The Last List of Miss Judith Kratt

by Andrea Bobotis

  “Bound is not much of a place,” Rick said. “Never was. Compared to the rest of the world, it’s just a backwater plot of nowhere. If you fancy yourself royalty here, you’re still a peasant everywhere else.”

  “My family built this town,” I shot back, “and that is more than you can say about yours. As you said yourself, your grandfather could not sustain what my father created.” Politeness was now a whisper on the wind.

  Rick did not expect my response, and he paused to reconsider me in the way you might regard an upside-down beetle that suddenly righted itself: a flicker of admiration followed by indifference. Then his mouth thinned into a smile, as if something important had been established between us.

  “And yet if you ask anyone around town about the Kratt family,” he said, “what will they remember? Here’s what: a black man murdered your brother, and your father lost all his power. He sold off all his businesses and died penniless. Well, he ran that gas station until he died. In the end, your father was nothing more than a gas station attendant.”

  My head swam in anger. I took a deep breath and squared my gaze at Rick.

  I began telling him about the things in the house, my words pouring out in a torrent, inviolable, a landslide of which there was no way through or around. Rick sat, silenced. I told him of the provenance of the rolltop desk. I told him about the giant drafting table upstairs that tilted on command like a planet turning on its axis. I told him about the Persian Heriz rug in the study that remained unspoiled because no one was allowed to walk on it. I told him about the revolving mahogany bookstand so burdened with books, it could not turn. The Queen Anne chair in dusty rose that Daddy Kratt had looked silly sitting in but about which we had dared not laugh. The rococo cherub figurines with their misleading smiles. The haughty splendor of the Noritake 175 Gold china. The art deco oyster plates. On and on.

  Rick sank back into his chair. What he heard was his mother’s voice, some old woman droning on. But I kept going with an energy I thought I had lost long ago. I pushed all the objects in the house toward him and, in the process, made a moat of those things around me.

  When I was done, I tried to get up, but my balance failed me, and I dropped back into the chair. Rick rocked up and seized my arm. His grip was firm.

  “I’ll help you up.”

  “I’m fine on my own!”

  “Is any of that old stuff worth anything?” he asked, squeezing my arm.

  “Let go of me.”

  He released my arm. Stepping down the porch stairs, he set off toward the road, the opposite direction from which he had come. He had arrived in stealth but was leaving striding out the front like a peacock. As he did, my Oldsmobile swerved into the driveway. Rosemarie brought the car to a sudden stop, and Olva tore out of the passenger side.

  “What are you doing here?” Olva demanded.

  Rick stopped, put off by Olva’s tone. She looked at me, trying to ascertain where Amaryllis was. I tilted my head discreetly toward the house.

  “Get on your way, sir,” Olva said, smoothing some of the roughness out of her voice.

  Rick stepped toward her. “The best way to find that nigger is by following his child.” He looked around. “Where is she?”

  “I told you not to bother with her!” My voice rang in my ears.

  “She’s with her father right now,” Olva said in a low and controlled way.

  “I’ll find her,” Rick said. “I’ll track her like I track my deer when I go hunting.”

  Olva’s voice was crystalline. “If I see your face around this house again, I will shoot you myself.”

  From his lips fell one thick curd of laughter. “I doubt you’ve held a gun before.”

  He was wrong about that.

  Olva stood facing him until he set off toward the road.

  “We’ll find him,” Rick called over his shoulder. “I’ll get my money.”

  When he had gotten far enough down the road, Olva ushered us inside. She locked the door and called for Amaryllis, who came bounding down the stairs. Olva embraced the child tightly. She looked into Amaryllis’s eyes. “Tonight, we’ll have a big family dinner together,” Olva told her. “It will be delicious! Your father will be so delighted when he returns.” She clapped her hands. “We have work to do!”

  After she clapped, one of her hands trembled slightly. We had no way to warn Marcus. He would have to make it home safely on his own.

  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 glass)

  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 (54˝ × 21˝ × 50˝)—damaged

  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

  Glass rabbit

  Persian Heriz rug

  Revolving mahogany bookstand

  Queen Anne chair (dusty rose)

  Rococo cherub figurines

  Noritake 175 Gold china

  Art deco oyster plates

  Eight

  It was nearing Christmas, and I had arrived at the store earlier than usual that morning. There was none of the vibrancy of a typical holiday season. Fewer carols rang through the air, and the warm smell of Christmas—cinnamon, cloves, baked apples—seemed muted. With customers tentative, sales at the store were falling. Yet I could hardly give those problems any attention, because I had my own turmoil to sort out. I had not followed through on my father’s orders to assemble a mob against Charlie. As I stared out the third-floor window, putting off my inventory duties, too, the silence was so profound that I thought I could hear ice crystals squeaking past one another as they overtook the glass. Motion below caught my attention.

  A few men had gathered outside the store’s front door, which was not yet open. I saw Mr. Clark, who owned the local garage and had the wife who would not leave their home. Beside Mr. Clark was Shep Bramlett. His lips still fell apart whenever someone spoke of my sister, even though she had run away from him the morning he had pushed the peacock hat into my hands. The thought made me shiver, and it had nothing to do with the chill in the air. Mr. Burns walked up to join the two men, followed by Mr. Aiken, our pharmacist, and the butcher, Mr. Greeley. I noticed that Mr. Burns kept his distance from Mr. Greeley. I heard the bolt of the front door open, and I scrambled from my spot to see who had unlatched it.

  Peering from the staircase, I saw it was one of Daddy Kratt’s loyal boys. This gave me a jolt, as I thought Charlie, sleeping upstairs in the attic, and I were the only two in the store at this predawn hour. The boy, who had black hair that hung over his eyes and an unlit cigarette pressed between his lips, escorted the gentlemen back to Daddy Kratt’s office, and when the door opened, I heard my father’s gruff voice, which sent another tremor through me. Over the next few minutes, more of Daddy Kratt’s trusted business associates streamed through the door.

  I had vacillated, and Daddy Kratt had asked one of his boys to get the job done. The mob had been convened.

  I leaped from my spot and scuttled up the flight of stairs that led
to the fourth floor. From there, I edged through the milliner’s office and up the ladder to the attic. Charlie was already up, arranging his tools.

  Calm as ever, he said, “How is the inventory going this morning, Miss Judith?”

  “Charlie, I have something awful to tell you.”

  “Go ahead,” he said evenly.

  “There is a group of men in Daddy Kratt’s office, and they are—” I searched for the words.

  “I see.”

  To avoid his gaze, my eyes roved over the space of the attic until they landed on the Tiffany lamp. I thought about Charlie’s face when he had fixed it, his pride and his gentle embarrassment over that pride. I thought about Olva and Mama visiting him. An idea shot through my chest.

  “Charlie!” I said. “You must work during the day as if everything is normal.”

  “I must leave,” he said.

  “No, that will arouse suspicions.”

  “They will come for me no matter what!” I had never heard him raise his voice.

  “Surely they will not come in broad daylight?” I said, bewildered.

  Charlie gave a small smile and shook his head, releasing me of my naïveté.

  “Do you have anywhere to go?” I asked.

  He made no response. Then he angled his head as if something had come to him. “Dee may be able to help. She has connections everywhere. But you are right. If I fly away right now, they will get me.”

  “I will find out today when the men are”—I paused, unable to get the words out—“coming for you,” I said.

  He shook his head in despair.

  “I will, Charlie.”

  We talked through my plan. Charlie would treat today as an ordinary one, and when he was done with his work, he would gather a few of his things and hide behind the store in the shed, which housed the large farm implements we sold. If the mob planned to come for Charlie that night, I would turn on the Tiffany lamp in the attic, placing it in the window. If he saw that, he would go straight to Dee’s.

  Charlie agreed, but he didn’t seem convinced. “Nothing says they won’t come for me during the day.”

  “It’s all I can think of,” I admitted.

  “I can’t ask for more,” Charlie said, his voice sounding flat and faraway.

  * * *

  I left Charlie in the attic, and the men dispersed. The store opened as usual. Fearful I might attract attention if I shirked my duties, I scrambled to get my inventory done in time. As I made my way down the third-floor stairs, Quincy reared up in front of me.

  “Sister!” he said, pleased he had startled me.

  Quincy smiled, sharp and sudden the way an ax greets wood, and I rocked on my feet, nauseated by whatever thought was entertaining him. “I will tell you one thing,” he said, moving toward me. I stepped to pass him, but he swung his body in concert with mine, blocking my way. “You are a lot more clever than you look, Sister!” A convulsion of laughter gripped him. When he had recovered, he asked, “Do you remember how those boys would mock you in the schoolyard about your looks?”

  To my surprise, he was waiting for my response. “Yes,” I said, still uneasy with his demeanor.

  “I defended you,” he said, more soberly now.

  I thought about that. “I suppose you did, Quincy. But I also recall that your defense was to tell them that my face was substantial, like porridge.”

  Another laugh ripped through him, as if he were yanking the sound out by its roots. “That may be true, but the point is that I tried, Sister. I have never troubled you”—here his face went slack, sending a flutter of worry through my stomach—“and now you have betrayed me.”

  “How have I betrayed you?” I cried. Quincy was not prone to exaggeration. He honored words in their rawest meaning.

  “Daddy Kratt asked you to gather the trusted men of the town,” my brother said. “That should have been my job, but I will look past that.” His jaw tightened. “But then you didn’t have the guts to do it, and you asked those stupid boys to do your dirty work rather than asking me.”

  “I did not ask those boys to do it! Daddy Kratt must have. I was putting off the task—and don’t think I won’t pay for that later!”

  Quincy tipped his head from right to left, as if his mind were a scale, weighing my words against the information stored in his head. His gaze leveled.

  “If given more time, would you have done it yourself?” he asked. His voice was cold and serious. This was how he would gauge whether I was telling the truth. He wanted to know if, given more time, I would have convened the lynch mob myself.

  “Would you have done it?” he repeated. His voice was free from impatience, because he knew he would get his answer.

  “Yes.”

  Quincy paused before nodding. He believed me. He believed me because it was half true. Sometimes, I felt I was two people in one body, the first reaching out for others, and the second holding back because I was no good at sustaining whatever I managed to establish, all my effort spent trying not to offend with my words, which on their way from my mind to my mouth always became sharper. It was like how the cotton gin worked, refining and refining the cotton, and the same thing was constantly happening with my thoughts, except the end product was something too stripped down, too spare for others’ ears, too likely to reveal the brittle and bleached-out feeling that resided in me.

  “What did Daddy Kratt tell the men?” I asked Quincy. “What reason did he give for punishing Charlie? He didn’t—” I held my tongue, not wanting to mention Mama and Charlie’s relationship.

  Quincy gave a quick sniff. “He told them Charlie had been looking at Mama and some of the other women in an unwholesome way.”

  “That was all it took?” I said, more to myself than my brother.

  Quincy shrugged. “The mob comes tonight for Charlie,” he said.

  “I wish those men wouldn’t do it.”

  “Don’t worry, Sister. They won’t.”

  “What do you mean? How do you know?”

  “Because I intend to get to Charlie first,” Quincy said.

  His eyes were peeled open wider than usual, and I thought I could see further inside them, back into their depths. They seemed to have more dimension than before. He didn’t move a millimeter, and I shuddered. Within his full, dark pupils, I had seen an idea lash, like the whip of a tail escaping around a corner, fleeing as swiftly as it had struck. I turned my head away, but it had left a trail inside me as a finger does through ash.

  Nine

  Olva began dinner preparations right away. She presided over our duties with a fanaticism that was unlike her, as if she could hold the world together with a proper meal. Our hands moved, chopping and measuring and sautéing, but our minds waited anxiously for Marcus’s arrival.

  At five o’clock, the table was set. It had been arranged with uncommon care. I was surprised to see the good table linens, because I had not heard the linen closet open, which has a hinge that emits a mournful wail. During the preparation—I had to peel some oranges alongside Amaryllis—my head had started to swim, forcing me to retire to my room for a break.

  In my room, I filled the time the others spent laboring by rereading an old favorite, Gissing’s The Odd Women. Characters in books were often easier for me to understand than individuals in real life. When I returned downstairs to the table, I walked around it once, my hands clasped behind my back, and then I turned around and retraced my steps in the other direction. I heard Rosemarie and Amaryllis laughing in the kitchen.

  I admired what I saw in front of me. Each plate had been set at an appropriate angle to its cutlery, and the water goblets were stationed at two o’clock above the place settings. Both pudding spoons and cake forks rested above the plates; Olva had really gone all out, because even when we sat at the dining room table for supper, which seldom occurred, our preference being the
smaller table tucked in the corner of the kitchen, we rarely ate a formal dessert afterward. But here was the special dessert cutlery, as well as butter spades placed carefully across the bellies of bread plates.

  As I continued to stroll around the table, I couldn’t help detecting a sense of martial order. The two butter trays, stationed at either end of the table, seemed aimed at one another like tiny silver tanks. It was the first time, too, in which I noticed the significance of the placement of utensils in a proper place setting.

  “Olva,” I called into the kitchen. “I have a question for you.”

  “Yes,” she said, emerging with a crystal pitcher in hand. (Waterford, one of our very best in the house, with a striking diamond pattern.)

  “Why are the knives tucked in closest to the plates?” I asked her.

  “I haven’t the—”

  “Because that is the piece of cutlery you want most handy when sitting around a table in forced conversation with your family!”

  I was quite pleased with myself, but Olva rewarded my efforts with a frown.

  Amaryllis came bursting in from the kitchen. She began playing with one of the crystal saltcellars, pretending it was a tiny hat for her Peter Rabbit. To my surprise, I didn’t reprimand her.

  Olva brought the salad plates from the kitchen. They were delicately arranged with Boston bib lettuce and glistening wedges of mandarin oranges. Next, she ferried out a basket with a cream-colored cloth napkin draped across it, and the smell of freshly baked bread washed across the room. Next was the velvet odor of roasting pork, and I knew exactly which dish it was, one we reserved for holidays, a pork loin glazed with orange marmalade. There would be gravy to go with it, made from the pork juices and the marmalade mixed with Dijon mustard. She brought in a covered vegetable dish, and when she left again for the kitchen, I peeked inside to find the delicate limbs of asparagus, livened with flecks of orange zest.