by Leah Weiss
“I know what Violet Crumbie’s been saying. The word she’s been saying over and over till she’s hoarse.” Then she adds as an afterthought to show compassion, “The poor thing.”
“What is it?” Bert whispers and leans close to her new friend June with the secret. “We won’t tell a soul. Cross our hearts and hope to die, right, Lu?” She includes me in her charade.
June looks around to make sure no one is within earshot and also to stretch out her role in delivering this nugget. She puffs out her chest. “That pitiful woman keeps swinging her arms over her head up and down, saying…chop, chop, chop.”
Chapter 56
Bert: Unraveling
Me and Lu is shaking. We run out the door, cross the parking lot, get in the car, and slam the back doors at the same time. Grady’s dozed off with his hand at his crotch. When he moves, Popular Mechanics spills on the floor. So does the inside magazine with a picture of a necked girl with bosoms smaller than mine. He kicks the magazine under the seat. Me and Lu got bigger worries than girls with no clothes on.
Grady drives, and I look back at the sad place that’s likely the forever home for my poor aunt. “Did she kill him? Cut off his head?” I say. “Is that what she meant?”
“We got to be careful not to connect dots that are too far apart, but what do we do now?” Lu is being careful.
“We tell Mama,” I say. “We say why we don’t get to see her today. We’ll ask her to tell the sheriff, since he pays us no mind.”
“Will he arrest her and put her in jail?”
“I don’t think they put crazy people in jail. It would be terrible after losing her baby and her mind if my aunt got put in jail.”
“Unless she cut him up.”
Grady says, “What are you two yammering about?”
“My aunt might’ve killed Larry Crumbie.”
“Really?” He scoots up straighter and looks at us in the rearview mirror. “Why do you think that?”
So I tell Grady what we know as practice for telling Mama. When I’m done, he says, “Miz Crumbie’s a little woman, and she was pregnant then. She wasn’t strong enough to get the jump on Larry and chop off his head. That takes muscles she never had.”
“Even if she’s angry?” Lu says. “Wouldn’t that make a difference if they were fighting?”
Grady says, “Well, that means Larry Crumbie would be angry, too, making him stronger, not weaker.”
I say, “Could she hit him over the head with a iron skillet while he was asleep? If he was knocked out, she could do what she wanted with him.”
Grady says, “But how would she move his body all the way out to the edge of the woods? Larry was a big man.” Grady puts another hole in our thinking.
“Maybe somebody helped her,” Lu says.
“Like an accomplice? Who would kill a man for a poor country woman and not stick around for the woman or her farm? There’d have to be some reward there that I can’t see.”
Then I wonder, “Maybe she saw the killer. Maybe that’s why she went crazy.”
Grady goes on to say, “You sure nobody’s told her about the box of bones?”
We don’t know. Maybe we should have asked Primrose June more questions.
Grady adds, “And that doesn’t explain the other two bodies. If they’re Stucky and that singer, they were put there after she went loony. The big question is how all three bodies are tied together.”
We tell Mama bout chop chop chop but nothing happens. She says leave it to the authorities to handle. At bedtime, while Lu brushes her hair a hundred times, sitting in front of the mirror, I say, “I get a headache thinking bout Larry Crumbie, He’s a no-account man giving nothing but grief. I hope no more bodies turn up.”
Lu stops brushing. “What did you just say?”
“Bout what?”
“About bodies turning up.” She turns to face me. “That’s what Trula Freed said at the very beginning. That Frankie Tender and Larry Crumbie would turn up. Did she mean like dirt from a burial ground?”
Oh, sweet Lord’a mercy.
Next day, after church, after dinner, after dishes, we go see Trula Freed. We walk on plowed dirt in our field that crunches under shoes with an early November frost. Then through pines on brown needles, to the red door where Biscuit sleeps. We’re almost on top of him before he raises his head and thumps his tail. There’s gray in his muzzle and clouds in his eyes. Before we even knock, Miz Trula opens the door. She’s got her walking sticks and hands me a folded muslin sheet and Lu the scissors. She says, “Bittersweet,” and we follow her long cape and two walking sticks thumping on the ground.
Lu says, “When did you know you had the gift?”
“Didn’t know it was a gift at first. I thought everybody saw what I saw, knew what I knew.”
“But what did you see?” I say.
“I dreamed and told my granny the places I’d go. It was a magic ride where I saw dead people and souls not born yet, and they talked to me.”
“Lydia has the gift,” Lu says matter-of-fact.
Trula Freed nods. “She’s a bridge to the other side.”
I’m miffed at them knowing big news I’m hearing for the first time. “How come you know this?” I ask, wondering how Lydia got to be a bridge.
“She told me Oma comes and whispers in her ear while she sleeps. She knew Wade Sully was dead before we got the telegram.”
“When was that?”
“Early last year.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me?”
“I didn’t know it was true. It sounded weird till we found out Wade was really dead.”
Trula Freed says, “It’s hard explaining the unexplainable, Bert.”
“She coulda tried. Lu shouldn’t keep secrets from me.”
Miz Trula says, “Best friends don’t have to share everything,” but Lu sees I’m upset.
“I’m sorry, Bert, but would you have believed me? Would you have treated Lydia differently knowing she foretold?”
“I’d a believed you. Why wouldn’t I?”
“And Lydia? Will you look at my sister differently now?”
“She’s a little girl.”
“A little girl with a big power. Well, now you know.”
We come to the bittersweet, and Miz Trula stands off to the side while we cut the vines and wrap them in the muslin sheet, careful with the berries. We carry the vines between us when Lu asks the question we come for. “You know who those three bodies are, don’t you?”
The old woman nods.
I say as fact, “Larry Crumbie, Frankie Tender, and Terrell Stuckey.”
Miz Trula nods again.
I say, “I know they’re bad men, but how did they end up in one place? Frankie Tender never even met the other two.”
Then Lu says, “Were they killed by the same person?”
Trula Freed chuckles but not in a funny way. Like the truth is standing right in front of us and we’re too blind to see.
Chapter 57
Lucy: Silk Worms
Ending the war is taking forever to get done. Normal is taking its sweet time returning. Everett’s last letter said we wouldn’t set eyes on him till next summer. “Why?” I ask Byron one supper as he scoops out more mashed potatoes.
“It’s a monumental task to take inventory, get paperwork in order, organize transportation, dismantle war factories, collect our POWs. The list goes on and on.”
“When will Wolf and Joe and the others be leaving?” Mama says. “What’s going to happen to them?”
“I haven’t heard a release date, but they won’t head home right away. Rebuilding a shattered world will take a long time. The Americas are one of the few lands not ravaged. Our German prisoners will be sent to do cleanup in England and France. At some point, they’ll go home, but not anytime soon.”
&
nbsp; Mama reaches for another pan of biscuits on the stove and holds it out for takers. “Where will you go after camp is closed?”
Byron glances at Irene. “I’m not sure, Miz Brown. I might stay in the service. I might apply for a teaching job at East Carolina in Greenville.” He clears his throat, suddenly nervous. “Wherever I go, I want Irene to go with me”—he kisses the back of her hand and looks at Daddy, then Mama—“if you grant me permission to marry her.”
My parents look stunned, though they can’t be too surprised since Byron is here every day that he’s off. Still, the silence stretches like warm taffy, and the light in Byron’s exuberant face dims. Mama whispers, “David, are you going to answer the man?”
And just like that, my sister snags a bona fide fiancé with a musical name.
The wedding will be held on New Year’s Day. Aunt Fanniebelle insisted the ceremony take place at the Hollingston mansion. We have three weeks to plan Irene’s special day.
Ever practical, Irene says she wants to wear a tailored blue suit. One she can wear again after the wedding. She’s going to try on the suit today and wants Mama, Bert, and me to go along and give our opinions. Now we stand on the sidewalk looking in Yetta’s clothing store window with our reflections looking back when Irene points. “That’s the one.”
The one is a basic gabardine suit with a notched collar and cinched waist. It looks like a uniform, and I say outright, “That doesn’t look like a wedding outfit.”
This gets Irene’s dander up. “Well, I know it’s different, but I don’t like long white dresses that cost too much and never get worn again. I don’t have extra money to burn for something frivolous. Plus, it’s on sale.” She looks at Mama, hoping for support. “What do you think, Mama?”
“You’ll look pretty in anything, honey, and Byron would marry you if you wore a feed sack. But we’ve come to the end of some trying years, and an uplifting celebration is just what we need. Do you think that suit is uplifting?”
In the window’s reflection, we see Uncle Nigel’s Chrysler glide down Main Street, pass us, then back up. The passenger window is lowered, and Aunt Fanniebelle yells, “What y’all gawking at?”
Mama steps off the curb to the car. “We’re looking at that dark-blue suit in the window. Irene thinks it would look nice for her wedding day.”
“For the ceremony? It looks almost black from here. Whoever heard such a thing.” Aunt Fanniebelle shouts to Irene, “Don’t even waste time trying it on. Y’all come on to the house. I been meaning to show you something,” and they drive off.
“Mama,” Irene whines. “She’s gonna take over like she usually does. This is my wedding day, and I want it simple as spit, with no lace, no sparkles, no pearls, no frills.”
“It won’t do any harm to appease her. Your aunt has a generous heart. She’s excited for you. We all are. After our visit, you can try on that navy suit.”
It’s a short car ride down three blocks, across train tracks, and past the church, but Irene is miffed that her practical plans are being threatened. I’m sorry Bert and I tagged along since my sister is turning into a sourpuss. We pull in the driveway and park beside the Chrysler. Uncle Nigel is helping Aunt Fanniebelle out of the car, and the lot of us enter the side door. Uncle Nigel heads to his study, and we walk through the dining room, past the sunroom, into the parlor where Weegee lives in the bottom of the walnut secretary and the grand piano holds silver frames of special moments.
Aunt Fanniebelle picks up the largest frame, the one that sits beside the photo of Glenn Miller in New York City. It’s a picture of Patricia’s magnificent wedding party that rivals royalty. Twelve perfect bridesmaids and twelve perfect groomsmen surround the perfect couple with a castle in the background. It was taken last June on the Hampton estate that was given to Patricia and Julian Sanders the Third as a wedding gift. The mansion sits on five acres of oceanfront. The gardens were designed by landscape architect Frederick Law Olmsted, who has his own entry in the Encyclopedia Britannica. The elaborate pool was built by Italian artisans at the turn of the century. The pool is lined with a million blue mosaic tiles. Patricia got lost twice in the mansion the first week she lived there. She wrote me such things in a letter.
“You see that wedding gown?” We lean in to look closer. “Julian’s mother picked it out. Patricia said it was heavy with a thousand pearls and miles of handmade Venise lace that trailed behind. The veil was ten feet long and appliqued with white roses to match the Winchester Cathedral roses she carried. My daughter almost buckled under the weight of that dress on her summer wedding day, but Julian’s mother was firm on what was proper in the Hamptons. At the start, Patricia didn’t want to go against her mother-in-law’s wishes, don’t you know.”
Aunt Fanniebelle stops talking and touches Patricia’s image in her heavy wedding dress. I always envied my cousin’s lavish life. I never knew there’d come a reason to pity her, but I’m looking at it. I lean in closer to study her face and mostly see a smile. But there’s a hint of fear I would have never noticed unless I knew her wedding dress was heavy.
My aunt resumes talking. “But I didn’t ask you here to see this picture. There’s something upstairs in Patricia’s room.” The climb up the carpeted staircase is at a snail’s pace because of Aunt Fanniebelle’s stiff joints. I walk beside her, and she holds my arm and the handrail. The others walk patiently behind.
We walk down the carpeted hallway and enter my cousin’s room.
We are stopped still. By a wedding gown. Hanging on the armoire door.
A column of white silk, simply exquisite and exquisitely simple.
Aunt Fanniebelle says, “Patricia had two wedding gowns made, and this was her choice. It’s made of mulberry silk, the best money can buy.”
I want to say, “Do you know how they make mulberry silk? For four weeks, those silk worms get fat on mulberry leaves, then they spin their silk cocoons. When they’re snug inside waiting, they’re dropped in boiling water to die, and the cocoon of raw silk unravels, and the strands are woven into fabric.” But I don’t say this truth. Today, I use restraint. I don’t want to spoil the wonder on Irene’s face.
“But this dress wasn’t fancy enough for Julian’s mother. I was thinking maybe this dress was made for you, Irene.”
“Oh my stars,” Irene gushes.
Bert whispers, “I thought she didn’t want a long white dress.”
I whisper back, “That was then. This is now.”
Gone is my sister’s wish to wear a blue suit on sale from Yetta’s display window. Gone is her ridicule of brides in long white dresses. Off comes her winter coat and plain dress, and over her slip goes a ripple of silk cut on the bias that compliments Irene’s slim figure. When she looks in the tall mirror at her beautiful self, she is speechless. We are speechless. Mama clutches her heart and starts to cry. Bert and I cry, too, and Aunt Fanniebelle reaches up the sleeves of her dress for hidden handkerchiefs she dispenses. She says, “Then it’s done. You’re gonna charm the socks off Captain Byron Toots.”
Chapter 58
Bert: The Gift
It’s Christmas Eve, and Grady gives me his hand to help me down from the truck. It’s the first time he’s touched me on purpose. I look up at him grown tall, and he smiles down on me, and I blush. River Road is full of cars and trucks and wagons cause of the invite in the newspaper. Folks talk and walk by flashlights and lanterns and head to the prison camp. We catch up with Mama and Daddy with Lydia and Cora, who came by car. Some folks are here cause the Germans are their friends. Some are here curious about the gift. Others got nowhere better to be.
Flossie Rose walks beside Sheriff Cecil with Tiny Junior behind, and she waves. Tiny’s got on the army hat Byron Toots gave him. They look like a family. Trula Freed is dressed in red finery and has come with her church friends and Preacher Perlie. Miz Elvira the librarian walks with a soldier man I don’t recollect seein
g before. Cornell walks with his year-old daughter on his shoulders and his wife by his side.
The camp gates are open, and the guards’ guns are shouldered. Fat colored lights are strung across the top of the fence. A Christmas tree holds paper chains and painted pecans and strung popcorn. The crowd of town people wait in the road. A German steps in the light wearing an oversized red coat. He shouts, “Meddy Chrismaass, Riverton.” The crowd claps and whistles cause he is happy.
“I chosen to say since Anglish iz goot.” He bows, and we clap again. “Today, twenty month for now, ve come here to you. Ve come defeat, scart, tired, and German and work hard for you. Ve not forget you. Tonight ve gif to you a present so you not forget us ever.” He bows again and steps back.
Wolf comes out with Daddy’s fiddle. I cry right off, and Lu cries, too, us welling up before he starts. We miss him before he’s gone. We know this about Wolf. He comes from a town called Mittenwald. His family makes violins. His homeland is like my mountains. Maple and spruce trees grow there and make good violins. His sweetheart is named Olga. We hope Olga waits for him.
He plays my favorite Christmas song, “Silent Night.” People hum. Then he plays it again, and the prisoners sing in German. “Stille Nacht, heilige Nacht, Alles schläft…” Men bring out wooden forms, people size, painted by camp artists. A king. A shepherd on one knee. A manger with baby Jesus is put up beside Mary with a shawl over a blue gown. The pieces keep coming—sheep and cows—till they are sixteen across. They look real except they’re flat. Then the Germans sing “Silent Night” in English, and Wolf’s violin plays on, and we sing, too. Voices without a mean bone among us. There’s not a dry eye neither. My throat gets a knot, and hardly a sound comes out.
How did we get here? How did something that don’t make a lick of sense turn into this? I wish Helen was here to see. She closed herself off and missed the whole thing. Maybe tonight would change her.