by Cathy Holton
They reached the top of the Big Ridge and stepped out from beneath the tall trees into a clearing. Below them the fields, fallow now for years and covered in groves of Johnson grass and honeysuckle and wild chinaberry, hugged the river like a ragged crust. In the narrow coves, catfish as big as feed sacks rolled on their bellies like whales.
“Plantation Island,” Redmon said, standing with one leg cocked, his weight on the other, and his belly swaying over his belt like a sack of potatoes. He frowned. “Naw, that ain't it. Something Plantation. We need Plantation in the name because it sounds classy. Yankees like that shit.”
“My grandmother was a Culpepper,” Virginia said softly.
“Yeah,” Redmon said, squinting his eyes. “Something Plantation. And we need one of those sayings that go along with it. You know, like
‘Wheaties, Breakfast of Champions.’ Or ‘Nike, Just Do It.’”
“You mean a slogan?”
“We need a slogan to go along with it.” He looked up into the trees, narrowing his eyes like he was trying to read something on a road sign.
“Southern graciousness. Down-home friendliness,” Virginia said.
“Something that makes people want to visit and settle down.” Redmon puffed out his cheeks and sucked in his lips, looking like a man trying to pass a rather large kidney stone. “Something they might read on a billboard or in an ad in the Wall Street Journal. Something that makes them want to come on down here and visit, and hell, maybe even stay.” Redmon scratched his head. He looked up at the blue sky. Then he looked down at the slow-moving river. “I've got it!” he said suddenly, his face relaxing into a wide grin. He put his hands up in front of her like a movie director trying to describe a scene to a dim-witted actress. “Culpepper Plantation,” he said. “Southern graciousness. Down-home friendliness.”
“Oh my,” Virginia murmured. “Now that is clever.”
“I tell you, Queenie, I think we can make a go of this.”
Virginia put her soft little hand on his chest. Her eyes were as wide and blue as saucers. “Do you think so?” she said.
“Oh, hell yes. Sometimes, when an idea comes to me, I just know if it's right. I just know if it's going to work or not. It's a feeling I get right here,” he said, touching his sternum. He picked her up in his arms and then put her down again, slapping her so hard on the rear end that she squealed. He kissed her before she could protest and then stood looking down at the river. Gradually, his expression changed. He chewed his lower lip in a manner she had come to recognize as worry. “Only thing is, I don't know who I'll bring in with me to do the work. Hell, I can't get nobody around here to do it. Not after that last shopping center deal and all those crybaby subs who lost their shirts. I might have to go all the way to Atlanta to get a contractor.”
Virginia didn't miss a beat. “How about Nita's new husband?” she asked sweetly.
NITA HAD SPENT MOST OF HER HONEYMOON FINISHING UP HER paper on domestic servants. She had told her professor that she'd get a rough draft to him before Christmas but with all the excitement over the upcoming wedding that hadn't happened. She had dutifully warned Jimmy Lee about her need to work and he'd agreed that was okay with him, but once the honeymoon came and she went around all day with her nose stuck in her notes, he wasn't happy. Their little cabin took on a dismal atmosphere. The children were staying with Charles for that week and Jimmy Lee had told his customers he couldn't work on account of his responsibilities as a new bridegroom. He spent most of his time out on the river in his boat.
Nita tried not to feel guilty. Guilt was one of those things she had decided to give up when she ended her marriage to Charles Broadwell. She had told Jimmy Lee when she went back to school that this was important to her. She had warned him it would be best to postpone the wedding until summer but he had seemed anxious to slip a ring on her finger as quickly as he could. The fact he had disregarded her warnings was his fault, not hers.
Still, it was hard watching him trudge off toward the boat every morning with his fishing tackle under his arm and a look of lonely depression on his face. “We'll go somewhere for spring break, honey,” she'd call to him from the screened porch. “I promise.”
But here it was almost the end of February and she'd finished her paper and turned it in for review, and she was still no closer to freeing up time to spend with her new husband. She was taking fifteen hours this semester and was substitute teaching at the local public schools from time to time, still trying to decide whether she wanted to take her degree in women's studies or elementary ed. And then there was the little matter of Leota Quarles. It made no sense, really, to visit the old woman. It was too late to include her in the paper, and there was no reason to be driving out to the nursing home to interview her about the Kelly family. No reason except that Nita was beginning to find herself deeply and irrevocably fascinated by the story of Virginia Kelly's childhood. She had to admit, now that Virginia was no longer her mother-in-law, there was something about her that drew Nita in. And there was a big question Nita had always wanted answered. She had always wondered what it was that made a woman like Virginia act the way she did.
Virginia was like one of those destructive icebergs that cruise the North Sea in January. What you saw was only the bright shining tip, while underneath the surface something dark and cold and deadly loomed. Something that made your spine shiver. Something you couldn't outrun no matter how hard you tried.
On this warm Thursday afternoon in late February, Nita stood on her back steps and thought about her ex-mother-in-law. She thought about how much time Virginia was spending with Whitney these days and she felt suddenly ashamed of her distrust of the older woman. Maybe she had misjudged Virginia all these years. True, it would have been nice if she had been as conscientious a grandmother when the children were small. It would have been nice to have an occasional babysitter or even a grandmother who showed up for soccer games or school performances. But Nita was willing to accept the notion that people can change. She was willing to give Virginia the benefit of the doubt.
She stood on the back steps and called to Jimmy Lee. He was at the corner of the yard closest to the river, building a garden shed to house the lawn mower and the gardening tools he hoped Nita would soon learn to use. “Jimmy, I'll be back in a couple of hours,” she said, cupping her hands around her mouth.
He stood up and looked at her. He was dressed in a pair of faded jeans and a Southern Culture on the Skids T-shirt. “Where are you going?” he said irritably. He was in between carpentry jobs, February and March were typically his slow months, and this could explain his foul mood. Or partially explain it, anyway.
“I'm going out to the nursing home to interview someone.”
He wiped his brow with the back of one hand. “Why do you have to go out to the goddamn nursing home today?” He stood there looking sweaty and dejected.
“I've got a paper to finish. I told you that.” She blushed and looked at her feet. Lying wasn't something that came naturally to Nita.
He leaned over the sawhorses and went back to work, measuring a piece of plywood. “I can pick something up for dinner on the way home,” she said hopefully. She didn't have to cook tonight. Whitney was spending the weekend with Virginia and Charles had taken Logan on a desperate, last-ditch effort at father-son bonding trip to Atlanta.
Jimmy Lee snapped his metallic measuring tape like he was cracking a bullwhip. He slid his pencil into his back pocket. Nita tried again. “What would you like for dinner?”
He stood up. “What difference does it make what I want?” he said bleakly. He wore a Dale Earnhardt cap turned around backward. Standing there with his shoulders slumped and his face set in lines of disappointment and self-pity, Nita didn't like to think about how much he reminded her of Charles.
“How about barbecue?”
He swung around and headed for a pile of lumber at the edge of the yard. “Suit yourself,” he shouted over his shoulder. “You will anyway.”
On the way out to the nursing home, Nita thought about what had happened. Wasn't it just like a man to promise one thing and then change his mind once an agreement had been reached? Hadn't Charles done the same thing when he promised to love, honor, and obey her all the days of his life? Or had he promised to obey? Nita frowned, trying to remember. Well, it didn't matter. She had promised to obey and look what that got her. Sixteen years of misery. That was the first thing she had changed in her wedding vow to Jimmy Lee. She had the minister take out obey and instead they had both agreed to love and honor each other. This had seemed a reasonable and achievable goal.
Nita had spent her whole life obeying someone—her parents, her teachers, Reverend Reeves, her Girl Scout leader, her boss down at the Dairy King. Her ex-husband. Going back to college was something she had wanted to do. No one had told her to do it. It was something she had wanted for herself. She enjoyed school. She enjoyed learning. And she liked substitute teaching, too. She liked walking into a classroom and seeing all those bright, eager young faces looking up at her. She had spent sixteen years as a stay-at-home wife and mother, and now she had a life of her own and she liked it that way. She had thought Jimmy Lee understood this. He had promised her he did.
Well, he would just have to live up to his promise. She wasn't going to change who she was to suit someone else. She had tried that before and it had nearly driven her to a nervous breakdown.
She turned right at Bennie Lane and drove slowly past the Ithaca Middle School. The marquee out front read “Fruitcake Sale! Do Your Part! Buy a Fruitcake!” The school looked bleak and deserted. A small group of skateboarders stood around the flagpole smoking cigarettes and slapping their boards with their feet. Nita lifted her hand and waved as she drove past. They waved back.
She had been volunteering at the school last week when she ran into Angel Phipps. Nita was out in the hallway hanging “Abstinence Works— Just Say No” posters on the wall, when fourteen-year-old Angel walked by with her one-year-old daughter, Precious Memory, on her hip.
“Hey, Miz Broadwell,” Angel said.
“Well, hello, Angel,” Nita said, hugging her and the baby. Angel switched Precious to the other hip. The baby stared blankly at Nita. Her nose ran steadily. “I didn't know you and your family had moved back to town. Are you still in school?”
“Yes'm. I'm finishing up the eighth grade. I sat out after Precious Memory came but then I went back this year. If she ain't working, Mama watches her when I'm in school.”
“I'm glad,” Nita said. “An education is important. I'm back in school myself.”
Angel blinked. “Are you, Miz Broadwell?” She sounded so surprised that Nita laughed. Angel said, “GED?”
“No, college.” She put her hand up and touched the baby's face lightly with her fingers. Precious Memory stared vacantly. She lifted a chubby hand and stuck one finger in her nose. “Listen, I've got some old baby things of Whitney's I'd love to give you. A stroller, car seat, high chair, some clothes and toys.” It was a lie, of course. She'd given those things away years ago. She'd have to stop by the church thrift store on the way home but she didn't want Angel to know that. “I've been meaning to have a garage sale but I really don't have the time. It'd be a lot easier if I could just find someone to give the stuff to. Do you think you can help me out, Angel?”
“Sure, Miz Broadwell, I can help you out.” She obviously hadn't heard about Nita remarrying.
“Okay, give me your phone number.” Nita took her cell phone out of her pocket and punched the number into memory. “I'll call you,” she said to Angel as she moved off.
“Okay. See you later.” Precious Memory watched her solemnly over Angel's shoulder as they walked away, her fat finger still lodged in her nose.
Nita watched them go and thought about Angel Phipps as she had been years ago, a bright kindergartner with a gap-toothed smile and domineering spirit. In those days Nita had volunteered at the elementary school, helping the children learn to read. The first day of class, Nita had herded a group of timid five-year-olds out into the hall for a drink of water from the fountain. They all lined up obediently behind Angel who pushed herself roughly to the front of the group. She took her time at the fountain, making loud slurping noises and rolling her eyes at the others.
Finally, Bobby Barfield touched her timidly on the shoulder. “Are you finished?” he asked politely.
“Get off me motherfucker,” Angel said.
After the others had filed back into the classroom, Nita kept Angel outside for a little talk. She gently explained that it was wrong to use bad language, especially at school. Angel nodded as if she understood perfectly, but later, during nap time, when they were stretched out on the floor on their little mats, Angel told Willie Connor to move his fat ass before she kicked him in his man-jewels.
“What?” the frightened Willie said.
“You heard me asshole,” Angel said.
Later, Nita sat with her on the little bench outside the principal's office, waiting for Angel's mother to show up. She heard her coming before she saw her, a huge woman wearing cut-off shorts and slippers that slapped against the floor like cannon fire. Her hair was loose around her shoulders and she had a mouth full of yellow teeth and a mole on her left cheek that sprouted black curly hairs. Nita sent Ophelia Phipps on into the principal's office and a few minutes later they heard her shouting behind the closed door, “Goddamn it to hell, I've told that girl not to use bad language at school but she's so fuckin' stubborn you can't tell her a motherfuckin' thing. What the fuck's a mother to do with a kid like that?”
Soon after that, Angel's father got a job in a machine shop over close to Tifton and the family moved. Nita lost track of Angel. But one hot July morning several years later, Nita got a panicked call from Ophelia Phipps. It seemed her husband, Edgar, had dropped dead at work and Ophelia was in a panic to get over there and pick up his paycheck so she could cash it before the bank found out he was dead. Nita didn't question the logic, or the legality, of this situation, but simply drove over to Tifton to get Ophelia, drove her out to the Battle Smoove Machine Shop so she could go through the dead man's pockets, and then waited in the car while Ophelia went into the Wal-Mart and successfully cashed the check.
Six months later, Nita ran into Ophelia's sister out at the Wal-Mart and she told Nita how Ophelia had killed Edgar for the insurance money and because she suspected him of being Precious Memory's daddy. “She was real smart about it,” the sister bragged, looking around slyly. “She loaded his oatmeal up with maple syrup and antifreeze and fixed it so he'd die at work where no questions was asked.”
The sister reeked of Jack Daniel's, so Nita couldn't be sure any of this was true, but she had hoped, for Angel's sake, it was. Some people just needed killing.
LEOTA QUARLES WAS SITTING UP IN BED WHEN NITA ENTERED the room and the nurse said, “Oh, Mrs. Broadwell, I mean Mrs. Motes, I tried to call you and tell you Miz Quarles isn't feeling well today.”
“I'm sorry,” Nita said, going around to the other side of the bed. She patted Leota's arm. “I bet you don't feel up to visitors today.”
Leota smiled gamely. “Well, honey, I always look forward to your visits. You know that.”
“I've given her something to make her sleep,” the nurse said.
“Maybe just a few minutes?” Nita asked.
“Just a few minutes,” Leota said, looking at the nurse stubbornly.
“All right,” the nurse said. She tucked Leota's blanket around her chest. “But you need to get some rest,” she said. She turned off the overhead light as she went out, leaving only the bedside lamp glowing.
Nita took out her notebook and began to read back over what she'd transcribed from last time. Leota's eyes fluttered. “Oh yes,” she said, pulling her hands out of the blanket and folding them over her chest. “I remember now.”
“Seems over on the island Miss Virginia was the Queen Bee, but to the town kids she was just a hick. Most of them weren't much better. Thei
r daddies were just cotton mill workers or farmers, but they all looked down on Miss Virginia and made fun of her on account of the fact she lived on an island in the middle of the river with a bunch of colored people and her house didn't even have electricity or indoor plumbing until 1942.”
Leota put her hand over her mouth and coughed for several minutes. She looked apologetically at Nita, and then settled down again.
“Miss Virginia could give as good as she got when it came to the boys. She told Clifford Barrows that he had no right to make fun of her on account of the fact his daddy was the town drunk who spent most of his Friday nights drinking down in Colored Town. And later, in high school, when they were studying business law and Lamar Terrell raised his hand and asked what L-t-d at the end of a company name stood for, Miss Virginia said, without skipping a beat, It stands for Lamar Terrell, Dummy.”
Leota giggled. The medication the nurse had given her appeared to be working.
“Miss Virginia could handle the boys, but the girls were a different matter. It didn't matter that Miss Virginia was pretty and wore big bows in her hair and clothes just as nice and clean as anybody else. The other girls went around the school yard, arm in arm, giggling behind their hands and rolling their eyes at Miss Virginia's handmade dresses and letting her know, in that sly, cruel way that girls have, that she was an outsider. They had slumber parties and birthday parties and they only invited Virginia because their mothers, who remembered the tales of the Kellys' good days, made them.”