The Amethyst Heart

by Penelope J. Stokes

  “Something my grandparents would approve of,” Amethyst answered cryptically. “A Pearl and Silas Plan.”

  28

  In the Lion’s Den

  August 1918

  Amethyst sat in the front row of a small semicircle of chairs and tried to maintain her composure as the Town Council gathered for its monthly meeting. At the front of the room, a long table with five leather chairs sat empty. Behind her, she could hear the murmuring of voices as a few people milled around finding seats. Once or twice her ears caught a mention of her own name, but she refused to turn around and give the gossips the pleasure of knowing they had irritated her.

  Precisely at seven o’clock, a side door opened and the mayor entered, followed by the four councilmen. Amethyst narrowed her eyes and looked them over. Rube Layton, the mayor, a fat, flabby man with a flush complexion, took the center seat and cleared his throat. His head sat directly on his shoulders without benefit of a neck, making him look as if he were perpetually being lynched by his own necktie—an apt image, Amethyst thought, given the grunts and growls that punctuated any sentence he spoke.

  To his right sat Will Tarbush, owner of Tarbush Construction. Tarbush had not gained a seat on the council because of his innate intelligence or civic pride, but because of the power his construction company gave him in the community. At Tarbush’s elbow, whispering in his ear and pointing in her direction, was Ollie Ferrell, an oily fellow with a face like a weasel who ran the hardware store on the square. Completing the council were Marshall Avery and Lyle Constable. Marsh, a shirttail cousin on Grandma Pearl’s side of the family, was current owner and operator of Avery’s Mill. Lyle managed the Feed & Supply down on the south end of University Avenue. Amethyst didn’t know either of them very well, but Lyle was a salt-of-the-earth type, and Cousin Marshall certainly came from a good bloodline. She held out hope that she might be able to appeal to their sense of decency.

  Mayor Layton pounded a wooden gavel on the tabletop and let out a series of growling noises—a totally unnecessary action, since the few townspeople who sat scattered out in the room had already quieted down. “Order!” he roared, hammering the gavel harder. “This meeting of the Cambridge Town Council will come to order.”

  Marsh leaned in toward him and whispered, loud enough for everybody to hear: “Rube, I think we’re already orderly enough.”

  A titter went through the crowd, and Rube’s face flushed even redder, if that were possible.

  “Ahem. Yes, well. We’ll begin with Councilman Constable reading the minutes of the last meeting.”

  Lyle Constable fumbled for his notes and let his eyes rest on Amethyst for a moment. Clearly, her presence here had them all a little ruffled. “We, ah, decided to hire Trey Hayward, Johnny’s oldest boy to cut the grass and trim the shrubs in the courthouse square—ten dollars a month, out of the general budget.” His gaze searched the pages in front of him. “And, uh, we voted to have this year’s Labor Day picnic in the grove at the college—with the approval of the dean, of course. And I guess that’s about all.”

  “No, that ain’t all,” Tarbush objected, leaning forward to throw a menacing look in Constables direction. “It’s right here in Ollie’s ledger—he’s the treasurer, you know. We also voted to buy a new flag for in front of the courthouse and have the statue of the Confederate soldier cleaned.”

  “Uh, yeah, I guess we did.” Lyle shuffled his papers nervously. “Oh, I got it.” He held up a page and nodded. “Sorry.”

  “You’re sorry, all right,” Tarbush muttered.

  The longer Amethyst watched Tarbush, the less she liked him. Perhaps it wasn’t a Christian sentiment, but she couldn’t help it. Of all the nerve, to call down his fellow councilman in public—and unless she missed her guess, it wasn’t the first time. Lyle Constables reaction spoke volumes about how often he had to take this kind of treatment.

  She had fully intended to come into the meeting with cannons loaded, ready for a fight. But now Amethyst began to rethink her strategy. If she stood up and accused them all of bigotry, they would simply turn a deaf ear to her. Marsh and Lyle might listen, but they only represented two votes out of five. At the very least she had to find the mayor’s soft underbelly—he was the swing vote. But maybe there was a way to convince all of them, even nasty old Tarbush, without them knowing they were being convinced. . . .

  People around her shifted in their seats, attempting to hide their boredom while the council went through its mind-numbing agenda: the garbage problem behind the hotel restaurant; the need for a new streetlight on Main and Third; the question of getting a new Baby Jesus to replace the one stolen last Christmas (tabled until the September meeting); a resolution to require Neta Parkinson to remove the ladies’ undergarments from her window display at the La Femme House of Clothing.

  At a quarter to nine, Mayor Layton pounded his gavel, waking half the spectators from a sound sleep. “If there’s no new business from the floor, we’ll adjourn.”

  Obviously he didn’t expect any, or wanted to close down the meeting as fast as possible before anyone had a chance to raise any real concerns. But Amethyst was too quick for him. She jumped to her feet and said, “Mr. Mayor, I have some business I’d like to discuss.”

  Will Tarbush glared at her from his side of the table. “Rube, she’s out of order!”

  “No, Mr. Tarbush, I am not.” Amethyst raised a sheaf of papers. “According to the city charter, any resident has the right to appear before the Town Council and bring an issue for consideration.”

  Rube Layton narrowed his piglike eyes at Amethyst until they almost disappeared. “She’s right, Will.”

  “But she’s a . . . a woman!”

  Amethyst batted her eyes and smiled at him. “Very perceptive of you, Mr. Tarbush.”

  The mayor gave a rumbling chuckle, and a wave of laugher moved through the room. Good, Amethyst thought. Laughter disarms people.

  “The charter makes no limitation upon the gender of any person who wishes to speak. With your permission, Mayor Layton?”

  The mayor cleared his throat and nodded. Amethyst stood up and faced the council.

  “Cambridge has long prided itself on its civic heritage,” she began. “A heritage of community, where we all help each other and care about each other.” She fixed her gaze on Ollie Ferrell. “Remember, Mr. Ferrell, when Widow Nance got a leak in her roof, not two weeks after she buried her husband? As I recall, you provided the materials to fix it at no charge, and even went out there and helped put on the new shingles yourself.”

  Obviously surprised, Ferrell scrunched his ratty little face up in the imitation of a smile. “Yes’m, I did. It was the right thing to do.”

  “Indeed it was. It was a very generous act. And you, Mr. Tarbush—” Amethyst turned to look into the man’s eyes. “When lightning took out the steeple of our church, you sent a crew over to rebuild it, did you not?”

  Tarbush’s chest puffed out, and he showed his yellow teeth in a grin. “Well, sure. I’ve been a good Presbyterian all my life. Donated the wood, the nails, the paint, everything.”

  “My point exactly. This is not just a town; it’s a community. During the drought of 1915, Mr. Constable there provided feed for most of the county’s cattle—on credit, at no interest—to get the farmers by until the rains came again. When the river flooded a few years back, most of the men in this town went down in the middle of the night to fill sandbags for a dike. And everyone knows how much you, Mr. Mayor, care about the people of this town. You’ve set the example for the citizens of Cambridge to take the Good Book seriously when it says, ’If your neighbor is hungry, feed him; if he thirsts, give him drink.’ Isn’t that right?”

  Rube Layton leaned back in his chair, a smug expression on his fat face. “Of course, Miss Amethyst. That’s what my leadership as mayor is all about—helping make Cambridge a fine, attractive place to live, a place where people feel they belong.”

  “Yes, Mr. Mayor, I’m certain that’s true,�
� Amethyst agreed. “And I’m equally certain that you will be shocked to know that some of our citizens don’t feel as if they belong. That they feel like outcasts, when they haven’t done a single thing to deserve such treatment. The fact is, some of our fellow townspeople have made Cambridge a very disagreeable place to live.”

  Rube sat up straight and focused his eyes on her. “Who would do such a thing? Every citizen of Cambridge has the right to be treated with respect, and if they’re not, I want to know about it. I won’t tolerate such behavior in my town.”

  Amethyst smiled. She had him right where she wanted him. “I’m glad to hear you say that, Mayor Layton. According to Mr. Tarbush, at the last meeting you voted on several important issues—purchasing a new flag for the courthouse square, cleaning up the Confederate soldier that stands in front of the square as a symbol of Cambridge’s civic pride. What would you say if I told you that other soldiers—men who went to war to defend our way of life here in Cambridge—have been ostracized from its society and refused jobs for which they were qualified?”

  Forgetting all about his gavel, Layton pounded his meaty fist against the table. “I’d say that Cambridge isn’t that kind of town! I’d say that we’ll make it right, no matter what it takes!”

  Caught up in the momentum, Will Tarbush got into the act. “You’re golldurn right we will! It’s high time this council did something important, ’stead of just sittin’ around on our duffs talking about picnics and trash!”

  “Amen to that!” Ollie Ferrell squeaked.

  So far, neither Marshall Avery nor Lyle Constable had uttered a word, and suddenly Tarbush seemed to notice their silence. “What about you wimps?” he yelled, leaning over the table and craning his neck to glare at them. “Ain’t you gonna say anything?”

  Marsh fixed his gaze directly on Amethyst and gave her an almost imperceptible wink. “Yes indeed,” he answered Tarbush. “I’m going to make a motion that the council adopt a resolution. Are you ready, Lyle?”

  Lyle Constable poised pen over paper and nodded.

  “Be it hereby resolved that the Town Council of Cambridge, Mississippi, enacts this local ordinance: that no citizen shall without warrant be denied employment, lodging, or any public service, or be subjected to any degrading or disrespectful behavior This resolution is to be called the Good Neighbor Statute, and any violation of it is to be reported directly to the Mayor’s office, where action will be taken against the perpetrators in the form of monetary fines and/or revocation of business licenses. You got that, Lyle?”

  Constable nodded. “Got it.”

  “All in favor?” the mayor roared.

  “Aye!”

  The vote was unanimous, and a ripple of applause ran through the spectators. Amethyst figured no one really understood the significance of what the council had just done—except for herself and Marsh Avery. They were just glad to see the council doing something.

  “All right, people, calm down,” Rube Layton yelled. “This ain’t no dog and pony show.”

  “Mr. Mayor,” Amethyst said, giving a gracious little curtsy, “may I express to you my gratefulness for the strength of character and integrity you have all demonstrated here tonight.”

  “Why, you’re welcome, Miss Amethyst,” Layton responded with a silly grin. “Happy to oblige. That’s what we’re here for, after all—to make sure everyone in our fair town has an equal chance at life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness. And may I say—”

  He was about to go on with his bombastic speech when Amethyst held up a gloved hand to stop him. “Mr. Mayor, could I ask one more teensy little favor?”

  “Why, yes ma’am. Ask away.”

  “I’d like to have some copies of this resolution. For the historical value of this action, you know. Might I pick up, say, ten copies at your office on Monday?”

  He tugged at his lapels and nodded. “Monday will be fine, Miss Amethyst. And the resolution will be posted in the newspaper first thing Monday morning. We want all our people to know how the council is working on their behalf.”

  “You’re doing a fine, fine job of it, too,” Amethyst cooed. “And now, if you’ll excuse me, I’ll take my leave.”

  Amethyst could feel the eyes of the five councilmen on her back as she turned to leave the room. They’re pleased as puppies with themselves, she thought. And by the time they figure out what they’ve done, it’ll be too late.

  Come Monday, there would be work for everyone.

  29

  The Sheik and the Spinster

  November 1923

  Harper Wainwright sat behind his desk at Bainbridge Metal Works and slowly turned the pages of the annual ledger. It was still six weeks until year’s end, but he didn’t need to wait for the December accounts to be able to tell Mac Bainbridge that profits were up again—this time by 18.5 percent.

  In the five years Harper had worked for Mac, earnings had increased every year. He had begun as a metalworker out in the plant, and within a year had been promoted to plant supervisor. At first the men resented his promotion, but when they discovered he could find ways to make their jobs easier and more efficient, they came around. No one had called him “Scarface” in over a year—except for the new fellow hired last month, and he only did it once. The other workers had jumped on him like a cat on a June bug, and Harper himself hadn’t had to say a single word of reprimand.

  Because of Harper’s efficiency and the new techniques he had discovered through a dedicated study of the business, Bainbridge Metal had never been in such good financial shape. Mac had originally wanted to pocket the profits, but Harper had convinced him that raising salaries would benefit everyone. And it had worked. Every man on the plant floor knew that hard work meant increased profits, and increased profits meant a raise in the hourly wage. There were no slackers at Bainbridge Metal. Nobody complained. Now guys were lining up to apply for jobs, and Mac had a waiting list longer than his brand-new, luxury-model Pierce-Arrow

  Harper gave a satisfied chuckle and closed the book. Five years, and he had not yet lost the joy of coming to the plant every day. When a man had to fight for the right to work, Harper supposed, he appreciated it more. It was one of many things he was grateful for during this season of thankfulness.

  When he opened the top drawer of his desk to replace the ledger, the corner of a yellowed sheet of paper caught his attention. He drew it out and sat back in his chair, smiling to himself. The original copy of the Town Council’s “Good Neighbor Statute"—he had brought it with him when he came for his initial interview with Mac Bainbridge. He ought to frame it, Harper thought, and hang it on the wall. A reminder of Amethyst Noble’s courage and dedication.

  Amethyst would say that she had only followed an old family recipe—two parts pride, three parts shame, and a dash of feminine wile. But whatever methods she had used, she had gotten the job done, and all of them had benefited. Rod Powell had created quite a following for himself, playing the piano down at the hotel restaurant. Mansfield, the owner, took credit for “discovering” him, of course, and when a dance hall manager from Memphis stopped in and offered Rod double his salary to play six nights a week at the Riverview Palace, Mansfield nearly had a fit of apoplexy. But Rod went to Memphis anyway, married some nice girl, and now had two children and a successful career.

  Pete Hopkins had landed a job at the Feed & Supply, working alongside Lyle Constable. Although confined to a wheelchair, Pete could do just about anything except reach the top shelves. He talked Constable into hiring Steven Bird as their accountant, and when the owner decided to sell, the three of them purchased the business in equal shares.

  Even Larry Summers had done well for himself. With Silvie’s encouragement, he had gotten himself a claw arm and learned to use it so deftly that nobody thought of him as being crippled anymore. He went to work as a telephone operator—quite a novelty, being the sole man in a “woman’s” domain. He and his new wife now lived in a little house down at the end of Main Street and were expecting
their first baby in the spring.

  Harper fingered the faded paper and sighed. Thanks to Amethyst and her Good Neighbor Statute, all the original fellows who had taken refuge in Noble House had found a place and created a new life for themselves. All except him.

  He had a good job, of course, and friends in the plant. He could walk down the street without being stared at or called names. Even Will Tarbush had changed his tune—once he saw how successful Mac’s business was getting, he came to see Harper in private and offered him a sizable bonus to jump ship and come over to manage Tarbush Construction.

  Harper didn’t take the bait, of course. Tarbush was still a bigot and a fool, with a heart as hard as old oak planks. The man hadn’t changed; he had only conceded to the power of the almighty dollar. Besides, Harper was happy where he was, and the money didn’t mean that much to him. The only disappointing aspect of his life had to do with his personal relationships. Specifically, his relationship with one person.

  Amethyst Noble.

  For five years Harper had kept his feelings for Amethyst to himself. They were friends—good friends, to be sure—but that was all. Every Christmas they exchanged little tokens of their affection; every Sunday they attended church services together. Twice a year or so they’d drive up to Memphis or Sardis Lake for a daylong outing. But other than a squeeze on the arm or a pat on the shoulder, Amethyst gave no indication of wanting their relationship to change in any way. And so he could not tell her the truth.

  The truth was, he loved her. He respected her. He adored her. And he couldn’t tell her—not even now, when he was a successful plant manager. He couldn’t take the chance that she would not share his feelings, couldn’t risk losing the friendship that they had developed. Some things had changed for the better in Cambridge, Mississippi, and for that he was grateful. But Amethyst Noble being courted by Scarface? It was too radical even to imagine.

  Harper gave a sigh and replaced the paper in the desk drawer. It was almost quitting time, and he needed to make one last pass through the plant before going home.