Last in a Long Line of Rebels (7 page)

The Grey Motel parking lot was full. The sleigh bells attached to the door announced our arrival, and we walked through the crowded room to the booth where Bertie sat.

“What are y'all doing here this early? Isn't summer vacation for sleeping till noon?”

I shrugged, and the three of us slid in around her.

Bertie moved her coffee and newspaper. “Robbie,” she called to the waitress, “if those biscuits are hot, I'm sure these kids would like some with your famous chocolate gravy.”

Franklin and Benzer grinned. Chocolate gravy was the diner's specialty.

A few minutes later, Robbie came back with a plate of steaming biscuits and a gravy boat. As we ate, Bertie turned to speak to a friend in the booth behind her. I watched, amazed. I'd heard her come up the stairs to bed about midnight, and she was gone by the time I got up at eight o'clock, yet no frown lines, no bags under the eyes, no crow's-feet, even when she laughed. I decided, right then and there, Botox was a miracle, and if I ever needed it, I would get it. Her hair was fluffed perfectly, and she was wearing pale slacks with a turquoise top and matching turquoise jewelry. I glanced under the table. Even her sandals had a large turquoise band across the toes. I looked down at my own jeans and T-shirt. If fashion sense is hereditary, Patty got my share.

“Of course it's ridiculous,” Bertie was saying. “Most of the town knows Coach Peeler is the biggest donkey's behind this side of the Mason-Dixon Line.” She turned around and caught me looking. “Why are you staring?”

I licked the last remaining bits of chocolate off of my fork. “'Cause you look really pretty,” I said.

That brought a huge smile. “Aren't you sweet? Should I be humble and pretend I don't agree?”

I laughed. “That would be a first!”

Bertie laughed along with me and turned to the boys. “Are you enjoying that biscuit, Franklin?”

Franklin wiped his chin with a napkin. “Yes, ma'am. It's delicious.”

“You let me know if you need another one,” Bertie said, winking. “I never could resist a man in uniform.”

I rolled my eyes. Bertie would flirt with a rock.

“So we were kind of bored and thinking about visiting that new museum you're so crazy about,” I told her.

Bertie set her coffee cup down with a thud. “What? Miss I Hate History wants to go to the museum?”

I grinned. “Key word—
bored
.”

“The museum, huh? Y'all angling for a personal tour?” she asked.

“Hey, that's a really great idea,” Benzer said enthusiastically. I kicked him under the table; he didn't have to oversell it.

The sleigh bells rang behind me.

Bertie made a face at someone over my shoulder. “Oh, phooey,” she muttered.

I turned around in the booth. A short, pudgy man wearing a suit was smiling and shaking hands with folks at the counter.

“Would you be able to leave soon?” Franklin asked. “I need to be home by lunch.”

“Fine by me; I just lost my appetite anyway. Y'all go to the car. I'll settle up and meet you there.”

Benzer stood, but not before he managed to stuff a whole biscuit into his mouth, his cheeks blowing out like a chipmunk's. I punched him in the stomach, causing a chunk to shoot across the room.

“Disgusting,” Franklin said.

We walked past the counter and around the group of men that were still standing there.

“You think those boys are going to be finished with the bridge by fall, Pete?”

“They better be,” the man in the suit said. “That's when their pay stops.”

“If they are,” another man laughed, “it will be the first time the county's met a deadline that I've heard of.”

“Things have changed since I became commissioner. You boys remember that when I'm up for reelection.”

I glared at the back of his head. That had to be the sorry thief who was trying to take my house. I elbowed Benzer. “Is that Blake's dad?” I asked, whispering.

Benzer nodded.

Franklin opened the door. “I call the front seat!”

I gave one more hateful look at the back of Pete Winningham and ran outside.

The Grey County Museum was housed in what used to be a shirt factory. It had closed a while ago, and since no one seemed interested in buying the building, the town donated it to the historical society. Bertie is passionate about a lot of things, and history ranks right up there. She organized the town ladies, and they held raffles, spaghetti suppers, whatever they could think of to raise enough money for remodeling. Benzer and I went to the grand opening, but we didn't get to see much of it. We'd signed the guest book—Verbyl Belch and Anita Goodman— and Daddy had parked us at the entrance taking tickets.

I could see why she was so proud of it. The foyer was very fancy, with gleaming hardwood floors and a greeter wearing a green top embroidered with
ZM
on the lapel. I recognized her as Thelma Johnson, Bertie's ex-neighbor.

“Morning, Alberta,” she said with a sniff.

Bertie just nodded and herded us through. She and Thelma have been feuding ever since Thelma married Bertie's ex-husband. The only reason they can be in the same room together is because they each know how much it irritates the other.

Carrying a paper towel and a bottle of window cleaner, Thelma walked over to the front doors and began wiping the glass. “Suggested donation is three dollars,” she called over her shoulder.

Bertie snorted. “I've got a suggestion for her—find some looser trousers. Hers are so tight, if she so much as toots, her shoes will blow off.”

I grinned at Benzer and whispered, “Who knew history could be so fun?”

“Bertie makes everything fun,” Benzer answered.

We walked from the foyer into a wide hallway. There were several people scattered around, going in and out of different rooms. “Is it always this busy?”

“Yes,” Bertie answered. “Sometimes even more so. The museum's got people thinking about their own history and connection to the town. We get all kinds of folks coming in to do research on their family tree and that sort of thing.”

“Can we do one for ours?” I asked.

Bertie opened her eyes wide. “This day is full of surprises. Of course we can.”

A door to the left was open, and we could see shelves full of Ball jars. “What's in there?” Franklin asked.

“That's the gift shop,” Bertie said. “We sell all kinds of good stuff; honey from the valley, homemade jellies, and local genealogy books.”

“Are the Mayhews in them?” Franklin asked.

“Of course! It wouldn't be a book about Grey County if they weren't.”

I started forward. “Let's get one now.”

“Hold your horses. I've got lots of the same books at home on my bedside table.”

We passed a room full of antique medical equipment and one set up like an old schoolroom. “That's a replica of the Maynard School,” Bertie said. “I had to fight to get that included.”

“What's the Maynard School?” Franklin asked.

“The school that used to be on Maynard Street—you know, where the black students had to go before integration.”

I thought about Isaac and the red flyers we'd seen on our walk. “I guess things haven't changed as much as you would hope. You know, we're only two hours away from where the Ku Klux Klan was born.”

Benzer ran his hand across one of the old wooden desks. “I can't believe it, but they're still around today. My dad and I watched a documentary on it. It's crazy how people are raising their kids to hate people.”

“That's one of the reasons I was so gung ho on starting this museum,” Bertie told us. “You'd be amazed how quickly people can forget their own history if you don't preserve it. And when you forget the past, you're bound to repeat the same old mistakes.”

A man was staring at us from across the room, and I recognized him from the Tate Brothers auction.

“Bertie,” I whispered, “who is that?”

She looked at where I was pointing. “You ought to know, he spoke at our Grand Opening. He's a prominent historian named George Neely.”

“The opening was weeks ago. What's he doing still here?”

“Oh, he's doing some research,” Bertie said. “It's very hush-hush. I suspect he doesn't want to tell 'cause he'd have everybody in town putting in their two cents.”

We walked from room to room, passing displays of quilts, arrowheads, even a room set up like a 1950s kitchen. A large cabinet in the hallway held antique guns and swords. Benzer and Franklin stopped to read the sign.

“What does ‘Rebel Relics' mean?” asked Benzer.

“Rebels was what the Yankee newspapers started calling folks fighting for the Confederacy,” Bertie said. “Course, they didn't expect them to wear the label with pride, but they did.”

“Because they were rebelling against what they thought of as a tyrannical government,” Franklin said.

“If
tyrannical
means ‘bossy,' then you're exactly right. That's why you find Southerners still using the term today. We're not big on having the government tell us what to do.”

I thought about Pete Winningham. “I can see why.”

“Of course, it would have been better if they weren't rebelling over slavery,” Benzer said.

Bertie smiled. “So true. You got me on that, Benzer. But if the cause is right, being a rebel can be a good thing.”

The last room we entered held hundreds of black-and-white photographs under a large piece of glass.

“What's this?” Benzer asked, leaning in close.

“This is a Who's Who of the town. It was a great idea—mine, of course. Everyone that donated money to the museum could place a picture of their most esteemed relation in here. Everyone wanted to be included. This room alone paid our expenses for six months.”

The photos were labeled underneath. A sour-looking man in a black coat and high white collar caught my eye. “Silas A. Whittle,” I read aloud. “Hey, that's the guy that owned our Bible!”

“That's him, all right. He was one of the first preachers in town,” Bertie said, “and a close friend of the Mayhews.”

I frowned at him.
And the owner of the magic Bible that brought trouble,
I could have added.

I walked along the wall, reading names. “Here's a Jackson and a Weldon—hey, Franklin, here's a Kimmel.” I stared at the old photograph. There were four young people standing together. “Brody Kimmel, Louise Duncan, Olivia McDonald, and Walter Mayhew,” I read. I elbowed Benzer. Walter Mayhew! “So Franklin's ancestor and mine were friends?”

“There are actually two Mayhews in that photo,” Bertie said. “Louise Duncan married Walter a few years later.”

“That's
the
Louise? The one I was named after?”

“The very one.”

“Wow! And who's Olivia McDonald?” asked Benzer.

“A cousin on Louise's side, I believe.”

“Bertie, how do you know so much about Daddy's side of the family?”

She shrugged. “I've always loved history, and the Mayhews are fascinating.” She smiled. “Also I'm a bit of a snoop. Just because they're long dead doesn't make their lives any less interesting.”

“Bertie,” Thelma Johnson called from the doorway, “the museum in Sparta's on the phone. They say they never got the books you were supposed to send.”

“Tell them to call the post office. I sent them a week ago.”

“You tell them,” Thelma said. “It's your doing, not mine.”

“Mercy. That woman is as useless as a milk bucket under a bull!” Bertie followed Thelma out, stepping aside as George Neely walked into the room.

We smiled politely and then went back to looking at the pictures.

“Franklin, can you take a picture of them for me?”

He nodded and held out his camera. “I'll drop the film off at the drugstore later this week.”

I leaned in for a better look at the photo of my ancestors. “Walter said Louise had a sweet smile in the letter I found, and she does have a nice one.” Louise was standing in profile, smiling up at Brody Kimmel. “I think she's kinda pretty.”