Duet for Three Hands (17 page)

“You want me to put it someplace safe?” Mama asked.

“No, I’ll just take it upstairs and put it in my jewelry box.”

Later, Jeselle and Mama put together a peach cobbler for Mr. Bellmont’s monthly gentlemen’s club. Jeselle made the crust while Mama mixed three jars of canned peaches with cinnamon and sugar. They were careful not to talk, since Mr. Bellmont was in the sitting room reading the paper and drinking his before-dinner whiskey. Regardless, Jeselle felt a comfortable silence between them—an unspoken hiatus from worries over her future. Just as they were fixing to stick the cobbler in the oven, they heard Mrs. Bellmont come rushing down the stairs, her shoes click-clacking on the wood. Jeselle expected her to come to the kitchen, but instead she heard the sitting room door squeak and shut. First there was a murmur of voices and then a crash. Mama went still, like an animal in the forest sensing danger. Mrs. Bellmont’s cry, though faint, reached the kitchen. Jeselle went instantly hot, scared. Then they heard the sound of Mr. Bellmont’s heavy footsteps going up the stairs to the bedroom. Mrs. Bellmont came into the kitchen, holding her arm, her face white.

“What is it?” Mama kept her voice low, but she sighed with an air of inevitability.

“My wedding ring slipped down the drain in the bathroom sink.” She sounded faint. Mama rushed over to help her into a chair. “I had to take my punishment.”

Jeselle was already at the icebox, wrapping a chunk of ice in a dish towel. “Can you move it, Mrs. Bellmont?”

Mrs. Bellmont shook her head, no. “I think it’s broken. He slammed me into the cabinet, and my arm hit the corner just so. We should call Doc Miller. He’ll have to set it.”

Mama was already at the phone.

It was always Doc Miller they called, thought Jeselle. The secrets that man knew about this family stacked higher and higher like the books in Mrs. Bellmont’s study.

Jeselle placed the cold cloth on Mrs. Bellmont’s arm. “Just hold it there for a bit.”

Mrs. Bellmont flinched. Then she looked into Jeselle’s eyes. “Now, you listen here, Jeselle Thorton. You’re not to despair. You hear me?”

“Yes, Mrs. Bellmont.”

“All those years we studied. They’re not going to be wasted, if it’s the last thing I do.”

A
week
later Jeselle dusted in Mrs. Bellmont’s room. There, behind a stack of books, the wedding ring, newly polished, gleamed in the light of the lamp.

W
hitmore

W
ith cold fingers
, Whitmore painted the image of a bent branch of a birch tree that hung just outside his dormitory window. The bough hung low, burdened with heavy snow. He added a dab of blue to his white paint and mixed it on his palette.

The university had been in bloom when he arrived: wide, flat lawns and lush trees in various tints of green. Late October brought the first frost and turned the leaves orange and red and the lawn yellow. In early November, the temperature dipped below freezing, and the leaves, one by one, separated from their branches and floated to the ground, covering the golden blades of grass. For weeks afterward, the weather was cold and sunny, with the sky blue between bare branches. Then, last night, the snow had come, dumping a full foot while he slept in his skinny dormitory bed, covering everything in a hushed, serene white.

Laughter penetrated the glass windowpane. Reggie and some of the other young men were throwing snowballs, their breath coming out in white clouds. Whitmore put aside his paintbrush and watched the merriment.

Moments later, he leaned under the bed, pulling out a small cardboard box. There were letters inside, all addressed to him in Jeselle’s small, looped handwriting, organized in chronological order. The last one was dated October 30, 1933, with an Atlanta postmark. He held it in his hands, not daring to open re-read the words he already had memorized. He put it back on top of the pile and slid it under his bed before going back to the window and picking up his paintbrush.

Later that morning, he trudged in boots to the university mailroom. Under a close, gray sky, brick buildings were stark red in contrast to the white snow. He passed by other students hurrying to class, hats pulled low and mufflers around their necks. When he arrived at the mailroom, he took off his hat and stomped his boots to rid them of snow. The mailroom clerk, wearing glasses attached to a string, pulled them from her face and let them fall upon her ample chest. Pink and plump-cheeked, with tight, white curls, she smelled like the inside of a bakery.

Today, like always, she smiled at him. “Good morning, Mr. Bellmont.”

“Anything for me today?”

“Something from your mother.”

“Thanks.” He pushed his hair from his damp forehead and chastised himself for holding out hope that today would be the day Jeselle broke her silence.

She glanced at his empty hands. “Nothing to mail today, Mr. Bellmont?”

“I’m done with letters for now, ma’am. Thank you.” He forced himself to smile. This is how it would be now. He would pretend to be happy, and life would go on as if his heart wasn’t twisted inside his chest.

She clucked sympathetically and patted the counter with an ink-smeared hand. “One day you’ll find another girl to write, and she’ll write back.”

He let his face go slack, unable to muster the energy to hold any pretenses that he wasn’t suffering. “How do you know that?”

She brushed the counter as if there were dust on it. “I’ve been around a while.”

“You mean in this mailroom?”

She laughed, and he was surprised that it was hearty and from deep in her chest. “No, dear, on this earth. Love always comes around again.”

“It’s hard to think of ever loving anyone but the girl I do.”

“Yes, I know, dear, but believe you me, someday you’ll think different.”

L
ydia

L
ydia entered
the chicken coop without a sound, catching the gate with her foot before it slammed. “Sorry, but one of you has to go,” she whispered. She chose a fat fryer near the fence and snatched her up, quickly, silently, so as not to alarm the rest of the gossiping ninnies. She held it to her side, cupping its head with her other hand, and went around to the back of the shed. Once there, she moved her hand under its backside and grasped the legs, her thumb pointing away from the body to get a tighter grip. With her other hand, she put her two forefingers and thumb at the base of its head and twisted. She set it on the ground while the thing jerked about as if it were still alive. After it stilled, she hung it by its feet from the rafters in the barn, so the blood would pool in the head. She’d come back with her hatchet after she put water on the stove to boil.

In the kitchen later, Lydia coated the chicken pieces in flour and browned them on each side before turning down the heat and covering the pan. She poured another cup of coffee and sat down to read the paper. It was the usual terrible news, same as the day before. She flipped to the arts section, hoping for something uplifting.

Between articles about the town “singing club” and a play being performed at the high school, an advertisement for a summer piano composition program at Alabama College for Women in Montevallo captured her attention. She smoothed her hand over the page. The chicken crackled and snapped on the stove. She tapped a finger on the words “Acceptance Criteria” and then circled it with a pencil.

A knock on the front door took her away from the paper. Midwife Stone carried a yellow and white kitten in her arms. “Well, look who I found under my porch this morning.”

Lydia held out her hands, and Midwife Stone passed the bundle of fur over to her. “She’s precious.”

“Thought you might be in need of a mouser. Yellow and white ones are the best, from what I hear.”

“Come on in here. You want some coffee and a piece of pie?”

“I never say no to pie.” Midwife Stone followed her into the kitchen and plopped down at the table, immediately seizing hold of the newspaper. “What’s this now? You thinking of going to school next summer?”

Lydia laughed and rolled her eyes as she scratched behind the kitten’s ear; it started purring much louder than she expected from such a small animal. “Nothing gets by you now, does it?”

“Well, are you?”

“I don’t know. Am I too old for school?”

“Too young for dying.”

Lydia put the kitten on Midwife Stone’s lap. “Who’ll take care of Furball here?”

Midwife Stone held the kitten up to her face. “Well, shoot, I guess I could keep her for you if you got yourself accepted. She might be good company for me.”

“I’ll apply. I probably won’t get in anyway, but at least I’ll have tried.”

“Better than sitting about here feeling sorry for yourself.” Midwife set the kitten on the newspaper. “Now, where’s that pie?”

J
eselle

T
wo days before Christmas
, Jeselle cradled the yellow mixing bowl against her chest, stirring together cornmeal, flour, sugar, and salt. A hum and a crunch of gravel coming from the lake house driveway stopped her. She closed her eyes, bracing her shoulders as if for a storm.

Mr. Bellmont and Whit stepped inside the kitchen. Whit set his suitcase down carefully, as if he were afraid to bring any additional attention to himself.

“Where’s Mrs. Bellmont?” said Mr. Bellmont.

“In the dining room, sir.”

“Whitmore, you think about what we talked about.” Mr. Bellmont headed toward the door. “I expect a commitment from you before the school year is over. Understand?”

“Yes, sir,” Whit mumbled.

As the door closed, Whit pinched the bridge of his nose between his thumb and index finger and sighed. He came to stand next to her. “How are you, Jessie?”

“Fine. Welcome home.” She cracked two eggs and poured a cup of milk and melted lard into the dry ingredients, stirring it hard so that a dollop splashed onto the counter. Whitmore swiped the batter from the counter, wiping it from his finger onto the dishrag next to the sink, and then wrapped his hand around her forearm. She went still. His touch burned, all the way up her arm and into her throat. She turned her eyes to his face. What did she see? A longing so deep she believed it physically pained him. Her breath caught in her throat, knowing then how her silence these last months had hurt him. And yet she could not yield just then, the anger tight in her belly. She lifted his hand off her arm and moved to the other side of the kitchen. “You want something?”

“No, I’ll wait for dinner.”

“S’pose your mother told you I was let go from Mrs. Greer’s?”

He raised an eyebrow, nodding. “Yes. She wrote to me about it.” From a nearby shelf, he pulled out a pan for the cornbread. His hands shook when he handed it to her. “Why haven’t you written me?”

There was a long silence, her mind blank as to how to answer him. “I don’t know. Can’t write lately. Not even in my journal.”

His eyes widened; he crossed his arms over his chest. “Jes, that’s impossible. You’ve written in that thing every day for years.”

She shrugged, spreading cold lard over the bottom of the pan. “I said I don’t know.”

“Jessie, are you all right?” His voice sounded tender and familiar. He sounded like Whitmore. Her Whitmore. The back of Jeselle’s throat ached.

Mama came through the kitchen door, muttering something under her breath. She came to an abrupt stop and folded her arms over her chest. “Mr. Whit. You made it.”

“Hi, Cassie. Sure did.”

“Your mother will be right glad to see you,” said Mama.

“It’s good to be here. I’ve missed y’all something fierce.”

“Your mama’s in the sitting room with Mr. Nate. They’re waiting for you.”

“All right, then.” He picked up his bag. “I’ll see you both later.” He left through the kitchen door.

“You best get a move on that cornbread,” said Mama. “We’ve got a big meal to serve up here.”

“Yes, Mama.” Jeselle opened the oven door; the heat blasted her face. She set the pan on the hot surface as the heat of the stove seemed to reach every part of her body. Burning.