Stories of Erskine Caldwell (51 page)

“Where does it say that?” he asked anxiously, taking the almanac and holding it so the light could fall on the print. “Does it say we’re going to start having the spring thaw tomorrow, sure enough?”

(First published in
Scribner’s
)

J
ULIA
C
RADDOCK WAS
thirty-five and not once in her life had she been pretty and charming. Thirty-five years had passed — youth and maturity — and still no beauty or charm. And the older she became the uglier she was. Her body was hard and muscular from fifteen years in the kitchen and over the wash tubs. Her hair was coarse, stringy, and dingy. Her face had creased into lines of toil and hideousness and her breasts had fallen flat to her chest like saddle flaps. No man had ever seen in Julia anything but the repugnant suggestion of a female. Not even Joe, her husband. She to him had always been Old Woman.

And now she was dead.

Death was her compensation. As it came it was a compensation for the ugliness of her face and body, and of her life. She had been miserable while she lived — eleven children, fourteen cows, and a flock of chickens. — And eight stinking hogs. Not once had Julia left the farm in over ten years. Work, work, work, from four in the morning till nine at night; never a vacation, a trip to town, nor time to bathe all over. Joe worked all the time, too. Yet his labor returned nothing but an aching back, heartbreak, and poverty. The harder he worked the poorer he became. If he made twenty bales of cotton in the fall the price would drop to where he could barely pay for the fertilizer — usually not even that. Or if the price went up to thirty cents a pound he would, by the curse of too much rain or not enough rain, have no cotton to sell. There with Joe and Julia life wasn’t worth living very long.

And now Julia was dead. And she had never been pretty, nor had she ever felt as though she were. Not once had she had silk against her skin, powder on her nose, a glow on her cheeks, or all the dirt removed from the underside of her fingernails.

The undertaker came and carried her body away. The next morning he brought it back prepared for the burial that afternoon in the cemetery beside the camp-meeting grounds.

But what a body he brought back!

For a long time Joe wouldn’t believe it was Julia. But he found the photograph she had given him a few weeks before they were married and then he knew it was Julia. She looked like a young girl again.

Julia had been bathed all over, and her hair had been shampooed. Her hands were white, and the fingernails manicured; her face was clean and smooth with powder and rouge, and cotton in her mouth levelled the hollows of her cheeks. For once Julia was beautiful. Joe couldn’t take his eyes from her. He sat all day by the casket, silent, weeping, worshiping her beauty. She was clothed in silk — stockings and chemise — and over that a sea-blue dress. The silk dress was sleeveless and cut low in the bust. The undertaker had made her look like a beautiful young girl.

That afternoon she was buried with her beauty in the cemetery at the camp-meeting grounds. Joe begged at the last minute to have the funeral postponed until the next day, but the undertaker wouldn’t listen to him. And neither did he understand.

Julia’s children, with the exception of the oldest two, were not certain of what had become of their mother. It was several years before they could believe that the body the undertaker brought back was that of Julia their mother.

“But that woman in the coffin was a beautiful lady,” they would say.

“Yes,” Joe told them, “Julia — your mother — was a beautiful lady.”

Then he would go to the dresser drawer and take out the photograph for them to see.

(First published in
Blues
)

I
T WAS TEN O’CLOCK
in the starlit desert evening when we drove into Nuevo Leon. After winding through the adobe-walled streets for a while we found the hotel and stopped in front of the entrance. There were few persons out that late, and the only sounds we could hear were the gurgling of the fountain in the plaza across the street and the desert breeze in the tall palms, making a sound like rustling taffeta.

While we were taking some of our things from the car, the proprietor of the hotel came out bowing and smiling. He helped us with a couple of the bags and led us into the lobby.

“It is an honor to have you come into my hotel,” he said, stopping in the center of the lobby and bowing again. “I am very pleased to have you as my guests. The Reforma Hotel is honored.”

We smiled in return. It made us feel good to be welcomed in such a manner.

The proprietor backed behind the desk. Then he placed the register in front of me and handed me the freshly dipped pen.

“The house is yours, Señor,” he said graciously. “Have you been long in Mexico?”

We were tired and dusty, and far from being in a talkative mood. It had been a hard trip across the desert and mountains from the coast. Although the distance was less than three hundred miles, it had taken us since five that morning to reach Nuevo Leon.

I scrawled my name on the register, adding “y Sra.” On the next line I wrote out my wife’s maiden name in full.

The proprietor leaned over the register and looked at the two entries closely.

“The señiorita?” he inquired, looking at us.

“There are only two of us,” I said, indicating my wife and myself.

He bent over the register, this time taking out his glasses and perching them on his nose. After several moments he straightened up and removed the glasses, shaking his head emphatically.

“No, Señor,” he said unsmilingly.

My wife nudged me with her elbow.

“Here is how it is, Señor,” I spoke up. “I signed my name, and added ‘y Sra.’ for my wife. Then on this next line I wrote out my wife’s name in full, her professional name. That was to make everything plain.”

“But where, is the señorita?” he asked, unshaken. “I did not see her arrive here at the hotel with you.” He looked at my wife and me, counting us on two fingers of his hand. “Where is the señorita?”

“There is no señorita,” I said quickly. “My wife and the señorita are one and the same person.”

A broad smile lighted the proprietor’s face.

“That is wonderful!” he said, bowing to my wife.

“What is?” I asked.

“You and the señorita are to be married! It is wonderful!”

My wife and I leaned wearily against the desk. It was almost eleven o’clock by then and we had been up since four that morning. We were envious of all the other guests in the Reforma who had long since retired.

“Señor, let me explain,” I began. “It is a custom of us crazy Norteamericanos. When a man’s wife has a professional name, we sometimes sign both her married name and her professional name at a time like this. She may be receiving telegrams under both names.”

“No, Señor,” he spoke up. “That is impossible.”

“Why?” I asked.

“The telegraph office is closed.”

“Never mind, then,” I said, glancing at my wife. She had dropped her head wearily on the desk. “We don’t want to receive any telegrams tonight, anyway. Just give us a room and let us go to sleep.”

The proprietor nodded his head gravely.

“It is all right now,” he said. “I misunderstood. I offer my apologies. I am very sorry. I will now give you two rooms where you may retire to sleep immediately.”

My wife raised her head from the desk.

“One room,” she said sleepily.

“That is impossible,” he said sternly.

My wife’s head dropped back into the comfort of her arms on the desk.

“Why is it impossible?” I asked.

“I cannot give you one room, because you and the señorita may not sleep together in the Reforma Hotel. It is impossible. I will give you two separate rooms, Señor y Señorita.”

My wife held up her hand, showing him her wedding ring. He looked at it uncertainly.

“We have been married for only seven long, long years, Señor,” she said wearily.

“My apologies, Señora,” he said gravely. “I am deeply humiliated by my behavior. I offer you my apologies time and time again.”

My wife and I backed away, relieved. After we had gone halfway to the stairs we turned and discovered that the proprietor was still behind the desk. He was bent over the register, with his glasses perched on his nose again, reading the entries I had made.

“There has been a serious mistake,” the proprietor said, looking at us accusingly. “Señora, your husband has not yet arrived at the hotel. When do you expect him?”

My wife and I looked at each other confusedly.

“What are you talking about?” she said, going back to the desk. “This is my husband here, Señor!”

He looked at the names written on the register once more. Then he straightened up, shaking his head sternly. “It is impossible,” he said.

“Why?” she asked.

“Your husband has not yet registered at the Reforma Hotel. When he arrives, he must sign his name in this book before he may share your room with you, Señora.”

He looked at us more sternly than ever.

“What in the world are we going to do?” my wife asked perplexedly, turning to me.

“I don’t know,” I told her. “I don’t know what we can do.”

While we stood there, the proprietor took two keys from the rack behind the desk and led the way to the stairs. We followed in silence, fearing to utter a word even in whisper.

When we reached the hall on the second floor, the proprietor unlocked a door and bowed my wife into the room. Before I could follow her inside he stepped into the doorway, blocking my entrance.

“No, Señor,” he said, shaking his head at me. “It is impossible.”

I could see my wife standing on tiptoes looking at me over his shoulder. She was speechless.

Dropping the luggage, I went up to him.

“Let me explain once more, Senior,” I began, trying my best to conceal my impatience. “We are married to each other. My wife is wearing her wedding ring. We wish to enter our room and retire for the night. We are very tired. We drove all the way across the desert from the coast today.” He turned and looked at my wife. She gazed at him appealingly. After several moments of indecision, he shrugged his shoulders and stepped aside, bowing deeply.

“I must apologize for my error,” he said. “Sometimes I do not always understand the customs of the Norteamericanos. Please accept my apologies.”

He bowed backward down the hall until he reached the stairway. I ran into the room, shut the door, and locked it securely before anything further could happen.

We stood at the door listening to his footsteps until we were certain he had gone down to the lobby.

It was not long before we were startled by a sudden rapping on the door. We waited, holding our breath. After a moment the knocking began again, louder than before. It could not be ignored after that.

“Who is it?” I shouted in the darkness.

“I am the proprietor, Señor,” he said. “Please open the door immediately.”

“Don’t do it,” my wife said. “We’ll never get any sleep tonight if we have to argue with him again.”

“But he may break down the door,” I said.

“Let him break it down,” she said wearily. “It’s his door.”

We were quiet, not making another sound.

The renewed knocking shook the whole building. It continued unceasingly.

“We may as well find out what he wants,” I said. “We can’t sleep with that going on.”

“Don’t let him start another argument, whatever you do,” my wife said. “Tell him it is too late to argue now, but that we will argue with him in the morning after breakfast.”

I turned on the light.

“What do you want, Señor?” I asked at last.

“The door must be opened immediately,” he said, raising his voice above the knocking.

I got up and unlocked the door. The proprietor stood in the doorway. He did not cross the threshold.

“It is impossible!” he said excitedly.

“What’s impossible?” I asked.

“You may not sleep with the señorita!” he said loudly.

“Oh, my goodness!” my wife cried. “He’s started that again!”

I could hear doors opening along the hall. Everybody in the hotel had been aroused by the clamor.

“Look here!” I said crossly. “I am not sleeping with a señorita! This is my wife!”

“It is impossible!” he said, raising his voice above mine.

“Why is it impossible?” I shouted.

“You must occupy a separate room, Señor!” he commanded. “Tomorrow you may become married to the señorita, if she wishes to be married, and then tomorrow night you will not be required to occupy separate rooms. But tonight you must!”

I glanced toward my wife helplessly.

“What are we going to do?” I asked.

“Goodness knows,” she said. “Won’t he listen to reason at all?”

I turned round and faced the proprietor, opening my mouth to speak. Before I could utter a sound he had already spoken.

“It is impossible, Señor,” he said, pushing himself between me and the room.

I found myself being directed down the hall, past several persons standing sleepily in the doorways of their rooms. He opened a door and turned on the light.

“Please accept my apologies, Señor,” he said, bowing low. “It is to my deep regret. But it was impossible.”

He closed the door, quickly turning the key in the lock on the outside. After he had withdrawn it, I heard him walking briskly down the hall to the stairway.

(First published in
Harper’s
)

N
O ONE IN THE
village had ever heard of a wood-turning mill called the Yankee Dowel Company when the stranger asked to be directed to it. He said he was positive the plant was in the town of Liverpool, because he had a letter in his pocket with the postmark on it and the name and address of the company printed on the letterhead. There were six or seven mills of that kind in the town, the largest being over in East Liverpool and owned by Walt Brown.

“Who signed the letter you got there?” Nate Emmonds asked him.

“A man by the name of Brown,” he said, looking at the letter again. “Walter J. Brown.”