With a sigh, she climbed to her feet again, picked up the basket, and headed back to the farmhouse. She blinked in surprise when she saw a buggy by the house. People didn’t visit the McGregors very often. She walked faster, curious to see who’d broken the unwritten rule.
A couple of Fords sped past on the road that led to Rosenfeld. One was painted green-gray, which meant it belonged to the U.S. Army. The other was the more usual black. All the same, odds were it had a Yank inside. Even now, almost ten years after the war ended, not many Canadians could afford a motorcar. And most of the ones who can are a bunch of damned collaborators, Mary thought.
She opened the kitchen door. Her mother sat at a table drinking tea with another woman of about her own age, who was saying, “I tell you, Maude, it’s a disgrace. I’m sure she and that Yank—” She broke off and smiled. “Hello, Mary. How are you?”
“I’m fine, Mrs. Marble, thank you.” Mary laughed at herself, thinking she should have recognized the buggy.
“Tell me more, Beth,” her mother said. “You can be sure Mary won’t let it get to the wrong ears.”
“Well, I didn’t expect she would,” Beth Marble answered, sipping her tea. She was a couple of inches shorter than Mary’s mother, with shoulder-length brown hair, blue eyes, rather flat features, and a habitual expression of good humor. After picking up a shortbread wafer from the plate on the table, she did go on with her story: one more tale of a Canadian girl who’d lost her virtue to a fast-talking American with a fancy motorcar and with money in his pocket.
Mary listened with only half an ear. She hardly knew this girl, who lived even farther from the McGregors than did the Marbles, and she’d been hearing such stories ever since the days of the Great War. Only the details varied. The American conquest of Canada continued on many different levels. Soldiers occupied the land. American men seduced Canadian women. Newspapers printed only what the conquerors wanted the conquered to read. Films pounded home the same messages, as she’d seen at the Bijou. So did the wireless, not that she’d ever heard it. Canadian schools taught the U.S. view of history—a pack of lies, as far as Mary was concerned. Her parents had pulled her and Julia out of school when the Yanks changed the curriculum. Most children, though, had kept on going, and the Americans had been in charge of such things for quite a while now. How long till a whole generation forgot what being Canadian meant?
Mary put the eggs she’d gathered on the counter. She went over to the table. “May I have a wafer, Mother?” she asked, and took one when Maude McGregor nodded.
“Such lovely manners,” Beth Marble said, and beamed at Mary’s mother. “Both your daughters are so sweet and charming, Maude.”
Do you know me at all? Mary wondered as she nibbled at the shortbread. I don’t think so. In her own mind, she was as much a fighter against the American occupation as her father had been, more of a fighter than her brother had been—even if the Yanks had murdered him for his opposition to their rule. Sweet? Charming? She felt like pouring a cup of tea and then spilling it on their visitor, even if Mrs. Marble had meant well, as she surely had.
As much to make a point as because she really wanted it, Mary took another shortbread wafer, this time without asking permission. Mrs. Marble, engrossed in another bit of gossip—she did like to talk—failed to notice. Mary’s mother did, and wagged a finger at her. From behind Beth Marble’s back, Mary stuck out her tongue.
Her mother raised her teacup to her mouth to hide a smile, but her eyes danced above it. Carrying that second piece of shortbread away as booty, Mary went into the parlor.
Two steps in were more than enough to show her she’d made a mistake. Her older sister sat on the rocking chair in there, and Beth Marble’s son Kenneth on the sofa close by. More plainly than words, Julia’s look said the two of them didn’t want any company.
Face heating, Mary mumbled, “I . . . I guess I’ll go upstairs now. Hello, Kenneth.”
“Hello, Mary,” Kenneth Marble answered politely, but he kept his eyes on Julia as he spoke. He’d been coming to call for most of a year now, sometimes with his mother, sometimes without. He was the first young man who’d come to call on Julia since Ted Culligan broke off their engagement after her father’s death. There were times over the past few months when Julia had got all dreamy and absentminded. Mary didn’t take that for a good sign.
Up the stairs she went, fast as her legs would carry her. When she turned around and looked back, Julia and Kenneth were leaning towards each other. She sighed. She didn’t know what Julia saw in him. He was only an inch or two taller than she, and, to Mary’s eyes, nothing much to look at. Some actress had got a reputation as the girl with it. In Julia’s eyes, plainly, Kenneth Marble had it. Mary still found it more bewildering than exciting.
She flopped down on her bed and started reading a copy of The Ladies’ Home Journal she’d got the last time she went into Rosenfeld. The magazine showed her a whole different world, and not just because it came from the USA. Skinny girls in short dresses strode city streets, rode in motorcars, listened to the wireless, lived in apartments, used electric lights and telephones, and did all sorts of other things Mary thought herself unlikely ever to do. Even more than what they did, that they took it so completely for granted was daunting.
If it weren’t for the recipes and patterns the Journal included, Mary’s mother probably wouldn’t have let it come into the farmhouse. Nothing could have been better calculated to make someone on a farm discontented with her life. This issue even had a story about flying to California for a holiday. Flying! For pleasure! The only aeroplanes Mary had even seen were the fighting scouts and bombers that had buzzed above the farm during the Great War. She couldn’t imagine wanting to get into one of those.
The Journal also had an article about a journey on an ocean liner. Mary couldn’t decide whether she found stranger the idea of a liner or that of the ocean itself. She’d never seen it, and didn’t expect she ever would. Before she could read much of the article, a commotion broke out downstairs: Julia and their mother and Beth Marble sounded even more excited than the hens had when Mary rifled their nests.
She flipped the magazine closed and hurried down to see what had happened. She found her older sister in tears, with their mother and Mrs. Marble both embracing her. Kenneth Marble stood off to one side, a sickly grin on his face. Mary stared at him. Had he tried to . . . ? With his own mother, and Julia’s, in the next room? He couldn’t have been that stupid. Could he?
Then Mary noticed both her mother and Beth Marble were crying and smiling at the same time. Maude McGregor said, “Kenneth just asked Julia to marry him, and she said yes.”
“Oh.” Mary couldn’t have said anything more if she tried; she felt as if she’d been punched in the pit of the stomach. Even breathing was hard. The first thought that went through her mind was, How will we do the work if Julia moves away? Even with all three of them working flat out, it barely got done.
Despite her mother’s smile, Maude McGregor looked worried, too. Mrs. Marble seemed oblivious to the glance that went between Mary and her mother. It wasn’t her trouble, after all.
“This is the happiest day of my life,” Julia said. Beth Marble burst into tears again. Mary congratulated her sister. What a liar I am, she thought.
VIII
To Anne Colleton’s ears, J.B.H. Norris’ drawl sounded harsh and ignorant. But the Texas oil man had proved a sharp operator in spite of that backwoods accent. “Hope you’ll see fit to invest in our operation here, ma’am,” he said, tipping his hat to her. The Stetson, with its high crown and wide brim, also told her she wasn’t in South Carolina any more.
She was near the banks of the Brazos River, northwest of Fort Worth. And she had questions that went beyond profit and loss. She pointed west. “That new Yankee state of Houston isn’t very far away. What happens if there’s another war? How are you going to keep U.S. soldiers and aeroplanes from wrecking everything you’ve got?”
“Ma’am, yo
u’d do better asking Richmond about that than me,” Norris answered. “If they hadn’t given up so much last time, we wouldn’t need to fret about it now.”
“Yes, but they did, and so we do.” Anne slapped at something. The mosquitoes were coming out early this afternoon. It wasn’t quite so muggy as it would have been back home, but it would do.
J.B.H. Norris said, “Don’t quite know what to tell you about that, except I don’t think a war’s coming any time soon.”
“No,” Anne said bleakly. “I don’t, either. We’re too weak.”
“That’s about the size of it,” Norris agreed. “At least President Mitchel has the sense to see it. That Featherston maniac would get us into a fight we can’t hope to win.”
“I used to like him better than I do now, but he hasn’t got any real chance of getting elected, anyway,” Anne said. “So I’m a Whig again. Some people don’t much like that, but I’ve never much cared for what people like or don’t like.” She changed the subject, but only a little: “What do you think of the Supreme Court ruling that lets Mitchel run again?”
“Well, the Constitution says a president serves the six-year term he’s elected for, and then he’s done.” Norris shrugged. “President Mitchel didn’t run for the job—he got it when that Calkins bastard—pardon me, ma’am—killed President Hampton. So I suppose it’s only fair to let him try and win it again on his own. And Calkins was one of those Freedom Party fools, so I’m not surprised the Supreme Court gave it to Featherston right between the eyes.”
“Yes, that occurred to me, too. Featherston frightened people—powerful people—a few years ago. Now they’re going to make him pay for it.” Anne Colleton’s smile had a certain predatory quality, enough so that J.B.H. Norris flinched when she turned it on him rather than the world at large. She went on, “I do thank you for showing me around. You’ve given me a lot to think about—more than I expected when I came out to Texas, in fact. I may well put some of my money here once I get home.”
Norris beamed. “That’d be wonderful. We can use the capital, and I’m not lyin’ when I tell you so.” He scratched his cheek with his left hand. Only then did Anne notice his ring finger was just a stump. A war wound? Probably. A lot of men had such small mutilations. He added, “If you’re heading back East, you’d better not waste a lot of time. From what the papers say, the flood in the Mississippi Valley just keeps gettin’ worse and worse.”
“I know.” Anne had been reading the papers, too. Anger roiled her voice: “And it’s hurt us so much worse than it hit the damnyankees. If they hadn’t stolen Kentucky and that piece of Arkansas from us, it wouldn’t have hurt them much at all. Cairo, Illinois, got flooded.” She rolled her eyes. “Cairo, Illinois, never was any sort of a place to begin with. But we’ve had Memphis and Little Rock just drowned, and the levees in New Orleans were holding by this much”—she held thumb and forefinger close together—“when I went through Louisiana on my way here.”
“May not be so easy gettin’ back,” Norris warned.
“Why not?” Anne said. “Most of the bridges over the Mississippi are still standing.”
“Yes, ma’am.” The oil man nodded again. “The bridges over the Mississippi are still good. They’re the big, strong ones, and they were built to take whatever the river could throw at ’em. But what about the bridges on the way to the Mississippi? An awful lot of them’ll go down, I bet. I may be wrong, but that’s sure enough how it looks to me.”
Anne muttered something under her breath. It wasn’t quite far enough under, for J.B.H. Norris’ gingery eyebrows leapt upwards. He’ll never think of me as a lady again, Anne thought, and did her best not to giggle. Well, fair enough, because I’m damn well not. Worry wiped out the temptation to laugh. “You’re dead right, Mr. Norris, and I wish I’d thought of that myself. Please take me back to my hotel. I can’t afford to waste much time, can I?”
“No, I don’t reckon you can,” Norris said. “Wish I could see more of you, but I know how things are. Car’s right over there.” He pointed to a middle-aged Birmingham outside the shack that did duty for an office.
How does he mean that? Anne wondered. Spend more time with me, or see me with my clothes off? Ten years, even five years, before, she would have had no doubt. But she wasn’t so young as she had been. I’m just as picky as I ever was, though, maybe pickier. That’s likely why I haven’t got a husband yet. Nobody suits me. Maybe Tom was right. I’ve been on my own too long.
The ride back to Fort Worth took close to three hours. A blowout halfway there didn’t help. J.B.H. Norris fixed it with the aplomb of one who’d done it many times before—and what driver hadn’t?—but it still cost a half hour Anne wished she could have got back. She checked out of the Dandridge as soon as Norris stopped the motorcar in front of the hotel. Then she hurled her luggage into a cab and made for the train station across town.
Before the war, she would have had a colored servant, or more than one, taking care of her. No more. And she didn’t miss them, either. She’d discovered she was more efficient than anyone whose main aim was to do as little as possible. That had proved oddly liberating, where she would have expected losing servants to do just the opposite.
But the time lost to the blowout rose up to haunt her at the station. “Sorry, ma’am, but the eastbound express pulled out of here about twenty minutes ago,” the clerk in the ticket window said. “Next one doesn’t leave till ten tonight.”
“Damnation,” Anne said. “Can I take a local and connect with another express east of here sooner than that? I do want to beat the flood if I can; I have to get back to South Carolina.”
“I understand, ma’am. Let’s see what I can do.” The clerk flipped through schedules so complex, God would have had trouble understanding them. People in line behind Anne surely fumed at the delay. She would have, had she been back there and not at the front. At last, with an unhappy half smile, he shook his head. “Sorry, ma’am, but no. And I’ve got to tell you, there’s no Pullman berths left on the ten o’clock train. You’ll have to take an ordinary seat. I’ll refund the difference, of course.”
“Damnation,” Anne said again, this time with more feeling. She’d be a frazzled wreck by the time she finally got back to St. Matthews. But if she didn’t leave as soon as she could, heaven only knew when she would get back. “Give me whatever you can, then.”
“Sure will.” The clerk handed her a ticket and several brown Confederate banknotes. “Your train will be leaving from Platform W. It’s over that way.” He pointed. “Follow the signs—they’ll take you straight to it. Hope everything turns out all right for you.”
“Thanks.” Anne waved for a porter to handle her suitcases. The colored man put them on a wheeled cart and followed her to Platform W. She bought food there, and a cheap novel to while away the time till the train got in.
It was late. By then, Anne had stopped expecting anything else. It didn’t arrive till half past one. She’d put the novel aside an hour earlier, and was trying without much luck to doze in a chair. The car to which she was assigned didn’t even have compartments, only row after row of seats bolted to the floor. The man who sat down next to her was so fat, he encroached on her without meaning to. He hadn’t had a bath any time recently. She gritted her teeth. Nothing she could do about it, though. As soon as the train pulled out of Fort Worth, the fat man threw back his head, fell asleep, and began snoring like a thunderstorm. That added insult to injury. Anne felt like jabbing him with a pin.
Unable to sleep herself, she stared glumly out the window at the night. Only blackness met her eye, blackness and an occasional handful of lights burning in the small towns at which the express didn’t stop. She almost resented the lights, which put her in mind of fireflies. Blackness suited her mood much better.
The express did stop at Dallas. Anne understood the need, but hated the delay. The fat man beside her scarcely stirred. He didn’t wake up. After what seemed forever but was by her watch forty-five minutes, the
train rumbled east again. Presently, Anne had to use the toilet. She took more than a little pleasure in waking her seatmate to get by, though she sounded polite. By the time she returned, he was snoring again. She woke him once more. It did no good to speak of. He fell back to sleep, while she stayed awake.
Marshall was the next stop, near the Louisiana border. By the time the train left, the sky ahead was getting light. Morning had come by the time the express got into Shreveport, on the Red River. The Red was flooding, too, but not enough to delay the train any worse.
Monroe, Louisiana, on the Ouachita, was the next scheduled stop—by then, Anne had the schedule all but memorized. But the express didn’t make it to Monroe. First, Anne saw tent cities on high ground, where people who’d escaped the floodwaters were staying till someone did something more for them. Then, as the ground got lower, mud and water covered more and more of it. The air was thick and humid and full of the stink of decay. At last, the train had to stop, for the simple reason that going forward would have meant going underwater. The tracks were laid on an embankment that raised them above the surrounding countryside, but that finally stopped helping.
“What do we do now?” Anne asked the conductor.
“Don’t rightly know, ma’am,” he answered. “I reckon we’ll back up and try and find a way around—if there is one. Don’t rightly know about that, either. Only other thing we can do is wait for the water to go down, and Lord only knows how long that’d take.”
Trying to hold in her anger, she snapped, “Why didn’t you find out in Shreveport that the way would be flooded?”
“On account of it wasn’t when we left Shreveport,” the conductor said. “Ma’am, this here is a . . . heck of a bad flood, worst anybody’s seen since Hector was a pup. An’ it just keeps gettin’ worser an’ worser.”
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