by Liz Marvin
The costumes were authentic looking enough and certainly better than their Union counterparts. They all had the look of goods ordered from approved re-enactor vendors but they were just too… neat. Too neat and too clean. And they all were tailor fitted and looked too much alike. If – and she had to admit it was a bit “if”; if she were to put on a play about the Civil War in North Carolina that was not the impression she wanted to convey about the south or southerners then or now.
Certainly there were still racists in the south but Clarise had grown up in the “north”. A small town on Long Island, New York. That seemed like ages ago. In truth her childhood had been Idyllic and her love of small towns came from there but she also knew racism wasn’t a fault found only in the southern states.
Furthermore, she knew more people like Betty and her darling Wes in Lofton than she had ever met on the whole of Long Island. She found “southerners” were similar in their manners, dialect, distrust of authority and a live-and-let-live attitude towards everyone outside their family but if she had to ascribe three qualities to a typical southerner she would say that each was unique as a snowflake, gaudy as a peacock and stubborn as a mule. The thought made her laugh out loud which caught the attention of the Confederate re-enactors.
The group huddled up like a gang of school kids then fell into a very strict and formal marching formation and headed right for Clarise. Amused, she put her hands on her hips, smiled and waited.
The troop surrounded her in a tight circle with a portly middle aged man with bushy sideburns and a captain’s uniform facing her. “Ma’am we’ll have to see your papers.”
“My papers? Why dear me I must have misplaced them.” Clarise was far from intimidated and for the sake of the fair was willing to play along.
“To what plantation do you belong?”
Up to a point. Rather than taking offense she continued the charade.
“Sir I am a free woman and I expect and demand to be treated as such.”
“Well now with all due respect how do we know that? Ma’am.”
Some of the other re-enactors chimed in. “She’s a runaway!” “Mebbe a Yankee spy!” “I reckon she’s that thar Harriet Tubman lady!”
That was enough.
Clarise’s smile vanished. Her hands on her hips turned to fists. She planted her nose about six inches from the “captain’s” and let loose.
“This is a fair and I’m willing let you have your fun and I’ll even play along but you farbs don’t know any more about civil war reenacting than a prize heifer calf and you’re a damned sight less intelligent!”
Her outburst drew a larger crowd. She gestured to all the men surrounding her “You’re wearing fitted Billy Tart authentic wool uniforms dry cleaned for the occasion and don’t deny it I can see at least two dry cleaning tags and you captain are carrying an eighteen ninety three railroad pocket watch in your fine none standard issue silk vest which is amazing since if my memory serves the civil war ended in eighteen sixty five!”
The captain pulled his watch chain free and stuffed it in his pocket.
“And no soldier on either side no matter how addle brained would carry a watch or gold chain into battle. Now if you’d had a Waltham American model fifty seven on a leather strap I might understand but then again your command is wearing Confederate States shell jackets when everybody and their mother knows North Carolinians wore Richmond Depot type two shell jackets and none of them wore polished Brogans with clean socks!”
The captain was properly chagrined but one of his troupe took it upon himself to try and regain the upper hand “Jest show us your papers of manumission and we’ll be on our way.”
She whirled on the unfortunate upstart, looked him up and down and planted her nose six inches from his. “Manumission says you? That’s a mighty big word for a farm boy turned buck private. Where did you learn that?”
He straightened up at attention and held her gaze. “I read it in a book.”
Clarise laughed harshly. “Not one in a hundred Confederate soldiers could read their own name and those that could were officers! Now let’s examine your so-called armaments.”
But before she could start a half dozen Union re-enactors showed which only added to the confusion.
“Unhand that free woman of color you scalawag!”
Clarise faced her “saviors” with the same scorn and contempt she’d heaped on the Confederate re-enactors. “You polyester clad buffoon! Negro is the polite term Yankees used and scalawag is a term for southern whites who supported the Republican Party and post-Civil War reconstruction. I am surrounded by blue and gray idiots!”
“None of that now just come along quietly.” The captain took her arm just above the elbow. He had a soft grip and she shook free. Not so from the Yankee re-enactor who grabbed both her arms. “Leave off she’s coming with us!”
A tug of war ensued but fortunately neither side seemed that intent on dislodging her arms from their sockets. Never one to panic, Clarise assessed the situation as calmly and dispassionately as possible. The number of people had stopped to watch continued to grow. Many in the crowd were laughing and snapping photographs.
“They must think this is all an act!” She thought and realized she had to do something but she didn’t want to start a panic or a riot. To one side she saw a flash of a khaki shirt and hat.
“Wes! Help!” she called and then she couldn’t see him! “Wes! Wesley Bundy!”
“All right break it up! Let her go now!”
He had heard her and come running. Hands fell away and the group fell back. Half the Union re-enactors ran away, sprinting off in all directions. Before they too could retreat Wes had grabbed the arms of both the Confederate captain and Union … who could know what he was supposed to be. A sergeant, perhaps? None of the men appeared happy but Wes looked downright angry.
“All right, boys, explain to me what is going on and why you two and the rest of your playmates should not spend the next three days in jail and be polite because I am the only man here wearing a uniform that still counts. Do I make myself clear?”
The captain straightened up and regained some composure. “We were invited here by the fair committee. We were just adding some authenticity to our performance.”
“To behave like racist idiots and assault people?” Clarise asked as sweetly as her mood allowed.
The captain examined his shoes carefully. “We meant no harm. We’re just trying to behave in character so to speak. It’s all in good fun.”
The union soldier chimed in “What next? You gonna dress up in white robes and pointy hats and claim that’s all in good fun to?”
Wes gave him a hard shake. “Shut up. I’ll get to you in a minute.”
Clarise stepped in. “If you want to play dress up and pretend to be civil war soldiers that’s your business but don’t drag me into it. Besides your uniforms being all wrong and your language being off base your behavior is not only inexcusable today it doesn’t reflect the attitude a southern soldier would have taken during the Civil War. A black person walking openly through a crowd would have been ignored. Period. Because hassling them would have incurred the wrath of the owner who would certainly have been wealthier and more powerful than any of you miscreants and you would know that.”
The captain had the good sense to look shame faced but regained his composure quickly. “See here now what makes you -”
Wes cut the captain off with another good hard shake and enlightened him. “Clarise Birdsong is the director of the Lofton Theater and if she says your costume is wrong and your performance is off then your costume is wrong and your performance is off. Do both of you understand?”
Both men nodded dumbly. “Then I suggest you confine yourselves to barracks-”
“Bivouacs” The Captain corrected, coughing slightly. “Bivouacs are an improvised camp site created for short durations. Sir.”
Wes looked at the man incredulously but Clarise gave a faint smile and a nod and so he con
tinued. “Fine. Stay in your bivouacs while in costume for the remainder of the fair and if any of you so much as speak to someone before they speak to you while in these get-ups you will regret it. Understood?”
The gathered men agreed and Wes let the two men go. To a man each of the Confederate and even a few of the Union re-enactors apologized to Clarise before retreating. Three of the Confederates offered her their headshots with theatrical resumes printed on the back which she graciously accepted.
Once they were gone and the crowd dispersed she slipped her arm through Wesley’s and strolled toward the cooking competition tent. She would have an adventure story to tell Betty when she caught up with her but she wanted to reward Wes first. She pulled him between two tents for a modicum of privacy and kissed him. He kissed her back with just as much fervor. Both were grinning like school kids when they came up for air.
“That was the most excitement I’ve had since – since the first time I kissed you.”
Clarise snuggled up to Wes “We’ll have to do that again.”
“But without the costumed crowd.”
They laughed and hugged. Clarise held him back at arm’s length just to enjoy looking at him. Wes didn’t mind; he enjoyed looking at her equally as much. “Can I buy an officer of the law a thank-you cup of coffee?”
“As long as it’s not a bribe.”
“We’ll see,” she smiled and reached for the money in her back pocket only to discover twenty dollars missing!
~
Betty found herself seated between two large men in blue jean bib overalls. At the far end of the table to her right a slender teen-age boy bounced on his seat in anticipation. On the left a middle aged businessman pushed his glasses up on his nose and looked about self-consciously.
The contest was held in front of the reviewing stand, empty of course. Beyond the stand lay the field. The field was used for every public presentation at the fair. Years ago it had been the site of every sort of competition, even a boxing match. Now ribbons and trophies were awarded to the oversized animals that were paraded around the field. Betty found that thought very disquieting.
In her youth the Lofton High girls’ softball team had practiced there when the boys needed the diamond at school (which, of course, was all the time). She had loved that field and knew every divot, mound and rut in the outfield. Between then and now she had grown older, stopped playing sports, gained weight and generally forgotten what a joy movement had once been.
Back then she had coveted a position on that reviewing stand. She had dreamed of being a judge and standing before a cheering crowd of neighbors, friends and family looking distinguished and serene, prepared to hand out awards and accolades and in so doing, receiving the same.
Now she dreaded the prospect. Sighing she turned away. Looking over her shoulder at the empty bleachers she gave an involuntary sigh of relief. At least there would be no one watching the pie eating contest from behind. For an instant she thought she saw some movement underneath the bleachers but dismissed it. If she had seen anyone it was most likely a couple teens and they would not be there to watch the pie eating contest.
Turning again to face the small audience; Betty studied them. Almost everyone in the crowd seemed to know someone and be cheering them on. Most of the young crowd was cheering on the teen apparently named Mickey. A few small children and their mother along with half dozen or so men in suits were cheering for Danbey Johnson, a banker who apparently lost some sort of office bet. Marlee May, his wife, stood like an ice queen in the middle of the suits smiling like she didn’t mean a bit off it.
Walt and Geezie were the two farmers on either side of Betty and they each had their contingent. They were the only two serious competitors and behind their jovial demeanor Betty could tell they were stone cold serious about winning.
Only Betty had no one cheering for her. As the only woman in the competition she was introduced first. As a little girl she had also dreamed of entering the pie eating contest and now, here she was, fulfilling that dream only she knew she should not be here.
“And we are pleased and fortunate to have one of this year’s cooking competitions here to compete in the Lofton country fair pie eating competition and this year’s only female contestant the one and only Betty Crawford!”
The applause was polite. Betty half stood smiled and waved and sat down quickly. She studied the crowd as each of the contestants was introduced and noticed a few people, young men or perhaps teen-age boys who kept to the back of the crowd and didn’t seem to cheer for anyone.
Then an apple pie was plunked down in front of her and not just any apple pie. This was one of her aunt’s special apple fritter pies. The bottom pie crust was pretty standard stuff albeit baked to perfection; crisp, golden brown and flaky. The top crust was a yeast dough version of her apple fritters. In between was the apple filling. The filling was simply ambrosia. She hadn’t had a bite in more than … well, forever. At least it seemed like forever.
“How many of these can we have?” She found herself asking without thinking and the crowd roared in laughter. Even Marlee May laughed.
“As many as you like for the next five minutes. Just keep your hands behind your back at all times and don’t start until I say so. On your marks…”
Betty hunched over her pie. A glance to the left and the right showed Walt and Geezie in similar ready positions. Like highly trained athletes they waited.
“… Get set… GO!”
Betty tasted the rich buttery doughy soft apple fritter topping. The rich crystal sugar bits crackled on her teeth. The juicy cinnamon apple dissolved on her tongue. It was better than she remembered, better than she could have imagined. She took another bite, and another. Suddenly she was ravenous and eating faster and faster.
The near empty pie plate disappeared from in front of her. Her first reaction was anger; she hadn’t finished the crust! But another pie replaced it. A whole brand new beautiful pie! Beautiful and delicious and all hers! Without hesitation she dove in face first.
Somewhere people were laughing and cheering “Betty! Betty!” She didn’t listen, didn’t care. She was eating her aunt’s pie. She was eating her favorite comfort food with abandon. She laughed when she finished and started on her third pie.
By the time the forth pie disappeared she was the crowd favorite. She spared enough time for a glance at Geezie. He was sitting upright with a glazed look in his eyes, licking his lips and swallowing. There were four pie tins in front of him and only three in front of Walt who was eating slowly. Betty didn’t bother checking the other two competitors and dove into her fifth pie. It was nearly gone when the buzzer sounded and the cheering started.
Reluctantly Betty sat up. Someone thrust a napkin into her hands and she wiped her face and was surprised to find she would need another napkin. She had just finished cleaning up when someone was raising her right hand over her head!
“The winner by a whole pie is Lofton’s own Roberta Crawford!”
The other four competitors shook her hands. Walt clapped her on the shoulder “For a slip of a girl you eat good.”
“Just be glad you ain’t buying her dinner!” Yelled someone in the crowd and everyone laughed “Unless it’s an all you can eat buffet!” Someone answered “She’d close them down!” The audience roared.
Betty could feel her cheeks burning red. She stood up, smiled and nodded and waved. She was suddenly a celebrity. People were shaking her hand and congratulating her. People wanted their picture taken with her – she even autographed a Lofton Fair napkin. She felt exhilarated and ashamed at the same time. How many calories, how many carbohydrates, how much raw sugar had she just consumed? There was some disease, some reaction to diabetics eating too much sugar – keto something or other. It was serious. Would her kidneys fail? Would she go blind? Would she die? She pushed her fears down into her now churning stomach.
The headache came as the crowd thinned out. She excused herself and headed for the cooking contest tent.
She would walk fast, burn off calories, maybe that would help.
But she never made it. First someone tried to snatch her purse and then she threw up and fainted.
6. Chapter 5
Clarise wandered up and down rows of beautifully prepared and presented foods. Elegant silver plate pedestal cake stands topped with precision frosted towers of confectionery delights. Perfect rectangular sheet cakes with names like “Cardamom Butter Walnut Cake with Mango Kiwi Frosting” to the mouthwatering simple fare “Chocolate Cake with Chocolate Frosting”.
The corn breads were just as diverse. Broccoli corn bread surprised her. The country cured ham and cheese cornbread and craklin’ cornbread were to be expected. Her favorites were banana corn bread, cranberry date corn bread and best of all grandma’s plain old cornbread (one word the way God meant it to be spelled).
She looked around again for Betty, wishing her friend was here to share all the jokes she wanted to make about the entries. Sighing she headed for the pies.
Marlee May Johnson was standing behind her pie smiling and greeting everyone who came near. Clarise started at the other end of the table – and stopped.
A simple country style golden brown latticework crust pie was presented in the tin pie plate it had been baked in. It sat on a threadbare red and white checkered napkin and in front was an antique picture of a stern old woman. Large dark purple berries glistened in a delicate glaze.
Seated far back from the table was a plump plain young girl in a gray striped slip on dress over a worn white blouse. Her black hair hung in a heavy braid down her back. She looked down at her black go-to-church shoes worn without socks.
“Is this your pie?”
The girl looked up, wary and nodded.
Clarise smiled. “It’s beautiful and it smells delicious.”
