Cakewalk

by Rita Mae Brown

  “They’re the questions we should all ask. I tell myself if we ever get the vote, this will change. No woman wants to send her husband, her son, her brother to war. Maybe we can change it.”

  “Celeste, you have to change men first.”

  “Well, you don’t believe in it.”

  “Only because I saw it. I signed up to fight. I wanted to fight.”

  “Would you fight again?”

  A silence followed this question as they rode by masses of daffodils planted by an unseen hand a century ago, or a gift from the birds, who knew.

  “If we were invaded, I would. Imagine that your Runnymede Square has two deep trenches on either side of the Mason-Dixon Line in which thousands upon thousands of men sat, lived, died, all along Maryland and Pennsylvania. And we’d built cannons that could lob shells seventy miles, we had machine guns and barbed wire. Insane. The limeys and the French complained that Americans wouldn’t be able to fight, that all we knew were what they called running battles because most of our experiences were against Indians. Obviously they forgot about the Revolutionary War, the War of 1812, and the horrors of 1861 to 1865. They really thought we couldn’t endure or understand what they called set battles.”

  “They were wrong,” Celeste quietly said.

  “It took us a little bit to adjust. Mostly because we thought it was a misuse of men, and it was. Everyone was a sitting duck. You know what? We saved their sorry asses.” He stopped before he truly lost his temper.

  “Yes, yes, I think we did. I don’t grasp how nations that gave us Beethoven or Shakespeare or even this new writer, Proust, I don’t understand how they could be so blind.”

  “I don’t either but back to your question. Yes, I hope that was the war to end all wars, but I think killing is bred into us as well as stupidity.” He took a deep breath. “I hope I haven’t upset you.”

  “Just the reverse. I want to know what you think and feel. You’ve lived through things I have not. I live well because you lived through them, as did my father and my grandfather. What I have is a superb education and not a bad brain, but I have only so many experiences, and many of those have been muffled because I’m a woman. I resent it, you know.”

  A smile burst across his handsome face. “That you are and we can fuss about that, but I don’t want you to know what I know. I don’t want Cora or Louise or Juts to know these horrors or my sister or mother. Trust me, Celeste. Trust me on this.”

  A flood of gratitude, respect, perhaps the first flush of deep understanding swept over her. “I do trust you, Ben. I trusted you the moment I met you and I have no idea why.”

  “One of the fellows in my unit believed in past lives. Maybe we knew one another before. No matter. I’m glad we know one another now.”

  “I wonder if now with our advancements, can we reduce suffering? Perhaps we knew one another in even more savage times. But maybe we can end this suffering.”

  “You’d have to eliminate free will.”

  Celeste stopped Roland and Sweetpea followed suit. “You fascinate me. I watched you think at speed during the baseball game. Your mind is unusual. Perhaps you know that. I have had one of the best educations money can buy, but that thought never occurred to me.”

  “Maybe that’s why. What you learned was orthodoxy.”

  “True. I did. I also learned the underpinnings of Western culture. I have a lot to learn from you.”

  “Flattery will get you everywhere,” he teased. “I’m not so smart, but I think for myself. And, to change the subject, can we go a little faster?”

  “Do you know how to post?”

  “What?”

  “I’ll show you.” She did rise on the horse’s diagonal, a proper post.

  He watched, then tried to imitate her. He flopped back onto the saddle.

  “You see why it’s imperative for men to learn to trot.”

  “I do.” He took a deep breath, tried again, and trotted beside her.

  They trotted a bit, no cantering, then walked back to the stable, where Henry awaited them. His church service didn’t begin until noon.

  Ben dismounted, swinging his right leg over then pushing his left foot out of the stirrup to gracefully land on the grass. Then he reached up to give her a hand, she dismounted properly but also gracefully.

  Face flushed, she put her hand around his neck, bending him to her while she whispered in his ear, “If life made sense, men would ride sidesaddle.”

  He laughed. She laughed. Neither one could remember a time of such laughter as the last few days. Clouds of laughter, torrents of laughter, feeling light as a feather, floating with joy, feeling the sunlight in even the darkest corners. Carefree. Demons at bay, sadness banished. Blessedly carefree.

  As the caboose lurched slightly, heading east, Celeste felt her heart lurch away with it. He was gone. Once the train was out of sight, she walked back through the station. Patience sat inside the doors, as the morning air was a cool forty-two degrees.

  “No stars last night. Clouds.” Patience pronounced clouds like “clauds.”

  “Maybe it will be clear tonight.”

  “I hope so. I like the stars. I like to look up at my friends.”

  “And they like to look down at you.” Celeste pleased her with that remark.

  “People aren’t smart. They think they are but those on the stars know more than we do.”

  “I’m sure you’re right, Patience.” She dropped a dollar in the cup, this time taking a pretzel.

  “I owe you another one. You didn’t take one when that handsome man arrived.”

  “Save it for me. I’ll be back and he’ll be back.”

  “Good. I like looking at handsome men almost as much as looking at the stars.”

  “See, I like looking at horses, hounds, houses, paintings, people. Symmetry. I like that visual harmony.”

  Patience nodded, a solemn look on her face. “Sure you don’t want the other pretzel?”

  “I’ll hold you to it.” She left.

  In front of the station walking toward her was Julius Caesar Rife, the twenty-one-year-old, eldest son of the late Brutus Rife. Wearing a fawn-colored Borsalino, a light polo coat over a dark-blue chalk-pinstripe suit, J.C., as he was known, looked every inch the modern young man. A black armband had been sewn onto his coat, for he remained in mourning for his father; the time for that was usually three months. For a wife the mourning period, determined by black-, purple-, then lilac- or purple-trimmed clothing, lasted longer.

  “Miss Chalfonte.” He lifted his hat.

  “J.C.,” she acknowledged him.

  While she hated his father, she did not hate J.C. After being sent away to the University of Pennsylvania, he seemed to have acquitted himself just fine. The test would be how he would run his father’s business interests. His younger brother, Napoleon, “Pole,” would not be ready to join him for four years. J.C., it was assumed, would lean heavily on his father’s hired men. They assumed incorrectly.

  “May I take this opportunity to assure you I am not my father?” J.C. said. “He kept Pole and myself from anyone who thought differently than he did. We knew that, but there was little we could do about it. I hope in time you will discover I will look after my workers’ welfare as well as my own profits.”

  Startled, Celeste responded, “I hope you do.”

  “Your brother-in-law now has a fleet of four big trucks. He’s moving into new business ventures.”

  “Yes. Herbert, like Stirling, has a gift for investing. He declares business will be strong. He says it takes time to recover from a war, even when you win. So he wants to branch out. Cars, trucks—if it has a motor in it, Herbert is interested.”

  As Celeste had never spoken to him at such length, J.C. was pleased and emboldened. “People say Rob McGrail killed my father. Others believe it was you.”

  Looking straight into his eyes, she said, “If so, I did you a favor.”

  Now it was J.C.’s turn to be startled, but he honestly replied
, “Yes, you did. I hated the son of a bitch.” His mouth curved upward.

  Casting her eyes downward then up into his, Celeste quietly said, “I applaud your truthfulness. Allow me to be truthful back and prevail upon you in your new position. St. Paul’s is in need of roof repairs. I have just given a large amount to my sister’s academy. Might you cover St. Paul’s?”

  He bowed slightly, hat still in his hand. “It will be done.”

  “Thank you. And I have a question which you may not be able to answer. Years ago your father had Cora’s father killed and then later the man with whom she lived, who was trying to start a union at the munitions plant. Obviously, he did not do the dirty work himself. He was a hard man. He wasn’t the only factory owner to kill union organizers, but those two good men were known to me. If you ever find out who did this, if they are local, will you fire them? It won’t do any good to turn them in, as nothing can be proven.”

  He thought, then said, “I will. If you like, I will tell you who they are if I find out, although I doubt my father kept records of that. But if I do, do you want them? Revenge is sweet.”

  “There’s been enough of that.” She reached out her hand, he took it, she squeezed his hand and then let it drop. “Give my regards to your mother.”

  “I will.”

  Celeste walked home, wondering if J.C. would prove as astute a businessman as his father but as reasonable as his mother, Sarah Scott.

  She wondered if women would be better at running corporations than men. All this hope for the vote made her think about other areas where, in time, women might rise. She felt about that as she felt about J.C.: time would tell.

  The deeper question was, is the game worth the candle? She truly didn’t know.

  —

  While Celeste walked home, wondering what lay ahead, Juts half listened in English class.

  “And what did he mean by ‘Yon Cassius has a lean and hungry look’?” Mrs. Kinzer asked.

  Richard’s hand shot up. “Cassius is dangerous and ambitious.”

  “Yes. Do you think that’s a good description? Are there Cassiuses around us? Juts?”

  “There was Cassius Rife.” Juts said the first thing that popped into her wandering mind, naming the founder of the Rife dynasty.

  The others in the class tittered. Dimps Jr. rolled her eyes so her little coterie laughed sarcastically. As there was only one English teacher for tenth grade, they had to take the class together.

  Mrs. Kinzer walked to Juts’s desk. “It is interesting that the Rifes for generations are given historical names. However, the play Julius Caesar is about power, perhaps about the proper exercise of power.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Juts spoke in an even tone.

  Ev, bailing out her best friend, said, “But Mrs. Kinzer, how can there be a proper way to exercise power if people have different ideas? Some places have kings, and some have presidents, and some don’t know what they want. They just kill one another.”

  Mrs. Kinzer’s class plan was slipping away and it worried her. On the other hand, students who had shown little interest in this play were perking up.

  Dick Yost raised his hand. “Mrs. Kinzer, would we elect Julius Caesar president today?”

  “Very good question,” she replied.

  “Why would he run for president?” Juts’s interest sparked for the first time ever in English class. “If he gave an order, it was followed. He crossed the Rubicon with his army, didn’t he?”

  Mrs. Kinzer, surprised, remarked, “Juts, you did read this play?”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “We can’t have a Caesar.” Dick spoke in answer to his own question. “We learned from history. That’s why we have a constitution. That’s what my dad says.”

  As Dick’s father owned the newspaper on the Maryland side, dinner-table discussions were often more instructive than what he sat through in school.

  “Still, couldn’t a dictator arise here?” asked Richard. “Or we go crazy like they are in Russia?” He also listened to his parents as they discussed world issues.

  “We’d kill him like Brutus and the others killed Caesar. We would,” Juts emphasized, as Dimps Jr. raised her eyebrows in exaggerated disbelief.

  Ev supported Juts. “She’s right. We had gunfights all the time in the West. We kind of do what we want.”

  Mrs. Kinzer said, “The rule of law should prevent such excess.”

  “But it doesn’t,” Juts, ever forthright, announced. “Didn’t Rome have a senate? What good did it do them?”

  “Wasn’t that the reason Caesar was killed?” Richard asked. “He was going to destroy the republic?”

  “Yes, and it was destroyed anyway,” Dick replied. “Mrs. Kinzer, are we supposed to believe that the assassins are right?”

  Put on the spot and feeling rather excited that her class had finally come to life, she leaned against her desk, facing them. “We think so because we are a republic. Our founding fathers knew their history but Shakespeare thought the assassins were wrong. He wrote this during the time of a great queen, perhaps the greatest in all history. Elizabeth I was the equal of Caesar in many ways. Ourselves and Shakespeare are on opposite sides of this argument.”

  The discussion aroused all of the students so much that Mrs. Kinzer had to shoo them out of class or they’d be late for their next class and that teacher would fuss at her.

  They debated walking down the hall and as they turned into the art classroom.

  Dimps Jr. made a point of bumping Juts, who, tiring of her good behavior since the dance, shot out her leg and tripped Dimps, then stepped over her.

  Art instructor Mrs. Stiles, wiping clay off her hands, had not seen any of this.

  Dimps Jr. jumped to her feet, launching herself at Juts.

  “Juts, I hate you!”

  “Likewise.” Juts slugged her.

  The two flailed at one another as Ev grabbed Juts from behind while Betty Wilcox grabbed Dimps. The boys then stepped up to separate the fighters.

  As they screamed at one another, Mrs. Stiles grabbed each one by an arm, marching them down to Mr. Thigpen’s office. She deposited them there, returning to her class.

  Without Mrs. Stiles, they socked one another again. The noise brought the principal out of his office.

  “Ladies, ladies, stop this unseemly behavior this instant.”

  “She’s a, she’s an assassin.” Dimps Jr. found the word.

  “You stupid bitch.”

  Mr. Thigpen was horrified. “Juts, that’s enough!”

  “Mr. Thigpen, I’m tired of putting up with her. You know what, she can’t drop her pants fast enough for Bill Whittier and she thinks we don’t know. But we do.”

  This prompted another attack. With difficulty, Mr. Thigpen separated them.

  “Miss Rhodes, you sit right here. Julia Ellen Hunsenmeir, you come with me.” He took her by the arm and hustled her back to Mrs. Stiles.

  Opening the door, he thrust her inside, telling the art teacher, “Keep her here until I call for her.”

  —

  Big Dimps was at work when Mr. Thigpen called the office. Mildred took the message down to the cosmetics counter.

  “You’d better go. I’ll cover the counter.”

  Big Dimps threw on a coat and walked as fast as she could to the school.

  Celeste took the call regarding Juts, listened intently, reassured the principal that Cora would be there quickly. Then she walked out to find Francis. Once found, she called Cora down from upstairs where the good woman was instructing the housemaids, only on duty two days a week.

  Cora, anxious, said, “I don’t know what to do. I know my girl wouldn’t deliberately start a fight.” Cora wanted to think the best of her youngest.

  “Perhaps not, Cora, but she would deliberately finish it. Come on. I’ll wait in the car while you meet with Mr. Thigpen.”

  —

  The two mothers sat side by side on the long bench in Mr. Thigpen’s office, listening glumly. Neit
her woman particularly liked the other woman’s daughter but they themselves never had words.

  Mr. Thigpen removed his spectacles, his voice filled with the weight of his decision. “Mrs. Rhodes, Mrs. Hunsenmeir, I can either be principal of South Runnymede High School or I can control your daughters. I can’t do both. I am sorry to inform you but I must suspend your daughters.”

  Big Dimps’s hand flew to her bosom. “What will she do?”

  “Well, she can do her lessons at home but she can’t come to school.”

  Dimps Sr. liked having her younger daughter in school. “What about next year?”

  “We will review that when the time comes.”

  Cora, silent, sat still.

  Mr. Thigpen focused on her. “Do you think Juts would do her lessons at home?”

  “No,” Cora simply replied.

  “I am very sorry,” and Mr. Thigpen was, for everyone liked Cora.

  “May I go now?” she asked.

  “Yes, yes, of course. Juts is in art class. Please take her home with you and, again, I am sorry it has come to this.”

  “I understand, Mr. Thigpen. You are doing the right thing.” Cora left.

  Big Dimps pressed. “Juts has no future. A high school diploma won’t make a difference in her life but for my girl, well, it will. I will see that she does her lessons and I will report to you regularly.”

  He folded his hands. “Mrs. Rhodes, this is embarrassing. First off, I hope you do see to her lessons, but there has been an indication of”—he thought some time—“an intimate impropriety. You might wish to curtail Delilah’s social activities for a time.”

  “What!” She leapt to her feet.

  He held up his hands, palms outward. “I received an observation after the St. Patrick’s Day dance. Again, this is hearsay, but it is gaining adherents. That’s all I know.”

  “Who? Did Juts accuse my baby of such things?”

  He drew a deep breath. “As I said, Mrs. Rhodes, these stories have a life of their own, but I do know how important your hopes for both of your daughters’ futures are. I can’t say any more than what I have told you.”