Posts Tagged ‘writing’

Sunday Clothes, Chapter 13

February 10, 2018

Rose sat heavily in the chair beside the bed as she wiped the last traces of blood from herMother and baby hands and forearms. “We get you cleaned up, Missy,” she said, “before your man come in here. He see you like this, he liable to fall out.”

Addie looked up from the head of her nuzzling baby long enough to give the older woman a wan smile. “I guess I don’t exactly look fit for polite company, do I?”

“Honey, after what you just done, ain’t nobody gonna expect lace and spit curls. But we don’t wanna scare your man, neither. Most men can stand nearly anythin’ ‘cept birthin’ blood. I think it must remind ‘em of what it done took they mamas to get ‘em here. I think they feels bad about it but can’t say so.”

Addie caressed the child’s downy head. She was starting to get the hang of nursing now and her little mouth was pulling greedily at the nipple. Addie felt the twinge of afterpangs now and again, but compared to the ordeal of the birth, they were barely worth noting.

“Raise up a little on this side, honey.” She leaned as Rose directed, feeling the sheets slide from beneath her. “Now the other side, sugar. Your nightgown don’t look too bad, since we kept it up out the way. We get some clean sheets on this here bed and then we be ready for the new papa to come have a look at this here fine young ‘un.”

Addie peered down at the tiny profile, still nursing eagerly. The baby’s eyes were open, their hue a dark blue bordering on purple, and now and again Addie thought she cut her eyes upward, trying to see. “My sweet baby,” Addie murmured, stroking the still-moist cheek. “My beautiful, perfect child.” She felt dizzied by the dense reality of the suckling child in her arms, by the unfamiliar, stunning fact of her presence. All during the nine months leading up to this moment, Addie had known her more as idea than actuality. But now . . . This thing that had issued from her in tides of pain and blood was a person, endowed with every perfect detail in breathtaking miniature. There now existed a living, breathing human being who had never before been! The simple wonder of it rose far beyond the reach of her mind’s vision, swelling unutterable within her until she thought her heart must burst. She used a finger to heft the tiny hand with its five miniscule fingernails, and suddenly she knew: her heart wasn’t bursting. It was stretching to bear her love for this child, just as her muscles and sinews and flesh had stretched and groaned to deliver such a miracle into the light of day.

Rose tossed a clean, crisp sheet into the air and it settled down over them like a gently falling cloud. She tucked the corners in and propped Addie up just so. Casting a final critical glance at the tableau, she went to the door and called out to Zeb. “Well? You ready to see your new baby?”

Addie heard his steps slowly traverse the parlor. He stepped into the doorway, his face as drawn and void as an empty poke. He looked at her, then down at the tiny head bobbing at her breast, and his eyes flared open. The sight breathed life back into him; his whole body bloomed and stretched and widened with joy, and a grin clasped his face. “Why, Addie,” he breathed, “it’s … it’s beautiful!”

“Not an ‘it.’ It’s a ‘she,”’ Addie beamed.

“A girl?”

“Yeah. Is that all right?”

“Why—why, I imagine so! I imagine so!”

“What you doin’, standin’ in that door like you’s company?” Rose said. “Get on over there and hold that baby!”

Nervously rubbing his hands on his wrinkled shirt front, Zeb sidled toward the bed. He reached forward to receive the wrapped bundle.

“Don’t worry, you ain’t fixin’ to break her,” came Rose’s voice, soft at his elbow. “Just let her head rest in the crook o’ your arm; there–just like that. Looky there, she cuttin’ her eyes at you. You see your daddy, li’l Missy? This here your papa, honey.”

Zeb peered into his daughter’s face, hardly daring to breathe.

“Her … her mouth looks like yours,” he told Addie in a stage whisper.

“Yeah, but she got your eyes, that’s for sure,” Rose said.

“You really think so?”

“Mmm-hmm. I expect they be green this time next year, just like yours. What you gonna name her?”

Zeb and Addie stared at each other. “I thought we’d name her Mary Alice,” Addie said, “after both our mothers. If … that’d be–all right.”

Zeb’s eyes were drawn back to the tiny, red face peering from the blankets. “Well, Miss CradleMary Alice Douglas. How do you do?”

*******

In the days that followed, Zeb became more practiced at holding his daughter, but he never quite felt comfortable doing it. Addie or Rose would place the baby in his arms, and he would struggle manfully to relax—mostly to no effect. But Mary Alice didn’t seem to mind; she seemed fully as contented to be in one set of arms as another. Unless, of course, she was hungry or soiled. Then Zeb yielded gratefully to the experts.

He couldn’t talk about the way he felt toward the child because he didn’t understand it himself. Looking at her, he felt an odd mixture of awe, delight, confusion, pride, fear, and pleasure. Protective zeal surged through him, and on its heels came intense bouts of anxiety. It was at once a wonder and a worry to him that he must now portion his consciousness, not in halves, but in thirds. “Daughter” became an exotic taste for him, a new sensation that he caressed in his mind, standing back and watching himself admire its novelty—and fret over its ramifications.

Sometimes, as he sat, he would catch one of the women watching him. Addie’s eyes were always soft and cherishing, loving him from where she sat, glowing with an adoration that seemed to radiate to him from the baby when he held her. These days, he basked in a reflected light.

Rose, on the other hand, used a more veiled look. Sometimes she would smile at him a little and nod her head, but her eyes never dropped their guarded assessment. She reminded Zeb of an insurance prospect, listening patiently to the sales pitch and constantly wondering how much the payments will be.

He sometimes thought he was outside the fence, looking in at Rose and Addie. The two women shared something he couldn’t calculate or understand. It was the same when callers came, the women all aflutter and the men—when they couldn’t avoid coming—with hats in hand, smiling gravely down at Mary Alice, who appeared completely indifferent to all the attention. The women had so much to say about the whole matter; the men seemed more intent on failing to notice it. They would talk to Zeb about the weather, about automobiles, about dogs and guns and Congress. They would have discussed business, he guessed, but for their knowledge of the line Zeb was in. Maintaining a proper distance was the thing.

A few days after Mary Alice’s birth, a delivery boy came bearing a stylishly wrapped package with a card from the men at the home office. “Congratulations, Zeb and Addie,” it read. Along with the package, the boy handed Zeb a small note in a separate envelope. “So pleased to hear of your new arrival,” it read in Mr. Griffs’ back-slanted hand, “and looking forward to your return to the field. Little Rock needs your steady hand on the tiller.”

Reading the note again, Zeb—to his surprise—felt an odd sense of relief. In the back of his mind, he had been wondering how to broach the subject of his return to work, but there hadn’t seemed to be a right time to mention it. Now, Mr. Griffs had handled it for him. After all, the bosses were plainly ready to have him back in action. Surely no one could fault him for that! And, with the new responsibility of a child to feed and clothe, it was only right that he return to the serious business of making a living. Addie would understand.

“Oh, Zeb, look!” Addie cried, holding up from the ruin of the decorated box a shining silver baby cupsilver cup and saucer. “It’s got her name engraved on it, and her date of birth!” Addie turned the set this way and that.

“Sure is pretty,” said Rose, cradling Mary in one meaty arm.

“Zeb, you must tell Mr. Griffs and the others how delightful this is!”

“Well, now that you mention it,” he said in his most carefully casual voice, “I had thought about checking in at the office here in the next day or so.”

“Yes, I suppose it’s about time for you to think about getting back,” Addie said. The dip in her voice was so slight, Zeb would never have noticed it, had he not been looking for it.

*******

The next morning he rose and quietly washed and dressed in the halflight that trickled through the closed window shades. His eyes felt gritty, and there was a dull pressure in his forehead. He figured he’d slept perhaps three hours all night.

Sleeping with an infant in the tiny bedroom was a mounting frustration. Each time Mary Mother and sleeping babywould gurgle or stir, Addie would sit up or rise from the bed to stand over her and peer intently at her in the dimness. And then, every three hours or so, the baby would get hungry and begin the clucking and chirping that would eventually erupt into a full-blown demand to be fed. Usually, before she could get up a full head of steam, Addie would reach into the crib and gather her up, murmuring sleepily to her and bringing her to the breast.

Amid such a commotion and bouncing of mattresses and rustling of bedclothes, slumber would have been impossible to any but a dead man, Zeb surmised. He had always been a light sleeper in the first place, and the nightly program was certainly not geared to his rest patterns. Addie could catnap during the day when Mary was asleep, but he had never been able to doze when the sun was up.

As he fastened the cuffs on his shirt, he looked over at the tangled bundle on the bed sighing deeply in rhythmic, slow breaths. Best not to disturb Addie, he thought. Lifting his coat from the bedpost, he tiptoed from the room. He took one last glance at the two sleepers and backed quietly through the door, latching it behind him.

In the kitchen was Rose, who had slept on the settee. She sat at the small table, blowing softly on a steaming cup of coffee. She looked tired, crumpled. As he came in, she got up silver coffee potto get the coffeepot. She poured a cup and set it in front of him.

“Thanks.”

She seated herself again without replying. They both sipped gingerly at the black, near-boiling brew.

“They’s toast in the skillet,” she said, a few moments later.

He went over to the stove and carefully plucked a crisp slice of buttered bread from the flat iron skillet. He took a bite, then another.

“How come you didn’t go back to your cousin’s last night?” he asked around his second mouthful.

Rose sipped, then shrugged. “Got too late. Thought y’ all might need some help.”

“Sure was a short night,” he admitted.

“Mmm-hmm.”

She tilted her cup and allowed a little coffee to dribble down its side into her saucer to cool. In a bit, she picked up the saucer and slurped. Setting it down slowly, she glanced at him. ‘‘Ain’t nobody’s fault, though.”

He looked at her. “Do what?”

“Ain’t the baby’s fault. She don’t know no better. And Miz Addie bound to be restless with her for a little while, till she get used to it.”

“I know that.”

She looked down at her saucer. “Yessuh. I’m just sayin’ … ”

He took a few more sips of his coffee, then poured the remainder down the sink. He crossed the parlor and took his hat from the lamp table, pulled on his coat, and walked out the front door.

*******

Rose watched him leave, then studied the tabletop for a long while. “Lord, tell me I’m wrong about that man,” she prayed softly.

Perhaps forty-five minutes later, Addie stumbled into the kitchen.

“Mornin’,” said Rose.

“Good morning. I don’t know why I’m up, the baby’s still asleep.”

“You better get your rest while you can,” Rose said. “You want some coffee?”

“Oh, nothing right now, Rose, thanks.” She peered around. “Where’s Zeb?”

“He gone, honey. He left before you got up.”

“Oh. Well, I … I guess he needed to get an early start.”Hansom cab

“Mmm-hmm. I guess so.”

*******

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

Advertisements

Sunday Clothes, Chapter 8

November 22, 2017

 Nashville, Tennessee

October 18, 1899

Dearest Lou,

Well I guess there’s not much doubt about it. I haven’t had my time of the month for two months now. I haven’t told Zeb yet, but I guess I won’t wait too much longer as he needs to know.

I trust this finds you and yours well. We are fine here. I’m finally getting settled in since our move. The men here at the home office seem real proud of Zeb and the work he did with the Murfreesboro office, and he assures me that this move is a real first-rate thing for him, so I guess I’m happy about it. But it does seem a bit hard, just being a newlywed and all and having to up and move so soon.

In a way, I hate to tell Zeb about the baby. Is that terrible of me? Sometimes I fancy I can feel that little life down inside me, and the privacy of it comforts me somehow. But I know these are foolish thoughts. Zeb will be so proud and happy to know he will soon be a papa.

Addie held the pen suspended above the paper. Her eyes left the page and wandered to fountain penan empty space somewhere between her bureau and the window. She ran her other hand over her belly, trying to imagine what was happening inside her body. If a new person was growing inside her, why did she feel so much like she always did? Why wasn’t she shining like the sun, or laughing all the time? There ought to be some extravagance. But, no; this was quiet and slow. She smiled.

How are your Robert and Katherine? And baby Ewell? Is he still gaining weight as fast as he was at first? I know they keep you plenty busy, and I guess I’m fixing to find out just how busy, here in a few months.

I don’t suppose there’s been any change with Papa, has there? I’d like to at least let him know about his future grandchild. That is, if he’d really want to know.

Your loving sister,

Adelaide C. Douglas

She sealed the envelope and affixed the stamp. She placed it on the edge of the bureau so Zeb would see it on his way out in the morning.

A horseless carriage clattered and banged past the front window. Addie glanced at it on her way to the tiny kitchen. There were more horseless carriages here than in Murfreesboro or Chattanooga. Granny White Pike was a busy thoroughfare. Sometimes carloads of youngsters woke them at night with their hollering.

She scooted the cane-bottomed chair under the bureau. She smiled at herself. Youngsters! Here she was, an old lady of nineteen, thinking such things. She paused and passed her hand absently across her belly, imagining the curvature that would become more and more pronounced in the weeks to come.

Ten steps away from the bureau and Addie was in the small kitchen. She had a dutch oven full of white beans simmering on one back burner of the Crown stove and a pan ofVictorian Kitchen chopped potatoes stewing on the other.

She wrapped a dish towel around her hand. She opened the oven door and removed a pan of cornbread, setting it on top of the stove to cool. Addie went to the cupboard above the sink and removed two plates. She scattered the silverware beside the plates, humming under her breath.

Yonder over the rolling river,

Where the shining mansions rise,

Soon will be our home forever,

And the smile of the blessed Giver

Gladdens all our longing eyes …

It wouldn’t take a mansion to make her happy. Even this little cracker box of a place would be fine if she could just stay in it for awhile, see the same scenery for longer than a three-month stretch.

*******

Zeb came in at a quarter past six, his tie loosened and his collar unbuttoned. Despite the slightly cool evening air, his face had a sheen of sweat.

“Had to walk all the way uphill from the Edgehill Street stop.” He brushed her cheek with his lips as he set his briefcase on the floor.

Victorian Trolly

“Why didn’t you get off at the regular place?”

Zeb smiled and ducked his head. “Well, I got to studying about a proposition Mr. Griffs made me, and I guess I just forgot where the trolley was. Good thing I looked up when I did. I like to went clear to the other side of Vanderbilt.”

“Must’ve been pretty serious, then.”

He looked at her a moment, then resumed peeling off his coat and yanking loose the knot in his tie. “Yeah, I guess you might say so.”

Addie set a blue-striped crockery bowl of stewed potatoes on the table, then turned to look at him, wiping her hands on her apron.

He folded his coat over the back of a kitchen chair and draped his tie atop it. He shoved his hands into his pockets. ‘‘Addie, they want me to open a new district office.”

She raised her eyebrows.

“In Little Rock.”

“Arkansas?”

He grinned. “Yes, ma’am.”

She went toward the stove, bunching her apron in her hands to pick up the pan of cornbread.

“What’s wrong, honey? It’ll be a real—”

“Opportunity? Like Murfreesboro and here?”

“Addie, what—what’s the matter?”

The cornbread clattered to the tabletop, and she covered her face with her hands. She skillet cornbreadfelt his arms around her, and she pushed him away. “No, don’t, Zeb! I’ll be all right in a minute, so just … don’t.”

When she looked up at him, his shoulders were slumped. She regretted her loss of control. She daubed at her eyes with a corner of the apron.

“Zeb, I’m sorry. I’m just a little upset right now, and … I’m expecting.”

His forehead wrinkled, like he was trying to work a cipher in his head. And then, something took off behind his eyes, and he jerked himself up straight, like a puppet when somebody twitches the string.

“You’re what?”

She had to smile. “I’m expecting,” she said in a quieter voice. “In a family way, Zeb. You’re fixing to be a daddy.”

He still didn’t move, except for his eyes. They were popping and jerking all around the room. He reminded her of some little boy who’d just been asked a hard geography question by the teacher. He stood there with his hands still in his pockets, looking like he was trying to figure out the right answer.

And then, he grabbed the chair with his coat lying across the back, pulled it out from the table, and sat down like a boxer after a rough round. She didn’t know what to do, so she went to the icebox for the buttermilk pitcher.

“How do you know? Are you sure?” His eyes still weren’t focusing on anything in particular; his arms hung loose at his sides.

“Well, yes, dear, I’m sure. Women know these things.”

Then the smile came, rounding the side of his face and spreading in all directions like molasses on an empty plate.

“A daddy,” he said. His grin went rubbery around the edges. “I’m gonna be a daddy.” He got up from his chair and dropped to his knees in front of her. He placed his arms tenderly about her waist. “Oh, honey. I don’t know what to say.”

A warm gush of love welled up in her. She placed a palm on the crown of his head, stroking gently down the back of his neck, over and over.

“Well, I guess we better eat this before it gets too cold.”

He sat as if he hadn’t heard. “Addie, I love you.”

“I love you, too, Mr. Douglas, but if you don’t get out of my lap, your supper won’t be fit to eat.”

Later, as he spooned a helping of potatoes onto his plate, he said, “When do you reckon the baby might come?”blue striped crockery

She put down her fork and thought for half a minute. “I guess about springtime—maybe sometime in April.” She toyed with her napkin, then asked him, straight out. “Zeb, how soon do you think we’ll have to go to Arkansas?”

He didn’t answer right away. He chewed his potatoes and took a slow drink of the frothy white buttermilk. He daubed the corners of his lips with his napkin. “Well, today they sounded like it might be pretty soon, but what with you being in a family way and all, I just don’t know … ”

“Zeb, I’d sure like to have Louisa with me when my time comes. That’d be a lot easier here than in Little Rock.”

He nodded. “Yes, that’s a fact.” He buttered a slice of cornbread. “I’ll talk to ‘em tomorrow and see what I can work out.”

A hundred questions crowded onto the back of her tongue. What if they don’t care about me and the baby? Why does it have to be right now? Why Little Rock instead of someplace closer: Lebanon or Manchester or even Memphis, for goodness sake? There must be one or two people in a place the size of Memphis who don’t have enough insurance. Why can’t we stay someplace long enough to see the seasons change?

But she sat silent, with her left hand properly folded in her lap, lifting her fork to her lips and sliding the food into her mouth without letting it scrape against her teeth. She would wait and see what Zeb arranged with the company. He’d be able to manage something. And she did love him so. Surely everything would work out.hands

*******

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

Sunday Clothes, Chapter 6

November 3, 2017

May 28, 1899

My Dearest Zeb,

I hope you can find it in your heart to forgive me for seeming so cruel in dismissing you last month. I assure you it was not done with malice or without extreme soul-searching on my part. Since then, I have shed many tears and spent much time in prayer. Zeb, I have decided that we should marry without further delay, if you still will have me. I do not think that we should wait until the announced date in June as I am not sure my nerves can withstand the tension of the weeks involved. I hope you will not think me immodest or forward in this. I realize this may rush things a bit, but I truly believe it will be best to have the entire business done at the earliest opportunity.

Awaiting your quick reply, I amLove Letter

Your own,

Adelaide M Caswell

*******

The window squeaked against its track. Addie winced. Slowly, with many glances over her shoulder, she raised it as high as it would go. A cool puff of night air brushed against her cheek, and the insects’ chorus trebled in volume. She hoisted her carpetbag to the sill and eased it out onto the roof of the front porch. Moving as stealthily as her skirts would allow, she climbed through the window and onto the shake-shingled roof. She turned around to close her window, then changed her mind. Let them find it open. They’ll know soon enough anyway.

She looked around. The stillness and the moonlight turned the home place into an old-fashioned daguerreotype, frozen in place for this silent moment, for her eyes only. Something to be looked at. To stand outside of.

Moving out to the edge of the roof, she reached cautiously around the corner of the house and felt her fingers slide over Papa’s fifteen-foot ladder. Normally the ladder stayed farther along the side of the house, but she had been inching it toward the front porch over the past several days. She dragged the ladder to her, careful not to allow it to bump the side of the house. She dropped the carpetbag over the side of the porch roof. It thumped into the thick bluegrass of the side yard. She held her breath, waiting for one of the dogs to bark, or for the front door to open below her. After maybe a minute, she swung herself onto the ladder.

Reaching the ground, she gripped the handle of the carpetbag and set off toward the hill behind the house. There was a three-quarter moon, plenty of light for her to find the path that led over the shoulder of the hill and down toward the river road. As the carpetbag’s weight dragged at her shoulder, she half-regretted telling Zeb she’d meet him by the old abandoned springhouse on the river road. This was the only way, though. If Zeb had tried to slip up close to the house, the dogs would’ve raised Cain.

“Kinda late for a stroll, ain’t it?”

The voice came from just inside the tree line, ahead and to her left. A figure stepped out into the moonlight.

It was Papa.

She stopped, her body ramrod-stiff. Her fist gripped the handle of the carpetbag so tightly that her fingernails dug into her palms.

“I expect you’re going to meet your fella,” he said. Her tongue seemed locked behind her teeth. Finally, she nodded her head.

He snorted, shoving his hands into his pockets. He looked away from her.

“How’d you know?”

“Ladders don’t walk down the wall by themselves,” he said without looking at her.

A long hush grew stale and heavy between them.

“I’m glad your mama didn’t live to see this happen,” he said. His voice sounded strange.

“Papa, that’s not fair,” she said, barely controlling her voice. “What Mama asked me to do—it was too much.”

“What are you talking about?”

“I did my best, Papa, but you—” She swayed with the effort of holding in the sob that needed to be released. “I did my best to take care of you, but you— You didn’t want to be taken care of. You didn’t want to understand or listen.”

“Addie, I don’t know what you’re—”

“I’ve got to make my own way now, Papa,” she said through clenched teeth. “I can’t live your life anymore, nor Mama’s. I’ve got to live my own now. Try to see that. Try to understand.”

They stared at each other for a moment that lasted forever. And then she walked past him, toward the hillside.

“Addie, I hope you understand what’s going to happen.”

“You do what you think is best, Papa,” she said without turning around or breaking her stride. “And I’ll do the same.” Squaring her shoulders, she strode into the shadows beneath the trees.

*******

Jacob watched her go until the trees hid her from him. Then he crumpled to his knees and held his face in his hands.

*******

Zeb was waiting at the agreed place. He beamed at her as she came out of the trees, and she did her best imitation of happiness as she lifted the carpetbag up to him. She didn’t start crying until the buggy was moving down the road toward Chattanooga.

“What’s the matter, honey?” Zeb asked. He pulled up the horse and turned toward her.

“Papa,” she said through her sobs. “He caught me leaving.”

“Addie, did he hurt you?”

She shook her head. “He didn’t try to stop me. It’s just hard, Zeb. It’s real hard.”

He placed his hands on her shoulders. ‘‘Addie, look at me. Honey, look at me. I’m going to take care of you now. You aren’t in your father’s house anymore. You’re going to be my wife, and I’m going to do right by you. You hear me?”

After a second or two, she nodded her head.

“All right, then. I want you to dry those eyes and stop worrying. It’s gonna be all right, honey. Do you believe me?”

Another pause, and then she nodded.Eloping

“You sure you believe me?”

She nodded again, sooner this time.

“All right. Then how about a smile. Just a little one, huh?” He chucked her lightly under the chin. At last he coaxed a quavering half-smile from her. “There you go. Now you just sit back and let’s get into town and find the preacher, all right?”

They drove into town to the house of a minister that Zeb knew. Addie would have preferred that ]. D. Carson perform the ceremony since she at least knew him slightly, but it was seven or eight miles to his place over by Harrison.

Though the man was about to retire for the evening, he agreed to perform the ceremony. His wife witnessed. The impromptu wedding party gathered in the small parlor of the minister’s house, the minister’s four nightgowned children ranging big-eyed in the background, and Zeb and Addie were joined in matrimony.

With Zeb’s first kiss still moist on her lips, she turned to the minister and said, “Now I need another favor. I want you to baptize me.”

The man stared at her, at Zeb, then at his wife.

“Well, Arliss,” his wife said, “didn’t you hear the young woman?”

“Of course I heard her, Mother,” he said. “But I don’t know anything about this … situation.” He looked at Zeb. “Does she understand what she’s doing?”

Zeb looked at Addie, and his smile was as wide as she’d ever seen. But as he opened his mouth to answer the preacher, Addie said, “Yes, sir, I believe I do. I’d like to be baptized. Tonight.”

Half an hour later, Zeb was holding aloft a coal-oil lamp and watching with the minister’s wife as Addie and the minister stepped gingerly into the waters of the Tennessee River below the Walnut Street bridge. Addie was wearing an old shift that the minister’s wife had found in a trunk.

River at Night

Addie stared at the blackness of the water and tried not to shiver as it rose higher and higher up her legs; stared at it, trying to read some message there. But it was only water, and it was night. The lamp Zeb held aloft glimmered and rippled on the surface, and it seemed to her that its faint light only darkened the unseen. It was only water. But she was here now, and it was too far back to the bank. Much too far.

They waded out until the waters reached to their waists, and the minister turned toward Addie. He murmured a few instructions. He placed one hand on her shoulder.

“Addie, do you believe that Jesus Christ is the Son of God, and that he died for your sins and rose on the third day to ascend to the right hand of God?”

“Yes, I do.”

He raised his other hand. “Then, because of your confession of faith, I now baptize you in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Ghost, for the remission of your sins and that you might receive the gift of the Holy Ghost.” He placed one hand between Addie’s shoulder blades and cupped the other over her hands, covering her face. He tilted her backwards into the dark, swirling water and then raised her up again. She gasped as she came out of the water, then began wiping the water and hair out of her face. She felt the minister take her arm. He led her back toward the bank.

Zeb handed the lamp to the minister’s wife and stepped into the water to meet her.

“Zeb! Your boots!”

“Never mind about that.” He took her into his arms.

Some moments later, after hugs and smiles all around, they climbed into the minister’s buggy. Addie was wrapped in the towels they had brought.

“Where will you go?” the minister’s wife asked.

Addie looked at Zeb. She just now realized that she hadn’t given the first thought to where they’d spend their first night as man and wife.

“Well, I believe we’ll go spend a little time in Nashville,” Zeb said after a few seconds. “Then, I guess we’ll go back to Murfreesboro. I’m in the insurance business there.” Zeb fished a business card out of his vest pocket and handed it to the minister’s wife.

“Well,” she said, beaming at them, “it’s a fine way to begin your lives together—with a new birth into Christ! I’m so happy and proud for you both.”

“Thank you, ma’am,” Zeb said. He grinned from ear to ear as he pulled Addie closer to him.

There was no train out of Chattanooga until morning. Addie knew they’d have to stay in a hotel, but she was surprised when Zeb pulled up in front of the gleaming, just-completed Patten. The yellow glow from the lobby’s electric lights gave her a feeling of comfort as Zeb helped her down from the buggy.

They went inside. Addie was at once taken aback and thrilled to hear Zeb casually inform the desk clerk that he needed a room for the night for Mr. and Mrs. Z. A. Douglas.

She tried the name in her mind. Mrs. Zebediah Douglas. Addie Douglas. Adelaide Caswell Douglas. She smiled, savoring the newness, the adventure of it. The bellboy came and collected their bags, and the clerk handed Zeb a gleaming brass skeleton key. “Room two-twelve,” he said. “Top of the stairs and halfway down the hall to your left.”

*******key

Addie stirred and woke. There was a momentary sense of dislocation as she stared at the unfamiliar ceiling. A movement in the bed caused her to turn her head and see Zeb’s back and shoulders, still rising and falling in sleep.

For a few seconds everything seemed unreal, off-kilter. What am I doing here? Am I really supposed to be in bed with Zeb, really supposed to be married? Is this my real life? How can I manage this?

But then, as she lay still and allowed her waking to reorient her, she knew with a warm certainty that this was real, was her life; that Zeb was her husband—and that everything was just as it should be.

The wedding night was a rush of images and sensations—unfamiliar, anticipated, splendid, and dreaded, all at once. Louisa had told her some things, of course, and hinted at others. But she was still nervous about being alone with Zeb, her ignorance of what was expected of her.

But Zeb was so gentle, so loving. As his arms enfolded her and his lips pressed against her face, her hair, her neck, she found hersdf worrying less about what should happen next than savoring what was happening now. Something bloomed inside her, responded with a warm uncoiling to Zeb’s tender urgency. She knew, as they clung to each other, that she would give willingly whatever was required to sustain this timeless moment, this sudden need, this enfolding nowness.

There was pain, for which she was not quite prepared. But she almost laughed at the dismay on Zeb’s face when she cried out. He was consoling almost to the point of silliness. “It’s all right, honey,” she said, gentling his concern with her voice, her arms, her hands. “I think it’ll be better now.” And it was.

Now, watching him sleep, she smiled at the memories. So many changes, so many things she had learned in the space of two weeks. She felt wise now, miles and ages away from the girl who hiked over the hill with her carpetbag in her hand. How could life come so far, so fast?

Zeb snorted and jerked. She reached over and patted his shoulder. He rolled over to face her.

“Good morning, Mrs. Douglas.” He smiled, his eyes still half-lidded with sleep.

“Morning, sir. About time you woke up, I guess.”

He raised himself on one elbow and looked at her.

“What? What’s the matter?” she asked.

“Nothing. Nothing at all.” He leaned over and kissed her on the forehead.

‘‘I’m just thinking about how lucky I am, that’s all.”

She felt her face go warm. “Oh, Zeb. You better go on and get ready for work.”

He placed his palm on her cheek and turned her face toward his.

“Zeb, what are you doing? You’ll be late for work. Zeb, this isn’t exactly the time—”

But it was, all the same.

Later, she sat in front of the mirror, basking in the afterglow as she brushed out her hair and listened to Zeb in the next room, whistling as he worked at his cravat.

“Zeb?”

“Yes, ma’ am?”

“Do you think we might find us a little house to let? The folks here at the boarding house are nice and all, but … I guess I’m not used to so many people living all around me.”

He came into the room, a thoughtful look on his face. “Well, now, Mrs. Douglas, I don’t guess I’d thought about that. Not since last night on my way home, when I signed the papers on the cutest little bungalow you ever saw, just about three streets over.”

“Zeb! Did you really find a place?”Victorian home

A slow grin spread across his lips as he nodded.

It crossed her mind that she’d like to have seen the house before they were obligated. She hushed the thought and reached out to grab his hand. “You do beat all, Mr. Douglas! You sure do beat all!”

He held her hand a moment more, then went back into the next room.

“Better finish up, honey,” he said. “It’s almost seven o’clock. If we don’t hurry up and get downstairs to the dining room, the grits’ll all be gone.”

*******

Jacob Caswell trudged up the steps and into the offices of Haynes and Sutherland, Attorneys-at-Law. A clerk seated near the front door stood from behind his oak roll top desk and extended a hand. “Good morning,

Mr. Caswell! How can we—”

“Dan here today?”

“Uh—yes, sir, I believe so. Did you have an app—”

“Tell him Caswell’s here and I need to see him right away.”

The clerk excused himself and went through the low swinging gate in the banister that divided the front area from the lawyer’s offices. Jacob heard the quiet knock, heard the creak of hinges, heard the low murmuring. He started walking toward the swinging gate while the clerk was still turning around to invite him in. He marched into Dan Sutherland’s office and pulled the door shut behind him.

Dan Sutherland had just seated himself behind his massive mahogany desk when Jacob came in.

“Morning, Jacob. Nice to see you in such a good mood.”

“I don’t have time for your folderol today, Dan. I got something on my mind to do, and I want it done proper and quick.”

Dan leaned forward in his chair as Jacob thumped into one of the chairs across the desk.

“Well, I can see you’re in a hurry, Jacob, so why don’t you just give me a quick once-over?”

Jacob reached into his inside coat pocket and produced a set of papers about a quarter–inch in thickness. He slapped the sheaf onto the inset leather pad atop Dan’s desk. “That’s a copy of the will you drew up for me after Mary died,” he said, thumping the papers with his index finger. “I want it changed. Now.”Will

*******

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

The Old, Old Story, Part 1

March 21, 2013

By way of introduction: Admittedly, this story is a bit of a departure from the stated theme of this site. But it is fiction (at least, mostly), and I guess it could be set somewhere in a metropolitan area of southeast Missouri … if you can find one. So … Enjoy!  

The Old, Old Story

It was definitely the best gimmick I’d ever used; better than the time when I sat in an abandoned department store display window in front of a hand-lettered sign that said, “Suffering from Writer’s Block—Won’t You Help?” Another time, I used to hang out at Wal-Mart, trying to make up stories using all the items people had purchased. junkOne guy had a commode plunger, a case of motor oil, and a sack of birdseed. You don’t even want to think about what I did with that.

But this latest trick was great. I’d take my laptop someplace downtown with lots of foot traffic. They’d see my sign, stare at me a couple of seconds, then either walk on past or slow down for a better look. It got so I could tell pretty quick who would actually sit down and talk.

My sign said, “Get a Life. $5.00.”

I figured out pretty quick that anybody can tell some goofy fairy tale. But I’m thinking it needs to be plausible, but still better than they can do for themselves.

“First off, I don’t do futures,” I’d tell them. “I get you up to this point in time and that’s it. If you don’t like the life I give you, you don’t pay. Got it?” But I never had anybody take back the money—except one. Just that one. God help me.

I’d talk them through it while I polished up the grammar. I’d run a spell-check, copy the whole thing to a CD, and hand it to them. “Anybody with a current version of WordPerfect can print this out for you,” I’d tell them. “Hope you enjoy your new life.” They’d get this cock-eyed grin, maybe shake their heads a little, like, I can’t believe I’m doing this. But I had them, see? They knew as well as I did they wanted that disk more than they wanted the five bucks.

So one day I’m sitting at my usual place. I see him coming from a block away; a homeless guy, dressed in the latest layered look from the Salvation Army. As soon as I spot him, I get this sinking feeling. Sure enough, he makes for me like a ragged chicken coming home to roost. He takes a quick look at my sign and flops into the seat across from me. To my surprise, he fishes around in a pocket and flips a greasy, stained five onto the table.homeless

Making eye contact with him is like staring at the taillights on the last cab leaving a bad part of town. His sun- and wind-scoured face has a raw, caved-in look, like a freshly healed scab. He’s wearing a cap that had maybe been green in a previous life. The tufts of frayed hair sticking out from under it all around are some indeterminate blondish-brown, to match the four-day stubble all over his face. His eyes are a faded blue, and I notice they’re clear and focused. He stares straight at me, like I’m a TV and he’s the remote.

“I am the way, the truth, and the life,” he said. “Who are you?”

“I’m Larry, Moe, and Curly. Nice to meet you.”

“You got a form I need to fill out?” he said. “Most people I work with, they got some kinda form.”

“No, not really. You been around here long?”

“Long enough.”talk

“What’s your name?”

“Whatever you want it to be. You’re the one with the sign.”

As I’m giving him my opening spiel, he leans over and rummages around in his garbage sack, comes out with half a pair of silver kid’s scissors; the kind with the sharp ends, not rounded. He turns sideways in the chair and starts cleaning his fingernails. There is something so ineffably sad about this loser doing his manicure with a broken pair of school scissors that I have a twinge of bourgeois guilt.

“Look, can I get you something? I mean …  are you hungry or anything?”

He gives me a sly grin and shakes his head. “I have food that you know not of.”

Back to the keyboard.

You are the illegitimate son of a wealthy East Coast industrialist, the result of his weekend encounter with a high school senior who placed you for adoption and subsequently went on to graduate from college, marry a banker, have three children and get elected president of the elementary school PTA. Just after your sixteenth birthday, your loving and supportive adoptive parents acceded to your persistent demands to know the truth of your origins. laptopUsing the adoption agency’s records as a springboard for years of determined sleuthing, you finally discovered your father’s identity. You dropped out of college and traveled across the country, working a succession of menial jobs to earn bus fare and meals. When, after months of arduous travel, you finally reached your biological father’s last known residence—a convalescent home in upstate New York—you were told that he had died a week prior to your arrival. Shattered by this tragic circumstance and robbed of your raison d’etre, you began drifting west again, trying desperately to forget the many losses in your life.

The wealthy, dying father loans the whole package a very attractive and plausible sense of pathos, I’m thinking. I save it to a disk and hand it to him. “Here you go. Enjoy.”

He stares at the disk for a couple of seconds. “Can I read it?”

“Well, no. You gotta find somebody to print this out for you.”

He looks at me like, who are you kidding. The guilt cranks up again.

“Okay, okay. Come around here and I’ll put it on the screen.”

As he leans over my shoulder, I can smell the complex and disagreeable ambiance of his existence. I can hear him softly whispering the words on the screen, hear him quietly scratching his cheek.

He stares down at me, his forehead wrinkled with a question. “I don’t get it.”

“What?”

He points at the screen. “I mean—where’s the rest?”

“Uh, that’s it—that’s the whole thing, right there.”

“No, I—” He shakes his head. “What you’ve got is good, okay? But … Well … what happens next?”

“Look, I don’t do futures, remember? I only get you up to this point in time—”walkaway

He looks at me as if I have just spoken in Sanskrit.

“No way.” He snatches the five off the table and stuffs it deep into his pocket. Shouldering the garbage bag, he says, “Sufficient to the day is the evil thereof.” He starts to walk off, then stops. “Here,” he says, tossing the disk at me. Then he’s gone.

(To be continued … )
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