Dunaway's Crossing (26 page)

Bea Dot turned back to the sink, glad the war was over, but hardly in the mood to celebrate. She folded her dishtowel, then slipped past Bonner to the hallway and sat at the telephone stand. She asked the operator to connect her to the telegraph office, but as soon as she heard the words “Western Union” on the other end, a fat finger pressed on the receiver, disconnecting her call.

“How dare you?” Bea Dot glared at Bonner, whose cylindrical form stood over her in her small chair.

“Mr. Ferguson says you are not to make or receive any telephone calls,” he said plainly.

Bea Dot’s anger mixed with despair, which heightened her headache and left her at a loss for words. Instead of making matters worse by retaliating, she pushed past him and retreated to her bedroom. She slammed the door, then gripped the bedpost as a strong wave of dizziness nearly took her off her feet. After steadying herself, she shuffled into her bathroom. The sight of her toilet made her retch again, but afterward, her headache subsided.

She saturated a washcloth with cold water, then went to her bed and laid the cloth on her forehead. Her head swirled with worries about Will, grief over California’s death, and anger at her husband, but fatigue eventually took over, and Bea Dot sank into a heavy sleep.

She awoke to knocking. Had the sound been real? Or had she dreamed it? Sunlight streaming through the shutters indicated that hours had passed. It must be late afternoon. Another knock. “Mrs. Ferguson? Are you in there?”

Bea Dot rose slowly. Her head still ached, but the pounding had stopped, and the dizziness subsided. She cracked open the door to find the round Mr. Bonner.

“So sorry to wake you,” he said from underneath his mustache, “but Mr. Ferguson phoned. He says you’re to be ready for dinner at his parents’ house at eight.”

Bea Dot studied the man with the tubular frame. Although his
weaselly eyes and small pointy nose enhanced his irritating demeanor, and even though his craftiness and haughtiness angered her, he was not aggressive. Bonner was not her enemy. Ben was. All she had to do was gain Bonner’s trust, or at least his sympathy, and she might be able to slip by him.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Ferguson? Did you hear what I said?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I’ll be ready.”

At the sound of an odd rumble, Bonner patted his stomach. Blushing, he said, “I was wondering, well, Mr. Ferguson told me my meals would be provided during my stay here.”

Bea Dot bit her tongue to keep from laughing. Where did he think he was, the DeSoto Hotel?

“Oh, would you like something to eat?” she replied flippantly. “Where are my manners? Please follow me.” She hadn’t eaten since she left Pineview, and she was hungry. But she didn’t dare tell him that. Instead, she glided past him and led him to the kitchen, where she pretended to search her empty cupboards. “Let’s see,” she said as she looked. “I’ve been away for a while.” She turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “As you know.” Continuing to open cabinets, she said, “I’m afraid I don’t have much.” She pulled out a small canister and shook it and heard a faint brushing sound. “I do have a few grits. I could cook them for you. I have no butter for them, though.”

Bonner stiffened, then said, “Mr. Ferguson and I agreed on a fee that included board and three full meals a day.”

“Then I suggest you take this matter up with Mr. Ferguson,” Bea Dot said with hand on hip, leaning on the countertop. “But you have sealed no contract with me. What’s more, I can assure you that Mr. Ferguson gave no thought to your needs, only his.”

“We had an agreement.” Bonner shifted his weight. His whiny voice grated on Bea Dot’s nerves.

“My husband has hired you to ensure that I stay locked up in this house with no access to my friends or family. In short, you’re a private prison guard,” she said. She paused to let him process the information. Then she asked, “Does he sound like someone who cares whether you eat a solid lunch?”

Bonner stammered, but offered no response.

“For now I can offer you a bowl of grits,” Bea Dot continued, shaking the canister again, “but if you’ll let me use my telephone, I can order food and a block of ice. I can have the milk delivery reinstated, and I just might be able to have it done in time for you to have supper.” She omitted the fact that she hardly knew how to cook.

“That’s not what Mr. Ferguson said . . .”

“We’ve already established that, but fine.” Bea Dot placed the canister on the table. “Grits it’ll be. But first I must bathe and change my clothes. I must look a sight. I’ve been wearing this outfit since Pineview.”

She moved toward the kitchen door, but Bonner stopped her.

“All right,” he said. “Make the calls. Do what you need to do.”

Internally, Bea Dot beamed at her success, but she kept a straight face as she made her way to the telephone stand. As she placed orders, first with the grocer, then the iceman, then the dairy, she extended her conversations, hoping Bonner, who stood over her monitoring every call, would become bored and go back to his newspaper. But she’d expected too much too soon. She’d have to sneak in a call to the telegraph office later. Maybe tomorrow.

C
hapter 28

W
ill inhaled fresh air—it felt so good to breathe normally again—and slowly ascended the three cinder-block steps of the small, weathered house. Lola, along with most other black residents of Pineview, lived on the north end of town in a section many Pineviewans called Boar’s Head. Will never understood where the name came from.

He rested a second on the top step before knocking. As he waited for a response, he took in the worn, warped boards, brownish gray from decades without paint. A scrawny woman, about as old as the house, shuffled to the door and met Will’s eyes without a word.

“Is Lola home? I’d like to speak to her, please.”

The woman lifted one eyebrow, then turned her back on Will, calling into the darkness of the house. “Sista! You got comp’ny!” The volume of her screechy bird voice surprised Will. She shuffled her skinny, stooped form away from the door, leaving him to wait alone.

Lola appeared wearing a pink calico dress and a flour-sack apron splattered with grease. A red rag wrapped around her head. Although her eyes appeared less tired than they did the last time he’d seen her, they revealed uncertainty or maybe skepticism. He knew that look from his short time in France—the permanent countenance of someone who’d witnessed a horror most people could never imagine.

“Mr. Will, I surprised to see you here.” Lola wiped her hands on her apron. “Come in, will you?” Her flat voice belied her reluctant hospitality.

“No, thank you,” he said, quickly pulling his hands out of his coat pockets and folding them behind his back. “I’ll only be a minute. I just wanted to thank you for tending me while I was sick.”

Lola’s stiff spine softened, and she tilted her head to one side.

“I would have thanked you earlier,” he continued, “but you left Ralph’s house so quickly. I’m sure you were eager to see your family.”

“I ’preciate that, Mr. Will. I knew you would pull through. You had a strength about you. I ain’t seen that in many patients, but you had it. Glad you all right now.”

Will nodded and an awkward pause hung over them like a bad smell.

“I’m sorry to hear about your sister,” he said, staring at his shoes.

“Thank you,” she replied, putting her hand to her chest. “She in a better place now.” After another awkward silence, Lola broke it. “I s’pose you going back out to the crossing.”

“Yes.”

“When you gone get yourself an automobile like all the other white folks?” Lola tilted her head toward Will’s horse and wagon. “Make all that mail carrying a lot easier. And faster.”

“Buster’s got a long way to go before he’s done.” Will smiled sheepishly.

“You an old soul, ain’t you, Mr. Will? Don’t take to change like the other folks do.”

Will shook his head and smiled faintly. He felt a camaraderie with Lola, a kinship he felt with no one else in Pineview. Somehow he knew she’d understand what he’d never been able to articulate to anyone else. “Lola, after what I went through in France, I don’t belong behind the wheel of a motorcar.”

“Maybe so,” she replied, “but you done survived the Great War. Then you come home and survived the worst disease this town ever seen. Now I don’t know ’bout you, but seems to me somebody up there want you around delivering the mail. Could get a heap more done in a motorcar.”

“Food for thought,” he said, unconvinced. He stepped down one step, paused, then turned to speak again. “But wouldn’t that same principle apply to you?”

“What you mean?” She put her hand on her hip and frowned, but her voice revealed no anger.

“I hear you quit working for Dr. Coolidge,” he said. “He needs you more than ever now that Netta’s gone.”

Lola huffed. “I done give him enough a my time. And my hide. All those weeks slaving away at his house. All for nothing. Didn’t get paid one dime.”

“True,” Will said. “But how much do you think Ralph got paid for doing the same work at the hospital? All those nights he spent there with no time off? And those nurses? They worked the same hours as you. I don’t think one of them had a chance to punch in a time card.”

Lola stood silent.

“You were all in the same boat,” he continued. “And Pineview would be in ruins if it weren’t for you. We all owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Lola’s stature softened, but her frown remained. She leaned on the doorjamb and folded her arms in front of her. “What’s that got to do with me working for Doc Coolidge?”

“Netta always wanted you to mind her baby,” Will said. “I’m sure Ralph would consider it an honor if you did that.”

“Hmph.”

“Didn’t he pay you a fair wage before the influenza hit?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure he’d do it again if he had the chance.”

Lola raised her chin and eyed Will for a beat before replying. “Heard he hired some woman from Atlanta.”

“But he’d rather have you.”

Lola sighed and gazed out into the distance. Will offered a weak smile and shrugged. He’d tried.

“Well,” he said, “I just wanted to thank you for taking care of me, Lola. I won’t take up any more of your time.” He descended the last two steps, but just as he’d picked up Buster’s reins, Lola called to him.

“If I was to work for Doc Coolidge,” she said, “I’d need a horse. I been on my feet enough. Don’t intend to walk to work no more.”

“Okay.” Will scratched his head, confused.

“You decide to get yourself a motorcar, you sell me that horse, and I can ride it to work.”

Will grinned. “So you’ll do it?”

“Didn’t say that,” she replied. “But I got to work somewhere. I’ll buy that horse from you. For a decent price anyhow.”

“Lola, if I ever decide to buy a car, you’ll be the first to know.”

Buster came to a stop at the crossing. Harley sat next to Will on the bench, his own horse tied to the back of the wagon.

“You feeling all right? You’ve been quiet for the past fifteen minutes,” Harley said. He’d finally washed all the oil off his skin.

“I don’t have all my strength back,” Will said, “but I’m fine. I’m just a little tired.”

They climbed down, and as they unloaded supplies and moved them indoors, Harley insisted on carrying the heavier crates. “Need help unpacking them?” he asked.

“Thank you, but no,” Will said. “I’m not going to do that right now.”

So Harley said his good-byes and untethered his horse. Will watched him ride away before unhitching Buster and taking him to the barn. Patting his horse on the neck, he said, “Been a long time since you stayed in your own stall.”

Back inside, Will surveyed his store, then his small home. The floor had been scrubbed clean since Netta’s death, and one bed frame sat empty of a mattress. The corner looked desolate without Bea Dot’s trunk filling it. Of course, she would have taken it to the Taylors’ house. He’d have been in a world of hurt if they hadn’t stepped in to help Netta and Bea Dot. He didn’t know how he’d ever thank them enough.

Throughout the house and store, little things reminded him of Bea Dot. The bottle of medicine still sat on the kitchen counter. When he went to the storage closet to roll up his pallet, he remembered the last night he’d spent on it with her. Even when he opened his ledger book, he found Bea Dot’s handwriting. His chest ached from missing her, but his body hummed in anticipation of seeing her again.

He pried open a can of sardines and ate them quickly for lunch. Then he cleaned his teeth before setting off bareback on Buster toward the Taylors’ farm.

Riding up the wooded path along the lake, he passed his grandparents’ old cabin, where he’d killed the bobcat. Then he rode into a clearing and along the edge of a cotton field, where hired hands picked and stuffed the fluffy white fibers into their croker sacks.

As he approached the Taylors’ house, a Model T in the yard told him Ralph Coolidge had arrived. When he knocked on the door, Terrence let him in and immediately left to help Thaddeus in the field. Will entered to find Ralph awkwardly holding his baby daughter. Eliza stood over him, baby Troy on her hip, giving instructions.

“Her neck’s a lot stronger now, but you still got to support her head. And make sure you keep her wrapped up tight. She likes that.”

“Eliza, I’m starting to think you don’t trust me with her,” Ralph teased.

“I have to admit, I’m gone miss this little angel,” she said. “I ain’t never had a daughter. It sure was nice to have a little girl in the house.”

“I thank you again for minding her for me,” Ralph said. “And I might call on you from time to time for advice.”

“You’re welcome to any time,” she replied, “but Lola will know what to do. She’s a natural with the young’ns.”

“Actually, I’ve hired a nurse from Atlanta to help me,” Ralph explained. “She arrives later this afternoon.”

“But I thought Netta always wanted Lola to be her baby nurse,” Will said.

“She did, but these days Lola doesn’t want anything to do with me,” Ralph said. “I can understand how she feels, with her sister dying and Lola being stuck in my house. It couldn’t be helped, but she has to aim her resentment somewhere. Might as well be me.” Ralph sighed and tickled Nettie’s chin. She reached up and grasped his finger with her tiny fist.

“Try to talk to her one more time,” Will suggested. “Maybe she’s softened up a bit.”

“I doubt it, but I’ll give it a shot,” Ralph said.

Will surveyed the room, but saw no evidence of the one person he came to see. “Eliza, where’s Bea Dot?”

She broke her gaze on the baby and turned surprised eyes to Will. “Nobody told you?”

“Told me what?”

“She went back to Savannah,” she said, shifting Troy to the other hip. “A few days ago.”

Not wanting to jump to conclusions, Will tried to squelch the alarm in his gut. He turned questioning eyes to Ralph. “Why did she do that?”

“The last time I saw her was when she found out you were sick,” Ralph said. “She thought you were in the hospital, and she wanted to see you.” He shifted his eyes to Eliza as if expecting her to fill in the gaps of the story.

“Thaddeus took her to town that day,” she said. “And he come home later saying that Bonner fellow gave her a telegram and then Bea Dot said she had to leave right away. Thaddeus tried to stop her, but she insisted on going.”

“And she left the baby with you?” Will asked. That didn’t sound like something Bea Dot would do. Who was that Bonner fellow?

Eliza nodded. “I don’t think she had no choice, Will. She loved this young’n. She wouldn’t just leave if it wasn’t important.”

Will’s heartbeat sped now, fear for Bea Dot welling up in his chest. Her swift departure had something to do with her husband, he was sure. “She must be in trouble. We have to go get her.”

Ralph shook his head slowly, a sad frown forming across his brow. Eliza chewed on her lower lip and jiggled her baby in her arms.

“I don’t think you should, Will,” Ralph said. “She went on her own accord, and she’s a married woman. Maybe it’s best that you leave well enough alone.”

Electricity coursed through Will’s veins at the mention of Bea Dot’s marriage. “You don’t understand,” he said. “Her husband is a monster. That’s why she came here in the first place.”

“I knew she was having some troubles . . . ,” Ralph said.

“Troubles my foot. He nearly killed her.” Will’s tone elevated at the thought. “We’ve got to get to her before it’s too late.”