“Find work,” he’d told him. “Don’t come back until I send word, if I ever do.”
When Nelson died the next year, she thought it perhaps best. Nelson was with Benjamin, Julius was gone, and she could finally be alone with her confusion about why God ever put people in her life to look after.
A light breeze dropped in on the cemetery, fluttering the ivy that clung to Nelson’s gravestone. Betsy rubbed her temples and considered lying down. Instead, she stopped thinking about anything and fell asleep.
•••
“Betsy?” Belle stood adjacent to her, certain that Betsy must have heard her footsteps as she approached the cemetery.
Betsy opened her eyes, blinking repeatedly. She looked at Belle and raised her eyebrows. “Never thought I’d see you here.”
Belle crossed her arms and sighed. She hadn’t talked to Betsy in eleven years, and the first thing out of the other woman’s mouth was a lie. Betsy had seen her there. When Belle was about five years old, Betsy took her to the cemetery nearly every Sunday after church. Spending time among the gravestones scared Belle, especially since Betsy didn’t talk during a visit. She’d just sit and stare at the headstone marked “Benjamin.” Once, when Belle asked who Benjamin was, she’d waved her off, as if she’d interrupted a conversation Betsy were having with a ghost. It was Julius who told her that Benjamin was his baby brother, and that he’d drowned him in the creek—another lie to scare her into silence.
“I’m only here because there’s talk,” Belle said.
Betsy ran a bent finger across her cheek, sweeping aside a strand of hair. “There’s always talk.”
That voice—still indifferent. Belle hadn’t heard it since she’d moved in with Merle. In the year that followed, she’d catch glimpses of Betsy, on the porch of Cravin & Company or walking somewhere in the rain without an umbrella. But after Nelson died, Belle rarely saw her. Sometimes she’d overhear a snippet about her: “Betsy’s yard could use some cleanup,” or “Betsy fainted in church.” Betsy was of no interest to Belle. But today, to protect her secret, she’d sought her out.
“I need you to listen carefully,” Belle said. “I’ve heard that your son was seen stumbling around the river down by Ritter’s Mill, extremely drunk.”
“My son? Here?” She yawned. “I haven’t seen the boy since Nelson sent him away.”
“Are you listening, Betsy?” Belle surveyed her: coarse gray hair, swollen knuckles, dress with a torn pocket. She was thin, as always. “People say he was tripping all over himself.”
Betsy slowly turned toward Belle. “Is Julius dead?”
Belle said nothing. She examined Betsy’s face, plain with smooth skin. The eyes appeared neither sad nor wise, the lips thin and straight. Nothing about the features appeared pained or burdened. How was that possible? Betsy had buried a baby, a husband, and surely, somewhere in her soul, a dark secret about her son. Still, her face hadn’t aged. Maybe her insides looked like a tree trunk infested with termites.
“He was very drunk and stumbling around the riverbank,” Belle repeated. “Make sure to tell that to Frank and anyone else who may ask.”
Betsy folded her knobby hands in her lap and looked toward the grave markers. “Maybe I’ll put up a stone for him.”
“What?” Belle walked over and stood in front of Betsy. “Dammit! Don’t you do anything more for him.” Her heart was pounding. “Not one more thing.”
Tapping together the toes of her worn boots, Betsy said, “You’re probably right. That boy has gotten away with enough.”
Belle jammed her hands on her hips. “Did you know? Are you now telling me you knew . . . what he did?”
Somewhere in the cemetery a bird trilled. “I’m not sure.” Betsy sighed. “Nelson said Julius was there, at home, that day.”
Belle glared at Betsy. “What day?”
She looked up at Belle. “The day our baby died. Did you know we lost a baby?” She added softly, “Julius was there that day . . . maybe.”
Belle’s arms dropped to her sides. She clenched her fists and stomped her foot in the sand. “What you lost, Betsy? Do you know what I lost? You do know, don’t you?” She threw up her hands. “I was a child! Would you have protected me if I was actually your daughter?”
Betsy’s chin dropped toward her chest. “I don’t know anything for sure.”
It was all she could do not to kick sand in Betsy’s face. She squinted, pressing her fingertips into her throbbing forehead. Stop now, Belle. What needed to be said was, and more.
She spun away from Betsy and headed out of the cemetery, shouting over her shoulder, “Your son was extremely drunk and stumbling around the river down by the mill. Remember that!”
Chapter 18
Chest-deep in the Caloosahatchee, two men circled slowly as if opposite ends of a weather vane. They poked around in the water with long bamboo poles. Nearby, a half dozen more people waded in a shallow strip of the river that fronted Ritter’s Mill. Several boaters floated close by, some curious, one to transport a body if found. The search was organized following the release of a Press article reporting eyewitness accounts of a missing man’s last-known whereabouts. Citing anonymous sources, the story indicated that former town resident Julius Carson was seen intoxicated and stumbling along the river in front of Ritter’s sawmill.
•••
Pulling back a frayed curtain ever so slightly, Betsy watched Sheriff Clark walk through her yard, kicking aside dead branches as he approached the porch. She moved away from the window and waited for him to knock.
“Yes?” Betsy peeked out from behind the partially opened door.
“Afternoon, Betsy. I just need a minute.”
“I don’t have coffee on.”
“Doesn’t matter. I already had mine.”
The door creaked as she pulled it open. The sheriff entered the house and stood in front of Betsy in the dim hallway.
“So, Julius and Frank Dolland have apparently been in town for a few days. Frank says Julius is missing.” The sheriff reached for a notebook in his back pocket and flipped it open. “He says that Julius never returned to their room at the Palms.”
“Frank Dolland,” Betsy murmured. “He was such a noisy boy.”
Somewhere in the house, a clock marked the hour with a deep bong.
“Frank claims Julius would not have returned to Tampa without him. So, I’m doing some checking. Have you seen or talked to Julius, Betsy?”
“My son? I haven’t spoken to him in more than ten years.” She squinted at the sheriff. “What about you? Have you seen him since he left?”
“No, I haven’t, Betsy.”
Several days before Julius left town, Nelson had beaten him severely with a leather strap. Even with her hands over her ears Betsy could hear the yelling and snapping.
“I warned you a long time ago that if I ever caught you doing that nonsense again—”
Snap.
“—that I’d beat you nearly to death.”
Snap. Snap.
Betsy had never seen Nelson so angry. What “nonsense”? The beating continued as she’d left the house, overwhelmed by Nelson’s eruption. A year later, when her husband killed himself, she was shocked, along with the entire town. Even the sheriff had said to her, “I’m not convinced Nelson took his own life, Betsy, but I have no evidence to the contrary.” She’d come home to find his body on the kitchen floor, his face blown off by his hunting rifle lying next to him. Why would he end his life? Nothing had seemed different about him, at least from what she could discern through her fog. When word spread that Nelson was dead, food baskets and vases of flowers covered their porch. But in the days that followed, some neighbors seemed to shun her, crossing the street to avoid her, as if Nelson’s blood and brains were sprayed across her dress. She’d accepted their snubs. Maybe she was to blame.
Turn
ing a page in the notebook, the sheriff said, “Frank was last seen at Billy’s. Witnesses say he was so inebriated that he required assistance back to the Palms. The Gibbses confirmed that he and Julius were sharing a room at the hotel.” He cleared his throat. “Frank says they’d been drinking all day and then more at Billy’s. He says he doesn’t recall seeing Julius leave the saloon, but, as you may have seen in the Press, witnesses supposedly saw him stumbling around down by the river.”
“So you think he drowned?” Betsy stared at the sheriff.
“Well, we’re checking, Betsy.” He paused. “I know you’ve already been through that once. I certainly hope not.”
Betsy looked down and picked at a fingernail.
“Frank came by.”
The sheriff took a pencil from his breast pocket. “And?”
“I told him what I told you.” She rubbed a bony finger across her chin, scratching it.
“That you haven’t seen Julius?”
“That, and about the stumbling . . . near the mill.”
“Did someone tell you they saw Julius there?”
“No. I just heard talk.” She looked toward the door. “Is that all?”
Sheriff Clark closed his notebook. “That’s all, Betsy. I’ll keep you informed about the investigation.”
“No need to,” she said.
The sheriff tilted his head. “Are you sure?”
“I’m not sure about anything, Frederick.”
She motioned for him to let himself out.
Chapter 19
Directly between guava and grapefruit groves, the branches of a large red maple stretched far beyond the tree’s thick trunk. During the day, the quiet space below was popular with picnickers, and at night with lovers who kissed on the aptly named Sparking Seat, a wooden bench under the maple’s cozy canopy of leaves.
This afternoon, the Circle Club had claimed the relaxing spot before anyone else. The women sat on blankets arranged in the round. Belle had already explained her bruised cheek, and Poppy was wrapping up a brief opening prayer.
“In God’s name we pray,” she said, and made the sign of the cross.
Shaken by the attack days earlier, Belle had considered calling off the meeting. But she pressed on, William’s words nudging her. Love and compassion can save us from ourselves. She needed some saving. Her nerves were twitchy and, worst of all, the fear that Julius would somehow grab her from the grave or haunt her forever lingered, stubborn and absurd. Still, she was determined to keep moving forward. For too long, her past had defined her future, and she’d allowed it.
“I thought we’d start the meeting with Paulette,” Belle said. “Would you like to share any ideas about projects we might take up as a club?” She passed around a plate of deviled goose eggs that Abigail had dropped off earlier along with a bowl of boiled peanuts.
“I’d be happy to,” said Paulette, sitting up even straighter. “I feel strongly that there’s a place in our school for several Indian children. We have plenty of books, and I’m sure if there aren’t enough desks, our Seminole or Miccosukee youngsters won’t mind sitting on the floor.”
Poppy nodded. “That’s a fine idea, Paulette. Our town doesn’t have much money, but what it does have is big-hearted folk. I’m sure several families would take in students for the school session.”
“Some will whine about it,” Sadie said, cupping a deviled egg. “We know that.”
“Probably my mother,” Hazel said, and sighed. “She’s oblivious to need. Her days just line up like lovely sunsets—predictable and guaranteed.”
The other women stayed quiet, giving Hazel room to talk. When she didn’t add more, Paulette offered, “If you’d like to share anything with us about your mother, we’re happy to listen.”
“Absolutely,” Amelia added, crocheting without looking down at her handiwork.
“Well,” Hazel said, “your father should probably stuff me, Alice.” She pointed to a red fox preserved in the running position set next to Alice’s blanket.
“Huh?” Alice said.
“If I was stuffed, my mother could carry me around, forever fixed in the position of her choice, with perfect hair and perfect clothes. Perfect, like her.”
Belle said, “Hazel, your mother is not perfect.” She added, “I mean, no one is.”
Poppy opened her Bible. “Ecclesiastes 7:20: ‘For there is not a just man upon earth, that doeth good, and sinneth not.’” She paused. “There are plenty more passages . . .”
As Poppy flipped pages in search of scripture, Belle thought back to a spring day several years ago.
Still working at Duggan’s, she’d ridden over to the Palms Hotel one afternoon to trim a Calusa grapevine she’d noticed growing up the side of the building. She knew where the Gibbses kept the ladder; always leaning up against the rear wall of the hotel. She rocked it back and forth on its two feet until it stood where she could safely prune the vine. As she climbed the rungs, she glanced into one of the second-story windows as she passed by. It looked to be a maintenance closet, filled with extra linens and brooms. She then froze on the ladder. Inside the closet, she saw a cow hunter with his head tipped back, eyes shut, hat resting on a wash table. At his waistline, a puzzling sight: a long plume darting up and down. When Belle slowly climbed up one more rung, she saw Ida Cravin on her knees, performing like a hard-driving oil rig dressed in petticoats and a fancy hat. The cow hunter looked over at Belle, winked, and then returned to his role as Ida’s fall from grace. The grapevine could wait. Belle climbed back down the ladder, aghast but not all that surprised. Ida was probably kneeling on her Bible as she sent the cow hunter to heaven and back.
“Seems to me, Hazel, you’re beyond old enough now to stand up to your mother,” Amelia said. “What would you like to say to her?”
Hazel shook her head. “Nothing. She doesn’t listen.” She reached up and untied the white ribbon securing her ponytail. “What I’d like to do is make a mess of the checkers in the parlor room. I’d like to let the poor parrot out of its cage for a spin.” She fiddled with the long ribbon. “I’d very much like to ask my father why he lets my mother boss him around.”
Sadie said gently, “Your father’s just trying to keep the peace, darlin’, just like you.”
“Well then, that’s the problem,” Hazel said. She shook her fingers vigorously through her loosened hair. “There’s so much peace in our house, it feels like a cemetery, like everyone but my mother has been laid to rest.”
Amelia stopped crocheting and set aside her hook and yarn. “Why don’t you do some work for me at the drugstore, Hazel, get out of the house? I’ve never understood why you don’t work at Cravin & Company.”
“Oh, heavens no.” Hazel shook her finger. “‘No daughter of Ida’s is going to work like some sort of low-class . . .’” She glanced at Belle. “Her words not mine, Belle. She believes a man won’t marry a woman who shows interest in anything outside the home.”
“Then why did she let you interview for the gardening job at the Edisons’?” Belle asked, irritated.
“She made me, Belle. My mother is desperate to become friends with Mina. She clips every newspaper article about her and organizes them by date.”
Alice rolled her eyes. “They’re just people.”
“People with money and status,” Hazel explained. “My mother is embarrassed to be a full-time resident of what she calls an ‘underdeveloped cow town.’”
“The cows are the best thing about our town,” Alice said. “Ever hear them whine or say mean things?” She combed her short hair to the side with her fingers. “Nope.”
“In my opinion,” Paulette said, “Ida should be careful what she wishes for. My sister in Chicago writes to me about neighborhoods choked with people working twelve-hour days in harsh conditions and sleeping in cramped tenement buildings. The factories hire women and children for
lower wages than men, and the work is monotonous and dangerous.” She centered a silver locket on her chest. “No, we don’t have the railroad or ice or a fire department. But progress doesn’t guarantee a good life.”
“What does?” Belle asked. “What does guarantee a good life?”
Paulette pointed both palms outward, toward the women. “This is one spoke on the wheel . . . realizing we need others to create a meaningful life.” She shrugged. “We also need love, which, as you all know, has been an ongoing search for me.”
“Oh, bless your heart, Paulette,” Poppy said. “Even when you find love, marriage is hardly uninterrupted pleasure.”
Sadie laughed. “You got that right, Poppy. Don’t search too hard, Paulette.”
The women all laughed.
As the meeting continued, Belle sent a silent thank you to Kate. Without her, she’d never have opened her heart and mind to these interesting, entertaining, honest women; these people who might save her and she them.
Sadie was talking when Belle’s mind rejoined the gathering.
“Now pass me those peanuts, Alice. That fox is spying them with his lopsided eyes.”
•••
After the meeting, as the other women walked off, Poppy lingered.
“Belle, would you like to take a moment to talk?” She gestured toward their blankets on the ground.
“Um, was there something we didn’t cover at the meeting?” Belle had never before talked privately with Poppy.
“Probably not,” Poppy said, “but why don’t we relax for another minute.”
The two sat down across from each other, Belle caught off guard by the pairing.
“At our first meeting, Belle, you mentioned a bit of an inner battle with forgiveness. Since it didn’t come up today, I thought perhaps you needed a smaller audience to share your thoughts.” She paused. “Our congregants often ask for guidance regarding forgiveness, and as you know, I’ve had some experience with that in my own life.”
After the Rain Page 13
