Each Shining Hour (7 page)

Connie, Past and Present

“C
onstance, what are you talking about?”

“It was a long time ago. It's nothing that matters anymore.”

“Well, sister, it matters now. All I remember was that Momma worked in the school cafeteria. You never talked about her working here.”

“Like I said, it's water under the bridge.”

Connie seemed resigned to the idea of not discussing this revelation, but as she spoke, I couldn't help but notice her reflective perusal of the room; she absorbed the elaborate details, scrutinized the dust and ruin, and breathed in the weighty air of ancient memories. It seemed she had returned to a place she had always known, one that had been burned deep within her life's story.

“Dear, you know Luke and I are not going to let this pass,” Estelle persisted. “Maylene was my momma too. I want to know what you are talking about.”

At first I didn't understand Estelle's comment about the need to assert her claim regarding their mother. But as Connie yielded to her request, I began to discern how the nine-year gap in their
ages had created very different relationships with their departed parent.

As Connie began to speak, her face was transformed by the past. It was a face of wonder, of enchantment, of innocence. “Momma started working here at the bakery when it first opened in October of 1943. She was barely seventeen and had just finished high school. There were only eleven grades in those days. She continued working here after she married Daddy in 1950 and after I was born in 1954. By the time I was seven, most afternoons I would sit and do my homework in a tucked-away corner while Momma carried on lively conversations with Elise Fox. Elise was more than just a boss to Momma—she was her best friend. I have lots of memories of being here, some of the best . . . and some of the worst.”

Connie took a few steps toward the display counters. Behind them and against the right side of the room was a short partition with a countertop and a large open cabinet space underneath. The counter had likely been a staging area for pans of baked goods from the back, a work space to place pastries into individual paper holders. She turned to me. “Luke, would you do something for me?”

“Sure.”

“Look up under this counter. See if any thing is written there.”

I squatted next to the cabinet opening and looked at the painted wooden boards underneath. There, penciled in beautiful cursive handwriting, was the name “Constance Grace Thompson.” I looked up at her and smiled. “I'm guessing you put this here.”

She nodded. “I probably read a hundred books in that little cubbyhole.”

It was the perfect place for a little girl to hide herself away, to be lost in the imagination of a thousand adventures.

But when she spoke again, Connie's voice had lost its animation. “For some reason, in the fall of 1962, after nineteen years of working here, Elise pulled Momma aside one afternoon and through tears told her she was letting Momma go. No reason or explanation was given. Elise tried to give her six months' severance pay, but Momma refused. Her pride wouldn't allow it.” Again, Connie paused and stared vacantly into the far reaches of the room.

She spoke distantly. “Momma was very hurt when all that happened. Crushed, really. It wasn't just the money—she felt like she had lost her best friend. I remember months later I would walk into the kitchen at home and Momma would be in tears. She never wanted to talk about it.” Connie's voice had grown soft, reflective. She ran her finger across the glass of the counter, leaving a line in the dust.

I knew from previous conversations that Connie's mother had died of lung cancer in 1968. I did the math in my head. That would have happened when Connie was fourteen and Estelle was approximately four or five. No doubt, Connie's desire to protect her sibling became embedded during those years. Their father, whom Connie had described as a “quiet, hardworking, Christian man,” passed away ten years later.

“It never made sense. A month before Momma died, she got a letter from Elise. At the time I assumed Elise wanted to come see her. But Momma refused to read it and returned the letter to sender. Momma said she knew that the bakery was having problems with its credit. Within a month after Momma was let go, Elise sold the bakery to the bank. Before Momma died, she made me promise to never talk about her working here. I'm sure she was hurt and embarrassed. That was just her way of handling things.”

Connie's explanation revealed parts of herself she had never
shown me. It was my first realization that she bore the scars of past wounds that she had neither revisited nor forgotten. I sensed that veiled within her words were age-old emotions that had stained her early years, events that had callously altered the direction of her early life. I felt for her. It seemed to have taken a toll on her to return to this place, to the silence and dust and confusion of these long-buried memories.

In that moment, the front door swung open, caught by the breeze. We had been standing in silence but now turned at the groan of the hinges. The fresh, cool air of December breathed into the room, washing past us, pushing aside the musty air of stagnant, locked-away years.

Connie gazed up at the high, arched ceiling, turning slowly to take in the entire room. She reached to wipe a large swath of grime from a glass display case, and for a brief moment, she studied the accumulated filth on her palm. Then she slapped one hand against the other in sweeping strokes, beating away the ancient dust. It seemed a defining moment for her. She turned and took Estelle's hand.

“Estelle, sweetie, you've got a great opportunity to do something really fine here. I think you should go for it.”

She had spoken in a voice of unquestioned resolve. The two sisters hugged and then, just as they had done at the clinic, proceeded to walk arm in arm through the old bakery. There was a curious, secret bond between them, an intense affection. They were both talking loudly, robustly, and, of course, at the same time.

With the culinary brain trust now focused and in full session, I decided that there were no new insights about the Oscar Fox murder to be gained. I bid them good-bye and drove back home to Fleming Street. As I pulled into the driveway, a beautiful black late-model Mercedes turned in behind me. I knew of only one
such car in the entire county, but I had never seen it in town. The driver emerged wearing a full-length black cashmere coat, a dark suit, and sunglasses.

“John Harris, just look at you. Power suit, power car, power glasses. No truck and work khakis like normal. You land a job with the Secret Service?”

“Yeah, yeah. Yuck it up, jackass.”

We shook hands heartily, both of us wearing broad smiles.

“Well, come in for a while. I'll make some coffee.”

“Sounds good,” he returned crisply. “Lead the way.”

Thankfully, my modest cottage home was generally tidy. Rhett greeted us warmly as we walked down the main hall toward the kitchen in the rear. John progressed slowly, casually observing each room with a bemused air. We had known each other for over six months, but this was the first time he had ever set foot in my home, despite numerous invitations.

“Quaint place here, Doc. Looks like Connie keeps it pretty orderly.”

“And this is a surprise to you?”

John grinned. “Yeah, good point.”

“You know, I've been meaning to ask you about Connie. What was she like years ago? You know, when you guys were both kids?”

John responded flatly, “Shorter.”

John and Connie had grown up together, and while never close friends, they had shared an unspoken respect. Even though John had a PhD in chemical engineering, he readily acknowledged that Connie was the smarter of the two. She had, in fact, been valedictorian of their high school class, with John falling a distant second. But Connie had stayed in Watervalley, become a housewife and mother, and never studied at the college level.

While I made coffee, John stared out the back windows.

“Good-sized backyard, Doc. Come next spring, looks like plenty of room for a nice garden.”

“Yeah, like that's going to happen. Growing up in Buckhead did not exactly provide opportunities to develop my gardening skills.”

“Ah, don't sell it short, sport. There's something magical about getting your hands in the dirt, watching things grow. It's good therapy.”

I laughed. “Well, I'll take that one under advisement.” I was satisfied to let the topic pass, but John persisted.

“The Mayfields lived here when I was a kid and there was a huge garden in this backyard. Lovett Mayfield was retired from the post office. He and my dad were big friends and used to swap seeds.”

I poured mugs of coffee and we settled at the kitchen table. “So, John, speaking of seeds, spill the beans here, fellow. What could possibly have motivated you to get all slicked up and come to town?”

“I had a meeting with the mayor.”

“Mayor Hickman? Really? And the topic?”

“The bandstand.”

“Seriously?”

“Yeah. He approached me after the Christmas Eve service and said he wanted to know if my offer to fund the renovation was still good. I said we should meet this week and talk through it. So, we met, we talked.”

“And?”

“Can't be completely sure yet, but it looks promising.”

“What did Walt say?”

“He's going to try and get it worked out. But you have to
remember, this is Walt talking and Walt's a politician. He's easy to like with all that backslapping and those big smiles. Unfortunately, Walt and his double chin are synonymous with double-talk.”

John took a swallow of coffee. “Still, it seems a real possibility it could happen.”

“So this is good news, right?”

John smiled broadly. “Oh yeah, this is very good news.”

The renovation of the bandstand had become the singular mission of John's wife, Molly, in the months before she died of cancer. The bandstand had been boarded up for fifteen years and had fallen into dangerous disrepair. Despite John and Molly's efforts, the Board of Aldermen had voted down the motion for renovation, largely due to some misguided beliefs about the evils of dancing, which had always been the main activity in the bandstand. That defeat, along with Molly's death, had been the final straw for John and had left him with a festering resentment. Since then he'd isolated himself from life in town.

“Well, congratulations, fellow! I'm happy for you,” I said.

“Yeah, thanks. So, enough about me. What have you been up to this morning? Anything happening at the clinic?”

I told John about the meeting at the old bakery and Connie's revelation about her mother having worked there.

John pondered for a moment. “I guess I had forgotten that. Interesting.”

“Yeah, and get this irony. Once she gets the bakery started, Estelle wants to give Louise Fox a job there.”

John chuckled. “Well, sport, that's what's known as Watervalley's version of the circle of life.”

“Oh, I also met Randall Simmons. He's an awful queer duck. Connie sure put the fear of God in him, though.”

“I told you he was a slimy one. His dad, Raymond, was a
honcho in the community years ago. Pretty hard-nosed and not very likable. I know my father-in-law didn't much care for him.”

“Your father-in-law?”

“Yeah. Molly's dad, Sam Cavanaugh, was chairman of the board at the bank for many years. Good man. Loved this town. Raymond Simmons was the bank president. When Raymond retired in the early nineties, Randall stepped into his father's shoes. He hasn't quite measured up. Nevertheless, he has all the snobbery that second-generation money tends to breed.”

“So what's the deal between you two?”

“There's no love lost, or found, between us. It goes way back.”

“And?”

“I take it you really want to hear this story?”

“Sure, especially after what I saw of Randall this morning. Let's have it.”

John drew in a deep breath, reflecting for a moment. “Elementary school, during the midsixties. I beat the crap out of him one day during recess.”

“Seriously? Elementary school? This grudge goes back nearly fifty years? What happened, he try to cheat at marbles?”

John ran his finger around the rim of his coffee cup. “Nah, it was a little more complicated than that. It was the first year of school integration, which actually wasn't as big a deal as it sounds. Heck, it was a small town then just like now. We all knew each other, black and white. We played sandlot ball together; saw each other everywhere. So, finally being together in the same classroom seemed a natural development At least, that's the way I saw it. But Randall, he had a pretty smart mouth in those days. His dad had climbed the social ladder and I guess he thought he was somebody. Anyway, we were all playing a game at recess and he called one of the black girls a pretty lousy name.”

“And you kicked his butt for that?”

“Well, it wasn't just the name-calling, although that was bad enough. After he did it, he laughed at her, humiliated her, and there was nothing she could do about it. So I proceeded to walk over and put my fist through his teeth. Then he did a second stupid thing.”

“What was that?”

John's face eased into a bemused smile. “He tried to fight back.”

No doubt, this was the memory John had been delightfully rolling around in his head the previous afternoon when we were discussing Randall Simmons.

“Okay, I just gotta ask. What did he call her?”

John turned and stared at me blankly, as if I had brought him back to reality. After a moment, he spoke in a detached voice. “He called her a fat, blue-gummed nigger.”

“Huh. Sounds like he was asking for it. Whom was he talking to anyway?”

“Constance Grace Pillow, better known as Connie Thompson.”