Quilt patterns often derive their names from many fascinating places and take into account religious traditions, geographical fauna and wildlife, local customs and historical and political beliefs. A good example according to Ruth Finley, author of Old Patchwork Quilts and the Women Who Made Them, is the pattern Bear’s Paw. The four-pointed, tulip-like pattern was popular under that name in western Pennsylvania and Ohio since the 1800’s. The exact same pattern has been called Duck’s Foot in the Mud in Long Island, where ducks were more prevalent than bears and Hand of Friendship by Pennsylvania Quakers who are known for their gentle hospitality.
The difficult pattern known as Drunkard’s Path has also been called, before 1849, Rocky Road to Dublin suggesting that Irish immigrant women might have utilized the design and Rocky Road to California which would have certainly been the case for many pioneer women on the trail West. It was also known for reasons personal to the quilter herself as Fool’s Puzzle, Falling Timbers and Country Husband. It is a Robbing Peter to Pay Paul pattern which also suggests how much folk sayings and wisdom played in the naming of patterns. No child, according to quilt lore, should be allowed to sleep under a Wandering Foot quilt or they would grow up with an unstable, seeking life. It is not a pattern that a bride would want in her dowry of quilts.
Some patterns name origins are obvious from nature such as Streak-of-Lightning, Rail Fence and Pickle Dish while others are more mysterious like Sugar Loaf and Blindman’s Fancy. My own favorite pattern, Secret Drawer, a spool-like pattern has also been called Arkansas Traveler though there is nothing in the history books to suggest why. Political quilts have always been popular, showing that women felt a real interest in their country’s affairs. Burgoyne Surrounded immortalized British General John Burgoyne who in 1777 led a poorly equipped army in the Saratoga Campaign of the American Revolution and eventually surrendered. Lincoln’s Platform and Madison’s Patch celebrated sitting presidents. I wouldn’t be a bit surprised if some quilter now is fashioning her own pattern which might be called Victory Over the Axis or Bring Our Boys Home.
After a few minutes trying to figure out the copying mechanism attached to the microfilm machine, I made a copy of the article for our library at the museum. I continued to run through the pages looking for more articles by her or any story about the Sullivans.
The tragedy of her husband’s death was reported on February 10, 1945. Exactly fifty years ago this month. It was not a headline I could miss.
PROMINENT RANCHER,
BUSINESSMAN FOUND SHOT TO
DEATH IN HOME
The article gave the barest details. Garvey Sullivan was found in the attic of his Victorian house by a housekeeper. There was one gunshot to the temple. No weapon was recovered. His wife was absent at the time and is being sought for questioning. There was no mention of Mitch Warner.
I looked for follow-up stories in the days afterward. There were only three. San Celina police were vague about details, saying only they were working on the case. Then it disappeared among the always dramatic war news.
I found the funeral announcement a few minutes later.
February 15, 1945
MASS SCHEDULED FOR
MR. GARVEY SULLIVAN
A requiem high mass for beloved local rancher and businessman, Garvey Sullivan, will be celebrated at the Santa Celine Mission Friday at 9:00 A.M. He died at his home in San Celina.
Vault entombment will be made in the family plot in the Catholic cemetery under the direction of R. G. Thomlinson Funeral Home.
Recitation of the rosary will take place this Thursday at 8:00 P.M. at 112 Firefly Lane. Mr. Sullivan was a native of San Celina. He leaves his father, Arthur Sullivan, and many friends and colleagues.
No mention of Maple. No mention of how Garvey died. I could guess by the announcement that his father, like so many others, had pronounced her guilty already.
Rubbing the back of my aching neck, I glanced up at the clock over the reference desk. Seven-forty. I had less than an hour and a half before the library closed and I wanted to read her letters.
In the library’s no-talking reading room, which was occupied only by one older man dozing over a book, I settled into a chair in the corner, setting the scrapbook down on the floor next to me. I untied the red ribbon around Maple and Garvey’s letters. Maybe there’d be something I could trace in their relationship from the beginning that pointed to the way it ended up.
Flipping through the letters, I realized I’d only see one side of the relationship tonight. These letters were written by her to him. Did she save his letters? Were they in her trunks or somewhere else? Another mystery to look into.
The letters themselves were so touching and hopeful, it was hard to imagine this woman taking a gun and in cold blood shooting this man she obviously adored.
March 7, 1942
Louisville, Kentucky
My dear, sweet Garvey,
How thrilled I was when I came back to the boarding house and found this letter from you. (My nosy landlady, Mrs. Palmer, tried to read it through the envelope, I just know it. Poor old soul, all of the girls who live here confide in her about their love lives except for me. I refuse to share our glorious love with anyone. It is too precious to me.) How many times have I wondered in the last week whether you were merely a figment of my romantic imagination? How can I have found true love in just three days? Your proposal took me by surprise and I’m sorry if I didn’t believe you were serious. Now I know it is true. You are the man of my dreams and you do love me as I so desperately love you. As I go to work at the cafe every day and watch the people come and go in the train station, I wish upon every star in the sky that one of those trains would bring you back to me. What a wonderful, beautiful chance our meeting was! If you had not had the urge for a cup of coffee right at that moment, if I’d taken my break or called in sick that day, our lives would be so different. For me, the days would have sped along one long, dull highway, always longing for the one person who could fulfill this empty feeling that I have always carried deep in my soul. You, only you, my dear, sweet boy, you who have kidnapped my heart and captured my soul in the prison of your sad eyes. Yes, yes, yes, I will marry you! We will marry and live as only two who have committed themselves to their one true love can, always and forever together. I will feed you grapes from my own fingers, my love, and pour your sherry for you every night until the day I die. I will wipe away your sorrows with my bare hands. I thank God and all His saints in heaven, all those marvelous saints and angels so dear to your heart, for your long-awaited and anticipated love. Take good care, oh my love and life, until we can be together again and forever and you will never be sad again. I cannot wait to see you again and kiss your sweet lips goodnight.
Your only love, Maple
There were twelve letters in all. They all sounded the same, optimistic and lovesick, letters only a young woman in love could write. The last one was dated April 22, 1942.
Dearest Garvey,
This will be my last letter until I am in your arms! It was so wonderful hearing your voice last night, if only for a too short ten minutes. Thank you, thank you for the beautiful silver locket! I will treasure it as long as I live and wear it over my heart. I look forward with great joy to the sound of your voice everyday for the balance of my life. I promise, once we’re married you’ll never be sad again! My single trunk has been sent ahead. I fear I do not bring much to this marriage but that of my great love for you. Mama is naturally saddened by the fact that I will live so far away but is happy for me. Daddy is only worried about the crops, as he always is and about how to buy shoes for my brothers. Will and Lyle are naturally curious about my new life in California. I’ve promised to send them an orange tree. Is that possible? I hope once this war is finally over and that terrible man, Hitler, is put rightfully in prison where he belongs, I will be able to have my family out to California to visit us. If Mama can pull Daddy away from his land, of course. Though he is only leasing, he thinks of it as his. Maybe
someday it actually will be. Oh, I miss you so much, darling! The time cannot fly quickly enough to bring me to your side. I look forward to meeting all your friends and being the caring wife you so deserve. Look for me soon, my love. My train, with God’s good timing, will arrive on Thursday, as I told you on the telephone. I’ll be wearing the ring you gave me and the smile you have, alone, put on my face. I love you so!
Always and forever your, Maple
I folded up the last letter and stuck it back into the yellowed envelope. How had such love and hope turned to murder a mere three years later? I wanted to like Maple Sullivan, wanted so much for this relationship to work out. Her life, or the little bits I could discern from these letters, didn’t sound easy. I guessed that she had come to the big city of Louisville from her daddy’s farm in Mercy Ridge when the war started to waitress in a cafe. From my history studies and Dove’s stories, I knew a lot of women went to work during those times because so many men had joined the war. In Maple’s case, it might have been out of necessity too. Tenant farms were not known for making people rich. Marriage to a wealthy California rancher would have been an unbelievable opportunity to anyone in Maple’s financial position.
So did she really love him or just saw him as a way out of poverty and a dead-end future in Kentucky? Her articles and letters told me she was an articulate woman for being raised in the hills, which led me to believe she had a gifted intelligence. Or a gift for words, anyway. Did she get to California, decided she liked the life but not the man? Did she kill him to get his money? She wouldn’t have been the first woman to attempt that.
I tied the letters back together and picked up the scrapbook. A chill ran down my back and I looked up to see through the darkness outside that a heavy rain had started. I slipped on my jacket and opened the scrapbook.
The first page showed the start of their lives as reported by the San Celina Tribune.
SAN CELINA TRIBUNE
SAN CELINA, CALIFORNIA
May 1, 1942
COUPLE SAY PLEDGES AT
SANTA CELINE MISSION
A whirlwind courtship that had its beginnings two months ago in Louisville, Kentucky, when the groom met the bride in a local dining establishment, was successfully culminated when Garvey Michael Sullivan, local rancher and prominent businessman, made Miss Maple Bennett, of Mercy Ridge, Kentucky, his bride.
The couple exchanged their vows at 5 P.M. at Santa Celine Mission with Father Joseph O’Malley as the officiant. Mrs. Maude Crawford, church secretary, and Arthur Sullivan, the groom’s father, were the sole attendants. Miss Bennett was dressed in a navy blue gabardine suit with an ecru chiffon blouse and a matching close-fitting feather hat with a veil. She had ecru accessories and wore a corsage of pink rosebuds.
Mr. Sullivan, the son of former San Celina mayor, Arthur Sullivan, is a city council member, president of the Cattlemen’s Association, owner of many local businesses and a possible candidate for State Senator. He was educated at Stanford University in business and agriculture, then spent a year abroad completing his education.
Miss Bennett is the daughter of Mercy Ridge, Kentucky, farmer, John Bennett and his wife, Raylene.
After a short honeymoon in San Francisco, the couple will make their home at the Sullivan house on Firefly Lane.
I studied the announcement. Something about it bothered me, something that seemed a little off, but I couldn’t put my finger on it. I read it three more times. Then it occurred to me. First, all the information was about him and what he’d accomplished. Second, his life was listed first. I’d read and reread Elvia’s announcement enough times before she sent it to the newspaper to know that traditionally the woman’s life is acknowledged first. Maple Bennett was already being told by San Celina society where she rated in importance.
Page after page of her scrapbook were clippings of articles where Garvey was mentioned, more often than not accompanied by a photograph—Garvey handing out a prize to the child who’d collected the most tin cans for the war effort, Garvey auctioning off a painting for a USO benefit, Garvey heading a war bonds drive in San Celina, Garvey breaking ground on a new hospital maternity wing being built to accommodate the influx of service men and their wives in San Celina County. All of them portrayed the same tall, smoothly handsome man with dark, brooding eyes and a sad smile I first saw in his wedding photo. I studied the photos closely. If he wasn’t forty, then he was close to it, which would have made him too old for the draft. And most likely, with his large cattle ranch to oversee, with much of the meat going to soldiers, he was probably considered a necessity on the home front. I knew there’d been some industries labeled ESSENTIAL TO THE WAR EFFORT by the government and the men running them were left to do just that. Many of those men made a small fortune during the war. Getting married and having a child also helped keep men from the war, though even that eventually wasn’t enough deferment on its own. Did he marry her just to stay out of the war? On her part, there was definitely love, but I hadn’t read anything written by him yet. I needed to find his letters.
A professional photograph of the both of them was stuck inside one set of pages. I was struck again by how young she appeared. I would guess her at no more than twenty. Like the other photograph, the black-and-white photograph didn’t reveal much. She stood behind him resting one hand on his shoulder. Her dark eyes and smile seemed tentative now to me. How long after their wedding had this picture been taken? What happened to the hopeful smile from her wedding portrait? His face was still sober, his eyes staring at something beyond the camera.
I flipped quickly through the rest of the scrapbook. Toward the end there were clippings of her stories, including the quilt history one I’d just read and other human-interest stories similar to the one about Abbott Fitzhugh. There was even one about Ernie Pyle, the famous journalist and war correspondent. She interviewed him when he came through the Central Coast on his way to see John Steinbeck over in Monterey. What a thrill that must have been for her. And how unusual.
I knew enough about the forties to know it was not the norm for women to be given such literary privileges. All the other female bylines were relegated to the society pages and consisted of reporting what subjects were discussed at women’s clubs meetings, how best to stretch those precious pounds of rationed sugar, and what was going on at the various USO clubs around the county. How had Maple, a stranger from Kentucky whose last job was obviously being a waitress, broken such a barrier?
I suspected that Garvey’s political and monetary influence probably had something to do with it.
I set the scrapbook down and decided to make a list of what steps I needed to take, what people I should see, a game plan as my old history professor used to call it. I was already on the second page of my notebook when a voice over the library’s speaker system announced that it was a quarter to nine—the library would be closing in fifteen minutes.
By the time I’d gathered up my belongings, the rain was falling harder. I stood under the library’s outside awning and contemplated the distance to my truck. The letters could fit in my backpack but the scrapbook was too big so I took off my jacket and wrapped it around the book. I could survive getting wet better than these old newspaper clippings. By the time I had reached my truck, my hair and flannel shirt were soaked, but the scrapbook was dry.
On the drive home I kept thinking about Garvey’s letters to Maple. I wouldn’t rest tonight until I saw if they were in her trunks. Knowing that I was deliberately avoiding the emotional mess waiting for me at home, I turned the truck toward the folk art museum. When I was almost there, I’d already talked myself into waiting until tomorrow. The museum was isolated on this long stretch of road it shared with the Coastal Valley Farm Supply, the San Celina Feed and Grain Co-op, and other smaller businesses housed in prefab metal buildings. Stopping here by myself this late at night was foolish even if I did suspect that most criminals would not venture out in weather like this. Not to mention it was against our co-op’s rules. When I reache
d the museum, I’d talked myself out of stopping and instead going straight home to resolve this problem with my husband.
The vehicle parked next to the museum’s entrance changed my mind. Everyone affliated with the co-op knew the rules. I pulled in for a closer look.
Then I recognized the red Dodge Ram pickup. Detective Hudson, who was obviously here working on the trunks. I parked next to him and dashed around the museum toward the studios. Underneath the canopy of honeysuckle and ivy, the still pouring rain dripped through the heavy foliage. Knowing how jumpy cops can be, I carefully opened the studio door and, before sticking my head in, called out in a loud voice, “It’s me, Detective. Benni Harper.”
He was sitting on the floor next to the first trunk, objects neatly lined up on the floor around him. He faced me, his right hand behind his back. Where he kept his gun, no doubt.
“Leaving that door unlocked is really stupid,” I said, walking into the icy room. “You’re just setting yourself up for an ambush.”
“Bobbie Lee said she would lock it when she left,” he said, bringing his hand back around and resting it on his knee.
Bobbie Lee was one of our artists, a brilliant landscape painter whom I wouldn’t trust to take out the trash, much less lock up after me. “Bobbie Lee has to be reminded to take a leak, Detective. She’s a bit, shall we say, absentminded.”
“How was I supposed to know that?” he asked peevishly. He was dressed in an off-white Irish cable knit sweater whose dry warmth I envied right now. My Levi’s jacket was still damp and clammy from its use as a protective cover for Maple Sullivan’s scrapbook.
“I guess you couldn’t.” But I couldn’t help poking fun at him. “You know, I would have thought your superior detecting abilities would have clued you in to her flaky nature.”
Steps to the Altar Page 10