Reviving the Hawthorn Sisters

by Emily Carpenter

  He had to admit he liked his life. He liked lazing about the tidy house, arranging their mother’s jewels that his sister kept in a silver pitcher. He liked playing with the pearls and diamonds and jet he’d never been allowed to touch when he was a boy. He also liked napping in the wicker rocker on the front porch with his father’s big black Bible turned to the book of Hosea and tented over his chest.

  “The Lord said to him, ‘Go, marry a promiscuous woman and have children with her, for like an adulterous wife, this land is guilty of unfaithfulness to the Lord.’”

  The memory of a woman, he reasoned, should always be pleasant, wreathing gently around a man’s head like the smoke from his pipe. But it wasn’t that way with the girl. Thinking of Ruth physically hurt him. And the last time a woman had hurt him, why, he hadn’t taken a shine to that in the least . . .

  But that was in the past. And it was dead and buried in Enterprise, where it belonged.

  He whistled a long, low hoot out into the night and watched the trees for signs of life. When he was a boy, he could call in the owls so reliably that his mother used to call him Little Daniel Boone, but now the branches stayed bare and bereft. Just like him.

  Ruth would be grown now, he thought bitterly. Would she have fallen in with a bad lot? Been forced to offer herself to the men on the byways? He could just see it—his angel, his cherub, lying beneath a monster of a man, dress torn, her pale breast exposed, only a pink nipple showing in the dim light of the ramshackle hotel room. Maybe this was all happening in a barn on a bed of golden hay. Or a cold, dusty train car. Either way, she’d be crying through it all, that precious angel, her face streaked with tears while that nasty brute rutted into her.

  Ah, the indignity!

  Maybe she would fight. And the brute would have to put a hand around her throat to keep her still. Ruth would only struggle for a minute there, surely, with a rough hand squeezing her throat. There’d be no one to hear her cries.

  Reverend Singley had to admit he found the images quite compelling. He clenched the pipe between his molars, unbuttoned his trousers, and plunged both hands inside.

  Ruth, Ruth, my backsliding Ruth. She is gone up upon every high mountain and under every green tree and there hath played the harlot. Return, thou backsliding Ruth, saith the Lord, and I will not cause mine anger to fall upon you . . .

  He was inspired as he worked on himself. Why, he could be her Hosea. He could rescue her from fornication and bring her back to righteousness. He was a shepherd in search of the one lost lamb, he thought, his breath now coming in short gasps. He’d marry her, saving her from the shame and sin she’d surrendered herself to. And he’d bring her to his sister’s house and allow her to work her way back to the piety that befitted the wife of a preacher.

  He’d dress her in the best clothes and place his dead mother’s pearls around her neck. They’d sleep in his sister’s cherry bed, with the wheat and apples carved on the headboard. Sleep there as man and wife.

  She would cook him breakfast each morning and serve soup for lunch. After supper, he would read aloud from the Bible. Make her confess to him about the hotels and the barns and the train cars. Maybe he’d even start a new church right here in Tuscaloosa.

  He shivered and let out a quavering sigh.

  “Robert? Land sakes, what are you doing?”

  His sister, hair in rollers with pink wrapper clutched around her, stood before him. He buttoned his pants easily, almost laughing out loud at her shocked expression. He felt an extraordinary calm now. “Sister.”

  She frowned. Shook her head so that the permed curls vibrated the slightest bit. “Robbie, it’s past midnight. And you know the rats are attracted to the smoke. Next thing, they’ll be in the house.”

  He laughed out loud now, and even to his ears it sounded cruel. But then she, silly woman that she was, smiled and giggled nervously.

  “What’s the joke, Robbie?”

  He stepped closer to her. He could feel the damp spot on his undershorts sticking to his leg. Oh yes, indeed, Ruth would look like a picture in that kitchen, standing before the stove. Settled with some embroidery in his sister’s easy chair. Stretched out on that feather mattress, smooth and milky and open for him.

  He took one end of the pink wrapper’s tie and pulled it. His sister’s wrapper fell open. He grinned, but she swept the ends of the robe tightly around her. “Come on now, Robert. I ain’t decent.”

  He put a finger to his lips. “No. You aren’t.” He pressed his hands on either side of her face, gently. His fingers were sticky, and he could see when she recognized the smell. “But don’t you worry. I’ll make sure to fix you up before anybody lays eyes on you.”

  She nodded, but he could tell she was confused, her eyes wide and wild. Stupid frump. He leaned forward slowly, ever so tenderly, and planted a kiss on her sour old puckered mouth. She smelled like Sloan’s Liniment and the cleaner they used in the loony bin.

  “Robbie?” She sounded afraid, which galvanized him. In fact, he’d become quite calm after the good working over and the sight of her fear.

  He gently wrapped the tie about her neck, front to back then front again. When his sister made another protesting whimper, he fixed her with a stern look. “‘I suffer not a woman to teach, nor to usurp authority over the man, but to be in silence.’”

  Obediently, she shut her mouth, watching him rotate his fists around each end of the tie and then pull. At that, she must’ve decided God’s commandments didn’t apply to this situation and screamed. The tie cut off her air, though, and soon all she could do was claw and scratch at him. It took her a good twenty minutes to quit struggling and he was bathed in sweat at the end.

  He went inside to recover, made himself a sandwich and smoked another pipe. Then he went back out to the yard and threw her down the well.

  Chapter Eleven

  Tuscaloosa, Alabama

  Present

  At some point later in the night, Danny tapped on the door between our rooms.

  I had drifted off while trying to come up with a story to sell him and Mom but roused at the sound. When he opened the door, I rolled over on my stomach so he wouldn’t see my battered face.

  “You feeling better?” he whispered. “Can I come in?”

  “Mm-hm,” I said into the sheets.

  He settled beside me on the bed, flicked on the TV, and cranked the volume almost all the way down. He’d already changed into pajama pants and an undershirt, and he started the tap, tap, tapping at his wrist. I cracked open my not-swollen eye. House Hunters International.

  “Bad champagne?” Danny asked.

  “Maybe. I’m not sure. Is Mom okay?”

  “Oh yeah, she’s got her Xanax and Bible, so all’s right with the world.”

  “You?”

  “Hanging in.”

  But was he? Sometimes it was hard to tell with Danny. “Sorry to bail on you tonight,” I mumbled into the pillow.

  He patted my back. “All good. Nobody even missed you. Well, we missed you, but you know what I mean. The film crew got a ton of great stuff, and Mom was the belle of the ball, and Dove just looked down from that portrait and laughed at all of us.”

  I groaned. “I love you so much. You’re the best.”

  “I am. And I love you too, sis. Also, by the way, these two?” He gestured toward the TV. “Getting divorced after they move to Bali.”

  My chest loosened in relief. He sounded completely normal, not at all like he suspected anything. But the bed was shaking ever so slightly. He’d moved on to his chest, tapping the dip between his clavicle bones.

  “How are you?” I asked.

  “Well, I survived a room full of strangers, and I’m not setting myself on fire and running through the hotel bar naked. Or picking up a drink. So let’s call that a win.”

  I snuggled farther under the down comforter. “Maybe I should start tapping.”

  “It might be a bunch of mumbo-jumbo mindfulness BS. But it can’t hurt.” He hesitate
d. “I felt so . . . wrong being there today. Did you? Did you get that thing today, Evie?”

  “What thing?”

  “The thing you used to get with your arm. Remember? You said it would tingle when Mom was about to come home and catch us watching Cinemax and drinking her Diet Cokes.”

  I laughed, but then I thought about standing next to Griff, by the tree with the white blooms. My arm had twinged then, hadn’t it? But that was just because of Griff’s pretty face and nice body. That was lust, plain and simple.

  His voice got softer. “And that time when you just knew something was up and came and got me at that stupid bar? Remember? You said you felt it in your arm right before I started panicking, right before I lost it.”

  “Danny,” I interrupted him before he could unlock that painful old memory. We didn’t need to go there right now. One thing at a time. “I know I said all that. And I’m glad I could be there for you. But I was confused back then. About God. About Mom. About my arm.”

  He was quiet.

  “I was following Mom’s lead. Wanting things to make sense. For there to be something that connected everything, that made it mean something.”

  “And you don’t believe that anymore? That the Spirit uses your arm to . . . communicate things?”

  “It’s hard to say,” I said, my voice light. I didn’t want to get into it, not right then. “You know, sometimes hemiplegia is just . . . hemiplegia.”

  He huffed lightly. “Of course, you’re right. You’re totally right. It’s just sometimes, I just want there to be . . . something else. I want something bigger than me out there . . . fixing things.”

  I didn’t answer.

  “Sorry. Talking out of my ass over here.”

  “Speaking of me being right,” I plunged in, glad we could move on from that particular minefield. “I’m going to need you to fly back with Mom, if you don’t mind. I want to stay here for a while. A couple of days, maybe three. So I can work on the documentary.”

  “Okay . . .” He sounded doubtful.

  I held my breath. “I’m starting to think there’s more about Dove and Charles that we don’t know—really interesting stuff—and I think it’s worth trying to dig it up. You can take the rental. Griff’s got the van.”

  He was quiet for a moment, then spoke in a flat voice. “You’re a liar.”

  My throat went dry, the base of my skull pulsed, and then, dammit all to hell, my stupid right arm tingled, then went completely numb. He knows.

  He leaned over and poked me. “You want to stay so you can bang the hot cinematographer.”

  I let out an audible whoosh, I was so deeply and utterly relieved.

  “I understand.” He kissed my cheek and tousled my hair. “And you have my blessing, but only if you tell me everything, ex post nasto.” He bounded off the bed and clicked off the TV. “Okay, seriously, sis. You had better be back in a week. Because, as you know, Mom and I can’t deal without you.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Florence, Alabama

  1934

  It was now or never, Ruth thought, staring at the heavy double doors of the imposing redbrick house on Court Street. This was her chance to get a job—a good one, if her calculations were correct—and she didn’t intend to lose her nerve.

  When she’d woken up that morning in the lion’s cage, the beast was gone and the door wide open. Probably out on the town with one of Dr. Asloo’s men, trying to drum up interest for the next show. She’d slipped away from the small encampment of wagons and trucks and wandered the mile or two into town. They’d have to find another girl. She was done with lions.

  Florence, Alabama, was a bustling hamlet nestled into the curve of the Tennessee River, like a babe in its mama’s arm. It boasted a busy, gleaming downtown and plenty of grand old stone buildings, not to mention several streets of impressively columned Victorian mansions. Ruth counted five churches in all—First Baptist, First Presbyterian, First United Methodist, Trinity Episcopal, and St. Joseph Catholic—and plenty of shiny cars jamming the roads.

  Lots of money, she thought. Even more than in Meridian or Hattiesburg.

  After she’d begged a dime and gotten a hot dog at a small diner, Ruth headed to the big stone post office to see what was what. She had nicked a soft gray broadcloth coat with chartreuse satin lining from a closet and spent the last few hours sauntering casually down several wide streets in Florence looking for some kind of opportunity. She found what looked to be a prospect on Court Street, just north of the main business district but south of the college. The second biggest house, an imposing antebellum structure set back off the road.

  It was the tree in the front yard that initially caught her eye—a gnarled old hawthorn, blooming in its lacy glory. She got choked up a little bit, seeing that tree and thinking about Dell and the Major. But then she noticed the house was host to a continuous flurry of interesting activity and the tears dried right up.

  She parked herself underneath a leafy mimosa on the corner and watched. Every half hour on the dot—according to the bells from the university tower—a different girl, decked out in trim hats and gloves, walked sedately up the limestone steps and knocked on the great front door. Promptly each was admitted into the cool, dark, cavernous interior. Then, precisely ten minutes later, each had reappeared. But they didn’t leave like they came. Coming out, they looked like a bunch of cats with their tails on fire, barreling down the steps, then onto the sidewalk, arms folded across their chests, faces aghast.

  Job interviews, Ruth had figured after a while. And none gone too well either. Good news for her. If she was quick thinking and didn’t let whatever had rattled the other girls rattle her, she’d be in high cotton.

  Before another girl could appear, she hurried up the steps and pushed the brass doorbell. The door didn’t swing open right away like it had for the others, so she pressed the button again. No sense in letting the next candidate find her here and take her spot.

  She heard a lock turn and the door let out a low creak. Then it swung open and Ruth was met by the barrel of a gleaming .22 rifle. She blinked once and gazed down the black tunnel of iron, feeling some strange force take hold of her. Something akin to exhilaration. The barrel began to move—down, down, down—until it was aimed directly at her feet.

  A small dimpled girl stepped into the open doorway and swatted the gun aside with a plump, authoritative forearm. “Lordamercy, Grandy! How’s that any way to greet a guest? My goodness.”

  The girl stepped out onto the vestibule, hooked a soft, small hand in the crook of Ruth’s elbow and propelled her over the threshold. Ruth flinched, tripping over the warped chestnut boards of the vast foyer and coming face-to-face with the bearer of the weapon. It was only an old man. He shouldered the gun and the young girl addressed him like a schoolteacher would a naughty boy.

  “This is Mr. Steadfast Coe, my grandfather. Forgive his rudeness.”

  Ruth proffered a hand. “Hello, Mr. Coe. Pleased to make your acquaintance.”

  “I don’t need no girl.” He turned and shuffled under an archway into the next room. His voice sounded raw and cracked, as if it wasn’t in the habit of being used very often.

  The girl clucked at him. “Of course you don’t. We just got someone to tidy up. And to fix you some soup. Now go put that thing away, for heaven’s sake, so Miss . . .”

  “Ruth,” Ruth said, surprising herself by ditching her nickname. But she was done with Annie, that dirty street urchin, grifter, con. She was going to become respectable, and she intended to do it right. So Ruth it was.

  “. . . Ruth and I can talk.”

  Ruth’s stomach fluttered. The old man wore a plaid shirt, soft with age and filth. His pants were stained and drooped under his pot belly. And she could smell urine, old and new, as he’d passed by her.

  The girl gripped her arm. “You’re one of Mrs. Scott’s girls?”

  Ruth froze, panicked for a moment, then remembered the girls she’d seen. They must’ve been sent by
an agency. As well as she might’ve been.

  “Yes,” Ruth said and smiled sweetly.

  “Saving the best for last, let’s hope.”

  She maneuvered Ruth by the forearm into the room the old man had entered. He was standing beside an enormous marble fireplace, lifting the rifle onto a pair of brass brackets. Task accomplished, he shuffled past the girls, hands buried in his pockets, without a word or glance directed at either of them.

  Ruth surveyed the room. A library or parlor or music room, she couldn’t tell and wouldn’t have known the proper name if she had. There were both books and smoking chairs and a glossy ebony-and-burled-wood piano in the corner that said Steinway on its carved music rack. But the place was a sight. Rather than cool, as it had looked from the outside, it was hot and fetid, the furniture coated with dust and the soaring windows clouded with dirt. Stacks of yellowed newspapers lined two walls. There were ominous lumps along the edges of the Persian carpets, where the richly papered walls met rich baseboards. Dark scatterings that looked alarmingly like rodent droppings.

  She sat with the girl, the two of them at either end of a dusty silk-embroidered settee.

  The girl sighed. “I’m sorry, I don’t remember seeing you on the list. What’s your last name?”

  Ruth thought fast. Using Lurie, her real name, was out, unless she wanted to risk them tracing her back to Pritchard.

  “Davidson,” she said.

  Boy, would Dell ever bust a gut at that, her using his last name like they were brother and sister. She wished he could see her now in this fine house. This might be the first time in years she’d been this close to him.