Muletrain to Maggody (15 page)

“Why, I do believe it’s Kenneth Grimley. I didn’t expect to see him so soon.” Corinne stood up. “Kenneth, darling! What brings you here?”

“The same as you,” he said as he kissed her on the cheek. “Shall I assume this is our gracious hostess, Mrs. Buchanon?”

The gracious hostess nodded. “It was my understanding you were coming later in the week. I haven’t made up a room for you, so you’ll have to take the sofa bed.” Which would leave no place for Wendell Streek, unless she put him with Simon. Which meant she might find herself on the cot in the utility room, and Jim Bob free to spend the night with whichever of his floozies was in favor. Unless, of course, she could bully him into staying with Brother Verber, presuming Brother Verber had the decency to appear after being gone all day. “Excuse me,” she added, “but I need to go inside for a few minutes. Corinne, would you please offer Mr. Grimley refreshments?”

She stopped in the kitchen to take a handful of aspirins, called the rectory with no success, then tiptoed upstairs to make sure Sweetpea and Simon had not snuck in through the front door and gone to his room to indulge in sinful hanky-panky right under her own roof.

When she returned to the patio, she was appalled to see a bottle of wine on her wrought-iron table. To make matters worse, both this Grimley man and Corinne appeared to be drinking it. She reminded herself that she was aware of Jim Bob’s weaknesses of the flesh, whiskey being high on his list, and said nothing as she sat down.

“Could I offer you a glass of passable chardonnay?” Grimley said. “It’s not one of the better years, I must admit, but it was not inexpensive and I’m disappointed with it.”

“No thank you.”

Corinne leaned over to tweak the end of his carefully trimmed beard. “I suppose you’re going to try to convince us that General Wallingford Ames never set up his headquarters without a case of wine.”

“Cases,” Kenneth said with a flourish of his arm, “as well as cigars, smoked chicken, hams, tins of caviar and salmon, imported cheeses, and pretty wenches to serve him. He weighed well over four hundred pounds when he died of gout in 1889.”

Mrs. Jim Bob waggled a finger at him. “I’d like to think that’s not what you’ll be telling the young folks at the schools. Here in Maggody we don’t condone gluttony or dissolute behavior.”

“Kenneth always behaves when he’s getting paid,” said Corinne.

“And so do you, to my regret,” he said gallantly, “although I’ve always wondered if Mrs. Delphinia Tuttle might have cast a longing eye on one of those big black bucks chopping cotton out in the field.”

Corinne put down her glass. “That sort of language is offensive, Kenneth.”

“As was slavery, which is why President Lincoln saw fit to send in Union troops to put an end to it. You Southerners just can’t get over it, can you? You probably dream about sitting on the veranda, being served mint juleps by a servant girl who’s been raped by the master since she was twelve years old. Of course, once she got pregnant, you’d have to sell her down the river and buy another one.”

“I will not tolerate this!” Corinne wadded up her napkin and threw it on the table. “If you’ll excuse me, I think I’ll lie down before dinner.”

It was all Mrs. Jim Bob could do to nod as Corinne flounced into the house. For a moment she was tempted to drink the wine remaining in Corinne’s glass, but regained her senses and said, “I’d like to think you won’t be insulting members of the house party, Mr. Grimley. I must insist on common courtesy at the very least. If you feel unable to abide by that, you can go rent a room at the Flamingo Motel.”

“I beg your pardon,” Kenneth said, his smirk only vaguely visible beneath his mustache. “I shall treat each and every member of your house party with only the deepest respect. Corinne and I are old friends. We are often invited to appear at the same events, and in the evenings there is little to do at the country inns where we’re usually lodged. She’s been known to slip out of her petticoats after a few glasses of wine.”

“We’ll have none of that in this house!” Mrs. Jim Bob hurried into the kitchen to splash water on her face. First the obviously ne’er-do-well son and his fiancée, and now this debauched Yankee “general,” most likely with cases of wine and wenches in the trunk of his car. For all she knew, Harriet Hathaway and Wendell Streek might be overly familiar with the double beds in the Headquarters House, each with a hand-pieced quilt and a feather pillow. Her hand was trembling as she dialed Brother Verber’s number, but he still did not answer. Had she not been a God-fearing Christian, she might have cursed him for his lack of consideration in her hour of need.

She snatched up a pen and a notebook, then went into the living room to work on the wording of the blessing she would offer before supper. It might turn out to be lengthy, but she had a long list of rules to be made clear to her guests.

“
I
’ve got some bad news,” Jack said as I sat down on the bar stool next to him.

Ruby Bee stopped drying glasses and stared at him. “Somebody taken poorly back home?”

“Nothing like that. Arly and I have been invited to a picnic. Miss Hathaway seems to think it’ll provide an opportunity for all of us to meet each other and discuss the logistics for the week. Both impressionists are already here, along with a smattering of other people.”

“And just where is this picnic?” I asked without enthusiasm, since I already knew what the answer would be. Death, taxes—and Mrs. Jim Bob, equally inevitable, but no more palatable. If I were on the path to hell (as she’s so fond of telling me I most certainly am), she’d be standing on the shoulder selling asbestos cardigans to raise money for the ignorant heathens in Africa.

“The mayor’s house. We can still pick up some tamales later.”

Ruby Bee raised her eyebrows. “And just where are you planning to eat these tamales? Alongside Boone Creek?”

I told myself it would not be seemly to lean over the bar and flick gray dishwater at her. “We’ll think of someplace. Come on, Jack; let’s get this over with. I do need to know the schedule.”

“You better take some bug spray,” Ruby Bee said in a smarmy voice meant to annoy me. “The mosquitoes can be mighty fierce this time of year.”

“So can I,” I muttered as I headed across the dance floor.

While we drove to Jim Bob’s house, Jack told me what he knew about the various players, which wasn’t much. His friend, who was coming on Thursday, had met most of the players on both sides, since they often attended the same reenactments and put aside their political differences when the flasks came out at the end of the day.

“No swamp water and hardtack?” I asked.

“According to Frank, the camps are closed at five o’clock to sightseers, at which time the steaks are thrown on the grill and the premium booze flows freely. Only among the farbs, of course. The hard-core dudes huddle together in the middle of the pasture and pray for frost.”

I could imagine CSA Private Jeb Stewart’s reaction if someone asked how he wanted his steak cooked. “Don’t you think this is all very creepy?”

“Oh, yeah. If you could hear some of Frank’s stories about lying in the weeds all day while his neck turned beet red, because he was unlucky in the draw and had to go down early. Once he forgot what he was doing and fell down on his back. He ended up in the emergency room with a second-degree sunburn on his face and palms. I prefer spending my weekends watching my kids play soccer. And then there’s baseball on TV, but I never said I was perfect.”

I hadn’t assumed as much—at least not yet.

We parked behind several cars and went around to the backyard. Mrs. Jim Bob had assembled quite a crowd. Miss Hathaway pounced on Jack and dragged him away, leaving me at the edge of the patio. I spotted Corinne Dawk and Sweetpea seated at a round table with two unfamiliar men. Simon and Jim Bob were lurking behind a dogwood tree, no doubt passing a bottle back and forth in that timeless tradition of Southern hospitality that supersedes social and economic class distinctions. If Mrs. Jim Bob saw them, one of them might be sleeping in the garage that night, if he was lucky. I was surprised that Brother Verber wasn’t there. Lottie Estes wasn’t there, either, but most likely because she was still away visiting a friend or relative and unaware of the premature invasion of both the Blue and the Gray. No one else in town would have been deemed worthy of an invitation.

Corinne beckoned to me, so I joined them. “How lovely to see you again,” she said. “You look so much prettier without that drab uniform. With a touch more makeup, you’d be quite the belle at one of our Charleston soirees. Don’t you agree, Sweetpea?”

Sweetpea’s lips twitched. “I don’t make it to too many soirees these days, Corinne. When I’m not with Simon, I’m at the library studying.”

My mama had taught me not to judge a book by its cover, even one whose purported autobiographer was named Sweetpea, so I was a bit ashamed of myself. “Where do you go to school?”

“The College of Charleston. I’m doing my undergraduate work in European history, and considering law school.”

Corinne managed a halfhearted laugh. “But only after the wedding, I hope. We wouldn’t want to disappoint the flower girl, would we? She’s Sweetpea’s niece and such a little angel. Her teachers at Ashley Hall say she has the nicest manners of anyone at the school.”

Sweetpea’s smile was no more sincere than Corinne’s attempt at lightheartedness. “No, we wouldn’t want to disappoint anyone, including the caterer, the organist at St. Michael’s, and the florist. Little Caitland will be absolutely devastated if she doesn’t have the chance to sashay down the aisle in her lilac frock and matching shoes. She’ll stay cloistered, and presumably a virgin even if she has to be packed away to a relative for nine months, until she comes out at the country club cotillion, dressed in white and clinging to her daddy’s arm for dear life. Of course, her daddy’s been fucking the maid since Caitland was a daffodil in her first dance recital, and her mother’s been crouched in the wine cellar with all manner of dearly departeds. I suppose it’s crowded down there. I must be related to most of them.”

After a moment of silence of the sort more often associated with eulogies at funerals, Corinne said, “Well, I could certainly use a lawyer in the family, what with all these confusing contracts and now this business about electronic books and POD. I had to hire two lawyers to deal with the entertainment rights when my books were optioned in Hollywood. I thought I’d go crazy as a loon.” She turned to the man seated next to Sweetpea. “Are you familiar with the miniseries, Mr. Streek?”

“Please, call me Wendell.” He fussed with his wire-rimmed glasses for a moment, then settled them on his nose and nodded at me. “Wendell Streek, as you may have deduced. I’m the treasurer of the Stump County Historical Society, as well as the official genealogist. And yes, Mrs. Dawk, I did watch the miniseries, although I found many of the inaccuracies and distortions depicted on the screen to be downright distressing. At one point I became so agitated that I was compelled to write a letter to the producer, delineating each egregious factual error. After the widespread distribution of the Emancipation Proclamation, for instance—”

“She writes fiction,” said the other man. He took my hand and squeezed it until I yanked it free and put it in my lap rather than knock him upside the head, a notion that held some appeal. “I’m Kenneth Grimley, known in classrooms across this indivisible nation as General Wallingford Ames of the Army of Illinois.”

“If at first you don’t secede…” murmured Corinne, then smiled at Wendell. “I do write fiction, but my research is impeccable. I had no control over the production company’s decisions to rewrite entire sections of the books to better accommodate the limited attention span of an audience weaned on graphic sex and violence.”

Mrs. Jim Bob bustled over to us. “I do think we can begin to partake of our little backyard buffet as soon as I’ve offered a blessing. Arly, I need you in the kitchen. We have several things to discuss.”

“Gee, I’d love to,” I said, flashing my teeth at her, “but I’m just dying for a salami on rye and a dill pickle. I’ve had such a busy day that I haven’t had a bite to eat.”

“You poor thing,” Corinne said. “Let me help you fix a plate. Sweetpea, why don’t you fetch some iced tea? Wendell, won’t you join us?”

Mrs. Jim Bob was obliged to retreat as we pushed back our chairs and headed toward card tables bearing the brunt of “our little backyard buffet.” I refused to allow Corinne to load my plate with potato salad and such, since I was saving myself for tamales in a more congenial setting.

I sat down at a picnic table, and after a minute, Jack joined me. I noted that his plate held only a few spoonfuls of this and that, along with a lone carrot stick.

“Not hungry?” I said innocently.

“Not yet.” He stood up as Miss Hathaway joined us. “Have you met Arly?”

“Yes,” she said, “when I was here earlier. Have you made arrangements to handle traffic on Saturday?”

“I’ve been promised deputies, but I’ll need the specific times you need to have the road blocked.” I glanced at Jack. “Can you edit out the blare of drivers leaning on their horns? I’m afraid it’s going to sound like a rainy afternoon in Manhattan.”

“If need be, I’ll erase the audio and dub in the musket fire in the studio. It’s mostly the private’s voice, reading from the journal. I’ve arranged to take Simon Dawk to Springfield tomorrow and cut the tape so he won’t have to make a special trip. I don’t think he’s taken with the bucolic ambience of the Ozarks.”

“No,” Miss Hathaway said with a pained sigh. “I spoke with him earlier this afternoon, and his attitude is less than enthusiastic. I’m sure we could have found a volunteer who would relish the opportunity to make a contribution to the preservation of the heritage of Stump County, but Simon seems so very uninterested. The only reason he was given this vital role was at Corinne’s insistence, as well as her willingness to waive her honorarium. It seems the boy has flunked out of numerous schools and has yet to find a suitable job. I’m not sure this documentary will impress her friends in Charleston, but she believes otherwise.”

She, Jack, and I discussed the proposed filming schedule while the others nattered at the wrought-iron table. We agreed that the stretch of road from a quarter mile beyond the bridge to the middle of town would have to be blocked to traffic at six in the morning, when the rebels would break camp and set out toward Farberville. With luck, Jack would have enough footage by noon and the road could be opened.

“What if it rains?” I asked.

Miss Hathaway gave me a withering look. “The Civil War generals did not press the pause button because of inclement weather. The forecast looks good, and we must hope for the best.”

“It’ll be a problem if it rains, though, since the dirt may wash away,” Jack pointed out. “How much dirt did you order?”

“Several tons. It’s amazing what you find in the classified ads. I’d never thought someone could sell dirt when there’s so much of it lying around. I also noticed that people sell rocks. I found it very peculiar.”

I wasn’t inclined to explain. “What about the mules?”

“The County Extension office put me in contact with a farmer who has promised to deliver a dozen mules on Thursday afternoon. I’m not sure where we can put them. I doubt Mrs. Jim Bob would take kindly to the idea of having them graze in her backyard for three days.”

“No,” I said, “I don’t think so. You can park them in Earl Buchanon’s pasture just across the road from the bottom of the driveway. You’ll probably have to pay him a few bucks.”

Miss Hathaway took a pad from her purse and wrote a note. “That really covers most of our responsibilities. One of the members of the historical society has agreed to transport the cannon from the lawn of the Headquarters House. It’s of historical significance that this cannon is the very one the Confederates brought from Little Rock on their fateful trip. One of the privates intentionally damaged the caisson before they fled. The Union cavalry unit was too eager to rejoin General Alessio’s army to be slowed down, so they simply left the cannon behind. Some fifty years later, it was found in a barn and donated to the county chapter of the Sons of Confederate Veterans, who eventually passed it along to us. The reenactors are expected to bring their bedrolls, tents, and whatever else they require. They’ve had a great deal more experience than I in these matters.” She blinked several times, but a tear prevailed and dribbled down her cheek. “It’s such a responsibility. The grant was generous, and it’s my duty to make sure we are successful in this project. I’d hoped to rely on Wendell, but he seems to be experiencing a midlife crisis, if one could call it that at his age. An ‘embarrassment’ might be the more appropriate description.”

Jack patted her shoulder. “I know exactly what I’m doing, and I can promise you that the Stump County Historical Society will end up with a documentary that does it proud. You’ll be listed as producer, and Arly as director. We’ll probably win an award at the Cannes Film Festival.”

“What?” I yelped. “Do you mistake me for Federico Fellini? The only thing I know how to direct is traffic.”

“Then I’ll have to examine your credentials at a later time.”

Miss Hathaway, who surely had been a teacher or a librarian before her retirement, eyed us for a moment, then stood up and tapped on her glass with a spoon. “If I may have your attention, please. I assume you’ve all had a lovely meal and taken time to introduce yourselves. Although some of you have had a long day”—she smiled at Corinne—“I thought it would be nice if Wendell gave us some insights into the personal histories of the participants. One hundred and forty years after this tragic event, we tend to think of it only in terms of quantity—twelve Confederates, twice that many Union soldiers, a dozen mules, one cannon—”

“Don’t forget two saddlebags of gold,” inserted Jim Bob. He might have been planning to elaborate, but Mrs. Jim Bob yanked his ear.

“Or so the legend goes,” Miss Hathaway said, undisturbed. “Wendell?”

Wendell took a spiral notebook from a briefcase on the ground beside his chair and flipped through several pages before clearing his throat. “As most of you know, I’m a genealogist, and I’ve done extensive research on the family histories of all the Confederate soldiers involved in the Skirmish at Cotter’s Ridge.” He bowed toward Kenneth Grimley. “My apologies to our friend from above the Mason-Dixon Line, but I have better access to Southern records of births, deaths, deeds, wedding licenses, civil and criminal proceedings, muster rolls, pension applications, and so forth. I thought I’d begin with Henry Largesse, since he is ultimately responsible for our being here tonight.”