“It’s Emerson Bridge, Mama,” he said, his voice light, his dimples still asleep.
She couldn’t tell him now. She would give him half of the third pear for breakfast and the other half for his school dinner. With Mrs. Dobbins’s money, she would buy flour and shortening and buttermilk for biscuits and a can of meat, and she would fill his plate for supper.
Then she would tell him.
…..
Sarah left in Harold’s automobile, a black 1935 Ford coupe, and headed east, towards the Mrs. Luther Dobbins’s house in the Centerville community. It was a good four miles away. Sarah hoped she had enough gasoline to get her there.
She parked under a grove of pecan trees that looked as magnificent as the Dobbins house with its thick, white columns on the front. The dress of midnight blue lay beside her, wrapped in a blanket of a lighter blue. She had left it unhemmed but brought needle and thread to finish the job. She had wanted to leave the dress on the hanger to keep it free and flowing, but runs of Harold’s whiskey had left dark sticky spots on the long leather seat, coated in dust and the yellow of pollen.
Sarah lifted her gloves from her lap. They were black and carried a silkiness she liked. She slipped them on her hands and opened her fingers like she was readying them to carry a big cantaloupe from the garden, but then brought them together as if praying, her fingers finding the open spaces before them and falling through, tucking in the cloth. A hat, also black, sat upon her head. It was round and short and flat with netting all around, thin black netting, which she had raised to the heavens before she left the house. The last time she wore the hat, she left the netting down. That was to Mattie’s funeral.
“A lady always wears a hat and gloves,” she said out loud.
On her body, she wore a brown housedress. She would have liked to have worn better, but this was the best she had. She held the blanket against her bosom and, with her free hand, opened the door and stepped out into the Dobbins yard, already a deep green, each blade the same height. Azaleas, a whole crop of them, surrounded the house. They stood tall and guarding and ready to burst with color.
The front door was big and wooden and appeared to be covered in a shine. If this was not the Dobbins house, she would have thought it was grease. It set off the door just right and said Look at me, I’m worth seeing.
Sarah knocked. Her hands were perspiring. She hoped Mrs. Dobbins remembered her. “Mrs. Dobbins?” she called through. “It’s Sarah, Sarah Creamer.”
But she heard no footsteps come her way across the living room floor. She had never spent much time in that room. Mrs. Dobbins always ushered her up the stairs to her bedroom, to the large oval floor mirror made of real cherry wood, Mrs. Dobbins always liked to say.
Sarah felt her heart pick up its pace. Perhaps the woman was not at home.
She knocked again and, this time, heard footsteps. She smoothed down her dress and swallowed, clearing her throat for the words she’d come to say.
The door opened but only about a foot. Mrs. Dobbins stood in the gap and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.
“Mrs. Dobbins,” Sarah said and thought she smelled peppermint.
“Why, Mrs. Creamer.” The woman’s head peeked out, looking to the left and right. “Big LC didn’t see you, did he?” She was whispering.
That was what Mrs. Dobbins called her husband. “I don’t believe so, no ma’am.”
“Good. He’s got his full mind on the catastrophe yesterday with that steer show, so I think we’re safe.”
The smell of sausage and biscuits filled the air. “Oh, I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt y’all’s breakfast,” Sarah said.
But the woman shook her head. “Wasn’t much eating. Not this morning.” She reached into her apron and pulled out a red and white striped piece of candy the size of a marble, a peppermint. “Excuse me,” she said and put it in her mouth. “My nerves are bad today.”
Sarah could hear it rolling around Mrs. Dobbins’s teeth.
She cleared her throat and pushed out, “I made a dress,” and extended her arms through the opening. “For you. The dress is inside.” Sarah tried to keep her arms from shaking.
But Mrs. Dobbins did not take the blanket. She leaned forward and whispered, “Afraid we have a situation here, Mrs. Creamer. Little LC didn’t bring home the Grand Champion yesterday, and Big LC is fit to be tied. I wish I could invite you in, but it’d not be a good thing. Not today.”
Sarah thought of Emerson Bridge’s empty plate and his ribs she’d begun seeing. She took a deep breath, clenched her fists, and barged through the door and past Mrs. Dobbins. “I’m sorry,” she said, “but I came to tell you I’m in bad need of,” when a door slammed hard, and Mrs. Dobbins called out, “Oh my heavens,” and grabbed Sarah by her arm and tried to pull her back outside.
“Where is he? In his room?” It was Mr. Dobbins coming up the hall beside the stairs.
Mrs. Dobbins let go of Sarah like she’d been holding something hot.
“Uncle said he didn’t get on the school bus this morning,” he hollered and swung around the banister and headed up the steps, taking two at a time.
“He was too torn up to go to school today, Big LC,” Mrs. Dobbins called out. “He’s just a little boy.”
“You shut your mouth, you heifer you.” He was at the top of the stairs now, his finger pointed at her like a gun.
Mrs. Dobbins patted at the pocket on her apron, which looked to be holding something heavy.
“Get out here, boy. Right now!” Mr. Dobbins yelled into a room.
A little boy came to stand in the doorway. He was about the size of Emerson Bridge. He stood at attention like a soldier. Sarah knew this was a private moment and that she should leave, but she couldn’t. She needed to sell the dress.
“This is the front page of today’s paper, people,” the man hollered as if he had a crowd and held up the newspaper. “Do you see your little boy, your Little LC’s picture? No! Because he didn’t win. Made me the laughing stock of all of Anderson County. And I won’t have it.” He ripped the page off and beat it into a tight wad. “Charles would have won.”
“But I almost won, Daddy.”
“I’d rather have nothing than almost,” Mr. Dobbins said and threw the paper over the heads of the two women.
Sarah watched it roll through the open door.
“He wouldn’t do right for me, Daddy,” the boy said, his head held back and chin stretched high. “Couldn’t teach him nothing.”
“You listen to me, you can teach a steer to deal cards, if you want to. It’s a matter of getting right with them, showing who’s the boss.”
“But Daddy, that’d be mean.”
A cracking sound came from Mrs. Dobbins’s mouth like she’d bit down hard on the candy.
“Hey, it’s got four feet, two more than you. It could walk away, if it wanted to.”
Sarah didn’t know what a steer was, but it had four feet. She was thinking it must be a farm animal, maybe a cow or a pig. She grew up in a mill village, and she and Harold had land, ten acres, but no animals.
“You’re the last one of us Dobbins men,” the man hollered, “and you better bring the almighty blue ribbon home next year, is all I say.” He walked down the stairs a couple of steps and beat his fist against an empty space on the wall that carried large glass cases, each displaying the front page of a newspaper and a big blue ribbon.”Right here, boy,” he said and beat the wall again. “Right here, my next glory, you hear me?”
Sarah brought the blanket in close. She wondered if he ever beat Mrs. Dobbins.
The back door soon slammed.
“I didn’t mean to not win for him, Mama,” the boy called from the top.
“I know you didn’t, dear.” Mrs. Dobbins headed up the steps.
“Shortcake tried, too, Mama, he did.” Sarah heard tears in his voice. “I’ll try to win for Daddy next year.”
“I know you will, dear.” Mrs. Dobbins had the boy in her arms now. “We all will.”
<
br /> This seemed even more private. But Sarah had to stay. She turned her back to them.
“Daddy doesn’t love me, Mama.”
“You know he does, dear.”
“I don’t either, Mama. I don’t.”
A vehicle rushed past the house. Mrs. Dobbins ran down the steps and to the side window, where she peeked through lace curtains. “It’s him,” she said. “He’s gone now.”
The boy took off down the steps and ran out the back door.
“Try to have some fun, dear!” Mrs. Dobbins called after him, then took a skinny dark glass bottle from her apron, unscrewed the top and brought it to her mouth. She took a long swig. “Got that bad nervous indigestion,” she said and pointed with the bottle towards the glass cases. “That’s what Big LC likes to call the mighty Dobbins Dynasty along that wall there. Some McClain boy won in ’41, but that was before the mighty Dobbins arrived on the scene.”
Sarah stepped in closer and saw that that each displayed a large photograph of a boy standing beside a big cow. So a steer is a cow, she was thinking.
The bottle was back up at Mrs. Dobbins’s mouth now, her head held back. Sarah told herself that when the woman lowered the bottle, she’d outright say what she came to say.
But Mrs. Dobbins kept the bottle at her mouth.
“I don’t mean to take up no space here, ma’am, and I know I’m stepping out, because you didn’t ask me to do this, but I made a dress for you.” Sarah held the blanket towards the woman.
Mrs. Dobbins lowered the bottle but did not take the blanket. Instead, she extended the bottle towards Sarah. “Want some? It’s just Retonga.”
Sarah had never heard of Retonga and didn’t want any. But she needed to sell the dress. She took the bottle and brought it to her lips but kept them closed. She threw her head back like Mrs. Dobbins had.
“I can assure you,” the woman told her, “it’s is a purely herbal stomachic medicine, not that bad alcohol, even though Big LC wouldn’t think there was any difference. You know, he’s a deacon at the church. Probably the head one, I don’t know.” She started to laugh.
Sarah handed the bottle back to the woman. She tasted a sweetness and then a bitterness.
On the wall behind Mrs. Dobbins, five stuffed deer heads hung. They had pretty brown eyes and looked scared.
Sarah took a deep breath and held out the dress again. “I made you this.”
This time she took it. “Why, aren’t you nice?” She peeked inside and giggled and pulled it out.
“Hope you like it,” Sarah said. “And want it.”
The blanket and dress fell to the floor. They made almost no sound. “Why, mercy me,” Mrs. Dobbins said and bent to the heart of pine planks, shined to a high gloss.
Sarah had to catch her breath.
Dark blue and baby blue lay tangled up. Mrs. Dobbins grabbed the dark blue, yanking it as if it was a rag from a rag bag, and held the dress by its shoulders.
Sarah kept her eyes on the woman’s face, on her eyes, especially, for the verdict. “I thought for something fancy. Like church.”
Mrs. Dobbins brought the dress to her face and pressed it in, then her shoulders began to shake like she was crying. She must smell Harold’s whiskey.
“I’m sorry, I’ll get it cleaned for you,” Sarah told her and wished she could take back her words. She didn’t know how much it would cost, but even a nickel would be too much.
The woman slid her face around the cloth. Her eyes were puffy. “I want to thank you for not fussing at me just then.”
Sarah felt herself relax. “It’s all right. It’s not something that would break or nothing, ma’am.”
Mrs. Dobbins laughed. “Why, Mrs. Creamer, I never knew you to have a funny bone.”
Sarah didn’t see what was funny about what she’d just said, but she wanted the woman to want the dress, so Sarah began to laugh, too. At first, it was forced and unfamiliar and like she was coughing. But the longer she went, the memory of laughter in her belly returned, and she began to laugh a true laugh. It echoed in the midst of the ceilings that seemed as high as the sky and seemed to fill the space all around her.
Mrs. Dobbins now was skipping about the floor.
Sarah joined her, the bottoms of her black serviceable shoes tap tapping along the wood, until she kicked them off, sent them flying over the coffee table that held the Bible, while her stocking-covered feet popped against the boards from moisture that had collected along her soles. Her hat sloped off the side of her head. She’d used bobby pins to hold it in place, but she saw now that she’d not used enough to accommodate laughter.
But then Sarah stopped herself cold. She came upon the dress and the blanket. They lay in the floor again. Without the laughter, Sarah felt small in the room. She picked them up. “How about us going ahead and getting this pinned for you?” She started up the stairs but heard no footsteps behind her.
“Why, no one’s ever done something so nice for me before,” Mrs. Dobbins said. “Giving me a dress like this, making me a nice present of it.”
Sarah stopped and held onto the railing. It was smooth beneath her gloves. She turned to face the woman, still rooted on the bottom floor. “Really, I didn’t—” but Mrs. Dobbins said, “Really, dear, I’m in no shape to get it pinned today.” Her words were slurred. “What about coming back tomorrow? The big cattlemen’s steak supper is Saturday night, and Big LC will want to go, even if it’s just to save face. I think he likes me in blue.”
Tomorrow, Sarah heard, tomorrow. She pictured Emerson Bridge’s empty plate. She couldn’t wait until then. “It’s not a present, Mrs. Dobbins. I—”
“You’re a good friend, Mrs. Creamer, and I thank you. Big LC says y’all aren’t churchgoers, but you’d never know.” Mrs. Dobbins was spinning like a dancer now.
Harold in the bed. Emerson Bridge returning from school. Sarah’s belly knotted up. “Excuse me,” she called out, “but can I borrow y’all’s telephone for just a minute?”
Mrs. Dobbins spun a few more times, then stopped and pointed towards the wall beyond the stairs, where a telephone sat on a small table.
After Mattie died, Sarah had thought about calling someone to report it, but she decided to leave that to Billy Udean. “Excuse me again,” she said, “but who do you call when somebody dies?”
The woman came towards her but not in a straight line. “Why, the preacher’s always been with my dead,” she said and fingered the string of pearls that circled her neck.
“We don’t have one of them,” Sarah told her.
“What about the doctor, then, dear?”
“We don’t have one of them, either. My husband don’t. I left him back at the house cold in the bed dead to come here.”
Mrs. Dobbins took her fingers from her pearls and, like a bird, flittered over to Sarah’s shoulder. Her hand was little like Mattie’s. Sarah wanted to lay her head on it. “Oh dear. Was it sudden?”
Sarah shook her head. “I’d say it’s been coming on for as long as he’s known me, and that was on the 27th day of April, 19 and 36.”
Mrs. Dobbins brought her arms around Sarah. At first, Sarah kept hers to herself, but the kindness brought Sarah’s forth, too.
Mrs. Dobbins picked up the receiver. “I’ll call my … my … now who was I calling?”
“I believe you said your preacher or your doctor.”
“Oh yes.” She dialed a number.
Sarah backed up against the wall.
“Dear, where do y’all live?” Mrs. Dobbins asked.
“Thrasher Road. Second mailbox on the left down from New Prospect Church.”
Sarah bowed her head.
Mrs. Dobbins hung up the telephone, spun around once and then sat in the little chair beside the table. “That was Doc Clinkscales.” She leaned her head against the wall. “Expect him sometime late this afternoon.”
Sarah didn’t know how much a funeral would cost, but it had to be plenty. Mrs. Dobbins’s eyes looked heavy. Sarah stepped in tow
ards her and held out the blanket. Maybe she could get the woman to see it and change her mind about going up the steps.
But Mrs. Dobbins closed her eyes.
“I can’t thank you enough, ma’am, I can’t,” Sarah said, her voice loud, almost shouting.
But Mrs. Dobbins’s mouth soon dropped open, and she began to snore.
Sarah lowered the blanket. Tomorrow. Until then, she had nothing to feed Emerson Bridge.
She passed the kitchen on the way to retrieve her shoes. The smell of sausage and biscuits lingered in the air. She peered inside. The room had a tall ceiling, was painted a bright yellow, and was as large as half of Sarah’s little white clapboard house. A table sat in the middle, as if on display. On it, plates of food remained, heaped, pretty as a picture.
She stepped inside. There were bowls of scrambled eggs and grits, a platter of fried patty sausage and a basket of biscuits, along with jars of pear preserves and strawberry jam and a full stick of butter on cut glass. Sarah knew she shouldn’t be in there, but she couldn’t leave.
She lifted a biscuit from the basket and used her fingers like a knife to open it. Inside, she placed a piece of sausage. She had never stolen before, but she had never been without food for Emerson Bridge. She would cut the biscuit in half for his supper and tomorrow morning give him the rest for breakfast. Then she would return to the Dobbins house and sell the dress, and with the money, buy food for his dinner and deliver it him at school. And she would tell Mrs. Dobbins she had taken the food and ask for forgiveness and subtract a dollar from the cost of the dress.
She placed the food inside the blanket but was careful not to touch the dress.
She found her shoes and put them on.
On the porch, the balled up newspaper lay. She picked it up and placed it inside the blanket. Tomorrow morning she would have paper to burn. Tomorrow morning the kitchen would be warm for Emerson Bridge.
…..
Sarah ran out of gasoline on Whitehall Road, not too far beyond Emerson Bridge’s school. She took off walking towards home, about three miles away.
The day had warmed into the fifties. She was thankful. She had left her house without a sweater.
One Good Mama Bone Page 4
