The Woods at Barlow Bend (8 page)

Chapter 11

September 1934

During lunch on Monday, Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin announced their decision to close the hotel and café while Daddy was away. They informed all of the guests and helped them make arrangements to leave. Henrietta and I fixed one last supper for our guests, the kids, and Mittie and Melvin. Fried chicken, butter beans, white rice with gravy, and peach cobbler made for a delicious, albeit quiet, meal. I don’t think anyone knew what to say. Silence seemed more appropriate than the usual dinner pleasantries. After supper, we covered all of the furniture with sheets from the beds while Melvin and Billy boarded up the front street level windows, making sure to prominently display the closed sign. When we were finished, I hugged Henrietta goodbye and gave her the note I had written for Ruthie. In it, I apologized for the abrupt decision to close and promised to hire her back as soon as Daddy cleared up the mess.

Early Tuesday morning, just as the sun was coming up on Main Street, we loaded our suitcases into the back of Uncle Melvin’s truck.
The hundred-mile haul to Luverne would take most of the day, so Uncle Melvin wanted to get an early start. Aunt Mittie and I packed a picnic lunch of leftover fried chicken and cobbler for the road. I locked the front door behind us and gave the key to Uncle Melvin for safekeeping. Melvin, Mittie, Meg, and I squeezed in the front seat. Billy and Albert climbed in the back of the truck. Two small suitcases served as their seats for the ride to Crenshaw County. By eight a.m. the sun beat down on us and promised to make it a sweltering drive. As we pulled away in Uncle Melvin’s truck, I closed my eyes and tried to imagine the wind blowing in my face while we hurtled down the road in Momma’s Model T.

We reached Luverne around two o’clock, after trudging
along behind all means of farm equipment, letting the boys run around in an open field sometime around noon, and giving Uncle Melvin some time to “close my ol’ eyes for a spell” somewhere in the middle of Butler County. The road to Mittie and Melvin’s place took us right through downtown Luverne. I couldn’t believe how busy downtown was in the middle of a Tuesday afternoon! There must have been thousands of people in Luverne. By that September in Grove Hill, I practically knew every face on the streets downtown if not the right name to go with each. As we drove through Luverne, I stared at the strangers, wondering how many I would meet before I got to go back to the hotel with Daddy. I wondered what the people were like; if they were nice like Aunt Mittie, or nasty gossips like old Mrs. Williams back in Frisco City. I wondered if they knew about Daddy. I wondered if they knew that Addie Andrews was my mother and that the four ratty kids in this truck were her “motherless babes.”

Melvin and Mittie’s place was even
smaller than I remembered. The little wooden two-story house sat on the corner of several acres of cotton, corn, and soybean plots. It had four steps that led to a really nice front porch with two rockers and a big swing. There was plenty of room on the porch for the whole family, including the four of us if we sat on the stairs, to all be together. The inside of the house, however, was a different story. All seven of the children shared two small bedrooms on the second floor. I silently thanked the Lord that only three girls had to share the tiny room that Mariah, Mittie’s daughter, showed Meg and me when we first arrived. Mariah seemed thrilled at the prospect of having two sisters. I was sure her excitement wouldn’t last long once the cramped quarters began to take effect. I swear Meg’s and my suitcases took up half the room. I bet if I stood in the middle of that room and stretched out my arms, that my fingertips would touch opposite walls. But the room did have a window, which was good, because it felt like it was 100 degrees up there.

Billy
and Albert’s room was identical to ours, only with one more body to contend with. Luckily, I don’t think they noticed or cared. As soon as they were allowed, the boys ran off behind the house to explore the farm. We didn’t see them again that day until it was time to eat supper.

Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin shared the larger room across the
hall. According to Mariah, we were not allowed to go in there under any circumstances.

“Momma and Daddy’s room is strictly off limits,” warne
d Mariah when she noticed me peeking inside the room through the open door. Wallpaper covered the walls and surrounded the perfectly made bed.in a sea of pink and yellow flowers. “Want some lemonade? I just made some,” Mariah said as she pulled the door to Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin’s bedroom closed.

The rest of the house was a simple foursquare design with a tiny kitchen and attached dining room in the back of the house.
A foyer and small parlor greeted visitors in front. A small, primitive-looking bathroom with a shower was set off the kitchen next to the pantry. I reminded myself that things could be worse: The bathroom could have been outside.

During supper that night
, Mittie explained our chores and her expectations, or “House Rules” as she put it. Schoolwork must be completed precisely and energetically. She cautioned Meg, Billy, and Albert that she would give the school her blessing to use the rod if necessary, but warned the three of them that they better not need it or they would receive double in her house. Before school each morning and after school each afternoon, the boys would help Melvin with farm work; even little Albert would be expected to do his share. Meg was given a list of household chores, which she and Mariah were instructed to complete each afternoon. The list included sweeping the house and porch, dusting all the furniture and fixtures, mopping the floors every other day, cleaning the bathroom, and helping Aunt Mittie and me fix supper. I wanted to chime in that I was used to feeding a crowd and, therefore, would not need their help. Four people would never fit in that tiny kitchen.

“And, Hattie,” Aunt Mittie said, “you’ll help me with the laundry and cooking until you start Thorsby in a few weeks.”

“Until I start what?” I asked.

“Well, a young lady should have a proper education.
I’ll send word tomorrow to the headmistress and request that you be admitted as soon as possible. I’ll explain your situation. I’m sure she will understand the need for discretion. If the Good Lord allows it, the school will show us a little sympathy and allow you to start the term late.”

“Ma’am, what is Thorsby?” I asked.

“Oh, Hattie dear, Thorsby Institute is one of the best high schools in the state. It’s up in Thorsby, in Chilton County. I think a secretarial curriculum will be best for you, as well as the social graces. You’ll live there, of course, but I hear they have a fine boarding house on the grounds.” Mittie misinterpreted the shocked look on my face for opposition rather than elation.

She continued without letting me get a word in, “Hattie, I’ll hav
e no arguments. You need this.”

I would have never dreamed of arguing with such a wonderful and completely unexpected
privilege!

For the first time in months, I
was excited, truly excited. School would be a real adventure. I had read about boarding schools and fantasized about being sent to one. I thought my education was done and that I would spend the rest of my life in a kitchen or dining room somewhere feeding the hungry masses. Secretarial classes meant I could work in an office building, maybe in Mobile or Birmingham, far away from the dusty dirt roads of the farms and good ol’ boys of Alabama. I would rent a room in a ladies’ boarding house and eat in cafes rather than serve in one. Now, I got to go to the Thorsby Institute. The name sounded so prestigious. I won’t have to share a tiny bed in a tiny room with my cousin and my sister. But, a terrifying thought came to mind. It was the same thought that was at the heart of so many of Momma and Daddy’s arguments, and it had plagued Daddy since the rumors surrounding Momma’s death drove us out of Frisco City. I was sure this delightful fantasy was about to come to a fast end.

“Aunt Mittie, how will I pay for a school like that?”

“Your Papa Lowman will pay your tuition, and we’ll help out, too, however we can, right, Melvin?”

“Oh, um, yes, Mittie,” said Uncle Melvin, looking up from his plate for the
first time since saying grace.

Chapter 12

October 1934

Luverne, Alabama

Every night after Aunt Mittie told me about the Thorsby Institute, I went to sleep praying that the school would accept m
e, and that Papa Lowman could afford the tuition. One night, I suggested to Aunt Mittie that Grandpa Andrews might be able to help with the tuition, too.

“The Lowmans do not need any assistance from the
Andrews family,” Mittie answered and quickly left the room to fetch another load for ironing.

Mittie was a laundress in Luverne which meant nearly every day
, customers dropped off their dirty bedding, dresses, work shirts and britches, even their underwear, for Mittie to wash, dry, iron, and fold. The laundry was back-breaking work and seemed endless. Every day, Mittie and I would build a fire out back for the wash water, one bucket for the soapy water, one for rinsing and wringing the clothes out, and one for the starch. The starch was made from mixing flour with cool water, then slowly thinning it with boiling water from the bucket over the fire. We would take turns scrubbing the clothes on Mittie’s old washboard; wringing them out; dipping them in the starch water; and then hanging them on the line to dry. After only two weeks, the lye soap had caused my hands to dry out and crack. I needed to get away from the laundry. Thorsby became my dream escape.

Thankfully, Aunt Mittie had an electric iron rather than
one made from actual iron that had to be heated over a fire. I think it was the only modern appliance in the whole house. For hours, I stood over the hot iron in the small front room of the house, ironing the linens and clothing of Luverne’s finest residents. Some days, I would find myself praying for a hurricane to blow in through the window to cool my face off and carry the stacks of laundry to kingdom come.

Three weeks after Aunt Mittie sent the admission
request to Thorsby Institute, my salvation arrived in the afternoon post. We received word that I was accepted and, even though starting so late in the semester was frowned upon, the headmistress, Ms. Helen Jenkins, understood my unique and unfortunate situation, and agreed to allow me to start as soon as I could arrive in Thorsby.

Al
ong with the acceptance letter was a catalogue that detailed the curriculum, supply list for my classes and living quarters, the student code of conduct, and the precise requirements of the dress code for young ladies enrolled at Thorsby Institute. Day dresses, stockings, gloves, and a hat were to be worn every day on and off campus. Violation of the dress code would result in privileges being revoked and possible expulsion. Mittie and I read through the entire catalogue, word for word, after all of the laundry was completely washed, dried, and ironed for the day.

“Well, I guess us ladies will be sp
ending the day in town tomorrow,” Mittie said after neatly returning the catalogue to its linen envelope. “No niece of mine is gonna walk around Thorsby with grease-stained dresses and threadbare gloves. No ma’am!”

The next day
, Mittie bought me two new day dresses, two pairs of stockings, new gloves, a new hat, and the most beautiful lavender party dress with tiny pearl buttons down the bodice. Well, the buttons were fake pearls, but I could barely tell. She decided that these items, combined with my two church dresses, winter coat, and the hats I brought from the hotel, would make a proper wardrobe for a young lady. She also agreed to help me take in the blue floral dress from Daddy so that it would fit me properly again. I had lost quite a bit of weight over the last several months. Between my responsibilities at the hotel and ironing in the heat, I was thin as a rail. In return for her generosity, I promised Mittie that I would make her proud at Thorsby.

That afternoon when we got back to the farm, I was so excited to show
Meg my new things, especially the party dress. I ran upstairs and showed her the delicate buttons and pretty flutter sleeves. I never considered that she would be anything but happy for me. I was wrong. Meg was furious and stormed out of the tiny room.

When I tried to chase after her, Aunt Mittie stopped me, “Let her go,
Honey. She’ll get her turn soon enough.”

That Sunday, Papa Lowman came home with us after church.
After a very lengthy discussion with Uncle Melvin and Aunt Mittie, they all agreed that I would start Thorsby Institute a week from that Monday. Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin would drive me the two counties north to Chilton County on the following Saturday. They would help me get settled in my room at the boarding house, and drive back on Sunday. So, over the span of barely six months, I left my childhood home in Frisco City, lived in a hotel in Grove Hill, scrubbed laundry on a farm in Luverne, and would soon reside in a boarding house as the newest student at Thorsby Institute. Momma was right. A new adventure could be found around any corner. I just had to take the turn.

Chapter 13

November 1934

Thorsby, Alabama

As Uncle Melvin’s
truck turned onto Main Street in Thorsby, Alabama, I could barely hide my excitement. My nervousness actually made Mittie smile.

“Hattie,
Dear, you are allowed to be happy,” Mittie said and patted my knee.

Happy was an understatement. My face might not have shown it, but I was thrilled.
Inside, I danced, leaped. I was going back to school! This was an adventure I actually wanted rather than one I was forced to endure. For three weeks, I had done nothing but dream of the possibilities. Maybe Thorsby Institute would have a real library like the ones mentioned in my mystery novels. Maybe I would have my own room and a window with sun dancing through sheer, white curtains. Maybe, across the hall from my little piece of heaven, a high-spirited girl with an infectious laugh would live and be as desperate for a best friend as I had become since leaving Frisco City.

Above
all, I was excited about a fresh start. I prayed that no one in Chilton County had ever met a Lowman or Andrews. This was my opportunity to be someone other than poor, pitiful Hattie Andrews: Girl without a mother, and daughter of an accused murderer. I didn’t know anyone who lived in Chilton County, so how could they know of my now infamous parents or me? And thanks to Aunt Mittie and Uncle Melvin’s generosity of a new wardrobe, I could dress the part of carefree debutant or serious academic, whichever I chose to be. A month earlier, the hundred miles of old stage coach roads and Indian paths between Crenshaw and Chilton Counties might as well have been a million miles long. Before Aunt Mittie mentioned Thorsby, the thought of traveling those roads had never crossed my mind. As we rode closer and closer to Thorsby, I decided the six hours of roads that serpentine between Luverne and Crenshaw County were just enough time and distance to deliver my rebirth as smart, chic Hattie Andrews, Thorsby Institute student.

When we pulled
up to Thorsby Institute, I was overwhelmed by its size. A huge stone building stood before me, with five large steps that led to heavy, dark wooden doors. Above the doors was a large stone archway with the words
Thorsby Institute
carved in the stone. The building was inviting and terrifying at the same time. I stood at the bottom of the steps and marveled at my new world.

“Well, come on now, get
on up there,” said Melvin as he dusted off his hat and ushered Aunt Mittie and me up the stairs.

Through the large double doors was an impressive foyer with marble floors and a
gigantic portrait of Theodore T. Thorson, founder of Thorsby, Alabama, as stated on the small plaque at the bottom of the ornately carved frame. The foyer led to a long hallway with dark, wooden floors and several closed doors. The first door had a sign on it that read
Administrative Offices
.

“This way, you two. Quickly now,” said Mittie
, motioning for Uncle Melvin to open the door.

“Go on now,” Mittie said, giving me a gentle nudge through the door.

“May I help you, Miss?” a woman seated behind a dark, wooden desk asked me without raising her face from her typewriter. Rather, she gazed at me over the top rims of the glasses resting on her sharply angled nose. Her hair was slicked back in a tight bun, reminiscent of the horrible witches found in nursery rhymes. I stiffened as she glared at me.

“
Um, I’m Hattie Andrews,” I said and hoped my voice sounded stronger than I felt as I stood before her. Thankfully, Aunt Mittie intervened.

“We are here to see Ms. Jenkins,” said Mittie.
“Miss Andrews, my niece, is a new student.”

“Yes, of course,”
the secretary said. “Ms. Jenkins has been expecting you.” She rose from her desk and crossed to a closed door on the rear wall. Her skirt, which skimmed her legs just above the ankles, barely shifted at all with each stride. “Wait here,” she commanded, and, after rapping on the door twice, she slipped into the room and silently closed the door behind her. I decided right then that I would always do exactly what she instructed.

“Well,” said U
ncle Melvin, “she’s about as icy as they come, huh?”

“Melvin,” Mittie snapped, her voice a low whisper.
“Not another word.” Mittie cut her gaze at Uncle Melvin, then she turned to me and pinched my cheeks. She looked into my eyes and smoothed the shoulders of my blouse with her gloved hands. “Now remember, when we meet Ms. Jenkins, stand up straight and look her in the eye. Speak up, but not too loudly. Show her the graceful young lady you are.”

The
secretary opened the door and glided out, “Ms. Jenkins will be with you shortly.” She floated back to her desk and, without a sound, sat in her chair. For several moments, the only noise I heard was the sound of her fingers clicking the keys of her black typewriter.

Then,
Ms. Helen Jenkins, Headmistress of Thorsby Institute, appeared in the doorway. She looked to be about fifty years old and wore a navy suit with a white blouse buttoned to the base of her neck. Her hair was also slicked back in a low bun. The name Helen suggested a sweet, gentle nature, but her nose was nearly as sharp as the secretary’s nose. I feared all the women of Thorsby carried the same serious countenance.

“I am
pleased you arrived safely, Miss Andrews,” began Ms. Jenkins. She spoke with a low pitch and strong, precise articulation. “Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, I have no doubt that you will find Thorsby Institute an exemplary and beneficial environment for Miss Andrews. We pride ourselves on producing the finest young men and women in the state of Alabama. Now, if you will follow me.”

Ms. Jenkins turned, left the office
, and continued without hesitation down the long hallway. Aunt Mittie gestured for me to keep up with Ms. Jenkins, but her pace, both feet and tongue, made it quite difficult. I must admit that I remember only half of what Ms. Jenkins said on that first day. She had the strangest accent I had ever heard. I was used to the Alabama drawl of slow vowels and forgotten consonants, feminine voices that rose and fell in a delicate rhythm, and male voices that bellowed from church pulpits, but Ms. Jenkins’s voice was unlike anything I had heard. Really, she had no accent. Her words were flat, almost emotionless, except for the select times when she spoke in swift, razor-like tones.

“This is the main academic building.
On this floor, you will find four classrooms and the library. At the end of this hallway is the faculty lounge. Students are not permitted to enter the lounge under any circumstances.”

As we hurried past the door
, Ms. Jenkins motioned to the library. I tried to peek inside and must have paused too long.

“Miss
Andrews, do try to keep up,” said Ms. Jenkins, then opened one of the doors to reveal a well-lit stairway.

The three of us hurried up the stairs behind Ms. Jenkins. I could tell from Aunt Mittie’s pursed lips
, that she was having a little trouble climbing the stairs so quickly.

The landing led to another flight of stairs, but we followed Ms. Jenkins into the second floor
hallway. The building, nearly deserted on a Saturday, was even quieter on the second floor. The only sounds I heard were Ms. Jenkins’s voice, the rapping of her heels on the wooden floor, and Aunt Mittie’s breathing.

“On this floor, you will find eight classrooms and the ladies’ lavatory.
As you have been enrolled in our secretarial curriculum as well as household arts and the social graces, you will spend a large portion of your school day on this floor.”

After a quick glance at the second floor, we were back in the stairwell, climbing the last flight to the third floor.
The third floor seemed a little smaller than the others and, according to Ms. Jenkins, contained a laboratory used by the students enrolled in the Teacher’s College, the music room, a small art studio, and one more unidentified classroom. After showing the third floor, Ms. Jenkins turned and descended the three flights of the stairs at a pace rare for a woman of her age. I tucked my chin to my chest so I could see each step clearly and avoid tumbling down the stairs.

“Posture, Miss
Andrews, posture,” Ms. Jenkins warned as she turned to witness my last few steps down the stairs.

After the main building, Ms. Jenkins showed us the
Congregational Church to the right. The church was used for assembly every Friday morning at 8:30 a.m.

“On the dot
,” said Ms. Jenkins. At this point, she reminded me of the student handbook: “Tardiness is not permitted. The church is also used for student organizations and Sunday morning services.”

We left the church and cut across the courtyard behind the main building. The courtyard was artfully designed with stone paths, iron benches
, and peach trees. On the far side of the courtyard was the dormitory. A very sturdy woman named Lois Leach, Matron of the Thorsby Institute Dormitory, greeted us.

“Miss
Andrews,” Ms. Jenkins said and handed me the folded card she had been carrying, “this is your course schedule. Individual room numbers for each class are included. Ms. Fairbank, the librarian, will issue you textbooks on Monday. I pray that you are a fast learner and devoted student, Miss Andrews. I suggest that you request tutorial sessions from your teachers in order to catch up on the lessons you have missed. You will find the faculty here at Thorsby to be very generous with their time. Now, Ms. Leach will show you to your room and review the dormitory rules and schedule.”

“Thank you, Ms. Jenkins,” I said as I tried to make a
mental note of the names, places, and instructions I had just received.

“Well then, welcome to Thorsby Institute, Miss
Andrews. Mr. and Mrs. Franklin, rest assured your niece is in good hands. Ms. Leach, I leave you to it.” With that, Ms. Jenkins disappeared into the dormitory.

“Hattie, is it?” Ms. Leach asked
. Her rosy cheeks plumped around her bright, slightly crooked smile.

“Yes,
Ma’am,” I answered.

“Hattie, your room is on the third floor, eh.
Grab your bags and we’ll head up. Mr. Franklin, you’ll wait on the landing, eh. No gents on the ladies’ floor, right.” Every sentence this woman spoke sounded like a question.

The whole way from the dormitory to the truck and back
, then all the way up the three flights of stairs to my assigned room, Ms. Leach talked nonstop.

“Thorsby is a gift, eh, a real gift.
No place like it,” she said, wheezing between sentences. “I never had the opportunity for such a fine education when I was a girl. So, I hope you don’t squander this opportunity, Miss Hattie Andrews.” She said my name as if she was introducing a delightful storybook character.

“Back home in South Dakota,
” she continued, “I dreamt of going to a place like this, but never got the chance, eh. But at least I’m here now. The cold back home was too hard on my respiratory system.” She leaned against the wall of the second floor landing for a moment, causing Aunt Mittie and me to pause, each with a suitcase in our hands.

“Now, where was I?” she asked, blotting her forehead with a handkerchief.

“South Dakota,” I said.

“Oh, yes,” she said.
“Well that was a long time ago,” she dismissed the thought with a wave of her handkerchief. “A few housekeeping matters: Three meals are served per day in the dining hall. Otherwise, stay out of there unless you’re scheduled to work kitchen duty. You’ll rotate shifts with the other household arts students. Secondly, don’t let me catch you trying to sneak back in here after curfew. I’m not as fast as I used to be, but I hear all and see all.”

“You will not have to worry about that,” said Mittie.
“Hattie is here for an education, nothing more.”

“Oh,
now, we have plenty of social gatherings for the students. That’s part of the education, of course,” said Ms. Leach. “And all of ‘em are properly chaperoned by Ms. Jenkins herself.”

“Of course,” I said
.

Using the wooden railing, Ms. Leach practically dragged herself up the last flight of stairs to the third floor, my new home.

“Washrooms are located on the ends,” Ms. Leach said, pointing down the hallway, first right and then left. “I suggest you wake up early to wash up. You don’t want to get caught behind all the other young ladies. Ms. Jenkins does not allow tardiness for any reason.”

“Yes,
Ma’am, she mentioned that,” I said.

“Well, here we are,” she said
, and opened the door to my room. “Home, sweet, home!” She stepped out of the way so that I could see inside.

I was assigned a room
near the center of the hallway. It was one of about twenty rooms on the floor, all occupied according to Ms. Leach. There was a single bed along one wall, a small wardrobe and vanity on the opposite wall, and just enough space to walk between the wardrobe and bed. A modest desk under a bright window finished off the room. I was elated. I had never had my own room before.
My own space,
I thought and smiled at Aunt Mittie.

“I’ll leave you to it, eh. Go on and get settled. D
inner is at six sharp.”