by Jan Karon
“I went around to Kennington’s Department Store, an’ right there I could sell nearly all we made, just standin’ by the back door where the help went in. Those were some hungry people worked at Kennington’s! I’d sell out an’ walk home, an’ Mama an’ Sam would have another batch ready an’ back I’d go two miles to a big hole in th’ ground where they were fixin’ to put up a bank. Th’ men workin’ that job would buy me out an’ toss pennies an’ nickels in my box.
“I saw a lot of ladies go in Kennington’s, help as well as customers. They all dressed like they were glad to be somebody. So I started savin’ for a down payment on a second dress. I’d never bought a dress, Mama made our clothes out of feed sacks an’ th’ cast-off goods of people we stayed with.
“What with rent an’ rations an’ all, it took nearly a year to get my dress out of layaway. An’ when I got it, I didn’t even wear it. Don’t it beat all, that I wouldn’t wear that pretty dress, green with pink rickrack at th’ neck an’ pink-covered buttons down th’ front?
“I just kep’ wearin’ my ol’ dress—wash it, hang it up to dry, stick an iron to it, an’ go.
“One day, I finally figured out why I didn’t wear my new dress.”
“Let’s hear it.”
“It was too beautiful to wear.”
“Ah.”
“But I kept it hangin’ out where I could look at it.”
“Good idea.”
“I guess I didn’t know I was savin’ it—to wear th’ day I turned seventeen, an’ knocked on your grandmother’s door in Holly Springs.”
SIXTEEN
“I said, Is Miz Howard home?
“She said, I’m Miz Howard, an’ who are you?
“I was tremblin’ like a leaf, I thought somebody my color would come to th’ back door. I said, Peggy Lambert, please, ma’am. I’m lookin’ for work if you have some.
“She said, What kind of work are you looking for? An’ I said, Any kind you have. Th’ sweat was rollin’ off me, I was so nervous. I remember standin’ with my arms stuck out at my sides, so I wouldn’t sweat on that pretty dress with th’ rickrack. I must’ve looked like a rooster gettin’ ready to crow.
“They tol’ me Miz Howard was good to colored, so it was th’ first place I knocked. But I was ready to knock all over town if I had to. Th’ Great Depression was goin’ on an’ work was hard to find. Hard to find.
“She said, Do you iron, Peggy? I said, Yes, ma’am. Do you cook? Yes, ma’am, I said, I’m a good, clean cook. Do you do floors and laundry? Oh, yes, ma’am, I does laundry, I does floors, I does it all. She said, You do it all. I said, Yes, ma’am, I does it all. She laughed. I didn’t know then what tickled her so. She had a nice, ringin’ little laugh.
“She said, When did you last eat, Peggy? I said, Yesterday mornin’. She said, An’ here it is two o’clock th’ next day. Step in and get you a bite.
“It was potato salad an’ a slice of fried yellow squash, I’ll never forget it; with a yeast roll an’ a nice glass of sweet tea. Th’ lady who was with your gran’ma for twenty-five years had passed two months back; your gran’ma had been prayin’ for God to send just th’ right one to take her place.”
“So Nanny prayed you to Holly Springs.”
She nodded. “That’s what she did. Surely did.
“In Jackson, they robbed me of my sandwich money three times. Th’ last time they beat me so bad, Mama was fixin’ to send me to th’ hospital, but I knew we couldn’t pay a hospital. So I said, Bring me some turpentine. Mama an’ the children had to hold me down. It burned so terribly from my head to my feet, I felt like my flesh was fryin’ in an iron skillet. I said, How’m I gon’ stand this, Mama?
“Mama said, Keep yo’ eyes on God. So I did. In all that agony, my eyes were opened in a very strange, new way, an’ I saw Jesus. He was hangin’ on th’ cross. He didn’t see me, but I could see him, plain as day. His suffering was so great that my own grew sweeter, an’ not too long after that, all th’ cuts an’ hurt places healed.
“These many years later, I can still see him on th’ cross, plain as day. Everything that has happened in my life has been a gift; I believe he has allowed me to share in his suffering.
“Mama said, We got to get you out this town, yo’ work keep you on th’ street, you need to be workin’ for a nice fam’ly in a nice house. I said, Where I’m gon’ go? She said, North. I said, No, ma’am, I’m scared of th’ North. She said, I mean north Miss’ippi.
“She heard of a place would take in colored girls to train for housekeepin’ work. They wanted a hundred dollars for that, an’ to boot, they would get you a job.
“You done trained me, I said. She said, No, ma’am, you are not trained, you was raised in a turpentine camp.
“Mama was makin’ hats by then, pretty hats, a lot of people came to her for their hats, an’ she said she could run things without me. I didn’t want to leave Sam an’ Lona an’ Minnie, they were bawlin’ an’ hangin’ on to me for dear life, but Mama said, Go on out this place, an’ come home when you can. I was sho scared, but I got on th’ bus with a change of clothes in my grip an’ a hundred an’ five dollars sewed in my jacket, an’ went up around Tupelo.”
Peggy raised her head and looked at him. “Right away, I saw th’ place was worse than a turpentine camp. But they already had my hundred dollars, they took it at th’ door. Mama would never have let me go if she’d known what it was. Maybe you can figure th’ kind of place it was; it wasn’t anything to do with housekeepin’, I can tell you that.”
“What did you do?”
“I ran out of there before they stole my five dollars an’ change of clothes. One of th’ girls said, Go to Holly Springs, they got big pretty houses over there. Look for Miz Howard on Salem Avenue. She said, I been meanin’ to go my ownself, but it’s too late.
“Too late, she said. An’ she was only fifteen!
“One time Sister said to me when I was talkin’ about somethin’, she said, Mama, this is more than I need to know. Is this more than you need to know?”
“I’ve waited years to know,” he said. “I want to hear everything God asked you to tell me.”
“Could you use a little bite of somethin’? What did you have for your dinner?”
“Salad and a piece of pie.”
“Salad don’t last long. We have pie if you can eat another piece.”
“Tell you what. You keep talking—and when you’re through, I’ll have the pie. How’s that?”
“That’s good.”
“How are you holding up?”
She smiled a little. “I’m gettin’ my second wind.”
“Me, too.”
“Where was I?”
“One of the so-called training school crowd sent you to Holly Springs, to Nanny’s house.”
“Your grandmother invited me into her beautiful home; I’d taken off my jacket so she could see my new dress, an’ left my grip in th’ privet hedge. I ate that nice dinner she gave me in little tiny bites, so she wouldn’ see me with my mouth full, an’ so I could answer if she aks me another question.
“She said, Peggy, you are a lovely girl with a wise heart, when can you begin? I said, Would right now be too soon, please, ma’am? I was afraid she might aks me to start th’ next day or th’ next week, an’ I wouldn’t have any place to stay. She said, Not a minute too soon, I’ll show you to your quarters.
“I was so happy, it like to scared me to death. A lovely girl with a wise heart—I had never heard such beautiful talk. I followed her along th’ gallery doin’ a little skip dance in my imagination.
“She made up a room at th’ back of th’ house, it was that old room off th’ porch, and gave me that bad little dog named Rooster to guard my door at night. She wanted me to feel safe in a new place. I had never met a white lady like her before. I thanked God for a nice, clean bed and a chest of drawers to put my things in. I didn’t feel I deserved it all—me, Peggy Lambert, born an’ raised in a turpentine camp.
> “I was with your wonderful grandma a year and three months when your mother came to stay with your grandma an’ grandpa, because you were soon to be born. We were all excited about a little baby comin’ to be with us. Your mama never looked more beautiful, an’ she was already th’ prettiest woman in Holly Springs.”
“My father,” he said. “How did he feel about having a child?”
“He was proud, that’s what. An’ when he saw it was a boy, that did it. He was about to bust.”
“Honestly?”
“Honestly. You know your daddy picked out your Christian name.”
“Yes. After St. Paul’s boon companion.”
“And your mother picked out Andrew for your middle name. That was from a saint, too.”
“Teamwork.”
Maybe he had missed something. Maybe there had been good times, and he’d been blind to them. Why did he hate me? he wanted to ask, but he couldn’t say it.
“Your mama and daddy were sleepin’ in th’ front bedroom when th’ pains woke her up about one o’clock. She called for me, an’ when your daddy left to get Dr. Jordan, th’ whole house got out of bed an’ put on a pot of coffee an’ stirred around in their nightclothes, prayin’ for your mama an’ for a healthy baby.
“You were born at five o’clock sharp, we heard th’ clock strike as you came into th’ world, an’ let me tell you, you made a racket. Yo’ gran’pa said right off, Pulpit lungs! I thought that was some kind of disease.”
It was as if he’d come unplugged years ago, and he was getting plugged in again. His grandparents in their nightclothes, the smell of coffee percolating on the old range, the windows open to the June night—he’d never heard this part of the story before. The images it evoked were sharp and real to him.
“Your mama stayed at th’ house four weeks—your daddy came back and forth from Whitefield. Well, no use to hide it—I was plain crazy about you, yes, I was. You was my baby, too! You got th’ colic so bad, didn’t anybody get a wink of sleep for I don’t know how long. Your mama let me rock you all th’ way to th’ moon an’ back. Night after night, it was just you an’ me in that ol’ rockin’ chair, travelin’ around in my imagination to places I wanted to see: St. Louis, New Orleans, th’ Atlantic Ocean, th’ inside of Rust College.
“When th’ time started comin’ for you to go home to Whitefield, I was cryin’ every day an’ tryin’ to hide it. Then I heard your Nanny say to your daddy, Matthew, you can’t take a new mother an’ baby out to Whitefield with no help. Whitefield is a farm, and farms are hard work.
“Next thing you know, we were in that big black Buick—your daddy an’ mama in th’ front an’ me ridin’ in th’ back holdin’ you. You wore a little blue cap an’ slept all th’ way home over that rough country road.”
He’d never known this; he’d heard only that Peggy had once worked for Nanny.
“She turned me over to your mother, an’ paid my first year’s wages because your daddy was still gettin’ his law practice up an’ runnin’.”
“What did Nanny do for help?”
“She said she started prayin’ for God to send her some, an’ right off, Mitsy turned up.”
He smiled at that. “She was a saint in every sense of the word. Sacrifice was second nature to her.”
“She was a fine lady. Very fine.”
“When you met my father at Nanny’s, did you recognize each other from the cattle auction?”
She raised her head and looked at him. “Yes. We did.”
“Perhaps you looked much the same at seventeen.”
“Taller,” she said.
“Small world,” he said.
“Yes. Very small.”
“Were you happy with us, Peggy?”
“Yes. I was happy.”
“I remember Mother going with you to hear the a cappella choir at Rust College. You talked about it for a long time afterward.”
“It was one of th’ best things I ever did in my life, hearin’ that choir.”
“You liked your little house down the lane?”
“It was my first true home.”
“Several people tried to court you, Mother said.”
“They did. But livin’ in camp let me see how men could be with women, so I stayed back from all that. As best I could.”
“You devoted yourself to us.”
“Yes, I did.”
“What about your mother, your family? Did you see them when you lived with us?”
“My mama married again an’ he wasn’t a good man. No. He was a bad man. I couldn’t go home.”
“Sam and Minnie and Lona?”
“Minnie married an’ had two children, she passed ten years ago in New Orleans. When Mama passed, Lona took over th’ hat business; she lives out in Chicago, she’s eighty-six, an’ Sam…”
She closed her eyes and shook her head. He probably didn’t want to hear the answer, but he had to know. “Sam?”
“Sam played in th’ street a good bit, even when he got up in age. He was like a child all his life. I’d been with your mother about five years when he ran out chasin’ a ball; they say he didn’ see th’ truck.”
“I’m sorry.”
“So many things not to talk about when you used to aks me,” she said.
“Peggy.” He took her right hand in both of his; her palm was as smooth as the hide of an acorn. “Why did you leave without saying goodbye?”
She raised her head and looked at him directly; the lamplight on the red bandanna was a flame in the darkened room.
“I was carrying a child.
“I knew I would have to leave Whitefield. Not a living soul knew th’ truth, but your mother guessed. I was straightenin’ up th’ bedclothes in th’ hall closet when she came an’ found me. She was very calm. She said, You’re going to have a child.
“I said, Yes, ma’am. I never lied to your mother an’ I could not do it then.
“I covered my face with my hands for my shame, my terrible shame, but that was not enough covering. I sat on th’ closet floor and pulled a blanket over my head and wept. I wept for her, mostly, mostly for her, an’ for you. Your mother sat on the little stool that stayed in th’ closet an’ kept watch with me. She didn’t move, and she never said a word.
“I could tell, somehow, that she knew it was your father’s child.”
He felt as if he’d been injected with a paralyzing drug; he could not move his mouth nor avert his gaze from hers. He stared into her eyes as if looking down an interminably long corridor in which he might wander, lost, for all time.
“Your mother never said this to me, and I would not have said it to her.” She hesitated, sensing his feelings, letting him gather himself.
He’d spent seventy years journeying to the pew at Christ Church this morning. Now he’d arrived in this place—not a moment too soon or too late—only to find the shattered pieces falling again.
“The next morning, I left the little house I loved, an’ you, who I loved better than anything on earth, an’ your mother, the kindest woman I’d ever known. No one knew where I was goin’, an’ except for your mother, no one knew why I left. I took the clothes on my back an’ the Bible your mother gave me at Christmas.
“In all the days of my long life, I never hurt so deep as I hurt then, for the suffering I would bring to people who had been kind an’ loving to me.”
She appeared suddenly worn beyond telling, though her gaze was steady and certain. “I’m sorry to tell you this, so sorry to tell you this.”
He could feel himself running, see himself running.
“Are you sure?” he asked. “Absolutely sure?”
“Yes. I’m sure.”
“You said only Mother knew why you left.”
“Yes. Your father didn’t know.”
What was he to do with what she was telling him? Where was he to go with this? Lord, he prayed.
“Why are you telling me now, Peggy? Why tell me after all these years? Did you have the child? What h
appened to the child?”
He looked up as Henry came quietly into the room and stood beside Peggy. He had taken off his jacket and rolled up the sleeves of his white shirt; there were dark bruises on his arms.
“Henry is your father’s son,” she said.
SEVENTEEN
Henry’s face was gray. “I’m sorry. Truly sorry.”
“Henry didn’t want to do this,” said Peggy. “But it had to be done. I prayed that God would help you find it in your heart to understand.”
She looked at him intently; a weight pressed upon his brain. He was inclined to shake his head and somehow clear it, but he couldn’t.
“As a little boy, you often prayed for a brother,” said Peggy. “God in his wisdom answered your prayer, but in a hard way, I know.”
From somewhere above, he was gazing down on the room—at the top of the red bandanna, at Henry’s head and his shoulders sloping beneath it, at his own head with its balding patch—the three of them forming a kind of triangle in the lamplit room. The sense that he had somehow risen beyond himself lasted only a moment, yet it seemed to absorb his attention for a long time.
“Why are you telling me this?” he asked.
“My son cares for me when I’m ailin’, loves me when I’m unlovable, an’ made this old place like new—all that an’ more. Henry has done everything for me. An’ I’m willin’ to do anything for Henry.
“He has a disease I can’t pronounce an’ can’t spell, but it’s slowly killin’ him.”
Henry continued to stand, his coloring ashen.
“Please sit down,” he said to Henry. For God’s sake, sit down. He couldn’t bear to look for another moment at someone who was obviously exerting an effort to remain upright on his feet.
“I will, thank you.” Henry pulled a chair away from the dining table and sat, briefly closing his eyes.
“For a good while, Henry’s been weak as pond water, runnin’ fevers, feelin’ bad, not himself a’tall. He went up to Memphis in May, to a good doctor. They did tests.”
“What did they find?” he asked Henry.
“Acute myelogenous leukemia. There’s a lack of new red blood cells, and the white blood cell and platelet counts are very low.” Henry pushed a rolled-up sleeve above his elbow. “That’s the reason for the bruising. Essentially, my bone marrow isn’t producing enough new blood cells.”