Oldest Living Confederate Widow Tells All (127 page)

Louisa knew where we all filed our secrets. She rushed right to her sister’s sock drawer and announced that the savings passbook was missing. (My husband had started all our children with five-dollar accounts. Most soon whittled deep into their capital, owing to excess candy purchases.) Not Baby! She deposited a few coins each week. We never knew how she earned a cent. Whenever Baby turned up at the bank with her white calfskin handbag clutched before her, the head teller, a maiden lady, made much over our thrifty dumpling.

Now our diamond reading group rushed downtown to People’s and Farmers’ National Bank. Miss Pritchard, the head teller, smiled her best savings-account grin. (She had no checking anywheres in here—a young woman already far too willing to start being old.)

“Well, well. We understood your third-youngest is heading for Hollywood, California, to be a moving-picture star. She even had her cooking gear along.”

“Of course,” I tried to sound in charge for once (though my honor guard of kids gave me judging looks). “And when did our famous one take off for points west? Look, Miss Pritchard, tell me how much my child had stashed with you-all. What might Baby’s nest egg now total, please?”

“That,” Miss Pritchard, bun in a snood, eyeglasses on a black cord, pencil held by a silver chain, brass sweater guard preventing any wind or vandal
from getting her black cardigan even two inches out of place, “is confidential. Bank policy, alas.”

I turned to leave—ain’t no arguing with such rule-book souls. (Not five years later, she’d be stretched out here on the marble floor of People’s and Farmers’ after trying to stop a holdup, after body-blocking some drunk man who’d grabbed sixty-one dollars, a drunk that our duty-proud unfairly unloved Miss Pritchard
forced forced forced
to shoot her.) But today she stopped me, one touch on my shoulder. She whispered she’d lift a certain number of fingers. I’d draw my own conclusions about what she was signaling, okay? That way, see, she wouldn’t compromise a soul. Soon as she broke a rule for me, I liked her very much. The more you love the law, the more you love the ones that break it right. We all cried at her funeral.

By the time Miss Pritchard, using both her ringless hands, poked up fingers totaling thirty-two, I felt ready to call in the State Police. I pictured my poor Baby, footloose, full of jewel, headed west toward stardom. How does a unemployed five-year-old earn that kind of money? Beside me, holding my right fist, squeezing it so the dime-store ring hurt me even more, freckled Louisa, a bit jealous but real worried, gaped my way, eyes large, and admitted: Each Saturday, Baby’d been bustling downtown—all starched and rosy. Then, on the sidewalk before Robinson’s Billiards (rough trade at its most lubricated), our Baby danced. For money.

“Now
you tell me,” I scold our eldest. “Eating diamonds, plus panhandling nickels off of sentimental drunks? That child’s got a future if we can catch her in time.”

We rush past Lucas’, where Luke hisself hollers, “A certain hurrying young person purchased a lifetime’s supply of breath mints here not thirty minutes back, is all I’ll say.” So we check two country roads bound west. Find nothing. Then we scout the train depot, looking under each booth of the ladies’ room, making enemies. Luckily, it being but 19 and 10, there won’t no aeroport yet, which saved us a trip.

Well, I had to go back home, had to settle at my own kitchen table before choosing what step to take next. By now, child, you know me: one of those people that’s no good whatever at deciding important things on the street amongst total strangers. My house was always like bifocals that jerk world-blur to something sharp and clean. (This Home I’m in, it ain’t home. No wonder I can’t see good.)

I’d settled at my kitchen table, sighing, debating between sending telegrams or screaming, when I notice this tiny gift-wrapped bundle near my right hand. I take the thing up, rip it open. I half believe Baby herself might leap out of this four-inch casket. Here, slotted in its rich brown velvet case, I discover a ring—not my own, but a real gem—I’m not sure what type of stone it was—purplish, full of light, bound by a simple yellow-gold setting. At the bottom of the box, I find a price sticker (from Cuthrell’s Jewelers of Distinction—locally our best). “Thirty-four dollars,” I make a little cry and sprint upstairs. I find her doubled over in bed, sobbing.

“Your life savings,” I shout. I test her for fever. “Your short life’s total savings. No fair.”

I explain, though the ring’s beautiful—amazingly tasteful for a five-year-old to pick—we’ll have to take it back. “And you’re never to go spend any such amount on your mother ever again, you understand me?”

Baby confessed to her pillow, “It not nice as your one, Momma. I show the man the one I want. I put my finger on their big glass box. Baby point and point. But he look at all Baby’s money, he say Baby can only have
that
one. Yours is better but … Baby ate. I point and point, Momma. They won’t give me it. Baby feel so … only. All Baby’s money not enough money, Momma.”

“Don’t,” I say. We hold on to each other, blubbering while my family (and strangers’ children) mill around watching us from the hall. Their eyes go narrow, their arms folded. Louisa circulates among them, collecting a few more pennies. For kids, this day has turned out even better than expected. Meaning: worse.

SOON
. It had to happen
soon
. I couldn’t go on like this. When I seen just how low Baby’s morale had slipped, I invented a trip for her, not to Hollywood, but at least around town. We’d sock her money back into People’s and Farmers’. We would do chores, just me and her, nobody else. The others begged to come. I let my child wear all four Sunday petticoats plus a little white-sprigged hat from last Easter. Baby did love that hat. (Some five-year-olds are already as vain as any grownup ever gets. It’s funny to see.)

Making a fuss over the poor child, I was halfway down our front walk, was holding Baby’s spongy little hand, when Louisa yells, running out the house. She’s carrying Mr. Pottie and Miss Lydia. “You forgot you-all fishing net.” She jiggled these by the handle, like popping popcorn—clowning. But I saw that Louisa, left in charge here, was dead right. Away from home, it might happen anywhere, our golden moment.

In the prescription wing of Lucas’ All-Round Store, Luke, who’d taken a night-school course in pharmacy, nodded toward my child. He studied her—all gussied up and puff-sleeved. Baby held her pot and lid in that proud quiet way she has, had. “So, ladies,” said now-white-haired Luke. “Covered-dish supper at the church tonight?” That man had to know everything.

“No, sir.” I saw my child flinch, scared I’d squeal on her. “Nope, let’s say we’re carrying around a family recipe.” I winked at Baby, full of shine and secrets. She liked that. Luke was forever running “How Many Jelly Beans in This Jar?” contests. He was a demon with his mortar and pestle.

“So,” he looked up. “A dish made with some secret family ingredient, is it?”

“Yeah,” I admitted. “Luke, this pot’s kept aside, special-like, for … the secret ingredient all to itself. And you know what’s odd? This particular ingredient’s found in every American home. But nobody ever stops to consider
it. The stuff is the opposite of attention-getting. Oh, yeah, it’s been in our family for years. Whole generations. Goes way back.”

“Secret, hunh? Ingredient, is it?” We’d got Luke interested. Baby and me pivoted to leave. “Wait. I bet it’s … baking soda,” Mr. Lucas hollered. I squinched up my nose: meaning a No answer. “Okay,” he leaned over a display card of toenail clippers. “I’ll go with … bay leaves!”

“Is he even warm, Baby? Tell our favorite storeman that much. No more.” I hunkered down beside my darling and jewel.

Luke bribed her with some butterscotch candy. Just one hint? Was the secret ingredient liquid or solid? Bigger than a bread box? What color? Shrugging, the child acted bored but willing. “Baby gives him one teentsy hint—it siney!” I saw she hadn’t understood. Just as well.

We dragged past the baseball park, bound home. It’d sure been a long long day and I felt this in that achy clock: my lower back. I was ready to admit—I’d lost the ring. I felt justified in acting extra bitter for a week. What
good
is the world? That same second Baby starts the dancing. “Oh Lord.” We just made it to a grim ladies’ room behind the dugout. It was all gray cement, green mold, and lipstick on the mirrors. In my panic, I slipped Miss Lydia under Baby, then quick replaced it with Mr. Pottie proper. Both Baby and me heard something, metal, loud, go clank. Sounded like some shrapnel from her poppa’s stories, like it weighed eight pounds easy. A red-faced Baby grinned. A red-faced Baby laughed, then, pale-faced, cried and cried. I clamped Miss Lydia on, real tight. Finally semi-happy—with results warm before us at my wrist’s far end—the child and me marched home, hand in hand, arms swinging.

The human body
is
the only drain that gives back all it’s given … more!

WE DECIDED
to make a party out of our regaining everything. I offered Baby a lot of the credit (trying to build her up, don’t you see. It’s what we called “just good psychology”). Soon as we hit the kitchen, I soaked that ring for four straight hours in a brew of ⅓ straight ammonia-bleach, ⅓ Oxydol soap (which could blister rowboat paint), plus
scalding scalding scalding
water.

Pottie and Lydia got drowned in the same solution till their last red enamel flaked off. Baby was allowed to keep these utensils. By now they meant something to her. She took the clean Mr. Pottie outdoors and planted zinnias and one Easter lily bulb in him. Settled on our back porch, she taped her pot with a sign she’d dictated to me: “Here It’s Baby’s Secret Garden. Keep Out or Pay.” Miss Lydia waited alongside. Baby’d nested betwixt them and—when I looked out my window over the sink—I saw her, arms Xed across her chest, face set, muttering—guarding friendly items like she’d heard Austro-Hungarian spies were out to kidnap them. My third-youngest
stayed there—relieved, jumpy, proud—explaining things to herself till dinner.

Come mealtime, the twins waltz in with construction-paper place cards shaped like big rings, tinfoil being the diamonds. “Such clever children. Whose
are
you!” I touch their heads. With my grizzled husband away, I put out six Kress’s candles—meaning: a special event. We will now celebrate the stone’s homecoming.

My children all line up to study the now-famous ring. (Famous to us, at least.) “No pushing,” says I. “There’s plenty for everybody.”

“Show Archie, Momma,” Baby says. “Look, dat so coot. Archie wants to see.” I peel off my apron and settle. Ned pulls out the chair for me. News of my jewel’s comeback should be in the
Herald Traveler
but, of course, it won’t get mentioned noplace.

Soon as we’ve started on the corned beef and cabbage, Lou announces I can consider myself married again. I take off the rock then slip it back on. The twins hum “Here Comes the Bride.” Looking around the candlelit table, it seems—for one second—like I had these children without any man’s help. All solitary mothers must get these flashes. A willful woman’s stubborn self-seeding—just another inside job and daily chore. Of course, my wee ones look so much like him. I can never believe very long in my being a self-starter.

Lou, especially, setting here beside me, shows her pop’s sober open mood of a face. Observing it all, believing but little. Tonight, she droops, real sad. Slow, I understand that, in trying to keep my high-strung Baby calm during this upset, I’ve ignored my brightest if maybe plainest-looking child. Lou (an entire planet on tap betwixt her braids) usually behaves right well. Till she feels left out. Then, honey, you better hire somebody to watch her.

With my free hand, I find hers under our tablecloth. Lou’s grip bites into my Kress’s ring. I now slip that jewelry off, awarding it to her hand, in secret. (Oh, but kids respect secrets—everybody’s trust fund.) The rhinestone ring, too small for me, wobbles on Lou’s knuckle. I bent its soft metal hoops to fit.

Now I show off my real diamond, one Zelia couldn’t work off Lady’s scarred finger, one lost to me then boomeranged on back. “It ain’t ever looked better,” I say. “Will you all just study the fire in it? Like it’s happy to be back. My ring means more to me than ever. Why, I’d quit noticing it. Now I’ll never take it for granted again. Thank you, Baby. Really.” Smiling, shy, Baby nods, accepts. (Odd, I only said that to make her feel better. But, in the way you do, of a sudden, I found I meant it.)

How lucky I am to have pretty smart and really healthy children, plus jewelry that comes back when nature, daylight, greed, and gravity all call.

Lou now stands, formal. Others have been nudging her, whispering.

“Okay,” she sounds so serious it scares me. Under the cloth, she lets my hand fall free. I miss her heat. “Okay, I made up a poem that some people
on our street have already memorized.
They
want me to say it”—grinning, she points at brothers and sisters, who cheer. Baby goes extra still.

Myself, I do not particularly care to risk hearing Louisa’s poesy. But—no matter what the topic of it—you cannot squelch a poem from your own child. Especially with candlelight at dinner and your husband out of town. So I say, “I’m sure yours is a very good one.” We all wait. I tense some. I notice Baby fidgeting like hiccups looking for a home. Then Louisa clears her throat.

“Okay … No, not yet … Yeah, okay … Now.”

Three laughing children fall off chairs. Two chime their water glasses. I turn quick to Baby. There’s one second when, batting wet blue eyes, she’s about to go screeching down our hall. Then, slow (it’s hard for her and that makes me feel real proud), she shrugs. She makes a “who cares?” mouth. Baby’s already grown older! It’s like she’s admitting: Louisa’s poem is true. Which, though blunt, I reckon it mostly is. We all study Baby. Others crawl back up onto furniture. They quiet some—waiting for a usual Baby conniption fit. But, knowing what we all expect, the child acts right dignified.