Lily of the Springs

by Carole Bellacera

  “Hey…” His finger nudged my chin up so I was forced to look at him. “You got it all wrong, Lily Rae. I’m not judging you. I know what it’s like to get caught up in…” He flushed and looked away. “…in tender feelings with somebody. It’s just that…” Hesitating, he brought his gaze back to mine.

  I saw sadness and something like fear in the depths of his soft brown eyes.

  His hand tightened on my shoulder. “I don’t trust Jake, Lily. His pa is the meanest man in the county. I’ll bet he’s been whipping that boy since he was knee-high to a grasshopper. What comes around goes around, know what I mean? And it’s plain he wasn’t exactly jumping up and down to get hitched. I don’t want him taking out his anger on you.”

  “He won’t,” I said firmly. “You don’t know him like I do, Landry. He loves me. It may not look like it, but he does. This all just took him by surprise. Once he gets used to the idea of being married, he’ll settle down. I know it.”

  He nodded slowly, but he couldn’t hide the doubt on his face. “I sure hope you’re right. Just know, Lily Rae, if you ever need me…for anything. I’m here for you. And that’s a promise, little sister.”

  His words brought grateful tears to my eyes. I should’ve known Landry wouldn’t stop loving me because of the mistakes I’d made. He was way too kind-hearted. I hugged him quickly and then hurried down the stairs, my suitcase in hand.

  My new life with Jake had begun.

  Glady’s Kentucky Soup Beans and Cornbread

  2 cups Great White Northern Beans, Soaked Overnight

  4 cups water

  1 bay leaf

  1 ham hock or other pork

  ½ teaspoon pepper

  1 Tablespoon salt (to be added later)

  About 3 hours before supper, bring beans and other ingredients except salt to a boil in a heavy iron pot. Reduce to Low and simmer for 2 to 3 hours until beans are soft and tender. Add salt and using a wooden spoon, smash some beans against side of pot to thicken. Serve hot with cornbread.

  Cornbread

  1 cup yellow corn meal

  1 cup flour

  1 teaspoon salt

  4 ½ teaspoon baking powder

  1/3 cup hot bacon grease or shortening, melted

  1 egg

  2/3 cup milk

  Mix together dry ingredients. In separate bowl, mix egg and milk. Add bacon grease or melted shortening. Mix liquid ingredients into dry ingredients. Stir only until moistened. Drop batter into generously greased corn pone pan or muffin tins. Bake at 425 degrees for 25-30 minutes.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  “Pass the cornbread, Inis,” Royce Tatlow ordered through a mouthful of string beans, his dark, mean eyes fixed on the rapidly disappearing food on his plate.

  Please, I added silently as a familiar wave of dislike swept over me. I’d never met a ruder man in my life than Jake’s father. Or a more ill-tempered one.

  Twelve-year-old Inis passed the plate of cornbread pones to her mother then cast her eyes back on her plate and resumed eating. Like Jake, the girl had somehow inherited a natural beauty that was missing in both her parents and her older sister, Meg. She had long, naturally-curly dark brown hair and big, brown doe-eyes. But she was one of the most backward girls I’d ever met, barely speaking a word to anybody, and always keeping her eyes downcast. There would be no ally in her.

  Nor in anyone in this house.

  I took a bite of Gladys’s fried potatoes; they were delicious―crunchy on the top, tender underneath. That was the one good thing about living here with the Tatlows—my mother-in-law could cook like a dream. Not better than Mother, of course, but pretty darn close.

  The food was the only thing about suppertime here that reminded me of home, though. Here, the only sounds at the table was of food being chewed—noisily by Royce—the scrape of Gladys’s chair against the worn Linoleum as she got up to get something Royce wanted but didn’t see on the table. No one asked how anybody’s day had went or talked about what was going on in the world or even mused about the Farmer’s Almanac’s prediction of a cold winter, and how surely that must be true because the wooly worm’s black coat was the thickest I’d ever seen it. No, it wasn’t like supper at my home at all.

  But the unnatural silence was better than the alternative—the fights. There had been two of them since my arrival almost a month ago—three, if you counted the one that concerned me on the evening of the wedding when Royce had raged at Jake, and Gladys had wailed and sobbed through the night. The next one had been between Royce and Meg when she’d shown up at the supper table with her drab dark brown hair cut in a new short style, which I thought actually suited her, opening up her narrow, cat-like face and making her dark eyes large and luminous. But Royce Tatlow had a conniption fit about it.

  The worst fight, though, I’d witnessed here in this nutty home had been between Royce and Gladys, and it had shocked me to the core. Mainly because I’d been under the assumption that Gladys Tatlow was a typical Kentucky wife under the thumb of her husband, the lord and master. But that night last week had changed my opinion of my mother-in-law forever.

  Gladys Tatlow was a stout, stern-faced woman with gray-streaked dark hair pulled back in a severe bun. I figured she was around the same age as my own mother, maybe a year or two older. But unlike Mother, who wore a simple dress every day of her life, except for Sundays, Gladys frequently wore cuffed blue jeans teamed with a button-down work shirt, only wearing a dress when she went into town. That mere fact should’ve told me that Gladys wasn’t typical at all.

  The fight started innocently enough with Royce taking a slurping mouthful of soup beans and proclaiming them “too damn salty.” Gladys had stared at him for a long moment and then quietly got up from her chair, went over to him and snatched his bowl away. He protested, but she ignored it, and as the rest of the family stared, dumbfounded, she marched over to the back door and slung the bowl’s contents across the yard, scattering squawking chickens in all directions.

  “I reckon it ain’t too salty for the chickens,” she said mildly, sitting back down in her chair to finish her supper.

  Royce stared at her, eyes bulging like he couldn’t believe what he’d just seen. He blinked and his hands clenched down on the arms of his chair. It was as if he’d just then realized what his wife had done. “Good God, woman!” he roared, his forehead wrinkling up like a dried prune. “What in tarnation did you do that fer? I said it was too damn salty, but that don’t mean I won’t eat it, you stupid bitch!”

  Seemingly unconcerned, Gladys slid a piece of cornbread into her mouth and chewed, not even looking his way. I could almost feel the tension coming from Jake’s body in the chair next to me. The two girls sat with bowed heads, almost supernaturally still. When Gladys still didn’t acknowledge her husband, Royce’s face darkened like a summer thundercloud and his fists crashed down on the table, rattling dishes and utensils.

  “God blast it, Gladys! Git your fat ass over to that there goddamn stove and git me some more beans and cornbread lickety-split!”

  I stifled a gasp. Never in my life had I ever heard a man utter such foul language in front of women and children! But amazingly, Gladys didn’t appear to hear. She just kept eating—neat little spoonfuls of soup beans broken by occasional sips of thick, creamy buttermilk, fresh from their own cows.

  “Did you hear me, woman?” Royce shouted, a thick tide of crimson streaking up his neck to flood his face.

  Still, Gladys didn’t budge. Instead, she took another long sip of buttermilk and daintily wiped the cream from her upper lip with the sleeve of her shirt. It was as if Royce wasn’t even at the table, much less screaming at her at the top of his lungs. Furious now, he scraped his chair back so hard it toppled over with a crash. Everyone flinched, especially me, but Gladys seemed completely oblivious as she calmly popped another piece of cornbread into her mouth.

  Cursing violently, Royce stomped toward the stove, and that was when Gladys went into action. She jumped up from her ch
air and moving with a grace that seemed impossible, maneuvered past her husband to reach the stove before he did. He stopped, watching her. Afterwards, I would realize he was thinking just what everybody else was thinking—that Gladys’s brief uprising was over, that she was back in her role as wife, servant and caretaker, and she was going to get her man his supper after all. But what happened next astonished everyone. Royce waited as Gladys grabbed two potholders and headed for the cast-iron pot on the stove.

  “Sit yourself down, Royce Tatlow,” she said shortly.

  With a grunt of disgust mixed with satisfaction, Royce righted his overturned chair and plopped his skinny hind-end into it. And everyone at the table watched as Gladys picked up the kettle, marched to the back door, and flung the whole thing—pot and all―out into the yard.

  She turned, placed her hands on her generous hips and stared at her husband. “I reckon,” she said slowly, “that if you want it, you’ll have to go out and lap it up with the chickens.”

  All hell broke loose. Royce jumped up from the chair and hurled himself at his wife. She whirled around and ran into the kitchen with him right behind her, cursing like a madman. Jake jumped up and headed for the fracas. Meg and Inis sat frozen in their seats, eyes wide with fear. I watched the whole scene, stunned.

  Just as Royce grabbed the back of Gladys’s bun, she wrenched open the utensil drawer and pulled out a lethal-looking butcher knife. Quick as a snake, she had the tip of it poised at the bottom of Royce’s bobbing Adam’s apple. Jake froze between the table and the kitchen. Royce froze, too, his eyes bulging in shock. All the color had drained from Gladys’s face, and her eyes gleamed like blue diamonds.

  Her mouth curled in a completely mirthless smile. “Let go of me, Royce Tatlow, or I swear to Lord, my God, I’ll gut you like a barnyard chicken. And there won’t be a soul in Russell County who’ll see me hanged for it.”

  For a long, tense moment, the couple eye-balled each other, and then, apparently using the lick of sense God gave him, Royce decided to back down. The fury left his eyes, and abruptly, he released her hair and began to grin. It wasn’t a likeable grin, because I suspected he couldn’t produce a likeable grin if his life depended on it. It was sort of sickly and pathetic, but apparently, it was enough for Gladys.

  “Now,” she said softly, looking into his eyes. “If you’re ready to act like a decent human being, you can go scrounge up something for your supper. I’m going to bed early.” Slowly, she withdrew the butcher knife from the vicinity of his neck. But she took it with her as she ambled out of the room.

  Silence followed her departure. Finally, Royce uttered a curse word so foul I couldn’t help but gasp. Then he stomped out the back door, slamming it behind him. A moment later, the rumble of his old pick-up truck broke the quiet of the autumn evening.

  Once the sound of the truck disappeared down the road, I looked around at Jake and his sisters who’d gone back to eating as if nothing had happened. I shook my head in astonishment. “I can’t believe your mama just did that.”

  Jake shrugged and reached for another pone of cornbread. “Aw, it ain’t nothing to worry about. She gets like that once a month, and we all just learn to stay out of her way.” He crumbled his cornbread into his soup bowl, and then added matter-of-factly, “But sometimes, Pa forgets.”

  Gladys’s Apple Dumplings

  2 cups peeled, pared and sliced tart apples (or 1-16 oz. can apple slices)

  Pie crust for two pies

  1 cup sugar

  1/2 t cloves

  1 t cinnamon

  1/2 t nutmeg

  1 cup milk

  1/4 c flour

  Prepare pie crust. Roll out into 8 equal squares. Place two T apple slices on each and fold up each corner. Place in greased baking pan and dot with butter. Bake at 425 degrees for 30 minutes. (For fresh apples, bake at 350 for 45-50 minutes). While cooling, prepare cinnamon sauce. Mix sugar, spices and flour together and gradually stir in milk. Cook over low heat, stirring constantly until thickened. Spoon warm sauce over dumplings and top with vanilla ice cream or fresh whipped cream.

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN

  The knock came at the door just after seven the next morning. I was helping Gladys and my sisters-in-law with the breakfast dishes. My eyes were puffy from all the tears I’d cried that morning when I’d awakened to find that Jake hadn’t come home at all. This was the first time he’d stayed out all night. His absence hadn’t gone unnoticed by Gladys, either. Not that she’d said a word. But the excessive banging of pots and pans as she’d made the sausage gravy and biscuits had revealed her irritation.

  From the kitchen, I heard Royce answer the front door, followed by the rumble of another male voice. And suddenly my heart began to gallop. It had something to do with Jake. I knew it!

  I threw down the drying rag and hurried down the hallway toward the front door. Through the gap between Royce’s body and the door frame, I saw a blue uniform. It was the Sheriff, Burps Dewey.

  “We got him in lock-up, Royce,” he drawled. “Drunk and resistin’ arrest. Chased him with the siren goin’ all the way into Columbia, and that sum-bitch drove around that circle with me on his damn tail three or four times before he finally pulled over. And then that smart-alec son of yourn put up a fight when I tried to cuff him.” The sheriff turned his head and spat a stream of blood-brown tobacco juice onto Gladys’s half-dead rosebush at the side of the porch. “He goes before the judge at ten this morning, and once bail is set, ya’all can come on down and get him out.”

  I pressed my fingers against my mouth. Oh, Lord God. Jake, you’ve done it now.

  Royce’s response was amazingly calm. For Royce. “Son-of-a-bitch! I reckon I’ll be to town directly, Burps. Mighty good of you to come out here to let me know.”

  With a nod, the sheriff turned and made his way down the porch steps. Royce closed the door and turned.

  “I’ll get my coat,” I said.

  Royce frowned. “You git that round little butt of yours back into the kitchen and help out my missus. I’ll take care of that no-account, lazy ass husband of yourn. And when I’m through with him, he’s gonna wish he was never born.”

  I caught my breath. “You’re not going to hurt him.”

  He gave me one of his evil grins. “He’s too big to hurt anymore, missy. But what I got in store for him, is gonna make him beg for the lickin’ of his life.”

  He gave a braying laugh, grabbed his weather-beaten hat on a rack beside the door and walked out.

  ***

  “It ain’t gonna happen agin because you ain’t gonna be here for it to happen agin!” Royce glowered at his son.

  Jake sat on a straight-back chair in the parlor, his eyes blood-shot, hair tangled. A greenish-yellow pallor tinged his face, and his jaw was slack and stuporous. Like something the cat drug in, I thought. Drunker than a skunk. Well…maybe not now, but he had been. I was almost as angry with him as Royce was.

  Gladys, too, could barely contain her disgust. She sat in her usual chair by the stove, her fingers nimbly shelling peas. Her blue eyes—the only thing about her similar to Jake—were furious, but she’d stayed as silent as a clam during Royce’s tirade.

  It had started more than ten minutes ago with their arrival back home after Royce had scraped together fifty bucks to bail Jake out of jail. He whirled around, his dark eyes shooting venom at his son. “And you’re gonna pay back ever penny of it, you hear me? My money don’t grow on trees! If I had an extry fifty dollars layin’ around, I’d damn well put it to better use than to bail your sorry ass out of jail! Only reason I did it is because of this ‘un.” He jerked his chin toward me, a look of loathing on his rabbit-like face.

  My stomach dipped.

  “I’ll pay it back,” Jake muttered, head bowed as if it was too heavy to lift. His fingers restlessly massaged his forehead.

  My jaw tightened. Got yourself a headache, huh? Well, good! You get what you deserve.

  “Damn right you’ll pay it back!” Roy
ce roared. “But I ain’t waitin’ for you to nickel and dime me at that fat-ass Slim Jessup’s gas station! You’re gonna git yourself a real job, boy!”

  That got Jake’s attention. His head lifted and his red-rimmed eyes peered blearily at his father. “There ain’t no real jobs in Russell Springs.”

  Royce gave a smile so big and smug, I could see his false teeth gleaming from across the room. “You got that right, boy. That’s why tomorrow mornin’, bright and early, you and I are gonna head up to Louieville. Because I happen to know the perfect job for the likes of you.”

  The sneering tone of Royce’s voice made Gladys sit up straighter. Her hands paused on the pea pod she held as her gaze fixed upon her husband. Jake, too, seemed to sense that something was in the air. His face had taken on a wary look.

  Royce’s nasty grin widened. “Private Jacob Tatlow,” he said slowly. “Has a nice ring to it, don’t it?”

  Gladys dropped the pod into the bowl in her lap, her face whitening. Jake stared at his father. As Royce’s meaning became clear, my body went ice cold. No! He couldn’t be serious!

  No one spoke. In the corner of the parlor, an ancient grandfather clock pealed out the hour with eleven chimes as three pairs of eyes stared at Royce. He still wore a self-satisfied smirk, but kept his gaze reserved for his son. As the last peal of the chime echoed away, Jake shook his head. “No. I ain’t gonna join no army.”

  Royce gave an ugly laugh. “You ain’t got no choice!”

  “Pa!” Jake’s eyes flashed fire. “Soldiers are gettin’ killed over in Korea! I ain’t gonna be one of ‘em!”