal pitcher. But though John Henry should have enjoyed all the fuss the family was making over his birthday, he found that he didn’t have much of an appetite for dinner, what with the August heat and humidity, and the insects buzzing all around, and Mattie drawing Robert like she was some sweet summer flower. And worse: Mattie seemed to be overly enjoying Robert’s attentions, laughing at all his jokes and not paying nearly enough attention to John Henry.

  But no one else seemed to notice Robert’s flirtations, as they all chatted around the table discussing business and politics and family matters as the afternoon slid by. Then, over a dessert of lemon cake, Uncle John tapped a silver table knife on the tea pitcher, and the crystal made a pretty tinkling sound as he announced:

  “As y’all know, your Cousin John Henry here will be turnin’ twenty-one years old this week, the age at which a young man takes his proper place in society and comes into his inheritance. And as John Henry has always been a special nephew to me, bein’ my namesake and myself havin’ had somethin’ to do with his comin’ through infancy safely, it seems fittin’ that I should bequeath him somethin’ of my own as an inheritance in honor of his comin’-of-age. George, reach me that gun case, please.”

  Aunt Permelia smiled and nodded approvingly as Uncle John opened the polished mahogany gun case to reveal a glint of dark metal and a pair of matched pistols resting in black velvet.

  “I ordered these revolvers when the War started,” Uncle John went on, “standard issue for the Army in those days: Colt’s Navy Model 1851, single action, .36-caliber, blued steel barrels with walnut grips. Happily, I never had to use them, except for target practice. But these pistols bein’ manufactured the same year that both Robert and John Henry came into the world, I thought they’d be appropriate comin’-of-age gifts, sharing a shared birthdate so to speak. I’ve already gifted one of these pistols to Robert, when he turned twenty-one. Now I’m givin’ the other to you, John Henry,” he said, carefully lifting one of the guns and handing it to his nephew.

  John Henry was near speechless at his uncle’s offering, that fine pistol being the best present he could ever remember receiving, although his gratitude was a little diminished by the fact that Robert had already received its twin. Robert was always first in everything. Still, it was a very generous gift.

  “Sir, I’m honored,” John Henry said, as he took the heavy revolver from his Uncle John’s hand. Then he added admiringly, “They say Colt’s 1851’s the very same model that Wild Bill Hickok uses.”

  “If you can believe what Harper’s Magazine writes!” Robert said with a laugh, taking his own pistol from the box. “And who cares what Hickok uses? You’ll never do anything but target shootin’ with that gun, anyhow.”

  “Maybe Robert and John Henry can have a contest over at the shootin’ range,” said young Cousin Johnny eagerly, “to see which pistol’s the fastest.”

  “Where mine will win, of course,” Robert replied, challenging as always. “Not because it’s a better firearm, but because I’ve been better trained.”

  It was true that Robert had good training, having learned marks-manship among the other gentlemanly subjects taught at the expensive private school he’d attended on Atlanta’s Peachtree Street. But John Henry knew a thing or two about shooting himself, and was proud of his skills.

  “I reckon I can beat you at draw and fire, Robert, even without your fancy trainin’. I’ve done my share of shootin’, livin’ out in the country.”

  “Well, the way I was taught, it’s not good form to try and take the target by surprise the way you do. A gentleman shouldn’t have to lower himself to actin’ like the animal he’s stalkin’, sneakin’ up on it.”

  John Henry was about to say something cutting in reply when Aunt Permelia, seeming to sense a growing tension in the air, drew the conversation in another direction.

  “I expect your father will have a nice birthday gift for you, as well,” she said. “Henry’s done just fine in business, with his carriages and his rose farms. And now he’s growin’ pecan trees, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, Ma’am,” John Henry replied, reluctant to turn his attention to his father, always a sore subject for him. “He says pecans are the next cash crop of Georgia.”

  “Uncle Henry always did have a mind for business,” Cousin George commented approvingly. “I reckon we’ll see him as a wealthy planter yet.”

  “And how is your stepmother?” George’s wife Mary asked, looking up from tending to her new baby. “I haven’t heard you say anything of her.”

  Having to talk about his father was bad enough, but making pleas-antries about Rachel was beyond him
on any day, and especially on the day of his birthday celebration. Instead of answering the question, he dropped his linen napkin on the table and said quickly, “Will you excuse me, Aunt Permelia? I believe I’ve had enough for one afternoon.” And with a stunned silence following him, he pocketed his new pistol and walked away from the picnic table, heading toward the wooded grove at the stream’s edge.

  He stood there fuming, trying to get his angry thoughts under control. He’d been unsettled enough by Cousin Robert’s attentions to Mattie without having his father and Rachel brought into the conversation, as well. He still remembered too clearly the words Rachel had repeated about his courtship plans—that cows didn’t breed well in the same lot. Why, if she’d been a man . . .

  “Would you like someone to talk to?” Mattie asked, and John Henry turned in surprise to see her picking her way through the leaves to join him in the shade of the trees.

  “Won’t Robert be missin’ you?” he said sharply, but Mattie seemed not to catch his meaning.

  “The rest of the family’s all goin’ off to try the mineral water,” she said, sitting down on the thick summer grass and spreading her skirts out around her. “You know Mary didn’t mean to offend you, askin’ about Rachel. She’s still new to the family. You can’t expect her to understand about your stepmother.”

  “Rachel is no mother of mine,” he replied bitterly.

  “Well, she’s your father’s wife, isn’t she? And that does make her your stepmother.”

  “I don’t want to talk about it, Mattie,” he answered, but she ignored his protest and went on.

  “I know what a hard time that was for you when your father remarried, but it was so long ago. Can’t you forgive him? You know you’ll never be happy if you’re not at peace with your own family.”

  He sat down beside her then, caught up a clump of wet grass and flung it aside. “I don’t feel like I have a family anymore. Rachel ruined that. And my father . . .” his words broke off angrily. “Sometimes I think I hate him, Mattie!”