Rising Above Shepherdsville

by Ann Schoenbohm

  “Well, I don’t think it’s time for a political discussion, Bernice. I am not convinced he has cast a wide enough net. I don’t think we should settle for the cleaning lady and handmade garments.”

  Aunt Bernie sat up straight and grabbed the table edge.

  “Why don’t you say the real reason why you’re against Reverend Love’s hiring Evangeline Tucker? Because she was Reverend Moore’s cleaning lady? You think you are better than other people. That’s what this is about.”

  Mrs. Swinson spoke so forcefully that she spewed spittle across the table. “I don’t know what you are implying, Bernice. I think this church could use a properly trained choir director, that’s all—as well as factory-made robes.”

  “Oh my land, Lavinia. Who cares who makes the robes?”

  “You don’t have to sign the petition, Bernice.”

  The other ladies passed it in silence, signing their names with a ballpoint pen, clearly too afraid to open their mouths.

  I had no idea why nobody wanted that lady Evangeline Tucker to be the choir director, or why they cared about choir robes, but Aunt Bernie stood up when the petition came round to her, marched it over to Mrs. Swinson, and slapped it down on the table.

  “I am not signing it. The rest of you shouldn’t let her bully you into going against Reverend Love. He should be given a chance to do his job.”

  That was the day I understood that Aunt Bernie thought the sun rose and set upon Reverend Love. She wouldn’t let anybody say anything against him.

  Then Aunt Bernie sat back down in her chair and dug her accounting book out of her bag.

  “Now if you all would like to turn your attention to real Ladies’ Auxiliary business, we can look at the flower budget for July.”

  Though Mrs. Swinson was the head of the Ladies’ Auxiliary, Aunt Bernie had stolen her thunder. It looked as if Mrs. Swinson was threatening to chew up nails and spit out a barbed-wire fence.

  Every Sunday since, those two had given each other a wide berth if one saw the other coming. I knew Aunt Bernie was steaming mad at me, because I’d given Mrs. Swinson another thing to hold a grudge about. I was mighty sorry that my having hit Loretta caused problems for Aunt Bernie, but there wasn’t anything to be done about it now.

  • • •

  Suddenly Aunt Bernie halted her rocking, causing the creaking of the chair against the porch boards to stop. She frowned and took the bowl from my lap, resigned to the day ahead. A cloud slanted across the horizon, making the field gray, without depth or shadow. Aunt Bernie’s voice was soft.

  “Let’s make that pie.”

  In the kitchen I watched while she measured flour and cut up butter. Her hands were sure and quick.

  “It’s the ice water that binds it.” She folded and pressed until she had a creamy ball of dough. She rolled and caressed the dough, then draped it over a pie plate like a blanket.

  Aunt Bernie stopped and looked at me, her eyes moist whirlpools.

  “You might think because we didn’t speak, there was no love between us. I took care of her while our folks worked the fields. I was twelve years old when your mama was born. I practically raised her myself.”

  She crimped the edges of the dough. “They wouldn’t let her stay here after what happened. I never did know which boy it was. Sixteen years old, and they said she was no daughter of theirs. Not any longer. Your mama packed her suitcase and was made to leave.”

  Aunt Bernie placed the backs of her hands against the corners of her eyes and then placed the bowl of cherries in front of me. “Put sugar in that. One cup.”

  I went to the cupboard and found the sugar bin right next to the salt bin. I took it down, brought it to the table—afraid the flow of words would stop and I’d never know what she had to tell.

  Aunt Bernie’s voice was flat, matter-of-fact.

  “Your mama brought you back here after you were born. Our folks refused to see her. She stood at that very screen door with you. Did you know that?”

  Oh, Mama.

  I shook my head, holding my breath.

  “You were the most precious thing I had ever seen.”

  She handed me the measuring cup. “Your grandparents were wrong, Dulcie. They were old and set in their ways. At the time, I believed I was to respect that, no matter what they’d done. I was taught to honor my parents in all things.”

  After wiping her hands on her apron, Aunt Bernie reached up and took down a box of instant tapioca from the cupboard.

  “I didn’t stand up for your mama. She needed me, and I turned her away. I have to live with that.”

  She measured out four tablespoons of tapioca and tossed it in with the cherries.

  “Don’t forget to put the sugar in that.”

  Her face, usually so hard around the edges, was softer suddenly, erased of something.

  Aunt Bernie was letting me know she understood why I’d hit Loretta—that I’d done what she couldn’t do. She went back outside to gather up my dress and her sewing basket on the porch—the conversation about you seemed to have worn her out. The screen door murmured shut. The bowl of cherries waited, heavy and full.

  Then something came over me, Mama. I thought of Loretta and her smug face. “What about what Dulcie’s mother did? Doesn’t a person who does that go straight to hell?”

  I picked up the sugar container and put it back in its place in the cupboard. I took down the matching salt bin from the cupboard instead, then poured and measured the crystals with care.

  Exactly one cup.

  I dumped it into the cherries and stirred.

  Aunt Bernie returned with my mended dress and draped it over a chair. “Pour the cherries into the pie plate, over the dough. I’ll make a lattice top from the rest of the dough, and we’ll be done.”

  While the pie baked, Aunt Bernie made us breakfast. Left-over ham and biscuits with gravy. She placed the food in front of our places and met my eyes.

  “Let us pray.”

  Something between us had loosened from its hard places. Talking about you, Mama, had made Aunt Bernie more gentle, her sharpness less defined.

  I bowed my head, ready for a long-drawn-out prayer. Aunt Bernie had a whole other voice for talking to heaven.

  “Lord, today we ask for forgiveness.” Then, instead of her usual “Amen,” she picked up her fork and said, “Let’s eat.”

  9

  c-o-n-t-r-i-t-i-o-n

  contrition (n.)

  a feeling of remorse for sins or wrongdoing; earnest repentance

  With her bun tidy and my hair brushed, Aunt Bernie and I got spruced up in church clothes, even though it was only Wednesday. The sun blistered at noon, and the heat clustered in the kitchen. The cherry pie glistened on the cooling rack, ready for the journey to the Swinsons’.

  When the pie was cool enough to transport, I sat in Aunt Bernie’s Oldsmobile—a giant boat of a car—balancing the tin on my knees as we headed off to Shepherdsville. When we got to the center of town, Aunt Bernie took a left at the light and glided the Olds past the post office, the bus station, Marva’s Dress Shop, and the filling station, careful to not upset the concoction on my lap.

  Town was mostly deserted in the heat. A few men lingered out in front of the hardware and feed store, toothpicks jutting out of their mouths, with nothing better to do, it seemed, than to watch the cars go by.

  Shepherdsville did its usual job of parading as candidate for most boring town on earth, but then the strangest thing occurred, changing the landscape altogether. We passed a girl, a bit older than me, walking on the side of the main road in town. She wore an old army jacket and jeans with ragged bell bottoms that dragged below her scuffed boots. She carried a duffel bag, along with a guitar slung across her back.

  Aunt Bernie slowed, then backed up and pulled the Olds right up next to her. Leaning out the window, Aunt Bernie called to the girl, “Can we give you a lift somewhere?”

  The girl shook her head, her long brown hair hiding her face. She kept walk
ing, ignoring us as we continued to drive alongside her. Aunt Bernie persisted. “It’s no trouble.”

  “No, thanks.”

  “I don’t mind dropping you someplace. I hate for you to be out here on the road by yourself.”

  The girl stopped, her pretty face distorted with a look that said I’d rather die. She rolled her eyes. Her voice full of twang, she said, “Look, lady, I said I don’t need a ride. I’m not going far, and I just want to be left alone.”

  Aunt Bernie gave up. “Well, all right. Be careful. Don’t take rides from strangers.”

  That girl and I exchanged a look, Mama. Hers was mostly full of pity for me. Aunt Bernie had that effect on people.

  The girl harrumphed loudly, then picked up her pace, leaving Aunt Bernie in the dust. I wanted to get out and walk with that girl to wherever she was going. It had to be better than where I was headed.

  Aunt Bernie drove on.

  “I hope she’ll be all right. No place for a girl her age to be wandering the countryside. These young people hitchhiking from the bus station to who knows where. It’s not proper.”

  I got the feeling Aunt Bernie did this often. Tried to pick up strays. I also got the idea that her being a Good Samaritan had more to do with you, Mama, than concern for the hitchhiker’s well-being. I wondered if she didn’t think of you every time she saw somebody lugging a suitcase by the side of the road.

  We passed the First Trust Bank and the Old Mill Tavern, the parking lot full of cars. The houses on the side of town where the Swinsons lived weren’t mansions by any means, but they were spacious enough. It was another world from the trailer or the farmhouse, that’s for sure. Aunt Bernie, who did taxes for many farm families at tax time every year, had mentioned that the Swinsons had three times more money than most folks in Shepherdsville, and they made no secret of it.

  The Swinsons’ house gleamed with white paint, bright yellow shutters, and lacy curtains at the windows. The perfectly kept lawn was surrounded by a picket fence covered with climbing roses, like Loretta—pretty, with nasty thorns.

  We quietly made our way up the walkway to the door and rang the bell. Chimes sounded inside, followed by the yapping of a small dog. I balanced the pie on my palms. While we waited, I entertained myself with visions of Loretta eating it.

  From inside, Loretta’s mother trilled, “Pepper, stop it, now.”

  Mrs. Swinson opened the door in fancy shoes and earrings, her makeup threatening to crack in puzzlement. Loretta stood behind her, her eyes hard little pieces of coal. Mr. Swinson, a thin man with very little hair, wearing a suit and tie, appeared. He was holding a small black poodle.

  The entire family looked perplexed. Clearly we were the last people on earth the Swinsons had expected to see on their front porch. We stood there while the planet turned on its axis, crank by crank. An uncomfortable eternity passed before Aunt Bernie said, “Dulcie baked you all a pie. It’s cherry.”

  Mrs. Swinson forced a smile, her lipstick spreading. “Well, isn’t that nice?” She looked at Mr. Swinson uncertainly. “We just finished our luncheon. Mr. Swinson is on his way back to the bank.” She looked at him with panicky eyes. “But you can stay for a minute, can’t you, dear? To visit?”

  Mr. Swinson’s smile was genuine. He didn’t seem to share his wife’s and daughter’s nature.

  “Well, sure, happy to.”

  Aunt Bernie grabbed the pie and presented it with pride. Mrs. Swinson took it with delicate fingers as if it were a bomb. “Won’t you come and visit for a moment in the living room? Loretta will get you a cool glass of lemonade, won’t you, Loretta?”

  She sent her daughter a look that said, Make it snappy.

  I followed Aunt Bernie into the house, happy to be out of the crosshairs of Loretta Swinson’s hateful eyes.

  Cherry pie or no cherry pie, it was war between Loretta and me.

  We entered a room filled with plush furniture and shiny tables glistening with polish. Gold-rimmed paintings hung on the walls. A fancy brass clock sat on the mantel under a glass dome. The rug under our feet was a thick blue shag. Aunt Bernie and I sat on the billowy sofa and sank three inches. I swear, Mama, the room was practically lined with dollar bills.

  Mr. and Mrs. Swinson perched on chairs opposite us. Pepper flopped down under Mr. Swinson’s feet. We all searched the room for someplace to look, and settled on the floor.

  Mr. Swinson cleared his throat.

  Mrs. Swinson hovered on the edge of her chair, squeezing her hands in her lap as if she wanted to wring them right off her wrists. She called out, “Loretta?” in a faintly desperate voice. “How’s it going with the refreshments out there? Do you need some help?”

  Loretta’s voice came from somewhere in the back of the house. “No, I’m fine. Be right there.” I figured she was probably spitting into our glasses right that minute.

  Mrs. Swinson gave us a tight smile. “You’ll have to excuse us. Our colored gal up and quit on us recently, so we are having to fend for ourselves.”

  Aunt Bernie tilted her head, as if to sympathize. Her voice dripping with pickle juice, she said, “Well, that is a pity.”

  Mr. Swinson gave a terse laugh. “Lavinia, I think you’ll survive.” Mrs. Swinson gave her husband a look that could have melted his face right off.

  The silence that ensued had layers, and when I thought it couldn’t get quieter, it did.

  Finally, after what seemed like four centuries, Loretta came in with a tray of tall, multicolored metal cups on an Ohio State Fair tray. She set the tray down in front of us and passed the cups out. When she handed one to me, a little lemonade spilled over the top and landed on my dress.

  “Oops. I’m sorry,” she trilled.

  I wiped my dress with my hand and looked at Aunt Bernie. She gave me a smile similar to the one a nurse might give you before she sticks you with a needle. This is only going to hurt a little.

  Loretta headed back toward the kitchen with the empty tray—I suspect as an excuse to leave the room. Mrs. Swinson commanded her with a syrupy voice. “Loretta, just put that down and have a seat.”

  Loretta turned from the door, and put down the tray on a side table. She flounced down onto a velvet hassock across from the sofa, and glared.

  Nobody said anything. There was some shifting. The heat rose in the room. Surely these people were rich enough to have an air conditioner. More shifting. My palms were slick with nervous sweat. My heart skip, skip, skipped all the way to my Lou and back in the awkward silence.

  I swallowed a big gulp of lemonade, relieved at the coolness of it. Mrs. Swinson’s smile quivered with effort.

  “Well,” she said.

  Aunt Bernie flushed an unnatural color. “Lavinia, I appreciate your having us.” She tugged at her skirt and regarded me. “Dulcie would like Loretta to know that she is truly sorry for what happened at Bible study.” She patted my knee. “Aren’t you, Dulcie?”

  Loretta snarled, “I don’t accept her apology. What she did was plain mean, and I don’t care if I ever see her again.”

  Mr. Swinson ran his hand over his head. “Now, Loretta.”

  Mrs. Swinson adjusted herself, smoothing the knees of her panty hose. Her voice was as sharp as a razor blade. “Loretta, where are your manners?”

  I took another sip of my lemonade and held an ice cube in my mouth, letting the coolness drip down the back of my throat.

  Aunt Bernie, as calm as a tomcat, pounced on her prey.

  “Lavinia, Dulcie has been through a great ordeal. She’s not herself right now.” Then she turned her gaze to Loretta. “Surely you can be a little more forgiving, Loretta.”

  Loretta glared. “I’ll accept her apology if she says it herself.”

  Aunt Bernie sputtered, “You know very well she can’t.” She appealed to Mrs. Swinson, her voice rising. “And . . . Dulcie was provoked—”

  Lavinia Swinson interrupted, no longer genial in any way. “Bernice, Loretta did nothing to warrant a physical attack.”

&
nbsp; Her eyes bored into mine. “Dulcie, I do think you owe Loretta an apology.”

  Loretta joined her. “Yeah, why can’t you tell me yourself? What’s with the big act? You’re probably just making it up. I’ll bet you could talk if you wanted to. You’re only trying to have yourself a big old pity party. Poor Dulcie. Boo-hoo.”

  Mama, I did it again. I did it before I knew what I was doing.

  I spat that ice cube right out at Loretta. It hit her smack in the middle of her chest, then fell to her lap with a plop.

  All the air went out of the room in a great whoosh. Loretta was up off the hassock, lurching toward me, her obvious intention to inflict bodily harm. Pepper growled at the sudden commotion.

  Mr. Swinson grabbed Loretta by the waist and held her back. “Hey, hey, now.”

  Aunt Bernie held her arm in front of me like you would if you were coming to a stop sign too fast.

  Mrs. Swinson, like the empress of all Shepherdsville, rose. With a haughty voice, as if she were speaking to her lowly subjects, she said, “Enough.”

  Aunt Bernie opened her mouth to say something, but Mrs. Swinson waved her off.

  “I appreciate your stopping by and bringing the pie, Bernice, but I think it’s best that you leave now, if you don’t mind. For the girls’ sake.”

  Mrs. Swinson motioned to her husband and the dog, signaling for them to heel. “Frank, put Pepper out back.” Mr. Swinson, red-faced and befuddled, slunk out of the room without another word.

  “Loretta, go to your room. Now.”

  Loretta mouthed silently, “I . . . am . . . going . . . to . . . get . . . you,” before she left the room.

  Mrs. Swinson opened the front door and ushered us out.

  The door closed behind us with a crisp click. We hurried down the walkway to the car, Aunt Bernie’s chin leading the way.

  I slid into the car’s interior. The seat burned the backs of my legs like hellfire. Aunt Bernie started the car. We sat for a minute looking at the house, stupefied.