Leaving Cold Sassy (9780547527291) (2 page)

I
T COULD
have been a scene in a moving picture show—except I was walking into the picture. And instead of everything being black and white or gray, I was seeing blue sky, green trees, and ladies in bright-striped or flowerdy dresses, dazzling in the sunlight.

It was a hot day. The very old sat on benches in the shade, some holding babies, all tapping their feet to the band music, and all smiling except for poor old Dr. Hedge Rufesel, the dentist, who used to travel from town to town, filling teeth and making dental plates right in people's homes. A year after finally settling in Cold Sassy, he'd had a stroke. Today Dr. Rufesel's wheelchair was parked beside the bench where Miss Effie Belle Tate had sat at the watermelon cutting in 1914, not long before she died. A Negro man was pushing bits of watermelon into his mouth.

Long planks had been laid across sawhorses to make tables, and people stood around in clusters, talking. Every few minutes they parted like the waters to let one of the Negro men get through with a huge watermelon that had been cooling in the creek. With much laughter and howdy-do-ing, the colored men would tote melons to the tables and slash them open with a flourish of their big sharp knives. The slices fell like red dinner plates on each table, as neat as place settings.

Loomis Toy saw me before I saw him. “Hey, Mist' Will! How you doin', son?” I loved Loomis, a very tall, very black man who had worked for my family for as long as I could remember. He taught me how to garden long before the university's School of Agriculture taught me to farm.

“I heard your little girl took sick last week, Loomis.” I'd never noticed the sprinkle of gray in his hair before.

“Yassuh, Mist' Will, but she doin' mo better now, yas-suh. And she sho ‘predate that doll Miss Mary Toy sont her. Lawdy, I 'member Miss Mary Toy playin' wid dat doll her ownself. Don't seem lak that long ago, does it?”

Mrs. Avery came up from the creek with some wet towels. “For when folks are ready to wipe their hands,” she said, smiling at me. “Will, go put'm on that sycamore stump over yonder.”

Near the stump I saw the Widow Abernathy and her eight children lined up at a table in front of eight watermelon slices, like dairy cows at their feeding troughs. The mother opened her purse, took eight spoons out of a napkin, and handed one to each child.

I wondered where Sampson was. Several young boys were dodging out from behind trees to spit watermelon seeds at each other, but he wasn't with them. Nor was he among the clusters of parents and children who stood with favorite teachers from years past. My own favorite, Miss Neppie, had died of appendicitis in the spring.

I headed for the biggest oak tree, where the rest of Cold Sassy would already be waiting in line to meet the new teachers. Snatches of conversation drifted in the air:

 

A young woman jiggling a fretful baby was talking to Mrs. Means. “I don't know if he's teethin' or just tired.”

“Most babies are teethin' or tired, one. Unless they're hungry or wet. What I call a good baby is one that's asleep. I never have...”

 

“In the paper it says we 'sposed to join the Women's Army Against Waste. What in the world's the Women's Army?”

“It's just a way a-talkin', honey. What the gov'ment really wants, they want us women to serve less meat. They say raise more hogs and chickens, quit fryin' the pullets, let'm grow up to hens. Can more vegetables. They say quit cookin' light bread and biscuits. Save the wheat for our soldier boys, and...”

 

“...seen that new teacher?”

“Miss Klein? The dark-complected one? She's a pretty little thang, ain't she?”

Mrs. Snodgrass, Smiley's mama, was talking to two women I didn't know. One had a voice like a crab. “You wouldn't think mill hands would come to a town social,” she rasped.

“They got chi'ren in the school same as us,” said the third lady.

“But they ain't comf'table here,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. “Look at 'em, standin' off to theirselves, starin' at all us. Not to change the subject, but have y'all seen that great big diamond Loma Blakeslee Williams is flashin'? I hear her fee-ance is a rich Yankee banker!”

“It's all right to marry rich, Wi-nona, but anybody marries a Yankee is a lost cause. Loma's daddy fought in the War, for heaven's sake!”

“Sometimes I wonder bout Loma,” said Mrs. Snodgrass. “It's like her corn bread didn't git done in the middle.”

This was my Aunt Loma they were talking about. I paused to relight my cigar, took some slow puffs, tried to act like I was looking for somebody.

 

“...Well, Loma left here two year ago to make her fortune in New York City,” the crab-voiced lady commented, “and if'n that diamond is any measure, Wi-nona, I reckon she has did it.”

“She's also took up smokin',” said old Mrs. Calvert, joining the group.

“No!” exclaimed Miss Winona. “Who told you that?”

“Miss Hazel's cook smelt it on her.”

Mrs. Tabor, walking by, heard that and said, “But y'all, she whistled for the Presbyterians at preachin' this mornin'. It was real pretty.”

Miss Winona was incensed. “Now, Miz Tabor. What could a vaudeville whistler possibly whistle in church?”

“Why, Wi-nona, you should a-been there! She done ‘Whisperin' Hope.' She whistled it in two-part harmony—like doin' a duet with herself!”

“What I heard was she looked mighty peculiar doin' it,” said Mrs. Crab-Voice. “Kept pokin' on her mouth and cheeks with her hands and fingers the whole time.”

“Well, she did look funny. But it was bout the prettiest sound I nearly ever heard. Sent chills up the back of my neck. Why, there's Will Tweedy! Where you been keepin' yourself, sugar?”

 

Greetings and handshakes came thick as I made my way through gaps in the crowd. “Hey, Will Tweedy, you old son of a gun! Come 'ere, boy!” “Goodness, Will, ain't seen you in too long!”

A group of excited boys and young men were carrying on about the war. Old Mr. Henry Botts put his arm around one in uniform and said, “We go'n have the Kaiser on the run in no time, ain't we, son?”

The Army boy was Harkness Predmore. Last time I saw Harkness he looked barely old enough to shave. “Hey, Will!” he called to me. “I enlisted!”

“Congratulations, Harkness. Take care of yourself,” I called back, and walked on—faster...

Nobody had asked why I wasn't in the Army. They may have wondered, but nobody asked.

Fat little Mr. Homer Boozer was already eating watermelon at a table shaded by the big oak tree. Fat little Miss Alice Ann saw me, poked Mr. Homer, pointed in my direction, and called out, “Will Tweedy, come say howdy!” I went over and said howdy, then excused myself to join those waiting under the tree to meet the new teachers.

I couldn't see Papa for the people, but I knew he was there. When I did catch sight of him, I felt the usual twinge of shame, but I also marveled how he could keep on in his role as community and church leader despite what he'd done—as if it hadn't even happened. There he was, prosperous and dignified, standing with four other school board members. By craning my neck I could see two of the young ladies. But not the dark-complected one.

Instead, I saw Lightfoot and Hosie Roach with their four children, all holding hands as they headed for a plank table already set with watermelon slices. I wanted to go speak, but let the moment pass.

In high school when I was so crazy about her, Lightfoot was skinny, tow-headed, fresh from the mountains, eager to learn. But she had to leave school and work in the mill, and at fifteen she married Hosie Roach, a twenty-two-year-old mill hand who had gone to work for Grandpa Blakeslee at the store. Lightfoot was kind of fat now and her hair had darkened, but from where I stood she looked proud and happy.

I used to hate Hosie. He always was smart, no denying, and a few years ago, he and Lightfoot had started a store of their own in a little shack at the edge of Mill Town. Townspeople called them uppity, which meant they were making a go of it. Their oldest child was about nine now, a pretty little white-haired girl named Precious.

Precious Roach. Good Lord!

Watching the family stroll away, I wondered if Precious would be in Miss Klein's fourth grade.

I heard someone call out, “Will!” and turned to see my Aunt Loma, hurrying to catch up with me. The way Loma was dressed you'd think she'd got Cold Sassy confused with New York City. Her curly red hair, cut short in the new style, was almost hidden under a gold-colored cloche hat. She had on a pale green silk dress, a short dress, way short enough to get talked about. Talk, talk, talk. Loma reveled in it. In Cold Sassy the ladies were just daring to show their ankles.

And that engagement ring! The diamond was big as a fat black-eyed pea! As if to keep her balance, she walked with her left hand held forward, wiggling her fingers, flashing the diamond in the sunshine.

“Hi, Will!” she said, a little out of breath.

“Hey, Aunt Loma.”

“Hay is what horses eat, Southern boy,” she said.

“And hi means you think Northerners are way up above us down here.” I was teasing, but all that put-on Yankee accent irked me. Taking her hand, I bent down close to the diamond. “That's a nice piece of glass you got there, Aunt Loma.”

“Glass, my foot. Don't show off your ignorance, Will.” She laughed and took her hand back. I gave her a little hug and we walked on. She wiggled her ring finger at me again. “Are you impressed?”

“Well, yes, I admit I am.”

“It's three and a half carats.”

“Tell me about him,” I said, “and tell me how come you're back in Cold Sassy so soon.”

Before she could answer, I saw Miss Klein!

***

It's not too much to say that to me, at that moment, Sanna Klein looked like a bride, dressed head to foot in summer white except for the blue ribbons and blue silk roses on her white straw hat and a wide blue satin sash at her waist. She wore a thin cotton dress you could see through over an embroidered petticoat. The dress had long embroidered sleeves and a high collar. Her lips were the color of ripe raspberries and her hair was jet black, done up in a thick braid. She was the darkest white person I ever saw.

After Smiley's description, I had sort of pictured her as a refined Gypsy dancing-girl type, but there was no sparkle in these dark eyes. She looked anxious, like a little girl traveling alone and scared of losing her train ticket. She smiled nice and all, and stooped down to hug the little children. But it was easy to see that she wasn't having anywhere near as much fun as the folks who had come out to meet her.

Aunt Loma got to Miss Klein before I did. At thirty-one, Loma was still pretty, with eyes blue as Grandpa's and those short saucy curls of red hair peeping out from under her hat. But as always she talked catty, and talking catty with a Northern accent just made it worse. I'm sure she said what she did to Miss Klein just to call attention to herself. She talked real gushy. “I hear you have cousins in Germany, Miss Klein! I know you must be worried about them.”

Papa's face turned red. Loma was questioning Miss Klein's patriotism, right out in public, which was the same as saying he shouldn't have hired her.

He spoke quickly. “Miss Klein, meet my sister-in-law, Mrs. Williams. She lives in New York City,” he said, as if that explained everything.

“I'm very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Williams,” Miss Klein said politely. Then, just as politely—but loud enough for those around her to hear—she said she guessed there were cousins somewhere in Germany, “but I really don't know them. My people came to this country in seventeen-twenty, back in the days when immigrants had to pledge loyalty to the Crown of England. When did your ancestors come, Mrs. Williams?” Loma looked confused and didn't try to answer. Then Miss Klein turned to Mrs. Means and little Ronald, waiting to be introduced.

At that exact moment an overripe slice of watermelon dropped out of the tree and landed on Miss Klein's shoulder, splattering her white dress with pink juice and dotting it with black seeds. Everybody jumped back as if she had exploded; then all eyes turned upwards.

“Sampson, he done it!” yelled little Ada Foster, hopping around like a chicken with its head cut off. “Hit's Sampson Blakeslee, Miss Klein! See him? Up in the tree?” She pointed as two bare feet disappeared above a wide limb high overhead.

“Sampson, you come down from there!” Papa yelled.

The handsome, sun-browned face of nine-year-old Sampson appeared among the oak leaves. This was Miss Love's boy. The son Grandpa Blakeslee always wanted but didn't live to see get born. Half-brother to my mother and Aunt Loma.

My half-uncle.

Straddling the wide limb, Sampson grabbed a branch with one hand and leaned towards us so his innocence could be seen.

The band had stopped playing, a politician started giving a speech, and everybody under the tree was staring up at Sampson. “Gosh, Miss Klein, did it hit you?” he called down. Miss Klein was too angry to speak. Jerking off her hat, she picked furiously at bits of red watermelon nestled among the blue silk flowers.

“I am a
-SHAMED
of you, boy!” yelled Papa. Still looking up, he put his hand under the sticky wetness of Miss Klein's elbow to steady her.

“I didn't mean to, sir. That old watermelon, it just slid right...”

Little Ada was dancing again. “Sampson, here comes yore mama! I bet she's go'n git you good!”

“Naw, she ain't,” mumbled Mr. Homer Boozer, speaking to everybody and nobody. With a hunk of watermelon heart in one hand and a salt shaker in the other, he had pushed through to see what the commotion was about. “Half the boy's trouble is Miss Love don't never git him good. Just gives him a talkin' to.” Gesturing with his watermelon towards Sampson's perch in the tree, he said, “Ain't thet right, Will Tweedy? The Widder Blakeslee spares the rod and spiles the chil'.”