A Year Down Yonder (9 page)

And, really, I couldn’t.

Ina-Rae sat straighter in her desk now. Maturely, she took up the next valentine. It was somewhat better made, with odd little tufts of cotton batting stuck on.

It read, Ina-Rae gasped. Then she was all over me again. “The Johnson brothers? Can it be?”

As luck would have it, Elmo Leaper and the Johnson brothers were across the hall with Mr. Herkimer. But word that they’d sent Ina-Rae valentines swept our room like a grass fire. It didn’t take long. There were only about twelve of us. Carleen Lovejoy looked back in annoyance.

Now Ina-Rae came to the last valentine, and I could hardly wait.

It really was lovely. A white satin heart, padded like a little pillow and surrounded by a double row of paper lace neatly pasted on—hours to make. Ina-Rae cradled it in trembling hands, to read, “Oh, Mary Alice!” Ina-Rae bounced in her desk. She seemed overcome with self-confidence. Word radiated that Royce McNabb had sent Ina-Rae Gage a valentine.

Royce was there too, but seemed not to notice. He always brought an Edgar Rice Burroughs book, or a Rider Haggard to read before school took up. Word reached Carleen, though. Ina-Rae and I watched her vibrate.

Then she blew. Out of her desk, she switched and stalked back to us.

“Let me see that thing.” She snatched the satin heart out of Ina-Rae’s hands, ripping lace.

Carleen read the message for herself. Every word burned into her brain. She looked back at Royce McNabb. He sat there with his chin in his hand, reading. Royce was out of reach. Carleen slammed the valentine on Ina-Rae’s desk, got down in her face, and howled, “What have you been up to, you trashy little squirt?”

A single tear replaced the gleam in Ina-Rae’s eye.

Miss Butler came out of her chair. “Carleen! Leave the room.”

So Carleen had to. Royce looked up as she slumped past him. The back of her neck was valentine-red and hot-looking. The door closed behind her. It was eight o’clock on the nose, so we all got up to give the Pledge of Allegiance.

Ina-Rae lifted her desktop to sneak peeks at her valentines all morning long, cooing loudly. Down in the basement at noon when we were eating out of our dinner buckets, all the girls wanted to sit near her, even Irene Stemple.

Royce shot baskets by himself down at the other end. He never really was a team player, though he had a nice hook shot. Not that I knew anything about basketball.

Carleen wasn’t there. A smart mouth sent you home in those days.

Afterward, out at the pump, Ina-Rae sidled up to me. “That was fun. Did you see Carleen’s face? I can keep the valentines, can’t I? You sure dreamed up some swell messages, Mary Alice. Especially R. McN.’s. They must have took you absolutely days to make.”

“All in a good cause,” I said.

Ina-Rae had played her role well too. I’d liked the tear in her eye.

Then I went to scrubbing under the pump. My hands had been gummy for days. I thought I’d never get all the paste off them.

 

February turned out to be my busiest month. I was no sooner through making valentines than Grandma had me rolling out pastry for the tarts. And always from the center out. We spent the weekend before the DAR tea with towels around our middles and our hair tucked up. The kitchen was in a white fog of flour.

Then on Washington’s Birthday, the tea was set for four o’clock, so I hightailed it home from school. In the kitchen the tarts were laid out on cookie sheets, little works of art, each and every one. Grandma was nowhere to be seen.

Then there she stood in the doorway to the front room. Grandma? She seemed to ponder the distance off my right ear. She was ... posing. Her snow-white hair waved down from a neat center parting and drew back in a bun so tight, no hair escaped. Pearls hung in her ears. There were traces of Coty powder in the laps below her chins.

I’d never seen her dress. It must have been from the Lane Bryant catalogue. It was maroon wool crepe, with many a tuck taken across the prow. My gaze fell to her waist, where a self-belt was holding its own. And could it be? A lacy handkerchief was tucked up a cuff below one large wrist. New shoes peered out from below her skirts—fine big black patent-leather boats.

The tears started in my eyes. I wanted to hold her in that moment forever, framed by that door. “Grandma,” I said, “you’re beautiful.”

She waved me away, but she was.

A flouncy white party apron she’d made for me hung over a kitchen chair. She tied it around my waist and pointed to a tray of punch cups. No tea appeared to be brewing, but she seemed to want me out of the kitchen while she made the punch. I carried the tray into the front room.

It was hot as August in there, and I nearly pitched all the glassware on the rug in surprise. A lady had already arrived and occupied the best chair. And she was no member of the DAR. It was Mrs. Effie Wilcox.

Mrs. Wilcox in a hat and an apron—but a nice, visiting apron. Her eyes and her teeth aimed all over the room.

Grandma had set up a table with a white cloth. I put the tray down. Turning, I had the next shock. In the rocker by the stove was another lady, wrapped in shawls and old as the hills. She wasn’t DAR either. She looked like she might smoke a corncob pipe.

I couldn’t tell if Mrs. Wilcox noticed me. You could never tell where she was looking. But the ancient lady was sound asleep because somebody had parked her too near the glowing stove. She was alive, though. You could have heard her breathing all over the house.

Back in the kitchen, I said, “Grandma, who’s the old party on the other side of the stove?”

She turned from a large bowl of brilliant red punch. “That’s Aunt Mae Griswold. The Cowgills brought her to town in their dairy wagon. She don’t get out much anymore.”

“Grandma, how old
is
she?”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Grandma said. “You’d have to cut off her head and count the rings in her neck.”

But then a rapping on the front door echoed through the house. “That’ll be the DAR.” Grandma was cool as a cucumber, as if they often called.

When I opened the door, Mrs. Weidenbach swept in, followed by Mrs. Broshear, the undertaker’s wife, and Mrs. Forrest Pugh. Then Mrs. Lutz, the preacher’s wife, and last, Mrs. Earl T. Askew. All of them were hatted and corseted, veiled and gloved. They sensed trouble at once.

“Oh, tell me I’m wrong,” one of them blurted. “Is that Effie Wilcox?”

“Howdy,” Mrs. Wilcox said, looking them all over at once.

They spotted Aunt Mae Griswold. Her jaw had dropped. She had two teeth, and she whistled as she snored. They stared. “She’ll be next,” said the undertaker’s wife.

Then they looked up to see Grandma, tall in the room, her big fingers laced before her. She looked as good as any of them. Better, if you ask me. They knew at once she was in charge of the party.

“You can throw back your coats,” she said in welcome, “or this girl here will take them.”

Mrs. Earl T. Askew was in Persian lamb and wouldn’t give me her coat. She longed to flee. They milled in the room, running into each other. Nobody wanted to sit next to Mrs. Wilcox. They noticed the pink silk pillow with the gold fringe Grandma had put out to dress up the sofa. It bore the message,
I brought out kitchen chairs. Mrs. L. J. Weidenbach called the meeting to order, though she was rattled. “We will dispense with our usual order of business,” she began, “as we are not ... alone. But I will call upon Mrs. Lutz to give the invocation.”

“How about a swig of fruit punch to wet your whistles first?” boomed Grandma.

I went to the kitchen for the punch bowl and handed around brimming cups. Mrs. Lutz rose for the invocation, which went on and on. I had time to bring out all the refreshments. When Mrs. Lutz finally ran down, Aunt Mae Griswold came to sudden life. “Amen, sister!” she called out, waking in a crowd. She may have thought she was in church.

“Who are you, honey?” Aunt Mae inquired of Mrs. Weidenbach, who sat too near her.

“We are the DAR,” Mrs. Weidenbach said, sniffy. “We trace our families back to the American Revolution.”

“Speak right up to her,” Grandma roared from the kitchen door. “She’s deaf as a post.”

“Speak right up to me,” Aunt Mae said. “I’m deaf as a post. But I’m talkin’ about you, honey. Who was you?”

“I was Wilhelmina Roach before my marriage.” Mrs. Weidenbach spoke stiffly, but she was willing to give her history. “I trace back through my mother to the Crows of Culpeper County, Virginia, and Captain—”

“Oh, honey, you don’t.” Aunt Mae was wide awake now. Bright as a button. The room hung suspended. They hardly noticed when I refilled their punch cups.

“You’d be about, what? Fifty-six?” Aunt Mae squinted. Mrs. Weidenbach paled, and took a quick swallow of punch.

“I well remember when the Roaches took you,” Aunt Mae recalled. “It was about 1883, wasn’t it? You was a Burdick.”

All the air went out of the room.

“The county took you and your sister away from the Burdicks, as they was all mostly in the pokey at that time. You and your sister was put in separate foster homes. Nobody wanted both of you. I remember it like it was yesterday.” Aunt Mae sat back and rocked. “Oh yes, you’re a Burdick. That green-eye, blue-eye trait come into the family later from a lightning-rod salesman.”

The silence was deathly.

Mrs. Effie Wilcox rose from her chair. Her hat hung from a single pin. “And the Schultzes took me!” she cried out. “They never wanted to tell me who I was. They said it would mark me for life!”

The DAR ladies fell back. Mrs. Wilcox made a bee-line across the room. “You’s my long-lost sister!” She flung out her arms to Mrs. Weidenbach, who flinched. Punch went everywhere, and horror and defeat were written in her face.

The afternoon descended from there. Mrs. Askew fled, perhaps to spread the news. The rest circled Mrs. Weidenbach to support her and wall out Mrs. Effie Wilcox. The front room was as hot as the Amazon jungle, and several needed a third cup of punch.

They were in tears now, and Mrs. Weidenbach was hysterical. They bore her away, out the front door in a gaggle, their hats over their ears and their veils trailing.

None of them walked a straight line, and Mrs. Wilcox wove after them in pursuit. And come to think of it, she and Mrs. Weidenbach had the same coloring. Pasty-faced. Different teeth, but Mrs. Weidenbach’s may not have been her own. Mrs. Wilcox paused at the front door where Grandma was seeing her guests off. “I guess Wilhelmina is broke down with joy at finding me at last,” Mrs. Wilcox said.

“Very likely,” said Grandma, closing the door behind them all. She turned to savor the quiet of the room. Aunt Mae Griswold had dropped off again. Her jaw gaped. She snored a little whistling, sleepy-time tune.

Grandma spoke low. “What in Sam Hill are we going to do with all them tarts?”

But we got through them in time. There wasn’t a drop of punch left. It had been one part strawberry juice and two parts Kentucky straight bourbon. I found the empty bottle of Old Turkey later. I wrote out my latest “Newsy Note” and copied it over neatly. As Miss Butler always said, the only
real
writing is rewriting. Then I dropped it off as usual down at the post office on my way to school.

S
pring and I stirred. For my sixteenth birthday present in March, Mother sent me a dollar, all folded up. I don’t know where she got it.

The farmers planted alfalfa on the day after the new moon. The oats and clover went in. Now in April they’d planted corn in the field next to Grandma’s house. The sap was rising, and the seasons turned like a wheel.

I hadn’t seen much of Bootsie all winter long. She didn’t turn up for her treat on the back porch anymore. She was finding her own suppers. Once in a while I’d see her shadow against the snow. She was going about her business, being a country cat.

Then in the spring when you could smell the ground, Bootsie turned up. She found a way to climb the house—up the front porch trellis, I guess. She did her high-wire act along a slanting drainpipe, all the way to my window. I never knew how she did it, though she could see in the dark.

I’d let her in, of course, and Grandma knew.

Bootsie would drop in off the windowsill. If she felt like it, she’d jump on my bed. I’d make a tent of the covers, and sometimes she’d take a chance and climb inside, eyes aglow like the dial on the Philco. She’d claw a nest and curl up in the crook of my arm like the old days. She was more of an armful now, and she smelled like the cobhouse.

But Bootsie never lingered. Some nights she’d hear that faint thumping sound from the attic, and she didn’t like it. She’d fight out of the covers, glare at the ceiling, and be gone.

I’d ruled out ghosts, so I was used to that sound from above. Weeks went by without it. But I’d wake in the night, and it had been the thump from up there. Once, a bird cried out and suddenly stopped, in the middle of the night.

By April Bootsie took time out from her busy schedule to bring me offerings. One afternoon I found a robin’s egg on my bed. Had the robin flown in the open window and laid it? But no, Bootsie must have carried it in her mouth all the way up the house for me. I was touched.