Carly brought a wooden chair in from the hallway and put it next to the coffin. Safronia came into the living room in a starched uniform, carrying a silver service that she put down on the coffee table. “Here's tea and coffee and cookies. Miz Dunn fixed them, and she said you'd pour.” She looked at Mama. “Need anything, just holler.” She backed out of the room, dusting her white-gloved hands.
“Why in the worldâI mean, she's got gloves on,” Meemaw said.
“She cut herself Friday,” said Aunt Rita. “When she found
. . .” Her voice dwindled, then she cleared her throat and continued. “Her left hand is bandaged, so we thought gloves were best.”
“I'm amazed she could handle the tray,” said Mama.
“Oh, the cut wasn't bad, but her whole hand is wrapped.”
Stell picked up the tall pot. “Who wants coffee?” Did she know which pot had coffee in it? She did, as I saw when she poured for Daddy. “Meemaw?”
“Yes, Estelle.”
“Excuse me.” I went into the bathroom off the kitchen and sat on the toilet, staring out the window, wondering how long we'd be here, how many sad people I had to see. After a few minutes I left the bathroom by the door into the den, where an oak rolltop desk took up half of one wall. The top was pushed up, with papers scattered everywhere. Aunt Rita couldn't have seen it or she would have tidied things and closed the desk. A curled paper lay on topâa photocopy of the note Uncle Stamos had left for Aunt Rita.
I sat in the oak swivel chair and picked up the stiff paper, my hands shaking.
September 10, 1954
My dearest Rita,
I know you won't understand. I'm not sure I do, either. I cannot face you, Carlisle, or Mother, when you find out what Bill and I did. Even as I write that, I want to defend myself, to say I didn't know. I hope you believe me. When I found out, too late to prevent the Daniels boy's death, I was so ashamed. I should have known. Isn't that what lawyers always say? “He knew or should have known. ”Well, I should have.
The facts mean nothing now.
There was a smudge on the paper, as if he'd started to write something and changed his mind.
The only truth in all of this is my love for you, which has never wavered. I wish I could have it both ways, face my shame and stay with you. But the one overshadows the other, so I must say good-bye.
By the time you read this note, Cliff Sindell will have received my final documents, which include a letter to Chief Kytle telling him everything I know about what the company did that may have resulted in the boy's death. Cliff will stand by you through all the paperwork and details.
Please ask Carly and Mother to forgive me, as I hope you will be able to do. I love you beyond death, my dearest, sweetest wife. Stamos
I stared out the window into the backyard, so neat and pretty. Uncle Stamos had loved his garden. A tear fell onto the paper.When I wiped it away, the writing smeared.
I wanted to talk to Leesum. What would he be doing on a Sunday afternoon, living in a preacher's house? McDowell Street Baptist Church didn't have a separate number listed for the rectory, so I called the church. A man answered, and from his voice I knew it was Reverend Perkins.
“Leesum there?” I tried to sound colored.
After a pause, the man said, “Hold the line.” Then Leesum said, “Hello?”
“Hey. It's me, Jubie.”
“Hey! What you doin' callin' me?”
“Just wanted to talk to you.” I felt foolish.
“Glad you did.”
“Me, too.”
“I got sumpin to tell you. Reverend Perkins and them got together. Three of our elders gone go to Georgia to find out who killed Miz Luther.”
“Will you let me know what happens?”
“Of course.” There was a pause, then Leesum said, “Just hopes they gets there okay. They drivin' straight through the night, cuz no hotels'll have 'em. It ain't easy right now, not where they be goin.”
I remembered about the curfew in Wickens, how hard it was to find a place where Mary could stay, the motel in Albany where we sneaked her in and out. I heard a noise behind me. Carly filled the doorway.
I said into the phone, “I've got to hang up.”
I put the receiver down, not wanting to let Leesum go. “A friend,” I said to Carly.
But he was reading the note on the desk. By the time he finished, he was crying, too. “Have you seen the laundry room?” he asked.
“No.”
“I want to see it.”
Aunt Rita found us in the door to the laundry room. I gasped when she touched my shoulder, and felt bad when I saw who it was. But she said, “I don't mind y'all looking. I'm sure everybody wants to.”
“Oh, Mom.” I thought Carly might start crying again.
“He was thoughtful. Wrapped his head in a towel so there wouldn't beâ” She ran her hand over the doorjamb. “After I got him washed and ready for the undertaker, took care of the mess, I prepared to grieve.”
She took Carly's hand. “At first I was afraid I would come on a spot I'd missed, when I was looking for the Ajax or something, but now I almost hope I doâa reminder of him, not that I need one, but you know . . .”
I said I did. She looked me in the eyes. “I know you do.”
In the car on the way home from the funeral, Mama blew her nose, straightened behind the wheel, took a deep breath. “Let's have dinner at the El Dorado. Pretend we have plenty of money.”
Stell said, “Shouldn't we find out what the rest of the family's doing? Aunt Rita and Meemaw andâ”
“I'm sick of being sad, and I don't care if I never see Cordelia again.” Mama blew her nose.
“What's the W.B.A.?” I asked.
Mama stared out the windshield, not looking at our house when we passed it. She answered in a low voice. “White Businessmen's Association. Who told you about that?”
“Mayor Lindley was talking to Daddy at the funeral.”
“What did His Honor say?”
“Something about Daddy trying to get the W.B.A. going in Charlotte with money from the business.”
Mama said, “The mayor was in on it. I'm sure he'll say he wasn't.”
“The White Businessmen's Association. What does it do?” Stell asked.
“Scares coloreds into giving up on voting, education. Other stuff.” Mama turned on the car radio, loud.
At the El Dorado, Mama parked the car and leaned her head on the steering wheel. “I don't know what's going to happen to us.” She started to cry. Stell put her arms around her and I reached over the seat and hugged them both; I could feel Mama's shoulders trembling. I wanted her to stop crying, to be strong. Somebody had to be.
Mama wiped her face. “I wish we could move to Taylor's for a while.”
C
HAPTER 31
T
he police came to our house a week after Uncle Stamos' funeral. Daddy invited them to have seats in the den, where he settled in his chair, a glass in his hand, the Jim Beam bottle on the table beside him. He'd already called Cliff Sindell, his lawyer, and the police agreed to wait until Mr. Sindell got there.
There were two of them, dressed in suits and ties, looking like ordinary business friends of Daddy's, talking about the best places to fish on Lake Wiley.
Daddy said, “Maybe we could meet out there sometime. You could show me the lures you made.”
“We'll see,” said the older of the two. He pointed at the Jim Beam. “I hear that's a good bourbon.”
“It is,” said Daddy. “Made near where I grew up, in Kentucky.” He took a sip. “I guess you don't drink on duty.”
“No, that's right.” The man cleared his throat. “But there's no prohibition on ice tea.”
Daddy looked at me.
I went to the kitchen.
When I returned with a tray of glasses and a pitcher of ice tea, Cliff Sindell was there. Daddy had already fixed him a drink. He nodded. “Hello, June.”
“Hey, Mr. Sindell.”
Daddy said, “Jubie, you can leave us now.”
I closed the door behind me, knowing I'd find out soon enough what was going on. Mama was through with secrets.
Having the police in the house hit Mama hard. The next morning, she said to Daddy, “They've got something on you. What else are you hiding?” He left and was gone for three days. When he came back, she wouldn't speak to him, not even hello. After a week of her silence, he moved to a fishing cabin on Lake Wiley. The next day, Mama walked around in her nightgown, drinking coffee and chain-smoking. At lunch she sat at the table, a cigarette in her hand, stabbing a half-eaten tomato with her fork, then picking it up and throwing it against the wall. It slid down the wallpaper, leaving a slick trail of pulp and seeds.
I went for paper towels. Mama snatched them from me and put out her cigarette in her plate, which I'd never known her to do. She scrubbed the wall and collapsed on the floor crying, wiping her face with her nightgown.
Mail piled up on the hall table. I took the unopened bills to Mama, who went to the desk in the den and sat with the checkbook, staring out at the magnolia Daddy had planted when we moved in. An hour later I went back to the den and she was still sitting there in a swirl of smoke. “Mama?”
“Why isn't
he
paying the bills, balancing the checkbook, getting the Packard serviced? Doing what a man's supposed to do.” She looked up at me. “I swear to God, Jubie, I wish I'd never met him.”
“I'm glad you did, Mama.”
Amusement lit her face for the first time in days. “Yes, I guess you are.”
Davie called from his bedroom. “Mama!” She stood. “Nap time's over.” She handled Davie as well as Mary ever had, and I thought if Mary walked in the door, she'd be a stranger to him. Mama felt smaller to me, and I realized it was because she mostly wore flats or loafers. Carrying a toddler around doesn't go with high heels.
I came home from school to find Mama at the dining room table, holding a sheet of paper, a torn envelope on the floor. She said, “You'll want to read this.”
I saw the letterhead centered at the top of the page and sank into a chair.
October 8, 1954
Dear Mrs. Watts:
Confirming our telephone conversation of Saturday last: one Gaither Mowbry, Jr., aged 19 years, was arrested on October 6, 1954, for multiple infractions, not the least of which was a state of advanced inebriation while in command of an automobile.
I remembered the man named Gaither who took us to Sally's Motel Park, his sweat-soaked shirt, how he smoked, coughed, cleared his throat.
Further, Mr. Mowbry attempted to evade the pursuing Patrol car and forcibly resisted arrest to the extent of battering an Officer of the Law. He was placed in my custody, whereupon he was relieved of his possessions and incarcerated for his own and the public's safety. Among the items found in his possession was the ring about which I called you.
I looked at Mama. “Why didn't you tell us the sheriff called?”
She picked up the envelope, folded it in half. “I didn't want to upset you.”
She was beyond my understanding. I looked back at the letter.
As per our phone call, the inscription of the ring is PLL to MCC 1925. It is my compelling belief that the ring was the property of the dead Negro woman who was in your employ, one Mary Constance Culpepper Luther. Apparently, Gaither Mowbry thought the ring to be of value, though he was mistaken. It is gold, but skimpy, and has little beyond sentimental worth.
Under the process of the Law, I will keep the wedding band as evidence. There are also details about the Mowbry car that lead us to believe it was used to transport your maid. Certainly I will advise you once the facts in this matter are concluded. Although the outcome should be foregone, there are no guarantees.
I remain
Yours truly
Jeremiah Higgins
Sheriff, etc.
P. S. When it is no longer needed as evidence, I will return the girl's ring to you for conveyance to her family or as is appropriate. I should also advise that I have written to the contingent of Negroes who came to Claxton to inquire about the investigation, advising them the same as is conveyed above.
So Leesum and the elders from McDowell Street Baptistâthey knew. And the ring would go to Link and Young Mary. I wished I could hold it just once, squint my eyes to read the tiny letters that Mary had told me were as the sheriff described.
“I should have noticed her ring was gone.” Orange dots appeared on Mama's yellow blouse. She was crying. “At the funeral parlor in Claxton. I never looked at her hands.”
“Oh, Mama, that's when you got her hair done, powder and lipstick, her dress . . .”
“How'd you know?”
“Mrs. Coley, a woman at the funeralâshe thanked me for what we'd done for Mary.”
Mama wiped her eyes. “I treated her like any old maid, but she wasn't, you know?”
“I know.”
“When I woke at the beach and you'd taken the car, I knew where you'd gone. I wanted to be with you so bad. The least thing I could have done is be at her funeral. The very least thing. Fixing her up wasn't enough.”
I took Mama's hand, sure she would pull away, but she didn't.
“When you and Puddin got the mumps, Mary brought me a bottle of home remedy.”
“Did it cure us?”
“I flushed it down the toilet.” Mama shook her hankie, blew her nose. “She was so great when I went into labor with Davie, timing the pains, distracting me. I miss her!”
I was sitting in the den, doing homework, when the door opened and there was Daddy, tall and not so tan, grayer than I remembered and paunchier. I stood up fast.
“Daddy! I didn't hear the garage door.”
“Not sure I have the right to park there now.” He hugged me hard. “How's my girl?”
“What do you want?” At Mama's voice, Daddy let me go.
“Hey to you, too, Paula.”
“Take whatever it is you came for.”
He pushed past her, heading for their room. She went after him and I followed, a shadow with ears.
Drawers opened and closed in their bedroom.
“Where's my other suitcase?” Daddy asked.
“The attic.”
Silence. Feet stomping. Then Daddy said, “What is it
you
want, Paula?”
“The house. The Packard. Alimony. Child support.”
A door slammed. “Talk to Cliff Sindell.”
“We're not sharing a lawyer.”
Were they getting divorced? I'd been hoping they'd make up, that things would be back the way they were before Mary, Richard, Uncle Stamos. I felt cold and scared and relieved.
Daddy came from the bedroom with suits over one arm, shirts and underwear bunched in the other, passing me as though he didn't see me. He piled everything on the kitchen table, got grocery bags from the pantry and stuffed them with his clothes. Mama handed him a business card. “Give that to Cliff.”
Daddy read the card. “P. Hollis Burns, Attorney at Law. Where'd you find him?”
“Her.”
“Ha!” Daddy said.
“I know about you and Young Mary.”
I froze in the hallway.
Daddy spoke sharply. “What are you talking about?”
“She left a note on the bulletin board.”
There was a silence so total I thought they'd hear me breathing. “C'mon, Pauly. All I did was make a pass at her. She was asking for it, swishing around in shorts, dancing to jive.”
“She's
seventeen
.”
The den door slammed behind Daddy. I raced out the kitchen door to catch up with him, knowing Mama would hear the cowbell, would know I'd run after him. I didn't care.
He was in the driveway. “Daddy?”
“I guess you heard all that.”
“Yes, sir.” We looked at each other. “Are you living at Lake Wiley?”
He took out his handkerchief and polished his glasses. “I am, for now.” He put his glasses back on, fitting the earpieces one at a time.
“Then what?”
“Back to Kentucky. Live with Mother for a while. Start over.”
I looked down to hide my face. “The diving board, Daddy.”
He dug in his shirt pocket with two fingers, pulled out a rumpled pack of cigarettes and a book of matches. “I lost my Zippo in Claxton.” He lit a cigarette, inhaled, let the smoke out slowly. “We made a mistake. I was going to fix it, but . . .” He put his hand on my shoulder. “Jubie.”
“Sir?”
“I'll come back.” He kissed my cheek. I thought there were tears in his eyes but couldn't be sure through the glare on his glasses.
After his car pulled out of the driveway, I went to my bed, put the pillows over my head, and sobbed.
That night I dreamed Mama and Daddy and I were going to a party at Uncle Stamos and Aunt Rita's in honor of Carly and his fiancée. Mama and Daddy left for the party first and told me to come along later. While they were gone, I picked stuff from Mrs. Gibson's garden, including some warped volunteer tomatoesâsmall, red, delicious-looking.
Mama and Daddy came home from the party bitterly disillusioned. They weren't dressed up enough, and Mama thought Rita should have warned them. The other guests were in cocktail clothes, sequins, silks. Mama and Daddy were in their movie clothes, dressed for the evening but not for show.
“We were beneath ourselves,” said Mama.
“It's about time,” said Mary, and went to the basement.