by Lisa Belmont
When I was little, we used to have a cat named Minnie. She was an orange tabby, and Caleb liked to scare her. He’d chase her into the corner, with Rufus barking behind him, and I’ll never forget how that cat looked. Usually, she was a real nice kitty, meowing and purring real sweet like, but when Caleb cornered her, her hackles came straight up and she hissed something fierce. That’s how Pa was acting, I realized. Like a cornered cat.
“Why don’t you wear that choker I gave you?” Pa said, looking up from the fire.
“Yessir,” I said, going to my room and sifting through the little cedar box Pa had made for me last Christmas.
I took out Dolly’s choker and put it around my neck, hoping it’d put Pa in a better mood. At least he hadn’t mentioned the fort lately.
“That’s my little Buttercup,” he said when I sat down in the rocker beside him. “Dolly was a real good woman to ol’ Briscoe. She kept them home fires burning,” he said, taking a swig of moonshine.
I’d never seen Pa drinking in the morning before. I wondered if he’d been drunk all night. “Here’s to you, Blackie Sullivan. You ol’ son of a gun,” he said, hitching up his pant leg.
He looked at his scar a minute, admiring it real good like it was a badge of honor.
“Dolly was real loyal, Chloe,” he said, letting his pant leg fall. “Ain’t much of that around no more.”
“No, sir,” I said, picking up Momma’s knitting needles as Pa grabbed my wrist.
“You ain’t been going to that fort with that nigger, have you?”
“No, Pa,” I said, trying to act real innocent.
“You sure about that?” he said, looking at me like I was out of focus.
“Yes, sir.”
He loosened his grip, and I dropped the knitting needles.
“I done heard it through the grapevine that you’re the one who found Big Jim with his leg all tore up.”
“Who said that?” I said, trying to act like I ain’t all riled up inside.
“Alma. She said you came in Doc Maybley’s all tore up about it.”
“Alma Bleekman?” I said. “Pa, she’s pregnant. You know how that affects a woman. They can’t keep nothing straight.”
“Uh-huh,” he said. “Uncle Hickory, too. He said Puddingtate was blabbing about it down at the general store.”
I grimaced. “Can’t trust nothin’ Puddingtate Mosley says. He thinks Abraham Lincoln was a real fine President.”
Pa looked at me kind of funny, then said, “Imagine that.” He got tickled real good and said, “Why, Puddingtate’s darn near crazy, ain’t he?”
“Yessir,” I said, feeling like I was one of them coons up a tree.
No man can tell whether he is rich or poor by turning to his ledger. It is in the heart that makes a man rich.
Henry Ward Beecher
Chapter Forty-Three
The following morning the unthinkable happened. Momma and I went to Whitehall and, lo and behold, if Hattie Mae wasn’t moving her things into the guest room. It was arranged real nice with a white quilt and fresh pillows.
“Mrs. Jones said I could stay for a spell. ‘Til my cough gets better, she don’t want me walking home.”
“You’re staying at Whitehall? In the guest room?” Momma asked.
“I sure am, Miss Charity,” Hattie Mae said, grabbing her seagrass basket with all of her toiletries.
She nudged past me and Momma and went straight to the powder room like she was real happy about not having to use the outhouse.
Momma couldn’t get over it and stood there with her hands on her hips, surveying the room. Hattie Mae’s stockings hung limply from her suitcase, looking too shriveled and worn out to keep going. Her gray uniforms were heaped on the bed. They’d need a good starching before Widow Jones would want her answering the door. Not to mention her white aprons. Seemed like Hattie Mae had one for every day of the week. Lord, I wouldn’t have been surprised if she slept in one.
Hattie Mae walked right past me and Momma and grabbed her shoes. She only had two pairs. One for church and a pair of soft-soled loafers that she wore for working. I noticed the little piece of folded newspaper right away. Hattie Mae had stuffed it in the bottom of her shoe, a kind of warning to evil spirits who were supposed to read every word before they could do anything bad.
I knew Widow Jones was feeling awful about what had happened to Big Jim and figured that’s why she went so overboard with Hattie Mae. I could tell Momma wasn’t too thrilled about it all, but when Hattie Mae got to coughing real bad, something in Momma took over.
“Why don’t you rest, Hattie Mae?” Momma said, helping her to a tufted chair.
Hattie Mae wiped her brow and plopped down in the chair like she never wanted to get up. Her face was shiny with sweat, so I grabbed a towel from the linen closet and, Lord, if she didn’t put that towel under her dress and blot the perspiration from her armpits.
“Shore is hot,” she said, letting her eyes close.
Her expression softened, and she got to snoring real good. Momma and I hung her dresses in the closet and arranged her clothes in neat little stacks in the dresser.
I thought Hattie Mae would be real happy when she saw how nicely everything had been put away, but when she opened her eyes and looked in the closet, she shook her head.
“Not that way, Miss Chloe. Sunday dresses go on the right side and work clothes on the left. Can’t be mixing the two,” she said, fanning herself.
Momma shot me a look and muttered under her breath. “Can’t be mixing the two.”
We rearranged the closet, and no sooner had we finished than Hattie Mae said, “Miss Charity, would you mind getting me my cough syrup from the kitchen?”
“Anything else I can get you while I’m there? Perhaps a finger sandwich and some tea?”
“Some tea would be real nice, Miss Charity.”
I shot Momma a glare, grateful to hear Widow Jones coming down the hall. Her heels clicked real good on the hardwood floors.
Widow Jones beamed with a bright smile. She was carrying a vase full of the pretty yellow roses that Momma was always pining over. Momma sucked in a gulp of air, watching those pretty roses float right onto Hattie Mae’s nightstand. Course, Hattie Mae got up real close to all them flowers and put her nose in the petals, sniffing ‘em real good.
“Puddingtate’s outdone himself, hasn’t he?” Widow Jones said.
I was scared of what Momma might say, but sometimes folk downright surprise you, especially when Hattie Mae got to coughing real good.
“Way you work,” Momma said. “I’d say it’s about time you had some nice things, Hattie Mae.”
“Thank you, Miss Charity.”
If there was any animosity between them, it kinda melted.
“How many lumps of sugar you want in your tea?” Momma asked.
Hattie Mae got a big smile and said, “Two, Miss Charity. Two would be real fine.”
Maybe Momma didn’t understand everything Widow Jones did, but at least Momma could understand a woman’s son getting the tar beat out of him. That had to count for something.
That afternoon, I waxed the floor in the drawing room. Widow Jones’ clocks got to chiming real good, and I looked around at all their faces. Some were ornate clocks with elegant curves. Others were gilded with lilies and cherubs. Some stood in front of mirrors and others in front of paintings. Some chimed loudly, and others had a sweeter tone to them. But one thing they all had in common – they all stared at me like my days were numbered. Like there was only so much time to do what needed to be done. Even at thirteen, I felt it. I felt all the things I wanted to do and become. All the things that were pulling on me from the inside. Maybe they were pulling on Widow Jones, too. That’s why she had all them clocks, I realized. They pulled a certain bravery out of her. A certain determination that allowed her to let a Negro stay up at Whitehall.
That evening, I found Widow Jones on the little footbridge over the pond. She was gazing down at the water, her dr
ess fluttering a little. I don’t know what came over me, but I hugged her real tight.
“You’re a great lady, Widow Jones.”
Caleb may have had Babe Ruth as his hero, but right now, Widow Jones was mine.
“My, my, my,” she said, embracing me real good. “What’s gotten into you, Miss Chloe?”
“Hattie Mae’s gonna get better real quick. I just know it.”
“I expect so,” she said.
“How come you did it? Especially after the mob the other night.”
Nighttime settled over us and them frogs on those lily pads got to croaking something fierce.
Widow Jones looked at me and said, “I’ve learned something, Chloe. After all those years of beauty pageants, I realize how you look on the outside ain’t near as important as what you look like on the inside.”
I got to thinking on what she said and figured her insides were looking real pretty right now.
She faced the water and said, “Course, Hattie Mae didn’t want to come to Whitehall. Not with Joss acting up, but I told her my lawyer in Charleston will take care of him.”
“Yessum,” I said, thinking how Pa was scared out of his britches to have all them attorney letters coming to the house. “Is that what you were talking about when you said you had something that’d smite the shepherd?”
Widow Jones gazed out to the water, her little hat perched on her head.
“No, Chloe,” she said. “That’s not it.”
I knew better than to ask, but Widow Jones got to looking at Miss Priscilla’s tree and seemed like she had something to get off her mind.
“Sometimes we do things we shouldn’t. Things that haunt us.”
Something was haunting Widow Jones? Seemed like she was the last person who’d be spooked by some ghost.
I wondered what she was so wrought up about, but she took my hand and said, “She woulda been about your age.”
Right then, I knew she hadn’t been looking at the peach tree. She’d been looking out at the little grave marker. It was right after Carlton passed that she wound up burying her child. Before she even got to living good. Momma said it was too much for one soul to take.
“I can’t make the past go away. No one can. No more than I can forget what took place at Whitehall,” she said, looking out to the slave cabins.
For a minute, I could practically hear the slave voices echoing through the split shingle roofs and clapboard siding.
“They were here, Chloe,” Widow Jones said. “Same as you and me.”
I couldn’t help but picture the plantation flickering with torches. It would’ve been on a night like this, music playing and slaves running to and fro. Carriages coming to the front and stopping under all them beautiful oaks dripping with Spanish moss. I wanted to see it that way. To see the elegant ladies in ball gowns dancing with fine Southern gentlemen like Pa always talked about. And them house girls fanning everyone real good. I wanted to see it as something beautiful and tried my best to conjure it that way. House slaves dressed in fine suits playing spruce-wood violins. Others passing out champagne on silver trays. Laughter and dancing until the candles on the chandeliers burned to nubs.
In my mind, that’s how I used to see it. Enchanting. Beautiful. Elegant. Now, to look at it, after knowing Big Jim, it wasn’t the same. It wasn’t the same at all.
The trees turned to silhouettes. Widow Jones stared into the night. I didn’t know what she was trying to see, but her words moved across the water. Slow, but certain.
“Carlton fell sick with fever before he died.”
Lord, I wasn’t sure if I wanted to hear about her husband’s untimely demise. Momma said it was a tragedy, through and through.
“He hallucinated at times. Wasn’t sure who I was. The doctor told us he wasn’t gonna make it.”
I looked back to the house, hoping I’d see Hattie Mae or Momma. Anyone to take me away from all this talk.
“Course, Joss was there. He came every night. He and Carlton were real close. But one night, Chloe,” she said, looking me right in the eye, “Joss didn’t leave.”
I couldn’t turn away, even though I wanted to jump in the black water and forget what she’d said.
“Carlton never knew what happened. He called me his Magnolia to the end.”
Everything got real still, like the silence could swallow us whole. When it got so quiet I didn’t think I could take it anymore, she said, “I think that’s why I keep my clocks. They help me remember I’m living at Whitehall on borrowed time.”
Borrowed time?
“Lord knows I don’t deserve this plantation. Not after what I’ve done.”
I didn’t know how to handle all of Widow Jones’ heartfelt confessions. Seemed like she was needing one of them priests at the Sacred Heart Catholic Church in Charleston.
Almost like she knew her days were numbered, Widow Jones said, “Joss knows whose child is buried out there. Maybe everyone else should, too.”
My gaze went right to the little grave marker. I thought of the way Joss looked at Widow Jones the other night. How he’d caressed her arm and wouldn’t let go.
“Course, Joss don’t want anyone to know our little secret. Especially now that Alma’s gonna have a baby.”
Whitehall may have withstood The Civil War, but I didn’t know if it could withstand this. Widow Jones looked at me with her sparkly eyes. There wasn’t any fear in them. Just peace.
It was the sort of peace them sleeping pills couldn’t give. The sort of peace she probably never felt from winning no beauty contest. No, this peace came from putting another soul ahead of yourself. I figured Big Jim and Hattie Mae were worth it and kinda wished I had the same kind of courage.
Ain’t it ironic, though? Widow Jones was finally at peace doing the one thing that looked to stir up more trouble than you could shake a stick at. It was downright crazy to threaten Joss. He’s kinda like one of them coons he’s always hunting. And one thing’s for sure. A coon ain’t got nothing to lose once it knows it’s been treed.
A mother’s heart is the child’s schoolroom.
Henry Ward Beecher
Chapter Forty-Four
The next morning, Momma and I walked to Whitehall. I half expected to see Joss demanding that Hattie Mae go home or else.
What we saw as we came up the oak-lined drive was, thankfully, nothing of the sort. Puddingtate was pruning in the garden, singing Follow The Drinking Gourd. He looked downright peaceful as he cut off a few long-stemmed yellow roses.
Momma crossed her arms. “Hurry up, Chloe. We’ll be late if you keep dawdling.”
I didn’t know I was dawdling, but the way Momma marched up the drive, I had to run to keep up with her.
Hattie Mae was in the kitchen frying up eggs and bacon for Widow Jones.
“You feeling better, Hattie Mae?” Momma asked.
“I reckon,” she said, making a little cough sound. “Slept real good last night.”
“How long exactly are you planning on staying at Whitehall?”
Hattie Mae scooped up the eggs and laid them on a plate. She didn’t look at Momma as she put a pair of bacon strips beside them.
“I said, how long are you planning on staying?”
“Don’t know.”
“Well, maybe you should figure it out before Widow Jones’ rose garden gets picked clean. How many vases you need anyway?”
Hattie Mae put the plate on a tray. “Miss Charity, you think you know everything, don’t ya?”
Momma looked like she was ready to spit fire as Hattie Mae left out the swinging door.
“If that don’t beat all. She’s getting real uppity, ain’t she, Chloe?”
I didn’t know what to say. Course, the last thing I expected was to see Big Jim coming through the swinging door. I wondered if he was coming to defend Hattie Mae. Tell us he’d heard every word Momma had said.
“What you want, boy?” Momma snapped.
Big Jim held his hands behind his back and grinned br
ighter than Hattie Mae’s sunny-side up eggs. He looked from me to Momma, and I hoped he wasn’t gonna say something stupid like Your daughter’s done a good job teaching me how to read all them books.
“I got something for ya, Mrs. Mason,” he said, pulling out a bouquet of sweet-smelling yellow roses. Lord, they had the longest stems I’d ever seen. “Momma said you liked ‘em real good.”
Momma looked at Big Jim and them roses and couldn’t get her mind settled on how this could be. Wasn’t he the boy Caleb was always making fun of? Wasn’t he the one Pa tore up Widow Jones’ house to find?
It was a sight. Big Jim’s hand extending toward Momma. She was in her cherry print dress, her hair held up with bobby pins and her skin smelling like Ivory soap.
“These are for me?” she asked. “You ain’t just whistlin’ Dixie?”
“No, ma’am. I don’t know how to whistle so good.”
That got Momma to crack a smile. Hattie Mae came in the swinging door and looked mad as a hornet. She stood there with her hands on her hips, glaring at Momma.
“Well, Miss Charity, you gonna take them roses or not?”
I didn’t think Momma would do it, but a breeze rushed in from the window, cool and sweet, like it was saying, It’s okay. Don’t be worried about touching Big Jim’s hand. He’s sweeter than honey from the comb.
Momma slowly reached out her hand and you could feel the electricity. Her milk-white fingers brushed Big Jim’s darker-than-molasses hand. I’d never seen anything like it.
Momma took the roses and brought them to her face. I couldn’t exactly explain her expression, but it’d be fair to say Momma looked like them roses had just healed her. Maybe they had. Maybe those delicate petals got to working away at all her fears.
I didn’t know for sure, but I went over and gave Momma a big hug. She was trembling like she’d just jumped from Deadman’s Point into the Ashley.
Light poured through an open window. Outside, Puddingtate was singing. Big Jim’s cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk’s, and he breathed kinda heavy like he was worn out from standing on his leg too long.
“Your momma’s done a good job raising you, Big Jim. I’ve never met a kinder boy.”