Stay a Little Longer (3 page)

Otis Simmons, Rachel’s uncle and her mother’s older brother, came from behind the dining room’s cast-iron stove humming a
tune between gulps from a bottle of whiskey. Drops of the amber liquid ran down his stubbly chin and heavy jowls.

“Don’t you think it’s a little too early to be drinking?” Rachel asked.

The sudden sound of his niece’s voice startled Otis so badly that he stumbled, nearly dropping his bottle. Sheepishly, he
stared at Rachel like a child caught with his hand in the cookie jar. Though in his mid-fifties, Otis
was
childlike, even comical. He insisted upon combing his few gray hairs across his otherwise bald head. His dingy clothes strained
mightily against their seams and buttons on his enormous body, and he had a cockeyed smile that lit up no matter how much
he’d had to drink. For an instant, he tried to hide his bottle behind his ample waist and pretend the liquor didn’t exist,
but then he just smiled mischievously.

“I don’t know if I’d be willin’ to call this a drink,” he offered defensively.

“If it’s not a drink, then what is it?” Rachel asked, willing to play along with her uncle’s shenanigans for the moment.

“This here ain’t nothin’ but a nip,” Otis explained. “In my book, that sure ain’t the same thing as a drink.”

“What’s the difference?”

“Oh, my darlin’,” Rachel’s uncle exclaimed with a heavy slap at his knee, “drinkin’ is somethin’ you do sittin’ down at a
bar while pourin’ yourself a big glassful, whereas nippin’ ain’t nothin’ more than takin’ a few sips here and there. Drinkin’
you do with your friends down at the tavern or, if you’re a particularly lonely sort, yourself. Nippin’ is somethin’ that
can be done ’bout any time of day. Hell, I ain’t above nippin’ first thing in the mornin’!”

“That’s all too apparent,” Rachel pointed out with a disapproving look.

“I’m livin’ proof that there ain’t nothin’ wrong with it! Why, most fellas my age couldn’t hold half the liquor I can put
down in a day. I’m a modern medical miracle if I do say so!”

“I don’t know if that’s a claim I’d be too proud of.”

“That’s ’cause you ain’t a drinker or a nipper.” Otis guffawed. “If’n you were, you’d think I was mighty amazin’!”

Rachel walked over to the check-in counter and frowned as she counted the number of keys still hanging from the pegs; it looked
as if they still had no new boarders. “No matter what it is you think you’re doing,” she said, “it isn’t appropriate behavior
when you’re supposed to be behind the counter waiting for new guests to come in.”

“Takin’ a tug now and again from this here bottle’s about the only way this fella is gonna get any entertainment.” He shrugged.
“Gets more than a bit dull waitin’ for people that ain’t never gonna come. You can’t blame me for needin’ a little pick-me-up!”

“Maybe if you’d go out and fix that sign, we’d get new guests.”

“Ain’t I already fixed that thing?”

“No, you haven’t,” Rachel retorted, her temper rising to where she could barely contain it.

“Then I’ll do it today!” Otis exclaimed as if it were the most brilliant idea he had ever heard.

“You said the same thing last week,” Rachel complained.

“But this time I done mean it!” he bellowed as he raced back toward the tiny closet from where he had come, his ample midsection
jiggling with every thunderous step. Rachel could only sigh; even if Otis hadn’t hurried away to get as far from her complaints
as he could, his good intentions would surely evaporate just as soon as he realized he was still clutching a bottle of whiskey.
While her uncle was as sweet a man as could be, he was as useful to the house as a three-legged plowing horse to a farmer.

In the end, she knew that if she wanted the sign rehung, she’d have to do it herself.

Rachel’s mother’s room on the upper floor of the house faced the street and train depot beyond, her two windows affording
her a view of Carlson’s newest arrivals and departures. The interior was dark and gloomy; heavy lace curtains allowed little
sunlight to penetrate, and the oil lamps were lit only in the darkest hours of night.

Eliza Watkins’s favorite place to hold court over her tiny fortress was a small table next to one of the tall windows, its
surface littered with used teacups and saucers. There was also a vase containing a single rose, long since dead and drooping,
most of its petals fallen. Two chairs sat waiting for another guest to join her, but it had been many years since a social
call was paid upon the co-owner of the house.

Rachel was hardly inside the door when her mother set upon her, breathlessly asking questions. “Is the child all right?” Eliza
said in a rush. “Was the birth okay?”

After all the years her mother had sequestered herself in her room, Rachel was still momentarily surprised by Eliza’s show
of compassion. Though it would have taken a team of wild horses to pull the older woman from her exile, such resolve didn’t
mean that she worried only for those around her. Only hours earlier, Rachel had pleaded with her mother to accompany her,
begging her to come and do what she was skilled at: bringing a new baby into the world. But the horrible memories of what
had happened eight years earlier proved too strong to budge her, and so Rachel had gone, as many times before, alone.

“It was a healthy baby boy,” she answered with a smile.

“He had all of his fingers?” Eliza prodded, starving for the tiniest of details. “All of his toes? There weren’t any complications?
Did you remember to tie off the birthing cord the way that I taught you, because if you don’t there can be complications!”

“Everything was fine,” Rachel assured her. She decided against telling her mother about newborn Walter Wicker’s short struggle
for breath; there was no point in needlessly worrying her further.

“Oh, thank God!”

Eliza Watkins had been a beautiful young woman, and that beauty hadn’t deserted her as she aged. Her silky hair, already bone
white, was pulled back fashionably and piled atop her head. Piercing green eyes had once held many a man in rapt attention.
Her features were delicate, almost fragile, but though she was small of frame, it was clear that she wasn’t a woman averse
to work; her hands, in particular, were still strong. She showed her age only in the many wrinkles that lined her cheeks,
underscored her eyes, and furrowed her brow.

“Why did you go out without a coat, or at the very least a shawl?” she asked her daughter. “You could have caught your death
of cold! You know how quickly the weather can change this time of year!”

“It’s a beautiful day, Mother.” Rachel sighed. “You should know, you’ve done nothing but watch it from your window.”

“Why must you always ignore my advice? Alice never defied me!”

Rachel had long ago accepted that she would never be the apple of her mother’s eye; that was an honor reserved for Alice,
even though she had died eight years earlier. The constant comparisons could still rankle, but she’d long since learned how
to swallow her upset.

“You don’t need to worry so,” she remonstrated.

“It’s a mother’s right to worry about her children,” Eliza argued, wringing her hands compulsively; there had been times over
the last several years when she had chafed them so badly that they had bled. “The way you traipse out the door without a second
thought, all willy-nilly and carefree, why it’s nothing short of a miracle you haven’t ended up just like your poor sister!”

“Mother…” Rachel said, her voice trailing to a whisper.

As difficult as Alice’s death had made life for Rachel, she sometimes forgot how heavy a toll it had taken on their mother.
Eight years ago that very October day, Eliza Watkins had done everything she could to save the life of her oldest child, while
struggling to bring her first grandchild into the world. It didn’t matter that Alice hadn’t wanted to be saved, that she’d
wanted nothing more than the cold embrace of death. Eliza carried the burden of Alice’s death as her failure and nothing less,
a failure that had cost them all dearly and from which they had never recovered.

Before Rachel could say anything else, could offer some small condolence, her mother turned back toward the window and dabbed
at her eyes with a handkerchief. “I’m sure you noticed that Charlotte’s already escaped outdoors,” she said. “She’s just like
you were at that age… she won’t listen to a thing! If you turn your back for a second, she’ll be gone.”

“I heard her and Jasper playing around back.”

“That mangy dog of hers might be as sweet as honey,” Eliza explained, “but I worry about all of the ways he could hurt her,
even by accident. Besides, just imagine all of the fleas he could be carrying!”

“Jasper’s a good companion for her,” Rachel said.

“Regardless, she was out the door only seconds after you left!”

“I don’t know just why she was in such a hurry to escape,” Rachel answered. “While I’m sure the nice day was part of it, better
odds are that she ran out as much to avoid me and where I’m going to take her.”

“Does she know what today is?”

Rachel nodded. “It is her birthday, after all.”

“And that’s why she needs to go to the cemetery,” Eliza said, turning back toward Rachel and again wringing her hands.

“Don’t you worry that you’re punishing Charlotte by insisting that I drag her out there year after year?” Rachel asked. “It
can’t possibly be good for such a young child to be confronted with the fact that she’s without a mother.”

“I don’t ask that you take her there to remind her of what she doesn’t have,” Eliza argued, “but to remind her of where she
comes from. You never so much as mention Alice’s name in front of her.”

“That’s because I don’t want to upset her!”

“She needs to know who her family is!”

“She has a family here with us.”

“Just because Alice is dead doesn’t mean that she’s not Charlotte’s mother.”

Rachel’s protesting tongue fell silent and they returned to the awkward silence between them. In the eight years since Alice
died while giving birth to her daughter, this was an argument they often revisited. While they both had a profound interest
in Charlotte’s well-being, they differed on how to provide it. Rachel knew that this year would be no different from the last
or the year before that; she would take Charlotte out to visit Alice’s tombstone alone, regardless of the fact that it was
her mother’s desire.

“Are you sure you won’t come with us?” she asked with little hope.

“No, no, no,” Eliza answered without any hesitation. “I just… I just can’t…”

When Rachel closed the door to her mother’s room behind her, she could already hear the first of the older woman’s sobs.

R
ACHEL WALKED SLOWLY
down the long, oak-lined street toward Carlson’s cemetery with a heart as heavy as it was determined. The burnt-orange October
sun brightened the cloudless afternoon sky, pleasantly warming the earth, while a listless breeze lazily shifted the tufts
of dirt kicked up by her feet. Somewhere in the distance, a farmer purposefully burned the remnants of his fields, already
beginning the necessary preparations for the next season, and the rich scent wafted over the town. But as beautiful as the
fall day was proving to be, Rachel found that she could not tear her attention from her niece.

Charlotte trudged along behind Rachel, silent save for the occasional huff of complaint, her head hanging down toward the
ground. Bouncy blonde braids danced over her shoulders, brilliant blue eyes looked out from under long lashes, and her cheeks
were nearly as red as her lips. In her favorite blue dress, adorned with bright red buttons, she was certainly a beauty. Even
at just eight years old, Charlotte was the image of her mother, except for the penetrating look that Rachel clearly recognized
as having come from her father. Unfortunately, on this day her mood was as ugly as that of a chick that just missed getting
a fat junebug.

“It’s not as if this visit is punishing you,” Rachel offered.

The child remained silent.

“Look,” Rachel pointed out, “even Jasper is enjoying himself.”

Charlotte’s constant companion, a shaggy dog, ran ahead of them, darting from one side of the road to the other, his eagerly
sniffing nose never leaving the ground for very long. Mouth open, his pink tongue hanging from one side, he truly seemed to
be having the time of his life. Part Labrador retriever and part collie, Jasper had a black coat that was randomly splotched
with patches of white, down to the tip of his long, bushy tail. Though Eliza often complained that he could be a danger to
Charlotte, Rachel saw him as a gallant protector. Every bit as good-natured as he was good-sized, he rarely left Charlotte’s
side, even when he followed her to school; more than once, Charlotte had sneaked him inside, much to her teacher’s consternation.

“He ain’t either,” Charlotte said stubbornly.

For the briefest of moments, Rachel found herself startled by the sound of Charlotte’s voice; ever since she had been forced
to stop her playing behind the boardinghouse, the little girl had remained mute, choosing to sulk instead of talk. “Yes he
is,” Rachel countered. “He’s bouncing around and enjoying himself.”

“I ain’t no dog,” Charlotte mumbled.

“Don’t say ‘ain’t,’ Charlotte.”

Jasper seemed to recognize that he was the subject of conversation and turned his head back to them for a moment before resuming
his wayward sniffing.

Charlotte had always been quick to throw temper tantrums and to argue, far more prone to give a frown than a smile; she was
as hard to predict as she was to control. Even as an infant, the sound of her wailing could be heard over the thunderous noise
of trains in the depot across the street. Eliza constantly complained of her sinful disobedience, of her refusal to do as
she was told. Rachel often tried to practice Otis’s advice, an admonition to be patient with the girl, but there were days…

What kind of mother have I been?

“I didn’t want to come here. I want to play jacks,” Charlotte complained.