The Truth According to Us (23 page)

“Ain't you going to eat it?” Armine Statler said.

Jottie jumped. “Oh! I'm woolgathering, Armine.”

“Gonna get real hot in all that wool, Jottie. Ha!” Armine slapped himself in merriment.

“I was just thinking about how we used to come here when I was in high school. Back when your father ran the place.”

Armine nodded. “Uh-huh. I worked out in the back then, but I remember.”

Impulsively, Jottie said, “Do you remember Vause Hamilton? He used to have a chocolate soda pretty near every day.” It didn't matter if she talked about him to Armine. Armine was in the business of being agreeable. He wasn't likely to point out that Vause had burned her father's factory down.

“Sure. Vause—he spent a lot of nickels in here.” Armine smiled warmly. “All the kids did then. Not like now.” His good humor vanished. “Ice cream is the first thing folks stop buying. The first thing.” He frowned at her soda. “Ain't you going to eat it?”

Jottie picked up the glass and took a long, obedient sip. Milky bubbles filled her mouth. “My, that hits the spot, Armine,” she said.

He nodded complacently and moved away as another customer came in. Jottie looked at the reflection of her hat in the window. She
looked like a lady. But she wasn't a lady; she was a coward. All the flower-arranging in the world isn't going to make Willa safe if you can't be gracious and pleasant for one afternoon, she scolded herself. But I don't understand what they're talking about half the time, she pleaded. Doesn't matter, the scolding voice snapped. Pretend.

The door slammed and a man in shabby trousers came in. “I need another doggone carton of vanilla, Armine.”

Armine smiled. “That's fine. I'll get that right up.” He called over to Jottie. “Bill, here, his wife likes her vanilla ice cream.”

“She's expecting,” explained Bill.

“That's nice,” said Jottie.

“Every day, she eats ice cream,” Armine added. “It's good for you, see?”

“I reckon so,” said Bill. “Costing me an arm and a leg.”

Jottie turned again to the window. Everlasting's out, she observed, as Prince Street filled with tired-looking men. Great eddies of people surged by and fetched up around Coca-Colas, around lampposts, around jokes that made them laugh hoarsely.

And there, suddenly, was Sol, walking on the sidewalk opposite, more impressive than he ever was in her memory. Stately, even, in a dark-blue suit. Concealed behind a drooping curtain, Jottie allowed her eyes to follow him, to read him like an illicit book. He was dignified. When had that happened? Her default Sol—dancing with fear, his fingers gripping hers, his eyes on Felix and Vause far, far above,
They're going to fall, I know it, I know it
!—had disappeared, and in his place was a man grown solid and calm and admirable. And he had done it without her, without Felix or Vause or her, when once he had sought only their approval.

“I can't believe Sol still cares,” Emmett had said. Did he? After all this time? Her thoughts moved back to the parade, to the plea that had appeared on his face: Can't you forgive me? Can't we be friends again?

But the Sol walking along Prince Street made no such supplications. He was no beggar. She watched him, mesmerized by his steady tread, the casual lift of his hand, the brief laugh, the slapped back—the serene
recessional of the well liked and universally respected. Faces turned toward him in anticipation as he approached, looked after him with friendly regret as he passed. Hungrily, Jottie gleaned every detail.

Before she could stop herself, the thought came: If Willa had a father like Sol, she'd be safe forever. And then, even more unthinkable: If I married him, I could make her safe. It was a shocking thought; it was a heady thought. It would mean instant respectability, instant freedom from the past. Instant pudding, she jeered at herself. It's going to be a real trick, marrying someone you haven't talked to in eighteen years.

Emmett said he still cares.

She assessed the possibility while Sol strolled on. No. But, then again, maybe. He had cared, once. How watchful he'd been, trying to see what she thought before he spoke, trying to slip into the chair beside hers before anyone else did, trying to take her away from the others with questions:
Is that a new dress? What're you reading? I can help you with that geometry if you want
.

Imagine being married to Sol. It would be so easy, pressing shirts and passing coffee cups, nothing more, nothing hard. And in exchange: an honorable estate, the sweet peach of unimpeachability, safety without end, amen. Jottie pictured it in longing detail: Willa and Bird, immaculate skirts swishing as they came up freshly painted front stairs, carefree and ignorant. And there she was herself, at the door, with a plate of cookies in her outstretched hand, her smile simple and straightforward, nothing more or less than what could be seen. The girls will be fine, she reminded herself halfheartedly; I joined a club, didn't I? She studied Sol through her eyelashes. The small, milky boy had disappeared; he'd become almost handsome. Better than handsome. Assured. The suit had something to do with it. Did Violet pick out his clothes? They picked them out together, probably. In Washington, maybe. She was willing to bet they went to Washington to shop. Not Krohn's—she'd put a nickel on it. Imagine going to Washington to buy clothes.

Across the street, Sol lifted his hat to a lady passing, a lady she didn't know—and there, he smiled, too. He was happy. Sol's face never lied.
He was perfectly happy. She was a fool. He didn't care about her, not anymore. He probably had a girl. He was probably in love with some sweet little twenty-year-old girl. He had his own life.

It hurt.

She sat at her table for a few moments longer, until Sol turned up Council Street. Then she stood, fumbling her purse over her arm. “Thanks, Armine,” she called as she made for the door. She stepped outside, gulped a breath of sodden air, and turned right, in the direction of Academy Street.

June 24

Dear Ben,

Pursuing history of Macedonia with zeal and enterprise. Went to jail Wednesday. Nearly starved Thursday. Wore hole in shoe Saturday. Will WPA reimburse?

Layla

June 24, 1938

Darling Rose,

I beg your pardon in advance—this is going to be a short letter because my fingers are practically paralyzed from all the writing I've been doing. How I wish you could see me pounding away at the typewriter keys in my slip, with a pencil behind my ear. My industry (and the state of my slip) would move you to tears. It's so steamingly hot up here that I shed my dress and hose the instant I walk through my bedroom door and work in my unders, but I
live in mortal terror that I'll forget to put my dress back on when I leave—the WPA expressly forbids its employees to engage in indecent behavior. Also to shoot or willfully incinerate one another (Ben is safe for now).

I am diligently writing Macedonia's history, though I've plenty more interviews to conduct with leading Macedonians and assorted natural wonders to visit. My supervisor advised me to complete my research before commencing to write, but I simply haven't the time, for the town fathers are demanding their book by September 24, the anniversary of the incorporation of Macedonia. It seems to me that I could solve the problem neatly by changing the date of the anniversary in the book, but the town fathers are a fussy bunch and therefore I'm working frantically to meet their deadline. I'd make better progress if I wasn't forced to squander hours in writing letters to Mother, promising her that I'm not starving, coal mining, or coarsened by contact with low minds. How I wish that Mother had never read
Tobacco Road
. No matter what I say, she thinks that I'm working in the fields, bending over rows of turnips in a ripped cotton dress while lascivious farmers eye my youthful form and squirt tobacco juice between their front teeth. The truth disappoints her, which, I suppose, is why she doesn't believe it.

I was glad to get your letter about Georgette and Nelson, but, really, honey, I couldn't possibly care less and you don't have to say she looked like a cow in her dress (though everyone
does
look like a cow in those shirred necklines). They would be a splendid couple, those two. Georgette could stop dragging herself over the dance floors of Washington and settle down to a lifetime sitting at a corner table of the Pall Mall Club, which is what she truly enjoys. And Nelson could say, “My wife—one hundred percent North Carolina thoroughbred filly, heh-heh!” Really, it's a match made in heaven.

As for the rest of your letter, if you hate all of it so much, why do you go? Now that I have the vantage point of eighty-five miles and thirteen days, those parties seem like an awful waste of time.
I feel as though I've spent the last seven years dancing with men I don't like. Nelson, for example, and Louis Yards and Harry and, well, all of them. Dressing and smiling and dancing and pretending to laugh at weak jokes. Why do we do it? I know what you'll say—that we don't want to be old maids—but do we really want to marry Louis Yards or Nelson? I honestly believe I'd rather not marry at all. And, then, there may be other men, in other places, whom we'd like better.

In Macedonia, for example.

That's a hint.

I know I told you I was boarding with the Romeyn family, but I believe I neglected to mention the specific existence of Mr. Romeyn—Felix, I'm to call him now. He lives here with his two daughters (he's divorced from their mother). His sister takes care of the children and keeps house while he works. I'm not certain what he does, but he travels for his business frequently. He is certainly the kindest person I've met in Macedonia; just last weekend, he took me touring round to historic sites for my book. Wasn't that sweet? We had a lovely time, too—unlike Nelson, he actually
converses
. On topics other than himself! And expresses interest. In me! And my ideas! He's cultivated and gentlemanly and charming. Not precisely handsome but terribly attractive, with dark eyes and hair and a smile that made me feel faint the first time I saw it. There's something electric about him, something slightly mysterious and very, very alluring—oh dear, I'm making him sound like the desert sheik, and that's not it at all.

I don't want you to get the idea that I've lost my heart indiscriminately. Just as Miss Telt advised us lo these many years ago, I have not submitted my affections to the buffets of superficial attraction but have withheld my esteem for that one who will prove himself worthy of my virtue(!), a friend to the downtrodden and model of humility to the great, a consolation in adversity and a companion in joy, upon whose bosom I might lay my perplexities
both great and small. Darling Miss Telt! Do you think she ever met an actual man?

I know, I know, I'm being flippant, but I'll admit—to you alone—that I am a little taken with Mr. Felix Romeyn. I wasn't expecting anyone like him in Macedonia, West Virginia, which shows, I suppose, how small-minded I am. I was expecting, not lascivious turnip farmers, exactly, but something close. Bumpkins, anyway. Instead, I've found a small town that looks like any small town, with wide streets, old elms, white houses, and a tattered, dead-quiet town square—all seething with white-hot passion and Greek tragedy. You would faint dead away if I told you about the first Baptist minister in these parts, a saga that includes two seductions, an empty coffin, and a snake! I'll send you a copy when I've finished writing it up, but you must be sure to keep it hidden from your mother and Margaret. They're too young for such shocking fare.

I must run, darling. It's time for supper, and I have to put my dress back on. I remembered!

Love,

Layla

June 27, 1938

Dear Layla,

WPA is glad to reimburse: sending newspaper (under separate cover) to stuff in shoe.

Ben