Belle City

by Penny Mickelbury

  Horace jumped to his feet. "Y'all got to stop this! You can't have niggers in an' out whenever they choose. And you can't be sayin' 'please' to 'em. You got to be the voice of authority, you got to be in charge. You! Boy!" he said, pointing at Sam, "You get on outta here. Go on!"

  Sam looked at Jonas, who shook his head, then said, "This is the last time I'll say this to you, Horace: You will not use that kind of language in my house, and you will not tell the people that I pay what to do. They do what Audrey asks and what I ask. They do not take orders from you or from Alice." He looked at Ernestine and Ruby: "Y'all get them ready for bed. Audrey'll be on up to read their stories and sing their lullabies."

  "Yes, sir, Mr. Jonas," they said in unison and hurried out, hugging the children to them as if to protect them from some awful thing.

  "Sam," Jonas said, "did you want to say something?"

  "Yes, sir. You told me to come tell you when Mr. Pace got here."

  "Thank you, Sam. I'll change my clothes—put on my cookin' uniform—and I'll be right out. Don't y'all start without me!"

  Sam touched his hat, threw a slit-lid glance at Horace, said "good evenin', m'am" to Audrey, and left the room. A deep silence reigned for several long seconds, broken only by the sound of Jonas's footsteps as he crossed the room to stand beside his wife. He put his arm around her and pulled her close.

  "The only reason I continue to do business with you, Horace, is because of your daughter. The only reason I invite you into my home is because of Audrey. But I will not tolerate your disrespect not one more minute. I don't care what you say in your home, but in mine, you will respect my wishes. You will not speak to my help, and you will not use foul, ignorant language in front of my children. Do you hear me, Horace?"

  "What I hear is a whole lot of 'my': My house, my children, my help. Your wife have any say-so in your house?"

  Audrey stepped away from Jonas, out of his embrace and toward her father. "Yes, Pa, I do. I have all the say-so I want or need, whenever I want it or need it. I have more than Ma ever had in your house, and I don't need to beg for it."

  Horace looked at her as if at a stranger who'd said something awful to him. "You turned my own daughter against me. With all your highfalutin airs, actin' and talkin' like you're better'n everybody else. Callin' me ignorant 'cause I don't sound like you. Well let me tell you somethin', Mr. Jonas Thatcher: You're a country cracker just like me and everybody knows it. Audrey knows it too."

  "I am a country cracker, Horace, but I'm nothing like you, and I've never tried to be anything but what I was. Yes, I wanted to get educated but not because I wanted to be or to try to be somebody else. I like knowing things. And that's one of the things I first loved about Audrey: She knows things. More things than I do. But I do know this one thing, Horace, and it's something my own pa never learned: You can't treat people badly and think they'll do for you. They won't. My pa used to jump up and down, cussin' at the farm hands, callin' 'em niggers—and worse—and then try to shortchange their wages and wonder why they wouldn't work for him. You ever stop to wonder why you and Alice can't keep any help? And don't tell me it's because Colored people are lazy. Do y'all even know why you hate those people so much you have to make up lies about 'em?"

  Horace looked at him with eyes bulging with hate. Jonas stood there and held his gaze, waiting for him to speak. When he didn't, Jonas suggested that he go to bed so that Ruby could clear the table and wash the dishes. Audrey, he said, was going to put the children to bed and he was going to join Sam and Charlie Pace in the yard to start cooking the meat for the following day's July Fourth celebration. "Leave Audrey alone, Horace. Don't say anything to her. Not one word."

  "She's my daughter. I can talk to her if I want to."

  "She's my wife, and this is my house. You will leave her alone." To Audrey he said, "When you get the children down, you might want to come out and see that…what did Charlie call it? Monument to meat?" He laughed gently, kissed her, and left the room.

  Audrey crossed to Horace and kissed his cheek. "Good night, Pa. See you in the morning." She turned to leave the room.

  "Audrey!"

  She stopped in the doorway but did not turn to face him.

  "He hit me once. Did you know that? He hit me."

  She nodded her head, acknowledging that she heard him or knew that Jonas had hit him—he didn't know which—but still she did not turn or speak, and when he didn't say anything else, she crossed the hallway and went up the stairs to her children. For her part, Ruby waited until she heard Horace Edwards slowly and heavily climb the stairs before she entered the dining room.

  ***

  – Belle City –

  Ruthie

  "Why do I have to take French if I already know it?" Jack demanded. "The teacher already said she was impressed with my fluency."

  "Easily impressed, is she?" Ruthie said, as she drew a red line under a sentence Nellie had written without a single mark of punctuation. Mackie snickered and Jack, who hadn't understood the sarcasm in his mother's remark, now realized that there was more to the words than the words themselves.

  "Why are you at the homework table anyway?" he demanded of Mackie.

  "Where should I be?"

  "You're in college. You don't have to do homework."

  Mackie laughed. "They give you more homework in college than ever. It's so much that sometimes I don't even go to sleep. I just read and study all night long."

  All of the other children stopped what they were doing and looked at him. Then they looked at their mother. "Is that true?" Nellie asked, face wrinkled in consternation, "'Cause if it is, I'm not going to college."

  "You haven't even gotten to high school yet," Thatcher said, head down, eyes, as always, focused on what he was doing or thinking. "It's too soon for you to be worrying about college. Anyway, you have to go. We all do."

  Ruthie gave him a surprised, quizzical look, which he didn't see because his eyes were on his book. He was her dreamy child, the one always reading or thinking, the one always wondering why or what if, and he rarely interjected himself into the arguments and disputes of the other four, so she hadn't realized he was attuned to the discussion at the table. Mack thought it was because he was the middle child—he was younger than Mackie and Wilton, older than Jack and Nellie—and therefore unable or unwilling to take sides. Ruth didn't think that was the case.

  She'd witnessed all four of the others, at one time or another, defer to Thatcher and defend him, as if they intuited the specialness about him that Ruthie believed was there, a thing that she could neither name nor define but which bothered her a bit. If it was an aspect of herself that he shared, a preference for solitude over people, for thought over talk, but which he could sublimate in order to share himself with family and loved ones—that was all right, she thought. But along with those inclinations, she knew, was a tendency toward darkness, to harbor deep, dark thoughts. The key for her was not to linger in that place. Not only did she not wish to, there was no opportunity and there never had been—except the one time: When Nellie was killed.

  The slammed back door and Mack's rushed entrance halted all discussion and captured all attention. That he hadn't stopped to remove his work boots before crossing through the kitchen into the dining room told them something was wrong, but it was the look on his face that confused the children and frightened Ruth. She stood quickly and rushed to him. "What is it?"

  "On the radio. Y'all didn't hear it?" He looked around, realized what they'd been doing instead of listening to the radio. "Oh, yeah: Homework Table. Anyhow, President Roosevelt just announced it. The first ever peacetime draft."

  Ruth and Mackie understood immediately but neither of them spoke. The other children set off a clamor, demanding to know what a peacetime draft was, and even after Mack explained it, only Wilton fully understood its implications.

  "When?" Ruth asked. "What ages?"

  "Starting next month. Men twenty-one to thirty-five are supposed to report to their lo
cal draft boards to register."

  Mackie let out the breath he was holding. He was just twenty.

  "What else?" Ruthie asked, and Mack's hesitation caused her stomach to clench.

  "If war is declared, all men eighteen to thirty-six will be required to register."

  Ruth walked away. Two of her sons—Mackie and Wilton—would be required to register, and to register would mean going to war, and there would be a war to go to. Mr. Roosevelt had just made that very clear. And depending on when the war began and how long it lasted, it could claim her third son as well. There was no point in hoping for what could not happen: That Europe would awaken to peace tomorrow morning. Practically the entire continent had been at war for the last three years…or more precisely, that Hitler had been waging war on the continent for the last three years with nobody much waging back at him. It was almost the end of 1940. The first registrations were required next month, October. Did Roosevelt plan to go to war at the end of the year? Early next year?

  She was, she realized, outside, walking, going she didn't know where. Between thoughts, she'd been trying to define what she was feeling and recognizing the irony of what she'd so recently concluded about her middle son. Her own thoughts at this moment were deeply dark. But there was something else, the thing that had so tightened in her stomach that doubled her over. She was angry, more so than she'd ever been, even when Nellie was killed or their home in Carrie's Crossing was stolen by the KKK. She had not imagined anger could be more fierce than that. Yet, in this moment, it was. But anger stood her up straight, prepared her to fight. What she wanted to do now was gather her sons and run…Fear! She felt fear, deep and wrenching, and she hadn't recognized it because she had never in her life been afraid—of anyone or anything.

  She should go home. Where was she? She looked around and got her bearings: Four blocks from her house, and it still was daylight; she could see people in their houses and their yards. She knew all of them, and she nodded and waved greetings and wondered how many of them she had ignored just a little while earlier, when her thoughts had owned her. She knew that there were men of draft age in many of these houses. Had they heard the news? Were they angry or fearful? Was it only the women who would be afraid, or would the men, too, feel fear? Did young men feel fear? The men who'd gone to that first war, The Great War, certainly would, for they would know what was in store for them. She remembered Beau saying to Jonas, all those years ago, that he was lucky that his brother had died in France because being dead in body was better than being dead in mind and spirit while still physically alive. Surely if Beau thought he'd have to go to war again he'd be afraid. But Beau now was too old for war. So was her husband. It was just her sons who would be called on to go to a far off foreign place to fight—again—for a country that still hated them, and perhaps always would, just because they were who they were.

  Now the anger shoved the fear aside. She wanted to kill them, the ones who made war, all of them. How dare they do this again? Then the anger waned as quickly as it had arisen because she realized that even if it were possible to kill them all, their thoughts and ideas wouldn't die with them; they kept records of their cruelty and some future one of them would read the record and consider it worthy, and she would have damned her soul for naught.

  ***

  – Carrie's Crossing –

  Jonas

  "Jonas Farley Thatcher, you come down off that ladder right now!"

  "But I'm helping, Audrey. Aren't I, Sam?"

  Sam looked from one to the other, a sly grin spreading across his face. "Well, now, Miss Audrey," he said slowly, "he does have his uses, Mr. Jonas does."

  Audrey gave them both the same disgusted look. "Men. You all stick together, don't you?" She stalked away to sound of their giggling, glad they couldn't see her own laughter. Jonas was as excited as the children, stringing white lights around the roof of the stables and in the trees and on the house. They'd decorate the inside tree tonight. It would be a family affair: Rachel and Cory and their children would join Audrey and Jonas and their children. They'd sit in front of the fireplace and drink hot cider and sing carols. That their family wasn't as large as some others weighed like a boulder on both of them, but, they told each other, some family was better than none, and they both were grateful for sweet, gentle Rachel. Audrey said that Jonas and Rachel were as they were because of his mother, while she was, as she put it, the only sane one in her family because both of her parents were crazy. Jonas had had no contact with Esther and her husband, Caleb, since he fired them the night of Zeb's death. He knew they lived somewhere near Stevensville, but he didn't know exactly where, and if Rachel hadn't asked about Esther, he'd not have thought about her. His entire focus was on the holiday season and the Christmas Eve party they were having. Already, Jonas and Audrey's July Fourth and upcoming Christmas Eve functions had taken on tradition status: There'd been but one July Fourth party and this would be the first Christmas Eve gathering, but an invitation was a sought-after commodity, and the assumption was that the success of the parties would be the raison d'être for their continuance.

  Audrey was not so secretly pleased that, without having tried, she'd succeeded in becoming an important social arbiter in Carrie's Crossing and was becoming known in Belle City though over there, birthright and family both were as necessary as money for social standing, and, as Jonas forthrightly would acknowledge to any who asked, he and his wife were just a couple of country crackers who'd made good. But they were well-matched in their dislike of pretension and had no desire to traverse the Belle City social circuit. They took great delight and joy in their children, and Jonas in his work. His success as a developer was well-known, and he owned and developed property in three states. That was the only negative to Jonas's way of thinking: That his business more and more often required him to travel. He took Audrey and the children with him when he could—to Nashville and Memphis and Charleston—but as often as not, the land he purchased for development was undeveloped or rural; he'd slept in his car more than once.

  Baby Alice did not yet understand Christmas, but she felt the excitement in the house and reacted to it. JJ understood full well what was happening and was so enthused at the prospect of decorating the fifteen foot fir in the living room that he threw up his lunch, refused to take his nap, and by supper time was so cranky that Jonas had to carry him around like a baby, whispering and singing to him, until he finally dropped off to sleep, where they'd leave him until Rachel and Cory and their children arrived.

  Jonas was every bit as excited as JJ. He didn't throw up his lunch and he was anything but cranky, but he refused to sit down, even for a moment. He had never had a Christmas like this. During his growing up, his ma was so often sick that skipping special days was the rule rather than the exception. Then there was the question of money: There wasn't any for the buying of presents, even if Zeb had been inclined to treat his children to the myth of St. Nick or Father Christmas or, as Zeb called him, Sandy Claws, as in, "There ain't no such person as Sandy Claws bringin' presents to nobody." Jonas vowed that for as long as his children were inclined to receive the myth, he'd be inclined to foster it. Audrey felt the same way, though she had, throughout her childhood, enjoyed a whole season of merrymaking: "From Thanksgiving straight through to the New Year!" Her parents believed in celebrating and in providing elaborate gifts for their children. Jonas had to give Alice and Horace credit where credit was due, and the truth was that the three Edwards children knew that they were loved. No child could ask for more, and no child could ever get over the feeling of not being loved if he never knew that feeling.

  Jonas burst into the house, grabbed Audrey by the hand, and pulled her toward the kitchen door. He beckoned to Ernestine and Ruby. "Y'all come see the lights. It looks like paradise."

  From the Dairy of Jonas Farley Thatcher December 9, 1941

  My thoughts alternate between what happened at the Pearl Harbor navy base the other day, and my memories of last Christmas—it was the bes
t one of my life. We could not know that it would be the last good Christmas for a while. We'll put the lights up this year—Audrey says we should for the children's sake because they don't understand war but they do understand Christmas and we shouldn't ruin it for them. I suppose she's right, but I can't summon the feeling. All that death and destruction. And of course we are a country at war now. Hitler and Tojo wanted a fight. Well, now they've got one, and I think they'll be sorry. I know nobody can predict the future, but I think this war is going to change everything—for us in America and for everybody around the world.

  From the Recorded Memories of Ruth Thatcher McGinnis

  Pa and Beau showed up early on the morning of December 9th. They had driven all night. Beau said he figured the police had more to worry about than the two of them, and he was right. All the police in all the coastal states were on alert, charged with guarding the coastline in case of a second attack. Nobody was asleep when they arrived because none of us had been to bed. We had spent the entire day listening to the radio, absorbing every bit of news that was broadcast. They walked in the door, and I started to cry. I had never shed tears in front of my children, but this time I couldn't help myself. I wept for Beau who should never have had to think about war again, and even though he wouldn't have to go, two, perhaps three, of his nephews would, and that was all but destroying him. He wept with me, and so did Pa. We were so distraught that Mackie and Wilton begged us to stop. They said we were frightening them, and they didn't want to be any more scared than they already were. As I remember that day, and I recall it in vivid detail, I'm aware that I have to work at not sounding platitudinous…oh, Sissy, you know how you all are always chiding me for being able to put a positive spin on every event? Well, there was a positive aspect to Mackie and Wil being called up—no, really there was. See, they both were in college, and there weren't very many Black men in college in 1941, and they both were fluent in French. The army hadn't been integrated yet, but there were some divisions of Black soldiers being trained for more than menial and manual labor. And of course when the real fighting started, the French army was only too pleased to have Black soldiers fighting with them. But—before that, the army had established the first flight school for Black pilots at the base in Tuskegee. That's right, you now know them as the Tuskegee Airmen, but in 1941, it was an experiment that the army fully expected to fail. They did it because the NAACP and the National Urban League had threatened to bring a hundred thousand Black people to Washington to protest the situation in the army and in the defense contracts. It was just like World War I all over again and people weren't going to stand for it. So, to start out, Mackie and Wilton went to Tuskegee and taught French. They also taught our soldiers how to recognize other European languages—German and Italian—how to tell the difference between our Allies and our enemies.