by Pamela Morsi
She looked around once more, her eyes on all, condemning each one in turn.
"This whole town should be throwing ourselves at the mercy of this court," she said. "For our neglect of this little boy makes us all to blame. Not as much as this child, of course, but we all had a part in what has happened here."
No one disputed that truth.
"I am just as much at fault as the rest of you," she said. "Wrapped up in myself and concerns of my own, I hardly noticed this child existed. But I'm noticing now."
She gave the boy an encouraging smile.
"I know that it has occurred to many in this room that the easiest thing we could do is just send young Sharpy here away from us," she said. "There are places, schools and institutions where children with no guidance and no family can be sent. They are raised by well meaning people to find their way in the world the best that they can. It would be really easy for us here in Chavistown to find a nice place, send young Sharpy there, and wash our hands of him completely. We could do that with very clear consciences. He would probably turn out fine. But I doubt that we would learn anything in the process."
The judge's eyes widened in respect.
"This child is ours. He is a part of all of us," she said. "His mother was kin of the Gidrys or Guidrys. His heritage here is as old as any we have in this town. The first French families to settle here were Chavis, Guidry, Ramey, and Corsen. I know the Kilroy clan doesn't claim him," she said, looking pointedly at Cloris, "but I think that the rest of Chavistown must. Sharpy belongs here. And we owe it to him to find him a place among us."
A long thoughtful silence filled the judge's chambers.
"I've moved the boy into my sewing room, Judge," Aunt Hen said. "I've never had children of my own and am past such a thing these days. But I raised my Pru through her toughest years, and I take some credit for young Mr. Chavis being the fine fellow he is. I'm willing to love the boy and care for him. But there are plenty of things the rest of you can offer here."
Reverend Hathaway spoke up first. "Certainly the child is in need of moral instruction," he said. "It is my duty to take on that aspect of his upbringing."
There were nods of approval.
"I doubt if the boy has ever been on the back of a horse," Elmer Corsen said. "I could certainly see that he learns to ride."
"More important that than," Oscar Tatum added, "he'll need to know how to handle a team and care for harness. My son and I can see that he learns that."
"He will certainly have to go to school," Albert Fenton said solemnly. "I can't afford to pay the whole tuition for another child, but I can get his slate and books from the store."
"I suppose I could pay his tuition," Judge Ramey said.
"I wonder if he would like to play the piano?" Mrs. Tatum asked.
Chapter Forty-Two
Prudence was working in her garden. The heat was draining, but the work was good for her soul. Keeping her hands busy was always a good idea when her mind and thoughts were chaotic.
She hadn't spoken to Gidry since they'd left the courthouse yesterday afternoon. He had squeezed her hand very intimately and looked into her eyes.
"I want to speak with you alone very soon," he'd whispered.
She had not known how to answer. She had pulled her hand away and walked on. Pru did not want anyone to see them together. Nothing had changed. Nothing had changed at all.
Except for Sharpy, of course. For him everything had changed. It had all been settled. He would live with Aunt Hen. He would go to school. He would personally return all that he had stolen and apologize individually to each person that he had wronged. Everyone in town would be involved in trying to raise him up in the way he should go. He would not be sent away. He would grow up in the town he was born in. And Pru would get to see him every day.
He was not Gidry's son. Strangely she'd felt disappointed by that. She loved them both, and she'd wanted somehow to connect the two. She wanted to be able to bestow her attention freely on the boy and for him somehow to be connected with the man. She loved Sharpy for Sharpy and Gidry... she had always loved Gidry.
His very shocking allegation that she had been his wife all this time was thankfully discounted by the gossips. They undoubtedly had sufficient opportunity to bring up the memories of her public jilting once again. And undoubtedly marveled at how easily the two of them seemed to have overcome their differences. But this time at least, she was not the main target of speculation. Stanley Honnebuzz and his hoards of pornographic photographs were center stage in the gossip circus.
Alice Ramey had broken off with him immediately upon hearing the story. And housewives all over town were insisting that any business or personal relationships between Honnebuzz and their husbands be terminated immediately.
It was rumored that he was thinking to move his law practice to Killeen. Good riddance, most folks were willing to say.
Pru could almost feel sorry for the man. He was not at all pleasant or personable. Perhaps the only woman he could have would be one on a picture postcard. She had never really liked him much, but she certainly could understand his loneliness.
She heard voices and glanced back toward the house. Aunt Hen was directing Sharpy to his morning chores. The two had formed a fast bond. Her aunt seemed to understand little boys a good deal better than Pru herself. Aunt Hen made it clear to the child that obedience was the minimum requirement for respect. Sharpy accepted her despotism with good grace and appeared eager to please her.
They were a good match. Her aunt had taken Mr. Chavis' death rather hard, Pru thought. And now that she was no longer having to nurse and care for the old man, she would have more time to devote to her garden and to herself. A small, eager, enthusiastic little boy would surely brighten her day.
"So what are you up to this morning?" Aunt Hen asked as she came up beside her.
"I'm just mulching a bit," Pru answered. "I thought I'd take some cuttings of these old moss roses."
Aunt Hen leaned down and examined the bush, nodding with approval.
"Looks like a good time," she said. "Where are you going to plant them?"
"Oh, I don't know," Pru answered. "Maybe I'll put them up at the cemetery on the grave of old Mr. Chavis. Do you think Gidry would appreciate that?"
"No, not there," Aunt Hen said. "I'm already planning to put Yellow Rose of Texas on his place. You know what they say about it. Plant it today, and it will outlive your grandchildren."
"I hate to be the one to point this out, Aunt Hen," Pru said, teasing, "but if you are hoping to have grandchildren, you'll need to get very busy."
"I've been busy enough," she answered. "What about planting those old moss on the grave of Sharpy's mother?"
"That's a good idea," Pru agreed.
"And you could get him to help you," Aunt Hen said. "You do the cuttings, and once they're ready to plant he could put them on poor Mabel's ground himself. It would teach him a lot about plants and allow
him some sweet memories of his mother as well."
Pru smiled at her.
"You are always so right," she said. "You always know exactly what to do. Do you think I will be that smart when I get to be your age?"
Aunt Hen waved away her praise. "The way you get smart," she explained, "is by learning from your mistakes. I've learned so much because I've made so many."
Pru chuckled, disbelieving. "What kind of mistakes have you ever made, Aunt Hen?"
The older woman ignored her question.
"Have you been over to talk to Gidry?" she asked.
"Why no," Pru answered, immediately defensive. "What on earth would I have to speak to Gidry about?"
Her aunt looked disapproving.
"Well, at the very least you owe the man an apology for thinking the worst of him," she said.
Pru demurred. She couldn't argue with that.
"And I would think that after the man compromised himself on your behalf, you would at least offer to make it right," she continued.
/> “To make it right?"
Pru didn't comprehend her meaning.
“Yes, I think that you should go over there and ask the fellow to marry you," Aunt Hen said.
Pru felt a painful, hollow pit in her stomach.
"Don't be ridiculous," she said.
"I'm not," Aunt Hen told her. "Gidry Chavis loves you. It took him a long time to realize it, but it's true. Any fool can tell it just by looking at him."
Pru shook her head.
"It doesn't matter," she said. "It's too little, too late."
"Is it?" Aunt Hen asked. I’ve never known love to be measured or timed."
"Well, it is," Pru insisted.
Aunt Hen seated herself in the dirt next to Pru. The expression in her eyes was one of caring and concern.
"I know that he hurt you," she said more softly. "Do you forget that I was here? I saw how broken you were, first by his faithlessness and then wounded when you were set upon by town gossips like wolves. I saw it all, Prudence, and I was helpless to do anything but offer sympathy."
"I appreciated having you at my side," Pru assured her. "I don't know how I could have ever faced the world if you had not been there holding my hand and forcing me to stiffen my spine."
"You are my niece," Aunt Hen said. "Your mother was dearer to my heart than you can ever know. And you were her sweetest gift to me. Had you been my own daughter, I could not have loved you more."
Pru managed a wan smile and kissed the old woman's cheek.
"You have given me the only home I've ever had," she said. "In my own way I was as alone in the world as little Milton, and you filled my emptiness with all things right and good. If I haven't thanked you for that in the past, I do now."
"Seeing you grow into a fine woman is thanks enough for anyone," Aunt Hen said. "You are intelligent, devoted, hardworking. I'm pleased to see those traits in you. You remind me a lot of myself, and that makes me proud."
She reached over and cupped Pru's chin in her palm and turned her face toward her.
"It also makes me sad, because I see you making the same kind of foolish errors in judgment that I made myself."
"I don't know what you mean."
"You're letting the opinion of the people of this town have far too much weight in your own thinking," Aunt Hen said. "People talk. They always have, and they always will. If you let what they say, or the fear of what they might say, have too much influence in your life, then you end up with no life at all."
"I don't believe that," Pru told her.
"It's true, I'm living proof of it."
"You? When have you ever let gossip bother you?" Pru asked, genuinely surprised.
Aunt Hen hesitated a long time as if unwilling to answer.
"A long time ago I did," she said finally. "A long time ago I chose to do what I thought other people expected of me."
Aunt Hen glanced off in the distance as if recalling long ago memories.
"I was in love once," she told Pru simply. "I loved a man, and he loved me. But because of things that were in no way my own fault, it was not considered an acceptable match. If I had married him, it would have been a grand scandal. It wasn't that I was so afraid of scandal for myself. At first I couldn't do it because I didn't want to bring a bad name upon my sister and ruin her chances of finding a good husband. And then my parents were old, and I was afraid it would be too much of a shock to them. Then after they died, there was you, and with all you had to contend with in a new place I didn't want you embroiled in anything unsavory. So I never married him. I always loved him, and I never married him. I did what I thought people expected of me, instead of
what I wanted. I regret that. When you get to be my age, Pru, I don't want you looking over at that house next door and having those regrets."
"Oh, Aunt Hen," she said. "I never knew you loved somebody. It's not too late. I'm grown and I can take care of Sharpy myself. Why don't you go to him and spend your golden years together. It's not too late."
Aunt Hen raised an eyebrow and looked at her niece sternly.
"Pru, if you think it's not too late for me," she said, "then how can you suggest that it is too late for you?"
She had no answer for that.
"You and Gidry are flowers that bloom at the end of summer. It's taken you both a bit longer to find your way in this world. But you have a full, long life ahead of you, and you can be together. You can share it. I don't want to see you throw that away."
Pru's spine stiffened along with her determination.
"It needs to be thrown away," she said firmly. "It was all ruined eight years ago. There is nothing left worth saving."
"Pru, he loves you. You love him. What is ruined about that?"
"You just don't understand how it was, Aunt Hen," she said. "It was perfect. It was all so very, very perfect."
She shook her head thinking painfully of the past.
"He was charming, handsome, the best catch in town. I was the plain, little girl-next-door, poor and orphaned. But he loved me. And I loved him."
Pru laughed lightly, but there was no humor in it.
"I remember hearing other girls talk about how to catch a boy. If you really liked him, you should pretend that you don't. You should always try to be where he is, but then ignore his presence. You should only
smile at other boys. That will drive him crazy and make him determined to get you to smile at him."
She rolled her eyes at her aunt and mimicked the high pitched whine of schoolgirls.
"I heard them talk this way, Aunt Hen, and I secretly laughed at them. I told Gidry about it, and he laughed as well. We were not like that at all," she said. "I told Gidry every day that I was in love with him. I told him and you and anybody else that would listen."
Pru closed her eyes as if the memory of it was more than she could bear to look at.
"We were going to get married in this garden," she told her aunt. "That's what we decided. No stuffy church for us; we would marry outside in the open air with everyone in town watching. We would move into the house next door and we were going to have nine children. Nine. He wanted to be able to field his own baseball team. We laughed and talked and planned it all so well. It was perfect, totally perfect. And he ruined it."
Pru stabbed the spade she held into the ground with lethal force.
"He desired another woman and he ruined it. It can never be that way again."
"No," Aunt Hen agreed quietly. "But it probably wouldn't have been that way in the first place."
Pru looked up at her surprised.
"Only perfect people have perfect lives, Prudence," her aunt told her. "Like the rest of us humans on this earth, you and Gidry are flawed. The fairy tale you keep dreaming about is just that, a fairy tale. Nobody's life is free of pain and grief and sorrow. You should be grateful that what you've seen is all that you've had. Quit concentrating on what is lost and see what is there."
She reached out to grasp the bush of moss roses that was near her and held one pale pink bud up for Pru's inspection.
'This is beautiful," Aunt Hen said. "It is absolutely beautiful, isn't it. It's worth cherishing."
"Of course it is," Pru agreed.
"But look here along its stem, what are these, Pru?" Aunt Hen asked. "They prick me and draw blood. What are they?"
"For heaven's sake, Aunt Hen, those are only the thorns," Pru said.
"Yes, they are thorns," the older woman agreed. “There are thorns growing on your roses, Pru!"
Her words feigned surprise, which turned dramatically to sarcasm.
"Oh you poor, poor dear. There are thorns growing on your roses," she said. "Thorns on your roses. And that has made you cry."
Aunt Hen shook her head sympathetically. "They are not at all perfect, they are cursed with those thorns."
Her tone became serious.
"Or perhaps not," she said. "Perhaps they are only thornbushes. Normal, healthy, natural thornbushes, whose purpose on earth is to grown thorns but whic
h, by some special favor of God, have been given the opportunity to produce a beautiful flower."
Aunt Hen fished her rose knife out of her pocket and cut the flower from the bush, thorny long stem and all, and handed it to her niece.
"Pru, I love you and I want the best for you," she said. "And learning the truth about this sooner, rather than later, is all for the best."
She cupped her niece's chin in one hand and looked into her eyes.
"Maybe the perfect love you thought you dreamed about, you'd thought you had, maybe it has truly turned out to be a thornbush. But won't you give it a chance and see if perhaps it can bloom in this garden and brighten the life of all of us?"
Aunt Hen walked away.
Pru sat there holding the beautiful rose in her hands, admiring the lovely blossom and considering the cruel thorns.
Chapter Forty-Three
The harvest moon had waned to gibbous but still provided a modicum of light as Pru surreptitiously made her way to the loose tin sheet at the back of the cotton gin. Gratefully, it had not yet been secured, and she made her way inside into total darkness.
Once inside, being fully prepared for what she would find, she retrieved a match from her pocket and lit the lantern she carried. On her own, and with only a few wrong turns, she wound her way through the hulk of machinery to the small set of stairs that led to the office.
Her step was light as she hurried up them and through the doorway. As she expected, the place was deserted. With ginning complete, no one would have cause to venture this way until next summer, certainly not in the middle of the night.
She set her light upon the desk and opened the drawer. There was relief in her sigh and she laid them out in front of her and within the dim yellow circle of the lantern glow selected the one she found most pleasing.
Not an hour later, Gidry Chavis was standing shirtless in front of his washstand readying himself for a night of sleep. The loud clamor of the front door knocker was startling, unexpected, and urgently persistent.
Worried, he hurried downstairs. "Coming!" he called out as he ran. The sound abruptly ceased. He continued hastily. He opened the door to find the porch deserted. There was no one in sight. Puzzled, he stepped outside and looked around. There was no one. Not a soul.