Leaving Cold Sassy: The Unfinished Sequel to Cold Sassy Tree

by Olive Ann Burns

  “She’s also took up smokin’,” said old Mrs. Calvert, joining the group.

  “No!” exclaimed Miss Winona. “Who told you that?”

  “Miss Hazel’s cook smelt it on her.”

  Mrs. Tabor, walking by, heard that and said, “But y’all, she whistled for the Presbyterians at preachin’ this mornin’. It was real pretty.”

  Miss Winona was incensed. “Now, Miz Tabor. What could a vaudeville whistler possibly whistle in church?”

  “Why, Wi-nona, you should a-been there! She done ‘Whisperin’ Hope.’ She whistled it in two-part harmony—like doin’ a duet with herself!”

  “What I heard was she looked mighty peculiar doin’ it,” said Mrs. Crab-Voice. “Kept pokin’ on her mouth and cheeks with her hands and fingers the whole time.”

  “Well, she did look funny. But it was bout the prettiest sound I nearly ever heard. Sent chills up the back of my neck. Why, there’s Will Tweedy! Where you been keepin’ yourself, sugar?”

  Greetings and handshakes came thick as I made my way through gaps in the crowd. “Hey, Will Tweedy, you old son of a gun! Come ’ere, boy!” “Goodness, Will, ain’t seen you in too long!”

  A group of excited boys and young men were carrying on about the war. Old Mr. Henry Botts put his arm around one in uniform and said, “We go’n have the Kaiser on the run in no time, ain’t we, son?”

  The Army boy was Harkness Predmore. Last time I saw Harkness he looked barely old enough to shave. “Hey, Will!” he called to me. “I enlisted!”

  “Congratulations, Harkness. Take care of yourself,” I called back, and walked on—faster...

  Nobody had asked why I wasn’t in the Army. They may have wondered, but nobody asked.

  Fat little Mr. Homer Boozer was already eating watermelon at a table shaded by the big oak tree. Fat little Miss Alice Ann saw me, poked Mr. Homer, pointed in my direction, and called out, “Will Tweedy, come say howdy!” I went over and said howdy, then excused myself to join those waiting under the tree to meet the new teachers.

  I couldn’t see Papa for the people, but I knew he was there. When I did catch sight of him, I felt the usual twinge of shame, but I also marveled how he could keep on in his role as community and church leader despite what he’d done—as if it hadn’t even happened. There he was, prosperous and dignified, standing with four other school board members. By craning my neck I could see two of the young ladies. But not the dark-complected one.

  Instead, I saw Lightfoot and Hosie Roach with their four children, all holding hands as they headed for a plank table already set with watermelon slices. I wanted to go speak, but let the moment pass.

  In high school when I was so crazy about her, Lightfoot was skinny, tow-headed, fresh from the mountains, eager to learn. But she had to leave school and work in the mill, and at fifteen she married Hosie Roach, a twenty-two-year-old mill hand who had gone to work for Grandpa Blakeslee at the store. Lightfoot was kind of fat now and her hair had darkened, but from where I stood she looked proud and happy.

  I used to hate Hosie. He always was smart, no denying, and a few years ago, he and Lightfoot had started a store of their own in a little shack at the edge of Mill Town. Townspeople called them uppity, which meant they were making a go of it. Their oldest child was about nine now, a pretty little white-haired girl named Precious.

  Precious Roach. Good Lord!

  Watching the family stroll away, I wondered if Precious would be in Miss Klein’s fourth grade.

  I heard someone call out, “Will!” and turned to see my Aunt Loma, hurrying to catch up with me. The way Loma was dressed you’d think she’d got Cold Sassy confused with New York City. Her curly red hair, cut short in the new style, was almost hidden under a gold-colored cloche hat. She had on a pale green silk dress, a short dress, way short enough to get talked about. Talk, talk, talk. Loma reveled in it. In Cold Sassy the ladies were just daring to show their ankles.

  And that engagement ring! The diamond was big as a fat black-eyed pea! As if to keep her balance, she walked with her left hand held forward, wiggling her fingers, flashing the diamond in the sunshine.

  “Hi, Will!” she said, a little out of breath.

  “Hey, Aunt Loma.”

  “Hay is what horses eat, Southern boy,” she said.

  “And hi means you think Northerners are way up above us down here.” I was teasing, but all that put-on Yankee accent irked me. Taking her hand, I bent down close to the diamond. “That’s a nice piece of glass you got there, Aunt Loma.”

  “Glass, my foot. Don’t show off your ignorance, Will.” She laughed and took her hand back. I gave her a little hug and we walked on. She wiggled her ring finger at me again. “Are you impressed?”

  “Well, yes, I admit I am.”

  “It’s three and a half carats.”

  “Tell me about him,” I said, “and tell me how come you’re back in Cold Sassy so soon.”

  Before she could answer, I saw Miss Klein!

  ***

  It’s not too much to say that to me, at that moment, Sanna Klein looked like a bride, dressed head to foot in summer white except for the blue ribbons and blue silk roses on her white straw hat and a wide blue satin sash at her waist. She wore a thin cotton dress you could see through over an embroidered petticoat. The dress had long embroidered sleeves and a high collar. Her lips were the color of ripe raspberries and her hair was jet black, done up in a thick braid. She was the darkest white person I ever saw.

  After Smiley’s description, I had sort of pictured her as a refined Gypsy dancing-girl type, but there was no sparkle in these dark eyes. She looked anxious, like a little girl traveling alone and scared of losing her train ticket. She smiled nice and all, and stooped down to hug the little children. But it was easy to see that she wasn’t having anywhere near as much fun as the folks who had come out to meet her.

  Aunt Loma got to Miss Klein before I did. At thirty-one, Loma was still pretty, with eyes blue as Grandpa’s and those short saucy curls of red hair peeping out from under her hat. But as always she talked catty, and talking catty with a Northern accent just made it worse. I’m sure she said what she did to Miss Klein just to call attention to herself. She talked real gushy. “I hear you have cousins in Germany, Miss Klein! I know you must be worried about them.”

  Papa’s face turned red. Loma was questioning Miss Klein’s patriotism, right out in public, which was the same as saying he shouldn’t have hired her.

  He spoke quickly. “Miss Klein, meet my sister-in-law, Mrs. Williams. She lives in New York City,” he said, as if that explained everything.

  “I’m very pleased to meet you, Mrs. Williams,” Miss Klein said politely. Then, just as politely—but loud enough for those around her to hear—she said she guessed there were cousins somewhere in Germany, “but I really don’t know them. My people came to this country in seventeen-twenty, back in the days when immigrants had to pledge loyalty to the Crown of England. When did your ancestors come, Mrs. Williams?” Loma looked confused and didn’t try to answer. Then Miss Klein turned to Mrs. Means and little Ronald, waiting to be introduced.

  At that exact moment an overripe slice of watermelon dropped out of the tree and landed on Miss Klein’s shoulder, splattering her white dress with pink juice and dotting it with black seeds. Everybody jumped back as if she had exploded; then all eyes turned upwards.

  “Sampson, he done it!” yelled little Ada Foster, hopping around like a chicken with its head cut off. “Hit’s Sampson Blakeslee, Miss Klein! See him? Up in the tree?” She pointed as two bare feet disappeared above a wide limb high overhead.

  “Sampson, you come down from there!” Papa yelled.

  The handsome, sun-browned face of nine-year-old Sampson appeared among the oak leaves. This was Miss Love’s boy. The son Grandpa Blakeslee always wanted but didn’t live to see get born. Half-brother to my mother and Aunt Loma.

  My half-uncle.

  Straddling the wide limb, Sampson grabbed a branch with o
ne hand and leaned towards us so his innocence could be seen.

  The band had stopped playing, a politician started giving a speech, and everybody under the tree was staring up at Sampson. “Gosh, Miss Klein, did it hit you?” he called down. Miss Klein was too angry to speak. Jerking off her hat, she picked furiously at bits of red watermelon nestled among the blue silk flowers.

  “I am a -SHAMED of you, boy!” yelled Papa. Still looking up, he put his hand under the sticky wetness of Miss Klein’s elbow to steady her.

  “I didn’t mean to, sir. That old watermelon, it just slid right...”

  Little Ada was dancing again. “Sampson, here comes yore mama! I bet she’s go’n git you good!”

  “Naw, she ain’t,” mumbled Mr. Homer Boozer, speaking to everybody and nobody. With a hunk of watermelon heart in one hand and a salt shaker in the other, he had pushed through to see what the commotion was about. “Half the boy’s trouble is Miss Love don’t never git him good. Just gives him a talkin’ to.” Gesturing with his watermelon towards Sampson’s perch in the tree, he said, “Ain’t thet right, Will Tweedy? The Widder Blakeslee spares the rod and spiles the chil’.”

  What the child had spoilt was the vision of Miss Klein’s loveliness. But he didn’t need any hard words from me on top of what he was about to get, for here came Miss Love, yelling up the tree before she even got to it. “Simpson Rucker Blakeslee! What have you done now!” Then she saw Miss Klein, who had drooped with embarrassment, like a wet cat. “Good Lord, Sampson, what...?”

  “I didn’t mean to, Mother.” His voice sounded small and lonely in the sudden quiet under the tree.

  Miss Love’s hands were on her hips. “Why in the world did you have that watermelon up there in the first place?”

  “I—I wanted to eat it in the tree. I hauled it up here! See?” He spoke proudly, holding out a zinc bucket with a long rope tied to the handle.

  “You let that bucket down right now!” Miss Love shouted. “Before it falls on somebody!”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  In seconds the bucket was dangling in Miss Klein’s face. Miss Love grabbed it out of the air. “Now you get down from there yourself!” I looked up just in time to see Sampson swing to a lower limb, squat, and poise himself to jump to the ground.

  Miss Klein gasped. “Oh, mercy, he’ll break his neck!”

  “Naw, he won’t,” said Mr. Boozer, taking a bite of his watermelon. “Thet boy’s middle name is Circus. Wait’ll you see him standin’ on his mama’s horse and hit a-gallopin’!”

  WHUMP! Sampson landed on his feet, almost colliding with Aunt Loma.

  “Smart aleck!” Loma snapped, her face flushing.

  “Wasn’t that a grand leap?” he asked her with a wide smile, as if expecting applause.

  Miss Love was trying to dry off the teacher’s arm with a lace handkerchief. “I’m just so sorry,” she kept murmuring. Then she turned to Sampson. “Now I want to hear you apologize to Miss Klein,” she ordered.

  “I already did. Didn’t I, Miss Klein?” With a bare foot he kicked aside the broken watermelon slice where yellow jackets were already crawling, and looked boldly at the wet dress. “Gosh, ma’am, I really am sorry.”

  Maybe he meant it, but there was the glimmer of a smirk on his face when he glanced around to see if everybody was looking at him. To old Mr. Boozer he said, “Did you watch me jump, sir?”

  Just then Sampson saw and leaped on me, wrapping his arms around my neck and his legs around my waist. “Uncle Will!” he said happily. “Did you see me jump?”

  “Yes, I saw.” Untwining him, I lowered him by his arms, and spoke sternly. “Now you get up that busted watermelon and put it in the barrel over yonder.”

  “Yes, sir, Uncle Will.”

  “And then go get Miss Klein one of those wet towels off of the sycamore stump.”

  While the boy picked up the mess with a great show of being busy, Papa made introductions. “Miss Klein, Miss Clack, Miss Hazelhurst, this is my son, Will Tweedy.” He said my name proudly, as if I’d just made the honor roll. “Will, these fine young ladies are our new teachers.” Then he noticed that Miss Klein was busy waving off yellow jackets. “Son,” said Papa, “you better carry her on home.”

  “You can use my car,” Miss Love offered.

  “I’m too sticky,” protested Miss Klein.

  “I’ve got my motorsickle,” I said. “Bein’ sticky won’t...”

  “Oh, no, I couldn’t!” The prospect seemed to horrify her. “I mean I haven’t finished meeting people. I mean thank you but...o-o-oh!” She shrank from a yellow jacket hovering near her cheek.

  “I’ve got the sidecar hitched on, Miss Klein.”

  Sampson had come back from the trash barrel. Waving the towel, he started hopping. “Can I ride, too, Uncle Will? Please, Uncle Will? Please?”

  “Hush up beggin’, Sampson. Here’s the towel, Miss Klein. It might help.” I wiped her face and hands and dabbed at the stickiness of the long sleeves, then handed the towel to Miss Love.

  Miss Hazelhurst and Miss Clack and Papa turned back to the job at hand—greeting and meeting townspeople—and I took Miss Klein’s arm. But she turned back to the boy. “I’ve got a thing or two to say first. Simpson Blakeslee?”

  “Ma’am? You mean me?”

  Miss Klein was already acquainted with Sampson, of course, being as she was living at Miss Love’s house. They were bound to have talked, since he talked to everybody. Talked friendly, I’m sure. But right now the teacher was fearsome to behold.

  Using her hat to fan off yellow jackets, she grabbed Sampson by the hand and marched him away from the tree and the crowd. Miss Love looked at me. I nodded. Miss Klein didn’t notice us following at a distance. When the teacher stopped, Sampson stood contrite and apprehensive before her. She plopped the hat back on her head. “You look here at me,” she demanded, almost whispering, but that didn’t hide her anger. “I said look at me. Not at the ground. That’s better. Now, my rollbook says your name is Simpson Rucker Blakeslee, so in my classroom, you will be called Simpson.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Now, Simpson, I want to know if you think you’re smart.”

  He looked surprised. After glancing back at his mother and me, he said respectfully, “Yes, ma’am. Everybody in town says I’m smart—like my daddy was.”

  “Can you name me the nations of the world?”

  Hesitating, the boy glanced around again. “Uh, we haven’t studied the nations yet, Miss Klein.”

  “Do you know nine times seven, Simpson?” She slapped at a yellow jacket on her arm. Killed him dead.

  “Uh, no, ma’am. We haven’t learned the nines.” Poor Uncle Simpson. He dug his bare toes in the grass. “I’m s’posed to learn the nines this year, in fourth grade.” Boldly: “You s’posed to teach them to me, ma’am.”

  Her voice softened. “You’ve had the sevens, Simpson. If seven times nine is sixty-three, what is nine times seven?”

  He looked up, puzzled, then beamed. “Nine times seven is sixty-three?”

  “That’s good, Simpson. Now I want you to understand something else. I hope we’ll be friends at home, but there are fifty-five names in my rollbook. That’s a lot of children, and I’m supposed to teach all of you, and y’all are all going to learn. My classroom will not be yours or anybody else’s playground.”

  “Yes, ma’am. I mean, no, ma’am. I mean, yes’m, I understand.”

  Loma had strolled over. She patted him on the cheek and said, “Simpson, sugar, I think you’ve just met your match.”

  He glared at her.

  Stepping up behind him, I hung my arms around his shoulders and asked, “Miss Klein, ma’am, may we still call him Sampson after school?”

  She couldn’t help laughing, and Miss Love laughed, and Loma, and then Sampson did. He tugged at my arm. “I need to tell you somethin’, Uncle Will.”

  “Well, OK, but make haste, son.”

  “I got to whisper it.”

>   His mother shook her head. “Simpson, it’s not polite to tell secrets in front of other people. You know that.”

  I winked at her. “Just this once, Step-Grandma?”

  “Oh, Will, you...you...” Miss Love was blustering. “You’re always undermining my discipline.”

  “Yes’m.” I smiled at her, shrugging my shoulders, and she stalked off, back to the party. Squatting down, I cupped my right ear forward with my hand. “All right, Uncle Sampson, the cave’s open. Send in your secret.” Miss Klein and Loma were watching, and I was showing off.

  Sampson whispered in my ear. I tried to look disapproving. He whispered again. I grinned, nodded, and gave him a playful jab in the stomach. “OK, son, now go play.”

  When I stood up, Aunt Loma was right in front of me, her arms crossed. “You spoil him worse than Love does.”

  I tapped her diamond with a fingernail. “Looks to me like that Yankee spoils you.”

  “It’s time somebody did,” she snapped back.

  A yellow jacket was buzzing around Miss Klein in circles. “Please, Mr. Tweedy, I think I’d better...”

  “Will,” said Aunt Loma, “I hope you don’t really expect her to ride in that silly sidecar. She won’t have a dab of dignity left.”

  “Are you willin’, Miss Klein? If you’d rather not, I’ll...”

  “Anything, Mr. Tweedy. Oh, Lord, here’s two more! No matter which way I turn, they’re hanging in the air!”

  “We’ll walk around the crowd, through these woods, to get where I’m parked.” With my hand on her elbow, I looked back and said, “Bye, Aunt Loma. See you later.”

  3

  THE HARRRUMPH, harrrumph seemed deafening as we headed down the wagon road towards the park entrance. Despite I didn’t go fast, Miss Klein was scared to death—braced herself in the sidecar and shut her eyes tight.

  At Miss Love’s house we varoomed around to the backyard, where I stopped under the big elm. In the quiet after I shut off the engine, a cow lowed somewhere far off and a rooster crowed. When Miss Klein opened her eyes, she looked up to the roof of leaves above us and murmured, “What a beautiful tree!”