Southern Son

by Victoria Wilcox

  “You don’t hate him, John Henry. You love him, and that’s the trouble. Can’t nobody hurt you that you don’t care about. Why, I remember when you used to just idolize him.”

  “He used to be my hero,” he agreed sullenly, “the great Major Henry Holliday. I used to look at that sword of his hangin’ on the parlor wall and wish I could be like him someday. Even when he came home, so sick and all, I imagined it was like a battle wound. But then my mother passed and he brought Rachel home, and there was all that talk . . .”

  But he couldn’t tell her what the townsfolk had said. Such things weren’t fit for a lady’s ears, and he shook his head and looked away.

  “I thought he was a hero, Mattie, but I was wrong.”

  “And do you have to have a hero?” she asked gently.

  “I reckon I do . . .” he replied, and had to blink back unexpected emotion.

  “Oh honey!” Mattie cried, looking into his eyes and somehow seeing everything that he was feeling. “It just breaks my heart to have you hurtin’ so!”

  At the touch of her hand on his, the anger and the pain in him started to melt away. It was amazing how someone so small could have such a powerful effect on him.

  “Sweet Mattie!” he said, a sudden urgency in his voice. “You know how much you mean to me, don’t you? How much I care for you?”

  Her mouth opened as if she were about to speak. Then she looked away, a sudden hesitation, a quiet pulling away from him. “Of course I know how much you care. I’d be a fool not to know. But there is nothin’ in it, John Henry, not the way you want it to be. I can’t ever care for you like that.” Although her words were earnest, there were tears glistening at the edges of her lashes.

  “Is there someone else, then?” he asked, but she looked down and didn’t answer, and he pressed the point. “Is it Robert, Mattie? Hell, anybody but Robert . . .”

  Then she looked up past him, a flush on her face, and John Henry realized that they were no longer alone.

  “Did someone mention my name?”

  Robert strode toward them, hat in hand, and John Henry was struck by the unhappy notion that they still looked enough alike to be brothers.

  “Well, honey,” Robert said, smiling broadly, “you missed a mighty fine walk. But that mineral water—I think it’s the awful taste that chases the disease away!”

  He bent over and gave Mattie a quick kiss on the cheek, then sat down beside her on the grass, his long legs brushing the edge of her cotton skirt.

  “So what do you say about tryin’ out that new pistol, John Henry? I mean, if you’re still good at that sort of thing.”

  John Henry glared at him. “I am still damn good at that sort of thing!”

  “No need for that kind of language, Cousin,” Robert chastised. “We’ve got a lady present. Though I suppose we can’t expect someone who’s been livin’ in the North to remember his manners all the time. But don’t you worry, Mattie honey,” he said with a wink, “we’ll turn him Southern again, soon enough!”

  If Mattie hadn’t been sitting right there between them, John Henry would have slapped him across the face. “Are you callin’ me a Yankee?”

  Robert laughed out loud. “I never saw a Yankee with a temper as quick as yours! What’s got you so riled today, anyhow?”

  There was no explaining it without confessing his feelings for Mattie, and he wasn’t about to do that in front of Robert. Instead, he forced a smile and answered:

  “I believe I would enjoy doin’ a little shootin’ this afternoon. But why don’t we make it a real contest, with a prize for the winner?”

  “I’m game,” Robert replied. “But what shall we have for a prize?”

  John Henry looked up at Mattie and said with a slow drawl, “How ‘bout a kiss from our favorite cousin for the champion?”

  Mattie started in surprise, but Robert laughed. “Well, what do you say, honey? Shall we make you our Helen of Troy and give you to the winner?”

  “I never heard of anything so ridiculous!” she said, tossing her auburn hair.

  “Come on, Mattie,” John Henry said. “It’s just a little wager to add some excitement to the game. Unless, of course . . .you’re scared.”

  He knew just what to say to taunt her. Mattie had never been afraid of anything in her life, courage being the Holliday birthright, and she put up her little chin and gave him a steady, solemn gaze.

  “All right, if that’s what you boys want.”

  “Well, then,” Robert said with a smile, pushing himself to his feet and brushing the grass from his linen summer trousers, “gauntlet thrown and challenge accepted. And may the best man win.”

  “Oh, indeed,” John Henry repeated coolly, “may the best man win.”

  The shooting range was already crowded with curious spectators by the time Robert and John Henry had loaded their pistols and taken their places facing the paper targets. But John Henry wasn’t paying attention to anything except the competition, and Mattie who would be his prize. He was certain to win, but not so certain of what her reaction would be.

  On the toss of a coin Robert was the first to shoot, using the twin of John Henry’s new Colt’s Navy. He bowed to the crowd, then turned sideways to the target in a classical shooter’s stance, back hand on one hip and pistol raised, and taking careful aim he slowly pulled back on the trigger. The pistol jerked as he fired, and a moment later the target shuddered with the impact.

  “Bull’s eye!” he called out proudly, and the crowd answered with applause. “Your turn, John Henry. See if you can beat that!”

  John Henry squinted into the sun, studying the targets. “Be a mighty fine trick if I can. I reckon I’d just about have to blow that target to pieces to beat your shot.”

  Robert smiled in triumph and called to Mattie, “Got my kiss ready, honey? He’s practically concedin’ defeat.”

  But Mattie’s face was unreadable, her gaze set on the distant targets. John Henry shrugged and took a deep breath, preparing to make his shot, then he paused to consider. He’d always been ambidextrous, almost as good with his left hand as he was with his right, and he had the sudden urge to show off. He switched the pistol over from his right hand to his left, and smiled at the spectators. Then in one fluid motion he spun around and fired, left arm flung out and pulling off five fast shots from the revolver. The target jumped at the first hit and exploded, then shattered into the air. He watched it, staying crouched as the smoke rose up thick and acrid around him. It wasn’t the fine classical style that Robert’s school had taught, but it always seemed to work—and it gave him pleasure to know that he could beat his cousin even left-handed.

  There was a startled hush from the crowd, no one quite believing that lightning fast shooting or the quick destruction of that paper target. Then there was a smattering of appreciative handclaps that grew into a full round of applause, and John Henry stood and slowly turned around, cool and arrogant.

  “There, I win,” he said, casting a contemptuous glance at Robert. “And I believe I’ll take that kiss now, Cousin Mattie.”

  He walked toward her, the pistol hot in his hand, and reached for her with his free arm, pulling her close.

  “You are makin’ a fool out of me,” she whispered. “Everybody’s watchin’.”

  “But you are the prize, and I have won you fair and square.”

  “Then get it over with and let me go,” she said, turning her head to the side and waiting for his kiss on her cheek.

  But John Henry slid his hand under her chin and tipped her face up toward his.

  “Nothin’ so chaste as that, dear Cousin. I’ll have a real kiss this time or none at all.” Then he bent his head to her face, his lips close to hers, and spoke under his breath. “Unless you’d rather have my cousin Robert kiss you.”

  “Stop it!” she said, yanking her arm free. “You don’t know what you’re talkin’ about!”

  “Are you in love with him, Mattie?” he said, his voice rough with emotion. “Are you in lo
ve with him?”

  But Mattie raised her eyes and spoke with a resignation he did not understand. “What difference would it make?” Then she walked away toward the rest of the family, and left John Henry standing there alone.

  It had all gone wrong, from start to finish. Yet John Henry could not believe that he had misread Mattie’s feelings for him. She had always cared for him, had always been so tender and loving and full of understanding. And what of the promise they had made to each other, before he went away to dental school? He had been so sure of her love then. He had lived on the certainty of it all these years, and his stubborn pride wouldn’t let him believe that she might not love him after all—stubborn pride and the powerful need to have her with him.

  But as the carriages pulled into the gravel drive after the ride home from the Springs, Robert stood in the way of his following after her into the house

  “Let her go, John Henry. You’ve done enough damage for one day.”

  John Henry looked at him sharply. “What are you talkin’ about?”

  “I’m talkin’ about the fool way you’ve been actin’ all afternoon, fussin’ and fumin’ and teasin’ poor Mattie like some lovesick school boy.”

  “And what are you doin’ with her, Robert?”

  “I am not stealin’ her away from you, if that’s what you’re askin’. I know you care a great deal for Mattie. There’s always been somethin’ special between the two of you, even back when we were children. But that doesn’t mean she wants you to romance her.”

  “I don’t reckon that’s any of your business,” he said angrily.

  “It is if your plans are gonna make her unhappy. And I think they might, if her father still feels the same as he used to about you.”

  “You’re talkin’ in riddles, Robert.”

  “I’m just tryin’ to talk some sense into you. Do you remember the boy who went to stay with Mattie’s family that summer after the War, the one whose father had to send him away before the Yankees came after him? Well, Uncle Rob does. Hot-headed, he called you back then, and he cautioned Mattie against gettin’ too close to you. And you should understand Mattie well enough to know that she will never disobey him. She adores her father.”

  “But that’s not the way I am now. You know I’ve changed!”

  “Have you? And what was all that show at the target range today? That wasn’t a friendly shootin’ match, and you know it. That target you shot to pieces was me, and you were damn proud of it.”

  “A man’s got a right to fight for what is his!”

  “Mattie is not yours, John Henry. And no fightin’ with me will ever win her for you. No fightin’ with anybody will. If her father considers you a bad risk, then that’s the end of it. I reckon you sealed your own fate with her back in Valdosta when you tried to take the law into your own hands and run the Yankees out of town. Forget tryin’ to win her, John Henry. You lost her long ago.”

  He had no reason to doubt Robert’s words, but his heart still railed against them. What did it matter if Mattie’s father disapproved of him? It was Mattie’s opinion of him that counted, and she had always loved him and thought the best of him. Indeed, it was Mattie’s good opinion of him that had helped him to get where he was now, starting out on a fine professional career. Without her constant letters and loving support, he might have wasted more time in dental school, taking up DeMorat on his offer of a life of debauchery in Philadelphia. He might have taken up Kate Fisher on her unspoken offer as well, and had a real affair with the varieties actress in St. Louis. But knowing that Mattie trusted him, he had kept himself from it. Surely she wouldn’t turn away from him now on account of the troubles of his youth. But Mattie had hurried into the house after their return home, obviously unwilling to talk to him, so he’d have to find some other way to calm his anxious mind.

  What he needed was a drink, something more bracing than a crystal pitcher full of sweet tea or his Aunt Permelia’s prized peach wine. And then he remembered that the streetcars ran into town clear into the night, and he could be downtown in no time at all. And downtown he could find a drink and clear his mind enough to sort everything out.

  It was already dusk by the time he got into the city where the plate glass windows of the Maison de Ville Saloon were shining in the light of the gas street lamps, welcoming him. The Maison was a first-class drinking establishment, owned by a longtime friend of the Holliday family from Griffin, Mr. Lee Smith. The finest men of Atlanta society played cards there, while the deposed leaders of the Democratic party planned their political comeback over drinks at the bar. So no one could fault John Henry for celebrating his upcoming twenty-first birthday in such a friendly masculine atmosphere, or for drinking more than he might otherwise have done as Lee Smith poured him free drinks in honor of his coming-of-age.

  By the time he was on his way back to Forrest Avenue, walking as it was past the hour for the streetcars to be running, he was feeling relaxed and almost cheery again and even Robert’s warnings didn’t seem to trouble him anymore. It was wonderful what a little whiskey could do when life got difficult, and he’d had more than a little at the Maison. Then as he rounded the corner of Pryor and Decatur Streets, he stopped. From somewhere up above, a voice was calling out, a friendly female voice offering flattering words.

  “Hello, handsome!” the voice called, and John Henry looked up into the open windows of a Decatur Street bordello. “Lookin’ for some fun?”

  Decatur Street was an interesting mix of businesses, with warehouses and proper saloons standing side by side with discreetly shuttered bordellos. Except on this hot summer night, when one dark-haired girl was daring to flaunt propriety and call to potential customers down in the street below. But John Henry wasn’t interested in a prostitute, and he told her so.

  “I’m just out for a birthday drink, that’s all,” he said as politely as he could.

  “Well, happy birthday,” she replied. “Kind of a poor party, though, celebratin’ all alone.”

  “What makes you think I’m alone?”

  She leaned a little farther out of the window and took a look up Decatur Street one way and then the other. “I don’t see anybody down there but you. Shame to be alone on your birthday. Why don’t you come up and share a drink or two with me? No charge, bein’ as it’s your special day. Business is slow tonight, anyhow.”

  It wasn’t quite a proposition, but still he hesitated. Stopping into the Maison de Ville for a round of drinks on the house was one thing, but having a nightcap in a Decatur Street bordello would be quite another, if anyone saw him.

  But who was there to see, in the dark lamplit hours past midnight? And she was a pretty thing, with a tangle of dark curls falling over a bosom indiscreetly exposed. Dark hair, he thought with a sudden stir of memory, like Kate Fisher’s . . .

  “Well?” the girl asked as he stood a moment longer in the street. “Are you comin’ up or not?”

  He took a quick breath and gave her his most gentlemanly smile. “I believe I am.”

  Her room was at the end of a dark little hallway, but he found it fast enough, though once there, he wasn’t quite sure what to do with himself. He’d only come up for a last drink of the night, after all, and there was only one chair for the two of them to share. The only other piece of furniture one could sit on was the bed, occupying most of the rest of the shabby chamber. And though he’d already had plenty of liquor for one night, he said uncomfortably, “You had a free drink for me? I’d prefer whiskey if you have it.”

  “Whiskey it is,” she said cheerily. “Whatever the gentleman prefers.”

  She brought the glass to where he stood, hat in hand. “Come now! At least let me take that nice hat of yours so you don’t spill your drink on it. Shame to spoil a nice expensive felt like that.”

  She pulled the hat out of his hand and brushed it off gently, then laid it on the dressing table. She knew how to treat fine things, anyhow.

  He finished the whiskey faster than he should have consi
dering the amount of liquor he’d already downed that night, but the girl was already refilling his glass. She was a sweet and attentive little thing, bringing him his drinks like that and not expecting anything in return. Why had he hesitated before coming up? Then she startled him by reaching to touch the blue silk of his necktie.

  “Pretty color,” she said, “just like your eyes. You have real nice blue eyes.” And in a moment the tie was loose and in her hand. “Silk is so soft, and mighty expensive too. You must be rich as well as handsome.”

  He nodded, not sure what to say, but her pleasant chatter ran on like music in his liquor-filled mind. “A shame to do nothin’ but drink on your birthday,” she said as she moved closer to him, deftly unbuttoning the high starched collar from his shirt bosom, her fingers brushing over the blonde stubble on his neck, and she laughed when he jumped at the unexpected intimacy.

  “Now don’t tell me this is your first time, a handsome thing like you! Must have been plenty of other girls ready to go for a tumble with you.”

  He couldn’t answer her, his head dizzy with whiskey and his senses warming at her touch. He wondered if there was any liquor left in the bottle and if he could reach it easily from where he was standing. But he wasn’t standing anymore, as the girl took his hand and led him toward her bed.

  “We’re gonna have a real nice birthday party together, just you and me. And when we’re done, you can pay me what you think it’s worth.”

  What better way to celebrate his coming-of-age?

  By the time he got back to Forrest Avenue, the dawn was breaking, the sky already beginning to thin out and turn from deep black to a misty early morning blue. The house was quiet, except for the ticking of the grandfather clock that stood sentinel in the front hall. Thank goodness it was still too early for the maid Sophie to be up getting breakfast. He couldn’t face anyone right now. He could hardly face himself.

  “Johnny,” the girl had called him, like he was young as his young cousin. “Johnny,” she had murmured against his neck, and even the memory of the sound of it gave him chills all up and down. He could still feel that silky black hair of hers falling over his skin, still smell the perfume she rubbed down the long white curve of her throat. He hadn’t realized that sin could smell so sweet. He stood there letting the memory run across his skin and cursed himself for it. This must be what hell was like, he thought—trying to forget and relishing the memory all at once. If only he were a Catholic like Mattie and could attend confession! For surely God would understand how a woman like that could make a man forget his moral duty. In the future, he would be sure to do his drinking in a proper saloon.