Southern Son

by Victoria Wilcox

  The thought of lovemaking had become something of an obsession with him, having to hold himself back as he was from his plans of marriage, so it wasn’t surprising when his circumscribed thoughts turned themselves into dreams from time to time, and he awoke knowing that he’d spent the night imagining Mattie in his arms and in his bed. As long as the dreams were dreams of Mattie they didn’t bother him too much. But now and then, he dreamed it was a girl with a tumble of black hair who took his kisses and returned his caresses, a girl who called him “Johnny” and told him that she’d done this plenty of times before. And sometimes the girl would turn into someone else, a wild gypsy-woman with eyes like the ocean and a voice that sounded like music.

  His dreams of Kate Fisher left him feeling guilty on awakening, as if he had any control over what he dreamed. But did he need to enjoy the dreams so much, waking with a hunger to be asleep and dreaming all over again? He’d left her in St. Louis and never looked back, and it was unsettling to find himself thinking of her again when he had no conscious desire to be. But once Mattie’s mourning was over and they were finally wed, those dreams would be gone, he knew. It was only the waiting that was causing his dreams to be so confused, putting Kate where Mattie ought to be.

  In April, he received a wire from Dr. Ford inviting him to attend the annual meeting of the Georgia Dental Society to be held in the skating rink of the Rankin House Hotel in Columbus. Dr. Ford himself would be the featured speaker, demonstrating the new Morrison Dental Engine, and he could use the help of an assistant familiar with the equipment. John Henry wrote back that he would be honored to attend, and he was.

  Columbus was the westernmost city in Georgia and the northern-most port city on the Chattahoochee River. Paddle-wheel steamboats plied their way up from the Gulf of Mexico, along the Apalachicola River in Florida to the Chattahoochee, carrying cotton from the inland plantations to the Columbus textile mills where fabric and finished clothing were made. At the height of the War, Columbus had been home to the largest cotton mills in the South and supplier of uniform materials and iron works to the Confederate Army. Since then, business in the city of 20,000 had dropped off some, but the riverfront was still smoky with the stacks of cotton mills and crowded with cotton warehouses.

  John Henry knew something else of the place from the stories his father had told him of the Creek Indian Wars in the early decades of the century. Columbus had been called Coweta Town then, chief city of the Creek Nation that stretched from the Atlantic Ocean across the Chattahoochee and into Alabama. The Creeks had been a peaceable people at first, trading with the white men who came to settle in their green paradise. But as more and more white men came, the Creeks grew defensive of their land and war erupted. Henry Holliday had been a young man then, and eagerly left his Fayetteville home to go fight against the Indian threat, sending the Creeks on their Trail of Tears into the Oklahoma Territory. For his gallantry in service, Henry Holliday was made a Second Lieutenant, and started out on the proud military career that had taken him across the continent and back.

  The Indians were gone from Coweta Town now, and Columbus had risen in its place: a white man’s city of neatly laid out streets and soaring real estate prices. The Merchants and Mechanics Bank, one of the first to be organized after the war, had just opened its doors and helped to fund grand new building projects like the Rankin House Hotel that filled half a city block with fifty sleeping rooms, private baths, and a roller rink and ballroom on the second floor. With its spacious lobby and wrought iron balconies, its excellent restaurant and indoor plumbing, the Rankin was a popular resort for guests from all around the South. It was one of the most elegant hotels John Henry had ever stayed in and he hoped his studied nonchalance wouldn’t give him away. As the youngest and least experienced dentist at the meeting, he felt a little overwhelmed by the company and the accommodations both.

  Dr. Ford, however, seemed right at home at the Rankin House and the Dental Society meeting being held there, and his proper English accent somehow made others defer to him, which John Henry found both amusing and irritating. The bellboys and busboys had only to hear Dr. Ford say something trivial like, “I dare say, could you take that for me?” and they jumped to do his bidding, whereas John Henry’s drawled “Y’all carry those on up now,” hardly got any response at all.

  Even the other members of the Georgia Dental Society deferred to Dr. Ford, giving him the floor whenever he had a comment on the long and tedious business proceedings. John Henry was surprised to find that there was so much business to conduct. He’d assumed that the meeting would be more like his days at the Pennsylvania College of Dental Surgery, mostly lectures and clinical work. But for the better part of two days, the dentists read and discussed the new Georgia Dental Practice Act, elected a Board of Examiners, voted in a new constitution and by-laws for the Society, and debated whether to endow a southern dental college. Then came the reading of scholarly papers, and by the time the final session came to a close, John Henry was bored and restless. If he’d wanted to be a lawyer or a legislator, he wouldn’t have bothered going to dental school in the first place. It was the art of dentistry he enjoyed, the meticulous handwork in gold and porcelain, and not the business end of things. So on the last evening of the convention he excused himself, saying that he was feeling a little under the weather and needed some air after the long indoor meetings. Let Dr. Ford carry on with the business proceedings; he wanted to find what Columbus offered in the way of amusements.

  The new Springer Opera House, just across the dirt street from the Rankin Hotel, was billed as the finest theater between New York and New Orleans, though from the looks of it there was more than theater going on there. The first floor shared space between an open-air market, indoor shops, and a first-class saloon. The only problem with the Opera House Saloon was that there was no card playing allowed.

  “No Sir,” the bartender told him as he slid a shot glass of whiskey across the polished wood bar. “The Springer is a fine establishment, as you can see by them black and white marble floors in the lobby. The theater’s up on the second floor. Third floor’s the hotel. But there’s no gamblin’ goin’ on, no Sir. Not that I’m opposed to a little wagerin’ myself. But Mr. Springer’s anti-gamblin’, so he keeps it out of his house. Plenty of other entertainment here, even so. Mr. Springer’s talking about bringin’ in Buffalo Bill Cody and his Indian show, maybe even Mr. Edwin Booth one of these days. But if it’s cards you’re after, there’s a couple of places I know about. The Villa Reich, down by the waterfront, usually has a game goin’, but it’s local gentry mostly, and hard to get into. Your best bet’s across the river, over into Alabama. City fathers try to keep the sporting men out of Columbus, so most of the gamblin’ dens and bordellos are over there across the Chattahoochee, in Girard. The “Sodom of the South” they call it. Don’t suppose they ever considered that makes us Gomorrah, and near as bad.”

  There was still a chill in the air that April evening, and the wind gusting over the river felt more like winter than early spring. Even with the wide collar of his wool suit coat turned up against the cold, John Henry couldn’t stop shivering as he wandered down to the waterfront, past the Columbus Iron Works building and the cotton warehouses to the low bluffs of the Chattahoochee. The river was only four-hundred yards wide at the Dillingham Street covered bridge, the green waters skimming over rocky shoals and flowing slowly down towards Florida. Upriver from the bridge, where the fall line turned the water turbulent, rose the smokestacks of the Eagle and Phoenix Cotton Mill. Downriver, where the Chattahoochee widened between wooded banks, were the brick and stone wharves of the paddle-wheeled riverboats. As the bridge divided the river north from south, it also connected the two riverfronts of Georgia and Alabama: the Georgia side bustling with the business of cotton and iron, the Alabama side busy in its own less reputable way.

  He heard Sodom calling to him before he was halfway across the Dillingham Street bridge. The raucous sound of saloon pianos and women’s
laughter floated across the river like a siren song and echoed eerily through the tunnel of the covered bridge. But as he came out on the Alabama side, he was struck by how dark things remained. There were no gas lamps in Girard to light the narrow alleyways, no oyster shell sidewalks like there were in Columbus. The whole town was only a block or two across in any direction, with more saloons than any other business establishment. Other than one general store, the town’s only commerce seemed to be debauchery.

  As he’d already had that one shot glass of whiskey at the Opera House Saloon, getting into the rhythm of Girard didn’t take him long. The liquor was bitter but cheap and the games penny-ante, so between the whiskey and the cards, he just about broke even on the evening.

  It was past midnight when he started back toward Columbus, the stars reflecting off the dark waters of the Chattahoochee. In the distance, he could hear the blast of a riverboat’s horn, and the slap and spill of its paddle-wheel churning the water. Intrigued by the sound, he stopped at the river’s edge and stood waiting for the steamer to pull out of the shadows and into sight as it neared the stone wharves. It was a big boat, with a wheel that looked to be nearly thirty feet across and with the fitting name of The Wave painted across the starboard side. But as he watched the riverboat drift near to the wharf, the motion of the paddle-wheel seemed to seize him and all at once his head started spinning like the wheel. Around and around, reflecting off the water, spinning, turning again . . .

  He swayed on his feet, reached out to grab ahold of something to steady himself, but found nothing but the night air. Then the swaying turned into a burning in his chest, and he started to cough and was overtaken by a fit of vomiting, throwing up whiskey and everything else he’d downed that day. He should have known by the taste of it that it was nothing but root whiskey they sold in Girard, made with slop water from behind some Alabama outhouse. But he didn’t have time to ponder on the thought before another fit overtook him and he fell to his knees in the dirt, retching like a sick animal.

  It was awhile before he could push himself to his feet again, wipe the filth from his mouth onto his linen handkerchief, and drag himself back across the covered bridge toward Columbus. The four-hundred yards felt more like a thousand now, the way his chest burned with every breath, and he had to keep stopping to steady himself while he wheezed. The fact that his handkerchief was stained with a smear of blood didn’t bother him nearly as much as the stench of vomit that clung to it. His whole insides felt like they’d been torn apart, between the retching and the burning of the rot gut as it came back up, so it was no wonder there was a little blood. And as he stumbled along Front Street toward the Rankin House Hotel, he vowed he’d never trust himself to cheap liquor again.

  His sleep was troubled that night, full of strange dreams. There was a river with dark waters and tangled undergrowth, grasping at him and trying to pull him in. There was a girl with golden eyes, reaching out to rescue him. Then the girl’s eyes turned liquid as the water, and she laughed with the sound of saloon pianos, taunting him. And hovering somewhere on the edge of his dreaming was a pain that made him moan in his sleep.

  He finally awoke with such a hangover that he had to excuse himself from the closing session of the dental meeting, staying in bed past noon and only getting up in time to meet Dr. Ford for the train ride back north. But sick as he was, the sudden illness had given him a new determination to speak his mind to Mattie. If she’d been there with him, he would never have been tempted to stray across the Chattahoochee. If she’d been there, he would never have been so restless in the first place. And though it would still be some time before they could marry, he had waited long enough to ask for her hand.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ATLANTA, 1873

  IT HAD BEEN FOUR MONTHS SINCE HE’D MOVED TO GRIFFIN, AND GOING back to Atlanta for a weekend visit felt like a real reunion, especially when Mattie was smiling so happily at seeing him again. And even though she was still in mourning for another month and limited in her social relations, she was no longer swathed in somber black cloth and heavy veils, and the muted grays and mauves of half-mourning flattered the delicacy of her own coloring, making her cheeks seem rosy and her eyes glowing. But it wasn’t just seeing John Henry again that was cheering her up. Her family was thinking of moving up from Jonesboro too, now that her father was gone.

  “Mother says she could let the house for rent, and find a place to live here in Atlanta close to Uncle John and Aunt Permelia. She’s not used to doin’ without a man around to help out, and Jim Bob needs someone to be a father to him. And it would be wonderful to have the family all back together again—all except for my father, of course.”

  Her eyes misted over as she remembered him, but the constant tears were gone.

  “And how is Francisco’s family doin’?” she asked, as she and John Henry sat together in the parlor of Uncle John’s house, catching up on the news.

  “Better than he thought they’d do, I reckon. Martha does have some family out that way, and between them and me, we keep an eye on things. But I doubt I’m the father figure Francisco hoped I’d be. The boys treat me more like an older brother or an uncle, like Tom McKey was to me. But it’s somethin’, I suppose. And I have enjoyed bein’ back in Griffin again, though it’s mighty quiet livin’ alone . . .”

  He could solve his loneliness, of course, by marrying Mattie. All he needed was some sign from her that she was ready to entertain a proposal of marriage, and he would offer one. The setting was right for it, he thought, with Mattie sitting prettily on the horsehair sofa. All he had to do was slip down on one knee, look up at her with earnest eyes . . .

  “Are you sure you’re feelin’ well?” she asked him, and he realized that he had been silent in his thoughts.

  “I’m fine, Mattie, just thinkin’, that’s all.” Now if she would just ask what he’d been thinking about . . .

  “You’re lookin’ a little peaked to me,” she said, ruining the moment. “You haven’t had that fever back, have you? I have worried over you every day, since you took so sick in Jonesboro.”

  “Aw, Mattie,” he said, touched by her concern, “don’t you worry. I’m just fine, as I said. You know I’ve had a hard time since I took the pneumonia up in Philadelphia, and this past year hasn’t helped any, what with all the travelin’ on trains and movin’ around. But I have an idea of what might help put an end to all the travelin’ . . .”

  He was just about to take his place on one knee and make his pretty proposal before she could pull him off the subject again, when Sophie put her head in the door.

  “Suppertime, Miss Mattie, Mist’ John Henry. Don’t be slow.”

  Mattie nodded and smoothed her skirts as she stood. Then she turned to him and smiled. “Was there somethin’ else you wanted to say to me, honey?”

  She was looking at him so sweetly, her eyes full of honest affection, that he almost asked her to marry him right then. But Sophie was still standing in the doorway, waiting for them both.

  “I reckon it can wait,” he said with a sigh. It had waited for months, and years, already. Surely, another hour or two could hardly make much difference.

  Aunt Permelia was even more interested in his health than Mattie had been, and spent most of the supper hour discussing the topic, noting that he seemed to have lost some weight since he’d been living on his own.

  “Though you always were frail,” she finally admitted as the dishes were being cleared away. “Of course, that was because of your difficult time as a newborn. Your mother told you about how your Uncle John and I went down to Griffin when you were just a baby, to mend that poor misshapen lip of yours, didn’t she?”

  “Yes, Aunt, she told me.”

  “And she told you how we all worked with you to learn to speak properly, after the surgery? Why, the whole family took you on as a special project, teachin’ you to talk. Of course, we all lived close together back then, and could help each other out more than we can now. The worst thing to com
e of the War, in my mind, is how we’ve all scattered across the country so. It seems family just doesn’t mean what it used to, when everyone stayed close by for generations and generations. Why, if the Yankees hadn’t made a ruin of Fayette County, we’d still be there, I’m sure, livin’ in our lovely home. This one is much larger, of course, and more stylish, but that was our first, where the boys were little, so it holds special memories for me. Well, listen to me go on! Really, once I get started, I just don’t know when to stop!”

  John Henry didn’t mind her chattering, especially when she talked of things he knew about; his family, his old hometown, the house he had spent so much time in as a child. Aunt Permelia, with all her talk, was a walking library of family history. What he did mind was her insisting that his uncle take a look at him.

  “Just a little examination, dear,” his aunt said as she led him into his uncle’s dark-paneled study after supper. “Your mother would have wanted it, had she been here, rest her soul. You know how she always fussed over you. Of course she did, as you were her only livin’ child and she’d lost her first baby in that awful way. Now you go on and talk to your uncle a bit. It won’t hurt any, I promise!”

  Uncle John smiled as he pulled the pocket doors closed, separating the study from the hallway beyond. Although he bore some resemblance to his older brother Henry, with the same strong chin and steady gaze, Uncle John had none of Henry Holliday’s brusque manner, and he said amiably: