“A visit with Netta would be good for both of you. Staying at home so much, Netta could use a companion. And you would benefit from some time away from home.”
“Oh, I’m fine.”
“Don’t hide your problems from me, young lady.” Aunt Lavinia’s voice grew urgent. “I saw that knot on your head. Dr. Arnold did too.”
At Miss Lavinia’s frank talk, Cal leaned toward the kitchen door, tempted to peek around it to see Bea Dot’s face. Instead, she furiously rubbed the meat fork, which shone like a mirror from its five-minute buffing.
Bea Dot’s silence provoked Aunt Lavinia’s persistence. “Has he given you any more trouble, dear?”
“No, he hasn’t,” Bea Dot spoke up after a pause. “In fact, he’s been the opposite—too polite, as if he just met me. At breakfast he says good morning and comments on the weather. Then he’s off to the office. We eat dinner in complete silence. I live with a long-fused stick of dynamite, and I have no idea when the spark will reach the gunpowder.”
California clutched the fork and buffing rag to her chest, smiling and thanking heaven. At last Bea Dot had admitted her fear.
“Then perhaps you should leave while you have the chance to do so,” Aunt Lavinia advised.
“But even if I decide to go, Netta wouldn’t want me there.”
“Of course she would, dear. I’ll write her immediately.”
California sighed, smiled, and closed the silver chest. Now she could do the ironing with a lighter heart. Praise the Lord for Miss Lavinia getting Bea Dot out of this mess. Now Cal could stop beating herself up for getting Miss Bea Dot into it.
Dearest cousin,
My heart breaks for you. Please know my prayers go with you at this time of great loss. Having endured the same grief three times before, I can tell you that occupying one’s thoughts and body with activity is the only way to get through this period of mourning. Please come to Pineview, Bea Dot. The distance from your home and the different surroundings will be good for you in this sorrowful time. What’s more, your presence will be a great comfort to me during my confinement. I’ve missed your company and would love to see you again. Let’s put the past behind us and be cousins again. Please say you will come.
Much love,
Netta
There. Mother should be satisfied with such a gracious invitation. Not that Bea Dot would ever reply, or even read it. All Netta’s other letters had been met with complete silence.
But Netta did wish her cousin would accept the invitation. Poor thing. Netta always knew Ben Ferguson was an arrogant man, but she had no idea a monster lurked inside that pudgy physique. She shivered and wrapped her arm around her growing stomach at the thought of how Bea Dot lost her baby.
If she’d only listened to me
.
“Miss Netta, here the mail,” Lola’s dark brown hand contrasted sharply against the white envelopes she placed on Netta’s desk.
“Already? Why didn’t you tell me the mailman was here? I needed him to take this letter.” Netta leaned back in her chair and slid her letter into an envelope. Then she fanned her face with it, praying silently for a thunder storm. She didn’t know how much longer she could tolerate this heat.
Lola widened her big brown eyes and shrugged. “I didn’t speak to him, Miss Netta. I found the mail just a minute ago. He must of come while I was hanging the laundry.”
Netta addressed the envelope and held it out to her maid. “This letter must get to Savannah as soon as possible.”
“You want me to mail it on my way home this evening?”
Honestly, sometimes Lola could be thick as a brick.
“No, that’s too late. It must go out today. Take this to the post office right away.” Netta shifted in her chair. The heat rash on her back side pricked at her.
“Doc Coolidge ask for chicken salad for lunch.” Lola’s brow wrinkled in her sad, uncertain way when questioning Netta’s decision. Netta hated that. “And I ain’t shred the chicken yet.”
“This letter must be on the train to Savannah today.” Couldn’t she just do as she was told? “You’ll have to go now. You can shred the chicken when you get back.”
“Yes’m.” Lola put the letter in her apron pocket.
Netta flitted her hands toward her to shoo her out of the bedroom. “Go on, now, and hurry.”
Lola would probably work in stony silence for the rest of the day. Too bad. Netta had too much to do to worry about her maid’s feelings. She had a houseguest arriving soon and a nursery to be put together, not to mention all the baby clothes still to be made.
Netta stood and wiped the sweat from her face and neck before moving into the parlor, which was cooler because of the shade of an oak tree outside. She sat gingerly in her rocking chair so as not to irritate the heat rash and picked up the knitting from the basket on the floor. The back screen door slammed, and Netta lifted her shoulders in aggravation, certain Lola had banged the door deliberately. She shook her head. The best way to fight Lola’s petulance was to ignore it.
After knitting a few minutes, she noticed she’d dropped a stitch. Swearing silently, she pulled on the yarn and watched her last few minutes’ work disappear. And she still had a cap and booties to make. Maybe Bea Dot could help her prepare the layette.
Netta looked at the ceiling and sighed.
Stop pressuring yourself
, she thought, remembering Ralph’s repeated advice. True, she should have started this work sooner. But Will Dunaway needed her help more. For three weeks he convalesced in the extra bedroom while she tended to that dreadful wound. She still shuddered at the thought of being impaled. During that time, she also listened with sympathetic agony to his cries in the night. If Will’s nightmares came close to the realities of war, then the battle front must be worse than she could ever imagine.
Now Will was healed, though, physically at least, and Netta tried not to panic with just a few weeks to prepare for her baby’s arrival. She shook her fist in front of her as she realized she’d forgotten about the paint job. She must remember to ask Lola whether her husband, Jim Henry, could paint the nursery on Friday.
The front door opened, and Ralph entered, his face red and wet from perspiration, his shirt soaked with a wet V in the back. “Hello, dear,” he said as he leaned to kiss the top of her head.
At the whiff of the sour smell of perspiration, Netta felt a pang of sympathy for her husband. He must be more miserable in the heat than she. She wrapped the loose yarn back into its ball. “Busy morning?”
“Not especially,” he replied, putting his leather black satchel on the table near the door. “I had to drive out the lower river road to the Mashburns’ place. That’s always a long trip.”
“Who’s sick?”
“No one. The boy fell out of the loft, thought he’d broken his leg. But he’s all right. Just sore.” Ralph looked around the corner into the kitchen. “I’m starved. Where’s that chicken salad? I’ve been thinking about it all morning.” He wandered into the kitchen in search of lunch.
Netta smiled slightly at the way Ralph could shift his thoughts so easily from an injured boy to a cold chicken. When she first married him, his matter-of-fact talk about injury and illness could shock her. Now, after seeing him at work for several years, she better understood his perspective. Setting a broken bone to him was like trying to repair a rip in her favorite dress. They both hated the damage, but mending it was all in a day’s work.
“Lola will make it as soon as she gets back.” Netta slipped her knitting needle carefully back into the working stitches.
“Where’s she off to in this heat?” Ralph asked, walking back into the parlor.
“To mail my letter to Bea Dot. The mailman came before I finished it.”
“Couldn’t she have waited until the sun went down some?”
Netta put the knitting in her lap and eyed her husband intently. “Oh, believe me, she tried to put it off, but I wanted to be sure that letter went out today.”
“True,” Ralph said, sitting on the foot stool near the fire place. His knees jutted up to his shoulders, making him look like a big spider. “But the mail doesn’t go out until five o’clock.”
“I know, but Lola might have gotten busy and forgot about it.” Netta picked up her knitting again.
“Oh, has she been forgetful?”
Feeling sheepish, Netta paused in her knitting. “No,” she said slowly. “I suppose not.”
Ralph slid off the stool and knelt in front of Netta, putting his hands on her round middle. They felt like two warming pads on her torso, and the baby stirred inside her.
“That’s my little boy,” Ralph said proudly.
“Or your little girl.” Netta put her hand over one of Ralph’s.
Ralph nodded, gazing at Netta’s girth as if it were a beautiful wonder. He shifted his hand on her stomach to meet the infant’s protruding foot or hand. “We hired Lola because she’s the best at minding children.”
“Of course.” Netta nodded. “Only the best for our little angel.” She rubbed her stomach lightly. After a moment, she asked, “What are you trying to say?”
Ralph looked up at her lovingly. “If we trust Lola with the most precious thing in our lives, shouldn’t we be able to trust her with a letter?”
Netta exhaled and slumped in her rocker. She’d done it again. So determined to have things her way, she’d sent her housekeeper out in the noonday sun in the middle of a heat wave. If she kept up that attitude, Netta would lose Lola to Berma Daniel, who’d been trying to hire Lola away for weeks.
Ralph stood, and Netta gazed at his shoes, black patent leather dusted with red Georgia clay. He leaned forward and put his finger under Netta’s chin, lifting her face so that she could meet his eyes. His damp black hair fell over his wide forehead.
“Point taken,” she said.
He smiled at her and winked. Netta always felt like a bashful schoolgirl when he did that. She couldn’t help smiling back.
The telephone rang in the hallway, and Ralph went to answer it. From his usual short inquiries, Netta could tell he was speaking to another patient. He hunched over the telephone stand as he listened to the caller, his broad back filling the doorway through which Netta watched him. The back of his hair spiked with wetness.
After hanging up the ear piece, Ralph returned to the parlor. “That was Will Dunaway.”
Alarm few to Netta’s throat.
Sensing Netta’s worry, Ralph quickly said, “He’s fine. He called to tell me Eliza Taylor’s in labor. Thought I should ride out and see her.”
Netta smiled at Ralph’s report. It was just like Will Dunaway to suggest such a thing—always looking out after his neighbors. They were fortunate to have him living out there.
“Eliza’s delivered all her own babies,” Netta said, knitting her next row. “She’s probably better at it than you are.” She gave Ralph a teasing grin.
“You may be right,” Ralph said as he walked into the kitchen. He called to Netta from the other room. “But I’ll ride out there just in case.” Netta heard him open the ice box.
“Can I eat this chicken the way it is?”
“That’s for your chicken salad,” Netta called back, but the silence told her Ralph was already eating the bird. “Dear, let me at least make you a sandwich.” She pushed against the arm rests to rise from the rocking chair, but Ralph stuck his head in the doorway, a drum stick in his hand.
“Don’t get up, honey. I’m halfway finished already.” He disappeared into the kitchen again. In a few seconds Netta heard water running. Then Ralph returned, drying his hands on a dish towel. “I only ate a little bit. Lola can make chicken salad for dinner.” He leaned down and kissed Netta’s cheek again, leaving a slick of chicken grease on her face. “I’ll be out at the Taylors’ place if anyone needs me.” He grabbed his bag and was gone.
With two fingers, Netta touched the spot where he kissed her. Then she grabbed the front of her smock and fluttered it, moving air through her collar and down her chest. She peered out the window. Where was Lola?
She pushed herself out of her chair and shuffled into the kitchen to clean up after her husband, but she discovered that Ralph had put the chicken back into the icebox. With an endearing smile, she wet a dish cloth to wipe down the kitchen table when a knock interrupted her.
“Coming,” she called as she waddled to the front door, wiping her neck and forehead with the damp rag. She still held it when she opened the door to find Mr. Bradley, who owned the drug store.
“Morning, Mrs. Coolidge,” he said. His brown hair was matted from the hat he now held in his hand. “I’m looking for the doc. He’s not in his office. Is he home?”
“No, he’s not.” Netta shook her head. “He’s gone out to the country to deliver a baby.” Netta leaned on the door frame, the weight of her pregnancy tiring her back and legs. Her heat rash burned, but she tried to ignore it as she faced the druggist.
“Oh, I see.” Mr. Bradley turned away from the door and looked disappointedly at the distance as if to see Ralph driving away. Cicadas sang in the pine trees. “Then I suppose he’ll be a long while.” He turned back to face Netta. “My wife’s feeling sick, Mrs. Coolidge. She came home from Macon yesterday with a headache, and she’s gotten worse ever since. It’s not like her to take to the bed, so I thought I’d fetch Dr. Coolidge to look after her.”