by Fannie Flagg
But Lettie, being a trained nurse, did believe in doctors. Her own brother back home in Scotland was studying to become a physician. What Angus didn’t know was that Lettie Ross, passing the child off as her daughter, had dressed little Edward as a girl, and they had visited many a doctor in Birmingham over the years. She would take no chances while typhoid and yellow fever ran so rampant. She had made a secret vow to God that nothing would ever harm this child in her care, and if the child needed medicine, Angus Crocker be damned, the child would have medicine. But other than those occasional visits to doctors and carefully supervised outings to visit the Crocker-Sperry mines and steel mills, Lettie and Edward seldom left the grounds of Crestview. It wasn’t too uncommon. In the rarefied world of the wealthy, in the days of private tutors and private nannies, everything was brought up the mountain to Edward. Private barbers cut his hair; clothes were brought to the home and picked out for him by Nurse Ross. His schooling was conducted at home. He had everything a boy could want, except friends his own age and a loving father. The only real interest Angus seemed to have in Edward was to teach him the business so he would be prepared to take over one day. With no friends and a father who was absent most of the time, Edward’s entire world revolved around Lettie Ross. And for Lettie, who was still young enough to miss her brothers and sisters, Edward was her only companion. They played together, made up games, and had fun together. But then one day, when Edward came of a certain age, they suddenly grew even closer. Edward and Lettie Ross had a sexual secret, a secret that must never be told.
A Hard Sale
Mid-November 2008
MAGGIE SPENT THE NEXT WEEK STUDYING THE MARKET AND thinking about what the asking price for Crestview should be. It was tricky. You couldn’t ask too little or it would be an insult to the house and the neighborhood, and asking too much might cause the house to linger on the market too long. Of course, to her, the house was priceless; nevertheless, she had to put a price on it, and so it officially went on the market at just under $3 million, at $2,800,000—much lower than it would have listed at in a good market, but it was still a fair price. And to Maggie, considering what the brand-new fake Tudor homes out in the new gated communities were going for, it was a bargain; more than a bargain. Crestview was the real thing, not some cheap imitation. To her, the house was a work of art.
But Maggie was afraid that as much as she loved Crestview, it would be a hard sell. These days, everybody wanted the exact same thing: a large family room and kitchen combined, with granite countertops and cherrywood cabinets; every house had to have a home office, walk-in closets, snap-off mullions on the windows for easy cleaning, a jetted tub, a sound system, an outdoor eating area with a built-in grill, a three- or four-car garage, and be near a good school and a shopping mall.
Crestview would have been perfect for Maggie. She didn’t need to be close to a school, and she preferred a separate kitchen. As bad as she was at cooking, the last thing in the world she wanted was someone hanging around and talking to her while she tried to prepare a meal. And she didn’t want to entertain at a breakfast bar; she wanted a real dining table that she could set beautifully with lovely folded napkins. She didn’t want an outdoor grill. Eating outside on paper plates was not her idea of gracious living. But she was obviously in the minority.
Maggie knew that it was also extremely important to market the house correctly. Crestview was not a house where you could just stick up a For Sale sign in the yard. She thought she’d begin by quietly and discreetly making the right people aware that it was available. Maggie decided to forgo the usual realtors’ open house. It would be a waste of time and money, considering that only a handful of agents dealt with high-end listings. But mostly, she didn’t want to have to face Babs Bingington.
Late Tuesday afternoon, after Brenda and Ethel had gone home, Maggie sat down and typed out the brochure to be sent to her “over the mountain” client list. She would try that first.
FIRST TIME ON THE MARKET
One of the grand premier estates of the city is being offered for sale. Your exquisite taste will be reflected in this spacious and lovely landmark home. Elegant and understated; perfectly suited for the discriminating buyer, with vaulted ceilings, seven stone fireplaces, and beautiful original hardwood floors throughout. You are invited to attend an open house on Sunday, November 23, from 2:00 to 4:00.
She reread the brochure and hoped she was doing the right thing, but she couldn’t be sure. Without Hazel to give her advice, she was concerned. She had to sell Crestview. She had sent all the money she had left in her bank account to the Humane Society and the Visiting Nurses Association, and she couldn’t very well ask them to give it back. It hadn’t occurred to her that she would still be here. She had been forced to take out a short-term loan from the bank to tide her over, and if the house didn’t sell, she would be in big trouble. She just hoped she could do it. God, she missed Hazel. Hazel had made her and all the girls in the office feel so smart, so capable that they couldn’t make a mistake, and strangely enough, they hadn’t. But after she died, it seemed nothing ever went right. Maggie sat wondering what it was about Hazel that had kept her and the entire office going. It had been almost impossible to be in a bad mood around Hazel. But how did she do it? One day, Maggie had asked, “Hazel, don’t you ever get depressed about anything?”
Hazel looked at her, surprised. “No. What do I have to be depressed about?”
“Well, I don’t know … a lot of people might feel sorry for themselves if …”
“If they were a midget?” Hazel laughed, then said, “Oh, I guess I might have, but do you know what my parents did? When I was eight years old, they drove me all the way out to Long Beach, California, to see the Miss Long Beach Beauty Contest.”
“Why?”
“Well, that’s what I wondered, but after it was all over, the M.C. announced that now it was time for the Miss ‘Pee Wee’ Long Beach Division, and out came ten of the prettiest little midgets you ever saw. And the crowd just went wild. There was a pair of twins dressed up in evening gowns and one in a little red Chinese pajama outfit and a little blonde that looked just like a miniature Jean Harlow, and you should have heard the sailors stomp and cheer and whistle for her. The midgets got more applause than the big girls had. Anyhow, it was the first time I had ever seen other people just like me, and I found out that people liked midgets. So I just made up my mind to be happy about it. My parents had read about the contest in a magazine and planned the whole thing. Wasn’t I lucky? Not a high school diploma between them, but they were two of the smartest people I ever knew.”
Maggie said, “Now I’m curious. Who won the contest?”
“Oh, honey, little Jean Harlow, hands down. And now that I think about it, I guess seeing all those cute outfits that day is what made me love costumes. See how life works? Everything happens for a reason. Just think: if I hadn’t wanted an Easter bunny outfit, you and I might never have met.” Hazel’s eyes suddenly lit up. “You know what, Mags? This Easter, I’m going to wear that outfit and surprise the girls with it. Better yet, I think the office needs to sponsor a big Easter egg hunt every year over at Caldwell Park. And the Easter bunny can hand out a prize to whoever finds the golden egg. What do you think, Mags? Won’t it be fun?”
Maggie hadn’t bothered to answer. She knew no matter what she thought, once Hazel got an idea, there was no stopping her. And this idea meant that all the agents at Red Mountain Realty would have to spend all day Easter at the park, helping with the Easter egg hunt, and she would have to listen to the girls complain about it off and on for the next two weeks. It was a lot of work hiding all those eggs, but Hazel was right. The Easter egg hunt did turn out to be a lot of fun, and the Easter bunny handing out the prizes was always the highlight. But now, with Hazel gone, Easter was just another day.
Hazel always used to say, “There’s not enough darkness in the entire universe to snuff out the light of just one little candle.” It was the first time that Maggie h
ad ever known her to be wrong. Without Hazel, the world had suddenly gotten very dark. Maggie sighed and got up from her desk and went home to another TV dinner and another long night, waiting for her first open house on Sunday.
Officially on the Market
November 23, 2008
FORTUNATELY THE OPEN HOUSE WENT WELL. THE ATTENDEES were mostly neighbors and old friends of the Daltons who were curious to see it again. They all had fond memories of being at Crestview at one time or another when they were children. Maggie heard a lot of stories about Edward Crocker from the older ones who had met him. By all accounts, he’d been a shy man but well liked. One older woman shook her head and smiled. “My mother said every girl in Birmingham had high hopes of becoming Mrs. Edward Crocker, but the sly fox was never caught. He was one of those confirmed bachelors, not that he didn’t like the ladies. Mother said he was very good friends with a lot of the married ladies in town. And, of course, he absolutely adored his sister, Edwina. They say that no matter how busy he was, every June, without fail, Edward sailed to Europe and spent three months visiting Edwina at her home in London.”
Later, an older man in a wheelchair came through Crestview and said he had grown up in a house down the hill. He remembered Edward Crocker as being very fond of children. He said when he was boy, Mr. Crocker would let him and all his brothers and sisters ride their ponies all over the property and sent them wonderful presents every Christmas. The more Maggie heard about Edward that day, the more curious she became.
So after everybody left, she went back to the library and looked at the portrait again. This time, she realized what it was about his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before. There was a strange sadness there, almost as if he was longing for something he couldn’t have. Maggie related to that. “But what was it?” she wondered. Edward Crocker had everything in the world a man could want: money and power and Crestview. Even so, he looked lonely. He had not been an only child. He had a sister, so she wondered who it was he was lonely for. Had he been disappointed in love? Had someone broken his heart?
The longer she looked at his face, the more she wished she could have known him.
Crestview
Birmingham, 1935
EVERY AFTERNOON, AFTER A HARD DAY’S WORK RUNNING THE FAMILY business, Edward Crocker, like his father, Angus, before him, would sit out on the stone terrace until all the lights of downtown Birmingham started to come on one by one, sparkling like liquid jewels that twinkled and danced for as far as the eye could see. He sat and watched the cars as they snaked around the mountain like a chain of moving tiny glowing rubies, and it always pleased him. He had no art in the home, except the oil portrait over the mantel in the library, but unlike his father, Edward loved music and, when he entertained, would often hire a string quartet to play out on the terrace. On those summer nights, people said they could hear the faint sound of music playing all the way down the mountain and into the valley below.
Crestview was the only home Edward had ever known, and as a young boy, he had played among the workers and stonemasons his father had hired to build it. He was happy on the mountain. There was, of course, that one great secret of his life, but as hard as it was to bear, he did have sister, Edwina, in London, and he had Crestview. And no matter how much noise and hustle and bustle in the city below, it was always quiet that high up on the mountain. All that could be heard was the far-off train whistle and the night birds in his vast gardens.
When his father, Angus Crocker, passed away at ninety-two, his last wishes were that he be taken back home and buried in Scotland. But having been raised in Alabama, Edward wanted to be buried at Crestview. He loved his home, and when he was out of town, he left standing instructions: “The home is to be lit with electric light from sundown to sunup, and the gardens are to be maintained per my instructions.”
Twice a year, Edward opened up his home and gardens to all of his employees and always had presents for the children. A shy man, he observed the festivities from a chair in the attic. It had been very pleasant to watch all the children playing in the gardens below.
In 1928, little Ethel Louise Tatum, long before she became Ethel Clipp, had been taken up to Crestview for a Christmas party and, at one point, had looked up and waved at the man in the upstairs window, and he had waved back. But she didn’t remember it. The only thing she remembered was the present she received. All the boys got toy trains, and the girls were given dolls. She would rather have had the train; only eight years old and already a malcontent.
LATER AS MAGGIE walked around Crestview turning off lights and closing all the drapes, Babs Bingington was across town (recuperating from yet another face-lift) sitting up in her bed, with her head wrapped in bandages, and squinting at her laptop computer, reading an email from the spy she had sent to Maggie’s open house. And if she could have she would have smiled.
“No principals. Just lookie-loos and neighbors.”
Just as Babs had thought. That old dog of a house would never sell; certainly not before Christmas. She didn’t have to do a thing now. She’d wait and call the lawyer in New York after the first of the year with another proposal he’d be a fool to turn down.
THE NEXT MORNING, some eighty years after her first visit to Crestview, Ethel Clipp still had complaints. When Maggie came in the door, she started in: “I am so upset, I could just have a flying fit. You are not going to believe this.”
“What?”
“Saturday, I went to the loveliest wedding over at the Church of the Advent, and every one of the bridesmaids had tattoos and so did the bride. Can you believe it? Pretty young blond girls with tattoos. In my day, nice girls wouldn’t even date a boy who had a tattoo. What are they thinking? And to make matters worse, the groom had a head full of dreadlocks, and he isn’t even black. Can you imagine what the world is going to be like fifty years from now? A bunch of old ladies sitting around playing bridge with tattoos all over their big fat arms. I mean, Jesus Christ, who wants a grandmother with a tattoo? And I remember when boys used to be clean-cut.”
“Me too,” said Brenda.
“Now they all want to look scruffy. It was that TV show, Miami Vice, that did it. Since then, nobody shaves anymore. I swear to God, people are so stupid. Something becomes a fad, and everybody does it. What happened to the individual? I wouldn’t be surprised if a show about nudists was a hit, and the next day, everybody in America stopped wearing clothes.”
Brenda laughed. “Well, if that happened, I sure don’t want to see it. I don’t even like to look at myself naked, much less strangers.”
Ethel made a face. “I’ll tell you one damn thing. If that happens, and people start jogging in the nude with their altogethers dangling in the wind, I’m out of here.”
Time on Her Hands
Friday, November 28, 2008
THANKSGIVING CAME AND WENT, AND STILL NO SALE OF CRESTVIEW. There were a few people that seemed interested, but nothing concrete. But every day that went by, sitting in the house, looking at his portrait, Maggie became more and more intrigued with Edward Crocker. Not having a plan for the future or watching the news, Maggie was finding out that between showings at Crestview, she had a lot of free time on her hands with nothing to do. Finally, one afternoon, she went down to the Birmingham Public Library and began doing a little research on Edward Crocker. She started looking up old newspaper articles on microfilm.
Most of the coverage was about business, but she found a few mentions of Edward in several articles. An interesting one came from the Birmingham News, in 1933.
* * *
Dapper and neat, with a razor-sharp wit, Edward Crocker is an avid golfer. As friends say, “He is not too long off the tee, but his short game has devastated many an opponent.” While visiting Birmingham, legendary golf champion Bobby Jones was challenged by Edward at a hundred dollars a hole. Jones later declared, “We played a ding-dong of a game. I remember thinking how blamed stubborn he was. I was shooting pretty good, but this little fellow kept sticking and s
ticking, and every time I made the least slip, he won a hole from me.” When a reporter asked Mr. Crocker if he intended to keep the money he’d won, he answered in the affirmative. “Indeed I do; after all, sir, I am a Scot.”
* * *
Edward looked small and somewhat delicate in his photographs, but he was no weakling where business was concerned. Maggie read accounts of his stance in the thirties against the large influx of people who had been sent to Alabama to try to infiltrate and unionize his workers. In 1932, Edward had been photographed standing in front of one of his mines, holding a rifle, and underneath, he was quoted:
“I pay well, and I take care of my workers. Any Bolsheviks that come sneaking around bothering my men, I will personally chase them back to Russia. This is an American company. No slackers, no Bolsheviks. An honest day’s pay for an honest day’s work.”
From what she read, he seemed to have been a tough but fair man.
* * *
Although some companies in Magic City have reported rumblings of unrest, the workers at the Crocker mines have been immune to outside influences. With a first-rate company hospital and top-notch schools for the children and adult education for those who want it and free home nurse care for new mothers, Mr. Crocker’s workers have no complaints and have sent the troublemakers packing.
* * *
Most of Edward’s workers were poor sharecroppers who had come to town looking for work, or immigrant Greeks, Italians, or Poles who had ridden steerage to get there and had been assured a chance to move up in the company if they worked hard enough. All the workers seemed to like and respect him. As Maggie read on, she saw that many articles had been written about his business affairs, but almost nothing about Edward’s social life. She started looking in some old society columns for any mention, and luckily, she was able to find a few. One, from the Birmingham News on June 19, 1932, was especially intriguing.
