CHAPTER
ONE
Oh,
Baby.
BETH
June,
1913, Mississippi
Beth should have never
agreed to let George give her a ride home from church Sunday evening. As they
turned into the front lane, she made an angry swat at a mosquito biting her
neck. What a relief it was to have the smell of the magnolia blossoms distract her
nose from George’s unpleasant breath. “Oh, I’m tired.”
“How many children do
you want?” He held her hand as they walked toward the front porch.
The flimsy muscles of
his hand, damp and limp, would revolt almost any woman. How would she ever have
children with him?
He dropped her hand so
he could smooth his waxed moustache.
“You’re a good man,
George.”
Yanking his nasty
handkerchief out of his pocket and blowing his nose one more time, he unnerved
her, but he was her suitor. Soon he would marry her, and they would have a
houseful of interesting and beautiful children, who inherited their parents’
best traits. What if she grew to hate him? He was who he was, and her feelings
were her fault.
Did he have to wear
that green and yellow plaid shirt with those dirty red and black striped pants?
As George and Beth left church, ladies held their noses.
Nothing in his face
showed he knew how much he bothered her. When they reached the steps to the
house, he walked in front of her then rushed across the porch and stood at the entrance.
Some southern gentleman he was! How much more could she endure?
She lifted her skirt to
avoid tripping on the steps. When she caught up with him, she placed the back
of her hand on her forehead. “I’m sorry, George.”
“Sorry?” He placed his
hand on the wall. “About what?”
“Oh, I
have a headache. I need to go inside now.” She opened the door, and after she
waved goodnight, she slammed it, then bounded up the stairs.
Aunt Genie’s bedroom
door was open as were her windows. Eavesdropping again. She was incorrigible.
Hyena laughs came from
the window where the woman stood. She turned around as Beth entered the room.
Genie held an empty water pitcher.
“What have you done?”
Beth brought her hand to her mouth.
“Oh, nothing.”
“No, it wasn’t nothing.”
Beth made a fist of her hand and pressed it into her mouth.
“That stupid George
was on his way to his surrey, and I made it rain on him.” Aunt Genie laughed
and slapped her skinny leg. “You know what? He looked up to see if it was
really raining, held his hands out to feel raindrops.”
“You didn’t.”
“George needed a
shower. You yourself said he smelled nasty.”
“We’re going to get
married. You have to be nice to him.”
“No, I don’t.” the
elderly aunt pointed her bony finger at Beth. “I’m not marrying him, and you ain’t
either. He ain’t asked you, and if’n he does, I give you credit for having
better sense.”
“You just want me to
be an old maid so I can take care of you and my parents.”
“Not a bad idea.”
Genie sat in front of her dressing table and handed Beth a tortoise shell
hairbrush. “Brush my hair and braid it for bed.”
Beth dug into Aunt
Genie’s stringy mouse-gray hair with the brush.
“Not so hard.
Remember? I’m—”
“Tender headed.”
“Truth is I’m trying
to find you a good husband.”
Beth went to bed
without brushing her own hair. She’d deal with the curly mess tomorrow.
Monday morning at four
o’clock when the mockingbirds sang a chorus outside the window and the cuckoo
in the hall joined in, Beth popped out of her bed—time to freshen up for the
day. Making as little noise as possible, she poured water into her bowl,
splashed some on her face, and washed the important places. She needed to spend
about an hour on her hair, but she’d fix it later. She brushed over the outside
layer and twisted it into a bun.
In a jiffy, she sat,
pen in hand and candle burning, at her writing desk. Work to do in blessed
quiet.
From a basket, she
removed a list. Ten—ten submissions with dates, and the names of the recipients
filled the paper. At the right of the graph was a column where she planned to
date her acceptances and another for rejections. So far, she had eight little
rejection slips, not a real full-sized letter of rejection in the stack. She
planned to rewrite each one and resubmit it, but she was almost out of places
to send her books. In the meantime, she was formulating a plan for book number
eleven.
Since her parents and
aunt were still asleep and the noise of the typewriter would end her solitude
by waking Aunt Genie, she reworked a returned manuscript by making notes with
her pen. How kind of the editor who had bothered to suggest some changes, or
did he spill his red ink?
After working fifteen
minutes, she looked inside her desk drawer, where she found a brochure about a
vacation to Rome. She composed an undated letter requesting two tickets on a
cruise and another one reserving a room in a hotel near the Vatican.
Beth stared out the
window. She had no hope of changing her aunt. She’d take the beloved woman with
her as a chaperone and leave her clammy-handed guy behind. No hope of changing
him either. He didn’t eat enough. That was one problem. Also, what if being
with her made him nervous enough to cause his hands to drip with sweat?
Somewhere in Italy,
she’d meet a tall, intriguing Englishman on vacation. They’d fall in love, and
he’d take her to an opera by Puccini. They would go on short tours while Aunt
Genie stayed in the hotel and sipped tea.
Only one problem kept
her from finalizing the plans, from mailing her orders for tickets, from
packing her trunk: money. If she could sell a manuscript with a substantial
advance, she could proceed. Otherwise, she’d stay in Opal, marry George, and
live her life of desperate resignation.
When the hall cuckoo announced
five o’clock, Beth set aside her papers. Time to go downstairs and cook
breakfast for the family. She filled the skillet with bacon. George always
saved the best bacon and sliced it carefully for the DuBard family. He was an
excellent butcher. Hmm, if she stepped out of the picture, that cute new girl
at church—what was her name—Patricia might like going out with him.
Over breakfast, she
told her family, “Maybe I should break up with George.”
Mom stirred cream into
her coffee. “I thought you wanted children.”
“That’s what you need
to do, Bethie.” Aunt Genie talked with a mouth full of bacon. “Write him a
letter edged in black.”
Papa frowned. “Not so
harsh, Argenta.”
“You’re right. We
don’t want to lose access to the best bacon in town.” Aunt Genie reached for
another slice.
When the three senior
members of the family fell silent, Beth gained an opportunity to continue.
“I was considering. If
I broke up with him, he might start courting that new girl, Patricia Evans.”
Mom poured coffee into
her saucer. “That’s an excellent idea, but you know what could happen? If you
see him with Patricia, she is kind of cute, you might feel jealous and be
sorry.”
Afraid she would cry,
she stood. “May I please be excused?”
Leaving the dishes to
her mother and aunt, instead of helping clean the kitchen as she usually did,
she gathered her supplies and shampooed her hair. The water from the rain
barrel out back made her locks shiny and soft.
When she went back to
her room, she latched the door and towel-dried her hair, then enjoyed the
sensation of plaiting her hair in a French braid
She read a New
Testament chapter and spent a few minutes of quiet, ending with a prayer. “Lord,
I’m sorry about the way I’ve treated George. If I stop seeing him or if I
continue to see him, I’ll feel guilty either way for being selfish unless you
send me a sign.”
Next, she plopped her
seat in a chair and made the keys of her typewriter fly.
At ten, she donned her
hat and long-sleeved cotton smock to protect her arms and neck. “Mom, I’m going
for a walk.”
The lane winding
through the yard that stretched from the front of the house to the mailbox provided
a pleasant place to stroll. Blue jays called back and forth as they scampered
through the grass.
Beth played a little
game with Papa she called showing-up-near-the-mailbox-when-the-postman-arrives.
Some days she could beat Papa to the box, but most days he’d come from nowhere
with a grin all over his face. Neither of them ran, and no one mentioned the
game. It would make it seem that checking the mail was more important than it
was.
She heard the postman’s
automobile motor puttering along the road. Mr. Jolly, the RFD mail carrier,
arrived at the roadside box at ten after ten.
Since the law required
Mr. Jolly to put the mail in the box instead of in the recipient’s hands, it
would be inappropriate to stand next to the mailbox. But today she didn’t want
Papa to win. She was hoping to receive more responses from the acquisition
editors to whom she’d sent proposals a month ago. She had a feeling it was her
lucky day.
“You must be expecting
some important mail.” Mr. Jolly shot one side of his mouth up in a quirk of a
smile.
Heat flooded her face.
The postman, always teasing her about her mail, made her look like a stupid
little girl. It probably was against the law for him to humiliate her. He must
have gone to the other houses and laughed with the neighbors about Sweet Pea
DuBard—that’s what folks called her when she was a child. “Sweet Pea can’t find a man. She’s always looking for love in all the
wrong places. Did you know she sends off manuscripts to publishers in New York
City? I bet she writes love stories, but she don’t know nothing about romance.”
She waited politely
for him to shift gears.
He inserted the mail
into the box. “Morning, Mr. DuBard.”
Papa’s hand came from
nowhere, reached into the box, and pulled out the bundle of mail. He reached
into his pocket for his spectacles and positioned them on his nose. He held up
the envelope. “A letter from Albert.”
Wheezing, Beth stood
in humiliation. Papa was holding onto her mail, which could be rejection
notices. Any second he’d hand her a letter, then see the tears slide down her
face, and say, “It’s all right, baby girl.”
She was not a baby. At
twenty-six, she was old enough to have published a novel or at least to have a
husband and a child or two.
He removed his pocket
knife, slit the envelope, and shook the letter open. “Let’s see.”
She couldn’t endure
any more embarrassment. She turned around and eased toward the house. Her feet
tripped along slowly, but her brain whirled with curiosity she dared not show.
“Come back, Beth.”
Papa refolded his letter and sorted through the mail. “Let’s see if you have
anything.”
Standing in front of
him, she tried not to let him see her suffer.
Papa raised his
eyebrows as he held up an envelope. “A letter to you from Uncle Albert.”
“That’s all?” Surely
she had a rejection slip.
He thumbed back
through the mail. “Oh, here you go.”
She grabbed the other
letter, ripped it open, and turned toward the house. It was from a publisher—a
tentative offer for a book. A book deal! Oh, to shout the news to her mother! But
Aunt Genie would blab it all over town.
Beth drew in a calming
breath and reread the letter. She had three weeks to revise her manuscript, and
then the publisher would take another look. It was 83,000 words, and they
wanted 90,000. Also, they demanded she cut out two main characters and change a
location. They expected her to eliminate most of the adverbs. If she had
nothing else to do, she could revise the manuscript within six weeks, but she
had only three. Oh, and they wanted her to change the title. After all that,
they’d look at it again. This was her big chance to succeed—her platinum
opportunity. She wouldn’t do anything but work on the book, except to sleep
when she had to. In two weeks, she’d have it ready to mail.
She proceeded to her
next piece of mail. It was odd to get a letter from Uncle Albert. Papa had one
too. She ripped hers open. Two keys and two tickets fell from the big brown
envelope. Lifting the items from the ground, she saw that the tickets were
dated for Tuesday, which was tomorrow. They were for the train to Taylorsburg.
She guessed she needed
to read his letter. I’ve moved to
Natchez. What about his newspaper and printing business? She read on.
Inside the envelope, he’d enclosed a deed giving her his house and newspaper
office, along with a statement saying the printing business and newspaper were
her property.
This was big news. She
just drew the Rook card of her life. Despite her urge to throw the letter into
the air, run down the lane while she shouted as loud as her lungs would allow,
she maintained a straight face.
How could Uncle Albert
believe a woman, especially a skinny little slip of a woman, who had always
lacked the courage to speak up for herself, could do this? He was demanding she
move away from her mom and pop, manage a house, publish the newspaper, run a
printing business, manage Aunt Genie....
Fluttering her eyes in
the bright sunlight, she mumbled, “Uncle Albert believes in me. If he thinks I
can do this, I can!”
All through lunch Papa
stared at her but didn’t talk. She pushed peas around on her plate.
After lunch, her
parents went upstairs for their accustomed siesta. She ran behind them. Before
they had time to remove their outer clothing and bed down, she knocked on their
door. She didn’t want to tell Aunt Genie any of her news, and she needed to
discuss the possibility of taking Aunt Genie with her. No way would her father
allow her to go off without taking a chaperone. This arrangement would give him
an opportunity to move Genie out of the house.
Papa opened up his
bedroom. “Come on in.”
“We were expecting
you.” Mom seated herself in the rocking chair.
“You going?” Papa held
his letter from Albert.
Beth turned her back
to her parents and pressed her fist into her mouth. “Yes.”
Mama leaned forward.
“You sound determined.”
“I’m sorry, Mama. I
didn’t mean to sound harsh or ungrateful, but I need to do this.”
“Your mind is made up,
girl. That’s good. No dilly dallying back and forth.”
“I need to take my
manuscripts, but I suppose I’ll leave the typewriter here.”
“Albert probably left you
one. If not, we’ll ship yours on the next train.” Papa made a note in his
tablet.
Yawning, Mom turned
the covers back on the bed. “We need a half hour’s nap, and so does Aunt Genie.
Then I’ll spring the news on her and we’ll get packing.”
Well,
is that all, Mom? All these years Beth had assumed her
mother didn’t want her to leave home. Mom didn’t want Beth upstairs in the
bedroom of her childhood but was too polite to tell her.
Couldn’t
you at least shed a tear or two?
“Thanks.” Beth started
to leave. “I have something else.”
“Oh?” Mama stared over
her spectacles.
Beth tightened her
lips to suppress a smile. “Smackover Publishers sent me a tentative offer to—”
“Oh, baby!” Mama
jumped from her chair.
Both parents hugged
her. “I have to fix things on my manuscript first. I’m going to be so busy. I don’t
know if I can do all this.”
“God will give you
strength.” Papa squeezed her.
“Got to get busy.” She
left their room and climbed the stairs to the attic, where the dust made her breath
rattle. Coughing in spasms, she almost fell on her trip back down the stairs. She
crept to the kitchen, where she boiled some coffee and sucked a piece of
peppermint.
Slow
down, Beth, or you won’t get anything done. Mug of steaming
coffee in hand, she went outside and sat on the garden bench, where she inhaled
clean air.
“Enough of this.” Holding
a fist full of skirt, she raced back up the stairs all the way to the attic. Coughing
fits slowed her pace as she pushed the big trunk to the top of the stairs.
“Baby girl, let me get
that for you.” Papa came to her rescue. “Where do you want this?”
“In the yard so I can
clean off the dust.”
“Here. I’ll do this
for you.”
“Thank you.”
When he reached the
ground, he stopped and wiped the sweat from his face. “I’m glad you’re finally
using this Louis Vuitton trunk your mother and I have been saving for you.”
“I was saving it for
my honeymoon.” Beth talked as she dusted and coughed. “I’m sorry I kept it in
the attic.”
“Yes, we thought you’d
want to use it for a hope chest. You know, fill it with all kinds of
needlework.”
“Too busy to do
needlework, Papa.”
The afternoon flew as
everyone joined into the panicky rush.
Mom wiped her face. “This
is a madhouse, what with getting Genie’s things packed and placing all of
Beth’s manuscripts in the trunk and packing Beth’s clothes. I don’t know how
we’ll get it done. Besides all this, Beth needs to be writing, and I need to be
talking with her because—” Mom dissolved into tears.
Beth stopped pulling
underwear out of her bureau and placed her hands on her mother’s shoulders.
“I don’t know when I’ll
see my sweet little girl again.”
Beth laughed.
“What’s so funny?” Mom
wiped her face.
“I needed your tears,
and I’m just happy to see them.”
The mother and
daughter hugged and swung each other in circles.
Papa coughed.
“Something stuck in my throat. Tell you what. I’ll stay home from deacons’
meeting tonight.”
Beth bit her lip. “Maybe I should postpone the move
until I have a chance to talk to George.”
