The Banty House

by Brown, Carolyn

  Why? What difference does it make to you? You vowed to never get close to anyone again after they sent you home to Texas. The pesky voice in his head was like a little kid with too many questions to answer.

  Who says I’m close to her? he argued.

  Time for a reality check, Cowboy. This time it was his buddy Wade’s voice in his head. Wade, from down in southern Louisiana, had gone through basic with him. Wade—who’d been out on that detail with the team that morning that changed their world forever.

  He hadn’t heard that deep Southern accent since the night before Wade had died, and it jarred him to the very marrow of his bones. He took the final picture of the day and then followed the ladies into the house. When they’d agreed on what pictures they wanted, he’d be free to leave. His hands shook as he set the phone on the table and they gathered around to fuss over the photos.

  Have you forgiven me? he almost said out loud.

  Ain’t nothing to forgive. It was a fluke. Wade was like that. Sloan had never heard him say a negative thing about anyone or anything. Once when they were out on a mission, they’d had a flat tire. It was at least a hundred and fifteen degrees, and the sun was beating down on them like it was trying to fry their brains right out of their heads. A wind had picked up and sand blew in their faces when they stepped out of their vehicle. He remembered thinking that not even Wade Beaudreaux could find something positive to say about that situation, but old Wade had just grinned and spit the sand out of his mouth. Then he had said, “Well, boys, at least it’s on the shady side of the truck.”

  Sloan shook his head and came back to the present in the Banty House. Kate had just handed Ginger a hundred-dollar bill, and the woman was holding it like she’d won the lottery. He quickly snapped a picture of her and slid it over into his personal folder.

  “So what are you going to do with it?” Betsy asked.

  “That’ll require more thinkin’, but the first thing I’m buyin’ is a cute little outfit for my baby to wear home from the hospital,” she answered.

  Sloan couldn’t help but wonder just exactly where home would be when she delivered her child.

  Chapter Seven

  On Monday morning, Ginger awoke, went right to her suitcase and felt around in the pocket. She’d dreamed that the money they’d given her for finding the most eggs—even though she wondered how she’d managed to do that—had been stolen. Lucas had taken it to buy drugs and booze, and she’d awakened in a sweat, fearing that it was gone. He wasn’t a mean drunk, but he could get mean if he didn’t get his way. Alcohol didn’t have anything to do with those times when they were low on money and he couldn’t have what he wanted right that moment, like beer or joints or a new video game. At one time he had suggested that she take her skinny butt out on the street, saying she’d make more money than she could ever bring in as a waitress.

  The first time he’d said that, she’d locked herself in the bedroom and cried herself to sleep. After the fiftieth time, it had rolled off her like water off a duck’s back. By then she was wishing he would just leave. She was paying for everything anyway. He was always using his money to buy something to snort up his nose or to pour down his throat.

  Everything came to a head the night she came home to find his worthless friends at the apartment with him. He told her that they were going to pay him fifty dollars each to get two hours with her in the bedroom. She’d told him to go to hell and stormed out of the apartment. She’d slept in a shelter that night, and when she got home from her job the next day, she’d learned that Lucas was dead. If he hadn’t been, her plan was to gather up her things and move out of the apartment, even if she had to go back to the shelter.

  She found the hundred-dollar bill and held it close to her chest for a few minutes, then put it back in the suitcase. It, along with what the Carson sisters would pay her on Thursday, would take her a long way toward California. She’d heard that there were lots of jobs there and that cafés were constantly needing waitresses. She slumped down in the rocking chair over beside the window and gave thanks that she hadn’t let Lucas talk her into selling herself that night. Had she done that for him, she wouldn’t know who the baby belonged to, and somehow that was important to her. Even if Lucas had been a lowdown bastard, at least she knew who her baby’s father was.

  Tears gathered at the corners of her eyes and ran down her cheeks. She’d just made a judgment that was unfair. The Carson sisters hadn’t known for years who their father was, or even if they had the same one. They were all kindhearted and sweet ladies, and she hadn’t meant to condemn them or their mother.

  She was sleeping in a room where no telling how many men had paid for a woman’s time and feeling all superior with a better-than-thou attitude because she hadn’t taken those junkies to the bedroom. She could have been sleeping on a park bench or living in a box under a bridge if Connie hadn’t sat down beside her a few days before.

  As if on cue, Betsy knocked on her door and poked her head inside. When she realized that Ginger was crying, she hurried across the room and gathered her into her arms. “What’s the matter, darlin’? Is it the baby?”

  “No. I wasn’t thinkin’ nice thoughts,” Ginger admitted, wiping her nose. “I’ve been blessed to get to spend time here and . . .” Her voice trailed off. She couldn’t tell Betsy that she’d been patting herself on the back for being righteous when the sisters lived in a house that had been a brothel. It seemed so ungrateful for all the love and care she’d received since she’d been there.

  “We’re the blessed ones, my child,” Betsy said softly. “And you are welcome to stay with us and help us out for as long as you like.”

  “Are you serious?” Ginger asked.

  “Very much so.” Betsy straightened up and patted Ginger on the shoulder. “We can use an extra set of hands, and we just love having you here with us. It’s up to you to make the decision about when you want to leave. We don’t want to pressure you in any way, and we’ll take you to the bus station any day that you say you want to go, but we could sure use some help. We ain’t none of us gettin’ any younger.”

  Ginger pulled a tissue from a box on the table beside her and dried her eyes. “I can’t believe you’re sayin’ that. What about Kate and Connie?”

  “They agree with me,” Betsy said. “I’ve already talked to them.”

  “I could be a scam person, just here to talk you out of your money, or even worse. How can you trust me like this?” Ginger asked.

  “I’m a pretty damn fine judge of character.” Betsy smiled. “Now, let’s go downstairs and get breakfast on the table. Connie’s got a full day planned for the two of you, and I don’t want to hear her bitchin’ about me hornin’ in on her time. She gripes enough because you like to be with me in the kitchen.”

  Ginger couldn’t ever remember anyone—not even Lucas—being jealous of someone else spending time with her. Maybe she would just stay a little while longer and get a nest egg built up for the baby.

  Later on that morning, Connie took her upstairs to the sewing room long before the first knock came to the door, but Ginger found out pretty quick that Connie would know exactly what all went on in the living room. She’d set up a baby monitor on the sewing table beside her, and when they heard the rap, she turned it on.

  “Shhh . . .” She put a finger to her lips. “We’ll just sit back here for a few minutes and listen.”

  “They can’t hear you on the other end. The monitor picks up the sound down there and you get it up here,” Ginger whispered. “One of my foster mothers had a setup like this.”

  “I know, darlin’, but I don’t want to miss a word.” Connie grinned.

  “Hello, Gladys,” Betsy said. “Come right in. Can I get you a glass of sweet tea or lemonade? Both were made fresh this mornin’.”

  “I could sure use a glass of lemonade,” Gladys answered.

  Ginger closed her eyes and put a face with the high, whiny voice. Gladys was the last woman who’d asked Betsy about buyi
ng mint jelly at church the day before. She had a long, thin nose set in the middle of high, thin cheeks that looked skeletal. Her bright-red lipstick had run into the wrinkles around her mouth. Her icy-cold eyes had started at Ginger’s feet and slowly made their way up to the little fascinator hat.

  The sounds of someone bustling around came through the little white box on the sewing table, and then Betsy told Gladys to have a seat. “You mentioned that you wanted mint jelly. I’ve only got six jars left. The mint is beginning to spring up again out back of the house, but it’ll be a while before it’s ready to harvest for jelly.”

  “I’ll take two of them,” Gladys said. “This is sure some good lemonade. You still squeezin’ your own? I’ve gone to that powder stuff that you just put in water.”

  “I like it made from fresh lemons best,” Betsy told her. “I’ll bring out that jelly so you don’t forget to take it with you when you go.”

  Ginger and Connie heard more rustling, and then Gladys whispered, “I’m glad you answered on the first ring. I’m here at the house now. There’s no sign of that girl they brought to church. Maybe it’s one of their strays and she’s already gone. Here she comes back. I’m hanging up now.”

  “I wonder who she was calling,” Ginger said.

  “Probably Edith Wilson,” Connie said. “They’ve been inseparable since we were all in first grade.”

  “So you’ve known them that long? Were you friends?” Ginger asked.

  “Until maybe third grade, when they found out what the Banty House used to be. Mama shut it down after I was born, so it hadn’t been in operation for almost ten years by then. Mama’s girls used to come back to see her real often—real refined ladies they were,” Connie said.

  “Two jars,” Betsy said. “That’ll be ten dollars. More lemonade?”

  “No. I was just wonderin’, though, who that pregnant girl was that came to church with y’all yesterday,” Gladys said.

  “Just a very good friend of ours,” Betsy said.

  “Someone I might know? One of your mama’s old”—she cleared her throat—“acquaintances?”

  “Nope. Don’t reckon you’ve ever met any of her folks,” Betsy answered.

  Someone else rapped on the door, and Betsy excused herself for a minute. “Be right back now. I’m sure it’s Flora Thompson. Only her truck rattles like that,” Betsy said.

  Kate’s voice came through the monitor. “Well, hello, Gladys. I didn’t know you were here. I just got a phone call from Flora, and she said she was on the way. I understand that she’d got a terrible sore throat and needs a little of my special apple pie to help her out.”

  “Damn drunk,” Gladys muttered, but it came through the monitor loud and clear. “I must be going. Would it be all right if I leave by the kitchen door? I parked my car right up next to the garage doors.”

  “Why, sure, darlin’,” Kate said.

  “Who’s Flora?” Ginger asked.

  “She’s one of Kate’s best customers. She pays for her medicine with eggs and butter. She churns the best in Medina County, and her chickens are free range, so that helps with cholesterol problems. When you smoke as much as I do, you got to watch the other issues that could pop up. Don’t pay no attention to Gladys,” Connie said. “She’s pretty close to Edith for bein’ snobby and self-righteous.”

  Ginger gave a brief nod and leaned in closer to the monitor.

  “I thought I saw that self-righteous Gladys in here. I expect she was trying to weasel something out of Betsy about that pregnant girl that y’all brought home from Hondo last week, wasn’t she?” Flora’s voice was as distinctive as Gladys’s, but in a very different way—deep enough to be a guy’s and as gravelly as if she smoked three packs of cigarettes a day.

  “I feel kind of like we shouldn’t be eavesdropping,” Ginger said.

  “Shhh . . . ,” Connie said. “It’s not listenin’ in if Kate and Betsy know, and they do. I like Flora. She ain’t never put us down for what our mama did. She even got to come to our house to spend the night when we were little girls.”

  “Yep, she was,” Betsy said. “Want some lemonade or tea?”

  “No, honey, but I wouldn’t say no to half a glass of that new peach shine that Kate brews up,” Flora said. “I’m so dry, I’m spittin’ dust.”

  “I tried some strawberry this past week. Want to sample a little of it?” Kate asked. “And while I’m in the cellar, how much apple pie do you want?”

  “Three pints,” Flora answered. “And strawberry will be just fine. You offer Gladys any?” She burst out laughing.

  “Nope. I don’t waste good shine,” Kate answered.

  That brought out another bout of laughter. “She wouldn’t have taken it anyway. She thinks if she takes one little sip, the devil will come up out of the ground and drag her kickin’ and screamin’ to hell. I’ve brought six dozen eggs and two pounds of butter. That sound fair?”

  “More than,” Kate said. “I’ll bring up a half pint of my peach to go with the apple pie. I know that you like it pretty good, too.”

  “Thank you, darlin’. You always do right by your friends,” Flora said.

  “Do my best,” Kate said, and then there was a lull.

  “How’s your mama doin’?” Betsy asked.

  “Poorly,” Flora said. “She’s as stubborn as a constipated mule. Won’t take medicine. Says the doctor is tryin’ to poison her. Thank God she’ll take a shot of shine every few hours. It helps with the pain and knocks her square on her ass for a little while so I can get some work done around the farm.”

  Ginger looked over at Connie and raised an eyebrow.

  “Her mama is dyin’ with the cancer,” Connie said. “She’s never been one much for doctorin’. She was a sweet old girl until she got that tumor in her brain. Now she’s turned right the opposite way.”

  “Poor thing,” Ginger said.

  “Yep, and poor Flora,” Connie said. “I hear another car arrivin’. I bet that’s Edith. She’s the one who’s going to try to talk Betsy into sayin’ we’ll put floozies out on the porch. Here.” Connie handed her the skirt of a long white dress and a seam ripper. “You ever use one of those things?”

  “Yes, ma’am. I took home economics in a middle school down south of Harlan while I was there. I made an apron,” Ginger answered.

  “Well, you take the seams out down the sides. I think I can splice in about four inches from one of the other dresses that’s fallin’ apart, and it’ll cover my chubby little body,” Connie told her.

  “Other dresses?” Ginger started the painstaking job of gently removing each stitch.

  “We have the last six dresses that the working girls wore in the Banty House,” Connie said. “On Rooster Romp day, we wear them and drink sweet tea on the porch. I hope the roses are in bloom so folks that stop to take a picture of our old whorehouse get a little color in their photos.”

  “These don’t look like hooker clothes,” Ginger said. “I was expecting something raunchy, like black lace teddies or maybe red silk with garter belts holding up fishnet hose.”

  “This wasn’t a normal brothel.” Connie set to work on taking the stitches out of the bodice of the white dress. “That’s why we won’t let Edith talk us into disgracing the name of the Banty House.”

  “Well, hello, Kate.” A different voice came through the speaker. This one was soft as butter and sweet as honey.

  “Edith,” Kate said. “Come right on in. Flora and Betsy are in the living room.”

  “Oh dear, I didn’t realize that you had company. I can come back another time. Maybe later this week,” Edith said.

  Ginger heard the door close and then footsteps.

  “I guess Edith didn’t want to sit in the same room with me, did she?” Flora laughed.

  “Guess not,” Kate said.

  “I’d like to stay and visit and meet this girl you got hidin’ away somewhere, but she’s y’all’s business and not mine. I reckon y’all will come clean about her if she sta
ys much longer. You should hear the rumors. I done heard that she’s the child of a daughter one of you gave away at birth. Another rumor has it that she’s really Belle’s granddaughter instead of one of y’all’s. That your mama gave birth to a fourth child and the father took her away. Now, with all this technology, the girl has found y’all and is here to claim her share of the Banty House,” Flora said. “Great strawberry shine. Needs just a little more sweet put in it. When you get it perfected, save me back a pint. I think Mama might like it.”

  “Sure thing, and don’t believe everything you hear,” Betsy said.

  “Never do,” Flora said.

  The sound of people walking and then the front door shut. Connie leaned in closer to the monitor.

  “Okay, you can turn it off now,” Kate yelled.

  “Damn, Sister, you almost deafened me,” Connie hollered down the steps.

  Ginger could hear Kate giggling even after she had reached over and switched off the monitor. She’d never felt as if she’d had roots no matter where she’d been sent, but in less than a week, she could almost feel a few growing around her heart.

  Tinker seemed to be as restless as Sloan that night. He’d whine at the door and then come back to the rug under the coffee table and flop down. Then in five minutes he paced around the room and barked. Sloan wasn’t much better. He surfed through the channels on the television several times and found nothing that looked good enough to watch. He pushed the little red power button on the remote and picked up a book from the end table. He read five pages, laid it down, and went to the kitchen. When he opened the refrigerator, he found that the sweet tea jar was empty, so he got out a bottle of water and carried it back to the living room.

  He remembered being restless and bored a lot of times when he and his team were on deployment. They’d play cards, tell tales about things they’d done back home, or watch movies and wait for the next moment when someone needed them to take care of a bomb. Ever since he’d come home, he’d tried to stay so busy that he didn’t have time to be bored or to even think, but here lately things were changing. He wasn’t sure just what to do about it. He couldn’t get back in the army, but he’d begun to want a regular job.