“Back to start for you,” he said, leaning backward with his arms crossed and a smug expression on his face.
“What?” Marian cried.
“I’ve captured your piece. You have to start it again.”
Tula looked worriedly from Clay to Marian. “I forgot to mention that when—”
“I remember.” Marian smiled thinly. “And isn’t there a move called a fortification or something like that?”
“A blockade,” Clay explained in a condescending tone. “It’s called a blockade. When a player has two pieces occupying the same space, no one else can pass.”
“Ah, yes,” Marian said coolly.
Tula excused herself to bring out more ice. Marian and Clay bent over the rule sheet.
Deuce’s attention slid away from the game, his gaze locking on a pair of china dogs on the mantle, then on the open doors of the phonograph. The tune of a popular fox-trot mushroomed in his head. He sipped the whiskey. Then his eyes fell on that day’s Clarion, flopped over a stack of library books. Anger suddenly pulsed through his gut. Screw the old man. I’ll start my own paper.
Gradually he became aware of a hand on his. His vision swam back to the room. Marian, for it was her hand, was staring at him. He drew in a slow breath, sat up straighter.
“It’s your turn,” she said.
A smile spread across his face. “So it is.”
The game continued for some time, seesawing back and forth as players had two, three, and sometimes all four markers in play, only to have them captured and sent back to the start. Tula concentrated on her leading pawn, moving it diligently around the path and leaving her other markers languishing in or just outside her starting point. Marian tried to keep all her pieces in motion at once. All Deuce wanted was to stay focused enough not make any foolish moves. Clay could be counted on at every chance to come in for an attack and bump others’ pieces off the board.
In the end, it was Tula who was the first to triumphantly shepherd the last of her markers into the center. Clay’s fourth soldier never made it home but rather spent its final minutes plodding around the path after first enduring capture by Marian, then by Deuce, and then by Marian again.
“Hah! Guess I got outmaneuvered. Ganged up on me,” Clay said, his voice stiff with forced joviality. He flicked a pawn across the board with thumb and index finger. It snapped sharply against his nail. Tula stood, began gathering the glasses.
“Let me help,” Marian said, reaching for Clay’s empty tumbler.
“Not on your life,” he said hastily. “You’re our guest. Deuce’ll lend a hand with the washing up—right, old man?”
“’Course,” Deuce said rising, gathering the dishes in a neat stack. “What’ll it be, Tula? Shall I wash or dry?”
Tula planted a hand on her hip, elbow cocked. “Can you be trusted with my best glasses?”
“We’ll find out,” he said, matching her light tone.
Good, Clay thought, catching the small smile crossing Tula’s face as she bent over the table. He quickly turned to Marian. “Why don’t you and I go out on the porch, try to catch a breeze?”
Marian stood and shook out her gown. “If there’s a breeze, let me at it. It’s hotter in here than in the tent.”
As Clay held the screen door open for Marian, he heard Tula laughing in the kitchen. Good sign. Outside, the cicadas screeched steadily, but there was no other sound.
Marian tipped the cat off the wicker rocker closest to the door and settled in. Clay balanced his rear on the railing just opposite her on the narrow porch.
“A little cooler out here,” she said.
“So, what do you think of our little town?”
“Nice enough, but I’m a city girl . . .”
“You must be anxious to get back on the road.” Clay pulled out a cigarette case. “Mind?”
“Not at all. I’ll have one, as a matter of fact.”
He raised his brows slightly, held out the open case, and, after she put a cigarette to her lips, bent to light it. She inhaled, shutting her eyes in satisfaction.
“Yes, I’m itchy to get behind the wheel. But Emporia, I will say, has more going for it than a lot of towns I’ve lectured in. More businesses. Better quality clothing stores.”
“Sorry you never made it up to my studio. I’ve got all the latest gear.”
“I’m sure in photography you have to stay—” She waved her cigarette around. “Damn mosquito. They say smoke keeps them away. Anyway, I’d think you need to be current.”
“Oh, yes. Have to. My clients demand it.”
“And there’s the competition too.”
Clay leaned against the porch column and exhaled a stream of smoke. “Not much to speak of, glad to say. Just a fellow two counties over and he’s—”
“But what about that new shop going in on, oh, I forget the name of the street. You know, the one running parallel to—”
“What new one?” Clay sprang up.
Marian shrugged. “I don’t know. I just noticed one of those Coming Soon signs when Emmett was driving me around. It was for a photography studio.”
Clay tossed the lit cigarette into the yard. Goddamnit! That’s all I need. Christ almighty. Everyone’s got it in for me, he thought.
A clink of china came from inside. From where he sat on the railing, Clay could see through the living room, into part of the kitchen. Deuce had his head back, laughing. Goddamn him. Handed everything by that late wife of his and deserves nothing. Came from nothing. Worse than nothing.
Clay turned back to Marian. “Yes, well, I’ll have to ask Deuce about that. He’s up on all the news around town. Or maybe you could ask him for me. You two seem to be pals. Heard you went out to the Sayre farm with him.”
Marian narrowed her eyes, as if uncertain how to answer. She stubbed the cigarette out on the porch floor. The cat padded over to investigate. Its tail brushed the inside of her knee.
“We’re friendly,” she said slowly.
“Well, did your friend ever tell you about his family?” A smile crossed his lips, and Marian was struck by its venom.
“You mean Winnie? Yes, I know he’s widowed.”
“No, I mean the Garlands. His people.” Clay leaned toward her. She smelled the whiskey on his breath as he said quietly, “Did he ever tell you that he has nigger blood?” He drew back quickly as if he’d lit a packet of firecrackers and expected it to explode any second. But Marian didn’t flinch.
“What are you talking about?”
“I mean,” he said through clenched teeth, “that years ago somebody in the Garland family—Deuce’s great-great-grandfather, maybe—cojoined with a Negro woman. Since then it comes out in all of them in some way—kinked hair, big lips, dark skin. Haven’t you noticed how wavy Deuce’s hair is?”
“No,” she shot back, the corners of her mouth trembling with anger. “Who cares what happened between two people more than a hundred years ago?”
She could tell from Clay’s manner that he had expected her to be shocked, aghast. She could never understand why people wasted so much time worrying about racial mixing. A couple of years back when she’d attended the horse races at the Empire City Trotting Club up in Yonkers, she’d seen the pale and willowy Etta Duryea on the arm of her Negro husband, Jack Johnson, the world heavyweight champion who had infamously defeated “The Great White Hope.” The couple attracted attention, to be sure. Public outrage among the white community took the form of smashed windows in hotels that housed the couple, inflammatory headlines, and congressional speeches demanding stricter miscegenation laws. Johnson was hated as much for his flamboyance and flaunting of society’s conventions as he was for beating a white man in the ring. Still, when she saw the pair, Marian had been more concerned about Etta’s unnaturally tiny waist and ashen face than mixed marriages.
Clay, his mouth hanging open, stared at her in an uncomprehending manner. Finally he said, “A lot of people care. People in this town. Everyone knows this about the Garlands
, about Deuce. Didn’t you notice how he runs the other way whenever a colored shows up?”
Although she had clearly not reacted in the way Clay had expected, his revelation gave her pause. She thought she knew Deuce; if not all the details of his life, then the important parts: his worries about Helen, his ambitions for the Clarion. But he had hidden this. Just as with Placidia, Marian had been caught unawares, and she experienced another, very slight, leaking away of confidence in her own judgment.
Clay continued: “And why do you think Tula had this little get-together? So Deuce wouldn’t have to squirm through that gospel concert. Everyone would be laughing at him.”
“Then they are mean-spirited,” Marian countered.
“Some might say Deuce is the laughing stock of Emporia.”
“I don’t believe that,” Marian said. “Deuce has standing in this town. He is the publisher. He has many friends. I have seen people greet him with genuine affection.”
“Yes, but it is always there, in the back of their minds. And now with that editorial. Well, he’s a pariah for sure.”
“That is ridiculous. And this is what I hate about small towns. So much nonsense, so much gossip. You say you are Deuce’s friend but you are just a nasty man.”
“Shortcake’s ready,” Deuce’s tenor called through the screen door.
She stood abruptly, as did Clay, the tips of their shoes scraping against one another. Marian did not step back but rather purposefully brought down all her weight on Clay’s foot, leaning forward. Tears came to his eyes as he grimaced. She applied more pressure, but he didn’t yelp.
* * *
As Marian and Clay smoked and sparred on the porch, Tula and Deuce were amicably assembling the strawberry shortcake.
“You’re in charge of the whipped cream,” she said, handing Deuce a bowl and whisk and gesturing toward the ice box.
He saluted. “Yes sir. I mean madam. That didn’t come out right.” He laughed, sending a fizzy sensation coursing through her veins.
She began arranging the shortcakes she’d baked earlier in the day in individual bowls. Her thumbs broke through the brown crusts and into the soft, spongy centers.
“You gave me that Parcheesi game, you know,” she said after a time.
“I did?” The clatter of the whisk against china paused for a moment.
“Yes, for my tenth birthday.”
Deuce twisted his mouth to one side. “Something’s coming back to me.”
“We played Tourists’ Curiosities,” Tula said as she spooned strawberries onto the shortcake. “The lights were lowered and Clay passed around what he said was a mummy’s hand.”
“An old leather glove stuffed with damp sand!”
“Yes, and what else? Oh, the curious sea urchin! Wasn’t that my mother’s pin cushion with the sharp ends of the needles sticking out?”
“Yes, and Earl Mummert stuck his finger and ran home crying!” Deuce said gleefully. “I need to remind him of that next time I see him. How’s this look, by the way?”
He held out the bowl and Tula scooped a finger in the froth. A weak curlicue trailed in its wake. “Little more,” she said.
She loaded the four plates, minus the topping, onto a japanned tray along with dessert forks and fresh napkins.
“Those were the days. We had quite a gang,” Deuce said. “Sometimes it seems like yesterday. Just goes by so fast.”
Tula guessed he was thinking of Helen. “She’ll be fine. Really. You did the right thing.”
Deuce nodded. “Tough, though. Really tough.”
“Besides the tourist game, what else was there?” Tula snapped her fingers. “Famous Lovers. Oh, you boys hated that one.”
Deuce shrugged. “No memory.” He handed her the bowl to inspect. This time, the curl stood firm. She added dollops on top of the strawberries as she talked.
“It was sort of like Twenty Questions but the answer was a pair of lovers, like Hera and Zeus.”
She handed the empty bowl back to Deuce. His head was turned toward the porch. Marian was saying something in strong tones. There was a certain look in Deuce’s eyes Tula recognized. Criminently, he’s infatuated with that woman and doesn’t even know it, she thought. Her eyes misted with disappointment and anger. How could he turn to someone he’d just met, who had not earned his affection in any way? Tula was the better woman. Easy to say you’re improving the woman’s lot by sweeping through town and shaking things up. The harder part is staying put and trying, in little ways, to make things better.
The screen door slammed as Clay and Marian stepped inside. Marian blinked in the bright light. Deuce stood in the living room; his burnished cheeks, his silver hair, filled her vision. She moved toward him, and she realized with a start that she was galvanized by more than the simple urge to further enrage Clay. Fire wicked into her cheeks. For the first time she noticed that Deuce was the rare man who was taller than she. Behind him, Tula clutched the tray of desserts with a stiff expression on her face. Marian took the seat that Deuce pulled out. He scrambled to do the same for Tula but she ignored him. Clay grabbed a plate and carried it to the window.
Deuce brought a forkful of shortcake to his lips. “This is delicious!”
“Thank you. I’m glad you find it suitable,” Tula said, her tone clipped.
Marian wondered what was wrong. All Tula’s light spirits had drained away. Maybe some music would help.
“May we?” she gestured toward the Electrola.
In a flat tone, Tula said, “Pick whatever you’d like.”
“Grand idea,” Deuce said.
Marian put down her fork and walked to the cabinet. Crouching to flip through the phonograph records, she ignored the flicker of pain in her ankle.
“Too slow. Another dirge. What is this? Never heard of him,” she said, shoving recordings back into their slots. “Now, this is more like it.”
She waved a record at Deuce.
“Which one is that?” Tula asked.
“‘The Gaby Glide.’”
“That isn’t one of mine,” Clay said, interrupting his contemplation of a streetlamp.
Tula pushed away her uneaten shortcake. “It belongs to one of the junior Red Cross girls. She brought it over to play while we rolled bandages.”
Marian switched on the machine, placed the record onto the turntable, and settled the needle in place. She swayed as the voice of Billy Murray, the Denver Nightingale, filled the room.
Ev’ry body’s raving ’bout the real Frenchy two-step,
Ev’ry body wants to do this smart fancy new step, It’s a funny bear . . .
One arm extended, hips swaying, Marian slid sideways toward Deuce, who was still seated.
“Did you see Vera Violetta?” she asked. When he shook his head she said, “I forgot. Broadway is a thousand miles away. This was the big number. Here, let me show you.”
She reached out her hand and Deuce allowed himself to be pulled from his seat.
“I wonder if you should be dancing on that ankle,” Clay remarked.
Tula’s face was a rigid mask. “I’m going to clear the table.” She deposited the dirty dishes on the tray with a clatter. Clay took to the porch, banging the screen door behind him. Neither Deuce nor Marian appeared to notice.
“You stand here,” she said, positioning Deuce behind her. The warmth of his fingers radiated through the sheer fabric of her gown and the single layer of its undervest. She caught her breath, then continued, “We both face forward and you take my hand. By the way, did you know that some of these new dances are furthering the campaign for dress reform? You need free-falling skirts and low-heeled slippers to do them justice.”
“I can see why,” he said.
“Scooch closer.”
The song came to an end, the needle announcing the completion of its journey with small staccato hisses as it bumped against the final groove.
Deuce’s breath skimmed her neck and she relaxed back into his arms. Her limbs tingled with a delicious
dissolving sensation that seemed to extend through the entire room and then beyond, until she imagined that Tula’s house, the entire treelined street and the whole of Emporia itself with its dusty storefronts and creaky trolley, were all suffused in a golden glow.
A shrill ring from the telephone blew her reverie to bits. Both Marian and Deuce, who had been unconsciously swaying side to side in unison, froze. Their hostess hurried into the hallway where the telephone continued to jangle until Tula picked up the receiver.
“Yes.” Pause. “Oh my God. Oh God.” Tula’s voice wavered but did not break. “Certainly. Yes, I’ll be right over.”
Marian stepped away from Deuce as Tula reentered the room, a handkerchief balled in her hand. Clay, slipping in from the porch, stood behind the sofa.
Tula exhaled heavily. “That was Dr. Jack. Jeannette has passed away. I’m going over. Her mother is hysterical.”
“No!” Marian wailed.
Deuce grabbed his boater from the rack. “I’ll drive you, Tula. It’ll only take a minute to get the motor cranked up.”
Tula lifted her hand. “It’ll be just as fast walking. Anyway, you’re needed here.” She rushed through the back door.
Marian had collapsed into an armchair, her face as pale as custard. She sat in stunned silence and then tears formed, swamping her eyes and running down to the end of her chin where they fell, mottling her lap with nickel-sized splotches.
Deuce knelt beside her.
She whispered, “It’s my fault. This would never have happened if it wasn’t for me.”
Deuce frowned, saying gently, “No, no. Jeannette had been sick a long time. For many months.” He fumbled in his pocket for a handkerchief.
“But the pneumonia was my fault.” Marian dropped her head, sobbing heavily. Deuce, still squatting, put his arm around her shoulders.
Clay walked out from behind the sofa where he had been silently observing the scene. “You certainly did go on and on about how sleeping in the fresh air was a curative. I remember that quite clearly.”
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