The house was still, for at two in the morning everyone would be sound asleep. She herself had not slept at all, and now as she moved across the wooden floor, her nerves were frayed—so much so that when a voice spoke off to her left, she uttered a desperate cry despite herself.
“Frankie.”
Whirling around, Frankie saw by the light of the single lamp that Tim was sitting in a chair by the fireplace. “Tim!” she gasped and looked upstairs suddenly, afraid that her father might have heard.
Tim got up and came to stand in front of her. “I knew you were going away.”
“How did you know that?” Frankie whispered.
“Because I saw you couldn’t do anything else. Every night I looked in the attic, because that’s where the only suitcase we have is. It wasn’t there last night, so I knew you’d be leaving.”
Frankie shook her head, desperation in her eyes. “I have to go, Tim. I have to!”
“Sure, I know.” Tim reached into his pocket and pulled something out, then held it toward the girl. “You’ll need some money.”
“Why, this is the money you’re saving to buy that guitar you wanted, Tim!”
“I’ll get it someday. Go on, take the money.”
Frankie put the thin packet of bills into her pants pocket, then reached out and hugged her brother. She clung to him fiercely, and a great sadness came over her. “It’ll be bad for you when I’m gone,” she whispered. “You won’t have anybody to talk to.”
Tim stepped back, and in the yellow light, his thin face seemed even frailer than usual. “I’ll miss you. Write to me, but send it to Johnson’s Store. I’ll pick it up there.”
“And you’ll write me back?”
“Sure I will. And when you get settled, I may come and visit with you.” They both knew this would never happen, but the pretense made the leaving easier. “You have food for the trip? You know it’ll take you near all day to get to town, and you’ll need something to eat on the way.” She nodded, touched at his concern for her.
Tim took a deep breath, then said, “Pa will be after you, Frankie. First thing he’ll do is check the trains out of Henderson.”
“Oh! I hadn’t thought of that!”
“The train leaves at one fifteen. On foot it will be tight. But if you take your mare, you can make it. Pa may find out you got on the train, but he won’t go any further once he knows you’re out of town.”
“What about the horse?”
“Leave her at the blacksmith shop. Have you written a note to Pa?”
“N–no.”
“Here, sit down and write it now. Tell him you’re leaving and won’t be back for a long time. And tell him about the mare.”
Frankie wrote a brief note, saying only that she could not bear the thought of marrying someone she did not love and that she would make out on her own. She wrote about the mare, then tried to put in some sort of personal word—some fond farewell—to her father. But nothing came. Finally she signed it, then put it on the table. “Let him find it here, Tim. I don’t want him to know you helped me. And try to make Sarah and Jane understand.… Tell them I love them!”
“Better get going,” Tim said gently. He walked with her to the door, and she turned to kiss him. It was an awkward kiss, for they had not been outwardly demonstrative. “God will take care of you, Frankie,” Tim said quietly. “And I want you to listen when He speaks to you.”
Frankie knew that her brother was a man who believed deeply in God—he’d gotten that from their mother—and as she whispered her final good-bye, she wished with all her heart that she had some of that same faith.
Quickly she saddled the horse and tied the suitcase behind the saddle with some twine. She swung into the saddle and walked the mare out of the horse lot, holding her breath until she made the dogleg turn in the road. As the house was lost to view, her courage almost failed her. But then she thought of Alvin Buck and lifted her head. “Come on, girl, let’s go!”
She kept the mare at a fast walk. She knew some of their neighbors would be starting to get up for their morning chores before too long and was grateful that she saw none of them. Not to speak to, at least. Old Mrs. Crane came out on the porch and waved at her, but Frankie merely returned the salute and moved on. The ride was long. She got to Henderson an hour before the train was due, so she had plenty of time to take the mare by the blacksmith shop, taking care to conceal the suitcase in some bushes beforehand.
The blacksmith boarded horses regularly and agreed to keep the mare until her father came for her. Frankie slipped the saddle off and rubbed the animal’s velvet nose in a final gesture. She loved the mare and knew wherever she went she’d never again have one she loved so well. Then she turned and walked away, her back straight and her face stiff, not even turning when the horse whickered after her.
Retrieving her suitcase, she walked to the station, devoutly hoping that she’d encounter nobody she knew. She bought a ticket for Detroit—for no other reason than the fact that her mother had a sister who lived there, her aunt Clara. It had been years since her aunt had written. She might have moved, or even have died, but it was all that Frankie could think of to do.
The train came huffing in, blowing clouds of steam that frightened Frankie. Picking up her suitcase, she moved to the step. The conductor looked at her ticket and nodded. “Get aboard, folks,” he called loudly as Frankie climbed the short steps. She turned to her left and entered the car—the first one she’d ever seen. It had two rows of wicker seats, each seat wide enough for two people, with an aisle between. There were no more than ten or twelve people seated, most of whom were reading or looking out the window. One passenger, a huge, black-bearded man, stared at Frankie curiously as she moved down the aisle and took her seat. Soon the train lurched backward, then forward. As it picked up speed, the whistle screamed, and the station seemed to move backward.
Frankie sat stiffly on the seat, watching the country flow by. Then the conductor stepped inside and came to her. “Ticket?” He took her ticket, punched it, and handed it back. He paused, his blue eyes curious. “Long ride to Detroit. We’ll stop long enough at Haysville to eat. I’ll make sure we don’t go off and leave you if you want to buy something.”
“Thank you,” Frankie said gratefully, smiling. The conductor moved on, and she leaned back and relaxed. For the next hour she watched the scenery, then grew sleepy. The click-clack of the wheels and the heat from the coal stove at the front of the car combined to make her drowsy. Putting her head back, she closed her eyes and began to plan what she would do when she got to Detroit. She drifted off to sleep, awaking sometime later with that strange and bewildering sensation that sometimes comes upon awakening in a new place. For one sickening, frightening moment, she had no idea where she was. Her head jerked forward, and she restrained the cry that came to her lips as she remembered what she had done.
“Not far to Haysville,” a man’s voice said. Frankie jumped at the sound and turned to see that the big man who had watched her enter the car had stopped beside her seat. He smiled and added, “I’m hungry as a bear. Like to have something to eat?”
“No, I’m not hungry.” Actually, she was hungry and had planned to get a sandwich, but something warned her that she must not go with this man.
“Aw, come on,” he coaxed. “Nice little café there, and the train can’t leave for an hour. Has to make connection with the northbound.”
When Frankie shook her head, the man’s eyes narrowed. He sat down suddenly in the seat across from her and studied her carefully. “Going to Detroit? So am I. Maybe we know the same people there.”
Frankie ignored him, or tried to, but he was loud and kept himself directly in front of her. Finally the conductor stuck his head in the car, crying out, “Haysville! One-hour stop. Café is half a block to your left!”
“C’mon, no sense sittin’ on this train for an hour.” The big man took Frankie’s arm and pulled her to her feet.
At that moment a woman’s voice said
, “Let her go, trash!”
The big man swiveled his head to see a very small older woman, dressed in black, who had come to stand beside him. “What did you say?” he blustered.
“Are you deaf as well as ugly and stupid? I said to let that girl go.”
“You’d better shut your trap, Grandma!” The big man kept his grip on Frankie’s arm and leered at the woman. “Get on your broomstick and stay outta my business!”
All of the passengers were now watching the scene, and one of them stepped out of his seat. He was a tall man with a tanned face and a pair of level gray eyes. He walked down the aisle and asked in a rather gentle voice, “Can I help you ladies?”
The elderly woman nodded primly. “Yes, thank you, sir. Would you please take out that pistol I see beneath your coat and point it at this white trash?”
Frankie saw that the old woman was speaking the truth. There was a gun under the tall man’s coat. The rough man suddenly released her arm and stood there staring at the gray-eyed stranger. He could not take his eyes off of the other man’s gun and said hastily, “Now…wait a minute!”
“Shut your mouth,” the tall man remarked almost pleasantly. Then he turned to the two women, and a smile touched his thin lips. “You two ladies just go on now and have your lunch.”
“Thank you, sir.” The old woman nodded, pleased, the sunlight from the windows making her silver hair shine. She gave the man an open look, her bright black eyes warm and appreciative. “You’re from the South, I believe?”
“Yes, ma’am. From the sovereign state of Alabama.”
“Well, Alabama should be most proud of you. You have shown great honor today.”
“I couldn’t do any less, dear lady,” the man replied with a warm smile. “As for you—,” he said, then nodded at the big man, and the two of them moved off.
“Now let’s get something to eat!” the woman said briskly, taking Frankie’s hand, pausing only to look around at the staring passengers. Frankie suppressed a grin as the woman lifted her voice and remarked, “All right, the show’s over!” at which all of the passengers left the car with alacrity. “Now,” the woman said, a satisfied tone in her voice, “let’s find that café.”
Fifteen minutes later Frankie had discovered that Deborah Simms Satterfield was a widow, that she had been born and reared in Georgia, and that she had an insatiable curiosity. The first thing she asked when they had ordered their meal was: “Why in the world are you wearing that outlandish garb, my dear?”
Before they had returned to the car, Frankie felt that she had been drained dry. Mrs. Satterfield would have made an excellent detective, for she had gotten the entire story from her young charge, then had at once invited her to stay in her home for a few days. When Frankie had awkwardly protested, Mrs. Satterfield scoffed, “Nonsense! Of course you’re going home with me! Why, you might be arrested if you walked the streets in that outfit!” Then she’d smiled and put a kinder note in her voice. “Mr. Satterfield had the poor judgment to die two years ago. I rattle around in that huge house he built for us. I have my two sisters with me, but it’ll be good to have someone young to talk to.” Then she nodded sharply, adding, “And I think I can find something a little more feminine than that—that—thing you’re wearing!”
During Frankie’s visit with Mrs. Satterfield, she grew very fond of the old woman. She was not surprised when, after only three days, the widow asked her to live with her. But the restraint of the life in the Satterfield home was killing to the young girl, for the three widows lived in a Victorian past. The sisters, Violet and Maybelle, like Mrs. Satterfield, wore black, and all three were tied to the routine of their limited lives. There was little money and little color or excitement in the household. So Frankie gently explained that she must move on.
“I knew you’d say that.” Mrs. Satterfield nodded. “This place would bore a mummy to death! If it weren’t for Maybelle and Violet, I’d sell it and move back to Georgia!”
Frankie said, “That might not be a good place to be right now.”
“Because of the war? Yes, you’re right.”
“Do you think the South can win?”
“Win? Of course they can’t win!” She thumped the table with her tiny fist, her eyes bright. “Southerners have a wagonload of courage and a thimbleful of sense! And they’re stubborn as mules! They’ll die to the last man before they’ll admit they’re wrong!” And then she grew quiet, adding in a small voice, “But I wish I could go be with them when they make their stand!”
One day Frankie tried to please the three sisters by putting on a dress, one that had belonged to a daughter of Violet. But the next morning she was back to her trousers and man’s shirt. “I just feel all trapped in a dress,” she explained with a shrug. “I’ve worn men’s clothes so long. Had to, what with working and hunting and riding.”
“Well, you won’t attract a man in that outfit,” Mrs. Satterfield sniffed. “But then—you don’t especially want to attract a man, do you, Frankie?”
“No.”
The old woman considered her young friend but did not argue except to say, “Someday you will. Then nobody will have to beg you to put on a dress.”
For a week Frankie read the ads in the papers, hoping to find some sort of work. But there was nothing for young women such as herself. She walked along the streets, thinking maybe she’d see a need she might fill, but all she knew was farming and caring for animals. It came to her that she might get on as a hired hand with a farmer, and that became her goal.
Then one morning, Mrs. Satterfield brought her a paper with an ad circled. “Why don’t you look into this, Frankie?”
Taking the paper, Frankie read the following advertisement:
BOOK AGENTS WANTED IN NEW YORK STATE
L. P. Crown and Company, publishers, requires young agents to canvass for New Pictorial, Standard, Historical, and Religious Works. The company publishes a large number of most valuable books, which are very popular and of such a moral and religious influence that a good agent may safely engage in their circulation. The agents will confer a public BENEFIT and receive a FAIR COMPENSATION for their labor.
To persons of enterprise and tact this business offers an opportunity for profitable employment seldom to be met with. There is not a town in North America where a right, honest, and well-disposed person can fail selling from fifty to two hundred volumes, depending on the population.
Persons wishing to engage in the venture may apply at the Bradley Building, Room 222. References are required.
“Why, I’m not a salesman!” Frankie said at once.
“You’re honest and well disposed, aren’t you?” Mrs. Satterfield snapped. “That’s what they want.”
“But…they want men!”
“Doesn’t say a word about gender. It says ‘agent.’ I should think that could be either a man or a woman.”
Frankie read the ad again and began to grow interested. “I do love to read,” she confessed. “But could I sell anything?”
Mrs. Satterfield smiled suddenly. “Child, you can! You just wear that rig you’ve got on. Why, I’ll wager they’ve never seen anything like you in New York! They’ll let you in the house just to find out what you are. And when you smile and blink those long lashes of yours, they’ll buy books like they were made out of gold!”
It took a great deal of persuasion, but the next morning at nine o’clock, Frankie took a deep breath and pushed open the door to room 222 of the Bradley Building. It was a very small room that contained only one desk, four chairs, and one man.
The man was seated in front of a window, his back to the desk. He was smoking a cigar and staring out at the traffic in the street. When Frankie entered, he didn’t even turn around. He just said, “Fill out the form on the desk.”
Frankie looked down and saw a stack of forms and, without saying a word, sat down and filled one of them out. Her three references were Deborah, Violet, and Maybelle. Under “Business History” she wrote, “Farm work.”<
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“I’m finished,” she said. At the sound of her voice, the man swiveled around and stared at her. He was a small man, and his checked suit was crisp and businesslike. He must have been about sixty, though it was difficult to tell, for his face had a kind of ageless look to it. He had a pair of brown eyes, a small round mouth, and a large nose. “Oi! What’s this?” he demanded. “I thought you was a person seeking a job.”
Frankie took the advertisement out of her pocket and put it on the desk. “I am looking for a job. This one,” she said, nodding.
A look of astonishment touched the man’s face, and then he chuckled. “Well, now I’ve seen it all! You want to sell the books? No, no, no. Only young men can do that.”
“Why?”
“‘Why?’” Frankie’s simple question caused his large eyebrows to fly up, giving him an expression of astonishment. “She asks me why?” He looked up as though carrying on a conversation with someone on the ceiling. “Because no young woman can do it, that’s why.”
“Did you ever let one try?”
The man’s eyes widened for a moment; then a curious light came into them. “So what’s your name, young woman?” He waited for it, then nodded. “I’m heppy to meet you, Miss Aimes. My name is Solomon Levy. And no, I didn’t let no young ladies try to sell no books.” He seemed interested in what he saw and asked, “Why do you want to sell my books?”
Frankie smiled, and her green eyes glinted with humor. “I want to confer a public benefit and receive a fair compensation for my labor, like it says right here,” she concluded, tapping the advertisement.
Levy smiled and nodded. “You’re a clever young lady. You got a husband? No? And a family, you’ve got? No? Ah, that’s too bad.” He put the cigar between his teeth and sucked on it industriously, sending billows of purple smoke toward the ceiling. He studied the patterns of the smoke, sitting still for so long that Frankie feared he had forgotten about her.
Appomattox Saga Omnibus 2: Three Books In One (Appomatox Saga) Page 8