The Truth According to Us (22 page)

They smiled at each other companionably. “I'm trying to summon the spirit to make a pie for supper,” said Jottie. “You like peach pie?”

“Yes, of course,” said Layla. “But will you—I mean, may I ask about why Mrs. Saubergast and Mrs. Odell—”

“Oh Lord, just call them by their first names. They won't mind. You want to know why they live here during the week instead of with their husbands.”

“Not that it's any of my business,” Layla said apologetically.

Jottie laughed. “That never stopped anyone before. The two of them can't stand to be apart, is the real reason. They got engaged to Henry and Waldon at about the same time, got married in a double ceremony—prettiest wedding you ever saw—and went dancing off, Mae to the farm and Minerva to Henry's house, just as happy as clams. For about a week. Then they found out they were miserable without each other. They had never spent more than a few hours apart before, and they didn't
know what it would be like. You should have seen them: They were gray as ashes inside of a month. So they came home.”

“But—don't their husbands
mind
?” Layla asked.

“Waldon never minds anything, bless his heart. Easiest man on earth. Henry, well, you'll probably run into him sometime, and you'll see what he thinks. He don't like it much. He used to try to keep Minerva home, but she'd give him the slip. She'd tell him she was going to run over here to borrow a cup of sugar, and then she'd stay. Around nine o'clock, he'd come for her. We'd hear him stomping up the front stairs, him and his little mustache.” Jottie chuckled reminiscently. “Once he came in and recited their wedding vows aloud in the middle of the front room. Minerva lay on the sofa and listened just as meek as a dove until he finished, and then she said, ‘Isn't it funny how “cleave” means two opposite things?' Henry stormed out of the house, mad as hops, and I thought that was going to be the end of them, but they managed to patch it up.” Jottie smiled into Layla's wide eyes. “Funny, isn't it.”

“Well, it's unusual,” said Layla, striving to reconcile truth with tact.

“Yes.” Jottie nodded. “Henry's an odd one.”

“Henry?!” exclaimed Layla. “I would say Minerva!”

“Oh,
Minerva
,” said Jottie affectionately. “I could have told you she'd get tired of living with Henry day in and day out. Henry never was much fun. He wanted to be a banker when he was five years old, can you imagine? He used to try to lend us children money at interest. The snake.” She paused, remembering. “There was one day Felix caught him at it. He tied Henry to a tree and put up a big sign saying he was a usurer.”

Layla giggled. “Poor Henry.”

“Puh. It was the most exciting thing that ever happened to Henry Odell. Best day of his life. He spent the next ten years hanging around here trying to get someone to pay that much attention to him again. Henry's been real fond of Felix ever since. Won't hear a word against him.”

Layla smiled. “Who would say a word against Felix?”

“I can think of a couple people,” said Jottie carefully. “Henry's aunt
Augusta, just for example. Her daughter Sylvia was married to Felix there for a while.”

“But she's dead, isn't she?” blurted Layla. Instantly she blushed. “I mean—I don't know where I got—I just assumed he was—a widower.”

“A widower?” Jottie smiled. “No. Divorced.”

“Well!” said Layla, digesting it. “Divorced. It's not uncommon these days, is it? Plenty of people get divorced. Personally, I think it's fine.” And she did, she decided. “If people are unsuited, well, then, there's no shame in admitting it.”

Jottie nodded noncommittally.

“Were they—Felix and his wife—unsuited? In your opinion?” Layla probed.

Jottie felt in her pocket and withdrew a box of cigarettes. “They didn't know each other very well.” At all, she added internally.

“Really? Why not?”

Jottie opened the box and looked inside. “They eloped three weeks after they met.” How much should she tell? How much would be enough to make this girl wary?

“They did?” Layla's voice rose with enthusiasm. “How romantic!”

Jottie tried again. “Sort of. They were both engaged to other people at the time.”

“Oh!” Even more romantic, really, Layla thought. Love over discretion.

“Then they got found out, and they more or less had to run off and get married,” Jottie said flatly. “Felix was…fickle.”

Fickle? That seemed unfair. He was romantic. “Well, a fickle youth!” Layla said lightly. “Is he still fickle?”

“Yes,” said Jottie. Her eyes held Layla's. “Very.”

Layla recoiled. How terribly cold. Poor Felix, condemned for following his heart, just as she herself had been punished for refusing Nelson. Did Felix's kindness, his warmth, his obvious affection for his family count for nothing? It wasn't right. “He certainly seems very devoted to you. And to the children,” she said icily. “I've never seen such a devoted brother, actually.”

Jottie looked away. It was true. “Yes,” she said after a moment. “Yes, of course. Very devoted. No question about that.” She sighed. “Do you have a brother?”

“Yes,” said Layla guardedly. “Yes. One. Elder brother.”

“That's nice. Are you close?”

“Close?” Layla repeated, as if she didn't understand the word. “Well. A bit. Some. He's very…intelligent.”

Jottie smiled. “You're no dummy yourself.”

Layla flushed with pleasure. “Thanks.”

“Where does your family live?” asked Jottie conversationally.

“Washington,” answered Layla. She rose. “I'd be glad to help you with that pie, Jottie.”

—

Jottie slid the pie into the oven, closed the door, and stood. Her fingers crept into her pocket and withdrew a cigarette. She had tried. Nobody could say she hadn't tried. “He certainly seems very devoted to you.” And he was. He had taken care of her when she had lost everything. She couldn't deny it.

“I can't.”

“Sure you can,” Felix insisted
.

“Felix.” Jottie shook her head. “I just
—
just—maybe next week. Not now.”

“Come on, honey.” He ducked his head to see into her eyes. “Button your coat and pull your hat down a little.” When she made no move, he reached up and tugged it for her. “See? You look fine. No one can tell about your hair. It looks like you got it bobbed, that's all.”

She could feel the perspiration on her forehead. “I can't, Felix.”

There was a swish of cloth as their mother entered the room behind them. “Well!” she cried, catching sight of her daughter. “It's about time!” Felix sent her a warning glance. “Don't you give me that look, Felix Romeyn! I'm just saying it's about time Jottie got over the whole thing and stopped acting like a
widow
or something!”

“Mama,” he said. “Drop it.”

“It's not like it wasn't an awful shock for me, too. Or for your daddy!”

“I said to drop it.”

If his mother noticed the change in his voice, she gave no sign of it. “And you, too! When I think of how you and Vause were friends, why, I could just scream!”

Jottie steeled herself as Felix's fingers closed tight around a squat bronze figurine from a nearby table. “Get out of here,” he said to his mother
.

His mother's eyes dropped to the figurine. There was a moment's calculation before she said, “How can you talk to me like that?”

“Easy. Get out.”

Mrs. Romeyn took a step backward. “You're so harsh with me, Felix. You were the sweetest baby.” Her eyes filled. “But now you're just cruel. Maybe it's the shock, but honestly, anyone would think I was the criminal, the way you talk to me.”

Felix smiled, and the whiteness of his teeth was startling
.

Mrs. Romeyn swallowed pitifully to allow time for an apology that didn't come. Then she said, “We'll see you at supper?”

“Maybe.”

She gave a theatrical sigh and rustled away. Felix set the figurine down and turned back to Jottie
.

“Thanks,” she whispered
.

“My pleasure.”

“Don't leave.” If he left, she would die
.

“Remember what I said? I'll stay by you. You'll see. Now, let's us go for a little stroll.” He studied her, frowning, and then fastened the top button of her coat. “There. Let's go.”

“It's just that—that everyone knows—” She broke off, shaking and helpless
.

He waited. When she said nothing, he urged, “Everyone knows what?”

“Everyone knows”—her voice sank to a whisper—“that I believed him. Everyone knows he made a fool out of me. They're going to look at me and feel sorry for me and I can't—I can't
—”

Felix looked at the floor and nodded. “I know. But he did it. Not you. You didn't do anything wrong.” He lifted his eyes to hers. “Vause lied. He did wrong. Not you. Got that?” She shrugged. “Come on.” He picked up
her hand and drew it through his arm. “Here's what: You don't have to look at anyone. You just hang on to me and I'll stare 'em down for you, okay? Because neither of us did anything wrong. Okay?” He wheeled her around to face the mirror. “Okay?”

“I loved him.”

“I know. Me too. Come on.”

As they stepped off the front porch, her trembling fingers dug into his sleeve. He looked down at her and smiled. “See how nice it is out here?” he said. “Smells like spring.”

Jottie took a long, glad pull on her cigarette and waved the match out. Then she swung around to look at Layla. “Wasn't I going to tell you about Reverend Goodacre this afternoon?”

Layla smiled. “I certainly hope you are! Let me get my notebook.”

Father came home from his business with Clayton V. Hart on Tuesday, but he had to leave again after a few days, to go to Columbus, Ohio. He said he had been hired by the town fathers of Columbus, Ohio, to inspect their statuary. It wasn't true, of course. He was joking. But I wondered what he was really going to do there. Was he going on business for Cooey's Red Apple? I couldn't decide, and I couldn't ask him, either. I watched his face and thought he probably was. A minute later, I thought he probably wasn't. I was in my room, trying to figure it out, when I heard his car crunching down the dirt alley behind our house. He was gone. I decided to go over to Capon Street to see Geraldine. I wanted to throw some plums.

Mrs. Lee pushed back the rhododendron branches and found us. “Thought I heard something.”

Geraldine was trained for capture. “We're just sitting here, Mama. Just talking about holy baptism.”

“That right?” Mrs. Lee peered at me. “Who's that?”

“That's Willa, Mama. You know.”

Mrs. Lee looked doubtful. “Willa Romeyn?”

“Yes'm,” I said.

“Whoo. You sure don't look like your mama, do you?” I didn't answer
and she turned away, wiping her hands on her faded dress. “Romeyn through and through.” She made it sound nasty.

Geraldine waited until Mrs. Lee was back at the clothesline. “You don't have a mother.”

“I do, too,” I said. I hated this conversation. “She's sick.” I waited. I knew what was coming, but there was no reason to hand it to her on a silver platter.

“What's she got?”

“Leprosy,” I said, shaking my head sadly. I'd recently read
Ben-Hur
, and leprosy had struck me as exactly the right kind of sickness for my mother. People who had it were sent away, far away, where no one had to see their falling-off noses. This was the first time I'd used it.

“I never heard of it,” said Geraldine.

“Oh, it's just awful,” I said. “Your eyeballs hang down over your face, and your skin gets all scaly, and your limbs twist around backward. Sometimes.” Ben-Hur's sister got holes in her lips, but I didn't want to overdo it.

“Nuh-uh,” said Geraldine.

“It's true. Haven't you ever read
Ben-Hur
? You'd like it. It's a real religious book.”

“Your mother's eyeballs hang down over her face?” Geraldine stared at me. I began to think that maybe leprosy was not the perfect sickness. I wondered should I go back to smallpox.

“No. No. She has a mild case of it. But she had to go to a leper colony all the same. That's where they keep them, all together, because they're the only ones who can stand to see each other.” Really, my mother lived in sin in Grand Mile with Mr. Parnell Rudy. Mr. Rudy was married to someone else, a lady who would never ever let him go, according to my mother. But I wasn't going to tell Geraldine about that. That was none of Geraldine's beeswax.

“If my mother had leprosy, I'd stand it,” Geraldine said proudly. “I wouldn't let them take her away.”

“Yes, you would. Otherwise, you'd go crazy. That's what happens if you see a leper. It's a known fact.”

“Jesus healed the lepers,” she said.

“I know. That's in the book, too. But that's Jesus.” I looked at her sternly. “Jesus is God. I don't set myself up to be as good as Jesus.”

I had her there. She unbent a little and said, “Let's practice spying.”

I didn't feel like it. And I didn't want to run afoul of Mrs. Lee again, either. “I got to go home now,” I said. “I have to scrub the floors.”

Geraldine nodded sympathetically. “Okay. Tomorrow, then?”

“Maybe,” I lied.

—

I turned down Blooding Avenue. The name sounded like butchers, but it was a real pretty street, with trees all along, and I enjoyed walking in the shade. I got cooler there and stopped fussing. I didn't care what Mrs. Lee thought, not about anything, and especially not about my mother. Twice a year, Bird and I had to go to Grand Mile to see our mother. We hated those visits. She gripped us too tight and moaned about how we were lost to her. One time I said, “You're the one who left, aren't you?” but that only made her moan louder. And she always made Monte Cristo sandwiches for lunch. She called it a treat, but it was the only thing she knew how to make, and Bird usually threw up on the way home. Sometimes, if I held her hand real hard, she didn't, but mostly she did.

I came to an old bridge made of yellow stone and stood still for a bit, watching the cloud of bugs that hung over Academy Creek. Geraldine's army hadn't been as much fun as I'd expected anyway. I slipped round the end of the bridge and made my way down the soft, rotsmelling banks to walk along the water. I liked being alone. There was a chance I'd be a hermit when I grew up.

I hadn't been down there long when I saw Father, walking along the sidewalk about twenty feet above me. He wasn't in Ohio any more than I was! I almost called out, and then I thought better of it. I wasn't sure he'd be glad to see me. For a couple of seconds, I stood there, thinking maybe I should let well enough alone. But as Father walked away, I decided to follow him. It would be almost like we were on an adventure together.

So I trailed behind and below him, keeping on the lookout for branches and nettles and, at the same time, watching as he moved along, quick and sure. Then, from one second to the next, he disappeared. I scrambled up the dirt banks as fast as I could, wondering where he could have gotten to. Then I saw. I'd come up in back of Mr. Russell's house, the Tare Estate. It was one of the biggest houses in town, a real mansion, with real gardens, too, like the ones you read about in books—flower beds tidy inside low boxwood hedges and a fountain with a naked cherub boy in the middle. All that grand place belonged to little Mr. Russell, who mostly just sat on his veranda and drank ice-tea.

Jottie paid Mr. Russell a call now and then, and it looked like my father did, too. I stood behind the stone wall and watched Father skim through the garden, twisting and turning among those boxwood hedges as if he did it every day of his life. He was so fast. In no time, he reached the house, and then he did a thing that surprised me. He didn't follow the path that led to the front porch, the way you'd go if you were visiting; instead, he turned the other way, toward the back of the house, with its towers and porches and the conservatory that bulged out. I squinted, watching him stop at a small black door that was in the bottom of a tower. He didn't have a key, so far as I could tell. He just opened it and went in.

Five blocks east of Willa, Jottie proceeded along Prince Street, keeping step with Inez Tapscott as they retreated from the home of Mrs. Sloan Inskeep, where the Daughters of Macedon had been edified by a towering cherry cake and a demonstration of Mrs. Inskeep's tapestry work on international themes.

“Those tapestries were real interesting,” Inez observed. “She must be busy as a bee, making all those.”

Jottie nodded vigorously. What could she say? “I liked the one about Argentina.”

“Oh, my, yes! So exotic, with all those—things!” Inez exclaimed.
“Though I can't say I like those little pencil mustaches. Do you?” She sent an inquiring look at Jottie.

Pencil mustaches? What on earth was she talking about? Gracious and pleasant, Jottie reminded herself. She took a stab at it. “I guess I like them better than those great big ones that look like a weasel taking a nap.”

“A weasel—” Inez began to giggle. “Jottie Romeyn, you just
slay
me!”

Abruptly, Jottie came to a halt. “Oh, Inez! I almost forgot! I promised I'd get the girls some ice cream! I'm just going to run in here! Such a good time! So interesting!” The words streamed from her into Inez Tapscott's pleased face. “Thank you kindly for letting me come along! I sure will look forward to the next meeting!”

Once inside Statler's, she leaned against the door, inhaling the candied air of freedom.

“Jottie! How-you? Been a long time!” Armine Statler, big and pink, lay a meaty hand on his counter. “What can I do for you?”

Refuge came at a price; you couldn't expect otherwise. “I'll have a chocolate soda, thanks, Armine,” she said.

As he busied himself with scooper and glass, Jottie pressed her hip against the cooler. If only she could press her whole body into the chill of the metal. Her head, ensnared in her best hat; her hands, ensnared in white gloves; and her bowels, ensnared in a girdle borrowed from Mae. “Stupid,” she muttered under her breath.

“Beg pardon?” shouted Armine Statler. His head was inside the cooler and he couldn't hear a thing.

“Nothing. I didn't say anything,” Jottie said.

“Oh. Thought you did.” He pulled his head out. “Chocolate, right?”

“Yes. Chocolate.” Chocolate, indeed! As if she needed a chocolate soda at four-thirty in the afternoon! At a cost of ten cents! Perfectly good money thrown away because she couldn't think of one more thing to say to Inez Tapscott. Loyal, good-hearted Inez, who had never once failed to greet Jottie like a long-lost sister—and how had Jottie repaid her? She had run away. She was ashamed of herself.

Jottie set her purse on a little white table and sat down. When Armine Statler brought her soda over, she looked with distaste at the brown bubbles foaming up the sides of the glass. She didn't even like chocolate sodas. Vause had liked them; that's what it was. When, long ago, she'd come to Statler's with her friends, after school, she'd waited for him—not in a way that anyone else could see, but with her ears alive for his voice, her skin open to the heat of the bodies that flocked around him each afternoon. Felix came, too, of course, and usually Sol, and a pack of other boys and girls, but Vause was the center. Vause, separated from her in public by two years and his various forms of celebrity, would eventually see her, or Felix would, and she would glory in the brief acknowledgment: “Josie!” Sometimes one of them would come to her table and talk for a moment.