The Sweetest Thing (17 page)

“You okay, buddy?” I asked at one point.

He didn't look up at me but shrugged, and in that gesture I saw a mound of sadness as big and impenetrable as Stone Mountain, and I didn't know how to get my little brother back to a time when he laughed easily and whistled as he tossed his baseball.

That afternoon, Dobbs came over to help me pack up my room. I placed my photo albums in a cardboard carton and then went back in my closet to where my dresses hung. I touched my favorite, a dark green tea dress, fitted at the waist, with a full skirt. I put the fabric to my face and relished the feel of the smooth, cool silk. Would I ever buy a dress like this again?

Dobbs started humming as she worked, and I turned around and snapped at her. “God doesn't seem to be providing for us at all. There are no loaves and fishes here. Just a dead father and a house for sale and my family's life unraveling!”

Dobbs, who was carefully wrapping the four framed photos of my house in newspaper, looked truly dejected for a moment. Then, with her voice softened from her usual enthusiasm, she said, “He doesn't always provide the way we want, Perri. That's the thing. He's God and we're not. Our job is to trust Him and ask Him for things and let Him decide the best way to do it.”

“The best way!” I looked around to make sure Barbara and Irvin weren't within hearing distance and said in a fierce whisper, “You think the best way is Daddy dying and Mamma going to work and us selling the only house we've ever known and everyone shaking their heads and whispering about the poor Singletons falling on hard times? You think that's best?”

Dobbs's face got a bit red, and then she looked flustered. She was hesitating, trying to decide what to say, but when she decided, she spoke with a clarity that stung. “It doesn't matter one iota what I think. Or what you think, Anne Perrin Singleton. It's God's problem, and He has a right to solve it the way He sees fit!”

She was wearing her potato-sack dress, which made her look almost disheveled as she wrapped the photos. She threw her hair over her shoulders and her eyes were shining—not in that happy, enthusiastic way I was used to, but in a passionate way that must have been like her father's when he was fired up and preaching. “You know, Perri, I'd much rather have lived like you have here in the lap of luxury and never thought once about where the next meal was coming from or if we'd have shoes in winter or a roof over our heads. If you'd asked me, I'd have told the Good Lord that I didn't much appreciate being hungry and having my stomach growling all through my classes at school.

“But it's like Father says; the Depression is a wake-up call, forcing us back to trusting in God instead of trusting only in ourselves. He says we have to work hard and pray hard and trust hard.”

I didn't believe her about God providing, but her outburst showed me something that caught me off guard and made me embarrassed. I'd noticed it first when she'd shown up at Daddy's funeral and handed me
Patches from the Sky.
Mary Dobbs Dillard knew all about suffering and courage. I could never quite figure out what to do with her fantastical tales, but that day I saw the hurt and the frustration and the suffering on her face, and I felt uncovered. How could I harden myself from Dobbs as if she knew nothing of pain? What right did I have to accuse her or her God?

“I'm sorry, Dobbs,” I mumbled, and saying those two words did not come one bit naturally to me. “I'm sure you look at my life and think I am insanely superficial. I'm sorry for all you've been through, and I'm glad you're here now with Frances and Coobie.”

“I'm sorry too, Perri.” When Dobbs said those words, they were sincere, bubbling up from the depths of faith, and a genuine sorrow accompanied them. She hugged me and said, “I would never mean to hurt you. I know you're going through awful things. Sometimes in the Bible someone is too tired and sad and hurt to pray, and so others come alongside and do it for them. That's what I've been doing for you, and I'll just keep on doing it.” She hesitated and then added, “I'm praying that one day God will provide something for you, you alone, Perri Singleton, in a way that you won't be able to doubt it is from Him.”

I frowned at her and conceded, “You can pray however you want, Dobbs.”

She brightened. “And if you don't mind, I'll keep coming over here and helping you pack up things; I know it will be excruciating for you, so I would like to help you carry that burden.”

I didn't mind at all.

Dobbs

One day when I was helping Perri with her sorting and packing, she confided, “There's no way Mamma can go through Daddy's things right now. What would really help me the most is if you could clean out Daddy's closet. Mamma can't bear to do it, and neither can I, but it won't be so hard for you.”

“Of course, Perri, but I won't know what to do with his things.”

She sniffed. “Well, anything sentimental, you just put to the side. But you can pack up his clothes.”

“Shall I put them in bags for the poor, for the Alms Houses?”

Perri looked at me miserably. “Yes, you can do that with his work overalls and such, but . . . but as for his business suits . . . Well, what in the world will the poor do with business suits? Take them for your father and for Hank. Preachers can always use a good suit.”

So Perri directed me to her father's closet. I made different stacks of clothes—one for the nice suits and dress shirts that Mother could alter for Father and Hank and another of clothing to give away. I also made a pile of what I considered “sentimental things” or clothes and other items that seemed to have certain value—a pair of silver cuff links engraved with the initials HS, two beautiful V-neck cashmere sweaters, also monogrammed with Holden Singleton's initials, and one box that he had lovingly kept filled in neat order with cards from his wife and children. That one made me tear up.

I had just closed a shoe box with a pair of tasseled leather loafers, which I imagined would fit Father perfectly, put it in his pile, and pulled the top off the next shoe box, when I noticed something tucked away in the far corner of the closet.

I reached back and pulled out an old toolbox. I couldn't imagine why Mr. Singleton kept a toolbox hidden in the back of his closet instead of in the garage. I opened it and found a top compartment with a hammer, a wrench, several screwdrivers, and nails—all the things one would expect to find there. I lifted that compartment up and looked underneath, expecting to find more tools. If I hadn't made that one gesture, so many things would have been different. But Perri had talked so affectionately of her father, how he was a banker with a builder's hands, that I was curious to see his other tools.

I gasped.

Instead of finding tools, there was a soft cloth on which sat five pearl-handled knives.

I touched one, then drew my hand back, as if I'd cut myself. I couldn't believe what I was seeing. I carefully removed the knives, setting them beside me, and lifted up the cloth. Beneath it were the heirloom earrings, the emerald ring, the ruby-and-diamond heart, three strands of pearls, and silver candlestick holders—everything that Becca claimed had been stolen.

A wave of nausea washed over me, and I sat there for the longest time, not having the foggiest idea what to do, wondering how in the world the silver and jewelry, stolen from the Chandlers' and Becca's house had ended up in Holden Singleton's toolbox. My first reflex was that it was some silly practical joke that the Singletons had wanted to play on their best friends, the Chandlers. But surely they would have admitted it when poor Anna was thrown in jail for stealing.

Then another idea came to me. Maybe Holden Singleton had been terribly desperate for money for a good while and had been stealing from rich people in Buckhead! I imagined him sneaking the knives into his suit pockets while he laughed and joked at the Chandlers' party down by the lake, the orchestra playing and the food being passed around.

Impossible! From every description I'd gotten of Holden Singleton, I could not make that theory work. Anyway, if he had stolen them, surely he would have pawned them off immediately so that no one would ever know.

Now, I had a horrible choice. If I took these things to Mrs. Chandler, it would be proof of Anna's innocence and she would go free, but Mr. Singleton's and his family's reputation would suffer perhaps a greater blow than what the suicide had already done, and I doubted Perri would ever forgive me.

If I said nothing, Anna would keep working on that prison farm.

I heard Perri calling to me from down the hall. Heart racing, I quickly replaced the knives in the toolbox, set the top container inside, closed the lid, and slid it back in the corner of the closet, where no one was likely to find it. Once I decided what I'd do, I would come back.

But no matter how hard I thought about it, I didn't know what to do about the silver and the jewelry and the pearl-handled knives. Thank goodness Mother was coming down in just a few days. Surely she would have an idea.

CHAPTER

15

Perri

Dobbs's parents and Hank came to Atlanta in mid-June to hold a youth revival in a big tent in Inman Park in downtown Atlanta. To please Dobbs, I agreed to attend the first night with Barbara and Irvin in tow. We rode the streetcar to the park, and Dobbs greeted us outside the tent, all smiles, and introduced us to her parents. Dobbs's mother had that same olive skin and what must have once been jet black hair, now tinged with gray and worn back in an attractive chignon with a scarf twirled around it. Her dress was simple and yet smart-looking, and I realized right away where Dobbs got her eye for style. Dobbs's father, who definitely had a family resemblance to Mrs. Chandler, was wearing an outdated summer suit and looking very hot. In that first meeting, the Dillards didn't strike me as destitute, but rather as good people trying hard and not having much to fall back on.

I was surprised to see the tent packed with young people—the Dillards and Hank had been putting up posters everywhere to advertise—and we squeezed into a row halfway back. Sure enough, there was sawdust on the ground. Dobbs and Frances and Coobie were sitting down front with Mrs. Dillard. Reverend Dillard welcomed the crowd and sat down, and Hank went up front and began to speak.

It was muggy and so hot under the tent. Hank was sweating profusely but didn't look like he was paying one bit of attention to the heat. His attention was on those kids, and they were riveted to his story about a foolish, wealthy young boy who squandered all he had and ended up in the ghetto, until one day he went back home to where his father had been waiting for him all along. The way Hank spoke about God was down-to-earth.

“. . .  And we can be like that son, taking all the good gifts God gives us and spending them in the wrong way. But eventually, we hit rock bottom, and that's when we crawl back to God, and He makes us His children, and we get to have part of His unending inheritance. More than all the Coca-Colas in the world.” The kids laughed. “We get to have eternity. Don't let it pass you by. . . .”

He spoke with such conviction that I got goose pimples on my arms. I felt uneasy and reassured at the same time. I stayed put when Hank asked the youth to “walk the Sawdust Trail” if they wanted to commit their lives to Christ, but many of the kids went up to talk to Hank and Reverend Dillard. Dobbs was there, too, talking to several girls. Watching her from afar—her beautiful face radiant, enthusiasm in her eyes—I understood her a little bit better. This was her cause—the Sawdust Trail. This was what Mary Dobbs Dillard lived for.

———

The next morning, as I was eating breakfast with Irvin and Barbara, Hank and Dobbs drove up to the house in Mr. Chandler's old Ford. Dobbs burst into the kitchen and announced, “Hank has a wonderful surprise for you!” She grabbed my hand and said, “Get your purse. Barbara, Irvin, I'll bring her back in a few hours, okay?”

I left my siblings at the table, staring after me. Hank drove us down to Five Points and led us to a tiny store with a bright yellow sign hanging outside that read
Saxton's Photography.
A lanky young man with a headful of red curls came to the door as we stepped inside. I had noticed him taking photos during the revival meeting the night before.

“Perri, Dobbs, I'd like for you to meet a friend of mine, Philip Hendrick,” Hank said.

“Good to meet you,” we chorused.

“The pleasure's mine,” Philip said.

Hank slapped him on the back. “Philip, here, is an up-and-coming photographer from Chicago—he and his brother have a kiosk at the World's Fair up there.” Another boy, who had an equally unruly mop of red hair, came out of a door at the back of the shop. “Here's his brother, Luke.”

Luke could not have been more than fifteen or sixteen. He greeted us and blushed so fiercely that his face matched his hair.

Philip began to explain, “We're just down in Atlanta for this week, helping out our uncle. He owns this shop, but with the economy so bad, he's had to take on another job too. He called us all in a panic and begged us to come help until he could hire someone part time. He taught us everything we know about photography, so we weren't about to turn him down. And the bonus is that I can shoot photos at the revival.” Philip punched Hank playfully.

Dobbs and Philip began jabbering about Chicago and the World's Fair while I inspected a display of amazingly clear photographs of bright, modern buildings with their shadows cast on the street.

“Were these all taken at the World's Fair? Did you take them?” I asked. When he nodded a bit self-consciously, I added, “Your work is marvelous, Mr. Hendrick,” and I meant it.

“Call me Philip, please. And Hank here has told me a lot about your work too. He says you've got real talent. Did you bring any photographs with you?”

Without asking my permission, Dobbs had brought a small portfolio of my photos from the darkroom. She handed the portfolio to Philip, and he studied my photos for a long time, leafing through those from the Alms Houses and the May Fete at Washington Seminary and those of Dobbs on her bed. After a while, he set down the photographs and met my eyes. His were deep green and sparkly. He smiled at me and said, “Like I said, my uncle is looking to hire a part-time photographer. We can't stay—we head back to Chicago next week. Would you be interested in the job?”

I was so surprised, I blurted out, “Working . . . as a photographer?”

Philip laughed. “Well, helping out at the store, doing all kinds of things. My uncle's begged me to find someone, and when Hank told me about you, well . . .”

I felt light-headed. “Are you serious?”

He nodded. “I trust Hank Wilson with my life. And he's right about your work. You're talented.”

My heart was hammering in my chest, but I composed myself enough to say, “Oh, Philip. This is a most generous offer. Can you give me a day to talk it over with my family?”

“Certainly, Perri. Come by tomorrow. You can meet my uncle then.”

We shook hands. My throat was dry, but I managed to squeak out, “Thank you so much for this opportunity.”

We walked out of the shop calmly, looking like sophisticated young people, but as soon as we stepped out into the warm June air, I grabbed Dobbs by the shoulders and we started jumping up and down, and I was almost screaming as loud as she was. Hank stood to the side with a satisfied smirk on his face, shaking his head and saying, “Girls.”

Then I turned to Hank and said, “I can't thank you enough. It's such an amazing coincidence and a dream come true. It's . . . it's more than I could have ever imagined.”

“It's an answer to our prayers,” Dobbs said.

Hank nodded and winked at her, “I told you she'd be interested.” Hank also told us that eighteen months earlier, at Hank's first revival meeting in Chicago, Philip Hendrick had been the first young man to walk the Sawdust Trail.

I couldn't attend the revival that night because I had a date with Spalding at the Piedmont Driving Club. When I excitedly told him of Philip's offer, he seemed completely unimpressed, quickly changed the subject, and led me to the dance floor. Soon I forgot about the revival and photography and felt my hands growing moist as he pulled me closer and brushed his lips over my cheek.

On the way home he parked his car in a dark lot, took off his dinner jacket, loosened his tie, and wrapped his arms around me. He began to kiss me, softly at first, then almost fiercely, holding me so tight that fear sizzled through me.

I pulled back from him and whispered between his kisses, “Spalding, please, you're going too fast for me.”

He paused, sat up reluctantly, eyes filled with that scary desire, and laughed, but it was a hard, calculated laugh. “Perri, my dear, you'll catch up quickly, and you'll learn to love it. All girls do.”

I pushed away from him, heart beating wildly, ran my hands through my tousled hair, and said, “We need to go.”

Reluctantly, he drove me to the Chandlers', where I was spending the night with Dobbs. He walked me to the door and whispered, “We have a date Thursday night too—don't forget. And wear that yellow frock. It's not bad on you.”

I gave a nod and watched him leave, a ball of fear in my stomach. I suddenly felt trapped by Spalding Smith, as if he had wrapped himself around me and I couldn't break loose. Anyone would have argued that I simply should have told him to leave me alone, that I wasn't interested, but they would not have known him and the power of his presence.

I felt stuck.

Dobbs knew things before anyone gave the slightest hint, so I was beyond thankful that she had not yet returned from the revival meeting and that I had time to quiet my spirit, which was racing with hopes of photography mingled with images of Spalding's dark eyes.

When Dobbs came into her room, her face was radiant, and she twirled around and caught me and said, “It's been the most wonderful evening of my life.”

Completely taken aback, I whispered, “You mean, Hank asked you to marry him?”

She looked shocked, then smiled and shook her head. “Heavens no, Perri. We can't talk marriage yet. I'm barely eighteen, and he has his studies. No, it was the youth service. Oh, Perri. There were over two hundred kids packed under that tent, all kinds of kids, some from wealthy families and others just paupers, precious hungry kids, but at that moment, they were all the same, listening to Hank's every word.

“And at the end, a whole crowd of them walked the Sawdust Trail. There was such love, such power, the Spirit's presence . . .”

Dobbs might as well have been speaking to me in Chinese. I could not comprehend what she was saying, but I saw power and goodness and love radiating from her, and I ached for it.

If the circumstances had been different, if she hadn't been in such a religious fervor, I might have admitted that she had been right about Spalding and that I was suddenly afraid of him. But pride is a horrible thing, and I withdrew into myself, determined not to show her how foolish I had been. I wanted, longed, to reach out to her and feel the electrical love in her person, a power so opposite of Spalding's, but I was too proud, too afraid, too confused.

So I listened to her talk and remembered the crowd from the night before. But as my eyes closed, what I saw was Spalding and his dark desire and the way he was going to pull me along whether I wanted to follow or not.

———

Mamma thought the job offer was a marvelous opportunity. I rode the streetcar alone to the photography store the next afternoon, clutching my Rainbow Hawk-Eye. Philip and Luke greeted me with smiles.

“Perri, let me introduce you to my uncle, Mr. Saxton.”

A middle-aged man, short and stocky with an enormous black moustache that curled up on the ends, came from around the counter. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Singleton.”

My eyes grew wide. “I recognize you! Why, you take the photographs for Washington Seminary! I didn't know this was your store!”

Mr. Saxton laughed heartily. “Yes, ma'am, here I am. Joe Saxton himself.”

While Philip and Luke went out on a photo shoot, Mr. Saxton showed me around the store, explaining the way he took appointments and allowing me to observe his interactions with clients.

“I've had to take on extra work, times being what they are, so I need someone to keep the store part time. I can't pay you much, but you'll get experience.”

A little cash and a lot of experience sounded perfect to me.

“So are you interested in the job?”

“Yes, sir!”

Mr. Saxton hired me on the spot. He handed me a camera and said, “You'll be using this little baby when it's time for you to take the portrait shots.”

I looked at the camera, speechless, and finally managed to say, “It's a Zeiss Contax 1 Rangefinder!”

He chuckled. “Good girl! You know your stuff. Yep, it's a step or two up from your Kodak Hawk-Eye.”

“I'll say! It's a 35 millimeter luxury camera. I've read about them, but . . . but are you sure you want me to use it?”

“Positive. It has its glitches though—the shutter isn't the most reliable in the world—so bring your Hawk-Eye along as a backup.” He spent an hour, at least, showing me how to use the Zeiss and then let me practice.

When Mr. Saxton closed the store, Philip insisted on accompanying me back to my house, and I was too surprised to turn him down. Only he didn't take me directly home. Instead we walked to Jacobs' Drugstore. He ordered us both Coke floats, and we sat at a little table talking about cameras and photography and our dreams for the future.

Later, we rode the streetcar to the stop near my house, and before he left me, he said, “I've got only a few more days down here, Perri, but if you'd like, I'll take you out on some photo shoots with Luke and me after you close Uncle Joe's store in the evenings.” He grinned at me, his green eyes dancing with life.

“I . . . I don't know what . . . to say.”

“Thanks'll do,” Philip said, with another grin.

“Yes, of course. Thank you. Thank you so much, Philip.” As I watched him ride away on the streetcar, I wondered for a brief moment if Dobbs was right—that God had provided this job for me.

Dobbs

Father and Mother didn't stay with Uncle Robert and Aunt Josie, preferring to do as they did in every other city—camp in their tent near the revival grounds. But one afternoon, Mother came out to the Chandlers', and at last I had time to talk with her, alone. We went down by the lake and sat in two chairs on the porch of the Chandlers' little summerhouse.

A weeping willow gave us shade, and Mother closed her eyes for just a moment. She inhaled the fresh air and her face relaxed. “Honeysuckle,” she whispered.

“And gardenias.”

“And Queen Elizabeth roses.”

We laughed together, and then for an hour, I poured out my heart to her, with the lake water licking the shore. Our conversation wandered from homesickness to Hank to Washington Seminary to my questions about dances and sororities and movies. Mother had grown up in the north of Chicago, an area considered upper class. “Was it hard for you to give up all the nice things you grew up with—the parties and dances and such, Mother?”