by Bush, Holly
Arlo stood. “Lets me git that dish for ya, sir.”
“Thank you,” Reed replied, feeling better with a stomach full of food.
It was then he observed his cousin and wife carry their own dirty dishes away. Mary Ellen giggled at something Henry said and Reed saw them smile flirtatiously at each other.
“I’ve got some bookkeeping and such to get done. I’ll bring a brandy by later,” Henry called to him.
“That would be grand,” he replied.
Reed spent the evening filling the chest of drawers and unpacking his things. He placed a picture of his mother and father on the table. Reed stacked books on the huge desk and on the floor beside it. He wrote a short letter to his parents and brother Winston, assuring them he had arrived safely.
Much had been made of his traveling alone, especially as great stretches of the southern tracks were still being repaired. His trip to Missouri had been a tortuous trek with multiple stops and some day or more layovers. His mother was convinced a companion should accompany him, but Winston could not take the time and the plantation’s finances needed no further stretching. He was crippled and he knew he must learn to negotiate his own way without staff or servants. His mother had compromised by making arduous arrangements with hotels and station masters by letter over the course of six months.
“Come in,” he replied to a knock at his door.
“As promised,” Henry said as he came in, bottle and glasses in hand.
“I was hoping you remembered,” Reed said and moved to the small table where Henry was seated and accepted a glass.
“So,” Henry said between sips, “tell me about your family.”
Reed rolled the brandy over his tongue. “What do you want to know?”
“Father said you’d be tight-lipped. Wasn’t trying to be nosy. Just hoping they were in good health and all.” Henry crossed his legs and looked away.
“Forgive me, cousin. Mother and Father are fine. Winston is well and set to marry in the fall.”
“Sounds like things are getting back to normal. The girl Winston will marry, do you know her?”
Reed smiled and raised his brows. “Quite well.”
“Will they be living at the plantation? Father said your family managed to hang onto it.”
Reed wondered how much his cousin knew. “Father made enough in gold running blockades to pay the taxes and begin again. Winston brought his first crop of cotton in without slave labor.”
“I’m glad your family business survived. I am sorry about you brother Franklin. Terrible loss, a sibling.”
“Thank you,” Reed replied.
The two men sat in companionable silence, listening to the hushed chatter of guests as the hotel quieted for the night.
Henry leaned forward and stared at Reed. “I know I shouldn’t ask. Can’t seem to help myself. But if the plantation survived, why didn’t you take it over rather than a younger brother.” Henry looked at Reed’s stern face and hurried to continue. “None of my business,” Henry said, smiling at Reed, “Anyway, why would a successful lawyer want to plow and sow?”
“How is your family, Henry? Your father’s letters to Mother were always interesting. I would like to meet them.”
Henry chuckled. “Quite an assortment there. Mother and Father are fine. My younger sisters drive my father crazy with a varied group of suitors.” Henry poured another brandy from the crystal decanter and sat back. “Funny we never met. Our families I mean. Your mother and my father corresponded regularly. Father loved getting letters from Aunt Lily. Said she was the pride of the South.”
“Pride of the South,” Reed whispered and sipped.
Henry turned the framed daguerreotype around. “Father said my sister Susan was the spitting image of her. He’s right.”
“How is your father’s business?” Reed asked.
“Doing well. Always be a market for coffee, I imagine.”
“Begs the question, why would a coffee wholesaler’s son, move west and leave a prosperous business behind?” Reed asked over the cut edge of his glass.
Henry chuckled. “Turnabout is fair play, I suppose. I tried my hand at Father’s business for a while. Didn’t care for it much. Had a dream of moving west. Wanted to watch this country grow. I love it here. I found a beautiful woman and my life’s work. Oh, I miss my family and what I grew up with, but I know I would’ve never been happy in Boston.”
Envy of a clear-cut longing and the fulfillment of that goal filled Reed’s head. Nothing seemed clear for Reed. He was schooled as an attorney, yes, but had practiced little. Reed certainly missed nothing of his life after the war began. Had the war not come, things may have been different. He would have continued on as the second son to a prosperous cotton farmer and would have managed a great estate’s affairs. But the war had come. Gone were a genteel existence, his older brother, and Reed’s legs.
Henry corked the brandy and stood. “Mary Ellen told me to keep this visit short. That you’d be tired. I fear I’ve worn you out more than you already were.”
“My bed does seem to be calling,” Reed said. “Thank you for the ramp. An ingenious invention.”
“Mary Ellen and I both would like you to be happy. We have no family nearby and want you to make your life here,” Henry said. “I know I’ll never replace your brother, I never had one, of course, but it will be good to know I have someone to lean on. And that you, too, can count me as family.”
The sincere exposition touched Reed in a way that seemed foreign. His thoughts of family were as muddy and murky as the bayou, filled with pride, resentment and the undeniable knowledge that he may have done the same things under the same circumstances. Maybe, just maybe, his mother’s encouragement to begin a new life elsewhere came from the heart. And maybe she was right. He had best try and forget the hurts and the wrongs of the past and make something of himself in a new land. He had told Henry it was a new world, and perhaps this was the place for a new beginning.
Reed watched Henry turn the brass door handle. “My brother’s fiancée was to marry me. Her family’s plantation adjoined ours,” Reed said.
Henry turned back with a confused look. “I’m sorry, Reed.” He stood unmoving and smiled wistfully. “Maybe it was for the best. If she loved your brother, you two wouldn’t have been happy.”
“Had nothing to do with love, Henry,” Reed said. “After Franklin was killed and I returned from the war like this,” Reed said with a sweep of hands to his chair, “Father decided that Winston should inherit. That I was not up to the task. Belinda was part and parcel of the deal.”
Henry’s eyes widened. His mouth opened and closed. “Oh.”
Reed watched the man absorb and tackle that bit of Jackson family chicanery. This was the first time Reed had spoken aloud this tale, and it sounded sordid and cold to his own ears. What must this straight-laced Bostonian think, Reed wondered.
“What shit,” Henry said in awe, finally.
Reed laughed. “Well put, cousin. What I think exactly.”
Henry shook his head again and left Reed in his thoughts.
Reed wheeled himself to the window and listened as human sounds faded and a night orchestra began. Crickets chirped and an owl screeched in the distance over the low hum of a faraway piano. Reed smelled rain in the heavy air. He remembered the shocked look on Henry’s face and relived its source. Betrayal, anger and bitter disappointment filled Reed’s head. But he could not hate his father even though he wanted to. Reed knew that forging a new life in the devastated South would require a man fit in all ways. His father bound and determined to resurrect a lost cause with new rules to follow.
His cousin had proven, against all odds in Reed’s mind, to be a man he could like. There was no doubt of the sincere outrage in his eyes. And the straight talk had freed some of Reed’s anger and cleared a space in his mind to look forward and not back.
Chapter Two
“Coming, Pa,” Belle Richards called out from the garden. She had weeded th
e bean plants and let her toes squish in the mud left by last night’s rain as she looked up and shaded her eyes from the glare of the sun. Her tabby wound his way through the garden to her outstretched hand, and she straightened her aching back. Belle unhooked the back hem of her skirt where she had pulled it up between her legs and hooked over her apron, letting the heavy fabric fall. She dunked her feet into yesterday’s wash water still sitting by the back steps.
“Belle,” her father bellowed.
“No need to holler, Pa,” Belle said as she stepped into the house.
“What’s for eats?” Jed, her oldest brother, asked.
“Turnip stew.”
Jed grimaced. “That shit again. I don’t want no more of it.”
Belle turned to him. “Then get yourself into the woods and shoot some rabbit.”
Jed jumped from his chair. He grabbed her arm. “No need to git smart, girlie.”
Belle sobered and met his stare unblinking, wondering if her father would intervene.
“Let her go, Jed. Your sister’s right. Git that half-wit brother of yours and git us some meat for the pot,” Tom Richards said from his chair.
Belle went to the sink and poured water from a bucket over the beans she had picked.
“Git me a bottle, Belle,” her father said.
Belle turned and looked at him, pleadingly. “In a minute, Pa. Let me get these beans washed.”
“My back’s a killin’ me girl. Get it now,” he shouted.
Belle gave in, as she had done since her earliest memory. She reached down to a low shelf and pulled out a bottle of whiskey.
Jed stood from trying to wake his younger brother from a drink-induced sleep. “She’s a lazy, smart-mouthed bitch, Pa. It’s time you said yea to Bert Wilkins.”
Tom Richards shrugged. “I don’t know, Jed.”
“She needs a man’s hand to silence her, that one. He’d have her steppin’ and fetchin’ ‘fore they left church.”
“I’m not marrying Bert Wilkins. I told you that,” Belle said.
Jed turned her roughly around. “You’ll marry who Pa says.”
Belle and her brother faced off in a long-standing battle. “The only reason you want me to marry that sod busting farmer is ‘cause you want his mare. I know he said he’d give it to you if I married him.”
Jed pinched her arm hard underneath where he held her. Belle yelped in pain.
“That’s enough, Jed,” her father said as gold liquid ran down his chin and on to his shirt.
She stared at her older brother and used her last line of defense against Jed’s plotting. “And anyway, who would feed you, Pa, and wash the clothes and such if I were gone,” Belle said evenly.
Jed’s eyes narrowed as he held onto her arm. He released her, smiled smugly and whispered as he walked past her. “The old man won’t live forever.”
Belle’s eyes closed and a held breath escaped. Jed was right. Her father wouldn’t live forever, and then she would be at Jed’s mercy. Please, God, don’t let him die today. “Let me fix your pillow, Pa. Maybe your back won’t hurt so much.”
Frank Richards sat up and held his head. “Does everybody in this house hafta shout?”
Belle smiled at her brother. He had defended her on occasion, but Belle knew that Jed had the final say. When her father did die, Frank would be unable to stop Jed from selling her to the highest bidder. She stirred stew on the stove and said without turning. “There’s a Bible meeting tonight, Pa.”
“Again?” her father asked.
Belle swallowed. “Ma went twice a week.” Her shoulders tensed as she waited for his reply. When Belle mentioned her mother, her father’s eyes welled up, or he went on a rampage. Hopefully, he hadn’t drunk enough to rip up the house. She heard a sniffle behind her and turned.
“My Jenny,” her Pa said looking out the unpaned window. His head snapped back to Belle. “Don’t you be late. Out whorin’ with some nobody. There’s plenty of chores tomorrow.”
“Yes, Pa,” Belle said. After nineteen years of her father’s cruel words, Belle should have been accustomed to the pain they invoked. But she was not. She washed her father and brother’s clothes, cooked the meals, tended the garden and managed to keep their meager farm operating. But it wasn’t enough.
Jed and Frank came home that evening with two rabbits and a squirrel. Belle cleaned and dressed them, salted the rabbits to hang and cooked the squirrel over a low flame. Her father and brothers sat at the table, railing against a variety of enemies while Belle straightened her dress and hair behind the curtain of her room. Two bottles became three, and Belle listened to Jed’s curses. The Confederacy, the Union, the sheriff, the neighbors were the short list for Jed Richards. He blamed them all as well as God and Belle for his miserable existence. Heaven forbid, she thought, he’d sober up and work. She plastered on her best smile and pulled a black shawl over her head.
“I’ll be back soon, Pa. I have squirrel stew in the pot for tomorrow. It’s your favorite,” Belle said. “Jed couldn’t have got us a nicer plumper one. Fine shooting, I’m sure.”
Jed looked up at her through red-rimmed eyes. Filthy long hair fell over his forehead. “Yer damn right, fine shooting. Best shot in the county.”
Frank rolled his eyes. “I shot the squirrel, ya half-wit.”
“Did not,” Jed grumbled.
Frank stood at the table. “I shot the dag-blurned squirrel, and you know it.”
Jed jumped up and Pa began shouting. Belle kissed his cheek and hurried out the door. She hugged herself as she walked the short distance to town. Jed and Frank would be rolling in the mud until dark and never see she didn’t turn left at the sidewalk leading to the First Baptist Church.
* * *
Reed Jackson sat in the shadows of the hotel’s back porch. He could see the side yard as houseguests strolled and stretched their legs and could hear through the open hotel windows the sounds of living. He listened as a couple argued about the price of something the wife had bought that afternoon. Reed was sure it was the older couple in the suite above him. He had to smile as the wife countered her husband, throwing back at him an unwise purchase from long ago. A young man and woman stood entwined against the fence to Reed’s right. He eavesdropped unashamedly to their murmurs and kisses and promises.
After two days, Reed had decided he might indeed like his new home. The hotel employees alone offered a variety of tales. Reed watched at mealtime as the rotund cook winked slyly at the red-haired laundress. And with hotel guests coming and going every day or so, Reed watched many stories unfold. He would never know their outcome, nor did he care. But this was so different than his life before. Prior to the war, he would have been the one a cripple watched as Reed courted women, drank his fill and planned an empire. After the war, he sat on the sagging veranda of his home and watched his family come and go daily. His mother and father kept him informed of the workings of the plantation, but Reed merely nodded from the wicker rocker and concentrated on all he had lost. He had been attentive to the deskwork he could do while his father worked in the fields, directing freemen. But it wasn’t enough. A bottle called him earlier and earlier each day, until his mother showed him the letter she had written her brother, inquiring about the Ames Hotel and his first cousin Henry.
So strange. In the flash of a shotgun blast, Reed’s life had changed. From proud Confederate officer, leading his men through danger, to a crippled drunk veteran with no kingdom for a legacy, no woman to build a life with. From a clear righteous path to a broken down porch. Winston had his own plans for their land, and Reed conceded all his hopes and dreams as his younger brother planned the Jackson future. Boredom had plagued Reed like mosquitoes at twilight.
But here in the shadows of this porch, Reed could at least watch and hear life be lived. Busy people with different attitudes and a clear purpose swirled around Reed from sun-up to sundown. At thirty-two, Reed had considered himself worldly. He traveled after college and saw sights in many cities, but h
e had never watched with the quiet perception and endless time a wheel chair brings.
Where does Beulah go, Reed wondered as he watched the woman move silently down the steps, across the yard and exit through the gate? He pulled his chair closer to the edge of the porch and heard her low voice. Maybe the proud freewoman has a lurid story to uncover, he thought. Reed could not see to whom Beulah spoke, but he heard a young woman’s voice. A young uneducated and he guessed, white woman’s voice. He strained to hear but could not make out their conversation. He heard their low voices trail away from him and added to his list yet another story to uncover.
Reed remained on the porch until the night grew black. Tomorrow he would post a sign at the bank and the land office advertising for clients. Henry offered to hang the posts for him and he supposed he best start a practice. Reed grimaced. Now he may be forced to meet some of the living rather than watch.
Reed did not hear Beulah’s return until the latch settled back into its spot. She carried something in her arms he could not see. The creak of the stairs let Reed know she was on the porch.
“Good evening, Mr. Jackson,” the shadow said.
Sly one, he thought. “Good evening, Miss Beulah. Lovely evening for a stroll.”
“Or to watch others as they stroll,” she replied.
Touché. She was wholly unafraid of him, and he was engrossed. Reed heard the screen door squeak, slam close, and he smiled to himself. Fascinating, this Negro woman, he thought. Maybe she had never been a slave, never learned the meek posture required to survive. In his mind, he saw the stooped men and women who toiled in his fields before the war, beaten into submission by his father and brother. Reed had warned them privately that the war was coming and life would change. He knew the South was not strong enough economically to survive. His father and brother were convinced they not only fought for their livelihood but their slaves’ very souls as well. His father and brothers had sipped brandy before leaving to join the war effort one August night. Reed’s eyes closed as his father’s words played in his head. The darkies need us and our protection. They’ll starve otherwise. We fight for ourselves and all those who depend upon us.