Call Your Daughter Home

by Deb Spera

“No, I’ll take the tray. You get out there and stir ’til I tell you not to.”

  “Yes’m,” she says. “I ain’t never ate no pudding before.”

  “And you ain’t going to anytime soon.”

  She sighs before going back out the door.

  Miss Annie grows paler, and her face more sunken, every day from the lack of sustenance. The windows of her bedroom are open, and you can smell the pudding pot bubbling over the fire in the yard. I lay the tray on the nightstand and sit on the edge of the bed.

  “I brought you some grits, just how you like ’em, Miss Annie. Extra butter and bacon.”

  She smiles and shakes her head no. She ain’t talked since the doctor came. I fill one spoonful and hold it out to her lips, but she won’t take it and I don’t press. I lay the bowl back on the tray and hold the glass of milk for her while she drinks it slow. She finishes and lays her head back on the pillow, tired from the effort. She’s become weaker these past two days.

  “You want me to read the newspaper headlines?” I ask. She nods her head yes. The front page is all about Camp and who will be there. I read through the long list of preachers and politicians. Many names I know ’cause I fed them through the years, but one name stops me when I say it aloud, Clelia McGowan.

  “Ain’t that the woman Miss Molly works for?” I ask. Miss Annie furrows her brow. “You reckon if that lady is going to be there, maybe Miss Molly might come, too? Not six weeks ago you was sitting in that kitchen wishing for the girls to come to Camp. Wouldn’t that be good?”

  She looks down at her hands and picks at the back of them. Her nails are split, and her skin’s so dry it’s turning to scales.

  “Don’t you want to see your girls, Miss Annie?” She covers her face, and I fold the paper and leave it on the bed. There’s nothing more for me to say here. Ain’t my place.

  I’ve got the tray in my hands when a shout goes up from the yard. From the window I see Edna turn in the direction of the sound. She shields her eyes from the late-afternoon sun with an upturned hand. I follow her gaze and find them against the glare like phantoms coming through the woods in a single line—horse bells jingling ahead of them. The men are back.

  I drop the tray on the bureau and run for the steps. My feet can’t catch up to the pounding of my heart. I go quick as I can through the house and out the back, climbing the hill of the root cellar to look out at the fields as they come into view, one after another, slow but sure. Eddie leads the way, slumped over. The strain of the journey wears on all the men. Seven wagons come before I spy Odell’s, but Lonnie is the one driving. Oh, Lord.

  The last of the wagons come up from the woods side by side and in rows, but Preacher and Odell are not among them. Eddie leads the wagons to what’s left of the barn, but Lonnie pulls his reins to the left and toward the house. When he gets near, he jumps from his seat and walks purposeful and steadfast, only it ain’t the house he’s coming to, it’s me. My legs get weak, and I fall to my knees.

  “R-Retta,” he says, squatting down next to me. “It’s okay, Odell’s okay.”

  “Where’s he at then?” I ask.

  He lays his arm around me and says, “Preacher m-man took sick, and Odell wouldn’t l-leave him. I tried to t-talk him out of it, Retta. Eddie and me both did, but he said n-no. He m-made m-me bring you these.”

  He hands me a stack of letters all made out to me. I don’t have to count them to know by the size of the pile there’s one letter there for every day he’s been gone, same as I done for him. I can’t get my heart to slow.

  “Where’s M-Mother?” he asks.

  “Honey,” I tell him, “your mama’s decided to lie down and die. None of us can talk sense into her.”

  He takes a sharp breath in and runs to the house, leaving me sitting on the grass in the middle of a workday. I pick the first letter from the pile and run my finger over the writing and along the back where it is sealed with Odell’s spit. I pry open the envelope and lift out the page to read.

  Oretta,

  Mr. Lonnie waits while I write this so I got to be quick. Preacher is dyin’ and there ain’t nothing I can do but hold his hand. He told me to go home and may God forgive me, I want to. But it is a corrupt soul that leaves a friend in time of need. Neither you nor me could live with that.

  When I close my eyes, it’s your face I see. When I wake it’s your voice I hear. O, O, O, how I love the letter O.

  Ever faithful,

  Odell

  * * *

  It’s dark by the time me and Edna walk home. There’s a damp chill in the air. Gertrude and the girls got a fire going in Mrs. Walker’s yard so big you can see it from Main Street. She’s burning all the parlor furniture. Sparks fly to the sky like stars looking for a place to live. The pecan trees are lit all the way to the top branches and the flames taller than two men stacked together. Alma sits on the back steps plucking a big tom turkey. She waves when she sees us but stays steady with her work.

  “How’d you catch him?” I ask.

  “Rock upside the head,” she answers.

  Gertrude comes out of the kitchen pulling Mrs. Walker’s rug behind her. Alma scoots to the edge of the step to let her mother pass. When Gertrude gets to the yard, I go and lift the back end, and together we toss it to the fire and watch it burn. Gertrude’s got color in her face that is part from the fire, and part from the release of what ailed her. She’s coming back to life.

  “We’ll sleep here tonight,” Gertrude says. “We got enough to keep us warm and you been put out long enough.”

  “You ain’t got no cause to be sleeping in half a house on a night like this.”

  “I don’t want to sleep here, Mama,” Edna says.

  “I don’t care what you want. This is what we got for now. We’ll make the best of it. Come Monday, I got Sewing Circle, then we’ll figure this out.”

  “You ain’t got Sewing Circle, Monday,” I tell her. “The Coles family needs a nurse for Miss Annie at Camp and you’re it. Same wages as Circle.”

  “Says who?”

  “Says Lonnie and Mr. Coles. Lonnie will hold the job.”

  “What I gotta do?”

  “You got to keep her clean and warm and see to her toilet. Feed her some if she’ll let you. If you got extra time, I’ll need hands in the kitchen. Next Saturday we feed a table of ten five times over for supper.”

  “What about my girls?”

  “We’ll take them instead of the yard boys. It’s my kitchen, and Miss Annie allows me to dictate how it’s run. They can fetch and carry and make a little money for their work. When their hands ain’t busy, there’s Bible school they can tend to. You’ll sleep in the wagon, or under if it rains, and take your meals with me.”

  She turns to the girls and says, “Ya’ll go inside and get ready for bed. Let Miss Retta and me talk.”

  Alma goes last, holding the limp bird by the neck, and shuts the door behind them. Gertrude comes around the fire to me and stands for a bit.

  “I ain’t a good person,” she finally says.

  “Says who?” I ask.

  “The Bible, for one.”

  I keep quiet so she can finish.

  “I took what ain’t mine and I’m sorry for it.”

  She pulls out of her apron pocket some money and an envelope, then takes my hand, presses them into my palm and folds my fingers around them.

  “I found these along with a dress Mrs. Walker left for you. They were in the parlor. I don’t know why you didn’t see them sitting out when you found her, but I did and I took them.”

  All over again I see Mrs. Walker’s lifeless face in my mind’s eye. I hear the rush of breath in my ears.

  “I spent three of the dollars on medicine. I took the dress and made clothes for my children. I stole from you, and you ain’t been nothing but good to me—to us. I don’t know how I’ll
pay you back or even if I can.”

  She’s looking at the fire, her eyes full to the brim. I stand alongside her and turn my face to the flames to give her some privacy. The warmth feels good. There’s smoke coming out of every chimney in Shake Rag. I hope Odell has a fire tonight. The tide has turned and I’m alone in the turning.

  “I guess you wouldn’t have took them if you didn’t have need,” I finally say.

  I hold the money out to her. But she won’t take it.

  “Go on,” I tell her. “You need it more than I do.”

  “You saved me. Why?”

  “You saved yourself.”

  “No,” she says. “You know that ain’t true.”

  “I did what had to be done is all.”

  “I ain’t worthy.”

  “Child,” I say, “whatever happened to you ain’t your fault.”

  “You don’t know what I done,” she says.

  “I know what’s been done to you. I seen it when your daddy thought he was doing right to get you married off. I seen it in the marks your husband left on you and in your worry over Mary and your girls. What speaks the truth is their love for you.”

  “They’d feel different if they knew what I did to their daddy.”

  She looks at me.

  “If not him, it was gonna be you,” I tell her.

  “My soul is damned.”

  “Bull,” I say. “Your soul is freed.”

  She takes the money when I press, and I leave her at the fire and turn toward home to shed myself of this day. The people of Shake Rag are standing in the yard and sitting up on my porch: Roy and Sue Ann, Bobo and Myrtis, Mabel and all the others, waiting on me. They stand as I come through.

  “Is it true what we hear ’bout Preacher and Odell?” Roy asks.

  “It is,” I say. “Preacher’s bad off.”

  They hold one another for comfort, all but Mabel who stands alone and upright by the porch steps. There’s no words left for me to say.

  “Preacher told us of our treasures before we understood what he meant,” Mabel says. “He reminded us we all got the same thing Jesus had when He was born, God’s love. Ain’t that right?”

  Mabel reaches for my hand, and oh, Lord, I take it and hold on tight.

  “We got God’s love,” she says. “We are strong in His love.”

  “But what can we do?” Roy asks. “We got to do something.”

  “Go fetch Preacher and Odell,” I tell them. “They’re a four-day ride out, just south of Berkeley. Go get them. Bring ’em home.”

  Roy jumps from the porch, and the men follow to make plans. Mabel stays by my side, and when they’re all gone she asks, “You need coffee?”

  I nod, and she leads me by the hand to the inside of my own house.

  V

  33

  Gertrude

  Lonnie guides the wagon down Freedom Road toward St. George where Indian Fields Campground is. October’s come, and the dogwood leaves along the road have already changed, like they’ve been dipped in red paint. Dogwood always turns first in the fall. Won’t be long ’til the sugar maples follow. The hickory trees have begun to shed their nuts, and wagon wheels crunch over them, leaving squirrels to scramble in our wake to gather their treasure. Alma and Mary hang over the backside of the wagon watching the world go by while the Missus lies covered in layers of quilts on a mattress stuffed with corn husks by the yard boys. She’s been asleep since we started off from home early this morning. I’ve told the girls to stay quiet so as not to wake her, and they’ve listened.

  As we get closer to Camp the world explodes into sound. I don’t know how the Missus sleeps through such racket. Folks around us call out to each other and sing. Pretty soon there’s wagons everywhere we look, all headed to the same place, a stream turning into a river. A wagon rides up alongside us, the third one in an hour. Between Missus in the back and me sitting up next to her son, folks are looking for a story. Lonnie ducks his head when anybody draws near.

  Alma points out a lone goose flying south. There’s a mystery. Her eyes are lit with the joy of adventure, and I feel much the same. We got this one by the tail. We slow near a left turn at a wood sign with an arrow. There’s no name on the sign, but no matter, everybody knows where the arrow leads. I turn to look back and check on the Missus. She’s got her eyes open looking up at the sky. I whistle to Mary and Alma. They turn, and I nod to the Missus so they move to her side and rub her head like I do for them when they’re sick.

  Lonnie turns down an old dirt road through a thicket of woods. From the looks of it, this is an old passageway that’s been cleared for our arrival. There is a forest on either side of a road so big it might be an acre wide. Ruts, shallow and deep, run through the dirt like thousands of wagons have traveled here. Beyond the woods, fields and pastureland open, and we ride until the trees disappear at our backs. There’s no question the storm’s touched everything and everybody, but people still smile like they’re happy to be in the day. That’s a wonder in itself.

  Everything a person needs has to be carted out to Camp: bedding and towels, kitchen tools and food, straw for the dirt floors, kerosene lamps and torches for night. Everything. My eyes behold such sights as a cage of chickens atop a boy’s head, wagons loaded with rocking chairs, a man with sausages wrapped around his shoulders like a necklace. Every time I turn my head I see something I hadn’t thought of. Off to the side a bunch of girls Edna’s and Lily’s ages hold hands as they cut through tall grass. They got their lips to each other’s ears whispering important secrets.

  Some boy runs up behind them and yells, “Snake!”

  The girls scream and jump away from each other, breaking hands, and the boy laughs and runs back to a passel of other boys who look like brothers, all towheaded and shirtless. I guess I’m looking around so much I ain’t sat still ’cause Lonnie breaks his quiet and says, “You never been to C-Camp before?”

  He’s not said a word the whole way here. I see how hard it is for him to talk, but I don’t mind his affliction.

  “No,” I say. “I’ve never seen so many happy people in one place either.”

  I feel bad for saying it once it’s out of my mouth. What we carry in our wagon is a reminder that what lies ahead is not happy, it’s goodbye.

  “They’re just p-pretending.”

  “They’re mighty good at it.”

  Another wagon comes up beside us, and Lonnie grips his mouth. I turn to the man steering the horses and ask, “What’re you looking at?”

  His wife’s eyebrows disappear under her bonnet, and the man slaps the reins and puts his horses to a trot. Nobody tries that again.

  Lonnie says, “You just met the D-Drigger family and g-gave them something to ch-chew on.”

  “Good.”

  We ride on until I am compelled to ask, “How is the Circle?”

  “Berlin order is complete. Got another order out of Columbia for fifty more shirts.”

  “That’s good.”

  When we reach Camp I remember to keep my mouth shut so it don’t catch bugs. In front of us is what Retta called tents, but they ain’t tents, they’re wooden dwellings, more like cabins, ninety-nine in all she told me. Each are two stories high with screened windows on every wall from floor to ceiling. They’re built cheek to jowl and sit in the biggest circle I ever did see with just enough room to walk between.

  Lonnie sees my awe and asks, “What do you think?”

  “Retta said these were tents.”

  “That’s wh-what we always c-called them, not sure wh-why.”

  “No tents like I ever saw.”

  Every tent’s got a big green iron number nailed to the back so you know which is yours. Folks are walking and running back and forth from wagons and automobiles unloading whatever they brought with them. Downstairs men lay hay on the floors, and in the rafters
above women shake out the bedcovers and hang curtains. It’s like the hurricane never happened here. Like God himself put a glass bubble over the whole Camp to protect it.

  All the colored help stand along the back of the tents where outdoor kitchens with wood roofs are being filled with every kind of food you can imagine. The kitchens have no walls, but the wood fire stoves are big and strong enough to heat up the whole outdoors. I feel the warmth coming off each one as we ride along the back. Negro women work at the stoves getting supper ready for tonight. Chickens run in makeshift coops along the opposite side of the road. Beyond the kitchens and across the road are outhouses with the same number as the tent that claims it. One old woman carries an armful of toilet paper across the road to her tent’s privy. Further past the outhouses is the colored camp. Their children run around the field as they work to set up cook space and places to sleep. They’ll sleep in or under the wagons, same as me and my girls. Horses and carriages and automobiles and people move with purpose as far as the eye can see. Already this feels like a village that has always been filled, even though everybody has only just arrived. When we grow nearer to our tent, Lonnie waves at folks and they all wave back. Everybody here knows each other.

  “How long you been coming here?” I ask him.

  “M-my whole life,” he says.

  “This place that old?”

  “Older. By almost one hundred years.”

  “That’s old,” I say.

  He meets my eye and smiles.

  There’s been a space kept for us in the back of tent fifty-six, and Lonnie guides the wagon into our spot. Edna and Retta are already at work in the kitchen. They got four pots sitting on top of the cookstove. Edna adds wood to the fire, and Retta uses her apron to pick up a lid and stir what’s inside. When she sees us coming, she says something to my girl. Edna closes the oven door and looks up to wave before tending to the pots in front of her.

  While Lonnie ties up the horses, Retta comes alongside and asks, “How’d she do?”

  “Slept most the way,” I say.

  “I got her room ready,” she tells Lonnie. “Your brother and Daddy are in yonder. Go get ’em and ya’ll take her on in.”