“Mr. Romeyn, you mean?” interrupted Layla eagerly. “He does seem quite sophisticated for a town this size, and well traveled, too. I understand he’s been to France and—”
“I was referring to Jottie,” said Miss Betts.
“Jottie? Miss Romeyn?” Layla said. “Really? I would have thought—well, she seems quite pleasant. And she’s certainly a good cook.”
Miss Betts sighed. “The epitaph of the spinster.”
“She was never married?” Layla asked, wondering how long she would be obliged to dwell on Jottie before she could reintroduce Felix.
“Never married.” Miss Betts looked at Layla severely. “And therefore without interest?”
“I didn’t say that!” Layla replied, irked. “Really, Miss Betts, you’re putting words in my mouth.”
“I apologize.” Miss Betts blinked remorsefully. “As a spinster myself, I am perhaps sensitive to the imputation of dullness.”
Layla smiled. “I don’t find you dull.”
“Thank you.” Miss Betts gazed at her blotter for a moment and added, “The Romeyns were—and still are, to some degree—a very prominent family in Macedonia. Figuring in some of our most historic and…well, I suppose you could call them dramatic episodes.”
“Dramatic episodes?” asked Layla, raising her eyebrows. “Do tell.”
Miss Betts was not to be seduced. “There is a fine line between history and gossip, Miss Beck,” she said. “I believe I’ll confine myself to history.”
Layla nodded, abashed. “Yes, of course.” There was a moment’s pause, and then she ventured, “They aren’t on Mr. Davies’s list—what he called Macedonia’s first families. I know it’s silly, but if they’re prominent, why—” Miss Betts lifted her eyes to the shelves among which Willa was presumably standing, and Layla, following her, blushed. “Never mind,” she said hastily.
“I believe you mentioned yesterday that you intended to learn how to do research,” murmured Miss Betts. Then, louder, “Let us take up the cudgels of history.”
As the two women bent their heads together to speak of George Washington, his survey, and Lord Fairfax, Willa, well-hidden inside a capacious dictionary stand, sat as still as the dictionary above her, scarcely breathing, her eyes fixed blindly on the small forest of chair legs that obstructed her view. An hour ticked by as she waited, futilely, to hear more of dramatic events and first families, gossip and history.
Only after Layla took her leave did Willa extract herself, rise, and begin to move, crabwise, around the perimeter of the library. Fondly believing herself inconspicuous, she looked up in astonishment when Miss Betts called out a ringing “Did you find Albania?”
“Albania?” she stammered, and then, “Oh. Yes’m. Albania.” She paused. “It’s small. I got to go, Miss Betts.” She lifted her hand in a clumsy wave.
Miss Betts returned the wave and watched the slender figure disappear. “Good-bye, child,” she murmured.
Out on Prince Street, Willa stood for a long moment, gazing in abstraction at a passing car. Then, galvanized by some invisible force, she made a sudden lunge to her right, walking by the weary storefronts without seeing them. Mechanically, she brushed her hand over the smooth face of the wooden Indian standing outside Shenandoah Tobacco and Cigar, circled a knot of gaunt men waiting for nothing around a stairwell, and moved with an automaton’s gait to the end of the block. There, wiping the sweat from her upper lip, she stepped off the curb, stepped back on, looked both ways, crossed Prince Street, and turned the corner.
11
At the corner, I wiped some sweat off my face and stepped off the curb. Then I remembered Teddy Bowers and stepped back on it. I looked both ways about a hundred times, and then I crossed the street.
It was heating up. Along Prince Street, I could mostly keep to awnings, but once I turned onto Opequon Street, the buildings didn’t have them, nor much else, either. Opequon was just chipped brick, dirty windows, and faded signs. One sign said Cooey’s Red Apple, and I wondered what it could be.
I stopped suddenly without knowing why. It took me a minute or two to realize that I’d seen my father’s car, parked at the curb. He wasn’t in it. I looked up and down the street. There wasn’t anything on it that seemed like somewhere he would go—there wasn’t hardly anything atall, for that matter. Then I thought, Maybe he’s inside Cooey’s Red Apple. The hot from the sidewalk sizzled through the soles of my shoes as I peered into Cooey’s window. The glass was so dark and gritty, I mostly saw my own reflection, but there were people inside. I could see bodies, moving slow, like bees in a hive. I contemplated marching in the front door, but then I thought better of it. Actually, I was scared to. I decided to sit in Father’s car and wait for him. I’d surprise him.
“First families.” I whispered the words to myself, wondering what, exactly, they meant: a family that had been here for the whole hundred and fifty years? Or did they mean first the way George Washington was first in the hearts of his countrymen? The upholstery was hot against my legs. I sat and sweated, fingering my scab. Dramatic events—now that sounded wonderful. I poked through my father’s hot, tidy car. I opened the little pocket that was supposed to hold maps and papers. It was empty. I turned and pushed my face over the front seat. The backseat held nothing, but on the floor was my father’s case, the one he carried his chemicals in. It was a big black leather case, sturdy and solid. Near to the handle were his initials in gold. I ran my finger over them: F. H. R. For an experiment, I tried to pick it up. It didn’t budge. I couldn’t even move it an inch, it was that heavy. Well, but I’m weak, I told myself. I hung over the seat, breathing hard, and yanked. Nothing. I pressed down the button that popped the clasp, but it didn’t open. It was locked up tight. Whatever was in there, I wasn’t going to see it.
Thwarted again. I slumped back into the front seat. Chemicals cost a lot of money, maybe. He’d locked them up tight because they were valuable. I could ask him. I could say, Father, will you show me what’s in your case here? And he would.
I heard a hubbub behind the car, a creak-slam, and a low “heh-heh-heh.” Something made me cautious, and I slid down till my head was beneath the edge of the window. Then, feeling just exactly like a Hardy Boy, I rolled over onto my stomach so I could peek out the back window. Four men in hats were standing in front of Cooey’s Red Apple. One of them was short and wide. He had a white hat on, a white hat with a black band. I’d never seen such a thing in my life. Then there were two men who must have been brothers, they looked so much alike, lank and stove-in. The fourth was my father. The white-hat man and one of the brothers were laughing, haw-haw-haw. My father wasn’t laughing. He was looking at those men quietly, and I felt a little thump of pride at how he was handsomer than the rest of them and more refined, too, because he didn’t guffaw like they did. I guessed he was selling them chemicals, though his case was in the car.
Their voices rumbled on. I couldn’t hear exactly what they were saying, until suddenly the white-hat man clapped my father on the shoulder and said, real loud, “That’s the ticket, Romeyn!” My father smiled, and I saw it the way you see things by lightning, suddenly pulled free from their tracks. This was his other world, and it didn’t touch the one he had at home with Bird and Jottie and me. In this place, with these men, Father didn’t talk about me or even think about me at all. He was another person altogether. It made me feel lonesome when I thought about it.
After a moment or two, they all walked away, down the street, and climbed into a car. The man in the white hat was driving. I slouched down farther and heard them pass by, heard the engine mutter down to the corner and fade.
I waited a few minutes before I sat up. I could have gotten out of the car, but I didn’t. I sat, hot as I was, and thought. I’d been silly about Miss Beck, I could see that, silly and childish, and now she thought I was odd. I cringed a little inside myself, recalling it. She wouldn’t ever ask me to copy her notes for her, or say in her book, Special thanks to my assistant, Wilhelmin
a Romeyn. But it didn’t matter. It didn’t matter what she thought of me, because I had other things to do. I didn’t have time to be her assistant. Keeping my ear to the ground had been just as fruitful as Jottie had said. I was learning all sorts of things, like Father locked his case, and we were at the center of dramatic events, and Vause Hamilton had set my grandfather’s mill on fire. And now I had glimpsed Father’s other world. I was starting to know things, and I wanted more. I wanted to know about Father and his other world at Cooey’s Red Apple. It was research, just the same as I had imagined doing with Miss Beck, but it was my own. I had my own research to do.
I didn’t recognize my uncle Emmett’s truck until it passed me a second time, backward. He bent forward and squinted into my window. “Willa? Is that you?”
“Yeah. It’s me. Hey, Emmett.”
“Hey.” He craned his neck, looking up and down the street. “Where’s Felix?”
“I don’t know,” I said truthfully.
He nodded and pulled his truck over to the curb. I watched him as he came across the street and leaned in at my window. He was real tall, so he had to lean a good ways. “Any particular reason why you’re sitting here in his car?” he asked.
Jottie always said that Emmett was a mystery. I guess she meant because he didn’t talk as much as everyone else in our family and he generally looked as sober as a judge. But Bird and I knew better. He had a way of asking us questions, real perplexed and formal, that sent us into stitches. He only did it when we were alone, just the three of us. Sometimes we’d get to howling, out on the porch, and Jottie would come and stand at the door. “What’s happening out here?” she’d ask, sort of hopeful and eager.
“I think these children are defective,” he’d say gloomily. “I can’t understand a word they say.” He’d wave his hand at us. “And they’re dirty, too.”
I giggled again now, just thinking about it. “Father went somewhere with some men,” I explained.
“And he left you here?” Emmett asked, kind of surprised.
“No. No, he doesn’t know I’m here,” I said, and explained how I’d come to be in his car. “He left his case behind.” I rolled over and pointed at the floor of the backseat. “It’s locked.”
Emmett glanced over my shoulder at the black leather case. “Ah.” He returned to looking at me. His eyes were the same as Father’s and Jottie’s, dark, dark brown. “I don’t suppose you know that because you tried to open it.”
“Well. Yes.” I was surprised to hear myself admit it.
“Why?”
“What do you think’s in there?” I asked. “Chemicals?”
He nodded slowly. “Yes. Chemicals. Now.” He opened the car door and gestured for me to come out. I did. “I am going to give you a piece of good advice, Willa. People pay money for this kind of service, but as your uncle, I’m going to give it to you for free.”
“Are you about to tell me to mind my own business?” I asked.
“No I am not,” he answered. “My advice is this: Don’t ask questions if you’re not going to like the answers.”
I folded my arms. “Well, honestly! How can I know I’m not going to like the answers until I ask the questions?”
His smile flashed bright. “Easy. You ask yourself if there’s any answer that would endanger something that’s precious to you, and if there is, don’t ask the question.”
Endanger? Nothing was endangered. “That’s silly. No one would ever find out anything that way!”
“Finding out isn’t all it’s cracked up to be, Sherlock,” he said. The Presbyterians’ bell went four, and he glanced up, toward Prince Street. “Hey, honey, I got to get. You go on home, okay? Don’t sit here anymore.”
“Okay,” I said.
He raised an eyebrow. “I wasn’t born yesterday. I want to see you leave.”
I smiled. “Okay.” I took a step and stopped. “Say, Emmett?”
He had turned to cross the street, but he turned back. “What?”
“What’s Cooey’s Red Apple?” I pointed to the sign.
“Bootlegger’s,” he said.
I looked toward the gritty little storefront, surprised.
“See what I mean?” said Emmett. He waited for a moment. “Go on. March.”
I started home.
In the theoretical cool of the porch, the twins were draped like wet flowers across divans. Upright and scowling at The Yearling, Jottie jumped at the wheeze-slap of the screen door. “There you are!” She patted the decayed wicker chair at her side.
“Hey,” said Willa, thumping into it. “Hey,” she said to Bird.
Stolidly chewing day-old gum, Bird grunted.
“Help yourself,” said Jottie, nodding at the pitcher of ice-tea.
“No thanks. What’s a first family?” inquired Willa.
Jottie lifted an eyebrow. “A what?”
“A first family. Mr. Davies gave Miss Beck a list of Macedonia’s first families, and we’re not on it.”
Minerva lifted her head, her eyes finding Jottie’s.
“Oh, isn’t that Parker all over,” said Jottie carelessly. “He don’t think you’re important if you’re not related to him.”
“Huh.” Willa contemplated this. “We’re not, are we?”
“No, we are not, and I go down on my knees every day to thank the Lord for it,” Jottie said gaily. First families indeed, she fumed. Damn your eyes, Parker Davies, if you make my Willa ashamed.
“So do I,” said Minerva. “Sometimes, on special occasions, I thank him twice.”
We were a first family when your mama was catching frogs for her dinner, Jottie seethed. You scratch a Davies, and you’ll find yourself in a mess of crackers—
“There’s Miss Beck,” said Bird around her gum. “Out on the sidewalk.”
Jottie glanced up, and her rage was quickly adulterated by solicitude. Poor thing looked like to die of the heat. “You want some ice-tea?” she called.
Layla’s head jerked up. “Oh, yes, please!” She was almost panting. She entered the shadowed porch, nodding shyly to Minerva and Mae, Willa and Bird.
“Welcome to Droopsville,” Mae sighed.
Jottie poured, and Layla watched greedily as the tea popped and cracked on the ice. “Oh, thank you,” she breathed, taking it.
Jottie eyed her flushed face. “You have a long walk?”
“Yes. Well, maybe it just seemed long. I was on Locust Street, visiting Mr. and Mrs. Davies.” Layla took a greedy gulp of tea.
Jottie’s eyes flicked to Willa, who was looking intently at the hem of her skirt. “Didn’t Parker give you anything to drink?”
“Hot tea,” answered Layla. “In a silver teapot.”
“My,” snorted Jottie. “Bet you were real impressed.”
Layla caught her eye and smiled. “I didn’t hardly know how to behave.”
Well now, thought Jottie, pleased, maybe this girl isn’t so bad. “Have a cookie.” She gestured affably to the plate. “Keep up your strength.”
With two fingers, Bird removed the wad of gum from her mouth and said, “Dex Lloyd can bite his own toenails.”
“Famed across five continents for her sparkling repartee,” said Mae, dabbing at her forehead with a handkerchief.
“Was Parker a help with your book?” Jottie asked.
“Oh.” Layla hastily swallowed a large bite of cookie. “Why. Yes.” She smiled uncertainly. Was she supposed to be polite about him? She tried to evince some enthusiasm. “Mr. Davies and his wife have several items belonging to General Hamilton in their home.”
“His sword, his gun, his powder sack, and his sainted knee pants,” said Minerva in a bored voice.
“Minerva used to go with Parker Davies,” said Jottie.
“I was only a girl.” Minerva glowered. “I didn’t know any better.”
“And neither did he!” crowed Mae.
Layla laughed with relief, and, emboldened, she asked, “I wondered—is General Hamilton related to the Mr. Hamilton
who burned the boot yesterday?”
There was a split-second pause. “Yes,” answered Mae.
“Well!” Layla smiled happily around the circle. “It is a small town, isn’t it? I wonder why he’s not on my list. To interview, you know. As he’s a direct descendant.” She looked, questioning, to Jottie.
Across the porch, Willa did the same.
Minerva intervened quickly. “Mr. Hamilton’s unhinged. He’s not in a state to be interviewed.”
“Oh dear,” said Layla, rattled anew by all she didn’t know.
“These old families,” Jottie said thoughtfully, gazing at the street. “Sometimes their blue blood doesn’t do them a bit of good.”
“What’s that mean?” Willa said at once.
“Well, you look at the Hamiltons.” Jottie waved her hand vaguely, indicating a world of Hamiltons. “Here’s poor old Mr. Hamilton, unhinged, like Minerva says. But it’s not his fault. All Hamiltons are unhinged. It runs in the family.”
Layla suppressed a smile. “What a shame for Mr. and Mrs. Davies,” she said gravely. “I understand they’re both of Hamilton descent. They were quite particular on that point.”
“They’ve got a while yet. It usually doesn’t come out until they’re old,” Jottie reassured her. “Take General Hamilton, for instance. He was born mean. And stingy. But he didn’t go crazy till later.”
“General Hamilton was crazy?” Willa asked. “That isn’t what they say in school.”
Jottie gave a shrug. “I just don’t know what else to call it when a man drives a sword right through his own son’s foot.”
“He never did!” gasped Mae.
Willa frowned. “I thought you said it was a soldier.”
“I couldn’t bear to tell you the ugly truth,” Jottie replied. “I wanted to shield you. But”—she shook her head sadly—“it was his own boy. Stabbed him right in the foot. Mrs. Lacey told me all about it.”
“This is a little different from Mr. Davies’s version,” Layla said. She set her ice-tea down and reached into her purse, withdrawing a notebook. “But a good history book includes different perspectives.”
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