Cold Sassy Tree (22 page)

"Mr. McAllister didn't give her the saddle, Mama," I said airily. "It was already hers. He just brung it to her. She didn't even want it, and told him so."

"I wish you'd quit takin' up for that woman," said Mama.

"Now, hon, Will's not—"

"It was Grandpa thought she ought to keep the saddle," said I. "Grandpa liked Mr. McAllister, Mama. Even ast him to stay to supper, and spend the night, too."

"Aw, shah!"

Not knowing what if anything Grandpa had told when he got back to the store, I was getting uneasy about shading the situation. It occurred to me to change the subject. "Papa, I bet y'all didn't reck-anize Grandpa when he came in without his beard and all."

Papa grinned and took another helping of potato salad. "Mary Willis, you ain't seen him yet, have you, hon?"

"No. But I heard." She spoke bitter.

"I took him for a stranger. Camp did, too. Camp just kept sittin' there on the counter swingin' his legs, and Mr. Blakeslee fine'ly yelled, 'Git down from there, boy, and find something to do!' I knew then it was him, but I couldn't hardly believe it! Mary Willis, you got you a young daddy. Miss Love shaved ten years off of him, gettin' rid of that long whitey beard and that mane of bushy hair."

"Is that so?" My mother didn't smile. "Well, Pa looked just fine to me the way he was. Seems like if Love Simpson cain't get him talked about one way, she does it another. Everybody will say she didn't want people thinkin' he's old enough to be her daddy. But he is."

We ate a while in silence. Then my mother said, real sarcastic, "Hoyt, y'all might as well put up a sign down at the store. Announce the widower is givin' his new bride a racehorse for a weddin' present."

"Now, hon, you know it's not like that." Papa reached over and patted her hand, but she didn't notice.

"Oh, Hoyt, however will it all end?" She pressed her napkin to her quivering mouth. "Ma would spin in her grave...."

I had never in my life heard my mother speak out so bitter about anything or anybody. She was the one always took up for the preacher when folks complained about a dull sermon, and she always talked kind about old Mr. Tate if somebody laughed about him liking sugar in his buttermilk. Remembering how Mama had laid on her bed crying just two days ago, so scared Miss Love would get willed the store, I wondered if she could stand it when she found out Pa's house was already deeded over. Or if, Lord help us, she heard about Miss Love kissing Mr. McAllister.

I wanted to tell her the store was to be hers and Loma's. Instead, I found myself saying, in a small voice, "If it'll make you feel better, Mama, I'll give up the campin' trip."

"No, go on," she said. "Go on. Get it over with. You've been whinin' around about it ever since Ma passed." She started crying. "But, son, t-try not to have too good a time."

"I'll wear my black armband all the way, Mama," I said, eager to comfort her, but she left the table and ran upstairs. "Papa?" I asked. "What's the matter with Mama? It ain't like her to be so hard on folks."

"I think she's mad at your granny, son," he said, folding his napkin. He looked like he had a stomachache. "Mad at Granny?"

"For dyin', Will. Mama never made a decision in her life without thinkin' would her mother approve of it or not. Ever since she passed, it's been like Mama's lost holt of the reins. Like she's bein' pulled along by a team she cain't control. And she don't see any sense a-tall in your granddaddy marryin' like he did. She don't know Miss Love, Will. Not like I do—from working with her. She's a nice lady and Mr. Blakeslee needs lookin' after. But Mama cain't see that yet."

I was so excited about the camping trip that I didn't worry as much about Miss Love as she deserved. But I did run up there for a few minutes that night, after I was sure it was too late for Miss Effie Belle to come tell on her. Miss Erne Belle didn't have a telephone, so she couldn't call, and she hadn't left home by herself after dark since she was eighty-five and stumbled on a tree root coming in from Wednesday night prayer meeting. So her not appearing at our house didn't mean yes or no about what she had seen. Just in case, I wanted to make sure Miss Love knew she could count on me. I'd cross my heart and hope to die before I'd tell on her to anybody.

I found her in the kitchen, washing up the supper dishes. Her eyes were still red from crying, she looked awful tired, and I didn't quite know how to get out what she needed to hear. "Where's Grandpa at?" I asked.

"Out at the barn, feeding the mule. He got in late, so I managed to get up a pretty good supper for him," she said. "Salmon croquettes, and slaw, and, uh...." Forgetting what she was talking about, she just stood there with her hands in the dishwater. "I—I don't know how I let it happen," she said all of a sudden.

"You were just so surprised," said I, being helpful.

"Surprised? I guess I was. Will Tweedy, I swear I hardly knew what was happening. It was like being in a dream where you can't move."

"Miss Love, you can, uh, count on me." My words stumbled around. "Uh, I mean, uh, I know you couldn't hep what happened. He just overpowered you." She stared at me, saying nothing. "And, uh, I mean I ain't go'n tell Grandpa or Papa or anybody how Mr. McAllister and you—well, uh, you know."

I felt like a plumb fool, but Miss Love guessed what I was driving at. Blushing, she patted my arm and thanked me for being her friend. I felt so noble and generous.

"Don't you worry, now. If Miss Effie Belle says anything around town, I'll tell everybody it wasn't like that at all. I'll say it was just a brotherly kiss. And besides, I'll say, you really told Mr. McAllister off afterwards."

That got Miss Love nervous. "Don't, Will. Don't say anything at all. This is for grown folks. Anything you say might just make it worse."

I felt like a fool. Where Miss Love had been talking to me like I was a man, now she had cut me back down to size. "You go'n tell Grandpa?" I asked in a small voice.

"I don't know. I don't think I can face him if he f-finds out." And she burst into tears. She soon got aholt of herself, though, and went back to washing dishes. Holding a plate in midair, she looked at me kindly, smiling that big wide smile as if this was no bigger problem than getting the stove hot enough to fry the croquettes. "Don't worry about me, Will. I've been taking care of myself a long time. I just don't want to embarrass your grandfather, or the family any more than they're already embarrassed." She flushed. "I mean they're embarrassed enough over us marrying so quickly, without.... Well, we'll all survive." She straightened up.

"Yes'm. I reckon."

She saw that I didn't know what to say next. "Thank you, Will, for not wanting to be the one who spreads gossip. It shows you've got real character. I do hate gossipers." And with that, she kissed me on the cheek.

I practically danced home, thinking about her having confidence in me and about that little peck. By time I got to bed that night I was making like it was a kiss full on the mouth. From there I got to imagining what it would be like to kiss her the way Mr. McAllister did it, with kisses that ran together like a string of pearls.

That sure beat thinking about getting run over by a train, but I went too far with it. In the dark, alone in my bed, I tried sucking a knuckle of my finger and pretending it was her mouth. When I got so hot and squirmy I couldn't stand it, I tiptoed downstairs to pour me some sweetmilk.

With the glass still half full in my hand, I set my mind on Lightfoot McLendon, wondering if she would let me kiss her like that—the way Mr. Texas did it. But in no time at all I had my arms around Miss Love again.

It seemed so evil, I felt sick.

If it's true what the Bible says—that lusting in your heart after another man's wife is the same as if you actually did what you're thinking about—then I was guiltier than Mr. McAllister. When he was kissing Miss Love, he didn't know she was married. But I for sure knew, and it was my own grandfather's wife I was hankering after, which seemed like an awful sin. I was soon trembling with remorse as well as lust.

I purely made myself get out paper and a pencil and put my mind on the camping trip. Well, we'd take our shotguns, of course, to shoot game with. And fishing tackle. And a wood ax. Baseball and bat and gloves. Matches ... flour, of course. Sugar and salt. A big iron skillet, some lard....

There isn't anything like planning a camping trip to get your mind off of what it shouldn't be on.

Miss Effie Belle appeared next morning, just as we were fixing to walk out the door to go to Sunday school. "I would of come last night, but Bubba was feelin' po'ly," she began, all excited. "Well, I hate to be the bearer of evil, but I know y'all had a heap rather hear it from me than somebody else." And then with her pink lip wart quivering and her skin-and-bones face lit up like a Christmas tree, she proceeded to tell what the tall stranger had done besides bring Miss Love a saddle. "And her just two days past vowin' to cleave only unto Rucker! I swanny to God, these modrun women are something else." Her voice was shaking so bad that she had to stop a minute to breathe. Then she said, "Well, Mary Willis, I reckon now your daddy will ship her back to Baltimore. Pore man, look what bein' lonesome got him into."

After Miss Effie Belle hurried off to Sunday school, Mama and Papa lit into me. Did I see the kissing? Well, why hadn't I come straight home and told them? Did Grandpa know? Did Miss Love know Miss Effie Belle saw it? Sounding just like Aunt Loma, Mama said, "Her conduct proves it, Hoyt. That Woman ain't fit to be a servant in Pa's house, much less married to him."

Naturally Mama stayed home. Said she had a headache. Probably she did. But mostly she was too mortified to face the congregation. Papa would of stayed with her, except he had to take up collection.

It was just an awful day.

Miss Effie Belle's words flew from mouth to mouth in every churchyard in Cold Sassy. Then after folks talked about Miss Love cleavin' to somebody besides Grandpa, they had to speculate about her church affiliation. Her having married a Baptist, Cold Sassy naturally expected her to show up there that morning. The Baptists considered themselves above the rest of us. Most of them, including Aunt Loma, thought Miss Love would join their congregation with Grandpa "for the same reason she married him—to come up in the world." It must of been a relief to the Baptists when she didn't appear, because nobody knew whether to treat her like a grave robber or just a repentant sinner.

Since the Presbyterians weren't involved, there was no suspense at our preachin' service. Just pity for the shamed family.

The ones in a pickle were the Methodists. Most had thought Miss Love would go over to the Baptists right away or else hide at home, one. Well, she not only appeared at the Methodist Episcopal Church, South, but she wore a black dress, like she was in mourning for the one whose death had been her good fortune—and, as usual, sat down at the piano soon as she came in.

Miss Erne Belle stopped by after preachin' to tell us about it. "That Woman ain't got no respect for nobody. Wearin' mournin', for heaven's sake, and—"

Just the thought of it made Mama mad, but she tried to be fair. "It'd look a heap worse if she'd worn red," she said.

"Humph. Anyhow, we fixed her. Nobody sang. Well, Cratic and Agnes did. You know how they are. Them two were singin' by theirselves, though, I can tell you. Like we'd agreed to it ahead of time, the rest of us kept our mouths shut."

Aunt Loma came up our walk with Uncle Camp and the baby in time to hear that. "Did Love get the message?" she asked, hateful.

"By the second verse her face was red as the songbook," Miss Effie Belle said proudly. "Still, the nerve of That Woman ain't got no limits. She played all eight verses, right down to the a-men. But the preacher made certain sure she didn't get to do it agin."

"He ast her to leave?" asked Loma.

"No. He just didn't announce no more songs. Miss Love was still sittin' at the pi-ana waitin' for the next page number when he started his sermon. It fine'ly dawned on her he wasn't go'n let her play agin, and she jumped up and flounced out. Well, I better git on home and see about Bubba." Like an afterthought, she added, "Rucker didn't come to church with her, you know. I reckon he was shamed to. When I left this mornin', I seen him settin' on that big rock in Miss Mattie Lou's rose garden. Repentin' of his hasty puddin', I don't doubt."

I
MET
P
INK
early Monday morning in front of Clark's Drug Store to wait for Mr. Lias Foster, the rural mailman, who would be coming from Commerce in his buggy. "He's a talker," I warned. "If he cain't think of anything else, he'll say, 'Git yore foot away from thet aigg basket fore you bust them aiggs.'" We both laughed.

"What's he takin' eggs to country people for?"

"He ain't. They give him eggs for stamps. He puts stamps on their letters and then trades out the eggs at Grandpa's store or at Williford, Burns, and Rice in Commerce."

Mr. Lias made three buggy trips a week, delivering letters, newspapers, and Sears, Roebuck packages in Banks County. Out one day and back the next. The rural post offices were mostly in farmhouses, my Grandpa Tweedy's place being one of them.

We waited for Mr. Lias at the drug store because Cold Sassy's post office was in there, a big pigeonhole desk over where the telephone central switchboard used to be. They had moved the switchboard to Miss Lucille's house so that she could operate it nights as well as days. When Mr. Lias arrived, we followed him inside. Five or six old men were already sitting around in there, talking crops and fussing about the gov'ment in Washington while they cut one another's hair. A colored man named Henry had started a white barbershop in Cold Sassy a few years back, but these old fellers liked the drug store better. Folks coming in for their mail would stop and talk a while.

"Hey, Will, where y'all goin'?" Mr. Tom Rainwater asked me.

"Out to Banks County, Mr. Tom. My Grandpa Tweedy's got a big blue North Ca'lina wagon, and we go'n borrow it and go campin'."

The ride started off as a high ole time, us laughing loud and cutting up behind Mr. Lias as the buggy racked out of Cold Sassy. Old T.R. trotted ahead or dropped behind or went dashing off across worn-out fields grown up in broom sedge. Pink and I talked about camping plans till the clip-clopping of the horses made him sleepy. Mr. Lias, contrary to his usual nature, said next to nothing. So I was left to myself.