And lucky for me, Lenox Square mall was only four blocks from Laura Lynn's apartment. She was real anxious for me to get over there and start “knocking on some doors,” so to speak. I told her that it made me a little nervous walking there seeing how I had to cross a road that looked more like an interstate than a city street. She told me I was being ridiculous, that I had two good eyes and two good legs, so use them. Personally speaking, though, I always considered it somewhat of an accomplishment making it to the other side in one piece.
I'd been to the mall only once before, with Daddy and Martha Ann, and that was a long, long time ago. And other than the toy department at Davison's and that Barbie doll dressed in her white winter coat, I really didn't remember much. All these years later, I couldn't help but wonder if that Barbie doll was still hanging around, maybe sporting a little cotton sundress and a wide-brimmed hat.
But when I got there, what I found looked more like a city than a shopping mall. There were so many places to eat and spend your money, I figured you could be lost for weeks and come out none the worse for wear. One store sold nothing but women's handbags and another one sold nothing but women's underwear—all sorts of silk panties and lacy bras—things I was not sure should be displayed for everybody to see. But I decided right at that very moment that when I got my first paycheck, I was marching into that store and buying myself a pair of pink panties with little pink roses embroidered all over them. Somehow knowing that Ruthie Morgan would trade her best cashmere sweater set for a pair of those panties would make it worth it, no matter what they cost!
I must have filled out at least a dozen applications and, even though my feet were hurting from walking so much, I headed on over to Penney's to introduce myself to that old friend of Gloria Jean's. I had made a solemn promise that I'd look her up as soon as I got to town, and there's no going back on a solemn promise, especially one involving Gloria Jean Graves.
A tall, slender woman with bright blue eye shadow was standing behind the jewelry counter, and I knew without even asking her name that she was the woman I was looking for. She said she didn't know about any jobs at Penney's that would be good for a girl like me, but she did know a sweet, old lady, a Miss Myrtie Mabie, who might have a room to rent, something I could afford.
She handed me a small piece of paper with Miss Mabie's phone number on it and suggested I call her, not too early and not too late, seeing how she was nearing eighty. And seeing how I was sleeping on some crummy old couch Laura Lynn bought at the Goodwill store, which had such a stale smoky smell about it that it left me feeling like I'd been puffing on Mrs. Dempsey's Virginia Slims, I was real eager to call this Miss Mabie.
Living with Laura Lynn wasn't all bad, don't get me wrong. But I must admit that my favorite time of day was right after she left for work. As soon as the door slammed shut, I fixed myself a bowl of cereal and turned on the television. Daddy never let Martha Ann and me watch too much TV, said it wasn't good for our brains. But here, I just couldn't get enough of it, especially the Action News on WSB-TV.
Every morning, this nice-looking man, much younger than Daddy's Walter Cronkite, talked about all the bad things that had happened in Atlanta while I was sleeping—all the things I imagined Daddy hoped I would never hear or see. Truth be told, probably not a single night went by when somebody wasn't getting robbed or shot, but the man's voice was so warm and soothing that it just never sounded all that bad.
Today the worst thing he had to say was that the temperature was going to be close to one hundred and five, again, some kind of late-summer heat wave pushing east from the Great Plains. I'd never sweated more like a stuck pig in my life. Laura Lynn said it was all the asphalt and concrete, something about an urban jungle. So I decided today was as good as any to sit by the telephone, in the air-conditioning, in front of the TV, and wait for somebody to call and give me a job.
And sure enough, someone did. A man, a senior manager I think he said, from Davison's department store phoned a little before noon and wanted me, Catherine Grace Cline, to come in for an interview. He said he was looking for an energetic young woman to join a new department that was scheduled to open early next week. He said he had read my application carefully and was very impressed with my entrepreneurial spirit. It was possible I might have made my jam-making business sound a little grander than it really was. But either way, he figured I must be a real go-getter, just the kind of person he wanted representing Davison's department store.
My nerves started twitching right there on the telephone, but I kept telling myself that any girl who can sell strawberry jam can surely sell pretty clothes and high-heeled shoes. Then I started blabbing, telling him all about my daddy and the time he brought me to the store to see Santa Claus and how I had dreamed of working there myself someday. He said he looked forward to meeting someone who loved Davison's as much as he did and that I should meet him at the back door, by the loading dock, the very next morning at nine o'clock sharp.
I spent the rest of the day trying to decide what to wear, finally choosing my Villager set that Gloria Jean had bought me a couple years ago for the Mother-Daughter Tea. Laura Lynn said it didn't look very professional, not being navy and all, but she guessed it would be okay for retail work. I was really growing to dislike that girl.
The next morning I woke up extra early, not even needing to set my alarm clock. I wanted to spend a little time in the bathroom before Laura Lynn started shooing me out of her way, leaving me to brush my teeth in the kitchen sink and fix my hair staring into the side of the toaster. The man on the television said it had been a real quiet night in Atlanta, and I took that to be an omen of sorts that something good was coming my way.
Mr. Wallis was standing by the back door, waiting for me when I got there. Thankfully, I was five minutes early ’cause I noticed he glanced down at his watch and noted the time. Mr. Charles Humphrey Wallis turned out to be a very soft gentleman even though his voice had sounded big and strong on the telephone. He was short and thin and had thick, gray hair parted neatly on the side and coated with some kind of oil that made it shine real bright in the sunlight. A little blue handkerchief was tucked inside his suit pocket and gold buttons were fastened to his shirt cuffs. He was dressed more like the governor than any other man I had ever met before in my life.
We walked from one end of the store to the other, and even though I kept step with Mr. Wallis, I couldn't keep my eyes from darting every which way. I started wondering how many people it would take to buy up all the dresses and jewelry and perfume that were on display, more than everybody in Ringgold, that's for sure. Mr. Wallis didn't seem to notice any of it. I wondered if that would happen to me after a while.
He led me into a small but comfortable-looking office directly behind the women's shoe department. He sat behind the desk and I sat in front of it, and we talked back and forth for almost an hour. He asked me all sorts of questions about Ringgold—about school and making jam and the like. He even asked me about Daddy and Martha Ann. Next thing I knew, I had myself a job, although I wasn't going to be selling cosmetics or fancy dresses. Turns out, I had gourmet food experience and would be working in Davison's new specialty foods department, selling expensive crackers and olives and candies and . . . yes . . . jams.
But Mr. Wallis said that if I did a real good job, the store's executives might even consider me for the management-training program. “Because Davison's is all about opportunity.” That's exactly what he said.
Mr. Wallis started as a sales clerk just like me, and he told me that if I worked hard, someday I might be sitting right where he was. I wasn't sure if perched behind a stack of women's shoes was exactly what he meant, but I smiled and told him I sure hoped he was right.
Laura Lynn was almost happier than I was to hear about my new job. She had already figured that with a paycheck or two in my pocket, I could be looking for a place of my own and she and Royce could get back to loving each other full-time. Heck, Royce almost picked me up off the floor when
he heard the news. Those two will most surely be birthing a baby by their first wedding anniversary, if not sooner.
But after Laura Lynn went to bed, I got down on my knees and thanked the Lord for Mr. Wallis and my new job. If I was going to be the best sales clerk Davison's had ever had, I figured I was going to need the Almighty on my side. To tell the truth, talking to the Lord was coming a whole lot easier these days—what with Him finally listening and all.
Of course, Daddy always taught me to pray for my enemies first, but I skipped right over Laura Lynn and the like and started thinking on Daddy and Martha Ann and Gloria Jean. I wondered if they were missing me as much as I was missing them. I hadn't heard from Daddy yet, even though I had already written him two long letters. I reckoned the church was keeping him pretty busy, especially with Homecoming just around the corner. And I was sure Roberta Huckstep was buzzing about his ear, reminding him how little Emma Sue would never think of leaving her family like I'd up and done.
After saying all that, I just lay there and wondered about Hank. I saved him for last, so I could take my time thinking about his blue eyes and his strong arms and the way he'd whisper in my ear, causing my insides to tingle. I saw his red pickup pull into the parking lot at the Dairy Queen as my bus was pulling out. A part of me had wanted to yell at that driver to stop and let me get off. But I just closed my eyes instead. And now when I couldn't think about Hank Blankenship anymore, I just closed my eyes and went to sleep.
September 19, 1975
Dear Catherine Grace,
I was so excited to finally get a letter. Mr. Winfield brought it right to the door. He said he knew I'd been waiting on pins and needles to hear from you and that the U.S. Postal Service wanted to do whatever it could for Reverend Cline's baby girl. Ha, the U.S. Postal Service being Mr. Winfield and his wife!
You have no idea how much I've been missing you, but I am absolutely thrilled to hear about your new job—although you have to admit that it's a little ironic that you had to go all the way to Atlanta to sell strawberry jam! No kidding, we're all real proud of you. Gloria Jean says sales are sales and you obviously have a natural-born talent for it. Daddy even smiled when he heard the news.
As exciting as it must be in Atlanta, rest assured that it is just that quiet here. And who would have thought this place could get any worse? Thank goodness Gloria Jean has been coming by to check on us, because if she didn't, I don't think this house would have seen a smile lately. She said to tell you that she's waiting for a letter of her own!
I know you'd like to hear that Daddy is doing fine, but I have to be honest with you, Catherine Grace, he's not. He's sad, really sad. He misses you terribly. And most days, he acts as though you've up and died. He spends most of his time at the church reading the Bible and doing God only knows what. And when he comes home, he never has much to say. He watches the news, shakes his head as if to remind me that the world is a bad place, and then goes to bed.
Last Sunday, he woke up acting more like his old self. He even put a pot roast in the Crock-Pot. I had hoped Miss Raines might be coming over for lunch just like she used to. But she didn't. In fact, Daddy hardly spoke to her after the service. And oh my, the sermon, let's just say he spent more than an hour preaching the parable of the Prodigal Son—sounding very much like the wounded father. I think he just wanted to remind the congregation that his precious, wayward daughter would be coming home as soon as she figures out what a big mistake she's gone and made. (Although he may have to rethink this, seeing how the Prodigal Son never landed a job at Davison's department store!)
And just so you know, according to Daddy's version of the story, I'm the loyal, devoted child who stayed home to water all these stupid tomatoes. And of course I'll also be the one stuck cleaning the house and helping Ida Belle cook for the big party he's going to have in celebration of your grand return!
Laura Lynn sounds nice enough, but you're right, it is really strange to think about the family we have and don't know anything about. But I guess lucky for you a Cline turned up in Atlanta even if she wasn't what you were hoping for.
OK, now you need to sit down, Catherine Grace, because if you don't, you are going to hit the floor laughing. At the Tigers' first home game, little Miss Emma Sue was making her official debut as a Ringgold varsity cheerleader. Yuk! Anyway, her entire family was there, sitting in the bleachers, waving signs that read, “Go Tiger Sue,” and taking at least a million pictures.
During halftime the cheerleading squad ran out onto the field for their big cheer, and Walter Pigeon lifted Emma Sue up over his head. She was standing on Walter's shoulders, grinning so big, so impressed with herself. Anyway, she was supposed to fall into Walter's arms, but somebody blew a horn and distracted poor Walter Pigeon and Emma Sue fell right on the ground!!!
She cracked her cute little tailbone! In two places! And now she has to sit on this piece of foam that looks like a giant doughnut. She carries it around with her everywhere she goes. If she's not sitting on it, she's wearing it around her wrist like a bracelet! I have never laughed so hard in my entire life. Mrs. Roberta Huckstep hasn't been in church for two weeks. I think the entire family is suffering from terminal humiliation, at least that's what Gloria Jean called it. I love it—terminal humiliation!
Of course, we lost the game, but nobody cared. Robbie Preston is the only quarterback I know of who can't throw a football. And you know as well as I do that we can't beat LaFayette just running the ball up and down the field.
By the way, the new English teacher from Murfreesboro never showed up. Apparently she got caught in a compromising situation with the principal at her old school. Needless to say, she was asked not to come to Ringgold High. So Mr. Boyce, a retired English teacher from some boys' school in Chattanooga, was hired at the last minute. At first I thought he was going to be a downright, total bore. But he's wonderful. He actually believes that there are other great American writers besides Mrs. Tyne's beloved William Faulkner!
He told me I'm one of the most promising students he's ever had, and as much as I love words, I ought to think about being an English teacher or a newspaper writer or maybe somebody kind of like Mary Tyler Moore. How about that?! Maybe I could work for the paper in Atlanta, and then we could live together. Wouldn't that be great!
Of course, we might have to wait till poor Daddy has completely lost his mind or is dead and buried cause I'm not sure he'll ever be able to stand both of his baby girls leaving town. Just kidding! I think!
Lots and lots of hugs and kisses,
Martha Ann
Turns out the nice old lady with the room to rent lived in a big beautiful house right smack dab in the middle of Buckhead. Laura Lynn couldn't stand it that I, Catherine Grace Cline, made it to the fancy neighborhood before she did. She was so mad, she could have spit but instead she dropped me off at the end of Miss Mabie's driveway, leaving me to lug my bags to the house all on my own. I was huffing and puffing something awful by the time I made my way to the front steps.
Miss Mabie was standing just outside her door when I got there, looking real tiny and small next to the huge, square white columns stretched across the front of her house. She had a rather nice figure for a woman her age, and her hair was snow white and cut in a short, stylish bob. She looked very sophisticated and elegant till you got down to her feet and saw her brown, clunky orthopedic shoes. She told me later that she was a vain woman from the tip of her head all the way down to her ankles—but that's where her vanity turned to comfort.
“Child, are you Catherine Grace Cline?” she asked, pointing her little crooked finger right at me.
“Yes, ma'am, I am.”
“Child, you walk all the way here?”
“No, ma'am, my cousin dropped me off at the end of your driveway.”
“Hmm.” Then she looked me over long and hard.
“Well, your cousin's either got no manners at all or she doesn't like you too much. Which is it?”
“I think a bit of both to te
ll the truth.”
“Damn it. Well, I've either got me the best tenant I've ever had or I need to go and lock the silver closet. Come on and get in here and let's find out which it is.”
She yelled for Flora to come and take my bags, and almost instantly a large black woman appeared from behind a white swinging door. Miss Mabie didn't introduce us, but Flora flashed a quick smile and then headed up the stairs carrying all three of my bags in her hands.
Miss Mabie turned her back to me and walked away, obviously intending for me to follow. She stopped in the kitchen and pointed to the kitchen table, directing me to take a seat. She fixed me a glass of iced tea, all the while explaining the rules of the house. No smoking and no loud music. Rent was due the first of the month. Local calls could be made from the phone in the kitchen. And any gentleman callers were welcome as long as they didn't smoke or play loud music.
Then without me even asking, Miss Mabie told me that she ran away from home when she was no more than sixteen, catching a ride with some insurance salesman passing through Georgia on his way to New York City. She said she used to model for a store called Bloomingdale's and even danced on Broadway! She said Gene Kelley was a very good friend and she emphasized the very. And she said she used to be tall till life and old age beat her down.
I didn't understand her ever wanting to leave New York City, but she said she loved the South and since her daddy left her with more money than she knew what to do with, she figured she'd come home and spend the rest of her years sipping gin and tonics and swatting flies. She told everyone in town that she had been married twice and widowed twice. She said that Atlanta society preferred to think that she had known the love of a man only within the sacramental confines of matrimonial bliss. “Marriage would be wonderful, dear,” she reassured me, “if it weren't so everyday.”
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