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“I’ll never have to worry about my future the way poor old Eleanor Cleveland did when her husband went off the bridge.”
Cassie was the only heir to the fortune her daddy had made farming a thousand acres of cotton. Still, Joe’s death had consigned her to spend the rest of her life alone in a house that rattled with regret.
“That’s no reason to feel guilty,” Sean said. “What else is bothering you?”
“I could never have the one thing I wanted most. Joe’s child.”
She pictured the Empty Room, meant to hold a crib and bookshelves stuffed with teddy bears and dolls and books about Winnie the Pooh.
Sean waited, a kind man whose mere presence opened up a floodgate.
“After Joe’s death, people kept telling me, You’re lucky to have such a full social life. If I have to plan one more charity event or sit through another book club discussion on As I Lay Dying, I’m going to run down the street naked, screaming.”
“What do you want to do, Cassie?
“I want to discuss Lady Chatterly’s Lover. I want to write something besides wedding and obituaries at The Bugle. I want to march down the streets knocking on doors and telling anybody who will listen that women can do more than put Faultless Starch in their husband’s shirts.”
Maybe she was born out of her time, and that, as much as loss, was the reason her sister-in-law, Fay Dean, had caught her standing in her closet last week with Joe’s sweatshirt stuffed in her mouth, crying.
Waiting for Sean to speak, Cassie smoothed a wrinkle from her slacks. Her pants were barely socially acceptable, a small defiance that suited her right down to the bone.
Sean reached for a doughnut from the edge of his desk then passed the box to her.
“What’s wrong with me, Sean?”
“Nothing. It’s perfectly normal for widows to feel pain and loss acutely around the first anniversary of a husband’s death.”
“Joe was too young to die. It was his birthday. I was planning a party for him.”
She’d been in her flower garden gathering roses for the centerpiece when all of a sudden she’d heard a harmonica, haunting as the mixture of poverty and violence and hope in Shakerag. Her heart had separated from the rest of her body and landed at her feet among the scattered rose petals, bleeding.
Common sense told her that on a still summer day it was possible for the music in Tiny Jim’s Blues and Barbecue to reach her prestigious Highland Circle neighborhood, separated from Shakerag only by Glenwood Cemetery and a block of modest houses that belonged to middle-income whites. But Cassie not only knew the legend of Alice Watkins, she’d been there eleven years ago when it was born. She’d been filling in for the crime reporter at The Bugle that day and had used her press pass to gain access to the parents, Tiny Jim and Merry Lynn Watkins.
For two weeks, the murder had been the talk of the town, and then the case was closed. In 1944 with a world war raging and a town strictly divided by a caste system, Alice Watkins was just another little colored girl who’d disappeared. The only thing left of her was Cassie’s story, “Avenging Angel,” which had spawned a legend. Her yearning could still be heard in the blue notes that haunted a town.
A year ago, standing in her garden with the soulful sound of a harmonica ripping her heart out and turning her blood to an elegiac river, Cassie had known the source of her fore-boding was Alice, stripped of justice and restless for vengeance, predicting a disaster too terrible for even a sometime crime reporter to imagine. By the time Joe’s best friend, Ben, had arrived to tell her Joe had died of a heart attack while he pulled a catfish from Moon Lake, Cassie had already let go of the idea of a birthday celebration and was standing among the fallen rose petals, paralyzed with pain.
Funny how you sometimes know a thing before it happens, how you can be going about the ordinary business of living when suddenly you feel electrocuted, shocked with the certainty that your world has just tilted sideways and you are about to fall over the edge.
Cassie was feeling that way now. The faint strains of a blues harp crept under the windowsills, overtaking her with a truth that was both heartbreaking and inevitable. There was no escaping the past. It was stitched to the future as surely as the thick rubber soles were attached to her black-and-white saddle oxfords.
“Cassie, before I see you again, think about finding a project that will fully engage your interest and your energy.”
“Thanks, Sean.”
“When you see Fay Dean, tell her I said hello.”
Feeling the emptiness of her womb and the loss of her husband like a severed limb, Cassie left Sean’s off ice. Her car was parked under a chinaberry tree out front, baking nonetheless in the blistering heat. The summer was turning out to be a scorcher, with the temperature hovering around ninety degrees.
Before she stepped off the porch, she checked to see if anybody was watching. Old Mr. Hanneford was walking his dog, an ugly shepherd that had lost most of his hair when Mrs. Hanneford dropped dead in front of the dog house last year. In spite of the fact that Mr. Hanneford was half blind and hard of hearing to boot, Cassie ducked back onto the front porch and stood behind Sean’s potted hibiscus till the old man was out of sight, not because she cared who saw her but because she didn’t want some busybody spreading gossip that would mortify her dear father-in-law, Mike, who believed if you had problems, you solved them yourself.
As soon as she was back in her car—a red Ford Coupe convertible she’d helped Joe pick out last year only two weeks before he died—she felt unplugged, as if somebody had jerked her life’s cord out of its socket and left it lying on the floor for anybody who took a notion to come along and step on. She was glad she’d agreed to meet Fay Dean at TKE Drugstore’s soda fountain for ice cream.
As Cassie drove through the dusk toward the heart of downtown Tupelo, the soulful music followed her, the blues notes whispering of love lost and lives wasted, of yearning and hatred, of a gathering storm roaring toward a town unsuspecting and unprepared.
She parked near the courthouse one block north of TKE Drugstore on the corner of Main and Green, then breathed in the beauty of a place she loved. Magnolia trees with trunks as impressive as river barges surrounded the domed building, and a towering monument honoring the Civil War dead stood in the southwest corner of the lawn. On the east side, the town’s shoe-shine boy, known only as Tater, sat on one of the park benches, waiting to earn a few nickels from the lawyers who argued best in shiny shoes.
Cassie got out of her car to wait. The courthouse was a convenient place to meet Fay Dean, who had become a lawyer in spite of Mike’s protests that a woman’s rightful place was in the home and the town’s gender bias that a woman was too tender and not intelligent enough.
Fay Dean proved them all wrong. She had carved out a niche for herself when she successfully defended Cassie’s gardener, Bobo “Chit’lin” Hankins, pro bono, for helping himself to a corn patch that didn’t belong to him.
In Shakerag, they called Fay Dean Superman in a skirt. In the courthouse, her male colleagues called her names even Cassie wouldn’t want to repeat.
Vivid as a lightbulb, Fay Dean descended the courthouse steps, carrying herself with the supreme confidence of a woman who knew everything worth knowing. At the sight of her, Cassie’s unease faded into something manageable, angels whispering in her ear.
“I need chocolate.” Fay Dean was the kind of woman who skirted greetings and got right down to the nitty-gritty. “A triple dip.”
“Why?”
“Substitute for sex.”
“I don’t think it’s a substitute, Fay Dean. Just supposed to make you feel good or something.”
“How’d it go with Sean?”
“I sat there blabbering, and he essentially told me to find a project.”
“Same thing I’ve been saying. What do you think?”
“He could be right. I need to get my mind on something besides the inane chatter at the Altar Guild.”
“I told you Sean would help you.” Fay Dean linked arms with Cassie. “He’s asked me out.”
“He’d be a great match for you. Did you say yes?”
“You know me. I’m a disaster with relationships.”
“Fay Dean, what am I going to do with you?”
“Feed me.”
Heads turned as they walked under the streetlights, and Cassie knew they weren’t looking at her. She was an ordinary-looking woman who blended in except for her hair. But Fay Dean had that certain something her brother Joe had. When you first saw her, you’d think she was just another dark-haired woman wearing a tad too much lipstick. But she had a way of smiling that lit her whole face. And then you’d think she was the most beautiful creature you’ve ever laid eyes on.
Cassie had known her since second grade when Fay Dean was the new girl in school. She had the ugliest haircut anybody ever saw. Mike Malone was the new postmaster in Tupelo and had cut it because his wife had died in a hit-and-run accident, and he was experimenting with ways to save money as well as struggling with raising a headstrong daughter and a too-handsome son.
Cassie had been the only second grader who hadn’t laughed at Fay Dean’s chopped-off hair. When you’re seven, that’s how easy it is to become best friends.
When you’re thirty-eight, it’s as easy as taking one look at somebody and knowing what they need without ever saying a word.
A cool blast of air hit them when they walked into the drugstore. Cassie breathed in the familiar smells of French vanilla and rich dark chocolate. She loved this place, the embossed tin ceiling, sixteen feet high, antique ceiling fans hanging down on sturdy brass poles. It was one of the oldest buildings in town. Thankfully, the owner had an eye for keeping the best parts of the past intact. The brass foot railing around the serving counter in the drugstore was original. So were the floors, uneven oak boards that always smelled of the oil rubbed in to keep them from turning brittle.
She and Fay Dean found two empty stools at the soda fountain and placed their orders, cherry Coke for Cassie, chocolate soda for Fay Dean.
“How did Glen Tubb’s fundraiser go last night, Cassie?”
“The men talked politics while his wife herded the women into her rose garden to talk about women’s issues.”
“The way you’re gritting your teeth, do I even want to know the women’s issues Myrtle discussed?”
“Mamie Eisenhower’s bangs.”
“That’s not surprising. Not many women in this town know much about politics, or even care.”
“I know. I guess I ought to be ashamed of myself.”
“Why? What did you do?”
“I told them that I don’t care if Mamie wears bangs or shaves her head—I want to know what this country can to do to support last year’s Supreme Court ruling that struck down racial segregation.”
“They’ll keep fighting it,” Fay Dean said. “Fools!”
“I’d write an article if I could find a way to sneak it past Ben.”
Not only was he Cassie’s next-door neighbor and Joe’s best friend, but he was her editor.
“You know Ben only indulges your opinions because of your friendship.”
“Hush up. Maybe it’s because of my brain.”
The man on Cassie’s right got up and left a rumpled copy of The Bugle behind. Cassie thumped the photographs on the front page, candidates running for state senator. “Just look at that. All men. You ought to run, Fay Dean. You’d be a better senator than the lot of them.”
“I’d be laughed out of town. It’s bad enough that I had the audacity to hang out my shingle and practice law.”
“That makes me so mad I could spit nails.” Cassie shook the paper as if it were the whole town and she was trying to shake some sense into it.
“I believe you occasionally do. In The Bugle.” Heads always turned when Fay Dean laughed. The sound was as full as the brass section of an orchestra.
“Ben tries to keep a leash on me. Do you know what he wants me to do now? The classifieds.”
“Is Goober Johnson retiring?”
“Thank the Lord, yes.” Intent on showing Fay Dean exactly how insignificant her new job at The Bugle would be, Cassie snapped the paper open to the classifieds. An ad buried between Refrigerator for Sale and Free Puppies ripped into her like shrapnel.
“They’re renaming the baseball field after Joe tomorrow. If we’re not there, Daddy will have a stroke. Do you want me to pick you up?”
Staring at the ad, Cassie was thinking about love, how it can be the arms that catch you when you fall or the hands that open wide to set you free.
“Cassie? What’s wrong?”
Cassie couldn’t speak, could hardly breathe. The little ad had settled into her heart like tea leaves, and she knew she’d never be able to remove the stain.
Desperate. Nowhere to turn. Dying woman seeks mother for her child. Loving heart required. Call Vinewood 2-8640.
One look at the newspaper, and Fay Dean read Cassie as if she were a story she planned to use as counsel for the defense.
“Come on.” She grabbed Cassie’s hand.
“Where are we going?”
“To do something I should have made you do years ago.”
Three
BILLIE LOOKED UP THROUGH the oak leaves to see if God was hurrying up with some answers. But it wasn’t God’s voice she heard: it was Queen’s.
“Billie? Where you at, chile? I got supper.”
She leaned over the edge of the roof to see Queen standing by the bus with a plate covered by a blue-striped dish towel.
“I’m not hungry.”
“I’m gone leave it here, just in case.”
Queen set the plate on an old tool bench leaning against the side of the backyard shed, then lumbered back to the house. The screen door popped behind her, and the smell of fried food drew Billie down the ladder. She gnawed off a hunk of chicken leg, then balanced the plate and climbed back to the top of her daddy’s old touring bus.
She’d bet if her daddy was here, he’d find a way to make Mama well. She’d bet he knew famous doctors. Her daddy was famous himself. Or used to be. Saint Hughes was a blues great. Ranked right up there with King Oliver and Louis Armstrong. They said the Saint with his silver horn could sway an audience like a preacher at a Baptist tent revival.
Queen and Mama didn’t tell Billie hardly anything about her daddy. What didn’t come from the kids taunting her in the neighborhood came from Lucy. She’d got the information by hiding under her front porch and eavesdropping on Lucy’s mama, Sudie Jenkins, and dead Alice’s mama, Merry Lynn Watkins. Both of them were Mama’s friends, and you could bet they knew the truth.
When Billie was little she never thought about not having a daddy. She thought normal was a household of nothing but women. It was after she got to noticing that other little girls had daddies to lift them up so they could see things like parades and stars and birds’ eggs in a high-up nest in a magnolia tree that she started asking about her own daddy.
Mama would never talk about him, and Queen followed suit. She thought Mama’s every word got handed down on Mt. Sinai from the Lord God Himself. If Queen knew Billie was even thinking such mean thoughts about religion, she’d make her memorize the Ten Commandments word for word. And she’d know if Billie got it wrong, too. Queen knew the Good Book from cover to cover. Mostly, she knew about spare the rod and spoil the child. She kept a willow switch behind the kitchen door.
What Queen didn’t know was how a girl of six needed to understand why her daddy didn’t tuck her in at night and how a girl of ten needed to know her roots.
The first time Billie had ever asked about her daddy, Queen said, “Don’t go worrying yo mama ‘bout such stuff,” and Mama just said, “He’s gone.”
“Dead?”
“No, just not here.”
“How come?”
“Just let it alone, Billie.”
But she hadn’t. When she got old enough—eight and a half—she and Lucy started spying, sneaking around at Sunday dinners and church potluck suppers listening at keyholes.
What Billie didn’t overhear, she made up. She pictured him as a darker version of Roy Rogers, only without the white hat and Trigger. She figured she got her height from her daddy. Her mama was only five five, and that’s if she stretched her neck. Another thing was Billie’s skin. She freckled in summer, so Saint Hughes had to be light-skinned. Mama was dark, considering her French daddy, and Queen was blacker than the ace of spades.
