The River Rose (3 page)

Mrs. Overton obligingly put all of Jeanne's purchases, along with her newspapers and pillow slips and soaps, into a roomy canvas bag. "I'll return it tomorrow," Jeanne promised.

"Yes, I know," she said, beaming. "And a very Merry Christmas to you and your little one, Mrs. Bettencourt!"

"Merry Christmas to you and yours, ma'am," Jeanne said. As she neared the door she saw a boy with his face pressed close up to the glass, staring wistfully at the fresh vegetable display. Jeanne felt a deep pang, as she always did when she saw Roberty. But she smiled as he held the door open for her. "Hello, Roberty. I was hoping I'd see you tonight."

His thin, dirty face brightened. "You was? How come was that?"

"It so happens that my stock of matches is very low. I desperately need some kindling, and also I was hoping that you might do me a very great favor," Jeanne said, slowing her step to match his. He was a boy of about ten, she thought, small and thin and hungry-looking. There were dozens, maybe even hundreds, of boys like him in Memphis.

"I got matches, Mrs. Bettencourt," he said eagerly. "And I kept back a good bundle of wood for you, in case. I hid it 'round the corner when I saw you going into Anderton's." He trotted down one of the dank little alleys and came back with an armload of sticks and small branches. "I'll do you a favor, ma'am. Anything, you just ask."

"Well, you know the little Christmas tree you found for me," she said, "we've decorated it some, but I think I'd very much like to have some pine cones to use for decorations. Do you think you could find any?"

"Oh, yes, ma'am! There's a big stand of pines over on Mud Island, and every morning they drop loads of cones. I'll be there first thing of the morning, afore the other wood monkeys get there, and get you the prettiest ones." The boys who scavenged the scarce wood around the city had come to be called wood monkeys. They practically knew where every tree in Memphis was located, and no branch or pine cone hit the ground in winter and stayed there for long. Each day the wood monkeys ranged up and down the waterfront, picking up every splinter lost from the endless line of carts hauling wood to the hungry riverboats.

"I got a surprise for you, too, Mrs. Bettencourt," he said proudly. "I got you some pretty good little sticks of rich pine."

"How wonderful!" Jeanne said. "One can never seem to buy rich pine. And as it happens, today I have a little extra money, and I'd love to have every splinter of rich pine you have. You—you didn't steal it, did you?"

"No, ma'am," he said stoutly. "I don't steal."

"No, I'm sorry, Roberty, I know you don't steal," Jeanne said apologetically. "Are you making it all right? That's a pretty hefty bundle you have there."

"I don't know what hefty is, but it ain't too heavy." Gamely he struggled to match his stride with Jeanne's as they hurried north of town, to the district known as "The Pinch." Originally it had been called the Pinchgut District, because of the gaunt and pinched faces of the poor people, mostly Irish, who had settled there. It was the poorest section of the town.

But Jeanne felt that she and Marvel had a fairly good house, considering that they were indeed very poor. It was a small clapboard shotgun house that was only about ten years old. Shotgun houses were called that because of the open middle hallway from front to rear; you could shoot a shotgun through them. To keep out the homeless drunks and thieves and other, worse criminals, Jeanne and her neighbors, the O'Dwyers, had put up stout bolted doors at each end of the house. The O'Dwyers lived in the room on the right side and Jeanne and Marvel on the left. The one thing that Jeanne treasured most about the single room was that it had a fireplace. That was why she had decided on renting the house instead of living in a more convenient boardinghouse.

Finally they reached her home, and Jeanne dreaded the next few minutes. She felt terribly guilty about Roberty. She didn't know if he had any family, any parents. She didn't even know if he had a home or if he was one of the true orphans who camped out in the summer and slept in a crowded church shelter on the coldest winter nights. But what could she do? Just because he had adopted her, that didn't mean that she could adopt him.

Jeanne opened the door and they went into the dark hallway. From the O'Dwyers, loud voices sounded, arguing about someone's tobacco, and one of the children was crying. The strong smell of onions pervaded the hall. Roberty slipped past her, laid his bundle of wood down at her door, then pulled some sticks out of his pocket. "Here's the rich pine, Mrs. Bettencourt. How many matches do you need?"

"How many do you have?"

"'Bout a dozen left, I think," he said, groping in the dark hallway.

"Good, I'll take whatever you have. Now, I want you to take this, Roberty, for the wood and the rich pine and the matches. And for Merry Christmas," she said, handing him two quarters.

His dulled eyes grew round. "Gosh! Thanks, Mrs. Bettencourt! Merry Christmas to you too, and, and I'll see you tomorrow with the pine cones!" He turned and ran out the door, pulling it securely shut behind him. He always hurried away like that, as if he sensed Jeanne's turmoil over asking him into her home. With regret, Jeanne opened the door to her room and hurried to bring in the wood and put all of her things away.

But somehow Marvel must have heard them, perhaps when the door slammed, for the O'Dwyers' door opened and she came running out. "Mama, you're home! Why didn't you come get me?" she cried, throwing her arms around Jeanne's legs.

"Because I have a birthday surprise here for someone and I was trying to hide it," Jeanne said, swooping down to lift her up and kiss her. "You're going to have to go stand in the corner and hide your eyes."

"That's silly, I haven't been naughty," Marvel scoffed. "I've been very good today."

Jeanne let her slide down to the floor, and Marvel's eyes grew big and round as she saw the bulging canvas bag on the worktable. "Gunness! Are those all your things, Mama?"

"They are mine and yours," Jeanne said, smiling. Marvel always said
gunness
, not
goodness
. "Now, if you'll let me get my breath, and get that fire going good, I'll show you our treasures, and tell you about my exciting adventures today."

"I'll help you," Marvel said happily. "With the fire, not your breath."

Jeanne took off her cape and muffler and then carefully removed her mobcap. It looked clean, but of course her apron got dirty in the course of a day's work. She threw it into a bucket of water with boracic acid in it, for she had found that just soaking it overnight would remove the stains without having to scrub. Smoothing her hair, she put on a black wool shawl and went out in the hallway to fetch a good-sized log for the fire. She and the O'Dwyers split the cost of a cord of wood, which ran about ten dollars.

Marvel stood at the fireplace with the poker, vigorously stirring a good-sized bed of coals and carefully placing small branches on it. The coal-glow lit her intent face. Though she had inherited Jeanne's large dark eyes, she was rather a plain child, with a thin face and mousy sandy-colored hair. Small for her age, her hands were more like a four-year-old's than a six-year-old's. Her legs and arms were skinny, and her neck seemed too small for her head. This was not evidence of malnutrition, because Jeanne was vigilant about feeding her well. Rather, it was because she was frail and sickly. Marvel had been born two months prematurely, and she had never gained normal strength and health.

But she was a pleasing child, because she was bright and alert and interested in everything, even things that most children her age would find a dead bore. Jeanne was alternately grateful and frustrated with her cleverness. She was gratified when Marvel had started learning to read at five years old, and she had been frustrated when Marvel had insisted she explain why the O'Dwyers had six children and Jeanne only had one. Life with Marvel was like that.

Jeanne came in to put the log on the fire. "Did Mr. O'Dwyer give us the coal starter?"

"Yes, ma'am, Angus got home early today and stoked their fire up real good, and Mr. O'Dwyer brought a shovelful of live coals over here just a little while ago," she said.

"Did you remember to thank him?"

"Yes, ma'am. I told you I was very good today."

"Pardon me, I forgot," Jeanne said gravely. "Now I'm going to put this soup on, and while it's heating up we'll take a look at my bag over there." She set up the iron tripod and suspended a cast-iron pot over the hottest part of the fire. All last night she had simmered oxtails, onions, and carrots over the slow fire. Now she added a cupful of cooked rice for a good, thick stew.

"Let's go ahead and put our bed down, shall we?" Jeanne said. They had an iron bedstead with rusty springs, but in winter they always put the mattress down in front of the fire and sat wrapped up in wool blankets. Most nights they read some, and then they talked while Jeanne sewed. Tonight they got the canvas bag and set it down between them.

"First, though, before we see these wonderful things, I want us to say a thank-you prayer," Jeanne said. "Today I had some generous guests that gave me tips. We have to thank Mr. Borden, Mr. Masters, Mr. Cunningham, and Mr. Davis."

Marvel nodded and bowed her head. "Dear Lord Jesus, thank you for Mr. Borden and Mr. Masters and Mr. Cunningham and Mr. Davis. Thank you for the money they gave Mama. Thank you for all the stuff in the bag. Amen."

Jeanne began taking things out of the bag. "Surprise! Kale! Isn't that wonderful?"

"Mama, that bag's got more things in it," Marvel said reproachfully. "You're just joshin' me."

"I'm sorry, I think you'll like this better. Here is milk and a ham hock, which I suppose are almost as amazing as kale. But look at this—and this—" Jeanne pulled out the muslin bag of tea, and the apples.

Marvel's mouth made a small
o
. "Those apples! They're so, so red and shiny and fat! And, Mama is that—" She snatched the bag from Jeanne's hand and lifted it to her nose and sniffed. "It is! It's tea! You got us some tea!"

"Mr. Borden got us some tea," Jeanne corrected her. "And these newspapers. Just look, Marvel, this one has pictures."

"Oh, Mama, could we please, please, have a cup of tea? And we have milk and sugar! Couldn't we make tea, and then read the newspapers while we're having tea?" she pleaded.

"Hmm, I suppose we might, though I'll have to take the stew off the fire," Jeanne said thoughtfully.

"But just this once, to celebrate Mr. Borden and Mr.—and the other gentlemen—may we have tea and bread and cheese and apples for supper?" Marvel said slyly.

"Ah, to celebrate," Jeanne said. "As a matter of fact, that is just about what Mr. Borden told me he'd like me to do with the money he gave me. Yes, tonight we may have tea instead of supper."

"Oh, thank you, thank you!" Marvel said. "I just love tea, and I know it's so 'spensive we can't hardly ever buy it."

"We
can
hardly ever buy it," Jeanne corrected her.

"We
can
hardly ever buy it," Marvel echoed. "Mr. Borden must be nice. You like him, don't you, Mama?"

"Hm? Oh. It's not a question of whether I like him or not, Marvel," Jeanne explained. "In a way, I work for him. He is a generous man, and I am grateful to him."

Marvel frowned. "I thought you liked him, because when you talk about him you sound okay. But when you talk about the others you sound funny, like you don't like them."

"What? No, no, Marvel, it's not that I dislike them. It's just not—the situation—it's one of those things about adults that you can't understand yet," Jeanne struggled to explain.

"Maybe. But I know you don't like men very much, Mama. 'Cept for Mr. O'Dwyer, I guess, and maybe Pastor Beecham. I just don't understand why."

Jeanne blinked several times. She didn't actively dislike all men, of course. But she didn't trust them. She treated them with courtesy, but with cool, distant courtesy. She found it troublesome that Marvel had noticed anything peculiar. In Jeanne's mind, she was equally polite to everyone. How could Marvel have recognized any difference in her attitude toward men? Perhaps it was simply that Marvel was overly sensitive because she had no father.

Jeanne reached over and hugged Marvel. "It is hard for you to understand things about grown-up men and women, little girl. Just don't worry. Because I love you so much, so very much, and I promise I'll protect you and keep you safe."

Marvel buried her face in Jeanne's shoulder. "I know you'll take care of me, Mama. I've always known. I love you, too."

C
HAPTER
T
WO

Venite adoremus

Venite adoremus

Venite adoremus

Dominum!

The thunder of Clint Hardin's tenor voice rolled out through the nave of Calvary Episcopal Church in the last refrain of "Adeste Fideles." After a moment of silence, which generally did happen when Clint finished a hymn at full strength, Choirmaster Altus Lilley, a small nervous man, said, "Wonderful, choristers, wonderful!"

"Someone was flat," Eve Poynter Maxfield said with delicate distaste.