Dunaway's Crossing (22 page)

Thaddeus took an awkward step back, as if surprised by Will’s question. “Well, um, it’s a girl, I think. I . . . I don’t recall that I asked.”

Thaddeus’s face looked bewildered. Ashen, almost. Maybe from the dim light through the window.

“You didn’t ask? That’s the first thing Ralph will want to know.” Will chuckled nervously. As a father, Thaddeus should have known that. But he dared not ask what was wrong.

“I already talked to Ralph,” he said. “But I ain’t here just ’cause of the baby.”

Will frowned and put his hands on his hips, staring at his boots and dreading anything Thaddeus might utter next.

“Netta’s dead.”

C
hapter 23

T
he ride to town was a horrid déjà vu. Bea Dot had not ridden through Pineview since the day she arrived, the day she met Will. Now she was returning, this time seated next to Thaddeus Taylor in his truck. And this time, instead of transporting a trunk of clothes, they carried more solemn cargo. For days she’d longed to see Will again, but not this way. She clung to her seat as she bumped along the dirt road, thinking that if she let go, she’d lose what was left of her sanity.

In the nightmare of the last day and a half, Bea Dot stood numbly by as the Taylor family dealt with the aftermath of Bea Dot’s botched delivery. Although Eliza and Terrence had tried to comfort her, she’d felt lost, numb, useless. Guilty. She’d let Ralph down. She’d let Netta down, and now Netta was dead. She couldn’t help Thaddeus and Eliza clean Netta’s body. All she could do was sit at the kitchen table and gaze at the newborn child who lay with baby Troy in a laundry basket.

Now she bumped along in a farmer’s truck, with her dear, dead cousin in the back, lying in a pine box Thaddeus nailed together three hours ago. She had lost count of how many times she cried herself to exhaustion. When she thought she’d run out of tears, her eyes watered again, as they did now with Thaddeus at the steering wheel beside her.

“I sure wish I had some words to make you feel better, Miss Bea Dot,” Thaddeus said gently, keeping his eyes on the road. “All I can say is I sure am sorry.”

“Thank you, Thaddeus,” she said before blowing her swollen nose, raw from constant swipes of the handkerchief. “There’s really nothing more to say. I just don’t know how I can face Ralph.” She stared out the window and watched the pine trees pass by.

“Now you ain’t blaming yourself, are you? ’Cause there ain’t no call for that. You did everything you could to help Miss Netta. Sometimes these things happen.”

Thaddeus may have been right, but why did “these things” have to happen to her? She caught herself. They didn’t happen to her. They happened to Netta. Her eyes watered again.

After several miles, the truck drove into Pineview. Every building, every street looked the same as it did the first time she passed through town, the only difference being the ribbons on the doors in black, white, and gray. Here and there on a light
pole,
a public notice, its corners flapping in the cold breeze, warned citizens to go home if they were coughing or felt headaches. Every other store window bore a sign informing customers, “Closed due to flu.” Still, the sleepy Georgia town had not entirely shut down. A few masked people walked the streets, perhaps on their way to post a letter, buy medicine, or pick up a newspaper. Life did go on, in its limited way, in spite of the dreadful sickness that befell many Pineview citizens, and in spite of the tragedy in the Coolidge family.

The truck chugged down Pineview’s main street, then turned a corner, where it approached another, larger wagon, this one loaded not only with pine boxes, but also with a number of odd, long bundles wrapped in sheets. The wagon resembled Will Dunaway’s, but the driver wearing a gauze mask was stockier, heavier than Will. Thaddeus steered the truck slowly behind the wagon, so Bea Dot stared into her lap, refusing to acknowledge the heartbreaking cargo ahead of her.

Around a curve, the cemetery appeared. Thaddeus and Bea Dot followed the wagon through the gate and passed the long-established family plots with obelisks and angel statues, the occasional marble tree stump bearing the insignia of the Woodmen of the World. One plot bore the name of Coolidge, but the truck continued to the back of the cemetery, where the larger wagon pulled up to a long pit. Two dirty men wearing bandanas over their faces leaned on the handles of shovels. Bea Dot’s jaw dropped in horror, and she grabbed Thaddeus’s arm to alert him they had driven to the wrong place.

“I know how this looks, Miss Bea Dot,” he said, trying to placate her. “But it’s the only way. They ain’t got enough time or manpower to dig individual graves.”

Bea Dot gaped at Thaddeus in disbelief. “But Netta didn’t die of flu.” Somehow the thought of her cousin buried in the mass grave convicted her of a crime she didn’t commit.

“I know.” Thaddeus frowned and nodded. “But it don’t matter how somebody died. It’s the number of dead that’s the problem.”

The truck rolled to a stop, and Thaddeus engaged the brake as a haggard Ralph approached the truck. A white gauze mask dangled by its strings under his chin. He stopped two or three yards away.

“Hello, Bea Dot,” he said with sandpaper in his voice. Except for the dark circles under his eyes, his skin was ghostly, his eyes bloodshot. He’d lost weight since she’d last seen him, and his dingy shirt hung off his hunched shoulders. The burden of influenza and his wife’s death physically pressed down on him.

Bea Dot struggled for comforting words. “I’m sorry for your loss” seemed trite and inappropriate, especially considering she was the cause of that loss. She climbed out of the truck, still searching for words as she stood on shaky legs. All she could muster was a feeble “Ralph, I’m so sorry.”

She burst into tears, resting her elbow on the truck window and laying her head on her arm. Her shoulders shook so hard that Thaddeus stepped up behind her and put his hands on them to settle her.

Ralph remained where he was. “I’m surprised to see you here. You shouldn’t be in town,” he said.

“I told her not to come,” Thaddeus said, “but she wouldn’t have it no other way.”

Bea Dot wiped her face with her hands, then dried them on her pants—Will’s mother’s pants, the only garment not stained with Netta’s blood. She faced Ralph, her cheeks burning with shame, and said, “I hate myself for letting this happen.”

He shook his head sadly. “Don’t blame yourself. It’s my fault. I should have listened to her when she said she needed me. There’s nothing you could have done.”

Now tears fell from both their eyes. Bea Dot stepped toward Ralph to offer a comforting embrace, but he backed away and held up his hand.

Thinking he was too upset for a hug, Bea Dot nodded and mustered a smile. “You have a beautiful baby girl.”

He nodded, unable to speak through his tears.

“She’s with Eliza now,” Bea Dot told him, “and she’s doing just fine. I can’t wait for you to see her.”

Ralph pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and blew his nose. Poor Ralph. How heartbreaking it must be to lose his wife in childbirth and not even get to meet the child. Finally, Ralph found his voice. “Thank you, Bea Dot, for all you’ve done for Netta and the baby. I hate to ask you for more, but I’m still contagious. Can you and Eliza mind the baby until the flu breaks?”

“Of course,” she replied warmly. “I’d be honored.”

Ralph smiled weakly, again too choked up to speak.

“I know it’s not my decision,” Bea Dot said, “but would it be all right to name the baby after Netta?”

“Yes, that’s perfect. Thank you.” Ralph inhaled deeply, then let out a long, slow breath as he slid his handkerchief back into his pocket.

A minister approached, stopping a couple of yards away from Ralph, and said, “We should begin.”

From his distance, Ralph introduced the minister to Bea Dot. “Reverend Sikes has agreed to say a few words for us.”

“I know it’s not the kind of memorial we’d prefer,” the reverend added, “but the gesture is the same in the eyes of the Lord. Shall we get started?”

Reverend Sikes led Bea Dot to the mass grave, and Ralph followed them several paces behind. Thaddeus followed slowly in the truck to bring Netta’s coffin closer to the pit.

From the corner of her eye, Bea Dot noticed a gravedigger peering at her from over his bandana. Then she recognized the green eyes, and her heart jumped. She took one step in his direction, but he silently shook his head. Disappointed, she followed the reverend to a spot at the pit across from Will. He stood with slumped shoulders, and even in this brisk fall air, his forehead glistened with perspiration. He rubbed the back of his neck, rested his forehead on the handle of his shovel, then stood again as the minister began the ceremony.

After a short speech about the sanctity of motherhood and a prayer blessing Netta’s soul, Will and another masked man stepped to the edge of the grave and used ropes to lower Netta’s coffin to the bottom. When they finished, Will caught Bea Dot’s eye and put his hand to his heart. Tears spilled down her cheeks as she did the same. All she wanted was to rush to him and bury herself in his embrace. Though nothing would alleviate her grief, his arms would have strengthened her. She wished she could comfort him as well. All that wood work and then today’s grave digging had clearly worn him out.

Will turned and followed the other two men to the wagon. Ralph joined them. In pairs they lifted the remaining coffins, then the bundled bodies, and laid them in the dirt. Fear seized Bea Dot as she realized why Will had kept her from approaching him. Her heart pounded as she considered the danger of helping bury dozens of flu victims. She offered a silent prayer begging for Will’s safety. If she lost him as well as Netta, she might as well die herself.

Thaddeus gently took her elbow and guided her to the truck. She walked numbly to the door and sat like a lump in the passenger seat, dull with fatigue from the last thirty-six hours. Thaddeus got in behind the steering wheel.

“Miss Bea Dot?” he said gently.

Bea Dot lifted her heavy head in response, too tired to utter a word.

“Anybody told Miss Netta’s parents yet?”

In her confusion and grief, she’d forgotten about Aunt Lavinia and Uncle David. She’d let them down too. How would she ever be able to look them in the eye? She shook her head wearily, almost certain Ralph hadn’t sent word to Savannah.

“Eliza wrote down a message,” he said, pulling a slip of paper out of his coat pocket. “We’ll stop by the telegraph office before we go home.” He pulled a pencil out of his pocket and held it out to her. “Will you please write down Miss Netta’s parents’ names?”

Bea Dot took the pencil and paper and scribbled the information for Thaddeus. Before handing it back to him, she read the bad news bound for Savannah:

NETTA DIED IN CHILDBIRTH STOP

SO SORRY FOR YOUR LOSS STOP

LETTER FOLLOWS STOP =

Bea Dot wished the world would stop.

C
hapter 24

L
ola tossed the soiled linen napkin, dingy and moist from her breath and sweat, into the dining room fireplace. No point in wearing it now, what with sick folk coughing into her eyes and spitting up bloody froth onto her hands. By this point, she would either get the flu or she wouldn’t.

Next to the hearth, a two-hundred-pound sawmill worker lay motionless, his lips and fingers the color of a thundercloud. Lola felt his neck for a pulse. Nothing. Sighing, she stood and grabbed both his feet and tugged on them. She’d have to put her back into dragging this one out to the back porch.

She’d only pulled him a couple of feet when a motion in the corner of her eye caught her attention. Through the window she spied Doc Coolidge dragging himself up the front steps.
He look like he just walk through the gates a hell
, Lola thought as the doctor entered through his front door. The poor man had just buried his wife. Now here he was, back to work like he’d just finished his lunch break.
Wonder if he even seen that baby yet. Probably not.

Doc Coolidge stepped over the patients lying on the parlor floor and walked straight down the hallway like a sleepwalker, not even acknowledging Lola’s presence. She dropped the dead man’s feet and followed the doctor into his and Miss Netta’s bedroom. Three sick women lay on his bed, and four lay on the floor, but he ignored them as he went to Miss Netta’s bureau and opened her jewelry box on top. When he picked up his wife’s strand of pearls and rolled them between his thumb and forefinger, Lola asked, “You looking for something, Doc?”

Finally, he turned to face her with despondent, swollen eyes. Then he burst into tears like a little boy who’d just lost his lollipop.

Sighing heavily, Lola took his arm and let him lean on her—he was about to collapse on top of all the suffering women. With nowhere to let him sit, Lola led the doctor to the bathroom, where she seated him on the toilet. Still clutching his wife’s pearls, he put his elbows on his knees and wept while Lola rubbed her palm across his shoulders. She even spilled a few tears herself over her mistress’s death, but after about five minutes, she left him alone. She had a dead man to drag to the porch, and sick folk needed her attention. Besides, that few minutes of comfort was more sympathy than Doc Coolidge had shown her when she lost her Jim Henry.

She worked up a little sweat dragging that body out, but she finally got it to the porch and laid it next to the others. Holding her hand over her nose, she said to nobody, “These bodies starting to smell.”

She peered across the yard, hoping to see Oily Harley’s wagon. Instead a lone, long-legged boy loped down the road toward the black section of town. She recognized him as Quilly Jackson, the first black face she’d seen in weeks. She stepped onto the back steps and hollered for him to come to the fence.

He came toward her a few steps, but when he saw Lola approaching, he stopped, and Lola recognized his fear of getting too close to her. She halted in the middle of the yard and called to him.

“You seen my mama lately? Or my sisters?” She rubbed her arms and stomped her feet to chase away the chill.

He nodded with a slight frown, as if he weren’t sure of his answers.

“How they doing?” Lola asked. “They all right?”

Quilly dug the toe of his shabby boot in the road, as if the dirt would answer the question for him. At his hesitation, Lola felt queasy.

“You can tell me, Quilly,” she called. “It’s all right.” It really wasn’t. She dreaded bad news, but at the same time she just had to know, much in the same way she always felt compelled to stick her tongue against an aching tooth.

“Well,” he said, reluctant to meet her gaze, “you mama ’n’ daddy’s
fine, but Julia done come down with flu.”

Lola’s chest tightened, and her chin wrinkled and shook, but she breathed in deeply, trying not to cry. “How long ago?” she asked. “She started coughing real bad yet?” If she wasn’t coughing up that thick spit-up, maybe she’d pull through.

“Don’t know much more ’n that, Miss Lola,” he said. “My mama say to stay away from there.”

His mama was right about that, but Lola’s heart sank when Quilly ran along his way. How many other black folk had taken sick, and who was taking care of them? Was Oily Harley collecting their dead too? With slumped shoulders, Lola returned to the house. She searched the kitchen cabinets for something to eat. She’d already been through all the bread and meat, and although she regretted using up Miss Netta’s food, she had no choice since Doc Coolidge rarely thought to send over supplies. And with Miss Charlotte and her family lying in the dining room, Lola could no longer use Miss Netta’s phone to call the mercantile for grocery deliveries.

Lola found a package of soda crackers and a tin of raisins in the cupboard. They’d have to do. She ate enough to make her stomach stop growling; then she washed them down with water. Good thing flu patients were too sick to eat. They would have starved to death. As it was, Lola was simply babysitting them until they died. Only a handful recovered.

As she brushed the soda-cracker crumbs off her fingers, she spied Doc Coolidge through the kitchen door. He came out of the bathroom and stepped over the sick people in the hallway. Some moaned, some coughed, some rattled as they sucked in air. All were too sick to notice his presence, and he simply passed over them like they were logs.

Lola met him in the parlor. “I sure could use an extra pair a hands over here, Doc, if you could send someone over from the hospital.”

He ignored her and slowly grasped the front doorknob.

“Well, could you at least send over some bottles a rubbing alcohol so I can keep these fevers down? Doc, you listening to me?”

Still no response. Instead, he slowly pulled the door open and shuffled out. Today was the first time he’d come over since sticking Lola in his house, and he hadn’t looked at one patient.

Lola hated him for it, but she also knew how he felt, losing his wife and all. Poor Miss Netta. She’d tried four times to have a baby, and now that one of them lived, she died. God sure had a strange sense of humor.

She shut the door that Doc Coolidge left wide open and turned back to her house full of patients, no longer worrying about whether somebody spit up on Miss Netta’s sofa. She wouldn’t be using it anymore. After returning to the kitchen, Lola poured water into a bucket for her next round of cold-water compresses. It was half-full when she glanced out the window and noticed Oily Harley driving his wagon down the path he’d worn across the lawn and through Miss Netta’s flowerbed. She watched him pull all the way up to the house, trudge onto the back porch, and carry the corpses one by one to the back of the wagon. Knowing he’d ask her to help him carry the bodies, she waited until they were all loaded before she stepped out to greet him.

“Glad you here, Mr. Harley,” she said, “I starting to run outa room on this porch.”

He didn’t reply from behind his gauze mask, just stepped to the end of the wagon bed and leaned in to pull something out.

Lola continued. “We short on everything here, Mr. Harley. I wonder could you please have some food and rubbing alcohol sent over here as soon as you can?”

“I’ll see what I can do for you, Lola,” he grunted.

She didn’t put much stock in that answer, but it was her best hope for some relief.

Harley pushed his arms under a man’s legs and torso and lifted him off the wagon bed. Then he carried the patient toward the back door. “I got one more patient for you, though.”

Lola sucked her teeth with resentment. All these white men brought her more and more work. “We really need your help,” Doc Coolidge had said. But how could she help anybody if she didn’t have the supplies she needed?

Harley carried the man up the steps, and Lola held the screen door wide to let him pass. “Just bring him in the dining room,” she said. “I got a free spot on the floor next to the hearth.”

Harley carried the man into the house and laid him in the spot just vacated by the sawmill worker. Lola knelt next to her new patient and felt his forehead to see how high his fever was. That’s when she noticed the patient’s face. Staring deliriously through her were the glassy green eyes of Will Dunaway.