Cold Sassy Tree

by Olive Ann Burns

  While Grandpa did the talking, Papa and I did the driving people around. It was my job to give a driving lesson every Saturday after our drawing.

  Miss Love did what the man in New York called "pushing the merchandise." For one thing, she wanted to order a lady mannequin for the store window and dress it up in a linen duster and dust veil like one she saw at the Cadillac agency in New York City. Grandpa said, "Thet's jest fol-de-rol and foolish-ment. Them big dolls cost too much to think about, much less buy." But that wasn't the end of it.

  Soon as the weather got cooler, Miss Love turned herself into a big doll. Sat in the store window nearly all day, wearing a veil, a duster, and a frozen smile. She'd be a statue till she had to scratch or something, then come outside for a few minutes and talk to folks about the latest in motorcar fashions.

  Grandpa was really pleased, for Miss Love in the store window was a sight to behold. White folks and colored, too, stood in clumps staring at her. If she chanced to bat her eyes or yawn or shift a little in the chair, they'd poke one another in the ribs and haw and guffaw. Boys clowned and made faces trying to make her laugh, but she looked straight ahead and never even cracked a smile.

  When Aunt Loma happened along, carrying the baby, she stared at Miss Love a minute, then flounced into the store and came over where I stood putting bars of Octagon soap on a shelf. "Love looks foolish," she grumped.

  Loma was jealous. The store window being like a little stage and her having taken elocution, she considered herself the only person in Cold Sassy qualified to act like a dummy.

  The county sheriff from over at Homer watched Miss Love a while and then went in and put down on a Pierce.

  A country woman watched Miss Love and spent her egg money on a dust veil. Her husband was furious when he saw her draping the veil over her sunbonnet. Said you go git Mr. Blakeslee to give yore money back. But she wouldn't. Straightening up proud on her cut-off chair in the wagon, she said, "The same dust as gits on them fancy ladies in artermobiles gits on me when they go racin' by. I got jest as much right to look nice in a cloud a-dust as they do."

  Late in September I drove Miss Love and Grandpa to the county fair over in Jefferson. Grandpa sold a car while Miss Love and I were on the Ferris wheel. Then he won the big prize at the rifle booth for three bull's eyes in a row. That really impressed Miss Love, and also the man who ran the booth. He wouldn't let Grandpa shoot again.

  We had a swell time, just the three of us. I wrote down in my journal that night how pretty Miss Love looked. Her freckledy face was lit up with excitement all day, and seemed like Grandpa couldn't keep his eyes off of her.

  I also wrote down that although he sat up front with me all the way to Jefferson—telling me when to slow down, when to speed up and, son, watch out for thet there bump in the road—coming home he sat with Miss Love, his right arm resting on the back of her seat.

  Considering what happened soon after, it's interesting that I sensed it was worth noting in the journal how he sat with her on the trip home.

  Early in October we had our first cold snap, and the next Monday, soon after I got to the store from school, Miss Love came in saying let's plan an overnight motoring trip for the weekend. "Weather permitting, of course. Wouldn't you like to take your family, Mr. Hoyt?"

  Before Papa could answer, Grandpa said he'd rather take a day trip, get back to his own bed.

  "That's a sign you're growing old, Mr. Blakeslee," she teased.

  I could tell it made him mad. "Hit jest don't suit me to go off now. Anyhow, what's the hurry?"

  "The hurry is because we can't count on many more nice weekends." Miss Love's fingers went to drumming on the counter. "Once winter sets in, that's the end of any real motoring till spring. We can't travel when it's freezing cold."

  "Thet's one way a artermobile ain't no different from a horse and buggy, Miss Love. So you ain't tellin' us nothin' we don't know."

  "But I so wanted—" She looked up at Grandpa like a little girl who's been told she can't play with her new doll.

  Papa butted in. "It's out of the question for us both to be gone on Sarady right now, Miss Love. Farmers are comin' in to pay up credit accounts and seed and fertilizer loans, and I'm run ragged with the automobile bizness. And—"

  "And me and Lige are knee-deep in cotton, buyin' and warehousin' it," Grandpa argued. "So it'll have to be jest a Sunday ride or not a-tall, Miss Love."

  "Well, of course. I understand, Mr. Blakeslee. I guess ... I guess it just seemed so—" Her mouth trembled like she might cry, but Grandpa didn't notice. He had got busy with a customer.

  I tried to cheer her up. "If it's as cold next weekend as today, Miss Love, we cain't go anywhere anyhow."

  On Friday it was still cold, with a strong wind. But Saturday turned off so warm you had to look at the reds and yellows and browns of the trees to remember how we'd shivered all week.

  Papa thought it would be just as nice on Sunday, maybe better. "I'll get Mary Willis to fix enough food for all of us," he told Grandpa, "and we'll leave right after preachin'. Go out in the country and have a nice picnic together."

  But Miss Love had a different idea. On my way home to milk, I met up with her and Mr. Beautiful, out for a late-evening canter. When she reined in, the horse prancing sideways and jerking the bit, she asked if I thought Papa and Mama would be willing to leave at daybreak. "That way we could go a long way."

  "Yes'm, we could if Papa would miss Sunday school and preachin'. But he won't."

  "Well, why don't we go then? Just you and Mr. Blakeslee and I."

  Remembering the good time we'd had at the fair, I thought that was a swell idea. But I shook my head. "Papa ain't go'n let me miss, either, Miss Love."

  The horse snorted, impatient. She patted his neck, spoke soft to him. "Whoa, baby. Whoa.... You could ask him, Will."

  "Ain't no use."

  And that's what I thought. But when my daddy and I got back to the store—Saturday nights being one of our busiest times— Grandpa said, "Hoyt, I know how you and Mary Willis feel bout missin' preachin', but I'd like to leave early t'morrer mornin'."

  Papa wanted to, I could tell, and not only just to please Grandpa. But he pushed Satan behind him. "Not this time, Mr. Blakeslee. Me bein' treasurer of the session, I got to be there t'morrer." He didn't mention Sin on Sunday, but I could feel the words hanging in the air.

  About then old Mr. Billy Whisnant shuffled in and asked for a jar of lini-ment. "Hit shore heps my rheumatiz," he whined as Papa went to get it off the shelf. Mr. Billy looked around and saw me but didn't speak. He hadn't said pea-turkey to me, as a matter of fact, since I cut his wood too long.

  But I wasn't studying him while Papa wrapped up the liniment and made change. I was thinking how lucky Miss Love and Grandpa were, going to church at home. The Flournoys having long since returned to the Methodists, it was just the two of them. They could run into the parlor, sing fast, pray quick, and be on the road before the rest of Cold Sassy got out its Sunday clothes.

  I should explain that, though Grandpa never mentioned their preachin' service anymore or invited anybody to come, Cold Sassy knew the blasphemy was still going on. Miss Effie Belle could hear them singing when she got home from playing for the Methodists, and what she heard wasn't "Holy Spirit, Truth Divine."

  After Mr. Billy shuffled out, Papa commenced toting up some figures, which meant the subject of an all-day motor trip was closed. But Grandpa didn't let it drop. "I respect yore position in the Presbytery, Hoyt, but I'd be much obliged if Will Tweedy could leave early to drive us." He laughed. "Miss Love is threat-enin' to drive us if'n the boy cain't go." Not waiting for Papa to object, Grandpa turned to me. "Son, if you ain't up home by time we ready to eat, we'll save you some breakfast. I don't want yore ma gittin' up early to feed you."

  Next morning when I got to Grandpa's, Miss Love had already fried a chicken for our picnic and was serving up fried ham, grits, scrambled eggs, and hot biscuits. After breakfast she packed a basket: chicken, p
each pickles, fresh tomatoes, butterbeans in a jar, the leftover biscuits, and half a pecan pie.

  I hurried out to the barn to crank up. The birds were singing as if life depended on making noise, and I didn't care at all that the Pierce would drown out their songs. It was going to be just the three of us! A really swell day!

  As we rode off, bundled in coats and lap robes, Miss Effie Belle Tate came out on her porch. She couldn't help seeing that Grandpa was in the back seat with Miss Love, but in case she didn't notice, he reached over my shoulder and blew the horn at her and waved.

  Miss Effie Belle didn't wave back.

  I wondered if he'd want to go by our house for his snort, but he didn't mention it.

  The single-track dirt road had deep wagon ruts, and it like to jolted us to pieces. There were chuckholes, too, and whenever I hit one, the rebound just about tossed Grandpa and Miss Love out of the car. I could brace myself with the steering wheel, but they didn't grab anything except each other. Being scared they might pitch out, I started swerving around the holes. I'd yell, "Hold on!" and Grandpa would whoop and hold Miss Love tighter, and she'd shriek and giggle like a schoolgirl.

  Looking back on that day, I'm reminded of a story Loomis told me about his uncle in Macon who chauffeured a bride and groom around the state on their wedding trip. Everywhere they went, he'd say to folks as a joke, "We's on our honeymoon!" Well, we were on our honeymoon that day. Me and Grandpa and Miss Love. I don't think we knew it then. At least, I didn't. But even before we got out of Cold Sassy good, I felt left out. We were going to be two and one on this trip. Not three.

  One time when I stopped to let the motor cool off and said something funny, they not only didn't laugh, they didn't even hear me. At some point Grandpa asked did I think we ought to let the air out of the tires and put in some fresh. He was just showing off for Miss Love, trying to be funny. And I don't think he said anything else to me all morning.

  If they laughed, they never thought to tell me what the joke was. When I glanced back as we rode along, usually they were looking at each other, not at the fall leaves or the distant blue mountains. If Grandpa weren't so old, I'd swear he was sweet on Miss Love, and vice versa. Just like at the fair, he couldn't keep his eyes off of her.

  Good thing Papa's Cadillac wasn't back there in our dust. If Mama could of seen what I saw, it sure would of given her a headache.

  We had the usual problems with punctures and the motor overheating, and though I tried to be careful, we scared our share of mules and horses. But it was another automobile that caused the accident.

  We had eaten our picnic standing at a plank table in a country churchyard. They weren't having preachin' that Sunday, so we had the place all to ourselves. When we were stuffed full, we spread the lap robes on the ground and dozed in the warm sunshine a while—till Grandpa said he wanted to make it home by first dark so we better think about starting back. We had just got on the road again when a little two-seater black Ford pulled into the highway just ahead of us.

  The driver blew his horn and the lady with him waved at us. I blew our horn and we waved back. "The automobile book calls this the cameraderie of the road!" Miss Love shouted. She was having a grand time.

  "Yes'm!" I shouted back.

  We soon found out that cameraderie of the road really means eating somebody's dust. After we'd gone two or three miles behind the Ford, Miss Love tapped me on the shoulder and yelled, "Will, honey, stop a few minutes and let them get on ahead of us! I can't stand it."

  So we stopped, waving good-bye as the Ford went on. A good while later we rounded a curve and there it was again, just ahead, laying on its side like a dead horse. Grandpa shouted, "Watch out, Will Tweedy! Stop, son!" Miss Love screamed. I braked. But not in time. To miss the Ford I had to cut the steering wheel sharp left and plunge the car into a creek—really just a little shallow branch. It had a good gravel bottom, so I drove through the water till I got around the wreck, then went up the slanted red-clay bank and got back to the road.

  Grandpa had grabbed Miss Love hard when I swerved into the creek; he still had aholt of her when I looked back to see if they were all right. Her face was white as cotton and her voice shaky as she said, "We'd better see if those people are hurt."

  The man and lady were already walking towards us. "We was hopin' y'all would come along soon," said the man. "I don't think our car is damaged, but I cain't right it by myself. I done tried."

  "I'm Rucker Blakeslee, Caddy-lac and Pierce dealer from over at Cold Sassy," said Grandpa. "This here's my wife and my grandboy."

  Introducing himself, the man shook hands with Grandpa and me. He was from Athens.

  "What happened, mister?" I asked.

  "See yonder?" he pointed to a deep narrow cut that ran across the road. "Creek must of swole up after the last rain. Thet washout th'owed my car clean out a-control."

  Grandpa stared at the washout and then at the dead Ford. "Come on, Will Tweedy. Let's set up the artermobile." Us and the man made short work of it. Watching them drive off, I felt puffed up and proud to of helped somebody in trouble.

  It's just too bad we didn't know about the leaking radiator before they left. I didn't see it till after Grandpa and Miss Love climbed in the back seat and I went around to crank up. The radiator must of hit a rock in the creek. "Lord hep us," I said.

  "What's the matter?" asked Miss Love.

  "Ma'am, we got a hole in the radiator."

  "Well, plug it up," said Grandpa.

  "It ain't that simple, sir."

  "Will she crank?" he asked, getting out to come look.

  "I reckon," said I. "But she'll get too hot if we run her without any water in the radiator. We might could find a mechanic in Athens, but I don't know if the car will make it to Athens."

  Miss Love smiled at Grandpa. "Well, you said it, Mr. B. All we have to do is think up some way to plug the hole."

  "We could cool the engine some by keepin' on pourin' water in the radiator," I said. "But I ain't even got a bucket."

  An old colored woman was walking across a pasture towards us. Likely she was curious to know what happened, or maybe she just wanted to look at a motorcar up close. "Auntie?" I called.

  "Yassuh?" She had on a blue striped head rag and a dirty faded old feed-sack dress that blew in the wind against her knobby legs. She walked awful slow.

  "Make haste, we need some hep!" I yelled. I don't know what I thought she could do. Give us a bucket, maybe.

  "Yassuh, I s comin'! But I cain't make no haste."

  While we waited, Miss Love had an idea. "The water in the radiator gets very hot, doesn't it, Will?"

  "Yes'm. It boils."

  "Why don't we ask the colored lady for some grits? I think—"

  Grandpa hooted. "You thet hungry, Miss Love? Ain't we still got some fried chicken?"

  "Oh, I'm not hungry. Certainly not for grits." I noticed that a day in the sun and wind had reddened her face and multiplied her freckles. "I'm thinking we could plug the leak with grits, if the lady has some." She nodded toward the colored woman, who was nearly to the ditch that separated the unfenced pasture from the road. "If Will puts water in the radiator and starts the engine, and when it gets hot he dumps in some grits, wouldn't it make a big stiff lump and stop up the hole? What do you think, Mr. Blakeslee?"

  Grandpa thought it was a really swell idea.

  If she'd asked what I thought, I'd of said, "Well, maybe." But she didn't ask me.

  When the Negro woman got to the ditch, I told her what we wanted.

  "Chicken grits or reg'lar eatin' grits?" she asked.

  "I think regular eating grits," Miss Love answered.

  "Yas'm, but mought be dey's weev'ly."

  "That don't matter," I said. "Can you spare us some?"

  "Yassuh, sho can." I know she thought we were crazy. Grandpa dug into his pocket and held out a dime. "Here you are, auntie."

  Showing her bare mouth in a grin, the old woman spat snuff juice and put the dime in her
pocket. "Son, I s gwine ax you to come up to de house wid me. My old feets, dey cain' make it back down heah agin today."

  When I left the Negro shack, I was swinging a big old leaky enamel bucket with a cupful of grits in the bottom of it. I had paid the woman a nickel for the bucket.

  Hurrying across the pasture, I saw Miss Love and Grandpa standing beside the car, just a-talking. When I was nearly to the big oak in the middle of the pasture, she turned away from him to climb back in the car. I was just fixing to holler that I got the grits when Grandpa put his hand on her arm and pulled her to him.

  I didn't holler. I stood stock still and watched as Grandpa touched her cheek, then put his arms around her and kissed her long and hard—on the mouth! And Miss Love was kissing him back, no doubt about it. Same as if he'd been Mr. McAllister.

  Not knowing what to do or say, I ducked behind the oak tree, feeling for the first time like Granny had been betrayed.

  Miss Love had a house, a horse, and a piano—all the things she used to pray for—and now an automobile. Wasn't that enough? Hadn't God let her know once already that she couldn't have a husband?

  Like Mama always said, I guess some folks just can't be satisfied. The more they get, the more they want.

  41

  BEING BEHIND the tree, I didn't see it if Miss Love slapped Grandpa or pushed him away. By time I finally peeped around, they were back in the car. Miss Love was pinning her red hat on straight again, so I couldn't see her expression, but I could see Grandpa's, and he didn't look contrite or guilty, either one. He looked like a boy playing tops who has just won everybody's tobacco tags.