Belle City

by Penny Mickelbury

  In the brief time that it took for Little Si to return with Mack, Ruthie continued to stand holding the envelope containing Eubie's letter, and the others continued to stand watching her.

  "See," Little Si said bursting into the room. "There it is."

  Mack looked at Ruthie, then at the letter in her hands. She looked up at him, then gave him the envelope. He read: To Mr. and Mrs. Silas Thatcher, c/o Dr. Renee Jordan, Department of French, Belle City College for Women, Belle City, Georgia. "And it's got his name on the front too," Mack said. E. Thatcher, he read. "But I can't read the French place where it's from."

  Nellie began to weep. Mack opened the envelope and removed two sheets of paper, both filled with writing in pencil. The letters were tall and strong.

  Dear Mama, Papa, Uncle William, Brothers and Baby Sister:

  I know you have worried about me but do not. I am fine and happy here.

  I miss you all very much but I am happy here in France. I have a wife and soon to have my child. As you can see, I have learned to read and to write a bit. And in English and French. That is why I am here. In Carrie's Crossing, I could not learn to read and write not even in one. I wish you all could come here. Every person you see would say Good Morning to you and nobody would call you nigger. Nobody would hate you. I am a farmer here, like you are farmers. I hope you can come here to live. All of you. I will teach you to talk like the people here. They teach me to talk and to read and write. They give me papers from US and I cry when I read what is happening to Colored people. I will not come back to US. Please come here so we can be family.

  Yr. Son, E. Thatcher.

  Nellie's tears had flowed throughout the reading of the letter and Big Si's face was a stone carving. Emotion traveled through Tobias, Little Si and Ruthie like wind blowing through the trees: They were happy to hear from their brother, happy to have proof that he was alive, and devastated by his statement that he would not be returning. Without speaking a word, Nellie returned to her bedroom, closing the door behind her. Nobody else moved until Ruthie reached for the letter. Mack gave it to her.

  "Toby. Mr. First. Y'all must be hungry." She went to the kitchen.

  Freeman roused himself. "Where Will'am?" But he knew. "He took bad again?"

  Big Si nodded, then waved his arm toward the kitchen. "Y'all go on back."

  "I got to put the horses up," Tobias said.

  "I'll do it," his Pa said, and waved his arm toward the kitchen again. He started out the front door, then stopped. "Where Beaudry? How come he ain't with y'all?"

  "He wasn't home when the lady brought the letter, Pa," Tobias said.

  "Where is he?" Big Si demanded, looking at First Freeman.

  "I don't know where he is, Silas, but ain't nothin' wrong with him," Freeman said. "He was fine this mornin' when left goin' to work."

  Now Big Si had a target for his fear and his anger: "I thought he worked 'long with you, Freeman. Ain't that what you said when you took him 'way from us? That you was gon' look after him, give him a job."

  "I do look after him. He drives one of my wagons cross town—diff'rent places from where me and Tobias go—Tobias rides with me. Beau drives by hisself, but he comes back ev'ry night."

  "Why you let him ride 'round by hisself?"

  "'Cause that's how he likes to be, Silas: By hisself. And he's just fine."

  And Beaudry was just fine. He was parked behind the country club, just beyond the kitchen door, where nobody would give a second thought to a Colored man driving a mule wagon, talking to a white man driving an automobile, especially a Colored man holding his hat in his hands, his head down, his eyes looking at his feet. Jonas was counting the money Beaudry had given him from the sale of the whiskey, and Beau was hoping and praying that everything his people thought and said about this boy was correct, that he was honest and decent, because Beau, unable to read, could count only because Mr. First had taught him, but he counted slowly and he needed to be able to lay the money out on the table, like denominations together. And he hadn't known the value of whiskey. He knew only that the owners of the secret and illegal watering holes in the Colored sections of Belle City were so pleased to have real whiskey to sell that when the first man said, "I'll pay you six dollars a fifth and two-fifty a pint," Beau had accepted, and then demanded that same amount from all the others.

  Jonas looked at his partner who was still looking at his feet. "Beau?"

  Beau looked up. "What you think?"

  Jonas smiled widely, then divided the money, giving Beau half. "I think you're one heck of a businessman, Beau Thatcher."

  Beau looked at the money Jonas gave him, not knowing exactly how much it was, but knowing very clearly what to do with it. "I guess we need to buy some more whiskey from that fella," he said.

  "A lot more," Jonas said. "I'll have him meet me right here. This is a good place you thought of, Beau."

  Beau reached out to return the money, but Jonas shook his head. "Always save some of your money, and the more you have, the more you oughta save. That way, no matter what happens, you won't be broke."

  Nodding, Beau studied the money in his hand, counting as quickly as he could, his effort further challenged by the fact that it was dark. Jonas had told him in almost the same exact words what Mr. First always said and he knew that they were right: Here was a boy younger than himself, who worked for a man who once was a slave, both of them probably with more money than the doctors and the preachers, and now that he knew why, he promised himself that one day he would be the man other men worked for. He separated the money, put some in his pocket and gave the rest to Jonas, who gave him a nod and a small smile. "I'm back here behind this country club every Friday evening," Beau said, climbing into his wagon which, Jonas noticed for the first time, was piled high with—he didn't know what because it was covered with tarps. Beau picked up the reins, gave a click, and the mule surged forward, as if in a hurry to be headed home.

  "You didn't give him too much, did you?"

  Jonas turned slowly, unwilling to display the shock he felt at having had someone sneak up on him. He was a child of the forest, used to the darkness and intimately aware of the motion and movement of the night's beings. The man standing so close to him in this darkness was something new—teaching him of the need to learn some new lessons: The lessons of the city. "I gave him what he earned," Jonas said.

  The man laughed, blowing his whiskey breath on Jonas. "You mean you found one who'll work?"

  Jonas tried but he couldn't make a laugh happen. "Man does nothin' but work."

  "You wanna hire him out? I need me a good worker."

  Now Jonas found his laugh at the thought of Beau Thatcher working for this man. He was a couple of inches taller than Jonas with very blond hair and very blue eyes and dressed the way he'd seen golfers dressed in newspaper and magazine photographs: In knickers and knee socks and wearing a checked cap. He stuck out his hand. "I'm Jonas Thatcher, and my pa would kill me dead if I gave away his best worker." He looked hard at the man. "Prob'ly kill you too."

  The man laughed and clapped him on the back. "Horace Edwards at your service, Mr. Thatcher, and I congratulate your pa on havin' himself such wise man for a son." He now looked closely at Jonas. "You play golf, son?"

  "No, sir...at least, not yet...I'm tryin' to learn." He recovered quickly; what would he be doing at a country club if he didn't play golf? Or tennis. Or drink whiskey. Or do any of the other things that people did at places like this. He couldn't tell this man why he was parked behind the country club but even as he formed and uttered the lie, he felt a little corner of truth being born, for he did think that perhaps he would learn to play golf. Or tennis. Because he knew, with the same sharp instinct that told him how to balance the books and increase the profits of his stores and form a partnership with Beau Thatcher, that a country club membership would be good for business. So would cultivating a relationship with Horace Edwards. "But you can't learn just by watching," he said, hoping that was an appropriate respo
nse.

  "That's for sure, son. You got to swing the clubs." And Horace Edwards mimicked perfectly the fluid motion of the drive off the tee. Jonas didn't know whether or not he liked this man, but he did like the idea of swinging a golf club.

  "I guess I'm gonna need some clubs to swing."

  "I got a set I'll sell you, son."

  "Why?" Jonas asked.

  "'Cause," Horace Edwards smirked, "I just bought myself a brand new set. C'mere lemme show you something pretty." And he hurried toward the front of the parking lot, which was lit up like daytime, and toward a brand new automobile. He opened the door and Jonas saw two bags of golf clubs in the back of the car, one of them obviously as shiny and brand new as the car. Jonas gave an appreciative whistle; let Edwards think it was about the golf clubs. Jonas wondered how much longer he'd have to work to buy a car like this one. "Beautiful, ain't they?" Horace said, lifting a long, shiny metal stick from the bag, one of the ones with a shiny wooden head. He demonstrated the swing again, this time with the club.

  "I'd sure like to be able to do that," Jonas said, and meant it. "How much you selling the old ones for?"

  "Tell you what," Edwards said, and Jonas knew he wasn't going to like what was coming. "I'll trade you the clubs for a week of that Colored boy's time. Him and his mule wagon."

  The internal battle raging between his good business sense and his sense of fair play was on the verge of spinning out of control. A split second decision was called for. "A couple of problems with that, Mr. Edwards," Jonas said. "First, he ain't mine to trade—the man works for himself. Then, there's the fact that he's on his way back to Carrie's Crossing to deliver that load of stuff to my store." The lie rolled smoothly from his mouth. "But biggest thing of all, Mr. Edwards, is this: What sense would it make for me to give away a man who helps me make money? That'd be like you giving me the new golf clubs 'stead of the old ones."

  Horace Edwards looked long and hard at Jonas Thatcher. Horace was known to be a master manipulator, as well as an unpleasant character and an unworthy adversary. There were precious few grown men with nerves steady enough to put Horace in his place, but he'd been bested twice in just a few minutes by a boy probably the same age as his daughter. "You got a store over in Carrie's Crossing?"

  "Three of 'em and one sittin' empty, thanks to prohibition." And as soon as he said the word, Jonas knew he could safely change the subject and put Edwards on the defensive, and he wondered what had taken him so long to realize it. "They sell whiskey in there, don't they?" he asked, nodding toward the country club, though he very well knew the answer: Of course they did. He'd been smelling it on Edwards the entirety of their conversation.

  "Sellin' whiskey's illegal. So's buying it. So's drinking it, I guess, since you can't buy it or sell it," Edwards said, more snarling than talking. He slammed the door to his car. "And you way too young to own all them businesses."

  "My pa owns 'em but I'm runnin' em 'cause—" He decided that with this man the truth would be better than any lie, "'cause Pa's in jail He wouldn't close down his bar and stop sellin' whiskey, so the chief locked him up."

  Horace opened the driver's side door. "I think I might like your pa. I ain't so sure 'bout you, though." He got in the car, slammed the door, started the engine, and roared away.

  "I don't like you either, but I surely would like to have an Oldsmobile car and bag of shiny new golf clubs," Jonas said to himself in the peace and quiet of the night, which he definitely preferred to talking to people at any time, but especially in the bright light of day when they seemed to have more to say and more energy with which to say it. As he walked back to his own car, he paid closer attention to where he was parked and to where Beau had parked his wagon. Then he looked back at where Horace's car had been parked. Where had Horace been and what had he been doing that he was able to sneak up on Jonas like he had? He peered into the darkness and saw nothing but woods.

  He got in his car and looked at his watch: He wanted to time himself going back home. It would be a slower trip than normal because, like Beau's wagon, his car was loaded with various merchandise to take back to the stores—everything from needles and threads and straight pins to cast iron skillets to sheets and towels and socks and nylon stockings and long john underwear for the furniture store; flour, salt, sugar, baking powder, tea, coffee and three cured hams for the grocery store. He hadn't lied to the chief about needing the car for that purpose, but his greatest need was to know how long it would take him to get from home to the country club parking lot to meet the bootlegger for his twice-a-month delivery. And thinking again of Horace Edwards's silent appearance out of the darkness, he'd tell Beau to find a new place after the next delivery.

  He exited the parking lot and could only turn toward home because he didn't know anywhere else to go, and as soon as the lights of the country club were behind him, the darkness was complete and all-enveloping. The headlights of the vehicle cast a dim yellowness on the road immediately in front of him, and he had to keep his eyes trained exactly there or he'd run off into a ditch. He found himself silently thanking Doc Gray for the constant reminder to "keep watch on the road, Jonas, 'specially when it's dark out." He wondered how Beau Thatcher found his way in the dark; there were no front lights on a mule wagon. But, then, Belle City had street lights practically everywhere, and Beau knew his way around. When he drove away from the country club, he probably had more than one option open to him, unlike Jonas who only knew how to work his way back to the road that connected the two cities, and he only knew that because Beau had told him how to get to Country Club Road from Belle Crossing Road, which was the official new name of the two-lane paved route between the two cities, for Jonas knew that his hometown now was a city in the making and that the Thatcher name was in large part responsible for it.

  Jonas never ceased to marvel at that fact. True, he felt a pang of guilt at the feeling, but the facts could not be denied: No sane or rational person ever would have thought that old Zeb Thatcher would be the leading citizen of Carrie's Crossing. True, his brother Carney's untimely demise made it possible, but there remained the fact that Zeb, all on his own, made the decisions about what to do with the inheritance. And because Zeb was Citizen Number One, his only son Jonas was, by default, Citizen Number Two when Zeb was present and, while the old man was in jail, Jonas was The Boss. And he was equally surprised at himself at how easily and how well he made choices and decisions; at how he dealt with business men—with grown men—like Horace Edwards.

  "He's one to watch," Jonas said out loud to himself. He didn't know why he thought that anymore than he knew why he'd accepted Beau Thatcher's offer or why he insisted that the Thatcher stores sell to Colored people or why he bought Doc Gray's car or why the idea just that moment occurred to him to buy a truck and to turn the defunct bar into a warehouse. "That'll save money in the long run" he said. And he thought: It'll be better to haul that whiskey in a truck with a bunch of other stuff instead of in the back seat of an automobile. "I bet Beau'll think it's a smart idea, too."

  ***

  Nellie felt awful, and the struggle to conceal her illness from her family only made matters worse, but she couldn't let them know that she was sick. She had gone against her husband and Uncle Will in her insistence that she be able to travel to Belle City to meet with the professor at the college who knew how to write to Eubie, that she be able to leave with Mr. First and Beau and Tobias on Sunday evening. She wanted to send Eubie a letter telling him that it was time to come home, telling him that he could bring his French family if he wanted to, but the important thing was that he come home. Si had tried to reason with her, pointing out more than once, that Eubie had made it clear he had no intention of returning to Carrie's Crossing. Uncle Will, with considerably less patience, had pointed out that Eubie most definitely could not bring his French family with him: "They white folks, Nellie. He can't have no white wife here." She had been unwilling to yield, had made it clear that she would be going with Mr. First Freeman, Bea
u and Tobias on Sunday evening when they returned to Belle City, had made it clear that she was telling, not asking. Her intransigence on the matter had put a damper on the usually festive monthly visits of the three men. They'd brought the usual gifts and treats, but nobody got much enjoyment from the usually looked-forward-to ritual, even though Nellie and Ruthie were busy preparing the usual Saturday and Sunday feasts as if things were normal.

  "Ma?"

  Nellie forced herself to smile into her daughter's eyes. "You making the corn bread today?" she asked.

  "You sick, Ma?" Ruthie asked.

  "No, I ain't sick," Nellie said a bit too forcefully, then added, "It's hot in this kitchen."

  Ruthie looked at her mother; it was always hot in the kitchen. "I'll make the corn bread. You go sit outside in the shade, and I'll bring you a glass of lemon tea."

  Nellie wanted to protest, but the thought of sitting in the shade with a cool drink was more than a little appealing. She wiped her hands on her apron, then reached out for the table as the floor seemed to shift beneath her.

  "Ma!" Ruthie screamed as she reached out to catch Nellie. Both women sank to the floor, Ruthie cushioning the dead weight of her unconscious mother.

  Ruthie's scream had brought the men running. Pa burst into the kitchen, followed by her three brothers, Mack, Mr. First, and Uncle Will, all of them staring in shock and horror at the sight of Ruthie and Nellie on the kitchen floor, the girl gently tapping her mother's face in an attempt to restore consciousness. Big Si dropped to his knees and took his wife's hands but not knowing what else to do and having no idea what to say.

  "We got to get her up off the floor," Uncle Will yelled. "Y'all get her up from there."

  Beau, Tobias, Little Si, and Mack, two on each side, slid their arms beneath Nellie, creating a stretcher, and lifted her. Ruthie scrambled to her feet and ran to the bedroom to turn down the bed covers.