Fiona Callahan.
My mouth went dry. Fiona? Some Creole queen with a French-sounding name had stolen my husband? I stared until I was sure I’d burned the letters off the page.
What did Fiona have that I didn’t? How could he? While I may not have been the most exotic woman on the planet, I’d been told I had a pretty smile and nice legs.
The familiar droning started near my ear, buzzing, drilling home the truth: my husband cheated on me.
Twenty. Thousand. Dollars.
I threw the document on the table and snatched the flyswatter from the hook by the back door, and when the light caught the iridescent-winged fly hovering over the Harwell insurance policy, I tensed my jaw, drew back my arm, and smashed it into a bloody smudge.
Right next to the name of Fiona Callahan.
[ CHAPTER 4 ]
Southern manners and turning the other cheek be hanged. The name Fiona Callahan winked up at me from the insurance policy, mocking me in a way that felt like I’d been the one dragged through the swamp mud. Who was I kidding? O’Dell’s infidelity left a hole as big as a moon crater in my heart, and I’d allowed the crater to be lined with the saccharine taste of denial. If I had a grain of sense, I would’ve packed up the girls at once and moved to Dallas. Or Shreveport. Or Nashville. Maybe I could get a job waiting tables at a Western bar and start my life over. And I’m as certain as my name is Georgia Lee Peyton, if O’Dell had walked through the door that night, I would have personally dragged him down to the bayou and drowned him myself.
By three in the morning, I’d riffled through every drawer, shoe box, and place I could think of searching for an insurance policy with my name as the benefactor. Nothing. I had a house, bought and paid for—thirty-two hundred dollars, completely furnished, thank you. A savings account with three hundred and forty-six dollars that had to pay for a funeral and our living expenses until I could find a job or move in with Aunt Cora.
Other assets: two girls who depended on me. A 1946 Ford Coupe that was six years old and needed new tires. A gold wedding band from the Mercantile in Jefferson. And a mother-in-law who clung to me like Spanish moss on a cypress tree.
Maybe I’d been living my entire life in a dreamworld where I thought people came back and loved you and would hang the moon if you asked them to. You’d think by now it would have sunk in that people are not necessarily who you think they are. Parents leave their children. Husbands have affairs. Mothers-in-law drink themselves into oblivion, and the one person who wanted to take us to her bosom was an aunt who could’ve been a kissing cousin of Rahab the harlot.
I shuddered and pushed it out of my mind. I’d been down that path so many times I knew every crack in the sidewalk. Tomorrow I would call on Mary Frances and see if she knew anything about O’Dell leaving any life insurance policies lying around. That did give me a glimmer of hope since O’Dell’s daddy had been an independent insurance salesman and had left Mary Frances with a tidy sum when he died. I also needed to check on her. Just because her son didn’t give a fig about me didn’t mean I could abandon her.
Rosey dawdled over her cornflakes while I fortified myself with a second cup of coffee and found her schoolbag, then adjusted the clip in her hair, which flew in more directions than my thoughts.
“All right, time for school. Don’t want you to be late.”
She opened her mouth to protest, then clamped her lips together. We’d already been over it a dozen times. Yes, she had to go to school. No, she didn’t have to talk about her daddy dying. Yes, Mommy would pick her up. And yes, I crossed my heart and hoped to die I would never leave her. Thank goodness, her six-year-old brain didn’t see the irony in that promise.
The air was heavy with bayou smells—rotted earth and mud turtles and boggy pools—smells that tickled the back of my throat, clung to my skin, and reminded me it was God’s way of dust to dust in the swamps. Our part of Mayhaw lay in the crescent of the bayou, and momentarily, I remembered that the other end of town had a completely different texture to the air. Pine needles. The smell of sawdust from the lumber mill up the road. Blue skies above the open meadows where cows grazed. The flashing neon of the Stardust.
After the two-block walk to Robert E. Lee Elementary and another round of hugs and kisses, Rosey shuffled into the front door of the school. As we headed back toward home, a car horn beeped, and I looked up to see my best friend, Sally Cotton, motioning for us to come over. She wore gypsy hoop earrings, sunglasses that covered half her face, and Japanese silk pajamas. “Time for coffee?” Her voice sparkled as always.
“Not today. Going to check on O’Dell’s mom.” Avril bounced up and down, yanking on my arm.
“Please, Mommy, I wanna play with Rae Rae.” Avril couldn’t say Nelda Rae, but she adored Sally’s four-year-old, who sported skinned knees from falling out of trees and had a pair of six-shooters. Cowboys and Indians trumped MeMaw every time.
“Let Avie come, and you can swing by later to pick her up. We’ve a heap of catching up to do.” Avril’s pleading eyes looked up at me, so I opened the door, thanked Sally, and waved as Sally’s Cadillac lurched forward.
Having decided to take advantage of the convenience of O’Dell’s car, I went home, grabbed the keys, and ten minutes later pounded on Mary Frances’s front door, waited a minute, and pounded again. When she didn’t come, I let myself in. “Yoo-hoo! Mary Frances, it’s me… Georgia.”
Doing a quick survey of the living room, I found it wasn’t too disorderly. Magazines scattered about. A cigarette burning in the ashtray, its long ash nearly to the filter. I stubbed it out and almost bumped into Mary Frances, who had apparently been in the bathroom. Her days with her cousin Bertha hadn’t improved her personal hygiene. I’d seen bird’s nests more organized than her salt-and-pepper hair, but she did have on lipstick, so maybe she was improving.
She blinked and said, “You scared me half to death. What are you up to, Georgia? Ever heard of the telephone?”
“I should have called. I’m sorry. I thought you might want some company.”
“I’ve had all the company I can stand. Three days with my cousin Bertha could drive the governor himself out of office. Why, she went on forever and a day moaning about how horrible my life had turned out. You woulda thought it was her son that drowned the way she kept nursing my last bottle of gin. I’m on my way to Ralph’s so I can get fortifications.” Sure enough, she was half dressed, and I offered to zip the back of her dress, which still gaped open.
“Bertha? The cousin from Corsicana? I never knew she was a drinker.”
“Neither did I. Not becoming for a mayor’s wife, you know. And if she thinks I’m moving to Corsicana so she can mooch off me and the pittance I have left of Earl’s life insurance money, she’s nuttier than a hoot owl.”
“What? She wants you to move in with her and the mayor?”
“No. Just to Corsicana. Thinks I should be near family in my time of need. I set her straight. I’ve got my own family to sustain me right here in Mayhaw.”
When she saw my raised eyebrows, she added, “You, Georgia. You and the girls. You’re all the family I want. Or need.” Her hands trembled as she fumbled with her silver lighter and Pall Mall. “So you didn’t tell me what the occasion of your visit is.”
“I came to check on you. And I have some questions.”
“Could we discuss it on the way over to Ralph’s?”
“He doesn’t open until ten.”
“Yes, my dear, I called ahead. He’s meeting me at the Sweet Shoppe. He knows what I want.”
And indeed he did. And since we were there, I bought Mary Frances a donut and a cup of coffee. Now that we had time to talk, bringing up the subject of life insurance felt mercenary. The dirt mound hadn’t even settled over O’Dell’s grave, and all I could think of was what provisions he left to the girls and me. Practicality won out.
“Mary Frances, I hate to bring it up, but I can’t seem to find a life insurance policy at the house. Do you have any
idea…”
Mary Frances twitched. Her shoulders first, then shaky hands. “You think we could cut this short? I need to get home.”
“In a minute. I’m trying to figure out where we go from here. I have two girls who need clothes. And shoes. And food to eat. O’Dell didn’t make a great deal of money… the truth is, I haven’t seen any of his commission money in more than two months.” I hated being so forthright, especially in public, but my lack of sleep and Mary Frances’s twitching had taken their toll. Not to mention every time I took a breath, the name Fiona Callahan flashed through my head.
My mother-in-law sniffed. “I’m sure O’Dell had a good reason. Perhaps a slump in sales. And it’s not that you can’t get a job. I know it’s early after O’Dell’s passing to bring it up…” Her foot slipped off the bar at the counter, and she bumped her coffee cup, splashing it on the counter. I grabbed a napkin to mop up the mess and looked at her. Hard.
“Yes, I do plan on going to work. But in the meantime—”
“Hey, Georgia.” A twangy voice on my left interrupted. I knew the voice without turning—Bobby Carl Applegate. I did a slow pivot on the counter stool to greet him.
“Hey, yourself.”
“Sorry about O’Dell. Man, it gave me the willies when I was reading his obit on the radio.” Bobby Carl. Local disc jockey, newsman, and the boy who gave me my first kiss. Age ten. I smacked him, but he’d acted like he had first rights to me ever since. Silly man.
“Thanks. It was a shock to all of us. We’re still trying to make sense of it.”
“Anything I can do?” He stood close enough I could smell the Aqua Velva he splashed on his fair, though somewhat doughy, face. He’d never outgrown the baby face, and his stature never caught up, either. In high school, I’d towered over him and still did.
“No, but thanks for asking.”
“You aiming to stick around Mayhaw?”
“What else would I do?”
“You never know. A voice like yours, you could raise a few eyebrows at the Grand Ole Opry.”
What a laugh. “I don’t think so. Carrying a tune and being a real singer aren’t in the same league. Besides, you have to be asked to appear on the show. Cut a record or something, which I’ve no intention of doing.”
“Guess you’ll be whuppin’ up on all the other contestants in this year’s talent show then?”
“Sure. If I have time. You never know what I’ll be doing.”
He craned his neck to look around me at Mary Frances, then winked and whispered, “If you need an escort to the dance, you know where to find me.”
I rolled my eyes. “You’re a mess, Bobby Carl.”
With eyes narrowed, he said, “Well?”
Shaking my head, I told him to pick on some other poor defenseless widow. Then I paid for our coffee and took Mary Frances home. She remained quiet on the ride, her fingers curled around the paper sack holding her prescription for grief. And life.
I dropped her off, then gripped the wheel, determined not to make the same choices as Mary Frances. Even if I had to dance with Bobby Carl at the Mayhaw Festival, it was better than letting a bottle consume me.
And with a flick of my wrist, I wheeled the car toward Sally’s, intending to take her up on her offer for coffee. Already, though, the morning had heated up, and when I got to the intersection at Main, I knew more coffee wasn’t what I wanted. What I wanted was to go to the Stardust. To check on Doreen and Paddy. Perhaps Paddy had gone for another round of cobalt treatments and they’d closed the Stardust for a spell. There had to be an explanation for its ragged appearance. The least I could do was have a look. They were—in Cora’s words—family. Of a sort.
The weeds had grown even more since O’Dell’s funeral, tangling the ditch and threatening to choke the gravel drive beside the office. No cars in sight. I swung the Ford into the spot reserved for the manager and cranked the window open. To my surprise, a soft breeze filtered in, bringing with it a green, piney scent. Although the bayou veered off behind the Stardust, its presence seemed more remote here at the edge of town. A flutter came to my chest as I took a deep breath and turned off the Ford.
I slammed the car door and marched to the office. Cupped my hands and put my nose to the glass. Other than a dusty, stale look, the Stardust looked ready for business. Papers stacked neatly beside an adding machine. A coffee cup still on the counter. Brochures tucked in a wall rack, and on the far wall, cottage keys dangled from a board with numbers above the cup hooks. I jiggled the knob and found it, not surprisingly, locked. When I stepped back, the sagging wooden step creaked uncertainly. I studied the outside. The stucco could use a coat of whitewash, and some new shutters would work wonders.
It bothered me that there was no sign saying Back after lunch or Gone Fishing. It looked as if the Stardust had simply been abandoned. I had turned to go when I caught a movement of something or someone between two of the cottages. A blur of tan—a deer that had perhaps come to munch on the knee-high weeds. Curious, I crunched my way on the gravel path that led to the sidewalk connecting the cottages like a piece of seam binding. Up close they didn’t look as worn and tired as I’d thought that day in the car. Some of the window boxes were missing, the remaining ones filled with weeds.
I slipped between the cottages where I’d seen the blur and jumped like a kangaroo rat when I nearly bumped into a child.
Taller than Rosey, with fuzzy black braids poking out in a dozen directions, the girl’s eyes were as round as jawbreakers, the whites of her eyes so white they had a blue tinge, and in the center, they were inky black and staring at me like I was a swamp ghost.
“Oh, goodness. Looks like we ’bout scared each other plumb spitless.” I smiled and extended my hand. “I’m Georgia. And who might you be?”
Course I knew she must’ve come up to the Stardust from Zion. The girl, eight or nine, I reckoned, said nothing, just bugged her eyes at me like she was frozen to the spot.
“Say now, you don’t have to be afraid.”
The eyes narrowed slightly as the girl bowed her head, studying pink palms, but not shying away from me. Then, as if her palms had given her the answer, she looked up and said, “My name is Merciful. And I ain’t afraid.”
“Merciful. What a beautiful name. Can you tell me where you live?”
Her head tilted toward Zion. “Yonder. In the trees.” Then her face broke into a wide grin, her two front teeth on the top missing. A giggle started in her belly and shook her pudgy arms and body. “Not in the trees. In a house with Maw and Paw and my stinkbug brother. His name’s Catfish, case you’s wondering.”
“Now that you mention it, maybe I was. So what brings you over to the tourist court today, Miss Merciful?”
Another giggle. “Y’ain’t supposed to call me Miss. That’s what we’s supposed to call y’all white folk. Hey, you aimin’ to be the new man here?”
“What do you mean? I’m a lady, for one thing, not a man.”
“You know, the one who goin’ to be running the place. The man. Your man. Like the other one and his lady that was here.”
“Well, the ones who were here before seem to be gone right now, but I would guess they’re coming back. You seem to know a lot more than I do. Care to tell me why it interests you?”
“No reason.” For the first time, the wide-eyed child looked away, down at the grass.
“You surely don’t mean that. Why else would you be leaving your maw and paw and coming up here?” The truth was, Merciful was quite an engaging child, and she was probably breaking every rule forty ways to sundown for even talking to a stranger, a white woman at that.
“Paw’s gone on the lumber trailer with the others, and today is Maw’s turn to take care of Mamey. She don’t know I left.” Then, as though the fact dawned on her for the first time, she backed away, looking toward the trees.
“It’s all right. Your secret’s safe with me. You come here often?”
“No, ma’am. Not no more. Maw says ain’t no
use crying over spilt milk. The good Lord will provide.” She studied her bare feet. Wide. Flat. And even though she was a mere child, they looked as tough as alligator skin.
Had the child ever owned a pair of shoes? Understanding crept upon me, a dim candle of knowing that warmed my face. The man—Paddy, I guessed—must’ve employed Merciful’s momma to help clean the cottages. Sally, like every distinguished woman in Mayhaw, had a colored girl two days a week. Tansy. Or was it Fancy? A pleasant woman who busied herself with the dust mop and linseed oil.
Aunt Cora hadn’t held to the tradition of hiring someone, burdened as she’d always been with raising a child on her paltry fortune, but I’d always had an unnatural curiosity about the folks who came in from Zion on colored day at the Mercantile. I would sneak downtown on my bicycle, pretending to be on an errand, and watch as they paraded into town, their mahogany faces glistening in the summer heat. Their voices, rich and peppered with laughter, filled my heart. Once I left my bicycle in the bushes and shimmied up close, walking along like I was one of them. I offered a pigtailed girl about my age a lemon drop and laughed along with her. By the time I got home, Aunt Cora had already caught wind of my escapade. She whipped the living daylights out of me with Grandma Tickle’s wooden spoon.
The child before me stared at her feet, the dress she wore at least two sizes too big, the print of it faded to practically nothing. Such a respectful girl. Polite. Well-spoken. And whether she was aware or not… captivating.
“Merciful, did your momma used to work here?”
Her head shot up. “Yes, ma’am. And she let me help her collect the bedclothes and take them to the wash room. Over there.” She pointed to a small building behind the office I’d not noticed before. “Ever’ day, we came and did what the man asked. And on Saturday, he gave Maw her money and he’d give me a penny to put in the gumball machine.”
“I bet you liked that.”
Stardust: A Novel Page 3
