Folly

Also by Maureen Brady

FICTION

Give Me Your Good Ear

The Question She Put to Herself

NONFICTION

Beyond Survival: A Writing Journey for Healing from Childhood Sexual Abuse

Daybreak: Meditations for Women Survivors of Sexual Abuse

Copyright © 1982 by Maureen Brady

Afterword copyright © 1994 by Bonnie Zimmerman

All rights reserved

Published 1994 by The Feminist Press at The City University of New York, 311 East 94 Street, New York, New York 10128

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Book design by Mary A. Scott

Typesetting of
Folly
by Martha Jean Waters

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Brady, Maureen.

Folly: a novel / by Maureen Brady; afterword by Bonnie Zimmerman.

   
p. cm.

ISBN 978-1-55861-415-4

1. Strikes and lockouts—Textile industry—North Carolina—Fiction. 2. Women textile workers—North Carolina—Fiction. 3. Mothers and daughters—North Carolina—Fiction. I. Title. PS3552.R2435F6 1994

813'.54—dc20

94-5905

CIP

Cover design: Paula Martinac

Cover art:
Self-Portrait with Anita
by Audrey Flack, 1955. Oil on canvas, 25 × 36". Collection Thalia Gouma-Peterson and Carl Peterson, Oberlin, Ohio.

This publication was made possible, in part, by public funds from the New York State Council on the Arts and the National Endowment for the Arts. The Feminist Press would also like to thank Ellen Bass, Janet E. Brown, Joanne Markell, Nancy Porter, and Genevieve Vaughan for their generosity.

To Judith McDaniel

Contents

Acknowledgments

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Afterword

Notes

Acknowledgments

I wish to extend deep gratitude to the women mill workers of North Carolina who granted me interviews about their lives. Thanks to Nancy Bereano for her enthusiastic ushering of the manuscript to print the first time around, and thanks to Susannah Driver, Florence Howe, Paula Martinac, and others of The Feminist Press for bringing it out again.

There are some women who like factory work. They like the feeling of running a sewing machine, seeing piece work eventually turn into finished products. It is hard, physical work, but under the right conditions many women enjoy it. Some of the women in the Blue Ridge strike felt that way. . . . Not long after the strike ended, a few women who had walked the picket line decided to start their own sewing factory. They wanted to own, manage, and operate a workplace where the women in Fannin County, Georgia, could work without unfair production rates, without the tension and tedium which are day-to-day factors in the lives of most garment workers. They wanted to make a new kind of factory—the kind that did not exist in this country. And they did it.

Kathy Kahn,
Hillbilly Women
(1972)

1.

School wasn't even out yet and already it was so damn hot and muggy the new flypaper over the kitchen table had curled up. Folly sat in front of the fan in the old wicker rocker. She could feel the small, broken pieces of wood pushing into her legs below her bermuda shorts. She stared at a page of her new mystery story that Martha had just finished and loaned her, but she couldn't read. She thought maybe after the summer she'd start on a new budget and try again to get them out of the trailer and into a house. They were all tripping over each other, all the time tripping over each other. Mary Lou filling up with hotsy-totsy ways, bungling around in there. She'd leave her room a shambles. How could you read a mystery with such a fast growing-up, noisy kid in the next room and that wall between you so thin if you put a tack in the one side, it'd come out the other?

Skeeter was out mowing lawns. There was a good kid for you. He wanted some money of his own and he wasn't scared of working a little. Mary Lou would drop her allowance on the first thing that came along and then hitch from town when she didn't have change for the bus. Folly felt her worries about that girl as regular as clothes getting dirty. With Tiny, it was too early to tell. He still minded. He was only ten. She remembered nursing them all in the wicker rocker, Mary Lou nibbling at her nipple. Seemed like the other two had taken more easily to it.

Mary Lou came out in her cut-offs that she'd sat fringing for two hours the night before. She wore a skimpy T-shirt and a scarf tied around the crown of her head as if she were going out to sweat in the fields. “Did you sleep some today, Momma?”

“Not much. Too hot.” Folly worked the night shift at the factory, putting zippers in polyester pants. She looked back down at her page.

“Yuck. Do we have to have that stupid flypaper right over the table?”

“Mind your own business, sister. I don't see y'all working out with the fly swatter, ever. That's the reason we need it.”

Mary Lou stood sneering at the yellow strip and didn't answer. Folly had to admire the way her daughter's body had grown so nice and tall and lean. Graceful, too, as it perched on the uppermost portion of childhood. Her hair was brown—short and curly and soft around her face, and her eyes were green and full of clarity, seeing always the nakedness of things—the flypaper, the ratty condition of the sofa, worn so the stuffing showed through in the pattern of the backs of a pair of legs. Mary Lou saw these measures as their failures, and with some shame that they didn't have better, Folly sensed. Her face was so clear, so young and open and unmarked, except for the occasional pimple which she attended to and fussed over as if her pretty puss was the mainstay of the entire family. Folly remembered holding this baby, herself not much older than Mary Lou was now, landing kisses all up and down the child's face, tears in her eyes at the wonder of this soft baby skin having come from her, almost as if she were kissing herself.

Mary Lou did a sort of reverse curtsy, going up on her toes and putting her hands behind her back and said, “See ya later.”

“Where you goin'?”

“Out.”

“Out where?”

“To town.”

“You stay away from the A & P, you hear, child?”

Mary Lou didn't answer.

“I don't want you hangin' around with that Lenore. She's too old for you.”

“Mom, she's only nineteen,” Mary Lou said, exasperation puckering the comers of her mouth.

“That's too old. You're sixteen.”

“You don't have to tell me how old I am.”

“Who told you she was nineteen, anyhow?” Folly asked. “She's been around that store for at least four years now.”

“I know. That's cause she dropped out of school the end of tenth grade.”

“That's what I mean. I don't want you runnin' with that sort. She'll be givin' you ideas about droppin' outa school.”

“But Ma, she's smart. She's so smart she can study on her own. That's why she dropped out of school. She had to work anyway so she figured if she worked all day, she could get her some books and study what she wants to at night. She does, too. You should see all the books she's got.”

“I don't care how many books she's got, she ain't smart,” Folly said, her voice rising. “People don't drop outa school from being too smart . . . and I don't want you around her. I want you goin' to school and lookin' for a job for the summer.” Folly turned her book face down to keep the place, heard the brittle spine crack, leaned forward so the chair was silent, and tried to penetrate Mary Lou with her eyes as if to stamp the statement into her. It was too hot to fight if you could help it.

Mary Lou held on to the back of the dinette chair and matched her stare. She was thinking of what to say. Finally, she said, “School's stupid. There's no way I can explain to you how stupid school is.”

Folly rolled her eyes up in her head to dismiss the point. “You're goin' to school, that's all. You get you a job for summer and then you'll know how easy you got it. I oughta send you to the factory a couple nights. Let you sit in front of that damn sewing machine for eight hours.” She wiped the sweat from her forehead. Jesus, she didn't want to fight. She was just scared for Mary Lou that she'd end up like her or worse. She tried to lower her voice and it came out scratchy. “Look, I'm working my ass off to try to get us out of this rotten trailer. I run off with Barney when I was sixteen cause I thought he was hot shit with his tight pants and his greased back hair and his always having change to buy me a coke at the drug store. They kicked me outa school cause I was pregnant, but I figured sweet shit on them, I already knew everything. Then I had to work cause Barney kept on goin' out with the boys and gettin' drunk and losin' his job, then I was pregnant again . . . . Then, you know the rest.”

Folly looked at the flies stuck on the flypaper instead of at her daughter. She was sorry she had gone on so. That wasn't what she had meant to say.

“Ma. It ain't my fault you married a motherfucker,” Mary Lou said.

“You watch your mouth. You watch how you talk about your father.”

“Well, he was . . . .” Mary Lou kept her mouth in a straight line though both mother and daughter were aware that she was probably
grinning underneath. She had always had a grin to go with her defiance. Folly had pretty much slapped it off her face by the time she was twelve, and now she was sorry. She'd rather Mary Lou would just grin and then she'd know for sure it was there. Instead she picked up her shoulder bag and made a sort of waving gesture out of the way she hiked it up on her shoulder.

“Anyway, Lenore's trying to get me on at the A & P for the summer,” she said at the door. Then she was gone.

Mary Lou was gone and Folly was left with a picture of Lenore standing behind her meat counter, quartering the chickens, her strokes swift and clean. She had always kind of liked the girl. She got up from her rocker and moved the flypaper to an old nail stuck in the wall by the kitchen window. She looked out at the back yard, crabgrass trying to root and spread on the hard clay, some clumps making it and some scuffed away. A lot of folks wouldn't even call it a yard, but it was; it was the only one they had.

She registered how badly the windows needed washing. She should plant some flowers along the back border, she thought. It wasn't too late yet to get them started, but she had no fertilizer.

She took the wash off the line out back and called across to Martha to come on over. The two women sat at the table on the concrete slab of Folly's porch, and Folly folded the laundry into two piles. She folded neatly, trying to keep the ironing pile low. As it was, she never seemed to reach the bottom of it. On the other hand, she didn't want the kids going to school looking sloppy poor.

Folly's appearance reflected this balance in herself. She was not at all fancy or emphatic in the way she presented herself, but she was careful. There was little waste in her movements. She was a small woman. Mary Lou had surpassed her in height already, but she was strong, and her hands moved quickly and decisively. Martha noticed the firmness of the muscles in her arms without realizing what she was doing.

“How's your ma?” Folly asked her.

“Oh, she's getting back to her old crabby self. She woke me up at noon to make sure I wasn't hungry . . . you know, in my sleep I'm gonna be hungry and not feeding myself. Then all afternoon it's, ‘Go lie down, you didn't get near enough sleep.' I couldn't go back, though, with her bumping up and down the sitting room with the cane. She's not near as steady on her feet as she was before she took the pneumonia. I can't help myself from peeping out at her, waiting for her to fall. Lotta good it's gonna be if she does, me lying there peeping.”

Martha had come to live with her mother there in that trailer of Daisy's after Daisy's second stroke. Folly had a lot of respect for what she put up with, but whenever she said anything about it, Martha would say, “Look at your own load, Fol, and the way you take care of it.” Once she'd even said, “I swear you were born a solid rock.”

Folly thought about how Martha always seemed like the rock to her. She kept her awake at work making jokes about the boss. She'd touch her shoulder when Folly was nodding out and say, “I wish I could just give you a pillow but you know old Fartblossom'll be making his rounds soon.” Coming home in the early mornings they always came back to life for the fifteen-minute drive and concocted tricks they would do on Fartblossom once they were ready to quit the factory. That was Folly's favorite time of day. Once you'd come out into the sun and sneezed the lint out of your nose, the air always seemed so sweet and fresh. She often wished they lived a little further from the factory so the drive wouldn't be over so fast.

“Did you finish that mystery yet?” Martha asked.

“Nope . . . hardly got started on it. I been tryin' to figure that Mary Lou again.”

“Yeah. What's she been up to?” Martha turned to face Folly more directly.

“I don't know if it's anything or not. You know that girl behind the meat counter at the A & P? Short, dirty blond hair brushed back?”

“Lenore? I think she's the only woman.”

“Yeah, you know her?”

“Not much. Only from going in the store.”

“She's queer. Least that's what the guidance counselor down at the school says. She called me in to tell me that Mary Lou's been hanging out with her.”

Martha pulled back to herself almost as if she'd been socked with Folly's bluntness. “I didn't think Lenore went to school.”

“She don't. The guidance counselor says she comes by in her car when school lets out and picks my Mary Lou up every now and then. What do you think?”

“I don't know, Folly. Did you talk to Mary Lou?”

“I told her I didn't want her hangin' out with no one that much older. She's a smart-ass kid, got an answer for everything. She ended up callin' Barney a motherfucker.”

“What's he got to do with it?” Martha asked.

“Good question.” Folly shook out a pair of jeans, then placed one leg over the other and smoothed them with her hand. She could
hardly remember how Barney got into it. “He sure was a motherfucking bastard. Serve him right if his daughter turned out queer. Him runnin' back, just stayin' long enough to knock me up with Tiny.” Her face felt hot. The anger always rushed to her head when she thought of him.

“I sure have to agree with you,” Martha said. “It never sounds like he done you any favors.”

“I was pretty stupid,” Folly said. She tried to get back to thinking about Mary Lou. She didn't want her mind wasting time on that bastard. The thought struck her that at least if Mary Lou was messin' around with that girl she wouldn't be gettin' herself knocked up. She didn't say that to Martha, though. It was a weird way for a mother to think.

Martha sat, quiet and patient, waiting for Folly to get back on the track. She ran her fingers through her hair. It was then that Folly realized Martha's hair was cut just about the same as Lenore's. It was the same color, too, except for the temple parts where she had most of her grey. Folly looked away and tried to pretend she was immersed in her laundry. Ever so strange, the feeling that had crept up on her. How could it be that you live next door to this woman, you know exactly how she looks, you know she came up to North Carolina from Florida seven years ago when her ma first took sick. She works all night in the same room with you, she sleeps mornings in the next trailer, she knows every bit of trouble you ever had with the kids. They mind her like they never minded you. She loves them. She's like family. Folly was realizing that Martha never had talked about sex. Never. She'd never talked about any man. She'd never talked about not having children. She'd talked about her girlfriend in Florida when she'd first come up, about working citrus groves with her; then Folly had become her best friend.

This all slipped furtively through her mind in a few seconds and she could only glance sideways at Martha. She was husky. She flicked her cigarette ashes with a manly gesture. “For Christ's sake,” Folly said to herself, “so do I.” Then it hit her that she never talked about sex to Martha either. Except to bitch about Barney. But that was because she didn't have any. She didn't want no man within a clothesline length of her. No thanks. She did just fine living without.

Folly stooped forward and fished around in the laundry basket for more clothes, but she was down to the sheets. She sat back again and scrutinized the ironing pile just to make sure she hadn't put anything in it that could go right on over to the other pile and be done with, but she didn't find any mistakes. Then she searched out two comers of a
sheet, and Martha came around and took the other corners just as she would always do if she were around when the wash was taken in. They stretched it between them.