Posts Tagged ‘parenting’

Sunday Clothes, Epilogue

September 13, 2019

Addie watched through the window as George drove down the lane. He pulled up in the yard and got out, then walked around toward the front of the car. He was squinting at something on the left front fender. He bent over and used the sleeve of his coat to scrub at whatever it was. She smiled.

She stepped out onto the front porch. “You take on over that car like it was a baby.”

He grinned over his shoulder, pushing his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. “Well, they get good money for these rigs nowadays. Fellow oughta take care of it, don’t you think?”

“I’ve got some coffee brewed.” cake

She went in and gathered the coffee things. She sliced a few pieces of pound cake and arranged them on a small plate and added that to the tray. When she came back out, he was sitting in the ladder–backed chair. She set the tray on the table and seated herself in the cane–bottomed rocker.

“Busy day?” she said as she leaned over to pour into his cup.

“Thanks. Yes, I suppose it was.” He scooped his heaping spoon of sugar and dolloped the cream.

“How’s that new man working out?”

“Jennings? Oh, I think he’s going to be fine. He’s a bright one, learns quick. Wish I’d have hired someone like him years ago.”

She balanced the saucer in her lap and laid her palms around the cup. The air was just cool enough to make her savor the warmth.

“You cold? We can go inside,” George said.

“No, it’s nice out here. I love the fall evenings.”

He nodded and took a sip of his coffee. “Course, it was nicer when there weren’t houses across the road to block the view.” fall

“Well. Progress.”

He made a dismissing sound.

“Had a letter from Jake.”

“When? Today?”

She nodded. “Would you like to read it?”

“Sure would.”

She went in the house, to the bedroom. It was still lying where she had put it after reading it, on the bedside table atop her Bible. She took it to him.

He looked at the envelope, then took up the letter. His eyes ran back and forth across the single page. From this angle, she noticed the smudge on the back of the letter. That was Jake all over, not thinking of the grease on his hands before sitting down to write. She was surprised enough he’d written. He’d been gone for two months now, and this was the first communication he’d sent.

“Sounds like he’s doing pretty well,” George said. He folded the letter back into the envelope and handed it to her. “Detroit’s the place for him, Addie.”

“I guess.”

“Long ways off, though, isn’t it?”

She smiled, looking at Jake’s spidery, impatient handwriting on the envelope. “I just hope he doesn’t go any farther.” detroit

George looked at her. “Addie, you’ve done a good job with him. He’s a good boy.”

“Thank you. And you’ve helped.”

George shrugged. “I haven’t done much.”

“You’ve been here when he needed you. That’s a lot.”

“I was glad to do it.”

“I know. And he knew, too, even if he never had the words to tell you.”

He took another careful, slow sip from his cup. Yes, you could have done more, George, she thought. You could have always done more. But then, anybody could say that. Anybody could always know they could have done more. You did what you could; that was the point. You did your best with what you knew, and you prayed it was enough. Not what you knew, because you never knew everything you needed to know—at least, not at the doing. But sometimes, maybe, it worked out, it was all right. Maybe that was enough grace to go on.

“You ever think about him?” George asked. “Still?”

She looked at him in surprise. “Are you still worried about that?”

“Not worried.” But the color was rising in his cheeks. “Just wondered, is all.”

She set her cup and saucer on the tray and leaned back in the rocker, closing her eyes. “Oh, I guess I’ll always think about him. Every time I look in my children’s faces, I will.” She looked at George. “He wasn’t bad all the way through, you know. There was a lot in him to like … to love.”

George studied his coffee cup. She could see his jaw working in and out.

“I wish him well,” she said. “He’s had his share of trouble, too, I expect.”

“Yes, I imagine so.”

“I wish he could see his grandson,” Addie said. “He’d be proud of him, I think.”

“Well. Maybe someday he will.”

“I don’t know. I just don’t know.”

The sadness was coming toward her, kicking up the dust of remembered hurts, missed chances. She sat forward in the chair to lean over and pinch off the corner of a piece of pound cake. She put it in her mouth and offered him the plate. He took a small corner of the same piece and ate it. She set the plate back on the tray and retrieved her cup and saucer. George took a sip of his coffee. She took a sip of hers.

“Well, I’d better get on home,” George said, after a longish silence.

“Yes. The dark falls quicker these days.”

He got up, dusted a few cake crumbs from the front of his vest. “Thanks for the cake and coffee.”

“You’re welcome.” She got up and walked with him toward the porch steps. “Will I see you tomorrow?”

He looked at her, showed her a tiny smile. “Oh, I imagine so.”

She nodded. “Well. Good evening, then.” lights

He touched his hat brim. He walked to his car and got in. He cranked it and backed carefully around. She watched him drive down the lane to the road, watched him until he had climbed the hill toward town and disappeared on the other side.

She hugged herself and leaned against the porch post. The lights were yellow in the windows of the houses across the road. She stood there until the evening purple edged over into full dark. She picked up the tray and carried it back inside.

*******

This post is a chapter from the novel Sunday Clothes, by Thom Lemmons. Sunday Clothes will soon be available for purchase as an e-book at www.homingpigeonpublishing.com

Creative Commons License
So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

 

Sunday Clothes, Chapter 42

September 13, 2019

George was tired. As tired as the stiff, blotched, late–summer leaves of the ash tree in Addie Douglas’s front yard. He hauled on the parking brake and killed the engine. The August air hung limp and heavy, even though it was only nine in the morning. He hoped Ned remembered that today was the day his train left for New York. George sure didn’t want to have to tramp back through the woods to his house.

He got out of the car and walked to the edge of the yard, staring into the woods. He tilted his hat back on his head and looked up at the sky. It was blue now, but by midday there’d be a dull, whitish dome of humidity blanketing everything.

“George?”

He turned around. Addie stood on the front porch.

“Oh. Hello.” He touched his hat brim. “Came to get Ned, carry him to the train. Didn’t mean to disturb.”

“You’re not; don’t be silly. Would you care to sit till he comes? I’ve got some coffee.”

“Well … thanks. Yes, I guess that’d be all right.” He ambled back toward the house. coffee

There was a cane–bottomed rocker at the corner of the porch, near the swing. He sat in it. A minute later Addie came out of the house carrying a wooden tray with two steaming cups.

“Cream and sugar?” she said.

“No, thanks, just black.”

He took a cup and saucer from the tray and balanced it in his lap. She set the tray on one end of the swing and carefully sat down on the other end. He slowly brought his cup to his lips and blew across the top of the hot coffee. He took a careful sip.

“Going to be hot again today, I expect,” she said.

George nodded.

“Where’s Ned going?”

“New York.”

Her eyes widened. “New York City?”

He nodded.

“Whatever for?”

“He’s going to art school.” George felt a little bloom of pride. He took a small sip.

“Well, I’ll say to my time …” She blew on her coffee. “How’d he ever manage that? I mean, he’s surely very talented, but—”

“I’m sending him.”

As soon as he said it, George felt a little ashamed. Or, not ashamed, maybe, but embarrassed, as if he’d put himself forward when it would’ve been better to keep quiet. He waited, taking a sip of coffee.

“Well, George. That’s really something. Really generous of you.”

George gave a little shrug. “Ned’s a fine young man. He deserves a chance.”

She was looking at him. He tried to meet her eyes but couldn’t. He drank some more coffee.

There was a crash inside the house. She put her cup and saucer on the tray, splashing a little coffee into the saucer. She got up from the swing and hurried into the house. “Jake!” he heard her call out as she opened the door. “What are you doing?” swing

The swing swayed slowly back and forth from her leaving. George watched the ripples bounce back and forth across the black surface of her coffee. The cup rattled against the saucer, but it didn’t tip. He heard voices inside the house: Addie scolding and her little boy whining in protest. In a little while she carne back out onto the porch.

“That young ‘un might not live to see his seventh birthday,” she said.

George smiled. “How’s your daughter?”

“Oh … she’s fine, I guess. Considering.”

It sounded like she had more in mind to say, but when he looked at her, she’d turned her face toward the road.

A brown thrush trilled in some rhododendrons at the edge of the woods.

“I sure am sorry, Addie. For everything you’ve been through.”

She gave him something not quite like a smile and then minded her coffee.

They heard footsteps, then Ned came around the corner of the house. He was carrying a burlap feed sack cinched at the neck with a piece of rope. He wore a white shirt buttoned to the neck and a pair of blue bib overalls, so new and stiff the legs barely bent when he walked. He set the sack down on the ground near the porch and shoved his hands deep in the pockets of the overalls.

“Hello, Ned. Mr. Hutto tells me I’m going to have to find a new hired man,” Addie said.

He either ducked his head or nodded; it was hard to tell which.

“Do you have everything, Ned?” George said.

“Yes, sir.” He nudged the sack with the toe of his brogan.

There was a short, quiet moment. “Wait here,” Addie said, and went back in the house. She came back a couple of minutes later carrying a black leather valise. “Here you go, Ned. I’ve been meaning to give this to you anyway. You might as well use it to carry your things to New York.” valise

She handed him the valise. He reached up to take it, and George could see the flush creeping up his neck.

“Thank you, ma’am.” He opened it and began transferring items from the sack.

“One more thing,” Addie said. She went back into the house.

“Here are your tickets, Ned,” George said as she left. “All your transfers and everything. You remember what I told you about changing trains in Philadelphia?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Professor Koch said he’d be waiting for you at Grand Central. I’ve described him for you—”

“Yes, sir.”

There was so much more George wanted to say to him. He wanted to tell him to relish this chance; it wasn’t likely to be repeated. He wanted to tell him not to be afraid of the strangeness of the place and the people; that was only a matter of experience and circumstance anyway, and besides, if you set a New Yorker down in the middle of the woods and told him to find his way home, he’d be just as lost as somebody from Tennessee who found himself in the middle of Manhattan. He wanted to tell Ned to cherish the gift he had, to hone it and nurture it and let it turn the world on its ear.

“I know you’re going to do just fine, Ned. I’ve got every confidence in you.”

Ned studied the toes of his shoes. He nodded.

“Yes, sir. I’ll do my best.”

Addie came back out onto the porch, and in her arms were a jar of some kind of preserves, a loaf of bread wrapped up in a cotton dish towel, a jar of pickles, and a hunk of yellow cheese.

“Now, Ned, I think you’ve got enough room in the valise to pack most of this stuff. That’s a long train ride, and I expect you’ll get hungry, so I just grabbed a few things.” She started handing the food to him. “I know your mama probably gave you some good stuff, but just in case—”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you. I’m obliged.”

“Oh, now don’t be silly. I can’t have you going all the way off to New York City and starving on the way. There. I think that’ll fit, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“I tell you, Ned, I just don’t know if I can let you go or not. Who’s going to chop wood and do chores for me?” chopping.jpg

Ned scuffed his toe in the dirt.

“Willie Lewis, ma’am.”

“Who?”

He looked up at her for an instant, then back down at the ground. “Willie Lewis. He says he needs a job.”

“Lila’s boy?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Well.” She smiled at him, then at George. “I guess that settles that.”

“Ned, we’d better get going,” George said.

“Yes, sir.” He picked up the valise.

Addie leaned over the porch railing and gave Ned a quick, hard hug.

“Ned, I just know you’re going to do really well at that school. One of these days that fish you made me will be worth—oh, I don’t know—a hundred dollars.”

His cheeks were beet red.

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you, ma’am.”

George went down the steps. He turned and looked back at her. “Thank you, Addie. For helping him out.”

“Oh, goodness! He’s done far more for me than I’ve ever done for him.”

George smiled. “Well, I’m not so sure about that.”

She gave him a tiny smile in return. “I’m always glad to help when I can.”

“Yes. I believe that’s right,” George said. He ducked his head then and pushed his glasses up on the bridge of his nose. He went to his car and started it. Ned tossed his valise in the backseat, and they backed out and headed down the lane.

I need to get in touch with Lila, she thought. I need to see if Willie can come to work.

*******

The air coming through the train window was hot but better than nothing. It seemed to Becky as if the closer she got to Texas, the hotter and more stifling the air became. But it was August, after all, and the air she’d left behind in Little Rock wasn’t any better, that she could tell.

At least Daddy was doing better; that was one thing to be thankful for. Maybe now that he was back on his feet for the most part, Mother could manage on her own. And with her tainted daughter gone back to Texas, maybe she wouldn’t have to endure quite so much polite silence from her acquaintances.

Neither of them had asked Becky if she was going back, but neither had they invited her to stay. She wasn’t sure if it was because they respected her choice or because they were too ashamed to admit it existed. She tried to remember if they’d even talked about Zeb while she’d been home. She didn’t think so. But every so often, Becky could tell by her mother’s look that she was wondering. Or maybe trying to figure out where she and Daddy had gone wrong.

When they’d gotten to her platform at the station, Daddy had squeezed her arm. “Well, Sarge,” he’d said, leaning close, “I guess you better get on back to Texas.”

Another time, Becky might have teared up. But too much had changed, somehow. She’d smiled at him and kissed him on the cheek. She’d reached past him to hug Mother. And she’d turned and stepped up into her car. Just like she knew what she was doing. shacks

She looked out the window. The train was rolling through the soggy bottom country east of the Red River. They’d probably cross into Texas in the next hour or two. Just off the railroad right–of–way, in the corner of a cotton field, stood a row of unpainted shotgun houses. Half–naked colored children chased each other in the bare dirt yard of one of the houses, and a heavy old woman sat on a keg by the front door of another. The old woman watched the train as it went by.

Becky wondered where the old woman had been, what she’d seen. Had she ever left somewhere and come back? Or had she lived all her life beside the tracks, watching other people come and go but always staying in the same place herself? Did she ever look at the windows of the trains as they passed, wondering about the people sitting behind the glass?

You could lose either way, Becky figured—going or staying. It was just a question of which loss you thought you could tolerate. At least Zeb had enough share in her shame that he couldn’t look down on her. That was something, she guessed. Maybe it was enough, for now, enough to bring her back. Beyond that, it was hard to say.

*******

Zeb left the telegraph office, trying to ignore the heavy feeling starting up in his chest. Still nothing. He hadn’t heard a word from Becky for the three months she’d been gone, except for the terse wire she’d sent from Little Rock, notifying him of her safe arrival.

It wasn’t right, what she was doing. That was the thought at the front of his mind. It contended with the thought at the back of his mind, the one that kept saying he didn’t deserve anything good from her or anyone else after all he’d done. But didn’t a man ever get through paying for his sins? When did enough get to be enough?

He decided to go over to the hotel, drink a cup of coffee, see what was going on. This time of the afternoon Colonel Dickson and some of the other big wildcatters would usually be there, smoking cigars and lying to each other about their prospects and the production from their wells. Zeb picked his way across Front Street, tiptoeing around the muddiest places. Somebody ought to do something about the streets. He might need to talk to the mayor. Grady wouldn’t do anything much on his own, but he’d be glad to let Zeb or somebody else with a little gumption take the lead. That was the way things got done around here. lobby

The hotel lobby was quiet, but the blue smoke of Cuban cigars was rolling out of the restaurant. Zeb strolled in, letting his eyes adjust to the dark. “How about a soda, Mr. Rourke?”

“Usual?”

“Yes, sir.”

Zeb slapped a dime on the counter while the barkeep spooned the dark brown syrup into a glass and squirted it with seltzer water. “There you go,” he said, sliding it across to Zeb.

“Thanks. Keep the change.”

The oil men were at their usual corner table. Zeb walked over. One of them spotted him. “Hello, Zeb. Pull up a chair.”

He scooted in and set his drink on the table. Colonel Dickson looked at him. “Zeb, you still drinking that Waco sugar water instead of a man’s drink?”

Zeb shook his head and grinned. “Now, Colonel, you know—”

“Yeah, yeah.” He winked at his cronies. “I said I’d never trust a man that wouldn’t drink with me, but I don’t believe ol’ Zeb cares a rip what I think.”

“Looks to me like you don’t care either, Woodrow,” said one of the others, “long as the deals he sells you keep making oil. I tell you what, Zeb, you bring your next prospect over to my office, and I’ll let you drink all the Dr. Pepper you can hold and never say a word about it.”

Some of the men chuckled.

“Well, what you got going, fellas?” Zeb said.

The man to Colonel Dickson’s right, a big German named Schott, gave a theatrical shrug. “Dickson got all the production tied up. What else for us ‘cept borrowing money from Dickson, and him tighter than bark on a tree?”

Colonel Dickson took a long drag on his cigar and aimed a stream of smoke at the low ceiling. “You boys keep singing that old song, you’re gonna break my heart.” He flicked a thumbnail–sized ash onto the floor, then cocked his head at Zeb. cigar

“Tell you the truth, Zeb, me and the boys are glad you happened in here this afternoon. We were just talking about you.”

Zeb saw some of the others nodding and watching him. He took a slow drink of his soda and set it on the table.

“Must be an off day, you fellas don’t have any better topic for conversation.”

“Zeb, you’re a capable fellow; we all know that. And you’re honest. Least I’ve never caught you lying to me.”

“Don’t believe you will, Colonel.”

“Fact is, Zeb, we need somebody like you for a little venture we’re putting together. Somebody who knows how to put in a day’s work, knows how to talk to people.” The Colonel leaned toward him. “And somebody who won’t forget who he’s working for.”

They were all looking at him now. He pressed himself against the back of his chair, sat up straight.

“A little venture?”

“Yessir. The kind that’ll make you enough money to not care if you ever sell another deal to me or anybody else.”

“I’m listening.”

“You like to travel, don’t you, Zeb?”

Nearly an hour later, Zeb stepped out onto the boardwalk in front of the hotel and squinted into the late afternoon sun as he settled his hat on his head.

It was a lot to think about, he had to admit. If this Ranger oilfield was half as big as some of the Colonel’s scouts thought, it would generate an unimaginable amount of activity. Why, a discovery that size would make fortunes for hundreds of people. And to be the agent that brought it all together … The man that pulled that off would be in the history books.

He could just get on a train tomorrow and go, they told him. Stay in the best hotels back east, hobnob with the moneyed people. Represent the interests of the consortium in all the right places. And earn himself the same cut of the profits enjoyed by each of the other men gathered around the table. It sounded real good. oiltown

Especially right now, with things at home being what they were. Just get on the train and go. Come back when he wanted to—with enough money to do as he liked.

Coming toward him was a parcel–laden woman followed by a little girl. The little girl was fussing with her bonnet, asking for her mother’s help. Zeb stepped aside to let them pass on the relatively dry margin of the street. Just as they reached the place he stood the little girl’s bonnet fell off in the mud. Zeb scooped it up and flicked off most of the mud. He put it back on her head and tied the ribbons under her chin. He gave her a smile and stood back.

“Thanks, mister,” the mother said.

Zeb touched his hat brim, and they went on their way. He watched them go, thinking about Addie and his little girl. About the son named for him, the child he’d never seen.

It was the same old dream, and it was a good one: follow the rainbow till you find the pot of gold. It was out there, just over the next hill. You just had to keep moving. Once you found it, everything would be all right. And even if you didn’t, there was always another hill to climb. He shook his head and shoved his hands deeper in his pockets. He resumed his walk home.

He climbed the steps to the front porch and reached in his vest pocket for the house key. He put it in the lock, but it was already unlocked. Odd. He never left the house unlocked during the day. He went inside and immediately smelled her.

Becky came into the parlor.

“I hired a buggy to bring me from the station,” she said. “I didn’t want to bother you at work.”

He looked at her, reaching inside himself for some feeling, something a man might say when his wife came home after three months.

“How’s your daddy?”

“He’s going to be all right.”

“Well.” He nodded, not quite able to look at her, not quite able to look away. “I’m glad you’re home.”

She stood there for a second or two, gripping her elbows. She crossed to him, put a hand on his shoulder, and gave him a dry, quick peck on the cheek.

“Me, too,” she said. “Sit down and rest awhile. I’ll fix us something to eat.”

*******

This post is a chapter from the novel Sunday Clothes, by Thom Lemmons. Sunday Clothes will soon be available for purchase as an e-book at www.homingpigeonpublishing.com

Creative Commons License
So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Sunday Clothes, Chapter 39

May 30, 2019

Addie walked to the window and peered as far as she could down the lane and along the road toward town, trying to see some sign of Dub’s headlights. Nothing. She paced into the parlor and looked at the mantel clock. Half past eight.

“Mother, when are they coming home?” headlights

“I don’t know, honey. Your Uncle Dub said he’d be back by dark.”

“It’s been dark a long time.”

“I know.”

“Why aren’t they back?”

“I don’t know. Why don’t you go finish your lessons?”

Mary Alice turned away and went back toward the kitchen, her head down. Addie’s voice was sharper than she intended. Her anxiety was infecting Mary Alice, most likely. Addie was trying to keep ahead of her worry, but the later it got, the more it gained on her.

The telephone made its rattly ring. Addie stepped quickly into the entryway and pulled the earpiece off the hook. “Hello?”

“Addie, it’s Lou. Dub and the boys just left for your place. He told me to call and tell you, so you wouldn’t worry.”

She felt a rippling flash of relief, followed quickly by aggravation. “What kept them so late?”

“Dub said the traffic down the mountain was real bad after the races were over. He said they got back as quick as they could.”

“Well, all right. They’re on their way?”

“Yes. Dub said Jake had the time of his life.”

“I don’t doubt it. All right, then. Thanks for calling.”

Addie replaced the earpiece on its hook. She wouldn’t have agreed to this at all, but Dub promised he’d keep Jake with him every minute of the time. For weeks and weeks now this auto race foolishness had been the only thing you heard anybody talking about; it had even crowded out the Prohibition vote as a topic of conversation. But now that the commotion was over and Louis Chevrolet and all his millionaire sporting friends were packing up to go back wherever they’d come from, maybe things would settle down to normal again.

She stuck her head in the kitchen. Mary Alice was hunched over her school tablet in the pool of light from the hanging bulb. “That was Aunt Lou. They’re on the way home.”

No acknowledgment. Well, let her have her mad; she probably deserved it. quilts

Addie went back to the parlor and inspected her day’s work. Two more spreads ready to ship to Mr. Lawlis. It was a lucky day for her when the Chicago businessman happened into Dub’s store and saw her bedspreads. He’d let her know more than once he’d be happy to take more than the two spreads per month she’d been sending. But Dub had helped her get started, not to mention he was family. She wasn’t about to throw him over for some fancy dresser from up north, no matter how promptly he paid.

She heard the sound of Dub’s Model T. She went to the front door and stepped out onto the porch.

Dub pulled up in the yard and the doors flew open. Jake and his cousin Ewell chased each other around and around the automobile, imitating the sound of racing cars.

“I’m T. J. Gates, from the Buick Racing Team,” Jake hollered.

“And I’m Loueee Chevrolaaaaay,” shouted Ewell.

“All right, you two,” Dub said. “The races are over; time for the cars to go back in the shed.”

Jake stopped in the middle of the yard and windmilled his arms, still making race car noises.

“Jake, you better tell Uncle Dub ‘thank you,’” Addie said.

“Thank you!” he yelled, without turning around.

“Thanks, Dub, for taking him,” Addie said.

“No trouble, Addie. We had a big time, didn’t we, boys?”

“What do you hear from Robert?” Addie said. “How’s Vanderbilt?”

“Fine, except for the classes.” Dub laughed and shook his head. “Takes after his daddy, I guess.”

“Well, Jake, you better get in the house,” she said. Jake immediately took off on another lap around the Model T.

“Ewell get in the car, son. We better get home. Sorry to be so late, Addie. The traffic—”

“Yes, Lou called. Jake! You better get in this house right now, young man, or I’m fixing to flatten your tires!”

Jake sputtered up the front steps and sprawled on the porch at her feet. “I’m out of gas, Mother.”

She waved at Dub as he backed out of the yard, then bent over and poked the boy in the ribs. “Out of gas, huh? Out of gas?”

He giggled and squirmed, trying to evade her tickling. She got him up and pointed him toward the front door. “I don’t guess Uncle Dub fed you anything, did he?”

“Sure did. They had barbecued turkey legs up there, and lemonade, and cider, and corn on the cob, and—”

“All right, all right. I get the picture.”

“Oh, you should’ve seen it, Mother! All those cars, and the engines just a–roaring, and the dust flying out from under their wheels when they made the turns—”

“I’ll bet you were in hog heaven.” race

“There were even some drivers from Chattanooga. Uncle Dub knew ‘em. Eddy Kenyon, and Charles Duffy, and—”

“And you’d best get those clothes off and get ready to get in the tub. You’ve probably got dust in places you can’t even show decent folks.”

“—and the Buick Racing Team! All the way from Detroit, Michigan, Uncle Dub said. And Louis Chevrolet. He’s French. Mother, where’s Detroit, Michigan?”

“North, a ways. Now get on upstairs.”

“Oh, Mother, it was just bully, is what it was. Bully all the way down to the ground!” He pounded upstairs, shedding clothes as he went. She looked after him, shaking her head. He’d be talking about this for weeks, most likely. She’d be surprised if he slept a wink tonight.

A little while later, she went to the kitchen. It was getting late. Mary Alice needed to be getting ready for bed. “About finished, dear?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Mary Alice closed her book and sat with her hands in her lap, staring down at the dull blue cover of the McGuffey Reader.

“What’s wrong, honey?”

Mary Alice sat very still, not even moving her eyes. Addie was fully prepared to hear about how she’d hurt Mary Alice’s feelings with her sharp tone just before the phone call came from Lou. She was prepared to respond to why Jake got to go to the car races with Uncle Dub and Ewell and she had to stay at home and do her schoolwork. But she wasn’t quite ready for what her daughter actually said. reader

“Sarah Frances Tanner says I don’t have a daddy.”

“Do what?”

“She does. She says I don’t have a daddy.” Still, Mary Alice wouldn’t look at her. “At recess today, she said it. And at lunch she said it to Lucy Wilkes. She told her I don’t have a daddy.”

Addie felt as if a place in the center of her chest was emptying. She stepped to the table and quietly pulled out a chair, then sat. She put her hands on the table and laced her fingers together, then spread them out, palms down. She took a deep breath and let it out slowly.

“So, Sarah Frances said that, did she?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Now she raised her eyes to her mother’s. “Why doesn’t my daddy live with us, like Sarah Frances’s and Lucy’s?”

“Sweetheart—” Where on earth to start? “Honey, do you remember your daddy at all?”

She pursed her lips. “Just a little. I remember some sparkly paper. Was that Christmas?”

Addie gave a sad little smile and a nod. “Yes, dear, that was Christmas. Anything else?”

She twisted her mouth back and forth, then shook her head. “No, I think that’s all.”

“Honey, your daddy traveled a lot. He was gone more than he was home, even after you were born. And then, one day—”

The old hurt surprised her, sidetracked her with its sudden intensity. As if it had been waiting for a chance at her, and this was it.

“One day, he decided he didn’t want to come home anymore.”

“Was he mad at us?”

“Oh, no, sweetheart, not a bit. Not at you, anyway. No, don’t ever think that.”

“Was he mad at you?”

A place in her throat was starting to ache. She swallowed. “I guess he was, in a way. Maybe not mad, exactly, but … I guess he was just sad, maybe.”

“Did you do something bad to him?”

“No, I didn’t. At least … if I did, I didn’t know what it was.”

Mary Alice’s forehead wrinkled. “Mother, was he ever around after Jake was born?”

“No, honey. He wasn’t.” wrapping

“Well, what’ll Jake do? He won’t even have shiny paper to remember.”

No, not even that. “I … I don’t know, honey. I don’t know.”

She reached across the table, put a hand on her daughter’s arm.

“Mary Alice, now listen to me. What happened with your daddy and me wasn’t your fault. And it’s none of Sarah Frances’s business, or anybody else’s. You’re a sweet girl, and I love you, and you just remember that. All right?”

Mary Alice looked at her a long time. “Yes, ma’am.”

“All right, then. You’d better go get ready for bed. School tomorrow.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

She dragged her books and paper off the table, tucked them under an arm, and wandered out of the kitchen, toward the stairs. Addie watched her go until she rounded the corner. When she heard Mary Alice’s feet on the stairs, she put her face in her hands.

She wondered why her own hurt hadn’t taught her how to soothe her daughter’s. You’d think I’d know something to say to her, Addie thought. But Mary Alice’s wounds were in a different place, had a different shape. And then Addie felt the raw and livid place inside her, the part of her that felt insulted that her daughter should even notice the lack of a man who’d cared so little for her—or if he did care, it wasn’t in any way that made a practical difference. Just one more way I’m not good enough, she thought. Just one more thing he’s done to me: leaving me here to explain something to a nine-year-old girl that her twenty-nine-year-old mother has never been able to explain to herself.

She got up from the table and wandered over to the sink. She’d tacked a calendar to the wall above the sink, beside the window that looked out onto the backyard and the tree line beyond. Peabody’s Dry Goods sent them out; they had a different illustration for each month of the year. The illustrations were in the style of the old Currier & Ives prints; this month it was a party scene, men and women playing croquet or some such game in the foreground, and a group gathered around some kind of table in the background. A church social, maybe. There wasn’t a title to it. The men were all wearing top hats, and the ladies’ dresses were old–fashioned, flared affairs with huge sleeves ballooning between the shoulder and elbow. And they were all wearing gloves. Didn’t look too practical for croquet, come to think of it. croquet

Mary Alice’s birthday was coming up in a few weeks. Addie would make her a great big cake and invite all her little school friends over. Maybe she’d pay Ned Overby a little extra, get him to stay after his wood chopping and turn the crank on the ice cream bucket. She’d think of some party games the little girls could play, and she might even try to sew a special frock for Mary Alice to wear, just for the occasion. Maybe she’d see if Lou would loan her Lila’s services to decorate and get ready for the event.

She stared out the window at the dark yard, the darker trees. She found herself thinking of Carolina Clark.

Her name was Carolina, like the state, she said, and she was very particular about the correct pronunciation. She was from somewhere up north. She came to Chattanooga when Addie was still a little girl to be the second wife of John Larimore Clark, a wealthy landowner whose first wife died from consumption. Addie remembered the first Sunday John Larimore Clark brought his new wife to church at Centenary Methodist. Addie remembered that even as a child, she thought of Carolina Clark as a small woman, and very pale. She wore big, wide–brimmed hats to church.

Carolina had odd ways, even for a Yankee. She was rarely seen outside the big, three–story house on Walnut Street that she shared with her husband and stepfamily. Some said she almost never left her own room. She was subject to headaches and would spend weeks at a time in bed with the curtains and shutters drawn.

But one of her strangest habits was that she never went anywhere or did anything, indoors or out, without wearing gloves. Naturally, most of the women at Centenary Methodist wore gloves to church. But even at meals, people said, Carolina Clark kept her hands concealed in gloves of silk or fine linen. hatgloves

On a Sunday afternoon in the middle of the summer, right after dinner, Carolina Clark got up from the table and announced that she was going to her room for her usual nap. The servants were away, her husband was traveling on business, and the children were in their rooms upstairs. Sometime that afternoon, Carolina rose from her bed, removed her Sunday clothes, walked outside, and threw herself down the eighty–foot well in the backyard. When her body was removed a few days later, all she was wearing were her white silk gloves.

That was what everybody knew, but what nobody said. At her funeral service, the preacher spoke of her as “a quiet woman who troubled no one.” But the thought of her troubled Addie, even as a young girl. What would make anybody want to do what Carolina Clark had done, she wondered. What dark voices whispered to her from the well, and why didn’t anybody else hear them, or know? Why wasn’t there anyone to shoulder a corner of Carolina Clark’s quiet desperation?

Addie suddenly felt very tired. She had some spreads she ought to work on, now that the house was quiet, but the thought of going into the parlor and threading her needle seemed arid and burdensome. She thumbed the button by the door to switch off the kitchen light. She tested the lock on the front door, then went to her room, turning out lights on the way.

*******

The man across the desk picked up the carvings as if he were handling Babylonian pottery shards. He held them up this way and that way, looked at them from every possible angle. He was a big man; his face was red and sheened with perspiration. His hands were beefy, but he handled Ned’s work like an acolyte might handle sacramental vessels.

“He’s got drawings?”

“Yes, right here.” George laid the leather portfolio on the desk between them. He was proud of the portfolio. He’d ordered it from one of the catalogs Professor Gaines suggested. Ned had grinned for a whole day when George gave it to him.

The man opened the portfolio. His lips made little pursing motions as he looked at Ned’s drawings. He would flip quickly through several sheets, then pause, slightly squinting one eye or stroking his upper lip as he studied a piece more closely.

“The style is a little naive, of course … that’s to be expected. But my! What a sense of line.” As he looked at the drawing, one of his hands strayed to the carving he’d been examining: a deer springing over a log. George smiled. It was hard to keep from touching Ned’s carvings.

“Oh, so he’s done some charcoals … Hmm … Yes.” charcoal

He closed the portfolio and looked up at George. “Well, Mr. Hutto, I must admit I was dubious when I received your first telegram. If Percy Gaines weren’t an old friend— But it appears to be just as you and Percy say. The boy is very, very talented.”

George leaned back in his chair. “Well, Professor Koch, I— It’s good to hear you say so.”

“May I speak with him?”

“Oh, well … he isn’t here. That is, he didn’t—couldn’t come with me.”

Professor Koch arched his eyebrows.

“His father needed him, you see. It’s spring, and that’s the time Perlie—Mr. Overby, the boy’s father—when he sells his hides, and—”

Professor Koch had bridged his fingertips and was staring at George with a blank expression.

“Well, at any rate, Ned couldn’t come with me to New York, you see. I was hoping you could look at his work and tell me— And you have, of course, and so … I was hoping …”

Professor Koch looked at him a bit longer, then cleared his throat with a delicate sound. “Mr. Hutto, you must realize. Our institute has certain standards.”

“Yes, of course.”

“To be considered, each candidate must undergo a personal interview by the faculty.”

George nodded.

“He must agree to the terms and conditions of enrollment. He must be made to thoroughly understand what we expect of our students.”

George took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed at his lips.

“Still …” Professor Koch took up the deer carving. He ran a palm over the deer’s back, ran a fingertip along the delicate, perfect curve of the neck. “I suppose, given the geographic challenges involved …” He put down the carving and aimed a forefinger at George’s chest. “The tuition for the first quarter must be completely prepaid.” deer

“Oh, yes, sir. That will be no problem.”

“And we’ll need letters from a teacher, and from Percy, and—”

“Yes, I’ve already spoken to them, Professor.”

Professor Koch leafed through the portfolio some more. “Yes. Extraordinary eye this boy has.”

George leaned back in the chair again and smiled.

*******

This post is a chapter from the novel Sunday Clothes, by Thom Lemmons. Sunday Clothes will soon be available for purchase as an e-book at www.homingpigeonpublishing.com

Creative Commons License
So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Sunday Clothes, Chapter 36

May 9, 2019

Lila spread her palms on the small of her back and grimaced as she tried to stretch the stiff muscles. Her head ached too. She’d sat up late last night, trying to finish Clarice’s dress. It was about all she could handle this morning to scrounge up some day-old cornbread for the children to eat on their way to school. sewing

She was worried about Willie. Deacon Green had sent a note home with their middle boy saying he’d been getting into a lot of scrapes lately, during recess and after school. It was a shame, the principal said, because Willie was smart enough to do anything he wanted to do; he just didn’t want to stay out of trouble, looked like. Deacon Green thought Willie’s parents ought to know.

She talked to Mason, but his answer didn’t go much past whipping the boy again. So far, that hadn’t done much good.

Lila had hopes for Willie. Something told her he was special. Now, Mason Junior was a good son, respectful and hardworking, levelheaded. And the two girls minded and were good to help with the chores and their baby brother.

But Willie had something extra. He was more than just able; he had a gleam about him. That mind of his just naturally stayed about a half a jump ahead of everybody else. Hadn’t he been talking like the grown folks since he was two years old? Didn’t he remember every story he’d ever heard anybody tell, and couldn’t he tell it just like they did, their voice and movements and expressions and all? Oh, he could shine, Willie could—when he wanted to.

Lila didn’t want Willie to end up working in a foundry or a railyard. He could do more than that, be more. She just knew he could. Of course, he could also end up a lot worse.

Lila climbed the steps up to the Dawkins’s back door. She raised her hand to knock, but the door yanked open.

“Oh, Lila, thank goodness you’re here! I just got a call from Mamie O’Dell and the Women’s Study Group was supposed to meet at Lucy Hawkins’s today but Lucy’s sick and Mamie wants to know if they can come here instead and I don’t have a thing ready but I told her yes and oh there’s so much to do. Come in, come in, I need you to start dusting the parlor while I try to figure out what in the world I can fix right quick to go with the tea and coffee …”

“Yes’m.”

*******

The preacher’s voice droned in and out of Ned’s ears like the buzz of grasshoppers in the bushes on a summer afternoon. The boy on his left had his chin on his chest, and a little spot of drool had begun to wet the front of his shirt. The one on his right had turned to the boy on the other side and was whispering something behind his hand. shavings

Ned hoped the preacher didn’t notice the pile of wood chips growing in front of his chair. He probably wouldn’t, all the way on the back row.

He reached down to scratch his ankle. The shoes were still new enough to chafe. Most of the other boys had stockings. That would help some, Ned guessed. But he wasn’t likely to get any. And stiff shoes were better than barefoot.

He turned the wild cherry block in his hand, eyeing it critically. He didn’t like the curve of the dove’s breast. He shaved off a little here and there, then a little more. He looked at it again and thought about the dove he’d seen yesterday near sundown, perched on the dogwood branch just under the eaves of the woods across the tracks from his house. The dogwoods were about ready to bloom, and the redbuds. He was glad the warmer days were close.

Ned wished he knew how to paint. If he did, he could cover the finished carving with the soft, pink–brown of the mourning dove’s plumage, its belly a few shades lighter. He could paint in the black eyes, tiny and round as drops of water in the delicate head. He might even try the black spackling of the wing bars, the dark primaries outlined in white, folded against the bird’s body.

The boy on his right snickered. “Hey, peckerwood,” he said, his hand cupped so it sent the whisper toward Ned. “Peckerwood. Where’d you steal that Barlow?”

Ned kept his head down, his hands moving steadily over the block of cherry.

“Hey, we’re talkin’ to you, peckerwood,” said the boy on the other side, leaning past the boy on Ned’s right. “You ever learn to talk?”

Ned’s eyes flickered at them. Town boys. The one next to him was smaller, but the one on the other side was bigger. Ned had watched him in boxing class. When Mr. Fairchild wasn’t looking, he’d rabbit punch his opponents.

“You better say something, peckerwood,” the bigger one whispered, “or we’ll catch you after class and give you some talking lessons.” The boy on Ned’s right snickered again.

“I ain’t did nothin’ to you.” Ned looked nervously toward the preacher.

“‘I ain’t did nothin’ to you.’” The smaller boy imitated Ned’s voice.

“That how your peckerwood mama taught you to talk?” The two boys smirked.

“Taught him to talk like she taught him to bathe,” the bigger one said, and they giggled some more.

Ned felt the back of his neck tingling and getting hot. His knuckles were white where he gripped the wood. He nearly cut himself.

“Let us pray,” said the preacher. All the boys bowed their heads. During the prayer, one of the boys reached over and thumped Ned’s ear. He heard them laughing quietly. When the prayer was over and everybody was hurrying out of the classroom, the big boy got between Ned and the preacher and grabbed a handful of Ned’s shirt.

“Come on, peckerwood. Let’s go outside.”

“Ned. Can you come here a minute?”

It was Mr. Hutto. He was standing in the doorway of his office, looking right at Ned and his two tormentors. Ned looked up at the big boy, and he had a disgusted expression.

“You got lucky today, peckerwood,” the boy said in a low voice, turning Ned loose. “But I’ll be around.” He and his smaller companion slouched out of the classroom, their hands shoved in their pockets. dove

Ned walked over to Mr. Hutto. Mr. Hutto was watching the two other boys leave. Then he looked down at Ned.

“What have you got there, Ned?”

Ned ducked his head. He shrugged.

“Please, Ned. Let me see it.” Mr. Hutto held out his hand.

Ned dug in the pocket of his overalls and removed the carving. He put it in Mr. Hutto’s hand.

“Sorry, Mr. Hutto. I won’t carve in Bible class no more—”

“This is pretty good, Ned. How long have you been doing this kind of thing?”

Ned shrugged. Mr. Hutto didn’t say anything for a long time.

“Ned, I’ve been thinking about finding someone to start an art class. If I could, would you be interested in taking it?”

Ned looked up at him. “Yes, sir. I reckon.”

Mr. Hutto handed Ned the dove. “Here. You’ll want to finish it, I expect.”

“Yes, sir.” Ned stuck the wood back down in his pocket.

“I need to go out to Orchard Knob on some business. You want to ride home in my car?”

Ned shrugged, then nodded.

“Come on, then. Let’s go.”

*******

Dan Sutherland smelled a rat. It was nearly the middle of March and Zeb Douglas still hadn’t filed a response to the divorce complaint he’d been served in late January. Dan didn’t know what kind of law they practiced in Arkansas, but any fool with a shingle and half sense ought to know Zeb stood to lose big if he didn’t contest the issues.

He scribbled a note and hollered for his clerk.

“Louis, take this down to the telegraph office and have them send it right away. Oh, and here—” He took a twenty–dollar gold piece out of his vest pocket and handed it to the clerk. “Along with the note, cable as much as this’ll buy to the same recipient.”

Louis looked down at the note. “The Purvis fellow again?”

Dan nodded. “Hurry up, now. It’s getting toward evening and the Western Union office’ll be closed before too long.”

Louis went out, and a few seconds later Dan heard the front door open and close.

What might a man do if he was in the kind of pickle Zeb Douglas was in? Dan leaned back in his chair and reached into his humidor for a cigar. He didn’t light it, just rolled it around in his mouth while he stared at the ceiling. cigar

*******

Becky stared out the hotel window at the stand of scraggly yellow pines across the street. She hoped Zeb would remember to bring back the soda crackers she’d asked for. He’d sure been gone long enough, seemed like. But what else could she do except wait? Even if she felt like going out and hunting for him, she hadn’t learned enough about Texarkana to have any notion of where to start. And right now, the thought of standing up and walking around in the dust and noise of this tacky little town was almost enough to make her stomach turn inside out. In fact, nearly anything was enough to make her stomach turn inside out. She hoped this phase of the pregnancy would pass soon.

Waiting on Zeb. That was pretty much her life, ever since that night when she found him passed out drunk in his flat.

When he came to her house a few days later and smiled himself past Mother and Daddy, she already had a feeling what he was going to say. As they turned onto the street in front of the house, her hand on his arm, he told her he had two tickets bought. They could leave for Texas in three days’ time, he said. Nobody would have to know anything.

“What about your divorce?”

“I’ve got that all taken care of.”

Part of her wanted to press for details, and part of her didn’t care, as long as she had some choice besides staying in Little Rock and facing the shame of watching people’s faces as they found out the truth about her. Two rail tickets to somewhere else. Maybe it was better not to know. ticket.jpg

An elopement, Zeb had called it. More like a getaway, or a self–imposed exile.

She heard his step coming down the hallway. She turned away from the window just as his key rattled in the lock. The door swung open and there he stood, all smiles, one hand holding up a little white paper sack and the other hand behind his back.

“Hello, there, lovely lady. I brought you something.”

“Did you find some crackers?”

“Sure did.” He handed her the sack, then brought out the other hand.

“And one more thing.” It was a sheet of paper covered on one side with ornate printing. He laid it on the foot of the bed with a little flourish.

A marriage license.

“Well?”

He was grinning like a possum in the henhouse. Like he’d just handed her the key to a chest full of diamonds and rubies.

“Oh, Zeb, I—”

“You’re what? You’re ready to go hunt for the first justice of the peace we can find? Well, whenever you’re ready, we’ll just go and get this thing officialized.”

She looked at the license, then at him. One corner of his grin started to wilt just a little bit.

“Becky? You’re … you’re still my girl, aren’t you?”

She dragged out part of a smile from somewhere. She crossed the few steps to him and put her face against his chest. His arms went around her, and a moment later, hers went around him. embrace

She was happy. Wasn’t that what she was supposed to be feeling right now?

“Becky, it’ll be all right. You’ll see. Everything’s gonna be all right.”

Yes. Happy. That had to be it.

*******

Addie watched as Lou braided Mary Alice’s hair. The little girl sat perfectly still in her aunt’s lap, her eyes flickering around the room to see who might be noticing all the attention she was getting. Dub sat by the window, reading the newspaper. The boys were outside; Robert was trying to teach Ewell how to hit a baseball.

“Lunch sure was good, Lou,” Addie said, stretching her arm along the back of the settee. “Thank you again for having us.”

Lou made a dismissing sound. “Family’s family. You’re always welcome.”

“I was wondering—could you take me over to Brown’s Ferry sometime, to that lady who sold you my bedspread?”

“Mrs. Langfeld? Sure, I guess, if you want to.”

“I wonder if she’d show me how she does that tufted stitching. It doesn’t look too hard.”

Louisa gave Mary Alice’s braids a final tug and pat. “There you go, Miss Mary Alice. You look just like a little milkmaid now. Go play.”

Mary Alice slid down from Louisa’s lap. “I wanna see ‘em.” She dashed from the parlor and up the stairs toward the mirror on the second–floor landing. raids

“That girl’s as vain as a peacock,” Louisa said, smiling after her.

“Well, you’re not helping her any,” said Dub from behind the paper.

“Oh, you hush, Dub. Nobody rattled your chain.”

“She loves the attention,” Addie said.

“It’s mutual,” Dub said.

“What if we go to Mrs. Langfeld’s Tuesday?” Louisa asked, giving Dub the evil eye. “What time would you want to go?”

“Oh, doesn’t make me much difference, I don’t guess. Just not too early. It’s hard for me to get the kids ready much before nine.”

“Why don’t you just bring them here and let Lila watch them while we go? She gets here between eight–thirty and nine.”

“Well, but if Jake gets hungry—”

“Then we’ll bring him with us. Mary Alice can have the run of the house. Lila’s the sweetest, most agreeable thing you ever saw. Mary Alice’ll be fine till we get back. And then you and I can get caught up on things on the way there and back.”

“Lila? Isn’t that—”

“Mason’s Lila. Rose’s daughter–in–law.”

“You want me to have Jimmy pick you up?” Dub said.

“I guess,” Louisa said. “Brown’s Ferry’s a little too far to walk, and I just hate the streetcars.”

“I’ll have him come by your place first, Addie.”

“Thanks, Dub.”

*******

Bertie Langfeld didn’t look anything like Addie had imagined her. For some reason, Addie always thought of Germans as big people. But Bertie was a small, sharp–faced woman who looked at her with quick eyes and spoke in jerky sentences that almost sounded like barking.

“You want to see the tufting, jah? So. I’ll show you. But. Only this once. I got good business, jah? I don’t give no more free lessons.”

Stacked all around the room were bolts and bolts of cotton broadcloth of nearly every color Addie could imagine. Bertie gathered up a pile of cloth draped over a chair and seated herself.

“So. The design you trace, jah?

Addie could see the lines penciled on the broadcloth. She nodded. bolts

“You stitch in the design.” Bertie made several quick, precise stitches, leaving the thread in loops. Then she took up a pair of scissors and snipped a few inches along the line of stitching, severing the loops and leaving a neat row of wicking.

Bertie looked up at her. Addie nodded again. “Yes. I see.”

“So. You finish the design, you got a nice tufted bedspread. Some people they use thicker stuff for the rugs. But me. I do the bedspreads.”

“Thank you, Mrs. Langfeld.”

Bertie gave her a quick, tight–lipped nod. Her eyes flickered back and forth between Addie and Louisa, who stood quietly off to one side, gently bouncing Jake in her arms.

“I heard about what happened,” Bertie said. She shook her head. “Him running off on you like that. Bad thing. You pick out some cloth to take with you. To get started.”

“Oh, Mrs. Langfeld! I couldn’t.”

Jah. You take some cloth.” She laid aside her work and walked to one of the stacks of broadcloth. “This one. You take the peach. Get you some nice cream–colored thread. Make a nice bedspread. Very popular. So.” She thrust the bolt toward Addie.

Addie looked at Louisa, then back at Bertie. “Well, Mrs. Langfeld—”

“Bertie. Here.”

Addie took the cloth. “How can I ever thank you?”

Bertie’s shoulders twitched a shrug. “You got babies to feed. Go. Make a nice bedspread.”

They walked out onto the front porch. Jimmy was waiting in the Oldsmobile, his hand in the same position on the steering tiller it had been in when Addie and Louisa went inside. He saw them come out and leaned over to crank the engine.

“Thank you so much, Bertie,” Louisa said. “You’ve been so kind to my sister.”

“Yes, thank you,” Addie said. They went down the steps and reached the car just as the ignition caught. Jimmy rushed around to open the door for them.

“You have any trouble, you come back,” Bertie shouted over the din of the auto. “I maybe help you. Just a little more, jah?

*******

This post is a chapter from the novel Sunday Clothes, by Thom Lemmons. Sunday Clothes will soon be available for purchase as an e-book at www.homingpigeonpublishing.com

Creative Commons License
So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Sunday Clothes, Chapter 32

March 28, 2019

“Oh my land, now look what you’ve done!”

Mary Alice looked at her mother and rubbed her hand on the front of her smock, leaving a smear the same green as the pool of paint in which she stood. Addie propped her paintbrush against the sill and started toward her. Mary Alice began backing away.

“You come here to me, Mary Alice Douglas! I’ve been telling you all morning long to keep away from—”

“Well, looks like you’re making progress.”

Addie managed to snag Mary Alice’s elbow. She looked up at Louisa, who stood in the doorway of the parlor.

“Some,” she said, dabbing roughly at the little girl’s dress with a rag. “I could do more if I didn’t have to keep stopping to chase this one out of the paint.” Mary Alice started to whimper.

Louisa stepped into the room, stepping around the puddle of green paint on the floor. She rolled up her sleeves and kneeled beside Addie. paint

“Come here, Miss Mary Alice, and let your Aunt Lou see what kind of a mess you’re in.”

Addie stepped away from them and went back to the sill. Junior had said something about getting wallpaper up later this week. The paint on these sills had to be dry by then. She dipped her brush in the pail and climbed back on the footstool. She painted several strokes.

“How you doing?” Louisa said.

Addie stretched, teetering slightly on the stool as she spread paint to the top of the jamb.

“I don’t know. Some days I wake up and halfway expect to see Zeb in the bed next to me. Other days that whole life seems like something I’m trying to forget. And then, there are the days when I just want to lie there and go on sleeping. But I can’t.”

“No, you can’t. I tried that. It didn’t work.”

Addie stepped off the footstool and dipped her brush. She held it over the pail and watched the puddling of the drip.

“I used to think I knew what my life was going to be. Once I married Zeb, I thought everything would take care of itself—that all the decisions were sort of made. Everything was settled.” She looked at Louisa. “But it turns out nothing was. I just didn’t know it yet.” She raked the brush along the side of the pail, removing the excess paint. “There was a lot I didn’t know.”

“That’s so for all of us.”

“Oh, Lou. You’ve been through so much. I shouldn’t go on about my troubles.”

“I asked you, honey. And hurt comes in all shapes and sizes. Nobody knows what your load’s like but you. Nobody knows mine but me. You can’t compare them because you can’t carry somebody else’s.”

Addie went to the window and began painting the other jamb.

“I know. But I don’t think I could handle yours.”

“Honey, I feel the same way. Oh, lawzy, Miss Mary Alice, just look at the mess on your shoes!”

The little girl gave Louisa a tentative smile around the finger stuck in her mouth.

“‘S g’een.”

“Yes, ma’am, it’s green, and you’ll be tracking it all over the place in a minute.” Louisa settled Mary Alice on the floor and scrubbed the bottoms of her shoes. “Your mama’ll skin you if she finds little green footprints on her kitchen floor.” feet

Just then, Jake gave a fitful cry from the next room. Addie heaved a sigh.

“Awake. And hungry, I’ll bet.”

“So am I, come to think of it. Which reminds me. Miss Mary Alice, would you go out on the front porch and fetch that basket I left by the door? I brought us some lunch.” Louisa watched the little girl scamper toward the doorway.

“Bless your heart,” Addie said.

Mary Alice staggered back from the doorway, gripping the handles of the basket in both hands.

“Set it down here, sugar,” Louisa said. She opened the lid of the basket and started setting out jars and plates and parcels wrapped in cheesecloth.

“We can go in the kitchen,” Addie said.

“No, let’s just eat here on the floor, why don’t we? It’ll be like a picnic, won’t it, Miss Mary Alice?”

Mary Alice grinned. She plopped down cross–legged on the floor, barely missing the puddle of paint.

“Have a pinnic,” she said.

Louisa had brought a loaf of store–bought bread and a jar of homemade apple butter. She got out bread–and–butter pickles and red–rind cheese. She unwrapped a half–dozen slices of ham, all of them white–rimmed and marbled with fat. She pulled out a quart Ball Mason jar filled with buttermilk. It looked to Addie like enough food for a crew of field hands. picnic

Addie cradled Jake with one arm to let him nurse while she ate. Louisa listened to Mary Alice’s jabber and fussed over her and laughed with her and picked up the crumbs of bread and the shreds of ham the little girl scattered while she ate. Addie watched the two of them and thought about Katherine.

When they had eaten, Addie made Mary Alice lie down for a nap. The little girl moaned and fretted, but she stayed on the settee. Louisa told her if she was good and went to sleep, she’d leave a peppermint stick for her mama to give her when she woke up.

Addie changed Jake’s diaper and bundled him up. She returned him to his crib and he was asleep in a moment. She went into the parlor, where Louisa had taken up a paintbrush and begun work on another sill.

“You don’t have to do that,” Addie said.

“I know.”

For awhile the only sound was the swishing of the paintbrushes and the soft popping of the fire in the grate.

“What are you going to do?” Louisa asked.

There was a long quiet.

“I don’t know.”

‘‘Any news from Dan?”

“No. Not in awhile. He just says he’s working on it and to try to be patient.”

“Easy enough for him.”

“He’s not charging me anything, Lou.”

“I know. I shouldn’t be so sharp, I guess. But I just hate to see you going through this.”

“Dub’s on the school board,” Louisa said a bit later. “He could probably find you something.”

‘‘I’m … I’m not ready for that yet, I don’t think.”

They painted another while in silence.

“Honey, you’ve got to—”

“I know, Lou. I will. But not yet.”

They painted until four o’clock. They finished all the window frames in the parlor and had a good start on the study when they heard the pop and clatter of Dub’s automobile coming down the lane. Louisa laid a peppermint stick beside the still–sleeping Mary Alice. She gathered the remnants of their lunch into her basket and shrugged into her coat. Addie put her arm through her sister’s and walked her to the front door. As Louisa straightened her hat on her head, she turned to give Addie a hug. peppermint

“We’ll expect you and the kids for Christmas.”

Addie gave her a surprised look.

“Oh, yes. It is next week, isn’t it? Thanks, Lou. We’ll be there. Mary Alice’ll love it.”

They looked at each other. Louisa gave Addie a peck on the cheek and ducked out the door. Addie went onto the front porch, hugging herself against the cold, and watched her sister go. She waved to Dub, robed and goggled behind the wheel of the auto. Addie went back inside and closed the door. She leaned back against it, still holding herself, and began to cry quietly.

*******

“Oh, Lou! It’s beautiful!” Addie stood and held out the bedspread, letting it fall to the floor.

“I’ve heard it called ‘candlewicking.”’

“I’ve never seen anything done this way,” Addie said. The spread was powder blue; its smooth surface was decorated with intricate, curving lines of tufted stitching. “Where did you find it?”

“An old German lady over by Brown’s Ferry makes them. Looks like she does pretty well.”

Mary Alice was playing with the doll she had just unwrapped when she noticed the bedspread piled on the floor at her mother’s feet. She rolled herself up in it, cradling her doll in the bend of her arm.

“Night–night,” she said, squinting her eyes shut. Everyone laughed. quilt

“Well, better get started cleaning up this mess,” said Dub, gathering the torn wrapping paper from around his feet. “Robert, come help me.”

The boy sighted steadily down the barrel of his new popgun.

“Son.”

Robert sighed and propped the gun in the corner. He shuffled toward his father, kicking scraps of paper into a drift in front of him as he came.

“Why don’t Ewell have to help?” Robert said.

“‘Why doesn’t Ewell,”’ Louisa said.

“Never mind about that,” Dub said. “Stuff all that into this sack here.”

The rest of the day was spent in getting ready to eat, eating, and recovery from eating. For Christmas dinner, Louisa baked a goose and chestnut dressing to go with it. There were yams, mashed potatoes, cranberry salad, apples fried in butter and brown sugar, green beans and limas from last summer’s canning, plum and rice puddings, and the obligatory fruit cake.

Once, Dub leaned toward Addie to chuck little Jake, in her lap, under his chin.

“Boy, I bet you wish you had you some teeth so you could eat some of this.”

“He’ll be eating more than his share before too long,” Addie said. She spooned small portions of mashed potatoes and yams into the baby’s mouth. He smacked his gums and rolled his tongue at the unfamiliar sensation.

After dinner Addie and Louisa cleaned up the dishes while Dub sat by the fire and read his new book. Mary Alice, Robert, and Ewell chased each other up and down the stairs and through every room of the house, shooting and being shot by the popgun.

Just after dark settled, they heard the sound of carolers in front of the house. Addie and Louisa quickly bundled the younger children, and they all went to stand on the front porch. carolers

It was a sizeable group, maybe twelve all together. They clumped under the gaslight by the sidewalk and sang “Silent Night.” Addie could see their breath puffing white in the light from the lamp. They finished the song, then struck up “God Rest Ye, Merry Gentlemen.” At the end of that, Dub invited them all inside for hot spiced cider and cocoa. As they trooped in, wiping their feet on the doormat, Addie realized one of the singers was George Hutto.

“Hello, George,” she said, reaching out to take his wraps and add them to the stack in her arms.

The sudden warmth of the house steamed his glasses as he looked at her. He fumbled them off, blinking and squinting as he wiped the lenses on a wrinkled handkerchief. “Why, uh, hello Addie. Nice to see you.”

“Y’all sounded good out there.”

“Oh. Thanks. Some of the people from church came by, asked if I wanted to sing. I figured, why not?”

He settled his glasses back on his nose. He gave her a tiny smile and a shrug. She nodded, then tried to find something else to look at. After a few seconds, he followed the other carolers toward the steaming bowl of cider on the dining room table.

Addie piled the wraps on a settee in the parlor and went back toward the dining room. Few of the men would look at her. The women tried to study her without seeming to. None of them would give her more than the flicker of a smile before busying themselves with something else.

She felt someone touch her elbow. It was George.

“Addie, ah … I just wanted to say— Oops!”

Someone jostled his arm in passing, sloshing some of the hot cider onto his cuff. He swiped at it with his hand as Addie hurried into the kitchen and found a cup towel. She came back into the dining room and blotted the spill.   cider

“Thank you,” he said, watching her work.

“Don’t mention it.”

‘‘Anyway, I was saying … I’m awful sorry about your—your situation. If there’s anything—”

“Thank you, George. That’s real kind of you. I think that’s got it.” She made a final dab at his cuff.

“Yes, that’s fine. Thanks.”

She went back into the kitchen and occupied herself there until the carolers left. Then she found Mary Alice’s coat and hat.

“Dub, I’m ready for you to drive us back, if you don’t mind.”

Louisa’s face held a question, but Addie didn’t feel like acknowledging it.

She bundled herself and her children into Dub’s Duryea, their presents piled between them and around their feet. Addie threw her new tufted bedspread around the three of them as Dub released the brake and they started down the sloping street toward the main road.

“Want us to pick y’all up for church on Sunday?” Dub said when they were getting out at the house.

Addie paused, then went up the steps to her porch.

“No, I guess not,” she said over her shoulder. “I expect I’ll go on out to Post Oak Hollow.”

Dub shrugged and nodded. He carried their parcels into the house, then said good night as Addie closed and locked the door behind him.

*******

This post is a chapter from the novel Sunday Clothes, by Thom Lemmons. Sunday Clothes will soon be available for purchase as an e-book at www.homingpigeonpublishing.com

Creative Commons License
So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

 

Sunday Clothes, Chapter 29

March 8, 2019

Addie passed the next few days in a buzzing fog of murmured condolences; she passed unseeing and unhearing through the tatters of muted conversations. Most of the time she felt as if she had blundered onto the stage of a play for which she neither knew the lines nor had the script.

She was dimly aware of Louisa, of her concern and care. And of course Beulah Counts fluttered around the edges of her consciousness in a perpetual tizzy of Christian concern. There were many hours when Addie had the sensation of watching herself pretending to be alive.

The children, though, were a different matter. They forced her awareness, demanded her involvement. Some mornings, the crying of little Jake or the nagging and whining of Mary Alice were the only things that could drag her from her bed. infant

A week or so after the arrival of Zeb’s letter, Junior and Dub pulled up in front of the rented house with a wagon and two muscular men. Junior knocked on the door, and when she opened it, he said, “Addie, we’ve come to take you home.”

She fell into his arms and sobbed on his chest. She could speak no words; she could utter only huge, heaving cries of grief and devastation.

Arrangements began to happen all around her: rail tickets bought, the household goods loaded into the wagons and transported to the freight yard for shipping to Chattanooga, Junior and Dub and Louisa loading her and the children into a hired car and driving them to the station.

They moved her, Mary Alice, and Jake into temporary lodgings at Louisa and Dub’s house. When they had been there for perhaps two days, Dan Sutherland came to see her, at Junior’s request.

The graying attorney sat across the kitchen table from her. Louisa sat beside her and Junior stood behind, a hand on Addie’s shoulder.

‘‘Addie, I know this is awful hard for you,” Dan said, “but you’ve got to pull yourself together and think about the legalities of this situation. Your children are depending on you.”

At Dan’s mention of the children, something happened inside her. It was as if she suddenly remembered to start breathing again.

“No one—not even their daddy—can love those babies as much as I do,” she said, staring into Dan Sutherland’s faded blue eyes. ‘‘I’ll do whatever I have to do to make sure they stay with me.”

“I’m glad to hear you say so.”

“Dan, he don’t have a leg to stand on, does he?” Junior said.

“I don’t know. I don’t know what the grounds’ll be. At this point,” he said, looking carefully at Addie, “I don’t even know who’ll sue for the divorce.”

“His letter said Addie should sue him,” Lou said. “Why shouldn’t she do just that? I mean, after all, he just dropped this on her out of the clear, blue sky! Why shouldn’t she sue?”

Dan rubbed his chin. “Well, in the state of Tennessee, it’s pretty hard for a woman who ups and wants out of a marriage to take her children with her.”

“But she doesn’t want out!” Lou said. “Can’t you see that?”

“Of course I see that,” Dan said, “but I’m trying to tell you how the courts’ll see it. They’ll see a man whose wife has sued him for divorce, and if he chose, he could present the case that she was the one who took the first action to end the marriage. That being the case, if he was to decide he wanted to keep the children, I know a lot of judges that would let him do it. Unless of course—”

“What are you thinking?” Junior asked. judge

“Addie, you say this came from nowhere?” Dan said. “You had no warning whatsoever? None?”

Addie pushed herself up from the table and walked away a few paces, hugging herself. She turned back toward them but kept her eyes on the floor. “Things hadn’t been … real good between me and Zeb for awhile.”

“How long?”

“Well … really since about … nine months ago.”

Images flashed through Addie’s mind: Zeb home from Little Rock; the presents he had brought for her and Mary Alice; the fondness they had somehow found for each other during that brief interlude; their passionate embraces in bed … Then, subsequent scenes: Zeb asking her to move to Little Rock; her angry refusals; his silent, brooding hurt …

She forced her eyes to meet Dan’s.

‘‘I’d say it was about then that things began to get worse.”

Dan peered at her a few moments, chewing on a thumbnail.

“Y’all reckon Addie and I could have a minute or two in private?”

When Louisa and Junior had withdrawn to the parlor down the hall, Dan faced her.

‘‘Addie, this is an awful thing to have to ask, but I’ve got to know: did you ever think Zeb might be seeing another woman?”

Addie felt the floor tilt beneath her, then right itself. Another woman! In all the dark confusion and blunt loneliness she had felt, despite her growing dissatisfaction with their marriage, Addie had never suspected Zeb of betraying his wedding vows. Zeb, who had placed such stock in knowing what the Bible said about everything, who had been so insistent that agreement on religious matters precede their marriage—how could it be that Zeb could do something so overt as violating the Seventh Commandment?

“I … I don’t know, Mr. Sutherland. I mean … I never would have thought it of him, but—”

“Let me tell you what I think, Addie. I think the best thing you can do right now, at least until we know a little more, is to refuse to sue for divorce.”

She looked a question at him.

“I think you need to wait and let him sue you. I think you’ll stand a better chance of keeping the children.” mother

“I don’t understand.”

“Addie, for whatever reason, Zeb doesn’t want to be married to you anymore. My feeling is that there’s another woman involved but leave that aside for now. If he wants out bad enough and you won’t sue him, he’ll have to sue you. And to do that, he’s got to give grounds. This day and time, there’s only a few reasons for divorce recognized by the courts of Tennessee: desertion, cruelty—which most men don’t use—deprivation of conjugal rights, and adultery.” Dan paused. ‘‘I’m making the assumption that none of these would apply to you.”

“Certainly not!”

“All right, then. That’s about it. If he sues you, he’s got to prove that one of these fits. And if he can’t prove it, he won’t be granted a divorce. If, on the other hand, my guess about him is correct—”

“But, Mr. Sutherland, how would you ever find out? And if you did, how could you prove in court that—”

“Leave the lawyering to me. And my name’s ‘Dan’ from here on. ‘Mr. Sutherland’ was my dad, and he died three years ago.” He smiled at her and got a faint smile in return. “Now, like I was saying, if my guess is correct, you’ll be granted a divorce, and no court in Tennessee would take your children away from you if he’s involved with someone else.”

“Then … I have no choice but to go through with this?”

He looked at her and sighed.

“No, ma’am, I’m afraid not. Unless, of course, your husband comes to his senses.”

She turned away and looked out the window, once again cradling her elbows in her hands.

“I don’t hold much hope for that, I’m afraid.”

She stared out a window into Louisa’s backyard. Louisa had taken Mary Alice outside, and for a moment Addie watched her daughter bobbing joyously back and forth between her aunt and the pile of toys she had heaped in one of the wrought–iron yard chairs—blissfully ignorant of the shambles her mother’s life had become. child

Addie thought of what her marriage had turned into and realized all she could feel was fatigue. She turned again to Dan Sutherland.

“I’ll do whatever you say, Mr.— I mean, Dan. I’ve spent more time with these babies than he has, by a long shot. They know me—they don’t know him. I mean to do whatever I have to do to keep them.”

“All right.” Dan settled his hat on his head. ‘‘I’ll get to work.”

As Dan walked toward the front door, Junior called him aside into the parlor.

“Dan, Addie’s been left with little or nothing except what we brought back from Nashville. She may not can pay you much for the work you’re doing, but you know I’m good for it, don’t you?”

Dan gave Addie’s oldest brother a direct look.

“Junior, I don’t expect you’ll see a bill from me for this.”

“What do you mean, Dan?”

“Way I see it, your little sister’s had a dang poor run of luck with the men in her life. Meaning no disrespect, but the day your daddy came to my office, I shoulda drubbed him on the head before I let him go down the street and write her out of the will. I guess this is something I can do to ease my mind on that score.”

Junior stared at the lawyer for several seconds.

“Dan, I sure appreciate this.”

“Don’t worry. I might let you buy me a train ticket or two along the way.”

*******

And so it was that on a brilliant afternoon in October, Dan Sutherland received at his office a telegram from Little Rock, Arkansas. He had had to take certain actions that he personally found distasteful, but he had steeled himself to it by thinking of Jacob Caswell’s daughter, abandoned first by her father and then by her husband. Sutherland knew a man in Little Rock who had a knack for acquiring information and an associated talent for making few ripples. He tore open the Western Union envelope and withdrew the wire.

 

LITTLE ROCK OCTOBER 10 1903

DAN SUTHERLAND, ATTORNEY

TALKED TO SECY STOP YOURE ON RIGHT TRACK

STOP MORE LATER STOP SEND USUAL AMT STOP

PURVIS

 

Dan leaned back in his chair. Purvis would keep digging until he either hit rock or the hole was plenty deep. He withdrew a bank book from a desk drawer and began penning a draft payable to A. Purvis, “for services rendered.” He guessed it would probably be only the first of several such payments.

*******

George Hutto walked through the rickety, abandoned warehouse, his footsteps echoing from the wide, knotty pine plank floor up into the dark spaces under the roof. The rafters were festooned with the untidy nests of sparrows and speckled, like the floor below, with black–and–white droppings. George stood in the middle of the floor, his hands in his pockets. He turned slowly through a full circle, his eyes roving everywhere through the big, empty structure. It would need a good deal of fixing up. The roof hadn’t been patched in a few years, and the floor planking was buckled and water–stained in several places. They’d have to clean out all the birds’ nests and haul off the three or four bales of moldering cotton hulking in the northwest corner. There’d be a good deal of carpentry too; there were numerous gaps between the wall slats and underneath the eaves, which explained the sparrow and swallow nests. Paint would be needed, and more lighting. They’d have to cut some good–sized windows. They’d have to heat the place, somehow. Then there was all the equipment they would need. And at some point he’d have to begin recruiting volunteers to teach classes and lead calisthenics and … warehouse

In his mind, George stepped away from the immediate tasks and allowed himself to peer past them. He thought about boys chanting in unison as they performed exercise drills, boys eating hot meals, boys huddled around men with open Bibles or literature books. George tried to imagine the building’s appearance, its sounds, once he had succeeded in filling it with his vision. For just a minute or two he let himself savor the fulfillment of the mission. He needed to memorize the shape and taste of his future satisfaction to get ready for the plain old hard work it would take to make it real.

But even in the midst of calculating the difficulties, George’s dream allowed him to feel reckless and capable; this idea of his was a good thing. He was coming to relish the sensation of inner certainty. Besides, other cities had had good success with the Young Men’s Christian Association; why wouldn’t it work in Chattanooga?

*******

This post is a chapter from the novel Sunday Clothes, by Thom Lemmons. Sunday Clothes will soon be available for purchase as an e-book at www.homingpigeonpublishing.com

Creative Commons License
So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

 

Sunday Clothes, Chapter 27

February 21, 2019

By the time Beulah Counts had come and collected the fretting Mary Alice, Addie’s pains had begun in earnest. Louisa brought in the large pan she had just scalded, along with a stack of freshly boiled towels.

“I’m so glad you’re here, Lou,” Addie said after her latest contraction subsided enough for her to speak. “Even with the doctor and all, it’s sure good to have your help with this.”

“Oh, honey, I wouldn’t be anywhere else. You couldn’t have kept me away last time, except for—”

“Yes, I know.” There was a silence. “I sure wish Katherine could’ve known her cousins.”

Louisa nodded, looking away. birth

“And I still miss Rose,” Addie said. “She could make me feel safe, just by talking to me.”

“Everybody needs to feel safe. But safe can be hard to come by sometimes.”

The two sisters looked at each other, and their hands joined. Then Addie clenched Lou’s knuckles as the next contraction ripped her in half.

“I wish that doctor would get here,” Louisa said. “We’re not gonna have the luxury of as much time this go-around.”

The doctor, a youngish-looking man named Hodgkiss, arrived within the half hour, and, true to Louisa’s prediction, the baby arrived only an hour or so later. It was a boy.

“You and Zeb talked about names?” Lou said.

Addie brushed back a sweaty lock of hair and shook her head. “I thought about it a time or two, but I guess we never actually got around to it.”

The doctor, tending the baby in a corner of the room, glanced at Addie but said nothing.

“I guess we ought to send him a wire, at least,” Addie said.

Louisa studied her younger sister carefully while she bundled up the soiled sheets. “Yes, I suppose. We can take care of that later though. You tell me what to say and I’ll send it.”

“Reckon I ought to name him after his daddy?”

“Well, he looks like his daddy, anyhow.”

“Yes.”

Louisa hoped Addie’s flat tone was caused by her exhaustion.

*******

Zeb glanced up at Abner. He was scribbling busily on an agency report form that had to be posted to the home office the day after tomorrow. Zeb glanced out the front window. The day was clear and mild. He knew he should be out with one or another of his agents—calling on prospects, running a debit, glad–handing policyholders. Or, at the very least, he should be working on the stack of applications they had received for processing during the last several days. He sighed. Time was when a stack of apps this size would have been plenty of reason for several days’ worth of good spirits. He would have relished the prospect of preparing them for submission to the home office, would have gloated over the increase in commission income they represented, both for his agents and for himself. stacks

For weeks and weeks he had fought a steadily losing battle with desperation. Becky had finally allowed him back in her presence, but it had taken all his persuasive skills to accomplish it. He had plied her with reams of letters, sent baskets of flowers and crates of candy. He had done anything he could think of to make her more kindly disposed. Her parents had even taken his part, he believed, so sincere had been his contrition for his mysterious ways. He had lavished her with every ounce of charm he possessed, and to his great relief he was at last able to reenter her good graces.

But even after he was back on firm footing with Becky, Zeb was not at ease within himself. Each time he would hold her hand, each time they laughed and smiled together in the familiar way that was so precious to him, Zeb felt guilt stinging his mind with visions of Addie, memories of the promises he had made and broken. He did his best to hide all this from Becky. Indeed, the passion they shared was as consuming as ever. On the few occasions they had been able to be safely alone together, her early reticence had melted away in his embrace, and they had tasted again the sweetness of each other’s bodies. Indeed, they shared the guilty pleasure of these stolen moments as a secret they alone must keep; to them it became another evidence of the depth and intensity of the bond they shared.

But the harder he tried to straddle the fence, the less satisfied he was with the result. He feared that Becky would soon sense that he was hiding something from her. It had even begun to affect his ability to run the agency. Some days he could hardly make himself come to work. He was afraid that everything he had built in Little Rock would soon be in jeopardy, but he couldn’t seem to summon the strength to care.

But all that was about to be behind him. Zeb had decided it was time once again to take charge of his life. Glancing surreptitiously at Abner and assuring himself that his secretary was still preoccupied with his paperwork, Zeb slid open the lap drawer of his desk and extracted the piece of cream–colored foolscap on which he had labored, off and on, all morning.

 

Dear Mrs. Douglas,

Surely it must have become apparent to you that the kind affection

that once existed between us is now gone. I no longer desire to

share this union with you. Accordingly, I request that you sue me

for divorce as soon as possible. I will not in any way contest the dissolution

of this marriage; indeed, I am anxious to have the business letter

done at the earliest possible time.

Cordially,

Zeb. A. Douglas

 

Zeb stared at what he had written, momentarily unable to believe it had been composed by his hand. Yet there it was, on the same foolscap that he had used to send Addie a very different sort of letter not so very long ago. There beside the script lay his favorite fountain pen. The letters it had inscribed curved and dipped in the same elegant manner as usual; Zeb had always prided himself on his handwriting. The letter’s appearance gave no sign of the darkness and finality of the words they formed. For a moment, a flicker of remorse tried to kindle in his heart.

But he sternly smothered it. He would not turn back the page, not again. All he had to do to steel himself for the task was remember the stealthy venom in Addie’s words during their walk in East Lake Park. He did not deserve that. He had tried, had faithfully provided for her and Mary Alice—and gotten no thanks nor the slightest whit of understanding in return.

Didn’t he merit some measure of happiness? Why should he deprive himself of the company of a woman who appreciated and understood him just because he had made an ill–considered union with someone else before meeting her? Was Addie’s inner darkness his fault? Did he have responsibility for healing wounds that had existed since long before he had known her? In fact, hadn’t he married her under false pretenses, of sorts? Had he known of the damage inflicted on her by her father’s inflexible, uncaring prejudice, would he have allowed himself to be caught in the middle of it all? He didn’t think so.

No, this was the right thing for him to do. He didn’t care what anyone in Chattanooga thought of him—they didn’t know his side, and wouldn’t understand it anyway. The best thing for him was to put that life away—erase it as if it had never been. He would cease to be the person who had pursued and wedded Addie Caswell. Instead, he would fully embrace the life he had formed for himself in Little Rock. Everything behind him would drop away, like a useless cocoon. He would press toward the future—toward Becky Norwich. He would become the man Becky wanted him to be, and she need never know about the mistakes made by the man he had once been. Surely that was the best way now.

He folded the letter and reached for an envelope.

*******

Ned Overby held his opened Barlow in his right hand and stared at the block of pine in his left, trying to see the shapes it held. He knew he couldn’t start carving until he knew what the piece of wood wanted to be. Nobody had ever told him he should do this. Anytime he picked up a piece of wood, he tried to find the shape of its grain and the direction in which it seemed to be guiding his knife strokes. It made sense to him that he shouldn’t try to fight the wood. He thought it surely made his work better.

Not that his carving was any great shakes. So far, none of the simple animal shapes he had finished had really suited him. They all seemed to fall a bit short in his eyes, but that didn’t bother Ned. He knew he’d get better with time. It was just a matter of letting his hands learn which way to go. carving

The sun felt good on his face and neck as he sat propped atop the woodpile behind his house. It was warm enough that he didn’t need shoes and still early enough in the summer that going barefoot was a novelty to be relished. Ned left his shoes inside when the weather allowed, to save wear. Lately, his shoes had begun to pinch, anyway.

Today was one of those rare, fine days when he didn’t have extra chores to do. He had hoed the few scraggly rows of corn and pole beans just yesterday. There was plenty of wood chopped for the stove, and only two days ago he had made six trips down to the river and back, toting the heavy water bucket so he could refill the battered oak hog’s head that served them as a reservoir. Perlie was running his trotlines on the other side of the river, around the mouth of North Chickamauga Creek. Ned would have to help him clean fish when he got back, but that shouldn’t be until nearly sundown. In the meantime, all he had to do was soak up some sunshine and try to stay out of his mother’s line of vision, or she was sure to dream up something for him to do. Seemed like she couldn’t stand to see a body enjoying himself when she was busy—and she was busy all the time.

He heard the clanking of car couplings and the squeal of brakes echoing through the still woods. They must be changing cars on the siding up by Orchard Knob, he thought. A sudden desire stole over him to sneak into Chattanooga on one of the cars. He had heard his father talk about riding the rails as a younger man. A thrill of fear tingled his skin as Ned wondered if he was bold enough to do something similar. If he got caught, he’d get a whaling for sure—and that was just counting what his paw would do to him. He wasn’t sure what fate awaited boys whom the railroad men nabbed trying to catch a free ride.

For a few minutes he tried to concentrate on what his hands were doing to the block of pine he held. But the shavings began to fall slower and slower as he spent more and more time thinking about the siding, just over the shoulder of Tunnel Hill and a little way through the woods. His mother would probably miss him, but she would most likely figure he was off in the woods somewhere. And if he got away with it, he’d have something to tell the older boys when school started again. Before long, he’d talked himself into it. He folded his knife and put it in his pocket, followed by the barely begun carving. Looking carefully around him, he climbed down from the woodpile.

Squatting in the darkest corner of the empty freight car, Ned began to think about all the things that could go wrong with this adventure, realizing that every single one of the looming possibilities carried with it the likelihood of a hiding, or worse. He could get caught leaving the car once it arrived in Chattanooga. He could fail to arrive home before his father. He could have judged wrong, and be sitting in a car bound for Nashville or some other foreign place instead of Chattanooga. Why hadn’t he listened to his better judgment? Why wasn’t he still sitting peacefully in the sun atop the woodpile, fashioning a turtle or maybe a bird from his block of pine? hopping

But it was too late for such thoughts to do him any good. He was in for the whole ride, and he might as well see it through. To calm himself, he tried to do some carving, but the ride was too rough and he had to put knife and wood back in his pocket. He made himself as comfortable as he could in the dark, jouncing freight car, waiting to see where he would end up.

When the train finally squealed to its jarring halt, Ned crept to the partially open door. Though he knew he hadn’t been traveling long enough to have gone very far, he was still relieved to recognize the silhouette of Lookout Mountain rising over the bustling freightyard. He peered carefully up and down the line and saw no one, so he scrambled quickly down from the car and burrowed into the nearest crowd.

He had been to Chattanooga only once before in his life, about a year ago. Perlie had allowed him to tag along when he came to town to sell his winter’s take of pelts and had even let him squander an Indian–head cent on a piece of licorice. That dark–sweet taste was what Ned chiefly remembered about Chattanooga. But there would be no licorice today. He had nothing in his pockets of any value except his Barlow, and he would rather have sold some of his toes than his knife.

Walking along in the jostling crowds, Ned didn’t understand how so many people could be in the same place at once. His closest experience of town life was Orchard Knob on a Saturday, and that was nothing compared to the masses of humanity now pressing all about him.

Passing the opening of an alley, Ned noticed some boys hunched in a circle.

‘‘All right, sweethearts, here’s the stuff I told you about. Anybody that wants some, show me your money.”

The boy doing the talking looked a couple of years older than Ned, and he was considerably better dressed, as were most of the gang of about ten youngsters. Some of them looked younger than Ned, but the boy with the vial and the two or three gathered behind him looked older—maybe fifteen or so. As a few of the younger boys began digging in their pockets, Ned noticed a wicked smile flash from the vial boy to his cronies and back.

“You sure this medicine’s gonna help me run faster?” one of the younger boys said, pinching a nickel between his thumb and forefinger.

“Guaranteed.”

The smaller boy stepped up to him and held out his nickel, which quickly disappeared into the older boy’s pocket.

“Hold out your hand,” he commanded, pulling the cork from the vial. The younger boy obeyed, and the older boy sprinkled a few taps of the powder into his palm. “It tastes kind of bad, but it’ll have you running like a spotted ape in no time.” vials

Ned noticed one of the older boys smothering a grin.

Once the first boy had taken his dose, a line quickly formed. The older boy pocketed seven or so nickels and sprinkled each palm with the magic running powder.

“What do we do now?” said one of the younger boys.

“If I was you,” said the vial boy. “I’d start running. Home.”

This was met with a howl of laughter from the older boys and puzzled stares from the young customers.

“Fred, what’ll your dad do when he finds out you swiped that stuff from the pharmacy?”

Fred grinned. “He’ll never know. I pinched a little from three or four bottles so he wouldn’t notice. But I reckon they’ll notice, any time now,” he said, nodding his head toward the younger boys.

Just then, one of the younger boys backed slowly away from the group, a concerned look on his face.

“Where you goin’, Rob?”

‘‘I’m, uh … I got to go,” Rob said as he spun about and walked quickly away.

Fred and his buddies roared with amusement. “See? I told you! Ol’ Rob’s fixing to start running!”

“What’s in that stuff anyway?” one of the younger boys said.

“Watch it, Shorty! Not that it’ll mean anything to you, but it’s called phenolphthalein.”

“What’s that?” said another of the younger boys. By now, two or three others had drifted quickly toward the alley opening.

“It means,” said Fred between sputters of laughter, “that in about two minutes you’re gonna have the worst case a green–apple two–step you ever had in your life.”

The four older boys went limp with laughter, holding on to each other and slapping their knees.

Ned watched in fascination as the young boys hustled out of the alley. Evidently, that powder worked mighty fast. He was grinning at their retreating backs when he heard one of the older boys say, “Wait a minute, boys. We still got us a customer here.”

Ned turned around and saw the four older boys looking at him in a way he didn’t much like. He quickly took in the situation and began sauntering toward the alley opening with what he hoped was an unconcerned air. alleykids

“Where you going, white trash?”

Ned kept walking, a little faster. His ears burned with the insult, but he knew he didn’t stand a chance against the four of them. He was about ten feet away from the street when he heard footsteps crunching rapidly behind him. He started to run, but hands grabbed him from behind. He flung himself forward, trying to wrestle free of their grasp.

“Lemme go! Lemme go! I ain’t did nothing to y’all!” he yelled.

“Shut up, you little cow pie!” Fred aimed a fist at Ned’s jaw, but he twisted away from the blow.

“Lemme go!” Ned scratched and kicked at his attackers. He was trying to get out of the alley, but they kept dragging him back. “Leave me be! I ain’t hurt nothing!”

“Shut him up!” said Fred. One of the boys clamped a hand over Ned’s mouth but promptly yanked it away.

“Little skunk bit me!”

*******

George Hutto was walking aimlessly down Market Street, staring at the ground in front of his feet, when he heard the sound of a scuffle. He looked up and saw four bigger boys ganged up on one small, ill–clad fellow. For some reason, his memory flashed back to similar scenes from his boyhood, all the times at school and after church when the more daring, faster boys had made sport of him. Contrary to anything he was prepared for, his ire suddenly flared.

“Hey! Hey, over there! What’s going on over there, you boys?”

Before he realized what he was doing, George had strode to the nearest of the older ruffians and seized him by the shoulder. He realized it was the son of one of the men in his Sunday school class.

“Freddy Stokes! What do you mean, picking on this boy so much smaller than you?”

*******

This post is a chapter from the novel Sunday Clothes, by Thom Lemmons. Sunday Clothes will soon be available for purchase as an e-book at www.homingpigeonpublishing.com

Creative Commons License
So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

Sunday Clothes, Chapter 19

December 29, 2018

… Anywhere with Jesus I can go to sleep,

When the dark’ning shadows ‘round about me creep,

Knowing I shall waken never more to roam; 

Anywhere with Jesus will be home, sweet home. 

Anywhere, anywhere! Fear I cannot know; hymnal

Anywhere with Jesus I can safely go.

 

The song coasted to a halt, and the noise of hymnals sliding into pew racks momentarily filled the church house. Then the room quieted as the worshippers stood, waiting for the benediction.

“Our Father in heaven, we thank thee for the blessin’s a this hour,” the gangly, bespectacled man prayed in a singsong voice, “and for the truths spoken unto us by Brother Woodrow. We ask thy blessin’s upon each that’s here, and that thou’d bring us back at the next appointed time. In Christ’s name, amen.”

A chorus of male “amens” answered, and the racket of conversation swelled as the congregation shuffled along the pews toward the center aisle and the front door. Zeb moved with the others, laughing and talking. A firm, meaty hand clapped him on the shoulder, and he turned around.

“Zeb, my wife has fixed up the biggest ol’ mess a chicken and dumplings you ever saw, and I figure you’re just the man to help us eat it,” said Pete Norwich. “Whaddya say?”

And Zeb knew immediately the source of his malaise before his last return to Little Rock: it rose up in him instantly now, flared into a klaxon of danger, blaring away inside his head. He was a married man, and the tendrils of guilty pleasure that beckoned him to accept this opportunity to be with Becky Norwich were forbidden to him, and he knew it. He shouldn’t go. He should decline Pete’s invitation as gracefully as possible, and he should go back to his rooms and pack his things and get on the next train to Nashville, and he should never come back to Little Rock again.

But … he was in charge of his own life, wasn’t he? He’d managed things in Little Rock very well, and he was in control of himself, and what was wrong with having lunch with some of the new friends he’d made for himself in this place that was his own? Why should he turn tail and run, why raise all kinds of awkward questions with Griffs and Carleton—not to mention worrying Addie needlessly? He could handle it. He was equal to this challenge too. And these were church folks, for Pete’s sake. What could happen?

He grinned at Pete Norwich and said, “Sure, Pete! I’ll be there! Thanks!”

*******

Zeb leaned comfortably back in the chair and patted his stomach. “Pete, I’ll tell you one thing: Ruth knows her way around the kitchen. How in the world have you kept from getting big as the side of a barn, way that woman cooks?” barn

“Self–control, son. Nothing but self–control.”

“Yeah, but I’m talking about you, not her.”

“Watch it, boy. I’ll toss you out on your ear, you keep that up.”

Pete rustled the newspaper, and Zeb listened to the women’s voices coming low from the kitchen, just audible above the noises of splashing water and the clink of dinnerware. Becky’s voice was lighter in timbre than her mother’s, though much the same pitch. Zeb imagined her, sleeves rolled to her elbows, perhaps a wisp of blonde hair falling to her shoulder as she washed and dried …

Norwich made a disgusted sound. “I tell you, Zeb, I don’t understand what Roosevelt thinks he’s gonna accomplish with this Labor and Commerce Department foolishness. Sounds to me like just another way for some Washington bureaucrat to get his hands on the public funds.”

Zeb made a noncommittal reply. It was almost reflexive with him: he seldom allowed himself to be drawn into political or religious discussions with prospects. Just as Pete was launching into a diatribe against the wasteful ways of the federal government, Mrs. Norwich came in from the kitchen, bent over the back of his chair, and whispered something in his ear.

“Huh? Why? I’ve just started my paper, Ruth! Can’t a man at least—”

“Pete.”

He stared at her for maybe five seconds and gave in with a shrug. “Yes, ma’am. I’ll be right there.” He looked at Zeb, shook his head, and sighed. Zeb gave him a small, sympathetic smile in return as Pete laid aside the newspaper and followed his wife from the room.

No sooner had they left than Becky came in. Zeb looked at her and smiled. She ducked her head and seated herself in the chair her father had just vacated. She lifted a corner of the newspaper, smiling fondly. “Daddy and his Sunday afternoon rituals.” She shook her head.

“Sure was a good lunch, Becky. Your mama knows how to rearrange the groceries, that’s for sure.”

“Glad you enjoyed it.” She wouldn’t look at him. He couldn’t stop looking at her.

There was a longish silence. Becky took a deep breath, patted her palms on her knees, and turned her face toward him. “It’s a nice, bright afternoon. Why don’t we put on our coats and go for a stroll?”

Zeb nodded. “That’d be all right, I guess.” He got up from his chair as she went to fetch their wraps. She handed him her coat, and he held it for her. As she slid her arms into the sleeves, she leaned back against him, ever so slightly. His heart hammered at his rib cage like a wild thing.

They walked out into the brilliant blue afternoon. The wind was still and every breath of fresh, cool air entered Zeb’s lungs like a shout of joy. He ambled along with his hands in his pockets. “Nice day, like you said,” he offered.

She murmured in agreement.

“Glad you mentioned a walk.”

She said nothing.

They strolled along for almost a hundred yards without speaking. “Excuse me for asking,” Zeb said finally, “but how come a woman as nice looking as you never found a husband?”

She made no reply for a long time, and Zeb feared he had transgressed. Just as he was about to attempt an apology, she said, “I haven’t been in a hurry about such things.” Out of the corner of his eye, he saw her glance at him, then away. ‘‘I’m still not,” she said.

They walked on. Ahead and to the right, the capitol dome glistened in the crystalline air. “How’d you come to work for your daddy?” Zeb asked. dome

“I’ve always enjoyed the company of men more than women. Guess it comes of being raised with brothers. I’ve never much been able to abide quilting parties and so forth. I’d rather be working on the store’s books than gossiping about chintz.”

Zeb looked at her and grinned. He could see the smile starting, watched with amusement as she tried to suppress it. At last, it broke free across her face and she looked at him, laughing.

“That’s the most words you’ve said in a row all day. I’d about decided the cat had your tongue for good.”

She shook her head and grinned at the ground. “I don’t know what’s got into me today. I’m usually not nearly so reserved.” She looked at him. “Especially around friends.”

They stopped walking and looked at each other. At the same instant, their hands reached out and found each other. “Friends,” Zeb nodded. They walked on.

*******

December 15, 1902

 My Dear Husband Zeb,

How anxious I am for you to come home for Christmas! I

think you’ll like the way the house looks, at least I hope so. The

wreath is real pretty, I think. Mary Alice is about to worry me to

death, trying to keep her out of the Xmas tree. 

I hope all is well with the agency. It sounds to me like you’ve

really got things going your way. I know you work so hard & I’m

very happy it’s paying off. Maybe the men at the Home Office will

soon figure out what a go–getter you are & give you that position

you’ve been looking for so long. I certainly hope so. letter

Had a letter from Lou the other day, she seems pretty good,

right now. Says Daddy doesn’t hardly come out of the house at all

anymore. It makes me sad, thinking of him in that big old house

all alone, with just Rose for company, her only part of the day. I

know he did wrong by you and me, but my heart aches for him. I

guess I can’t help it since he is my father, after all. 

Well I’ll close this for now. I love you with all my heart & I’m

looking forward to meeting you under the mistletoe (ha!). Hurry

home as soon as you can.

Your own,

Adelaide C Douglas

 

Addie read the letter one last time before folding it. She gazed wistfully for a moment at the envelope, thinking about Zeb’s hands holding it. She wanted to feel those hands again, to look into his face. She briefly considered adding a postscript to that effect but thought better of it. Zeb might think she was being affected—too romantic and gushy. He might think she wasn’t being brave.

Besides, if she started putting down on paper everything she wanted to say to Zeb but couldn’t, she’d never have time for doing anything else. How could she tell him how desperately lonely she was much of the time? How could she say how it made her feel sitting in church with Mary Alice on her lap and looking about at the other families, the children ranked in the pews between their parents like books between bookends? It took two parents to do that. And how could she tell him how she longed to cook for him, to put three plates on the table in the evenings, to hear him breathing beside her in the dark of their bedroom? How could she explain how badly she wished he were here with her, hearing Mary Alice’s babbled attempts at new words, smiling at the new things she was doing each day, marveling at the way their daughter’s personality was already bursting into bloom? Hardest of all, how could she give vent to her darkest suspicion: that Little Rock had stolen her husband from her?

No, it wouldn’t do. He would think she was trying to tether him to her with guilt. He would resent her interference in the pursuit of his dream. He would sigh and shake his head and secretly rue the day he had taken such a weak woman for a wife, and though he might accede to her wishes, there would be a hurt place in his heart that could never be hers again.

Stop it, she told herself. There was no point in thinking such things: Zeb loved her and Mary Alice. He was a good man, and he had more to do during the day than mope over her. He wrote faithfully, and besides, he was just trying to make his way in the world the best way he knew, and she should be ashamed of herself for being so selfish. He’d come back to Nashville soon enough, and their future would be secure, and all would be well, and he wouldn’t have to spend so much time away from home ever again. “Just try and stand it for a little while longer,” he’d told her the last time he was home. “And I promise some day it’ll pay off.” Someday. That was what she’d think about—how it would be, someday.tree

Nodding to herself she affixed the stamp and sealed the envelope. She stood and suddenly felt the room whirling about her head. She had to grab the back of the chair to keep from falling over. In a moment, the spell passed and the room got still again. She’d been having some dizziness lately, for some reason. That, and feeling tired all the time.

Before Addie posted the letter, she just had to look again at the ring. She slid out the lap drawer of the secretary and fished around in the back until her fingers closed on the small, square box from Sears & Roebuck’s. She removed the lid and admired the smooth, shining gold of the center section and the elegant, beaded line of the silver borders. The ring was even more beautiful than the picture in the catalog. She knew Zeb would be proud of it, and that he would be surprised. She tried to imagine the look on his face when he unwrapped it. Feeling a small glow of pleasure, she replaced the cotton padding atop the ring and put the lid back on the box.

She stepped out on the porch and clipped the letter to her mailbox with a clothes pin. It was a cold, bright day, and the blue sky was thickly littered with gray shreds of cloud, scudding along before the north wind. Gripping her elbows against the chill, she glanced up and down the street. Then her eyes fell on the bare branches of the two large hickory trees standing guard in her front lawn. She stood a moment, looking up to their tops, which swayed slowly back and forth. Even if she could climb them, she thought, there was no hiding place now, no concealing safety where she could sit and dream. Only the tossing, indifferent wind of December. I hope Zeb comes home soon, she thought, and went quickly back inside.

*******

This post is a chapter from the novel Sunday Clothes, by Thom Lemmons. Sunday Clothes will soon be available for purchase as an e-book at www.homingpigeonpublishing.com

Creative Commons License
So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

 

Sunday Clothes, Chapter 18

December 20, 2018

Zeb had only intended to stay home for the weekend, but he talked himself into changing his plans. His time with his wife and daughter seemed especially sweet those few days. Mary Alice soon overcame her reticence about him, and in their bed at night, he and Addie made ardent love to each other. On Monday morning, he decided, rather than catching an early train back, he would go in to the home office and make a report to Griffs or Carleton—whomever he could find. He would hang around the office for awhile, then come back home for a long lunch. He’d done a good job in Little Rock, and he knew Griffs and Carleton wouldn’t begrudge him a little extra time with his family.

The fact was, there was something about going back to Little Rock that made him restive. When he tried to make himself plan his departure, it just seemed easier to get distracted. His leave–taking, when it could finally be avoided no longer, was more arduous for him than it had ever been. train

Still, he was feeling better by the time his train reached Memphis. By the time they rolled into Union Station in Little Rock, he was positively eager to get back to work. He decided that the best antidote for the homesick blues was a dose of good, honest, hard work. He’d enjoyed being home, but he was back now, and it was time to get down to business.

Thursday morning, when he walked into the cramped, two–room office he had rented for the agency, his secretary handed him a note written in a diagonal scrawl across a torn scrap of paper. “Dere Zeb,” it read, “im sorry, but i cant do no more. rekin i just want cut out for this binniss. yr. frend, Luke C. Cutler.” Zeb looked at the secretary.

“Brought it by here Monday morning, first thing,” Abner told him with a shrug. “Looked like he was kinda glad you weren’t here.”

Zeb shook his head in disgust. “Well, Ab, you can lead ‘em to water, but you can’t make ‘em drink. Cutler would’ve been all right, if he’d just had as much gumption as his wife told me he had.” Luke Cutler had answered a notice Zeb placed in the newspaper, announcing the hiring of “Enterprising Men for Financially Rewarding Opportunities in this Area.” More properly, Cutler’s wife had answered the advertisement: she had done most of the talking in the interview; Cutler himself seemed less than enthusiastic about the whole matter.

Abner grinned. He was a slight–built, youngish fellow Zeb had hired the first week he’d been here. He managed the office work and correspondence for the agency. He’d had a brief career as a schoolteacher that had ended abruptly, for a reason Zeb had never learned and decided not to be curious about. Ab was clean, fairly literate, had a reasonably neat hand, and he didn’t need much money to live on, which was perhaps his greatest asset, given what the home office was willing to pay for clerical help. “I told myself the first time she drug him in here, ‘This man don’t want to be here for no reason of his own.’”

Zeb sighed and smiled wryly. “Well, it appears her ambition didn’t last him long in the heat of the day.” He pushed his hat up in the back, scratching his head. “Guess I’ll have to find another man for the north Saline County debit.”

“Yeah. Some a those policies are a week behind already.” office

Zeb wadded up the note and tossed it at a wastepaper basket. As he strode toward his desk, he felt his chagrin giving way to a kind of calm eagerness. He was embracing the challenge, welcoming it as a familiar, satisfying adversary. He would manage this difficulty, and the next, and the next, and the next, because that was what he was good at. His determination was stronger than anything that stood in his way, and he would prove it, one more time.

For the next several days he was immersed in the duties of the agency. First, he busied himself with finding Luke C. Cutler’s replacement: he set about visiting northern Saline County policyholders, at once encouraging continued payment and collecting premiums but also finding out who knew whom in the area, who was trusted, who needed work, who had higher goals in life than growing corn and cotton on ten acres of river bottom land.

Zeb relished the power over others granted him by his gift of gab. He could walk up to any sharecropper’s shack and strike up a conversation. Likewise, he could stroll along the courthouse square and engage some vested, bejowled lawyer in a lengthy exchange of views. The trick, he had learned, was to figure out what the other person was interested in and evidence an interest in that himself. Folks just naturally opened up to him.

Zeb knew he could talk to anyone, at any time, in any place. If good humor and an easygoing manner were what the situation required, he had a vast store of jokes and the familiar style in which to frame them. If, on the other hand, a somber, earnest tone seemed more appropriate, Zeb could instantly become sincere, as easily as taking off one hat and putting on another. He could be anyone he needed to be, a gift not shared by many other people. It was his protection and his advantage. He prided himself on being able to do what most folks were unwilling or unable to do, and to keep on doing it as long as he had to.

Within two weeks he had hired a man to run the debit vacated by Luke C. Cutler. Most of the policies in the vacant debit were paid up to date, and the new agent seemed of a temperament more suited to the insurance business than that of Cutler. Zeb had made contact with his other three agents and assured himself that they were being productive. The stack of new–policy applications to be processed by Abner and forwarded to the home office was holding steady. He even had the leisure to consider whether it might be time to expand the agency by adding another debit just across the Arkansas River, in Argenta.

The burst of activity generated by Cutler’s abdication carried Zeb to a new height of expansiveness. His prospects here were good, and that was so because of his own efforts; there was no feeling of indebtedness or obligation to a predecessor to abate his self–satisfaction. This agency was his; he had built it from the ground up, with no assistance from anyone else. He was becoming known and respected in this place and among these people. No one here knew or cared that he was born and raised on a bare patch of red clay in north Georgia, that his father had died with three young children in the house, and that his mother had been too poor to refuse the suit of the first man who held out the prospect of keeping a roof over their heads. images-2

He had carved his own niche out of Little Rock, and, somewhat to his own surprise, the thought of going back to the home office was losing much of the aura it once had. What did Nashville have to offer, other than more money and a bit of stability? Nashville was someone else’s domain, not his. He wondered what Addie would say if he told her he wanted to move here. He was afraid he already knew the answer, and he didn’t like to let himself think about it.

*******

Becky totaled the column of figures and made an entry in the ledger. Before reaching for another account book, she allowed her eyes to roam from the second–floor office area down the stairway and out over her father’s department store, resting them for a moment from the close work with which she had been occupied most of her morning. For a few moments she watched the sales clerks and customers milling about the counters below. It was a Monday morning, and there weren’t many shoppers in the store. For that very reason, she usually chose Mondays to get the accounts up–to–date.

I wonder what he’s doing right now, she thought, and immediately chided herself. Rebecca Norwich, you are not a schoolgirl anymore, and you know much better than to sit about mooning over some man you know as little as you know Zeb Douglas. She shook her head and took up the next batch of sales receipts. But I wonder if he ever thinks about me, her mind whispered. With an exasperated sigh, she flung down the tickets and tossed the pen onto her desk. woman

She got up from her oak swivel chair and paced the length of the office area, then back again. She wondered, not for the first time, what it was about Zeb Douglas that hung so in her mind. She hardly knew anything about him, other than his easy smile, his lovely manners, and his familiar, friendly way of speaking to her and her parents. He never talked about anything or anyone in Nashville, where he went every second or third weekend, other than vague references to “the home office.” She had no idea about his family, where he came from, or what he was like during the week at his small office near the capitol building.

But she found herself thinking of him more and more. When she came to the store, she sometimes found herself detouring needlessly by the opening of the street where the insurance office was located, more than half–hoping their paths would cross. She had almost nerved herself, once or twice, to walk into the office and pass the time of day, but so far she had managed to restrain herself from such brazen assertiveness. It was about time for Zeb Douglas to eat Sunday dinner with them again, she decided. She’d say something to Mother.

*******

George huddled as deeply as he could inside his greatcoat, trying vainly to dodge the raw north wind. It was cold, the sky was spitting snow, and he was tramping up and down the streets of Chattanooga trying to secure signatures on a letter of solicitation to Mr. Andrew Carnegie of New York, asking him to build a library in this city.

How did he allow himself to be goaded into these situations? He’d heard vague rumors of some of the society ladies forming a committee, and the next thing he knew he was being badgered by his mother into knocking on the doors of perfect strangers and asking them to endorse this fine community effort. Didn’t anyone think he had work to do? Did they think Hutto & Company ran all by itself?

Well, he was sick and tired of the whole thing, that’s all. Let somebody else get out and catch pneumonia on Mr. Carnegie’s behalf. He’d knock on one more door and then he was going home, and the Library Boosters could all go hang, which would suit him, plumb to the ground. snow.jpg

He shuffled onto the front porch of a single–story frame house and tapped gently, hoping no one was home, but the latch began turning almost before his hand had fallen to his side. George waited for the door to open, clamping his portfolio under one elbow and blowing on his hands.

“Yes?” The woman who had opened the door had a black shawl wrapped around her shoulders and was clearly not happy about standing in her doorway with such a brisk north wind blowing.

George touched the brim of his bowler. “Ma’am. I’m George Hutto, and I’m working on behalf of the Chattanooga Library Boosters—”

“Lord a’mighty! On a day like this? Well, come on in before we both freeze slap to death!”

“Yes, ma’am. Thank you.” George stepped across her threshold and removed his hat. He stood in a small foyer with a knotty pine plank floor covered by a slightly threadbare Persian rug. As he warmed up, he was able to allow his face to relax from the squint it had assumed while he was walking into the frigid blast outside. His eyes moved about the portion of the adjoining parlor that he could see until they came to rest on a huge oil painting above the fireplace mantle—a painting of a clipper ship cutting through rough waters under full sail. “Oh!” he said, the word slipping out softly without his realization.

“What? Oh, the ship. My daddy painted that years ago.”

George took a hesitant step or two toward the painting, then stopped and shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am, I didn’t come here to look at—”

“It’s all right, go ahead. It’s kind of an interesting old painting, if you like that sorta thing.”

“Well … thanks. I believe I will look at it a bit, if you don’t mind,” George said, giving a little smile to no one in particular. He paced closer to the painting and tilted his head this way and that, peering at the ship and her rigging. “I guess I’m kinda interested in old ships,” he remarked. “I build them as a hobby. Well, that is, I build models. Not real ships, of course.”

“Is that so?” George could hear her stepping quietly over to stand just behind his left shoulder. Without moving his head, he cut his eyes toward her. She was looking at the picture also, not saying anything. clipper

“Well,” he said, clearing his throat, “I guess I don’t need to take up too much more of your time.” He faced about and pulled a sheaf of papers from his portfolio. ‘‘As I said, I’m with the Library Boosters, and—”

“How many have you built? Just curious.”

He stared at her a moment. “Oh, ships!” he said after a few seconds. “Well, I don’t really know, let’s see—”

“How long does it take? To build one?”

He peered at her again. She was no longer clutching the shawl about her, but it still hung over her shoulders. Her hair was a sandy brown and pulled back into a tight, no–nonsense bun on the back of her head. Her eyes were a chestnut brown—almost black—and she wore a high–necked green linen blouse with a tightly pleated front and a heavy skirt of the same color.

“Well … about a week, usually,” he answered. ‘‘Anyway, we’re trying to get a Carnegie library built here in Chattanooga, and—”

“Would you like some hot coffee?”

Again, he wore the puzzled look of an old dog interrupted in mid-trick.

“Pardon?”

“Coffee. It’s hot, and you must be half frozen if you’ve been tramping up and down streets all morning.”

“Well … I … I suppose so. Yes, ma’am, that’d be nice.”

“May I take your coat and hat?” She held out her hands for his wraps.

George handed her his bowler and removed his greatcoat. She gestured vaguely toward a settee near the grate and then wheeled about, vanishing into another room.

George seated himself gingerly on the settee, his hands on his knees, and looked around the room. The scarcity of knick–knacks surprised him, somehow, as did the relative absence of typical feminine touches in the general decor: no doilies on the furniture, no lace on the curtains, nothing extra or added on. Everything in the room looked as if it was there for a reason.

A log settled on the grate, sending a shower of sparks up the flue. George was glad for the warmth. He squatted in front of the hearth and worked the fire with a poker. He heard her come in behind him. George turned around and moved back toward the settee just as she placed a steaming cup in its saucer on the low table in front of his place. She took a seat in an overstuffed armchair across from him.

He took a careful sip of the coffee and risked a glance at her. She was staring frankly at him, though the expression on her face was considerably more toward pleasant than it had been when he had knocked on her door. With her dark eyes, her gaze reminded him uncomfortably of a crow’s, intent and unblinking. He quickly dropped his eyes to his cup.

“You aren’t having any coffee?”

“Nope. Had my two cups already, don’t need anymore. I keep it on, though. Most of the day. Just in case.”

After another careful sip, George asked, “Does your husband work near here?”

“Widowed three years. Consumption.” crow

“Oh, I’m … I’m sorry.”

She shrugged. “Lord giveth, Lord taketh away.”

He nodded somberly.

“Least he left me well fixed,” she went on, still peering at George with those forthright, burnt–sepia eyes. “That, plus my inheritance from my family. Long as I’m careful, I don’t have to do anything I don’t want to do.”

There was an awkward pause.

“Well … that’s a blessing.” George blew on his coffee.

“You told me your name, but I forgot,” she said.

“George Hutto. And I don’t guess I know your name either,” he said, feeling an odd sort of embarrassment steal over him. Here he was, sitting in the parlor and drinking the coffee of a woman whose name he didn’t even know!

“Breck. Laura Sanders Breck. My husband’s people were from Kentucky, but I’m out of the McMinnville Sanderses.”

George nodded thoughtfully, though he had never in his life met another person from McMinnville, as far as he knew.

“Lord never blessed us with children,” she said. “Couldn’t understand why, but there you go.”

She had thin lips that were almost the same color as the rest of her face. Her frame appeared to be somewhat on the spare side, although she was not so thin as to be gaunt. As she spoke, her eyes flickered here and there, always coming back to rest on his face. The rest of her stayed very still, though: her hands rested in her lap and never moved; she held her head motionless; she never changed position in the deep cushions of her chair.

George sipped politely at his coffee a few more moments, and Laura Sanders Breck watched him. He cleared his throat, placed his cup in the saucer, and gently set it on the table. “Well, Mrs. Breck, I certainly—”

“Laura.” Her crow–eyes glittered at him as she said it. Like an invitation, or a challenge.

“I certainly thank you … Laura … for the coffee and the seat by your fire,” he said. ‘‘And now, if I might have my hat and coat, I’ll be on my way.”

Without a word, she sprang from her overstuffed chair and dashed out of the room, returning seconds later with his things.

“Thank you,” he said, placing the bowler on his head and shrugging on the greatcoat. He glanced a final time at the clipper over the fireplace, studying it with a slight squint. She preceded him to the entrance, clasping the shawl about her neck with one hand and opening the front door with the other. He took a deep breath and shouldered into the cold air on the front porch. “Thank you again,” he said as he passed her. Her only reply was a quick, curt nod.

As the door closed behind him and he thumped down the front steps, he realized he had completely forgotten to ask her to sign Carnegie’s petition.

*******

This post is a chapter from the novel Sunday Clothes, by Thom Lemmons. Sunday Clothes will soon be available for purchase as an e-book at www.homingpigeonpublishing.com

Creative Commons License
So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.

 

Sunday Clothes, Chapter 16

November 29, 2018

Addie hadn’t heard anything from Mary Alice for some time, so she paced back through the house, trying to locate the too–quiet toddler. When Zeb had moved them into this new, larger place, she’d thought she’d enjoy the increased room, but at times like this she found herself missing the little servant’s cottage on Granny White Pike: there was less space there for a toddler to wander.

She rounded a corner into her bedroom and spied her daughter in the act of plucking one of her crystal figurines from the top of the dressing table.

“No, ma’am!” dressingtable

Mary Alice’s head wheeled about, her eyes big with guilty surprise. Addie paced quickly to her and snatched the figurine from her chubby fist with one hand, spatting the child’s hand sharply with the other.

“You are not to bother these! No, no!”

The baby’s face quickly clouded up and began to rain. Addie picked her up and marched back toward the front of the house, plopping the squalling infant down in the parlor in front of a pile of rag dolls and brightly painted toys.

“If you’d stay in here and play with your own things,” she said, “you wouldn’t get into trouble.”

Mary Alice, the very picture of wronged innocence, bawled unabated at her mother.

Addie sighed and rolled her eyes and searched beside the chair for the mail-order catalog she’d been perusing just before. She thumbed it back open to the jewelry section and began again to look at the men’s rings. She’d decided to buy Zeb a wedding ring for Christmas this year. She’d always felt a little guilty for never having procured him a band. He claimed it didn’t matter to him, but it did to her. He’d gotten her a fine, stylish gold band for their first anniversary, and she intended to have a ring for him by Christmas. She had almost enough money hidden in the pantry Mason jar to pay for the ring she’d chosen. She enjoyed looking at the picture and imagining how it would look on Zeb’s finger. She thought he’d like the ring. It was a gold band, about a quarter-inch wide, with a bead of finely inlaid silver on each border. It would look elegant on his hand, set off by his clean, crisp white cuffs and the dark suits he favored. goldband

Her eyes stayed on the pictures of the rings, but her mind wandered toward Little Rock. In the beginning, Zeb had assured her that successfully turning around the Little Rock agency was the final stepping–stone to his home office position here in Nashville, but it had been more than a year now, and he was still spending at least two weeks each month in the Arkansas capital city—sometimes, like this month, even more. From his talk of things there, it seemed the agency was doing well. She wondered why the men in the home office couldn’t be satisfied with Zeb’s work and offer him the Nashville job he said he wanted. But, on the few occasions when she’d tried to ask him about it, he’d become distant, almost annoyed. “There’s still a lot to do there, Addie,” he would assure her. “Griffs and Carleton are depending on me to leave Little Rock in good shape. I can’t just walk off—not until the job’s finished.”

There were times when Addie wondered what had changed between her and her husband. When they were courting and first married, he couldn’t seem to get enough of her presence. She smiled wistfully as she thought of some of the grand surprises he’d manufactured “for no reason,” as he sometimes said, “but to see that dimple on your right cheek.” It had seemed so easy to enjoy each other in those simpler days: a sunshiny afternoon was a good enough excuse to walk hand–in–hand up Cameron Hill; a night with a full moon carried a honey–scented enchantment that made words unnecessary; seeing the look on his face when she came down the front porch steps was like the secret opening of a longed–for gift.

When had the little joys begun to disappear? What was it about the daily friction of living together that rubbed so much of the shine off two people who thought they loved each other? And could they get it back? She hoped Zeb got that home office job real soon.

Mary Alice’s sobs had subsided to an occasional sniffle and whimper by the time Addie saw the postman walk past the front window. She laid aside the catalog and went to the door. The bright Indian summer afternoon sun was warm on her forearms as she opened the mailbox and removed the contents: a solicitation from someone running for county magistrate, a circular from a sewing notions company, and a letter addressed in a familiar hand … from Lou!

Smiling, she went quickly inside and tossed aside the other two pieces, eagerly running a finger beneath the flap of Lou’s envelope.

 

Dearest sister Addie,

I suppose you thought I dropped off the face of the earth, since

you haven’t heard from me for nearly two months now. I am some

better each day, it seems, altho there are still days when I’m not sure

I want to make the effort to keep going, but those seem to be fewer

and farther between, thank the Lord. It has now been twenty

months since my precious Katherine’s death, and tho I never

thought life could go on without her, it seems to, just the same. I

still miss her terribly, but things aren’t quite so dark anymore, somehow.

Then again, sometimes the most unexpected things will set me 

off. I might see a little girl about her size and coloring, or I might

hear a snatch of a song she used to sing. And I still can’t bear it at

church when they do “Safe in the Arms of Jesus,” like they did at

her service. Dub tries his best but he just doesn’t understand a

mother’s heart and I guess no man does, not really. He’s got to where

he doesn’t like to go out to her grave with me anymore.

Well, how are things with you? I’ll bet Mary Alice is just tearing

up Jack by now at her age and getting into everything, but just

try and remember that you’ll miss these times someday. Oh, goodness,

I better not get started that way again or before you know it

I’ll get back around to Katherine and be all down in the dumps

again. How is Zeb? Did he ever get moved back to Nashville, like

you thought he might? It’d be a shame for him not to get to be

around Mary Alice these next few months as she’ll be changing so

fast and you miss something if you’re gone for even a day, seems like.

I sure would like to see that little sweet thing, tho I know it will

make me sad. I hope we can come to Nashville before long but Dub

stays so busy down at the store and with Robert in school and all it

seems like the time just isn’t ever right.

Oh, I almost forgot to tell you that George Hutto said he was

mighty proud to hear about Mary Alice and he knew she had to be

a beautiful baby with you being her mama. I wonder how long it

took him to work up the nerve to say that much about you at one

time. He looked about like a little boy at his first recital.

Well I guess I’ve rattled on long enough and should close now.

You give that sweet baby girl a hug from her Aunt Lou and write

me back when you can. letter

Your loving sister,

Louisa C. Dawkins

 

Addie laid the letter on the table beside her and smiled into the middle distance. What she wouldn’t give to spend an afternoon in the parlor with her older sister, just talking about this and that, like two old married women.

But, of course, it wouldn’t do, not with Papa’s disapproval hanging over them like a curse. Addie noticed Lou had avoided any suggestion that she and Zeb should come to Chattanooga. They both knew it would be too hard, that Papa would be the invisible participant in every conversation. She would have to work so hard to ignore him that it was almost inevitable he would be the only thing she thought about. And Addie couldn’t imagine much good coming from that.

Mary Alice tugged at her skirt. Addie looked down and the child held up her arms. ‘‘All right, Miss, come on up,” she said, lifting the baby into her lap. Mary Alice snuggled close, the first knuckle of her fist in her mouth. Addie squeezed her gently and rubbed her cheek against the silky brown wisps on the crown of Mary Alice’s head. “Mama doesn’t like to get on to you,” she said, “but you have to learn to leave things alone, little dumplin’. Here you go,” she continued, giving her daughter a sudden squeeze. “That’s from your Aunt Lou.”

The baby giggled at the sudden movement. Addie squeezed her again, she chuckled louder, and so it went for several moments. Soon, the laughter of her little one had banished most of the trailing tatters of Addie’s hovering melancholy. She looked at the mantle clock and realized it was nearly three o’clock. “Come on, young ‘un,” she smiled at Mary Alice. “Let’s find you and me a piece of shortbread. I’m just about hungry!” Mary Alice babbled happily at her mother and clung to her shoulder as they walked toward the kitchen.

*******

Nothing was said when, after an absence of nearly three months, Rose resumed her duties at Jacob Caswell’s house. If he was surprised to find her standing on his doorstep on the July morning she returned, he gave no sign. If he was at all curious as to her whereabouts during her time away, he gave her no evidence, and he knew Rose wasn’t inclined to any unnecessary explanation. And so, with no more to–do than a slight nod from each, the two of them resumed their former arrangement.

Most of the time, Rose moved about the house as dispassionately as the shadows of clouds move across the landscape. She dusted, swept, straightened, cooked, and cleaned with the impersonal efficiency of a force of nature. Jacob, on the rare occasions when he noticed her at all, thought that sharing a room with her was about like sharing it with a piece of moving furniture. duster

But every once in a great while he would feel something brush against his awareness; a tingle on the back of his neck; an impalpable sense of being watched, or thought about, or disliked … or pitied. He would look up, and if Rose did happen to be in the room, he would generally see no more than the flicker of an eye or the slight turning of her head as she attended to whatever task engaged her. Sometimes, he would peer at her thoughtfully for some minutes. If she ever noticed his gaze, it wasn’t apparent.

One day, as Rose was setting his lunch before him, he could have sworn she spoke. “What?” he asked.

She cut her eyes at him as she placed the gravy tureen in front of him, then turned to go back toward the kitchen. “Didn’t say nothin’,” she mumbled as she ambled away from him. When she came back a few seconds later bearing a platter of freshly baked cat–head biscuits, he said, “I sure thought you said something to me.”

She shook her head as she poured his coffee.

The silence lengthened, broken only by the taps of his spoon against the sides of his cup as he stirred in his cream and sugar.

“Well, Rose, I guess I never did ask you where you went this spring. I don’t recall being asked for time off.”

“Can’t nobody remember what they ain’t been asked. I went on my own and I didn’t ask no leave. You don’t want me around no more, all you got to do is say so.”

“Now, Rose, don’t go getting touchy on me. I didn’t mean anything by it. I was just curious, is all.”

She walked back toward the kitchen, muttering under her breath. When she returned, carrying a plate of cold sliced roast beef, she was still going. She clanked the plate onto the table in front of him and turned away. As she did, he was pretty sure he made out the words, “ … ain’t got as much sense as God give a goose … “

“Rose, why don’t you just turn around here and tell me what’s on your mind?” he said. “All this grumbling and mumbling’s about to give me the indigestion, anyway. You might as well have your say, all at once, and get it over with.”

She came about to face him, her hands on her hips and her face tightly set in a scowl of disapproval. “I done been at this house for more than eight years, and every time I think you can’t get no more bullheaded and hardhearted, you up and shows me how wrong I is!”

He stared at her, mouth agape. “Rose, what in thunder are you—”

“You let that child walk outta your life with no more thought than if you was turnin’ out a stray dog! You really think you gonna make out any better on the Judgment Day than that boy she married? Or is you so busy feelin’ sorry for yourself about losing Miz Mary that you ain’t got no time to try to understand somebody else’s feelin’s?”

“Now, Rose, that’s just about enough!” he shouted, slamming his fist on the table and rattling the dinnerware. “The Good Book says, ‘Honor thy father and mother!’ She—”

“The Good Book also say, ‘He that trouble his own house shall inherit the wind!”’ she said. bible.jpg

“What about, ‘Children, obey thy parents’?”

“‘Fathers, provoke not thy childrens to wrath!”’

“I’ll not sit here and be lectured about my own children by a nigger maid!” Jacob wadded his napkin and flung it on the floor as he shoved back his chair and stood. “It’s none of your business what I do or don’t do about Addie!” he shouted, pointing an accusing finger at her. “She’s the one who left, not me. I provided her a home, and she showed her gratitude by turning her back on me—and her mother’s memory! Don’t you stand there all holier–than–thou and condemn me for following my God-given conscience. It like to killed me to see her leave like she did! Do you think she’s the only one who’s hurt over all this?”

“You be a sight better off to listen to this old nigger instead of diggin’ yourself a deeper hole than you already in! You didn’t no more know that young ‘un than if she was a stranger, but you so bound up in yourself, you couldn’t see who she was!”

She turned her head sidelong and shook it at him as she spoke, as if admonishing a wayward child.

“She ain’t in pigtails and pantaloons no more! She a grown woman, and she got to find her own way, and you got to let her! But what did you do? You good as told her your way was the only way! She your daughter in more ways than one, can’t you see that? You tell that child to jump, she naturally going to squat! You tell her to gee, she’ll haw every time! You tell her she can’t have the man she got her eye on, you just as well be tellin’ her he the only man in the world! That child didn’t leave you—you run her off, only you too blind to see it!”

Jacob glared at her. He felt his fingers curling into claws. He spun away, swaying against the edge of the table and knocking his coffee cup sideways. He stalked out of the dining room into the hallway and half ran to the front door, flung it open and was gone.

*******

Rose stood perfectly still, hands on hips, her eyes fixed on the space where he had been. Slowly, her head began to shake, and her eyes brimmed with tears.

“Sweet Jesus, help that man. He dyin’ and don’t know how to tell nobody.”

*******

This post is a chapter from the novel Sunday Clothes, by Thom Lemmons. Sunday Clothes will soon be available for purchase as an e-book at www.homingpigeonpublishing.com

Creative Commons License
So Fair and Bright (a weblog) by Thom Lemmons is licensed under a Creative Commons Attribution-Noncommercial-No Derivative Works 3.0 United States License.