The Woods at Barlow Bend (7 page)

Momma found the effect she had on men delightful, even
hysterical at times, but not Aunt Mittie. Mittie stoically stared straight ahead, her hand tightly grasped around mine.

As we walked, hand in hand,
I feared that every man, woman and child on the streets of Grove Hill that morning knew that secretly hidden in my purse was $46.25, the money I had taken from the register and hid under my mattress Saturday night. I had never in my life seen, held, much less walked around in public with that kind of money. I kept expecting someone to snatch my purse and flee down the street so fast that I would never catch up with the thief. I wriggled out of Mittie’s grasp and wrapped both hands tightly around the handles of my purse, holding it close to me. When we reached the courthouse, walked up the stairs, and crossed into the foyer, I breathed a sigh of relief that I wasn’t robbed on the street and, therefore, wouldn’t have to explain to Daddy how all of the money earned on Saturday was stolen from me.

My relief was short lived
. On a large placard next to the courtroom’s entrance was the docket for the day. Fourth on the list was Daddy’s name and, next to it, the words
Murder 1
st
Degree
. I stared at his name for probably a full minute, still unable to believe what happened in our dining room Saturday afternoon. Mittie tugged on my arm, pulling from my stupor.

We took our seats in the courtroom, fifth row from the front on the left side.
I had hoped to be on the front row so that Daddy could see me clearly, but the room had already begun to fill. I saw reporters from the Clarke County Democrat, Sheriff’s Deputies, and dozens others I assumed were concerned family members of other men and women on the day’s docket. Aunt Mittie pointed out the prosecuting attorneys seated at the table on the right, directly in front of the judge’s bench. Mr. Frank Poole and County Solicitor A. S. Johnson represented the state of Alabama. Daddy knew these men! They ate at our café at least twice a week, if not more often. How could they think Daddy was guilty of such a crime? For God’s sake, Mr. Johnson came in for lunch three times the week before Daddy was arrested!

I was so surprised at the sight of these men
who, until that moment, acted as if they were friends with Daddy, that I nearly missed the man seated three rows in front of us. Grandpa Andrews, Daddy’s father, must have arrived very early to get such a good seat. I couldn’t imagine what he felt when he learned his youngest child was handcuffed and thrown in jail like some common criminal. I don’t even know how Grandpa Andrews learned that Daddy was arrested, but I was thrilled that he was there. Judge Bedsole would see General Jackson Andrews; named so not for any military service, but because he completely deserved such a distinguished name; sitting there, and realize that no son of his could possibly be a murderous letch. I wanted to force my way into his row so that Daddy would see us seated together in solidarity for him, but I decided to sit tight and concentrate on protecting the $46.25 that would buy Daddy’s freedom.

Finally
, after listening to the attorneys’ arguments over charges, preliminary motions, and bail amounts of other accused criminals, Daddy’s case was introduced. The sight of him with shackles on both his wrists and ankles nearly brought tears to my eyes, but I forced myself to smile at him, and gave a small wave so that he knew I was on his side. I marveled at the fact that even in shackles, he was the most handsome man in the room.

When Daddy was
seated behind the left table next to Paul Jones, his appointed attorney and another frequent diner at the café, the bailiff began, “Next up, Hubbard Andrews, alias Herbert Andrews, alias Hubbard Anders, alias Herbert Anders, unlawfully and with malice aforethought killed Addie Andrews, alias Addie Anders, by shooting her with a gun. The charge is murder in the first degree as held over by the Grand Jury on September 15, 1934.”

“Mr.
Andrews,” Judge Bedsole began, “how do you plead?”

“Not guilty,
Your Honor.” Daddy’s voice sounded sure and strong.

“Your
Honor, we request this charge be dismissed based on the circumstantial nature of the evidence in this case,” said Mr. Jones on Daddy’s behalf. “Mr. Andrews is an upstanding member of this community, the successful proprietor of the Andrews Hotel and Café, and a loving father of four children. He grieves the great tragedy of his dear wife’s death every day.”

“I know
all about Mr. Andrews, Paul,” said Judge Bedsole.

“Your
Honor, considering the gruesome and egregious nature of this crime, this charge must stand,” Mr. Poole said from behind the prosecution’s table.

“I agree, Frank.
What do you propose in the matter of bail?”

“Well, Your Honor, the state requests bail be refused and that Mr.
Andrews is remanded to Kilby while awaiting trial.”

When I heard the prosecutor’s request, I immediately started to panic. Why would they refuse to dismiss the charges?
Could they refuse Daddy bail? Kilby State Prison was all the way in Montgomery. That had to be at least a hundred miles away. I would never see him!

Mr. Jones jumped in, “
Your Honor, if the charge of murder must stand, then we ask that Mr. Andrews be released on his own recognizance. His four children, left motherless by this tragic accident, need their father. Please do not make these babies orphans.”

“No need for the dramatic, Paul,” said Judge Bedsole.

“And, Your Honor, I have in my possession, a letter of bond from several upstanding citizens of Crenshaw County, including the Crenshaw County Sheriff and General Jackson Andrews. If I may, Your Honor?”

“Go ahead, Paul,” instructed the judge.

“The letter states, ‘I, Sam W. Ewing, Sheriff of Crenshaw County, Alabama, hereby certify that the within is a good and sufficient bond in the sum of $5000’…”

The crowd gasped at such a large sum of money.
So much chatter erupted that Judge Bedsole rapped his gavel, “Settle down, everyone. Paul, continue.”

Mr. Jones,
continued reading the letter, “That the within is a good and sufficient bond in the sum of $5000 and if the same were presented to me in my county, I would approve the same.’ And then it is signed at the bottom in his own hand as well as General Andrews and several others.” Mr. Jones handed the letter to Judge Bedsole for examination.

“Your Honor,” said Mr. Poole from the prosecution’s desk, “this ain’t Crenshaw County.
And here in Clarke County, we all know that Mr. Andrews has the means to pay whatever bail we set, and now, thanks to that letter, we know that he has friends all over the state ready to help him in any way he wants. I fear that if we release Mr. Andrews today, that all his buddies over in Crenshaw will help him disappear into the night. We owe it to Addie Andrews and to her babies that this does not happen.”

“I tend to agree with you, Frank,” said Judge Bedsole and then turned to Daddy and said, “Mr.
Andrews, bail is denied. You are hereby remanded to Kilby State Prison until your trial, which we’ll set after preliminary.”

The judge shuffled through some papers on his desk for a minute. “Preliminary hearing is set for December 3.
And we’ll call that lunch, boys. Dismissed.”

Judge Bedsole banged his gavel once more before exiting the courtroom. The deputy
walked over to Daddy and led him toward the door near the front of the courtroom. My heart sank as Daddy looked at me over his shoulder.

“Hattie,
Sweetie, we’ll figure this out,” then he disappeared through the door.

I
sat there feeling confused and foolish. The litany of everything I didn’t know raced through my head. How could I think $46.25 would be enough to save him when $5000 wasn’t enough? When would I see him again? How would I get from Grove Hill to Montgomery? Why didn’t I let Momma teach me how to drive? Why was I always too scared to try? When would Daddy’s trial be? What’s a preliminary hearing? And why, on God’s green Earth, does Mr. Poole think Daddy killed Momma?

“What am I going to do?”

My voice sounded so small and frail amidst the chaos of the courtroom. I couldn’t stop the tears that time. They fell from my cheeks and splashed on the purse that I was still clutching tightly to my chest.

“Well,” Mittie responded, “You’ll come home with me.”
She squeezed my hand again. This time, I didn’t let go until we reached the hotel.

Chapter 10

September
1934

Grove Hill, Alabama

After leaving the courthouse, Aunt Mittie and I entered the hotel through the alley behind Main Street. Actually, Aunt Mittie led me around the hotel and through the alley to the staff entrance.

Bef
ore opening the door, she gently held my hand in hers, “The best place for you is with me. I know I’m not your Momma, but she was part of me.”

I mumbled a faint agreement, still wounded from failing at the courthouse.

“Go on upstairs and start packing…just your clothes and valuables. We have everything else you would need in Luverne.”

“Yes, Ma’am.
And what about…?”

“Don’t worry with them.
I’ll tell ‘em what’s happened. Go on now.”

I know I should have been panicked
by the thoughts of Daddy going to jail, having to face a murder trial, and us moving again after barely being settled into the hotel, but for the first time in months, I actually felt like I could breathe. Aunt Mittie was not my mother, but she would help me.

Truth be known, Daddy was
always busy with the hotel and had little time left in the day to care for us. He still disappeared at night now and then, with no explanation of where he was running off to or what he was doing. Sometimes, I heard him come back in through the staff entrance long after everyone else, including me, should have been sound asleep, and he didn’t even try to creep around. He would come barreling through the door, gulp water directly from the kitchen tap, and then saunter up the stairs. To my knowledge, he never saw my candle burning in the dining room, or me crouched near the front counter, peering into the kitchen. I might as well have been a ghost as much as he noticed me hiding in the shadows with my finger marking my place in my latest novel from the Bookmobile. Maybe, Aunt Mittie would pay more attention.

*****

Luverne, Alabama, lies three counties over from Grove Hill in Crenshaw County. A lot of our people lived there, so I was pretty familiar with it. Momma grew up in Searight at the south end of the county. Papa Lowman, Momma’s daddy, still lived there with his two youngest daughters. Momma’s mother passed away a few years before all of this happened, and was buried there in the family cemetery. If you travel north a few miles, you’ll reach Brantley, where Grandpa and Grandma Andrews live on a big, sprawling farm, with mostly cotton, corn, and soybeans, but it’s beautiful with gentle hills and lots of surrounding woods to explore. In the center is Luverne, the county seat. Every six months or so, Momma would get a hankering to drive to Luverne and sit in the little Methodist church where she and Daddy first met. I wonder if she still thinks of that little church. Maybe, from time to time, she leaves heaven for a bit and pays the wooden chapel a visit.

Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin owned
a farm on the outskirts of Luverne and grew, of course, cotton, corn, and soybeans. They also had stables with four riding horses, and a big garden out back where any type of vegetable I could imagine was found. They also had strawberry patches, scuppernong vines, peach trees, and lemon trees. In the summer, if we were hungry and supper was too far off, we could sneak through the patches and trees for a snack. We just needed to make sure to check for bugs first and brush off the dust and dirt.

Aunt Mittie and Uncle Me
lvin had three children of their own: Lawmon, Mariah, and Malley who were close in age to Meg, Billy and Albert. As I packed my belongings from the wardrobe into my suitcase, I prayed that Meg would keep her spoiled mouth closed and the boys would knock their shoes off before tracking mud through Aunt Mittie’s kitchen. I was afraid that Aunt Mittie’s house was going to be too crowded and that we would wear out our welcome quickly. I don’t remember Mittie’s house being any bigger than ours in Frisco City. I assumed Meg and I would share a room with Mariah, and the boys would tuck in with Lawmon and Malley. I would have completely understood if our cousins resented us for taking up so much space, but no matter how crowded it would be, I refused to complain. Aunt Mittie was right. I was too young to be a mother to three kids. I needed help.

Up in my soon
-to-be former bedroom in the hotel, I packed the contents of my wardrobe into a suitcase. In the bottom of the case, I placed all of my under-things and snugly tucked my nightgown around them just in case one of the boys started digging through my case. Next to those, I placed the old pair of work pants and shirt that Momma used to wear. Next in the case were my church shoes (I was wearing my everyday pair), three cotton frocks, my blue floral dress from Daddy, two silk church dresses, my straw hat, and two hats that used to be Momma’s, including the straw hat with the lily-of-the-valley detail on the side, then, finally, my two pairs of gloves. I laid my hairbrush, hand mirror, and toothbrush carefully on top, and wrapped the few pieces of jewelry that I owned (a brooch from Momma, the tiny cross pendant and chain given to me on my twelfth birthday, and the birthstone pendant I only wore on very special occasions) in my silk scarf, and tucked the bundle down in one side of the case. I carefully folded the dark winter coat I had barely worn since Momma insisted to Daddy two Christmases ago that, “a young lady needs a proper coat and one with some style!”

I placed it on top
, then closed the case with a good shove.

I ran my fingers
along the monogram near the clasp: AAL. The first big A was for Addie. The second big A was for Andrews. The L was for Lowman. I would have given all of the contents of the suitcase away, everything I owned, just to have her back.

I was finished packing and sitting on my bed reading when
Meg walked in our room. Her face was flushed and swollen from crying.

“You should have told me,” was
all she said before pulling her suitcase from under her bed and turning toward her wardrobe.

We didn’t say another word while she packed.
Down the hall, I could hear Aunt Mittie packing the boys’ belongings. I wondered if they would ever understand why I chose not to tell them about Daddy. I wondered if Meg would ever forgive me for not telling her the truth.