Authors: Earlene Fowler
“You have the best legal counsel, that’s for sure. Anything I can do to help?”
She shook her head. “The pizzas were perfect. You’re a good granddaughter.”
Her comment must have caused a tiny reaction on my face, because she pulled me in her arms, something unusual for Dove, and hugged me to her. I buried my face in her soft, talcum-scented neck and felt tears for the first time prick at my eyes.
“I know this day is hard for you, honeybun. If there had been any way possible, your mama would be here with you. Don’t you ever doubt that. And no matter what, I know for a fact she loved you more than her own life. I seen it myself.”
“I have to go,” I said, abruptly pulling out of her arms, determined to make it through this day without tears. I gave her the greeting card out of my leather backpack. “As soon as you’re free again, I’ll take you to dinner.”
She took the card, watching me with worried eyes. “I’ll hold you to it.”
Outside, Gabe lingered at the Incident Command Post, dressed in jeans and a gray cotton sweater. We caught each other’s eyes, but I looked away first. Rich’s words about how difficult it was for Gabe being a Mexican man echoed through my mind. Guilt and anger congealed inside me, but rather than try to sort the feelings out, I set them aside. I had to figure out this thing with my mother and father first. After a brief noncommittal statement to the
Tribune
and
Freedom Press
, I headed for my truck where I used my cellular phone to call Emory at his house. Scout curled up on the seat next to me.
“You almost missed me,” he said. “I’m on my way to Elvia’s for the big Mother’s Day doin’s.”
“I’ll probably see you later, then, when I drop by before going to the cemetery. I was wondering if you found out anything for me.” I reached over and stroked Scout’s head as Emory talked.
“Took some huntin’, but I didn’t fail you. I called the minister at the church my mama attended all her life, and bless those Southern Baptists, they do keep tabs on one another even if a flock member does leave the fold. He’s retired now, but he gave me the number of a woman who is apparently the unofficial historian of Little Rock First Baptist. She dug through her extensive records and memories and came up with a woman she remembered had been friends with Mama back in the fifties—one Edith Maxeen Cravens, who left the church to become a Methodist in ’62, but still makes it back for the dinner-on-the-grounds anniversary once a year because she says the Methodists never have learned how to make a decent fried chicken. The woman gave me Edith’s last known phone number in Nashville—that’s Arkansas, not Tennessee. She wasn’t there anymore, given that her husband had died and left her a tidy little sum, but Nashville’s not that big, and the woman who now has her phone number knows Edith Maxeen’s daughter from PTA and who since last spring lives in—you won’t believe this—Nashville, Tennessee. She apparently works for a music publisher. At any rate, I called her and with some finagling and dropping of mutual acquaintances’ names managed to get her mama’s new phone number in—get this—Arkansas City, Kansas, where she is living with her new husband, a born-again Catholic who talks in tongues and makes windmills—not, I’m assuming, at the same time, which could prove dangerous. You want her number?”
Only Emory could manage to make me laugh on a day like today. “Thanks, Emory. I owe you a double lobster dinner complete with dessert.”
“Sweetcakes, if you can keep what all I just told you straight, I’ll buy you dinner.” He paused for a moment. “You been to see Dove?”
“Things are getting mutinous over there. I’m not sure how long they’re all going to last.”
“Rumor has it they’ve got an ace they haven’t dealt yet.”
“What’s that?”
“I don’t know, they wouldn’t tell me. But it sounds big.”
I sighed. “I don’t even want to think about what it might be.”
“Whereas I, on the other hand, can’t wait.”
Calling Arkansas City, Kansas, was definitely out of my price range on my cellular, so I walked two blocks down to Blind Harry’s to use the phone in Elvia’s office. I tied Scout’s leash to the wooden bench outside and promised I wouldn’t be long. Her office was empty, as I knew it would be, and I settled down in her high-back executive chair, took a long drink of my coffee for caffeine courage, and dialed Edith Maxeen Cravens in Arkansas City, Kansas.
After five rings, a delicate female voice answered in a soft, Arkansas drawl. “Hello?”
“Is there an Edith Maxeen Cravens there?”
“That’s me, hon.”
My voice froze for a moment. Realizing I hadn’t made any plan about what to say, how much to tell her, how I would phrase my questions, I hit my thigh in frustration. Why did I jump so fast into things before thinking them out? Over the phone, her thin voice said, “Hello? Is anyone there?”
“I’m sorry,” I said, regaining my voice. “My name is Benni Harper, and I got your name from my cousin, Emory Littleton.”
“Ervalean and Boone’s little boy? He was such a sweet thing. Always did such a good job raking my leaves and such a talker. I swear, he was a born politician, that one.” She hesitated for a moment. “Harper, you said? Now that sounds vaguely familiar. Are you related to JoNelle Harper down around Blevins?”
“I don’t think so. My husband’s people were from Texas. I hate to bother you, but I have a question about someone you might have known a long time ago.”
“Well, hon, my memory isn’t as good as it once was, but I’ll do my best, seein’ as you’re kin of Emory’s. How is he anyway?”
“He’s doing fine. He’s living out here near me in California for a while. He’s a journalist.”
“Do tell. Well, he always was a little chatterbox. Now, you hug his neck for me and tell him hello. Who was it you needed to know about?”
“Does the name Gwen Swanson sound familiar?”
“Oh, my, yes. She attended Little Rock Baptist for about five years back in the fifties. She was church secretary for a while until she found herself a better-payin’ job down in Pine Bluff. Her and Ervalean were real close. We all stayed in touch for years. Mostly just postcards. Married a man with the last name Felix who raised hogs. It didn’t last. He was a Presbyterian.”
“Do you know where she’s living now?”
“Oh, my, no. I haven’t heard from Gwen in over ten years. She retired early because of her arthritis and moved out your way to California there to be close to some relatives. Don’t know exactly where. If you can hold on, I can check my old Christmas cards. I think I got one from her about ten years back, and me bein’ such a packrat, I’ll bet dollars to doughnuts I still have it. Now, you just hold on.”
After about ten long minutes, she came back on the line. “Sorry, hon, but I had to climb up into the attic, and it’s not as easy as it used to be. Sure enough, I got a Christmas card from her about ten years ago. Oh, my, I guess it’s eleven. Here it is, Glendora, California.” She read off the address.
“Thanks, Mrs. Cravens. I appreciate your help.”
“I hate to be nosy, but do you mind telling me why you’re huntin’ her?”
“I want to see if she remembers my mother.”
“Who was your mother?”
“Alice Louise Banks.”
“Oh, my!” she exclaimed. “You’re Alice Louise’s little baby? Why, you were just a toddler last time I saw you.”
“You knew my mother?”
“Oh, my, yes. We weren’t in the same Sunday School class because I was a bit older, but I knew her all right. She and Ervalean were just like sisters. They even worked together at the same diner. I remember when she came to live with Ervalean. Such a pitiful thing about her parents being killed in that car wreck. I don’t think she ever quite got over it. It was real hard on Ervalean when Alice moved out there to California. That’s when Ervalean and Gwen became so close until Gwen up and moved, too. I remember Ervalean sayin’ to me, ‘People are always leaving me, Maxine. They’re just always up and leaving me.’ ” She rambled on about church picnics and dinners, mutual acquaintances, and gossip about people I’d never heard of. I let her keep talking mostly because she seemed so glad to talk to someone about back home, but also because I hoped somewhere there would be something significant in the abundance of memories.
“There was this one time at the diner when Alice was just datin’ Ben Ramsey . . .”
“My father.”
“That’s right. Anyway, I was sittin’ there enjoying my hamburger and milk shake—that was back when I could tolerate milk products—and this man kinda sidled in, hat pulled low, and asked for Alice. Why, she took one look at him, turned white as a ghost, and hustled him quick as you please back to the kitchen. About ten minutes later Gwen rushed in, and without so much as a how-dee-do-good-morning,
she
headed back to the kitchen. Then Ben came in, and Ervalean, who was waitin’ all the tables at this point and going crazy, went back and got Alice. Alice was as flustered as a sparrow when she took his order. Then Gwen came out and sat down at the counter and ordered herself a tuna melt, which to this day I thought was odd ’cause I knew for a fact she’s always hated tuna.”
“Did you see the man again?” I asked.
“Not ever. I tell you, it was a regular Laurel and Hardy skit except no one was laughin’. I don’t know if this man was an old boyfriend or what, and I sure don’t know what Gwen had to do with it except, like I said, she and your mama were pretty close for a while until your mama moved, but they must’ve gotten things all straightened out, though, ’cause it wasn’t but a month or so later Ben and Alice just upped and got married quick as you please. Next thing I heard, we were bein’ invited to a baby shower for you. How is your daddy, by the way? I heard about your mama’s passin’ a long time ago. I’m sure sorry, hon.”
“Thank you. He’s doing great. I just have a few more questions. Do you know if Gwen Swanson had a brother?”
“Oh, my, no. She was an only child. I think that’s why her and your mama had so much in common. Ervalean kinda mothered them both, though she was not but five years older than either of them herself.”
Well, that shot that theory. Jacob Chandler being Gwen’s brother would have cleared up a lot. “You wouldn’t by any chance have a phone number for Gwen Swanson, would you?”
“I’m sorry, I don’t. We didn’t keep that good of contact. It was sure nice chatting with you, but I have to go now, my cookies are buzzin’. Good luck to you, and say hello to Ben for me.”
I hung up the phone and immediately went downstairs to the bookstore’s map section. Glendora was a small town about thirty miles southeast of Los Angeles near the foothills of the San Gabriel Mountains. Back upstairs in Elvia’s office, I dialed information and asked for the number of Gwen Felix. I was amazed when the automatic voice came on and gave it. I sat and stared at the numbers I’d penciled on Elvia’s personalized memo pad. It was yet another link between my mother and Jacob Chandler, one that I wasn’t sure I wanted to delve deeper into. The story Mrs. Cravens had told me sounded an awful lot like there had been a romantic relationship between Mr. Chandler and my mother at the same time she was dating my father, and that this Gwen Swanson Felix knew about it. When I dialed the number, a woman’s voice answered. In the background, I could hear rap music playing.
“Hello? Just a minute, excuse me. . . .” I heard her yell out, “Would someone please turn down that stereo?” After a few seconds, the music became a soft thump-thump in the background. “I apologize,” she said. “My sons are good boys, but very loud.” I briefly explained who I was and that I was looking for a Gwen Swanson Felix.
“She doesn’t live here anymore,” the woman said, her voice instantly suspicious. “Is there something I can help you with?”
There was an awkward silence that made me grit my teeth since I knew how flaky it probably made me sound. “It’s a long story, Ms. . . .”
“Gloria Carrell.”
I stumbled through a lame explanation of looking into my mother’s roots, how she’d died when I was six, how I was tracing people who’d known her. “Edith Cravens gave me your name. She knew your . . . Mrs. Felix . . . back in Arkansas. They went to the same church.”
She paused for a moment, then said. “Look, Ms. Harper, my aunt Gwen is not really herself anymore. They think it’s probably Alzheimer’s. I can’t let you talk to her alone. I’ll have to be there.”
That wasn’t my preference, but by the unwavering tone in her voice, I knew I didn’t have a choice. “That’s fine. When can I see her? If it isn’t inconvenient, I’d really like to make it as soon as possible.”
“How about tomorrow?”
I glanced down at the map I’d brought up to Elvia’s office with me. Glendora was about a five-hour drive. If I started early I could make it up and back in one day. “Great. Should I meet you where she’s staying?”
“She’s at her best in the morning. How about ten o’clock? Meet me here at my house, and we can go together over to where she’s living.”
Smart woman. She wasn’t about to let me sneak in early to question her aunt. I couldn’t blame her. I’d have done the same thing if it had been Dove.
After getting her address, I thanked her and then, just in case I forgot to tell her, I wrote a quick note to Elvia explaining the long-distance charges that I’d put on her phone bill so no employee would get in trouble.
On the way to the Aragon house, I picked up my two orders of flowers at the florist. The drizzle had turned into a soft, steady rain by the time I arrived at the Aragons’ cheerful yellow-and-white clapboard house. There had to be twenty cars parked out front, so I parked across the street and, sheltering Señora Aragon’s roses against my chest, I dashed through the rain, weaving in and out of the Aragon children’s vehicles. Emory’s shiny new Cadillac Seville was parked among them, so I knew he’d made it for his first Aragon Mother’s Day extravaganza. Inside the patchwork house, which had started out a three-bedroom-one-bath and was now a six-bedroom-two bath with a new kitchen and spacious family room, I noticed that some construction was going on in the detached garage. Maybe, now that all the children except Ramon were gone, Señor Aragon was finally getting his dream workshop.
Inside the warm, steamy house, the men had taken over the kitchen, and I found my cousin grating cheese at the round maple table while enthusiastically defending the Arkansas Razorbacks to a bunch of die-hard UCLA Bruins fans. I settled Scout in the corner with a chew stick and perused what the guys had boiling and bubbling in the pots on Señora Aragon’s sparkling clean stove.