“What? Why?” Bird asked.
“Vause caught him and hit him,” Jottie said. “But they were thicker than ever, afterward.”
No one said anything for a long time. I heard Bird fall off, her breath coming smooth and even. “What about Sol?” I asked quietly. “What happened to him?” But Jottie was asleep, too, by then, with her arms circling us. I stayed curled up against her, but I wasn’t asleep. I was thinking about that story and how it had ended. Jottie had stopped telling it, but it wasn’t really finished. Afterward, something else had happened with Mr. McKubin, something that made Jottie turn pink when she saw him. And afterward, Jottie had liked Vause Hamilton especially. So the story wasn’t over. No story was ever really over.
17
The next day, Sunday, we went to church. Jottie said that getting us cleaned up enough for Sunday school put her soul in such mortal peril that she had to go to church afterward, but I think she liked to go. She walked between me and Bird, holding a hand apiece. Hers was thin and strong. My hat was from the summer before and too small, so that the elastic dug into my throat and I couldn’t turn my head. I looked straight ahead, like a soldier.
Jottie’s church dress was rose-colored, with little white feathers floating on it and a cloth rose at the neck. She looked pretty. She stepped along, nodding and saying hello to people I couldn’t see.
“Well, look here, if it isn’t the lovely Misses Romeyn,” called a voice I knew. It was Mr. Bensee. He didn’t sit in the grape arbor. He sat on the porch, reading the Macedonia Sun.
I yanked off my hat so I could say hello. “Hey, Mr. Bensee!”
“Miss Willa, I have just finished reading a story about you in this very newspaper here,” he said, flapping the Sun.
“What does it say, Mr. Bensee?”
He frowned at the paper. “It says you’re planning to go to church this morning. It says Miss Willa Romeyn plans to wear a pretty yellow-checked dress and Miss Bird Romeyn plans to wear a pretty blue-checked one. It’s rare these reporters get their facts straight. Let me look at you.”
We stood in front of his porch, side by side.
He nodded. “That’s a relief. A reliable newspaper is a fine thing. Well, Jottie, pray for me.”
“Won’t do a lick of good, Spencer,” said Jottie.
He laughed, and we walked on down High Street toward the church.
Father didn’t go to church. According to Jottie, Father and Reverend Dews had discussed it, and Father had promised to go to church every day of the year in 1952, so Reverend Dews said it was all right if he didn’t go until then. We knew better than that. Father liked to sleep late on Sundays.
Someone fell into step next to Bird, a grown lady, I could tell from her shoes. “How-you, Jottie?” she began. Jottie said “Fine” kind of distantly, but the lady went right on. “Who was that girl I saw Felix with yesterday? Mary Car said it looked like that cousin of yours from Moorefield, but I bet her a nickel it wasn’t.”
It was Mrs. Combs. Her boy, Bobby Combs, was in my class at school. He was all right.
“June,” said Jottie. “Are you asking me to aid and abet in gambling on the Lord’s Day?”
“Now, Jottie, you know I’m as stubborn as a mule,” sang Mrs. Combs. “You just have to settle my bet with Mary Car.”
“You won,” Bird broke in. “That was Miss Layla Beck. She lives in our house.”
“She does?”
“She boards,” said Jottie. “She’s writing a book about Macedonia. You should buy me a cup of coffee with that nickel, June.”
“Daddy was showing her places for her book,” Bird explained.
“Is that so?” Mrs. Combs’s voice rolled out rich and fat. “Ain’t that nice of him. They looked so cozy I didn’t reckon they were doing business.”
Cozy? What did that mean? I looked at Jottie, or I would have if I could have turned my head all the way. Her hand closed around mine, cool and tight. She didn’t say a word.
“Well,” said Mrs. Combs after a bit. “I knew it wasn’t that cousin of yours. What’s her name? Florence?”
“Irene,” said Jottie.
“Mary Car said she saw Emmett yesterday, too.”
“Mary Car sure had a busy day, didn’t she?”
“Oh, you know Mary. She likes to keep an eye out.”
We had come to the stairs of the church by then, and Jottie did some chatting with Mrs. Tapscott and Harriet while I stood quiet and thought. I thought about cozy and about Waldon and Mae and about how pretty Miss Beck was. Even Emmett thought so, and he hadn’t taken her specially to Dolly’s Ford. I remembered what he had said: “How is it that Felix gets everything he wants?” Maybe Miss Beck was the thing Emmett meant, the thing Father wanted.
Miss Cladine came out and rang the bell, and we all trooped down to the basement to hear Bible stories.
I loved Miss Cladine. In real life, she was an algebra teacher over in the high school, but she was crazy about the Bible. Not in a preaching way, though. She never talked about being good or bad. Instead, she told the Bible in stories, acting out all the parts, with yelling and wailing as necessary. Even the very worst boys, like Harmon Lacey, sat as quiet as mice during Sunday school. Miss Cladine had her favorites—not in the class but in the Bible. She thought Daniel was a sourpuss and a know-it-all, and she didn’t like Paul, either. She called him a busybody. The one she loved was Samson. She had a colored picture of him knocking down the pillars, pinned to the walls of the basement. The Philistines were scrambling around with their mouths hanging open in terror. “Serves them right,” Miss Cladine said. “The sneaks.”
Today she was telling about Joshua and Jericho, but I couldn’t concentrate. I kept looking at the picture of blind Samson and the scattering Philistines. Maybe the roof fell on them, but it fell on him, too. I didn’t think that was such a happy ending as the Bible made out. Beautiful Delilah had sold Samson down the river. She had stroked his head until he got sleepy and told her the secret of his seven locks. I pictured my father with his head in Miss Beck’s lap, her little fingers coiling in his hair as he told her everything about himself, everything he had never told me.
Academy Street drowsed under its Sunday afternoon spell. Time softened on Sundays; it stretched itself out in vast rubbery lengths, and by two o’clock, there was more of it than would ever be needed for anything. There was no point in reading a book, writing a letter, or playing a game, because time was too flaccid ever to proceed to the moment in which the plot would twist, the letter would be sent, or the game would be won. House by house, all activity ceased. Only the tinny radio preachers raved on, unaffected by the lethargy.
Through the open window of the Romeyns’ front room, a sermon billowed out onto the porch: “Feel His love! Feel HIS love! When you FEEL His love, though you be a-crawling-crawling-dragging-dragging across the dusty plains of sin—” Abruptly, the radio was shut off.
Sitting by the window in a saggy porch chair, Layla exhaled. “Whew.” Once again she attempted to concentrate on the pamphlet in her hands, The Christian Mission in the False River Environs. “The Eel River Council of 1821 influenced the Commission of Disciples in the following ways…”
Her thoughts slid away. Only six days. A week ago, I had no idea that Felix Romeyn existed. One week ago, I was miserable about coming to Macedonia. One week ago, I couldn’t imagine that I would be so interested in this town. And in this family. Not just Felix, but all of them. Are they prominent? The house is grand. And they seem educated, especially Felix and Jottie and young Mr. Romeyn. Funny how they’re so dark and the twins so fair—
The radio flicked back on. “You, SINNERS, when your hour comes and you repent, will Jesus hear your cry? Will Jesus bend down from Heaven and pull you from the flames? Will he pour the balm of His tears on your blistered FLESH? Your burning FLESH?”
Layla heard Bird giggle. “Hey, Jottie!” she yodeled from the front room. “That lady preacher is talking about flesh! She says it’s going to blis
ter in you-know-where!”
Even more distantly, from the kitchen, came Jottie’s voice. “Just turn that right off! She shouldn’t be talking about flesh on a Sunday!”
The radio went off. Layla listened to Bird chortle for a few moments. “Bird?” she called through the window.
“Yeah?”
“Where are Mrs. Saubergast and Mrs. Odell this weekend?”
There was a pause, and then Bird stuck her head out the window. “At their houses.”
Layla blinked. “I thought they lived here.”
“Only during the week.”
“Oh.” Another pause. “Where are their houses?”
“Mae’s out at Hampshire Downs, that’s her farm, hers and Waldon’s. And Minerva’s just over there.” Bird pointed up the street. “She’s got a big old house. She just got purple drapes, and Jottie says it looks crazy, but Minerva likes purple.”
“Purple. My,” said Layla. “Who’s Waldon?”
Bird frowned at her obtuseness. “Mae’s husband.”
“Oh! I didn’t realize!”
“What?”
“That she was, well—married.”
Bird squinted. “She’s called Mrs.”
“Yes, but, I just didn’t know,” stammered Layla. “Does Mrs. Odell have one, too?” she asked cautiously. “A husband?”
“ ’Course she does. Henry,” said Bird. “We like Waldon better, though. Waldon lets us jump from the loft into his hay wagon. And he let me watch one of his cows have a baby. He thought I’d faint, but I didn’t. I liked it. Henry doesn’t let us do anything.”
“Now, that’s enough of that.” Jottie’s voice, much closer. “Henry’s always been real nice to you, even when you don’t deserve it, which is most of the time.” Layla listened, smiling, as a discussion about the relative merits of Waldon and Henry ensued—mostly, on Bird’s part, a recitation and evaluation of favors bestowed and presents given, mostly, on Jottie’s, a remonstrance, until finally Bird was declared to be no better than a gold digger and sent off to pick weeds.
There was a long silence.
Then Jottie’s voice came from the front room. “You can ask why, if you like.”
Layla burst out laughing. “Oh, Miss Romeyn! Are you a clairvoyant?”
Now Jottie appeared in the window. She settled herself comfortably on the wide sill, facing Layla’s chair. “You know,” she said, “this Miss Romeyn business is wearing me out. I’d take it kindly if you’d call me Jottie.”
Friends at last! thought Layla. “Only if you call me Layla instead of Miss Beck.”
“Delighted.”
They smiled at each other companionably. “I’m trying to summon the spirit to make a pie for supper,” said Jottie. “You like peach pie?”
“Yes, of course,” said Layla. “But will you—I mean, may I ask about why Mrs. Saubergast and Mrs. Odell—”
“Oh Lord, just call them by their first names. They won’t mind. You want to know why they live here during the week instead of with their husbands.”
“Not that it’s any of my business,” Layla said apologetically.
Jottie laughed. “That never stopped anyone before. The two of them can’t stand to be apart, is the real reason. They got engaged to Henry and Waldon at about the same time, got married in a double ceremony—prettiest wedding you ever saw—and went dancing off, Mae to the farm and Minerva to Henry’s house, just as happy as clams. For about a week. Then they found out they were miserable without each other. They had never spent more than a few hours apart before, and they didn’t know what it would be like. You should have seen them: They were gray as ashes inside of a month. So they came home.”
“But—don’t their husbands mind?” Layla asked.
“Waldon never minds anything, bless his heart. Easiest man on earth. Henry, well, you’ll probably run into him sometime, and you’ll see what he thinks. He don’t like it much. He used to try to keep Minerva home, but she’d give him the slip. She’d tell him she was going to run over here to borrow a cup of sugar, and then she’d stay. Around nine o’clock, he’d come for her. We’d hear him stomping up the front stairs, him and his little mustache.” Jottie chuckled reminiscently. “Once he came in and recited their wedding vows aloud in the middle of the front room. Minerva lay on the sofa and listened just as meek as a dove until he finished, and then she said, ‘Isn’t it funny how “cleave” means two opposite things?’ Henry stormed out of the house, mad as hops, and I thought that was going to be the end of them, but they managed to patch it up.” Jottie smiled into Layla’s wide eyes. “Funny, isn’t it.”
“Well, it’s unusual,” said Layla, striving to reconcile truth with tact.
“Yes.” Jottie nodded. “Henry’s an odd one.”
“Henry?!” exclaimed Layla. “I would say Minerva!”
“Oh, Minerva,” said Jottie affectionately. “I could have told you she’d get tired of living with Henry day in and day out. Henry never was much fun. He wanted to be a banker when he was five years old, can you imagine? He used to try to lend us children money at interest. The snake.” She paused, remembering. “There was one day Felix caught him at it. He tied Henry to a tree and put up a big sign saying he was a usurer.”
Layla giggled. “Poor Henry.”
“Puh. It was the most exciting thing that ever happened to Henry Odell. Best day of his life. He spent the next ten years hanging around here trying to get someone to pay that much attention to him again. Henry’s been real fond of Felix ever since. Won’t hear a word against him.”
Layla smiled. “Who would say a word against Felix?”
“I can think of a couple people,” said Jottie carefully. “Henry’s aunt Augusta, just for example. Her daughter Sylvia was married to Felix there for a while.”
“But she’s dead, isn’t she?” blurted Layla. Instantly she blushed. “I mean—I don’t know where I got—I just assumed he was—a widower.”
“A widower?” Jottie smiled. “No. Divorced.”
“Well!” said Layla, digesting it. “Divorced. It’s not uncommon these days, is it? Plenty of people get divorced. Personally, I think it’s fine.” And she did, she decided. “If people are unsuited, well, then, there’s no shame in admitting it.”
Jottie nodded noncommittally.
“Were they—Felix and his wife—unsuited? In your opinion?” Layla probed.
Jottie felt in her pocket and withdrew a box of cigarettes. “They didn’t know each other very well.” At all, she added internally.
“Really? Why not?”
Jottie opened the box and looked inside. “They eloped three weeks after they met.” How much should she tell? How much would be enough to make this girl wary?
“They did?” Layla’s voice rose with enthusiasm. “How romantic!”
Jottie tried again. “Sort of. They were both engaged to other people at the time.”
“Oh!” Even more romantic, really, Layla thought. Love over discretion.
“Then they got found out, and they more or less had to run off and get married,” Jottie said flatly. “Felix was…fickle.”
Fickle? That seemed unfair. He was romantic. “Well, a fickle youth!” Layla said lightly. “Is he still fickle?”
“Yes,” said Jottie. Her eyes held Layla’s. “Very.”
Layla recoiled. How terribly cold. Poor Felix, condemned for following his heart, just as she herself had been punished for refusing Nelson. Did Felix’s kindness, his warmth, his obvious affection for his family count for nothing? It wasn’t right. “He certainly seems very devoted to you. And to the children,” she said icily. “I’ve never seen such a devoted brother, actually.”
Jottie looked away. It was true. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “Yes, of course. Very devoted. No question about that.” She sighed. “Do you have a brother?”
“Yes,” said Layla guardedly. “Yes. One. Elder brother.”
“That’s nice. Are you close?”
“Close?” Layla repe
ated, as if she didn’t understand the word. “Well. A bit. Some. He’s very…intelligent.”
Jottie smiled. “You’re no dummy yourself.”
Layla flushed with pleasure. “Thanks.”
“Where does your family live?” asked Jottie conversationally.
“Washington,” answered Layla. She rose. “I’d be glad to help you with that pie, Jottie.”
—
Jottie slid the pie into the oven, closed the door, and stood. Her fingers crept into her pocket and withdrew a cigarette. She had tried. Nobody could say she hadn’t tried. “He certainly seems very devoted to you.” And he was. He had taken care of her when she had lost everything. She couldn’t deny it.
“I can’t.”
“Sure you can,” Felix insisted.
“Felix.” Jottie shook her head. “I just—just—maybe next week. Not now.”
“Come on, honey.” He ducked his head to see into her eyes. “Button your coat and pull your hat down a little.” When she made no move, he reached up and tugged it for her. “See? You look fine. No one can tell about your hair. It looks like you got it bobbed, that’s all.”
She could feel the perspiration on her forehead. “I can’t, Felix.”
There was a swish of cloth as their mother entered the room behind them. “Well!” she cried, catching sight of her daughter. “It’s about time!” Felix sent her a warning glance. “Don’t you give me that look, Felix Romeyn! I’m just saying it’s about time Jottie got over the whole thing and stopped acting like a widow or something!”
“Mama,” he said. “Drop it.”
“It’s not like it wasn’t an awful shock for me, too. Or for your daddy!”
“I said to drop it.”
If his mother noticed the change in his voice, she gave no sign of it. “And you, too! When I think of how you and Vause were friends, why, I could just scream!”
Jottie steeled herself as Felix’s fingers closed tight around a squat bronze figurine from a nearby table. “Get out of here,” he said to his mother.
His mother’s eyes dropped to the figurine. There was a moment’s calculation before she said, “How can you talk to me like that?”
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