The Truth According to Us (26 page)

July 7

Dear Layla,

If you murder a Communist, you'll probably get a Congressional Medal.

What's going on up there?

Ben

For weeks, I had been applying ferocity and devotion to the mystery of Father and Cooey's Red Apple, but I didn't get much of anywhere until I had a blazing flash of inspiration one afternoon in July. After I had it, I couldn't believe it had taken me so long to get it, but that's how inspiration is.

“Mrs. Bucklew wants me,” I said to Jottie. I tried to look mournful, to throw her off the scent.

“She telephoned?” Jottie asked, surprised. I nodded, which was less sinful than lying out loud. “Well. All right. You go on over there and be nice to her.”

I sighed heavily.

Jottie grinned at me. “My mama used to say that good works performed with a reluctant heart were an abomination to the Lord, but I never had much truck with that line of thought.”

“Bye,” I said sadly, and I made sure my shoulders sloped as I trudged down the hall.

Once I got out of sight, I stopped trudging and stepped briskly. Even though she was a grown-up—an old lady, even—Mrs. Bucklew was my friend. She and I had a secret, and we'd had it since I was ten years old. No one knew it, not even Jottie.

She lived at her daughter's house, Mrs. Bucklew did. It was a big, fancy house, and her daughter was fancy, too. Her name was Mrs. John Lansbrough, and people called her Mrs. John, all except for Mrs. Bucklew, who called her Wanzie. I don't think that was her real name, though, and every time she heard it, Mrs. John sucked her teeth hard. I had recently come to the conclusion that Mrs. Bucklew did it to be aggravating. That would be just like her.

When I stepped up to the porch, Mrs. John was sitting cool and straight and white in her chair, needlepointing. Inside her house, everything that could be needlepointed was needlepointed, including little cushions with sayings on them stuffed under all the doors to keep out drafts. Not that there were any.

“Afternoon, Mrs. Lansbrough,” I said, real polite. “It's hot, isn't it?”

Her needle cracked through her canvas, and then she looked up. “Did Mama call for you?”

“Yes, ma'am, she did,” I lied aloud. There wasn't any way around it.

Mrs. John sighed. I think I aggravated her, too. “Well, I suppose you'd better go on up, then, hadn't you?”

“Yes, ma'am.” I thought I might aggravate her less if I looked a little downcast, so I thought about grisly things until I was inside the cool of the house. Then I scuttled up the stairs and knocked on Mrs. Bucklew's door. “It's me,” I called low. “Willa.”

“Willa?” She sounded startled. I'd never before come without her asking for me. “Wait a titch.”

I heard a couple of thumps.

“Come,” she said.

She was sitting up in her chair, but she couldn't fool me. I could see the little red bumps on her face where she'd been pressed into her bedspread. “Willa. How-you?”

“I'm fine, Mrs. Bucklew. How-you?”

“You grew.”

“Jottie says I'm growing like a weed.”

Her old dark eyes scraped over my face. “Getting pretty.”

I shook my head.

She nodded. “You are. Nothing you can do to stop it.” She sat up straighten “I used to be pretty once. If you can believe that.” She pushed herself out of her chair and lurched over to her bureau to take a look. One of her legs was shorter than the other, and when she walked, it was like two half-people who had been sewed together. Two half-people who didn't like each other very much. She looked at herself in the mirror and then turned around and smiled at me. “And this leg of mine was part of it. I tell you, Willa, if you ever happen to have your leg run over by a freight train, don't you repine. The men'll line up to tote your teacup for you.” She giggled. Even though she was old, she sounded young. “Now, miss, I hope you came to tell me some news.” She measured off a little stretch of her finger. “I'm this far away from going crazy and running raving mad down the street in my underdrawers. She'd just love that.” She nodded at her floor, but what she meant was Mrs. John.

Mrs. John didn't exactly keep her mother locked up, but she didn't take her anywhere, either, and with her short leg, Mrs. Bucklew couldn't walk far. Jottie and I saw her one day, trying to get downtown. It was a pitiful sight. She'd get up and take a dozen steps and then she'd have to stop, leaning against a wall or sitting right on the curb. She was red in the face, too, and breathless. Jottie went to get the car while I sat on the curb with her, and then we drove up Prince Street and out to the Race Street Bridge and back. Mrs. Bucklew didn't say much, but she looked and looked, while Jottie told her things about the people we saw, including some things that she'd never tell me, such as what exactly Irvin Weeks had done that got him sent to the penitentiary. When we were done, Mrs. Bucklew said it was the best time she'd had in years, but she wouldn't let Jottie bring her home. She said Mrs. John would have both their hides. She and I got out at the corner and I helped her hobble up the street. Mrs. John wouldn't pay any mind to a little girl, Mrs. Bucklew said.

Now we sat down on her bed, and I told her all my news, about the Reds coming up State 9 and Mr. Vause Hamilton burning his boot and Miss Layla Beck and her research. She nodded and nodded, her dark
eyes on my face. She wanted to know what weapons Geraldine planned on fighting the Reds with, how long Mr. Hamilton's boot burned, and especially how Miss Layla Beck looked.

“She's pretty,” I admitted. “She wears real stylish clothes.”

“Does she have any callers yet?” asked Mrs. Bucklew. “Any beaux?”

“No,” I said. Father was not Miss Beck's beau. No one would say so. I decided it was time to come to the point. “Mrs. Bucklew?” I said. “You want me to go see Mr. Houdyshell for you?”

She looked at me sharply, and then she heaved herself up and hobbled over to her sewing basket. I could hear coins rattling as she reached inside. “I only got five dollars and eighty-six cents,” she said.

“Still. That's two.”

She nodded. “And that's two more than none.”

“Well, then.” I waited. I didn't want to get her suspicious.

She held out the money. I quick bustled around the room, pulling out Mrs. Bucklew's big straw basket and some clothes from the closet. “Now, look,” I said. “I'm putting everything blue on top, so I'll only need to get one spool of thread, all right? No sense in wasting money.”

“What are you up to, Willa?”

I drew myself up. “I just thought I'd offer. If you don't want me to go, I won't.”

That did the trick. “No, honey,” she said quick. “You go. I—well, you go on.”

I went, closing the door softly behind me.

This was our secret. I had to go to the five-and-dime first, so everyone could see that I'd bought blue thread for Mrs. Bucklew. But that was just for show. After that, I went past town square and up Unity Street until I got to G. Houdyshell Tack and Saddle. It was a dirty old building, and the door almost fell to pieces in my hand when I opened it, but I knew how to go. I wove between the old pieces of bridles and dusty saddles until I got to another door, and I opened that.

“Mr. Houdyshell?” I called.

Nothing.

“Mr. Houdyshell, I'm here for Mrs. Bucklew,” I said to lure him out.

“Cheese it! The cops!” cried someone behind me, and I almost shed my skin. I couldn't even begin to imagine what Jottie'd do to me if I got put in jail. But there wasn't any police behind me. There was a man I'd never seen before, sitting on Mr. Houdyshell's stool. Next to him, Mr. Houdyshell was sunk down in a deep chair that seemed like it should be in someone's parlor. It had little flowers all over, and in it, Mr. Houdyshell looked like grim death. He had never looked real good, but now he was awful—his face was yellow and his eyes were red and he was slumped over like he couldn't straighten out.

“Never mind him, Willa,” croaked Mr. Houdyshell. “He's been sampling the wares. Thinks he's real smart.”

The other man talked right over him. “What do you want, little girl?” He kind of sang it.

I hadn't figured on a stranger. I said, real prissy, “I'm running an errand for Mrs. Bucklew, if you please.”

“If you please,” he imitated me in a high voice. “Running an errand. What else you running, sister?”

I looked at Mr. Houdyshell, but his eyes were closed, so I said, “I don't know what it is. Just what Mr. Houdyshell always gives her. Two of them.” I lied through my teeth. I knew what it was: Four Roses whiskey. Macedonia was a dry town in a dry county, which meant that the grown-ups had to drive to the ABC store in Martinsburg for their intoxicating beverages. Poor old Mrs. Bucklew couldn't even walk down the street, and Mrs. John sure wasn't driving her to the ABC, so she was obliged to seek the services of Mr. Houdyshell. And me.

The man on the stool smirked. “Innocent as a baby, ain'tcha? How much money you got?”

“I got five dollars and eighty-two cents.” I'd spent four cents on thread.

He sniffed loud and wet. “Six dollar for two, sister.”

“Give her two, Brennus,” rasped Mr. Houdyshell, with his eyes closed.

“Thank you, Mr. Houdyshell,” I said, and then I believe I smiled triumphantly at the man on the stool, because his face got real red.

“George, you're a sucker,” he said.

“Two,” Mr. Houdyshell moaned.

The man on the stool cleaned out his throat good before he stood up and shuffled to another splintery old door and disappeared.

“Mr. Houdyshell!” I hissed.

He nodded without opening his eyes. He could hear me.

“Mr. Houdyshell, I'm sorry you're poorly, but I have to ask you something.” I chewed at my lip, worried. He looked like he might die any minute. “Is my father a bootlegger?”

Mr. Houdyshell's eyes flew open. He blinked and shook his head, but he didn't look at me.

“Mr. Houdyshell, please,” I begged.

“No. He ain't,” he gasped.

“Who's your daddy, sweetheart?” crooned Brennus, coming through the door. He'd been listening. “I'll tell you. Who's your daddy?”

I hated him. “I wasn't talking to you,” I said.

He set two bottles on the counter and peered at me. “Let's see if I can guess.” He stretched out a finger toward my face, but I jerked away. I'd sooner let a rat crawl on me than let him touch me.

Hurriedly, I laid out Mrs. Bucklew's money. Mostly dimes and nickels and one soft dollar bill.

He paid no mind to it; he just kept looking at my face with his head cocked a little to one side. I could smell his sour sleep smell, he was that close, and I could see the yellow stain on the side of his mouth that meant he chewed tobacco, and inside me I shivered, but I couldn't break away from his pale eyes.

Finally, slowly, he said, “I'll be goddamned. She Felix Romeyn's kid?” He swung round to Mr. Houdyshell like he couldn't believe it.

“Go on, Willa,” wheezed Mr. Houdyshell. “Get.”

I quick lifted away the blue cloth and put the bottles into Mrs. Bucklew's basket, but Brennus was shaking his head in amazement. “Felix and Sylvia's kid. Jesus. Your mama was the most beautiful girl I ever seen. That hair,” he sighed.

I'd heard that plenty. My mother had had long golden hair, and
people fell all over themselves telling me how beautiful she was. Usually they finished up by staring sorrowfully at me.

“You don't favor her much,” Brennus said, as if he was breaking the news to me.

“I know. I look like my father,” I said proudly.

“Psssh,” he sneered. “Nothing to brag about. Your daddy.”

“Shut up, Brennus,” Mr. Houdyshell said. He sounded stronger now. Or louder, at least.

Brennus straightened up and looked behind him at Mr. Houdyshell. Then he leaned close to me. “Listen, you give Sylvia my regards, all right? When you see her? Say Brennus Gower sends his regards, all right?” He rubbed his hands together.