Foxy Statehood Hens and Murder Most Fowl (The Foxy Hens)

by Paula Watkins Alfred

  She must be what Sheriff Bob Freedom Smith had always told me about, the exception to the rule. “Donna,” he’d of course known me only as a girl, “for every rule you just remember that there is always an exception.” Sister Sally Sees was just such an exception. There was nothing that felt cheap or tawdry about her. She was like a cat stretching in the warm sun, plump with effortless pleasure. Just as I had not been able to keep the blush off my face, I could not keep my attention from its total focus on such a rare event as a painted face.

  “You’ve no doubt been told that a lady scorns her own natural beauty by using face paint.”

  I nodded my agreement.

  “You’ve no doubt been taught that a woman of virtue does not scorn her God-given face, either pretty or ugly, by covering it in face paint.”

  I nodded my agreement again. Sister Sally cut her eyes in the mirror so that she looked at my reflection.

  “I believe if a woman’s virtue is so tenuous that a little face paint can destroy it, then it has little to recommend it anyway.” And with that she commenced with her painting.

  She lit a candle with the light from a coal oil lamp over which she held a white saucer until the bottom was covered in a black coating. Removing the saucer from over the candle flame, she licked the tip of the little finger on her right hand and then rubbed it against the black bottom of the saucer. Next she rubbed her finger on the tips of the eyelashes on her good eye. Her lashes, barely discernable before, now looked thick and long. When she rubbed the blackened finger against the top of her eyelid, close to the rim of lashes her eye suddenly looked dark and dangerous. Then she opened a drawer and pulled out what looked to be blue chalk. Taking out a knife, she cut the tip of the chalk, much like Banker Clyde cut the tips of his cigars. After putting the chalk tip in the little cup, she used an elongated rock to crush the chalk into a fine powder. She added a drop or two of castor oil to the blue dust. Then she licked the tip of her little finger on the left hand and dipped it in the mix. She rubbed above the blacked rim of her eyelashes until she had a soft blue lid that made her good eye come out and take a bow. Sister Sally tied a red scarf around the front of her hair. Then after admiring herself she turned to face me.

  She gave me the once over with her cloudy eye before she covered it with the black patch. I thought her the most beautiful woman I’d ever seen, and I could tell that Sister Sally was in total agreement with that thought.

  “I’ll be bringing Mr. John Bowden out here come this next Sunday,” I said to Sister Sally. “He seemed to think you mighty suspicious,” I emphasized suspicious.

  “I wonder who could’ve put that thought in his head.” Sister Sally raised her eyebrows.

  “Well, you have to admit it mighty strange that you told Miz Myrtle a morning-glory fortune not more than a week before someone almost murdered her. I didn’t take kindly to that.” I waited for her to explain herself.

  “The future I see can be distant or close by, perhaps I’ll be proved right after all.”

  “Not much of a fortune teller if all you do is sit around until something good happens, then take credit for it,” I mumbled.

  Sister Sally stared at me until I dropped my eyes. “I’ve a mind to tell your fortune, Donnie Summersdale, but I don’t think you’d be able to take it.” She gave that throaty black-dirt laugh of hers and drew me into her spell like the smell of coffee in the morning. Although she’d said this as a warning, still, an inescapable good feeling came over me, which I attributed to simply being in her presence. I welcomed it like a good soak in the sun. My body rebelled against the forced masculinity, binding my body until it became accustomed to the constant dull pain from the violence of making it small, always hungry, afraid that a good meal might cause the boundaries of my body to exceed my most careful binding, the incredible tension from the fear that my female voice or some girlish mannerism might make plain what was essential to hide. Add to that the weight of a my promise to discover Miz Myrtle’s robber. The exhaustion of it all sought relief, and whether I liked it or not, Sister Sally Sees felt like a tonic. Both of us heard the thunder of horse hooves outside Sister Sally’s door. She nodded for me to escape out the back. I could hear her tell Banker Clyde that she hadn’t seen neither hide nor hair of me. The last I heard was her offer of coffee as I high-tailed it back to Miz Myrtle’s house.

  Chapter 12

  I looked at my reflection in the mirror wondering just what a little black soot would’ve done for my eyes. Such speculation could only bring me pain. I chose to set my mind on Widow Jenkins’s peach pie, of which I hoped to be in exclusive possession later this evening after the pie supper. Before leaving, it came to me that Miz Myrtle might enjoy some lady lotion if I could concoct some. I already had blanched almonds. I put ten almonds in the little cup, which I’d seen Miz Myrtle use for this very purpose. Using Miz Myrtle’s mortar, I would grind the almonds into a fine meal, adding more until I had a good measure. I took my time with the lady lotion, as I dreaded my visit to Miz Myrtle’s room where I’d be forced to see the effects of the last act of intimidation upon her. I knew it would not be good. Following Miz Myrtle’s recipe, the one handed down to her by her own mother, I added water from the rain barrel.

  “No reason why a girl pretending to be a boy has to let good skin go bad,” she had told me as she put some blanched almonds in the small dish. She had rubbed the almonds a few at a time, then she had added the special water, a touch of honey, and some dried lavender from the plants she grew next to the vegetable garden. She mixed and rubbed until she got a smooth milky lotion, which she then poured into a fine looking bottle with a stopper made of glass. She directed me to use it every night before bed. I’d complied.

  Now I added the last pinch of lavender to my own bottle of lotion. I tested a bit of the lotion on the top of my hand and sighed with pleasure. Ready. There was nothing for it but to go to Miz Myrtle’s room. Lucinda May had already left for the pie supper. I knew Banker Clyde would arrive any minute to refresh himself before going to pick up Bertha Scroggins, whom he had every intention of courting, it seemed to me. Doc Watkins would be by shortly as well. He’d insisted that he’d be the one to stay with Miz Myrtle while, “You youngins have yourselves some fun.”

  I peeked around the doorframe to look in on Miz Myrtle. Lucinda May had dressed her in a clean gown, the soft blue flannel complemented Miz Myrtle’s fine auburn hair. She looked to be a woman sleeping. Her eyes closed and her breathing regular, not what I’d expected.

  “Miz Myrtle, I made you some of that special lady lotion that you introduced me to back when I first came to you. Remember?” I looked for a response, but other than opening her eyes, she made no effort to communicate that I could see. “I’m gonna sit here on this bed and rub your hands and feet good with this honey almond lotion.” I took her hand in mine. Her freckled skin was as dry as an old bone. I poured some of the concoction onto the back of her hand and began to rub. As I rubbed, I updated Miz Myrtle on my efforts to find the culprit.

  I explained all about Sister Sally Sees and how it didn’t seem likely that a woman who loved animals such that she had them painted on her skin and sewn on her clothes, would go to killing crows in order to terrorize folks. “I know that just ’cause she loves them circus animals doesn’t mean she loves crows, but don’t you agree with me that it’s a sign?” I moved to the other side of the bed so I could do Miz Myrtle’s left hand.

  “Another thing you’ll want to know about her is that she paints her face. I know that you don’t take to face painting, but I can’t hold it against her. And if you’d seen her without the paint, and then with the paint, you’d understand, plain and simple, why she does it.” I put down the left hand, lifted the covers and scooted to the end of the bed to work on Miz Myrtle’s feet. “Reckon it was most becoming. I can see as how it improves a woman’s appearance considerably.” I stopped and looked at her directly so as to ask, “Please, Miz Myrtle, tell me who done this? This guessing and speculat
ing’s just too slow. I’m so afraid for you.”

  But Miz Myrtle said nothing at all, just stared at the ceiling as if there were something there of interest. I longed to know what she was thinking, cause I knew through and through that thinking, she was. Miz Myrtle was not a timid woman, so I could not figure why she refused to speak to me, whom I knew she loved like a daughter. Sheriff Bob Freedom Smith always told me that when I got to a question for which there was no answer, I should ask another question, and I should keep nibbling on questions until I was sure I could see the whole feast set before me on the table.

  The nibbling question I began to chew on was, what can I do to stir things up at the pie supper, being as how Deputy Harris Suggs with the fancy boots and Mr. John Bowden with the fancy ways were both like to be there tonight? About the time I finished rubbing Miz Myrtle’s feet, a morsel of an idea came to me. It felt to be a good one because it took my breath away, and that was yes ma’am enough for me.

  I placed the cover over Miz Myrtle’s feet. The room smelled sweet, and I was glad for it. Smelling sweet things might help Miz Myrtle to remember all the pretty ways of life. Doc, I was sure, would be good company for her. He, a man of wit and intelligence, would tell her stories to cheer and encourage her. She would know them to be true, as Doc Watkins had no patience with foolery and pretense.

  I bent to kiss her forehead. “Miz Myrtle, I’m afraid I have a mighty hankering for Banker Clyde. Never been so thirsty for something in my life as to find out who done this to you, and how to hook up with Banker Clyde.” As I was walking out of her room I turned around to tell her, “I won’t quit on you or on him. I promise. You enjoy yourself with Doc Watkins. I’m going to win us Widow Jenkins’s peach pie. We’re going to have us a feast tonight. I’ll tell you all about it this evening when I get back.” I took my leave.

  As I walked to Banker Clyde’s room to see if he had arrived home, I wondered if I dare to put some of that sweet smelling lotion on my face. I dipped my fingers until I had a sparing amount. Then I rubbed it into my skin and felt the softness. Banker Clyde’s face appeared inside me filling me to the top of my head, until I nearly fainted from such a full portion. “Peach pie,” I said out loud to myself. “Rebecca Donna Summersdale, you keep your mind on that peach pie.” But I knew that I was in trouble the minute I referred to myself as Rebecca Donna, as I had left off thinking of myself as a girl some time ago. It was too dangerous. I would lose my chance for the Frolicsome Adventure which I’d read about, moreover, such a disclosure would inspire folks to hatred for my having fooled them. Now Rebecca Donna was coming back, and I knew why. She intended to have her way, and try to win over Banker Clyde. Stop! I told her. You’ve got more important things to do than fancying yourself cuddling with the Banker. You got someone after Miz Myrtle Jane Harrington, whom you hold in highest affection. Rebecca Donna you have got a debt to pay. I will not let you compromise on this.

  I decided that in my present state of mind it would be better for me to forego Banker Clyde’s room and take myself straightaway to the kitchen. Once there, I poured water into the washing bowl and stuck my whole face into the water to wake me up to reality. When I come out I began to rub all the sweetness off my face.

  “Son, you’re like to take the hide off.” Banker Clyde handed me a cloth to dry my face. Donnie took over. I felt it in me before he even spoke. And when he spoke I relaxed knowing that Rebecca was as faint as stars at twilight.

  “I’m headed for heaven, Banker Clyde,” the taste of his name in my mouth still as good to me as Widow Jenkins’s peach pie, but I was no longer afraid that the feeling would take over. “A whole peach pie I’m fixing to eat, the best there is.” I jingled the money in my pocket, looked up at Banker Clyde’s blue eyes, and before I could stop myself, I gave him a wink.

  You’d have thought I’d slapped him in the face. I had me the strongest feeling that Sister Sally could see right well after all, I mean about Banker Clyde’s interest in me and the alarm that interest set off in him. My heart clapped its hands, because inside me I knew Banker Clyde had a hunger for me every bit as strong as my hankering for peach pie. The fact that he thought me a boy only made me believe more strongly in the ferocity of his hunger. That was the most delicious thought of all. I admitted right then that Rebecca Donna had no intention of being good. I knew that this night required my full vigilance.

  “I’m thinking of my own kind of heaven,” he told me in a determined voice. “Bertha Scroggins will be my companion at the pie supper tonight.” Liar, I thought. I could love a man who lies to me like this.

  Now that I believed that Banker Clyde was bringing out Bertha Scroggins to wear as armor against his feelings for me, I did not feel so threatened. In fact, I felt so happy that it sparked a dance in me, and before I knew it, I did a quick two-step sashay across the room. Upon completion of that jig, I took a deep breath to quiet my exuberance, then I turned to face Banker Clyde. Grinning, I looked directly into those blue eyes and said, “Then I guess you’ll be hearing the whine of church bells all night long,” I smoothed my short hair and put on my cowboy hat. “If you don’t mind me saying it, sir, better you than me.”

  Chapter 13

  I heard the music before I caught sight of the grave markers at the foot of the incline leading up to Hill-Top, a mile or so out of Hugo proper. I was sure the dead wouldn’t mind a little music, and equally confident the living could have no complaint against the dead. I don’t know who first planted their dead in this most peaceful location, but others soon joined, and the beginning of a cemetery took hold. Circus folk who had taken to spending winters in Hugo, had kept their dead in a cluster separate from regular folk. I’d been told that a trapeze artist, an animal trainer, a feisty circus clown, and the smallest woman in the world rested in that circus plot. A single elephant with his trunk outstretched pointed to the circus graves. I wondered if that had been what drew Sister Sally Sees to make her home in Hugo. A lively song pulled my attention back to the pie supper, and the smile from my earlier encounter with Banker Clyde made me feel as if each note had been written in anticipation of being played for this very moment in time. In the misty fog of early evening the joy in my heart was as close as wet is to water.

  I caught myself singing before I remembered that I had lost my Songbird voice the day I had unlocked the store to discover my poor Miz Myrtle. My singing voice, which had left me without a fare-the-well, the day I had discovered Miz Myrtle beaten and robbed, had returned. I shivered with the power of this night. A feeling of invincibility overtook me, all fears vanished, and I suffered from a feeling that no harm could come to me, or those I chose to protect. Smug with my Banker Clyde and Songbird good fortune, I walked up the hill. Inside me I felt a powerful silence wrap around the music like snowfall and in that silence I knew, and I knew, and I knew, that this night would lead me to the one who had dared hurt Miz Myrtle Jane Harrington, owner and proprietor of Daniel’s Fine Quality Goods Founded-1902, my most favored friend, the woman I loved like my own hand.

  But underneath my overblown confidence, I began to harbor an inkling that Sheriff Bob Freedom Smith would have remarked to me in fatherly concern, “Donnie, beware. A smug face invites a fast slap.” I pressed my hand on my hungry belly where butterflies had gone on a rampage. I did not want my good fortune snapped away. I stomped my feet on the ground to tether myself to what was real, but when I raised my eyes from my feet, what I saw was not tethered to the earth at all. What I saw was the ghost of Beloved, the very same ghost that other folks had whispered about seeing. I knew him from his photographed image framed in silver and setting on Miz Myrtle’s dressing table. He nodded before he sauntered on down the hill into a stand of spruce trees. I had hardly shut my mouth when a black darkness wiped every trace of light from my heart. The pull of darkness on my legs felt like quicksand. The life in me was being sucked like the marrow from a chicken bone. As I succumbed to the pull of it, all resistance disappeared. My very essence fled from me with a
shocking eagerness. Only the sound of a black crow that cawed what sounded to me like my very own name slowed the flight. Three times it cawed, and with each caw I felt the dark suction weaken. I remembered the power of the number three, and with all my will concentrated upon that magic number until I was finally able to open my eyes. And when I did, I stood in the barn doorway where the pie supper was to be held. There stood Deputy Harris Suggs, his lips still and quiet behind that handlebar mustache, his eyes as unblinking as Miz Myrtle’s had been after the assault. We stood at the barn door, a crowd of dancing, laughing folks in the background.