by Deb Spera
“God, I hate banjo playing,” I tell Gertrude.
Mrs. Childress comes up from the outhouse. She waits on the roadside for a horse and wagon to pass, and I see her looking our way. Words out about Miss Annie. Not three days ago, Mr. Coles stood out between tent kitchens talking to Mr. Childress from next door. They shared a pinch of chewing tobacco and talked about the weather. The almanac promises better this year, or so says Mr. Coles. I don’t take heed of the almanac, but Mr. Coles swears by it. Says it’s the earth’s bible.
Mrs. Childress came from inside to check on her husband’s whereabouts.
“What’s wrong with Annie?” she asked Mr. Coles.
That woman never had a problem saying what everybody else is thinking. She’s quick with her tongue, which is a thing to behold ’cause her husband don’t hardly ever use his. He married up. They farm the land she got as dowry, so he lets her henpeck. In the twenty years they’ve been coming to Camp she’s gone through ten cooks. When Mrs. Childress asked after Miss Annie, Mr. Coles told her nobody knew what was wrong and that Miss Annie refused the hospital. The lie slid off his tongue like honey.
“Annie’s a proud woman,” he said. “She likes to do things her own way.”
“Always has,” Mrs. Childress said before pulling her husband away.
Since then you’d think Miss Annie had swamp sickness as much as folks been avoiding coming by. The woman’s been coming here to this Camp for fifty some years, and in four days’ time not a single Christian has come to sit by her side. It’s a crying shame.
Mrs. Childress crosses the road, staring the whole way at the goings-on of my kitchen. She’s wantin’ to know how all these white girls come to work for me. She knows how I run things and don’t recognize it anymore. But stopping to ask questions means she’s got to see after Miss Annie, and there ain’t enough curiosity in the world to make her want to talk to a dying woman. She goes through the back of her cabin without a word.
“She don’t want to see nobody no how,” Gertrude says like she’s read my mind. “She wants to be alone.”
“It don’t matter what she wants at this point. Other folks got a right to say what they need before she’s done on this earth.”
“Maybe she don’t want to hear what they got to say.”
“Don’t matter. Nobody come.”
“Maybe nobody’s got anything to say,” Gertrude says.
“Oh, they got plenty to say. Only everybody’s too damn scared to say it.”
I cast my eyes to the road and give it a look up and down, but I don’t find what I’m looking for. I expect Odell to drive up and bring me whatever I need. This year he would be bringing the shrimp in from Edisto for the Frogmore stew. His absence has thrown off my every waking moment, causing me to think on what I’m missing rather than what I have. Chickadee, chickadee, where you gonna be?
* * *
Come suppertime bowls and platters are filled, and the girls got their hair brushed and faces washed. They look downright respectable. I give them each a bowl of food to carry to the dining room, and we set it on the countertop of the cupboard so our guests can fill their plates themselves, then I shoo Mary and Alma out to play on the Campground. They run from the dining room to the yard where girls are skipping rope. Gertrude stays to help Edna serve.
Out on the porch Mr. Coles talks to the mayor of Charleston. He’s the only man on the yard Mr. Coles has eyes for. Lonnie and Eddie been left to play host to the couple the mayor’s come with. The lady is dressed so fine I know she ain’t come here to stay for the week. We don’t hold pretense at Camp. Work dresses and overalls are the main wardrobes here. Outside Mr. Coles has got his arms crossed while the mayor takes his turn to talk. Through the screen window Lonnie sees we’re ready and elbows his brother.
“Come on in and get yourselves a plate, folks,” Eddie says.
He holds the door open, and one by one they come through.
Mr. Coles puts his hand on the mayor’s shoulder to guide him inside. When the woman comes through, she says to me, “You must be Retta. Lonnie and Eddie have been singing your praises.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
Mr. Coles eyes the woman. He ain’t happy she’s talking to me, but she don’t see and comes toward me with her hand out, stripping off white gloves. Nobody told this woman this ain’t nothing but a weeklong picnic.
“I’m Clelia McGowan,” she tells me, “and I’m so happy to meet you.”
I got no choice but to take her hand in mine and say, “Yes, ma’am. I’m happy to know you, too.”
Mr. Coles turns to the man with Miss Clelia, and stretches out his hand for a shake and says, “You must be Alderman McGowan. I’m pleased to meet you.”
Mr. Coles don’t know who he’s let in his tent.
Mr. McGowan laughs and says, “No, sir, my wife’s the politician, not me.”
He’s dressed as fine as his wife and sports a mustache that’s waxed and turned up on both ends.
Mr. Coles raises an eyebrow and says to the mayor, “An alderwoman?”
“Got to keep up with the changing times, Edwin,” the mayor says.
“You don’t have to tell me,” Mr. Coles says back. “I’m a proponent of the fairer sex in leadership positions. My wife is the proprietor of a thriving business.”
He turns to Miss Clelia and takes her hand in his and brings it to his lips and says, “I’m proud to be host to history.”
Her laugh is a bell.
“Why, thank you, Mr. Coles,” she says. “You’re too kind. I’m sorry you weren’t able to meet my colleague, Belizant Moorer, our other alderwoman, but she wasn’t feeling well and couldn’t join us.”
I sneak a look outside to see if Molly’s come, but there’s no sign of her. The yard empties as people head in for supper.
“How did Charleston react to two women in positions of power?” Mr. Coles asks.
Miss Clelia responds on the mayor’s behalf, and the mayor don’t seem to mind one bit.
“We had very mixed results, as you can imagine, but women now represent fifty percent of the voting population, so I believe we are here to stay.”
“It’s a wise man who goes the way of a woman,” Mr. McGowan says. Mr. Coles smiles and agrees. Our guests help themselves to the food that’s been laid out. The McGowans sit together at one end of the table while Mr. Coles and the mayor sit at the other with Lonnie and Eddie in between. Miss Clelia lays her plate alongside her husband but, before she sits, asks, “If you’ll excuse me, may I use your facilities?”
Mr. Coles says, “Retta, show Alderwoman McGowan out back.”
“Yessir,” I say, and lead Miss Clelia down the hall to the back of the tent where Edna is placing two pineapple upside-down cakes in the oven to bake. I wait for Miss Clelia to return and hand her soap and a towel so she can wash her hands under the pump. Before I can reconcile whether or not I should, I open my mouth and words come out.
“Miss Molly still workin’ with you?”
Miss Clelia finishes drying her hands and looks down the hall to see if anybody is coming. Why would she do such a thing unless she knows more than she’s lettin’ on about this family?
“Yes, she does.”
“Can you tell her that her mama’s real sick, and if she aims to see her again she needs to come quick and bring her sister, Sarah.”
The woman holds her hand to her heart and says, “I will tell her, Retta.”
“You tell her, her mama knows everything. She finally knows.”
“Knows what?”
“Molly will understand.”
She makes the promise. When she goes inside, a flush of heat comes over me and the world goes sideways. Edna grabs my arm, and I find my seat on the bench.
35
Gertrude
Mr. Coles raises his glass when I am done pouring the wine and
says, “To divine providence.”
Drink’s not allowed at Camp, but Retta hid five bottles away for these occasions. I catch my daughter’s eye, and Edna gets the pitcher from the counter to pour more sweet tea for the lady. When she is done they all raise their glasses.
“It’s a miracle Camp was untouched by the storm,” Mr. Coles says, “a sure sign of greater things to come. To our community and the jobs that keep it fed.”
They clink their glasses and everybody drinks. Wine taste like medicine to me. I drink it only when I’m pretending it’s the blood of Christ. The day has faded, so I light the candles. Got to see to eat. I help serve seconds, and Edna cleans up behind everybody. By the time dinner is over, Retta is back on her feet and has water heated for washing up. Edna clears the plates, and I bring out two skillets of cake, and cut big servings.
“Is it the Sewing Circle out toward Smoaks that your wife owns?” Miss Clelia asks of Mr. Coles.
“That’s right,” he says. “Do you know it?”
“I’ve heard some. How many women does the factory employ?” she asks.
Mr. Coles don’t know the answer so he turns to his son. “Lonnie?”
Lonnie turns red like he does when he’s got to talk. “Forty-seven, m-ma’am.”
“Where do you distribute your goods?” she asks.
“The seed bags are bought by farmers in the surrounding c-counties, seven in total, and our new line of m-men’s shirts will be distributed by Berlin’s of Charleston and Chicago and Nussbaum’s of Columbia this spring.”
He gets through all that with hardly a slip of the tongue and I can tell he’s as surprised as his brother and daddy are.
“That’s remarkable,” the mayor says.
“Lonnie and Mother expect to have over a hundred women sewing for them by this time next year,” Eddie tells them.
Mr. Coles drops his knife on his plate, and it clanks loud. He gives Eddie a hard look, and Eddie shuts his mouth.
“A hundred jobs for women!” Miss Clelia claps her hands at the notion.
Lonnie laughs and says to the mayor and Mr. McGowan, “I’m happy to give each of you a sample of our w-wares. I have some shirts in the automobile.”
The mayor pats his stomach and says, “Bring me your biggest one, son. I’m going to need it after that meal.”
Soon as Lonnie excuses himself from the table to go fetch the shirts, Mr. Coles turns to the mayor and says, “Ernie, what are the plans for the highway?”
The mayor clears his throat and takes a drink of coffee. Mr. Coles keeps talking.
“I don’t have to tell you the benefits of Branchville, as a thoroughfare,” Mr. Coles says. “What with the railroad station already a major hub, running a highway through makes good sense. We have the infrastructure and manpower. Much of my land could be put to good use for the easement.”
“Your land is your legacy,” the mayor says.
“There is greater legacy in joining progress.”
“I’m sorry, Edwin, the governor already decided on those plans. The highway’s being routed through Polk Swamp, north of Reevesville. That deal is done.”
Through Polk Swamp, just the mention of that place makes me go cold. Otto must be happy. He’ll make a fortune.
Lonnie comes back and lays shirts across the table for them to choose between. The mayor picks blue and Mr. McGowan picks yellow. Maybe it’s the wine, but the mayor makes Mrs. McGowan hide her eyes while he and Mr. McGowan strip down to their undershirts right there at the table to try them on. When she opens her eyes, Mrs. McGowan states they are the finest shirts she’s ever seen.
“Never mind, New York and Paris,” she says, “Branchville has its very own fashion designer.”
Lonnie smiles and stands to check the fit on each man, but his daddy ain’t smiling. Mr. Coles swallows what’s left of the wine in his glass and pours himself another, glaring at Eddie who will not look his way.
* * *
I’ve slept in Miss Annie’s room the past few nights to keep watch while the girls sleep in the wagon. Every kitchen on the backside of Camp knows their names by now, Edna’s made sure of that, so folks keep an eye out for them. It’s Friday, and there’ve been wagons coming in all morning for the weekend festivities. All day tomorrow and Sunday will be the jamboree and homecoming celebration, with three church services a day, politicians, choirs and marching bands from around the state. I didn’t know this place could hold more people. It’s already practically busting at the seams. Every kitchen, including ours, has increased their help by a half dozen people. The girls act like Christmas has come, and I got to say, if it weren’t for the Missus, I’d feel much the same. The Missus’s diaper is dry this morning, and her lips are cracked and bleeding, so I rub Vaseline on them to soothe. Mr. Coles comes to the door while I’m straightening the bedclothes. He’s up and dressed in a hurry to be somewhere, so he don’t come through the door.
“Mother,” he says, “we’ll be moving you to the bench outside tomorrow so you can join in the festivities. The governor is coming and he’ll want to see you. It’ll be good to get some fresh air.”
She turns her head away, but he keeps right on talking like she’s something to mark off a list he’s made for himself. He tells me to have her ready and after he’s gone, I look at the Missus and say, “You heard the man.”
I fill three big kettles with water and set them on the stove to heat. Retta’s done with breakfast, so the stove is mine for the taking.
Lonnie asks, like he does every morning, “What can I do before I go?”
“I got to get your mama bathed. You and your brother got time to help me with the washtub?”
He’s happy to be asked and sets down his coffee to go fetch Eddie. He needs something to do for his mama. He’s beside himself with worry. Since we come here he’s gone to her room every morning, before driving out to the Circle, to show her drawings for a line of women’s dresses. He’s made four designs and has samples of deep red, green and blue rayon.
“It’s a poor m-man’s silk,” he tells the Missus. “No reason to limit such fine m-material to m-men’s ties, right, M-Mother? This m-material will be c-comfortable, affordable and b-beautiful. Berlin’s has asked to see these before Christmas. If all goes according to p-plan we could have these in stores by summer. Isn’t that w-wonderful?”
But no matter what he says or does, she won’t respond.
“Doesn’t she care?” Lonnie asked when I caught him crying in the hallway.
“’Course she does.”
He’s a grown man still expecting his mama to live for him. At some point parent and child must turn each other loose. But there’s history in every family, and history can make a person act in strange ways. That’s plain fact.
The Missus is getting that same smell Marie and Berns got before they died, a smell that can’t be hid behind talcum powder. While the water boils the brothers fill the washtub halfway with cold water and haul it to their mama’s room. They both kiss and greet her, and she pats their hands, then they follow me back to the kitchen to haul the kettles of boiling water from the stove. I cover them with lids and give the men dish towels, so they don’t burn themselves on the handle. One by one we pour three kettles of hot steaming water into the cold.
“Daddy’s going to ask to see the books for the Circle,” Eddie says to his brother.
“He c-can’t have them.”
“He wants to see what it’s worth.”
“Do you hear this, M-Mother?” Lonnie says. “He’s going to try to take all we have.”
He sits beside her to plead. “I need those funds. M-Mother, please, you can’t let him t-take them.”
But she just closes her eyes and says nothing.
“We’ll let the water sit ’til it cools down,” I tell them. “I can do the rest.”
Lonnie stands and leaves.
Eddie looks at his mother and opens his mouth to say something but changes his mind and turns to me instead. “You need anything else, you give a shout.”
When they go out the door I latch it shut, look at the Missus and sigh.
“You got good boys.”
She nods.
“I only got daughters. I worry for them all the time.”
Her face falls but she sheds no tears, for the wells of her eyes have gone dry.
Me and the Missus got a little morning routine now. She lets me do what I can for her. She opens her mouth so I can brush her teeth. I undo the bun on top of her head and loosen the braid so I can brush out her hair. She loves when I do that. It’s soft as silk and hangs to the middle of her back. I don’t talk much, but the Missus don’t mind. I feel like we’ve had whole conversations. We just don’t use words.
I lay my elbow in the water and when it’s just right I lift her dressing gown up and over her head careful not to let the buttons scrape her face. After I strip her naked, I carry her to the water. She is so light it pains me. She knows and pats my forehead with one hand so my brow will loosen. I can’t understand the decision not to eat. I’ve been on this side of hunger. It nags at you all day and night—a never-ending empty. I lower her slow to the water.
“That feel good?”
She lets out a little moan of pleasure, and I sink her all the way down and set her upright. She’s so light the water barely laps the top.
“Hang on to the sides,” I say, “so I can wash your back.”
She does what I say and leans forward over her knees. I go slow and easy with the washcloth over the whole of her back and she sighs. She leans her head back while I wash her hair, rinsing it with a bowl I brung from the kitchen, holding my hand over her eyes, like I did for all my girls and still do for Mary, so the soap don’t fall in. Once I’m done with the cleaning I set her up on a chair, towel her off and dust her body with powder. I worry she’ll get sores from lying too long in the bed. Her backside’s already showing signs of wear. She’s closed her eyes, tired from the ritual. But when it comes time to get dressed she swats the clothes away.