No, I remember it clearly. That is what you said. Those bourgeois fogs come and go.
How dare you write me such a letter? You, with all your cant about humanity and the elevation of mankind, are as coldhearted and inhumane as any of the fascists you claim to despise. If you really had one thought about me, as a laborer or a person, you would have been ashamed to mock my work and boast about your own. Your arrogant delusion that your motives are hidden from me is an insult to my intelligence. It’s perfectly plain that you want to come here to go to bed with me, nothing else, but what I find most insulting is your assumption that the flyspeck of charm expended in your letter would be adequate to achieve that end.
It may be of some passing and, I hope, deterrent interest to you to learn that I have met a person so far your superior in manner, morals, and feeling that I can hardly believe you belong to the same species, much less the same sex. After I had been cast out—it’s not too strong a phrase—by everyone I had supposed would stand by me, and I arrived here absolutely friendless and bewildered, he welcomed me, he helped me with my work (rather than ridiculing it), and he made me feel at home. All this without hidden object—he’s gentlemanly and intelligent and considerate of everyone around him. In every little action, he achieves what you, with all your bombast and posturing, fail to achieve: He makes the world a better place for the people around him by showing them courtesy and kindness.
And now, to quote you once again and irrevocably, good-bye.
Layla
P.S. There are no coal mines in this part of West Virginia. Your presumption and ignorance are typical of the effete intellectual class.
July 5
Dear Ben,
If I murder a Communist, will I get acquitted for justifiable homicide?
Layla
July 5, 1938
Dearest Rose,
I’m so mad I could spit.
Charles Antonin has had the gall, the insuperable gall, to write me a letter inviting himself to Macedonia—after casting me out not two months ago on the grounds that I was a superficial, uncontrolled whore (that’s the abridged version). And now comes a letter, laughing at me for working on the WPA, sneering at my ability to write history, bragging about his essential contributions to that rag Unite!, and then, then, suggesting that he come down here, provided he wouldn’t be kept from my bed by an overscrupulous landlady.
I spent half an hour utterly incapacitated by fury. I just stood in the middle of my bedroom floor and shook with rage. Then I sat down and wrote a masterpiece of a reply, telling him exactly what I thought of him. I include a copy for your delectation—isn’t it brilliant? I am beginning to think I have a knack for writing. Oh, I hope Charles is absolutely floored—he seems to think that all he needs to do is announce that his interest has revived and I will swoon with delight.
Unfortunately, I know where he got that impression. I blush now when I think of the way I trotted up to New York every time he whistled. You were right, Rosy, when you said he was incapable of caring for me as much as he cared for the proletariat—except substitute the word himself for the word proletariat. He likes to hear himself use such words, and he loves the idea of himself as a revolutionary, but if the revolution consisted of tedious, repetitious tasks performed before no one, he’d be a counterrevolutionary in a second. He wants attention and parties and fist-waving arguments more than he wants the classless society. It’s all so painfully clear to me now. I don’t know why I believed in him before. Yes, I do—I believed in him because, every few months, he condescended to favor me with his undivided attention for a few moments, and, desperate as I was, I’d pretend that those moments were a glimpse of our future. Delusion, delusion—I’m no better than a chambermaid in a Victorian novel, seduced by the rakish son’s promises of respectability. I was led astray, first by Lance, who said Charles had a fine mind and was worth twenty of my usual swains, and then by Charles himself, who said I had a passionate—though latent—intellect. Could you withstand that? I couldn’t. You’ve met Lance, so you can imagine what a heady thing his approval is. Being the sister of a genius is dreadfully thin gruel, I’ll tell you. The last time Lance praised me outright was when I threatened to tell the newspapers the disgraceful wage Father paid the gardener. “Stupid,” Lance said. “But brave.” On the strength of those three words, I telephoned the Star and was immediately shipped off to Miss Telt for four years. So you can see how Lance liking Charles would turn my head—in fact, I expect that accounted for nearly two-thirds of his irresistible charm. The remaining third was lodged in that passionate-intellect line.
I’ve spent far too much time on Charles already. He doesn’t deserve to occupy my mind or yours any longer. Thank you for your lovely letter, Rosy dear. I’m sorry to hear about Paris, but I think your mother is right. This Sudeten affair has everyone on edge, and no matter what Daladier says, it seems clear that France can’t go on much longer pretending that Hitler doesn’t exist. Get out a map and count the number of miles between Paris and the German border; there aren’t many. Imagine how you—not to mention your mother—would feel if you found yourself in the middle of a war. Father’s aunt Emily was caught out in Belgium in 1914 and had to come home via Shanghai with only the clothes on her back and a pair of opera glasses, her lorgnette having fallen overboard at Port Said. Father said she shook like a leaf for years afterward at the slightest mention of wurst. It was sweet of you to invite me to go on the lam with you, and for a moment I thought desperately of Montmartre, but I can’t. I have a job. Until now I never understood what people meant when they said that. A job seemed to me something you’d want to escape. But I don’t. I want to finish this book. It’s true that Macedonia is lacking in cafés and brasseries, but I’m wrapped up in this odd little town and its history. I’ve encountered more lurid characters and strange doings here than I could possibly find in Paris, sewers included, and I’m beginning to think that I have a responsibility to bring them all to life.
Next item: Mason. I think you should listen to him. I don’t think it’s ridiculous to marry someone you’ve known since you were seven, not if you love him. Marrying someone who first saw you in a playsuit is only superficially different from marrying someone who first saw you in an evening dress. When I think of Mason, I don’t think of him at seven (though I do remember Lulu’s party, the one where he threw the ice cream). I think of Mason at twenty-two, when he found out you were sick. You should have seen him, Rose. You wouldn’t have any doubts at all if you could have seen him that night. He didn’t say one word about Louis or anything—he just wanted to know if you were going to be all right. I never told you how jealous I was, did I? When he left, I sat down and cried, because no one cared about me as much as Mason cared about you.
My Lord, look at the length of this letter! The last rays of sunlight are filtering through the leaves of the dogwood in the front yard, which means it must be nearly eight. Have I turned naturalist? No. I don’t have a clock in my room, and I’m forced to rely upon trees to tell the time. When the moon rises above the maple across the street, I go to bed.
In preparation for which epoch, I herewith set my seal. Plus love.
Layla
P.S. Don’t forget what I say about Mason. Unlike Paris, he’s not eternal.
P.P.S. Are you, with your keen powers of detection, able to discern the identity of a certain mysterious person mentioned in the final paragraph of my letter to Charles?
July 7
Dear Layla,
If you murder a Communist, you’ll probably get a Congressional Medal.
What’s going on up there?
Ben
22
For weeks, I had been applying ferocity and devotion to the mystery of Father and Cooey’s Red Apple, but I didn’t get much of anywhere until I had a blazing flash of inspiration one afternoon in July. After I had it, I couldn’t believe it had taken me so long to get it, but that’s how inspiration is.
“Mrs. Bucklew wants me,” I said to
Jottie. I tried to look mournful, to throw her off the scent.
“She telephoned?” Jottie asked, surprised. I nodded, which was less sinful than lying out loud. “Well. All right. You go on over there and be nice to her.”
I sighed heavily.
Jottie grinned at me. “My mama used to say that good works performed with a reluctant heart were an abomination to the Lord, but I never had much truck with that line of thought.”
“Bye,” I said sadly, and I made sure my shoulders sloped as I trudged down the hall.
Once I got out of sight, I stopped trudging and stepped briskly. Even though she was a grown-up—an old lady, even—Mrs. Bucklew was my friend. She and I had a secret, and we’d had it since I was ten years old. No one knew it, not even Jottie.
She lived at her daughter’s house, Mrs. Bucklew did. It was a big, fancy house, and her daughter was fancy, too. Her name was Mrs. John Lansbrough, and people called her Mrs. John, all except for Mrs. Bucklew, who called her Wanzie. I don’t think that was her real name, though, and every time she heard it, Mrs. John sucked her teeth hard. I had recently come to the conclusion that Mrs. Bucklew did it to be aggravating. That would be just like her.
When I stepped up to the porch, Mrs. John was sitting cool and straight and white in her chair, needlepointing. Inside her house, everything that could be needlepointed was needlepointed, including little cushions with sayings on them stuffed under all the doors to keep out drafts. Not that there were any.
“Afternoon, Mrs. Lansbrough,” I said, real polite. “It’s hot, isn’t it?”
Her needle cracked through her canvas, and then she looked up. “Did Mama call for you?”
“Yes, ma’am, she did,” I lied aloud. There wasn’t any way around it.
Mrs. John sighed. I think I aggravated her, too. “Well, I suppose you’d better go on up, then, hadn’t you?”
“Yes, ma’am.” I thought I might aggravate her less if I looked a little downcast, so I thought about grisly things until I was inside the cool of the house. Then I scuttled up the stairs and knocked on Mrs. Bucklew’s door. “It’s me,” I called low. “Willa.”
“Willa?” She sounded startled. I’d never before come without her asking for me. “Wait a titch.”
I heard a couple of thumps.
“Come,” she said.
She was sitting up in her chair, but she couldn’t fool me. I could see the little red bumps on her face where she’d been pressed into her bedspread. “Willa. How-you?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Bucklew. How-you?”
“You grew.”
“Jottie says I’m growing like a weed.”
Her old dark eyes scraped over my face. “Getting pretty.”
I shook my head.
She nodded. “You are. Nothing you can do to stop it.” She sat up straighten “I used to be pretty once. If you can believe that.” She pushed herself out of her chair and lurched over to her bureau to take a look. One of her legs was shorter than the other, and when she walked, it was like two half-people who had been sewed together. Two half-people who didn’t like each other very much. She looked at herself in the mirror and then turned around and smiled at me. “And this leg of mine was part of it. I tell you, Willa, if you ever happen to have your leg run over by a freight train, don’t you repine. The men’ll line up to tote your teacup for you.” She giggled. Even though she was old, she sounded young. “Now, miss, I hope you came to tell me some news.” She measured off a little stretch of her finger. “I’m this far away from going crazy and running raving mad down the street in my underdrawers. She’d just love that.” She nodded at her floor, but what she meant was Mrs. John.
Mrs. John didn’t exactly keep her mother locked up, but she didn’t take her anywhere, either, and with her short leg, Mrs. Bucklew couldn’t walk far. Jottie and I saw her one day, trying to get downtown. It was a pitiful sight. She’d get up and take a dozen steps and then she’d have to stop, leaning against a wall or sitting right on the curb. She was red in the face, too, and breathless. Jottie went to get the car while I sat on the curb with her, and then we drove up Prince Street and out to the Race Street Bridge and back. Mrs. Bucklew didn’t say much, but she looked and looked, while Jottie told her things about the people we saw, including some things that she’d never tell me, such as what exactly Irvin Weeks had done that got him sent to the penitentiary. When we were done, Mrs. Bucklew said it was the best time she’d had in years, but she wouldn’t let Jottie bring her home. She said Mrs. John would have both their hides. She and I got out at the corner and I helped her hobble up the street. Mrs. John wouldn’t pay any mind to a little girl, Mrs. Bucklew said.
Now we sat down on her bed, and I told her all my news, about the Reds coming up State 9 and Mr. Vause Hamilton burning his boot and Miss Layla Beck and her research. She nodded and nodded, her dark eyes on my face. She wanted to know what weapons Geraldine planned on fighting the Reds with, how long Mr. Hamilton’s boot burned, and especially how Miss Layla Beck looked.
“She’s pretty,” I admitted. “She wears real stylish clothes.”
“Does she have any callers yet?” asked Mrs. Bucklew. “Any beaux?”
“No,” I said. Father was not Miss Beck’s beau. No one would say so. I decided it was time to come to the point. “Mrs. Bucklew?” I said. “You want me to go see Mr. Houdyshell for you?”
She looked at me sharply, and then she heaved herself up and hobbled over to her sewing basket. I could hear coins rattling as she reached inside. “I only got five dollars and eighty-six cents,” she said.
“Still. That’s two.”
She nodded. “And that’s two more than none.”
“Well, then.” I waited. I didn’t want to get her suspicious.
She held out the money. I quick bustled around the room, pulling out Mrs. Bucklew’s big straw basket and some clothes from the closet. “Now, look,” I said. “I’m putting everything blue on top, so I’ll only need to get one spool of thread, all right? No sense in wasting money.”
“What are you up to, Willa?”
I drew myself up. “I just thought I’d offer. If you don’t want me to go, I won’t.”
That did the trick. “No, honey,” she said quick. “You go. I—well, you go on.”
I went, closing the door softly behind me.
This was our secret. I had to go to the five-and-dime first, so everyone could see that I’d bought blue thread for Mrs. Bucklew. But that was just for show. After that, I went past town square and up Unity Street until I got to G. Houdyshell Tack and Saddle. It was a dirty old building, and the door almost fell to pieces in my hand when I opened it, but I knew how to go. I wove between the old pieces of bridles and dusty saddles until I got to another door, and I opened that.
“Mr. Houdyshell?” I called.
Nothing.
“Mr. Houdyshell, I’m here for Mrs. Bucklew,” I said to lure him out.
“Cheese it! The cops!” cried someone behind me, and I almost shed my skin. I couldn’t even begin to imagine what Jottie’d do to me if I got put in jail. But there wasn’t any police behind me. There was a man I’d never seen before, sitting on Mr. Houdyshell’s stool. Next to him, Mr. Houdyshell was sunk down in a deep chair that seemed like it should be in someone’s parlor. It had little flowers all over, and in it, Mr. Houdyshell looked like grim death. He had never looked real good, but now he was awful—his face was yellow and his eyes were red and he was slumped over like he couldn’t straighten out.
“Never mind him, Willa,” croaked Mr. Houdyshell. “He’s been sampling the wares. Thinks he’s real smart.”
The other man talked right over him. “What do you want, little girl?” He kind of sang it.
I hadn’t figured on a stranger. I said, real prissy, “I’m running an errand for Mrs. Bucklew, if you please.”
“If you please,” he imitated me in a high voice. “Running an errand. What else you running, sister?”
I looked at Mr. Houdyshell, but
his eyes were closed, so I said, “I don’t know what it is. Just what Mr. Houdyshell always gives her. Two of them.” I lied through my teeth. I knew what it was: Four Roses whiskey. Macedonia was a dry town in a dry county, which meant that the grown-ups had to drive to the ABC store in Martinsburg for their intoxicating beverages. Poor old Mrs. Bucklew couldn’t even walk down the street, and Mrs. John sure wasn’t driving her to the ABC, so she was obliged to seek the services of Mr. Houdyshell. And me.
The man on the stool smirked. “Innocent as a baby, ain’tcha? How much money you got?”
“I got five dollars and eighty-two cents.” I’d spent four cents on thread.
He sniffed loud and wet. “Six dollar for two, sister.”
“Give her two, Brennus,” rasped Mr. Houdyshell, with his eyes closed.
“Thank you, Mr. Houdyshell,” I said, and then I believe I smiled triumphantly at the man on the stool, because his face got real red.
“George, you’re a sucker,” he said.
“Two,” Mr. Houdyshell moaned.
The man on the stool cleaned out his throat good before he stood up and shuffled to another splintery old door and disappeared.
“Mr. Houdyshell!” I hissed.
He nodded without opening his eyes. He could hear me.
“Mr. Houdyshell, I’m sorry you’re poorly, but I have to ask you something.” I chewed at my lip, worried. He looked like he might die any minute. “Is my father a bootlegger?”
Mr. Houdyshell’s eyes flew open. He blinked and shook his head, but he didn’t look at me.
“Mr. Houdyshell, please,” I begged.
“No. He ain’t,” he gasped.
“Who’s your daddy, sweetheart?” crooned Brennus, coming through the door. He’d been listening. “I’ll tell you. Who’s your daddy?”
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