“Did you?” she asked, using a spoon to push the apples around so they’d be evenly spread in the pie.
“Yes, ma’am.”
I told her about all the folks looking at us and what Mr. Wheeler had said about Abe Campbell. About how Mama had acted like nothing’d happened at all.
“She didn’t even tell Daddy,” I said.
“She must have been mortified,” Aunt Carrie said.
“She had on her coat the whole time,” I told her. “So nobody’d see.”
I touched my own stomach, not knowing the right way of saying the state Mama found herself in.
Aunt Carrie nodded. “I think I understand.”
She was quiet as she put the top crust on. She pinched all along the edge so it looked like one long, round wave. Then she took a sharp knife and cut slits in the middle of it before putting it into the oven to bake.
“I think your mama is very brave,” Aunt Carrie said, collecting the crust scraps from the counter and rolling them into a ball. “And I think Mr. Wheeler behaved like a churl. He had no right to say such a thing to her. Especially not in front of you.”
“What’s a churl?” I asked.
“A poorly mannered person in possession of a mean spirit,” she answered. “In short, a bully.”
I thought of Hazel and wondered if she’d gotten her mean spirit from him. It would not have surprised me in the least.
“Why’re they all so mean?” I asked.
“Who’s that?” Aunt Carrie asked, turning toward me.
“The Wheelers.”
“Well,” she started. “I don’t know that they’re exactly mean, dear. They do mean things, yes. They behave badly, indeed. But there’s always a reason for people to do the things they do.”
“They don’t have to be mean,” I said.
“You’re right. How we choose to treat people says much about us, don’t you think?” Aunt Carrie asked, patting a fine dusting of flour onto the small lump of leftover dough. “Especially when it comes to people who have hurt us.”
“Like Mama?” The words were out of my mouth before I could catch them. I hoped so hard that Aunt Carrie wouldn’t think me a dishonoring daughter for saying a thing like that.
But she didn’t so much as flinch. Instead, she used her apron to wipe the loose flour from her hands. Then she put them on my cheeks, her palms warm and smelling of dough.
“My Pearl,” she said.
I was surprised by the way her eyes got watery and her voice trembled ever so slightly.
“Forgiveness is the hardest gift to give,” she said, reaching up to push away a tear from her own cheek with her knuckle. “It can cost us so much. But I’ve always believed that it’s worth the struggle.”
“Why are you crying?” I asked.
“Because it’s difficult to see you hurting.” She gave me half a smile. “But it will get better, dear. I believe this family will make it. I have faith that your heart will heal.”
I nodded, knowing that God’d heard Aunt Carrie’s words. Not from far away somewhere in the sky. But that He’d been a witness to Aunt Carrie’s gentle hands and soft words. I did believe if I could’ve seen God just then I’d have watched Him nodding His head at what she’d told me.
“Now, how about I teach you how to make cinnamon snails?”
I told her I’d like that.
She let me roll out the leftover dough and sprinkle cinnamon and a little sugar all over it. Then we folded it into a log, cut off inches of it, and put them on a cookie sheet to bake.
They sat in the oven along with the pie, the whole house filling with the smells of butter and cinnamon and the sweetness of apple. When they came out, that scrap dough looked like perfectly coiled snails, a shade of golden Aunt Carrie declared to be just right. I hoped she might let me taste one of them. Maybe two even.
She did. And with a big glass of milk.
Aunt Carrie wasn’t one to let somebody down.
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
The stained-glass windows were dull on account the sun was hiding behind thick, gray clouds. A gloomy day like that one didn’t bother me just so long as it brought showers with it. There was something about the sound of rain on the roof and windows that brought comfort.
But the rain had yet to come, so the day just made me feel slow and tired.
Mama had come to church that morning. She’d even taken her coat off, which surprised me. Her stomach didn’t show so much, not under the dress she’d picked to wear. Still, if anybody’d taken the time to look real close, they’d have been able to figure it out.
I was between Mama and Aunt Carrie in the pew feeling for all the world that it was the very last place I wanted to be. If staring eyes had a weight to them, we’d have been pinned to the sanctuary floor for how nearly every pair in that church was looking over at our pew. Peeking up at Mama I saw that her eyes were closed and I thought that was awful smart of her.
Much as I wanted her to feel bad about what she had done, I didn’t want the whole town of Bliss holding judgment over her head.
“Go ahead and throw one stone. Any of y’all without sin, go on ahead,” I dared them. But only in my head, of course.
In my mind I was far braver than I ever could have been in real life.
I worked at listening to the voices around me singing about the soft and tender calling of Jesus.
The preacher stood behind the pulpit all during the hymn-singing time. He sang as he opened his Bible and arranged his pieces of paper that he’d written his sermon on.
Back home in Red River, Pastor never put his Bible down for anything while he hollered at us. And his sermons had never seen a sheet of paper. They just came streaming out of his own mind and mouth. Whatever he thought to say, he did. Meemaw’d say he’d got the Spirit and would go on until the Lord told him it was time to stop.
More than once I’d prayed for God’s great mercy to make Pastor hush up, especially on hot days when even a paper fan didn’t stir up cool air.
I liked that Bliss preacher’s ways, even if he did wear robes and even if he did preach with a soft voice. He smiled out at us and told us that God wanted us for His very own.
After the hymn ended and we sang the long, dragged out a-a-men, the preacher put his hands up, palms facing us, and lowered them so we’d know we could sit down. The wood pews crackled as every backside settled in.
Aunt Carrie put her arm around me, pulling me to her side like she did most Sundays just as the sermon began. I didn’t mind being held that way at all. But the way Mama cleared her throat made me think she wasn’t all too pleased by it.
I couldn’t seem to figure out a way of making both her and Aunt Carrie happy though, so I just didn’t move. Not an inch.
If anybody’d asked me the truth, I would’ve said how it would’ve been nice for Mama to reach out for me, too.
It wasn’t unusual for all the folks to stand about after church and catch up before heading home to their suppers. Back in Red River, Mama’d enjoyed that time. She’d go from one circle to another, listening in on the gossip or adding a juicy tidbit of her own. If one of the women at the church was having a particular struggle, she knew to go to Mama. Mama was the one to help make things all right just with her listening ears and sympathetic nodding.
That day, though, I could tell she’d have rather jumped off the tip-top of the tallest building in Bliss than face the ladies waiting at the back of the sanctuary, eyes on her and hands shielding whispering lips.
“Feels like I got a red letter A on my chest,” she murmured in a way that I thought was just to herself.
“Don’t you let them bother you, Mary,” Aunt Carrie told her. “Keep your head up.”
“They all know, don’t they?” Mama’s eyes were wide and her chin trembling. “They know what I’ve done.”
“Never you mind what they do or do not know.” Aunt Carrie slipped her hand through the crook of Mama’s elbow. “It is none of their business.”
&
nbsp; “But—”
“But nothing,” Aunt Carrie said. “I’ve known most of these women all my life. Believe me, we all need the same measure of grace, Mary. We all do. Now, would you please be willing to come to my house and help me get dinner on the table?”
Mama nodded as Aunt Carrie pulled her past the gawking ladies to where our coats were hung up.
Before any of us knew it, we were all packed up between Uncle Gus’s car and Daddy’s truck on our way to the farm.
Uncle Gus prayed the blessing over the roast and Aunt Carrie made sure we all filled our plates with potatoes and carrots and rolls. Mama took so little, I wanted to let her know we had plenty. She didn’t have to take less than anybody else like she’d done sometimes in Red River. In Bliss we had more food than we could ever eat.
But the way she pushed the cooked carrots around the plate made me think maybe that wasn’t why she took so little. Sadness sometimes had that way with folks. She kept her eyes down even through all the talking around her. I wondered if she heard a word of any of it.
“Gus says there’s to be another dance this weekend,” Aunt Carrie said. “Seems like they’re becoming a regular occurrence.”
“Don’t I know it.” Daddy shook his head and put his fork down on the edge of his plate. “All I ever hear about these days is those dances.”
“And all on account of the good ole boys at the Legion,” Uncle Gus said, raising his glass of milk like he was making a toast.
“Can we go?” I asked, knowing full well that I was speaking without being spoken to. But Mama didn’t even flinch.
“I think so, darlin’,” Daddy answered, putting a potato chunk into his mouth.
“It’s gonna be a spring dance,” Uncle Gus said. “Even found a band that’ll come play it. Ain’t chargin’ us as much as they might, either. Real good fellas out of Adrian.”
“Do they play jazz?” I asked.
“Might just,” he answered.
I hoped they did.
“Got stopped by Gladys Ritzema in town the other day,” Daddy said between bites. “She just about jumped out in front of my truck when I was making my rounds.”
“You hit her?” Uncle Gus asked, perking up. “Sure would be a shame for this town to lose such a fine and sweet woman.”
“Gustav,” Aunt Carrie said, shaking her head.
“Nah, I didn’t hit her,” Daddy said. “Sure am glad my brakes aren’t bad, though. She took me by surprise.”
“What’d she want?” Uncle Gus asked. “She got somebody for you to arrest for spittin’ on the sidewalk?”
“Gus, be mindful,” Aunt Carrie said, raising an eyebrow at him. “Little pitchers have big ears.”
“We won’t tell nobody,” Ray said, stabbing a carrot slice with his fork. “Will we, Pearl?”
I shook my head on account my mouth was full of food and I didn’t want Mama getting after me for neglecting my manners.
“She wanted to talk my ear off about the dance this weekend,” Daddy said. “Says it’s bound to attract the wrong kind.”
“She’s still hung up on that, huh?” Uncle Gus pulled his head back and narrowed his eyes. “Guess she ain’t fixin’ to let it go, is she?”
“I can’t imagine she is.” Daddy glanced at me.
“Don’t know why she’s gettin’ a bee in her bonnet about it,” Uncle Gus said. “Ain’t been no trouble, has there?”
“Nope. Not one fight, not one kid getting drunk. Nothing like that,” Daddy said. “It’s that they’re mixing she’s still up in arms about. She said now that there’s more Negroes coming to the dances she wants separate dances for white and colored.”
At that Mama turned her head to look at Daddy for just a moment before looking back down again.
“Now, that’s just bologna,” Uncle Gus said. “If she don’t like them so much, why’s she always gotta come?”
“Well, Gus, I don’t know the answer to that.” Daddy shook his head. “Tell you what, next time she comes to me in a snit, I’ll send her your way so you can ask her yourself.”
“Go on and do that, Tom.” Uncle Gus sawed at his roast beef with his knife. “You just have her come out here. I’ll give her a piece of my mind.”
“You’ll do no such thing,” Aunt Carrie said. “You’re too kind.”
“Well, I know it,” Uncle Gus said. “Lord, but does that woman make me riled. It’s nineteen thirty-five—”
“Nineteen thirty-six, dear,” Aunt Carrie corrected him.
“Even so,” Uncle Gus went on, “all’s they’re doin’ is dancin’. They ain’t doin’ nothin’ wrong.”
“What does she expect you to do about it, Tom?” Aunt Carrie asked, putting another slice of bread on Ray’s plate.
“I suppose she wants me to talk to Jake Winston,” Daddy said. “Guess he told her he won’t have her in his office anymore.”
“That’s why I vote for him every election,” Uncle Gus said.
“No one ever runs against him,” Aunt Carrie told him.
“Don’t matter. I’d still vote for him.”
“Winston told me he isn’t inclined to do anything about it just so long as the Legion keeps holding them and there’s no fighting or such,” Daddy said.
“Good for him. Let them kids have a little fun, that’s what I say.” Uncle Gus said. “Pearlie, could you pass the butter, please?”
“Maybe I’ll try talking to her,” Aunt Carrie said. “I might be able to talk some reason into her.”
“Better you than me,” Daddy said.
“Wouldn’t it just save them trouble?” Mama asked. “Having separate dances?”
“Well …” Daddy started, but didn’t finish his thought.
Mama put her hands in her lap. “Just seems if most folks don’t like the mixing, maybe they shouldn’t do it.”
Ray went on eating but nobody else moved an inch. I could’ve sworn I heard the crackling of the roof settling for how quiet it was the rest of dinner.
After helping Aunt Carrie and Mama with the dishes, I put on my sweater and went out to visit the hens. I had a bucket of scratch for them, and once I stepped into the coop they came to me, a’clucking and a’pecking at the pail.
It’d started raining but that didn’t seem to bother the hens all that much. As for me, I knew Mama’d only abide me being out in the weather for a minute or two before she’d come out, fretting over how I’d catch my death from being soaked like I was.
I ducked into the coop and scattered the leftover bits of food for the girls on the floor, leaning down to pat one or two on the back and talking softly to them the way they liked.
Something peaceful there was about being squatted down with those hens pecking at the floor for a scrap of crust or a tossed-aside bean. Maybe it was just knowing they didn’t think anything of me except that I had food and that made me their friend.
“I best get,” I said singsong to the chickens. “I’ll come and see you later in the week. Promise.”
They didn’t seem to care about me stepping out, which was fine by me. I took my empty bucket and headed back to the house.
Across the yard I saw Daddy, Uncle Gus, and Ray bothering an old tractor just inside the wide-open door of the barn. Ray bent at the waist and reached up under the machine, fiddling with something or another. He shook his head and said something to Uncle Gus. They both stood tall, hands on hips, and stared at that tractor like that might jog their brains as to what was wrong with it.
Ray turned and saw me watching them. He gave me a big old goofy grin, one that spread all the way across his face. I tried thinking back to a time when he’d been that kind of happy back in Red River. Sure, he’d smiled then, but never so big it made his whole face scrunch up.
It did my heart good, seeing a thing like that. It was all the sunshine I needed on the gray and rainy day.
I stepped in through the kitchen door, slipped out of my shoes, and shivered. Then I walked, drip-dropping along over the linoleum toward the
door that led to the living room. Behind it, I heard Mama and Aunt Carrie talking.
“It will take time,” Aunt Carrie said. “And patience. For all of you, Mary.”
“They don’t need me,” Mama told her. “They’ve been fine without me. I know it. Don’t tell me they weren’t.”
“Opal did a fine job keeping the house and watching after the kids. I’ll give you that.” Aunt Carrie used her warm and gentle voice. “But that’s not all there is to a family.”
“I can’t do much else for them. All I can do is cook and clean. That’s it,” Mama said. “As far as I can tell they were better off without me getting in the way.”
“That isn’t true.”
I tried seeing them through the tiny gap between the kitchen door and the frame, but all I saw was the arm of a chair and a corner of a table.
“I don’t know that they’d notice if I went away again,” Mama said.
“You know they would,” Aunt Carrie told her.
“Half the time I can’t figure out what to say to them. It’s like we’re all strangers living under the same roof. No …” she paused. “I’m the stranger. They all know and like each other and I’m the odd one out that nobody cares for.”
“Give it time.”
“I’m just a burden.”
“That’s not so, Mary.”
“But Tom—”
“How about Pearl? And Ray?” Aunt Carrie’s voice was sharper. “You’d break their hearts all over again.”
“But—”
“No, Mary. Stop,” Aunt Carrie interrupted her. “She’s been through enough. Can’t you see that?”
“Of course I know,” Mama said, her voice weak and shaking. “But I’m not the only one that hurt her.”
“She needs you.”
“I wish I could believe that.”
I stepped back from the door and made my way to the table. The chair Aunt Carrie always had for me to sit in was still in the dining room from the after-church meal, I guessed. There was just a space where it should have been. I stood there, my hands on the table.
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