The Last List of Miss Judith Kratt

by Andrea Bobotis

Midday, I noticed my car was gone. Olva, Rosemarie, and Amaryllis had taken it. The house bore no trace of them. I happened to glance out one of the large front windows, and when I did, a shadowed figure on the porch peered inside. My shock was so great, I had to rest against the arm of the sofa until my woozy head settled. Regaining my composure, I stormed over to the front door. I did not open it but reached for one of my sturdy canes sitting within the entryway. I rapped it vigorously on the inside of the door.

  “Go away!” I yelled, still rapping. “No one is home!”

  I gave the door a final crack with my cane to make my point.

  My heart sped up from the exertion, and I had to sit down a few moments, because my vision began to swim. Finding my equanimity again, I slowly approached the window.

  When I looked out, I saw no one at all. A chuckle over my misplaced alarm was brewing in my chest until I peered farther out into the yard. A man!

  It took me a moment to recognize the man as Jolly Bramlett’s son. I had forgotten his first name but not his temperament. A genealogical rung down, Jolly’s spiteful buoyancy had degraded into a blunter kind of malice in her offspring. I unlatched the door and stepped onto the porch. Sunlight flooded my eyes, and I squeezed them shut. Opening them again, I found the Bramlett boy glancing up at me from the yard, an unlit cigarette dangling from his parted lips. Long graying hair clumped onto his shoulders, and an old brown belt held his black shirt and pants together.

  “Ms. Kratt,” he said wearily. When his lips moved, his cigarette popped up and down. He said no more but crossed his arms over his chest and took his tired gaze away from me.

  “What is your name?” I asked. Age gives one the occasion to be blunt.

  Jolly typically referred to him as my poor son. Her poor son this, and her poor son that. She once told me that despite his woes, having a child was all she ever wanted. Then I remembered she flashed me a look of pity, as if I hadn’t been so lucky. What a shot of fury that sent through me. As if she had a clue what I wanted!

  Jolly’s son fished in his pocket for a lighter. He flipped it open and shut, open and shut. He cupped his hand over the cigarette and lit it. It all took a very long time in my estimation, during which I was standing there like a fool, my question dangling in the air.

  “Rick,” he said finally, not looking at me.

  He was spared the threat of more communication with me when his mother’s Taurus pulled into the driveway. Jolly hoisted herself from the driver’s seat, and Vi floated from the passenger side a few moments later. Seeing her son, Jolly threw her arms wide, beckoning him for a hug. He didn’t protest, and they embraced.

  Jolly released her son. “Why didn’t you eat the pimento cheese?” she asked. He shrugged, and she brushed something off the front of his shirt. All at once, it was clear to me: he lived with her! I took stock of his sad, dirty clothes and understood that his life had been less prosperous than his mother’s.

  I took my time to step down from the porch. As I approached Jolly and her son—Vi stood to the side—I saw in my peripheral vision my Oldsmobile Cutlass moving down the road. Finding another car in the driveway, it slowed to a stop in front of the house. It looked as if it might keep going, but Amaryllis shot out of the back seat, dangling her bunny by its ears.

  Olva got out of the car, calling after Amaryllis, but the child was already running headlong toward us. Rosemarie, who had been driving, cut off the engine. Amaryllis was already standing beside me when my sister began walking toward us.

  Jolly stood, hands on hips. “I heard you were back in town,” she said to Rosemarie, her usual strained mirth giving way to complete acrimony.

  Rosemarie said nothing.

  “How long have you been away?” Jolly continued, seeming to enjoy her own question, as if she had been in a state of celebration since my sister’s departure.

  I thought her attitude toward Rosemarie was in poor taste, and I almost said something.

  But Jolly was still going. “Daddy always thought you were pretty,” she said flatly. “Couldn’t tear his eyes away from you.”

  My sister did not respond to any of it. Her face was cautiously still, as if she had arranged her expression and was holding it in place.

  Jolly leaned her body toward Rosemarie, angling for another line of attack, but Rick had lost his patience. He seemed to be in no mood for bygone rivalries between old biddies. The folds of flesh around his mouth quivered a moment, which was a preamble to a nasty smile, and his lips then parted so widely, I thought I might be able to count each and every one of his teeth.

  “We’re here for that black boy,” Rick said. “He owes us rent money.”

  I felt a twist of nausea in my stomach. I looked at Rick, then Jolly, half expecting one of them to say something to me, but they had turned their attention toward Olva, who had tucked Amaryllis behind her skirt. Jolly stepped toward them.

  “Where have you been, child?” Jolly’s voice was like lemon in milk.

  “Hickory Grove,” Amaryllis said, eyeing Jolly. I thought it was brave of the child to answer.

  “And why did you go there?”

  Rosemarie opened her mouth to speak, but Olva gently touched her arm as if absorbing a charge. My sister’s face quieted.

  “Miss Olva and Miss Rosemarie talked to a preacher, but he had a dog,” Amaryllis said, loosening up as she remembered the animal. She stepped out from behind Olva’s skirt. “I got to play with the dog! His name is Henry. Then Miss Rosemarie and I got to play with Henry while Miss Olva talked to the preacher some more.”

  From Jolly’s expression, I could tell she did not know what information could be located in Hickory Grove, our neighboring town. But I did. The black church there, Walnut Grove Baptist, possessed an uncensored history of the births and deaths of colored folk in upstate South Carolina.

  “That’s nice,” Jolly said blandly. She lifted her brows. “I understand your daddy will be picking you up soon. Is that right?”

  “You don’t have to answer,” Olva told Amaryllis.

  Jolly laughed. “I do believe your maid has airs.”

  Rosemarie’s breath escaped her loudly, but otherwise, she remained silent.

  Rick took a hard pull on his cigarette, worn out by having to condescend to sort out his mother’s problems. Faster than he looked, he stepped between Olva and Amaryllis. “Tell us where your daddy is!” he said, towering over the child.

  His bluntness was miscalculated. Uncowed, Amaryllis narrowed her eyes at him and dashed back to Olva, who swept her up the porch stairs and into the house. The door closed behind them. Rick watched them depart with hooded eyelids. He seemed to skip from apathy to rage and back again, with no notes in between.

  “White trash,” Rosemarie whispered, finding her voice but just barely.

  “Shut up, bitch,” Rick said languidly, not looking at my sister.

  “That’s enough, son,” Jolly said. “It’s time to go.”

  Rick wheeled around and took off toward the road. “Don’t you want a ride home?” Jolly called after him. But he had already crossed the road and was heading toward town. She hurried to her car, beckoning Vi to follow. She would attempt, I could see, to pick him up down the road.

  Before opening the car door, Jolly paused and looked at me. “Anyway, Judith, even if we didn’t find that black boy here, thank you for giving us a call. I knew we could count on you. We’re old friends, aren’t we?” She seemed to consider this. “Well anyway,” she sniffed. “We stand on the same side of things at least.”

  The door slammed, and the car backed out of the driveway with force.

  Rosemarie stood wordlessly. I could hear her breath, a pant.

  “I see now that I made a mistake in calling Jolly.”

  Rosemarie didn’t speak.

  “I made a mistake,” I said. “I can admit it.” I was hardly going to be
g.

  My sister stepped toward the front door. I intercepted her, but she didn’t say a word. Her eyes met mine with conviction, greater than before, as if she’d found something, proof of my offense, on which to hang her lifelong suspicions about my character.

  “Please don’t tell Olva,” I said.

  Rosemarie moved me aside. When she entered the house, I followed, but there was Olva, and I could entreat my sister no more.

  “Amaryllis is safely upstairs,” Olva said.

  A knock at the door punctuated her comment. We all stiffened, but when Rosemarie peered out the window, she glided toward the door and opened it. Marcus stepped in, a smile on his face until he noticed our expressions.

  “What happened?” he asked. “Where is Amaryllis?”

  “Did you run into the Bramletts?” Olva asked.

  “No. They were here?” His face went slack.

  “Amaryllis is fine,” Olva said, gesturing for Marcus to join her. The low murmurs of their conversation carried them up the stairs.

  I tried to give Rosemarie a meaningful look, but she was already following the two of them. I retreated to the sunroom, moving to the far corner, where I sat on the uncushioned wicker seat as a form of penance. The sun shone coldly through the windows. I closed my eyes, falling into a willed slumber, and I was not sure how much time had passed or if I had truly been sleeping when my ears detected a conversation in the living room. I lifted myself from the seat and crept closer to the sunroom door to listen.

  “You haven’t been back to your home,” Rosemarie was saying. “Where have you been living?”

  “Our car.” It was Marcus.

  I heard the fatigue in his voice. I thought about the repair work he did around town—clocks and generator engines and whatnot—and I wondered if a consequence of his work was that he transferred whatever sputter of life he possessed to those failing things.

  “You will come live with us,” Rosemarie said. “Just for a time. Until you figure out your next step.”

  “I’ll think about it. It’s a generous offer.”

  “How can you think about it? You have a child to consider.”

  “I can make my own decisions about my child.”

  “How can you say that?” Rosemarie pressed.

  “Because she’s mine.”

  Rosemarie did not respond at first. I thought they had abandoned the room, but then her voice broke the silence.

  “I want to tell you, Marcus, about a hat that was once made for me. I was thirteen years old, and Jolly’s father commissioned the hat for me. It was a fine hat indeed, made of peacock feathers. I have never seen this hat myself, but Mr. Bramlett told me about it one evening, when he happened to catch me alone in the store after the doors had been locked. I was on the third floor, getting ready to climb out a window, which was my preferred state of entry and exit, when I heard him call my name. He liked to say my name in two parts. Rose. Marie. As if he were getting two girls for the price of one. I froze. He had cornered me.

  “‘I bought you a hat, girl, but you ran off,’ he said, approaching me. He began describing the hat, holding out his hands, as if he wanted to measure my head. ‘I think it would have fit you, but I want to check,’ he said. Then he moved his body against mine, pinning me against the windowsill, and he placed his hands around my neck. He pressed my head into the glass. I thought it would shatter. Out of the corner of my eye, I could see snow begin to fall, the kind that danced through the air, and I imagined myself dancing right along with it, held aloft by a current of air. He kept one hand on my throat and moved his other hand to my torso. I was a sprite back then, wearing clothing too light for the season. It required very little of his effort, then, to thrust his hand inside my underwear. I closed my eyes, and against the backs of my eyelids, my snowflakes continued their frantic dance. I imagined the cold numbing my body. All at once, he stopped. I didn’t open my eyes but felt the presence of someone else in the room. He released me. I fell to the floor, my hip hitting the edge of the windowsill. The pain made my eyes fly open, and I saw my brother, Quincy. He was standing across from Mr. Bramlett.

  “Quincy and Mr. Bramlett stood in silence. Suddenly, I felt as if the air were filled with lead, and the weight of the room tipped toward my brother. There was Quincy, the secret gatherer, my father’s eyes and ears, and Mr. Bramlett was no fool. He had just as much reason to fear my father’s wrath as anybody. After a few excruciating moments, Quincy brushed his hand to the side, an invitation for Mr. Bramlett to leave the room. Quincy nodded, letting Mr. Bramlett know what he had done to me would remain a secret. I closed my eyes and let my head fall to the floor. Quincy’s betrayal was worse than my violation. But as I lay there, I felt Quincy’s breath above my head. ‘If he touches you again, I will kill him,’ my brother said, helping me up, and in his eyes, I could tell it was the truth. He would be my protector. He draped his coat around me, and he retrieved some suitable clothing for me from the women’s clothing department. I changed in the third-floor bathroom while Quincy guarded the door. He eventually took me to Aunt Dee’s, where Olva took care of me for the rest of the night.”

  I stood out of sight in the sunroom, listening to my sister’s story. I had never before heard it. A thought tore through me: after Shep Bramlett had pushed the peacock hat into my hands, I had not told my sister about it, had not prepared her for his fury. Several times I saw her that day, but no word of it crossed my lips. Instead, I had squirreled that hat away as though it had been my own.

  From the living room, Rosemarie’s voice again. “I’m not telling you this, Marcus, to burden you with some sad tale or to guilt you into moving in with us. I’m telling you so you’ll know I have my own ax to grind with the Bramlett family.”

  There was a spell of silence. An acceptance of Rosemarie’s offer.

  Marcus’s voice. “They raised our rent and raised it again. And then they locked us out when we fell behind on our payments.” He paused. “Rosemarie, I need to tell you that my great-grandfather is the one who murdered your brother.”

  My sister’s voice, softer now. “Don’t you worry about that. Olva invited me here to set some matters straight. Now that I’m back in Bound, we can finally tell our family’s story. You’ll understand soon enough. Now let’s get you moved in.”

  I moved away from their voices. I wanted to hear nothing more.

  * * *

  An hour later, Olva stepped into the sunroom.

  “There you are. I’ve been looking for you.” She considered me more closely. “Are you quite all right?”

  I nodded, and she took the wicker chair next to me. She paused to notice that the cushion was under her. I searched her face for anger, worried that she knew I had called Jolly about Marcus. I wanted to ask her why she had invited Rosemarie home. But I did not want to stoke anything. I wanted to keep the embers low.

  “Marcus and Amaryllis are moving in,” I said.

  “Yes. They are moving their things in from the car now.”

  She patted my leg before rising from the chair and leaving the room. I sat unmoored, out of place in my own house.

  After a few minutes, I followed her path to the living room, where inside the front door, Marcus and Amaryllis’s items had been deposited, mostly electronics Marcus was repairing, along with some paperwork and a few books. Marcus had given Amaryllis a suitcase to tow her clothing, while he had stuffed his into two pillowcases. The child had so few toys. What little they possessed.

  An inventory in one glance.

  Windsor chair

  Wooden spinning wheel

  Mahogany secretary

  R. S. Prussia vase

  Pie safe—Grandmother DeLour’s

  Butler’s tray (silver plated)

  Amsterdam School copper mantel clock

  Hamilton drafting table

  Letter opener (cut gla
ss)

  Tiffany lamp (diameter 16˝; 21¾˝ height)—broken fixed

  Victorian chaise longue

  Octagonal Jacobean parlor table

  Mahogany sewing cabinet

  Westclox alarm clock (Big Ben model)

  Hepplewhite side table

  Watchmaker’s workbench

  Edwardian neoclassical brass column candleholders (10˝ tall)

  Abner Cutler rolltop desk

  Riding whip—Daddy Kratt’s

  New York Times (Wednesday, October 30, 1929)

  Peacock hat

  Edwardian coral cameo (1½˝ × 1˝)

  Highboy bureau

  Butterfly tray

  Cheval mirror

  Six

  I sat in the passenger seat of Daddy Kratt’s Cadillac, black and glistening from a fresh polish, as it glided down the road like an oily crow. Our task was to collect past due rents on our properties. Having a woman accompany him, as he put it, soothed the disobedient tenants. Which was another way of saying that Daddy Kratt remained in the driver’s seat, engine still humming, while I knocked on people’s doors.

  For weeks, I had been nervous, wondering what Quincy had seen when I caught him running ahead of me on the stairs that day in the store. It didn’t seem possible to me that he could have seen Charlie squeeze my mother’s hand, but when it came to spying, Quincy seemed to have the ability to see through others’ eyes. Coasting along the road in the Cadillac, watching the longleaf pines outside my window enduring winter’s rawness, I held my breath.

  As I went door-to-door collecting money, tenants pleaded with me. They cracked their front doors, not inviting me in, the wind still sweeping inside, leaving their homes colder than before I arrived. Their words were directed at me, but their eyes remained fastened over my shoulder on Daddy Kratt in the driver’s seat. They would see him working his gums with a toothpick, and if he sensed defiance, he revved the engine.

  Often, I had to repossess belongings, usually the most prized possession in the house, although what counted as prized, I came to learn, was a matter of perspective. Daddy Kratt knew it. He sent me into those homes with lists of the things that mattered most to the tenants. I walked right through their front doors, carrying cursed inventories in my hands. Quincy was the one to collect that information beforehand. What cruel and intimate knowledge my brother gathered! Once, I took a wooden pipe from an old Negro, and to see him let go of it was like watching someone give up the thought of tomorrow. Back on the road, my father had tossed that pipe out the car window.