The Truth According to Us (24 page)

The twenty-two pleasant churches that today grace the streets of Macedonia betray no hint of the religious turmoil that roiled the town in the late
1820s and early 1830s, during the tenure of Reverend Caymuth Goodacre. The tribulations began in 1828, when young Reverend Goodacre arrived in town to establish a Baptist ministry, accompanied by his sister, a mute, who acted as his housekeeper. Goodacre's rhetorical and spiritual vigor were much admired and drew many converts to his faith, but his earthly attributes evidently aroused the attention of Macedonia's womenfolk. The favor of his presence at dinner was hotly contested, and one parishioner, Mrs. Elizabeth Shanholtzer, wrote to her cousin Glorvina that the reverend was “the most wonderfull of God's Works.” Whatever the source of his appeal, it seems clear that by the spring of 1829, Goodacre was enjoying a successful mission: out of a total population of 785, approximately 390 souls had been confirmed in his church, proving their faith with baptism in the icy waters of the False River
.

But Goodacre's triumph proved fleeting, and it was none other than the admiring Mrs. Shanholtzer who was the rock upon which his ministry foundered. In late 1829, this lady disappeared from her home, leaving a letter announcing to her husband that she had found her “Soul's true Helpmeet” and had decided to “travel by his Side in Life.” On March 21, 1830, Reverend Goodacre comforted the bereft Mr. Shanholtzer with a sermon on the subject of female perfidy
.

In October of 1830, another young woman from Goodacre's congregation—her name is unrecorded—disappeared during a stormy afternoon. Though her corpse was not found, she was presumed to be a victim of a rapidly rising river, and her empty coffin was the first to be buried in the cemetery behind the newly built Baptist church (N. Mentor St. at Sattlebarge Ln.). Goodacre's eulogy on this occasion was said to be stirring
.

Imagine the surprise of the congregation when, in late October, as Reverend Goodacre intoned the Declaration of Faith, the church door opened and Mrs. Shanholtzer herself stalked down the aisle, a baby at her breast, shrieking accusations as she approached the reverend:
He
was the helpmeet! He had spirited her away to a secret hiding place, where he fed her with promises of undying love, only to betray her, after she had borne his
child, by announcing that he was tired of her and suggesting that she return to her husband
.

The quick-thinking Reverend Goodacre was more than a match for Mrs. Shanholtzer, whose hysterical denunciations he dismissed as the ravings of a madwoman. Deploying the rhetorical force that had always served him so well, he prayed for her swift recovery from the foul hallucination that he had been her seducer and begged the Lord to reveal the identity of the true villain
.

After a volley of prayer that lasted over two hours, Goodacre claimed to get his answer. Mrs. Shanholtzer had been led astray by one Jervis Offut, a middle-aged bachelor about whom little has been preserved, except for the salient fact that he was a Presbyterian deacon. Goodacre's silver tongue ensured that this accusation was quickly adopted as truth, and a detachment of burly Baptists was dispatched to bring Mr. Offut to justice
.

Mr. Offut unwisely took to his heels at their approach, which confirmed his guilt in the public mind. According to
The Tattle-Tale,
an early Macedonia broadside, Mr. Offut was finally captured in the tannery and brought not before the courts but before the pulpit of the Baptist church, where he met his accuser face-to-face on November 3, 1830
.

Reverend Goodacre shook the very rafters with his rage as he charged Mr. Offut with seduction, adultery, and fornication, and called upon the constable, a Mr. Sayle, handily present, to arrest him. Goodacre's fiery speech brought the congregation, now swelled to twice the usual number, to its feet, crying for more immediate vengeance. Mr. Offut would have been tarred and feathered within the hour had it not been for an unlikely intervention. At the peak of the frenzy, mute Miss Goodacre stepped forward to place herself between Mr. Offut and his foes. Disconcerted, the vigilantes drew back and looked to the reverend for guidance. But he, too, appeared shaken by the sight of his sister, and when Miss Goodacre put a letter in the hands of the constable, the reverend grew pale. As well he might, for the letter provided evidence that Mrs. Shanholtzer had spoken truth and moreover offered to take Constable Sayle and any other interested
parties to the reverend's new retreat, where his second mistress, the supposed victim of the storm, would be discovered
.

Thus it was that Goodacre found himself in short order receiving the very punishment he had called down upon Mr. Offut. Constable Sayle—assisted, one hopes, by the outraged Mrs. Shanholtzer—clapped Goodacre behind bars in the Macedonia jail, where he languished, with no recorded repentance, for two weeks, before he was transported to Richmond to stand before the Court of Virginia the following spring
.

A grateful Jervis Offut quickly married Miss Goodacre, and the pair lived to a ripe old age. Their later lives were, alas, touched by tragedy: Their only son died at the age of fourteen from the bite of a copperhead, which Mrs. Offut insisted was an incarnation of her brother
.

Word of the reverend's infamy spread like wildfire through the region. Churches of various denominations saw clearly that Macedonia was a fertile ground for spiritual sowing, and within weeks, Methodist circuit preachers, Congregationalists, Presbyterians, and legitimate Baptists descended through the mountain passes to fill the religious void
.

Miss Betts glanced over the rim of the paper at Layla, who sat at a table, leafing through a collection of clippings on the American Everlasting Hosiery Company. Miss Betts pushed back her chair and clicked across the library floor.

“Well?” asked Layla, at once eager and anxious.

Miss Betts smiled. “Miss Beck, I don't believe I've ever read a more interesting account of Goodacre's ministry.” Layla blushed with pleasure. “But,” Miss Betts continued, her mouth wary, “your claims are…provocative. There is another side of the story, of course, and many Macedonians will object to finding that this is to be the official version.”

Layla frowned. “What other side of the story?”

“Well.” Miss Betts drew out a chair and sat, smoothing her neat skirt. “There are some who believe that Goodacre was, well—wronged.”

“Wronged?” repeated Layla.

“That Mrs. Shanholtzer was indeed a lunatic and her accusations
were false.” Miss Betts laid her hands on the table. “And that Reverend Goodacre was innocent of wrongdoing.”

“But he was arrested!” exclaimed Layla.

Miss Betts gave Layla a sharp look. “Surely you don't believe that imprisonment is identical to guilt?”

“No,” admitted Layla. “But Mrs. Shanholtzer—she did leave her home and come back with a baby.”

“No doubt about that.”

“And the other girl did disappear.”

“There is no record that she ever reappeared.”

“But—his own sister said he did it,” Layla protested.

“Yes. But there could be reasons a sister would say such a thing even if it were untrue. She did receive a proposal of marriage from the man she defended.”

“Jottie said that everyone in Macedonia knows about Goodacre's philandering.”

Miss Betts nodded. “True. And most of them enjoy the story a great deal. However, the Baptists—understandably—deny it, and there are a number of others who dismiss the tale as lurid sensationalism.”

Who? Who dismisses it? Layla thought resentfully. Dullards. People who want everything to be as bland and boring as possible. People like Parker Davies. She looked up at the shaft of dusty sunlight that flowed from the windows above her and thought, I don't care. I'm not going to change it. If I change it, it'll be ruined. It'll be dull, and no one wants a dull history. He probably did it, too, the goat. And nobody knows for sure. Why shouldn't I choose the version I think is the most interesting? “I think,” she said to Miss Betts, “that if history were defined as only those stories that could be absolutely verified, we'd have no history at all.”

“My.” Miss Betts slid back in her chair, seemingly nonplussed by this resistance to judiciousness. After a moment, she said, “Perhaps you are right. But—be prepared.” Her eyes strayed to the yellowing scraps of newspaper on the table. “Are you finding what you need here?”

“I don't really need anything special, I guess,” said Layla. “I've got an interview with Mr. Shank next Thursday, so I'm studying up on American Everlasting.” She pointed to a clipping. “I had no idea that Mr. Romeyn was the first president of the company.”

“There have been two presidents. Mr. Shank is the second.”

“So he must have known Mr. Romeyn.”

“Oh, of course. Mr. Shank was a sort of protégé of Mr. Romeyn's.”

“I see. I wonder why Jottie didn't say she knew him? I had her go over my list, you see—the list of interviews I'm to do—for introductions, you know? She must know Mr. Shank, but she didn't mark him.”

Miss Betts inhaled and her glasses slipped down her nose. “An introduction from Jottie would not be likely to endear you to Mr. Shank.”

“Whyever not?” Layla asked, surprised.

“Mr. Romeyn was…much beloved. Mr. Shank tends to suffer from comparisons.”

Layla chuckled. “Very diplomatic, Miss Betts.” She paused. “Tell me about Mr. Romeyn.”

“He was a very kind man. Very benevolent,” Miss Betts said. “Generous to a fault. His employees worshipped him.”

Layla smiled politely. Miss Betts's description was insipid: A benevolent man was anything and nothing. An empty coat. Not like Jottie's Goodacre. Not like the Joe Dolly that Felix had summoned up. She tried again. “Do you remember him yourself?”

“Me?” said Miss Betts, startled out of grammar.

“Yes. Did you know him?”

“Well. Yes. I suppose I did.” Miss Betts pushed her glasses up her nose. “My father—Anderson Betts was his name—had the greatest admiration for Mr. Romeyn. My father ran a funeral parlor, and Mr. Romeyn on several occasions paid the funeral expenses for workers whose families couldn't afford them. It was very generous of him.” Miss Betts gazed into the dusty sunlight. “And, too, I remember a time he came to our home—above the parlor. He gave me a penny for candy.” She smiled with long-ago pleasure. “I treasured it for weeks before I spent it. Because Mr. Romeyn had given it to me.”

“He came for a worker's funeral?” Layla asked. No wonder they liked him.

Miss Betts's smile faded. “No. No. He came because one night Felix and—and a friend of his slipped into the funeral parlor, climbed into two satin-lined coffins, and fell asleep. My mother found them the next morning and was quite…undone by the sight.” Layla laughed, and, after a moment, Miss Betts managed a weak smile. “I suppose it is funny. My mother did not find any humor in it.”

“I can see why she wouldn't,” giggled Layla. “Did she think they were dead?”

“Yes,” said Miss Betts. She looked down at the papers in her hand. “And there in a nutshell is the problem of history, Miss Beck. Two boys sleeping in coffins. To you—and to Felix, I suppose—it's an entertaining episode. To my mother, it was an outrage. To me, it was held up as an example of youthful depravity, and I considered it a very grave offense. I have never, until this moment, found it amusing. Which proves my point with regard to Goodacre. All of us see a story according to our own lights. None of us is capable of objectivity. You must beware your sources.”

Layla frowned. “If none of us can be objective, then the problem is intractable, and all history is suspect.”

Miss Betts regarded her carefully. “You are a very astute young woman,” she said. “But consider: Perhaps it is only the claim of objectivity that is suspect. In that case, the question becomes what do you want
The History of Macedonia
to be?”

“Me?” said Layla. “Why, I have no stake in the matter. There's nothing particular I want it to be.” The moment the words left her mouth, she realized they were false. She wanted
The History of Macedonia
to spurn the dull and to amuse the witty, to advance the Romeyns and to trounce the Parker Davieses, and to announce that she, Layla Beck, had perceived all that they had been blind to.

“Really?” said Miss Betts. “Then you have the advantage of us, Miss Beck, and the truth shall prevail.” She tapped the papers straight and held them out.

Father had been gone for almost a week. Bird wrote him a letter telling him he'd better come home soon or she'd loose her flea-circus fleas in his bedroom, but we didn't know where to send it. Miss Beck's high heels tapped up and down the stairs, and her little fingers tapped out her book, with a ping at the end of each line. I took comfort from knowing that wherever Father was, he was just as far from Miss Beck as he was from us. The days slipped by, Mae and Minerva smoked and laughed and listened to the radio, and I found
Jane Eyre
, which was the best book in the world. I read it three times straight through.

I was heat-addled by the end of the third time. When I'd picked up the book that morning, I'd been in the shade, but as I closed the cover, I realized that the sun had been burning down on me for a long time. I lifted my eyes, and all I could see was a blue rectangle the size of a page.

I got up and went inside, thinking I should get into the cool. But the kitchen was hot. Not as hot as the outside, but hot. And quiet. I felt my way to the refrigerator and stuck my head inside, because Jottie wasn't there to tell me not to. The motor rumbled in my ear, and when I came out, nice and chilly, I could see again. I saw there was money underneath the sugar bowl on the kitchen table. I didn't count it—didn't touch it, even—but I knew what it meant. Father was home. That's
where he always put it, there under the sugar bowl. “Father's back,” I called to whoever might hear.

No one answered.

“Jottie?”

Nothing. Where was she, anyway?

I licked my finger and stuck it in the sugar bowl, making sure not to muss the money beneath it.

“Father?”

The whole world might have dropped away, that's how quiet it was in the kitchen. I sucked on my finger for a minute, and then I snatched a dustrag out of the cupboard and sidled up the back stairs without making any sound. Miss Beck's room was near the back of the house, next door to the one Bird and I shared. Jottie had the big room way up in the front. Father's door was closed—he could be inside, sleeping. He usually slept for a long time when he came home from business. I walked silently to Miss Beck's room and listened carefully at her door for a minute before I scratched on it. “Miss Beck,” I murmured. If she answered, I was going to say I was there to dust. I'd go ahead and do it, too, if I had to. You have to make sacrifices if you want to get anywhere in life.

I swung the door open and relaxed. She wasn't there. I stepped in and shut the door behind me. I had promised God I wouldn't touch anything. I'd just look at what was lying around. If Jane Eyre had only looked around a little, she might have saved herself a lot of heartache.

I looked. She'd made her bed, but she hadn't tucked the sheet in. It hung below the bedspread, and my fingers itched to twitch it right. I turned away, so as not to succumb, and went to her dresser. She'd put out a silver brush set on the top, and there was a squirting perfume bottle in a silver holder beside it. I couldn't get my nose high enough to smell what kind it was. She'd put three photographs up there, too. One showed her family, I supposed, because she was in it. A father with a big stomach, a mother wearing a frilly dress, a man who must have been a brother, scowling, and Miss Beck herself, holding on to her curls. There was another picture of the brother, too. He was still scowling. The third
frame showed a beautiful young lady—she could have been in the movies; that's how beautiful she was. She was wearing an evening dress and she looked surprised. Underneath her face was writing: “For darling Layla with love, Rose.”

Miss Beck had left one of the drawers hanging open. Jottie always said that was the sign of a sloven, but, to be fair, that dresser had sticky drawers. I didn't touch a thing, but I looked. I figured it was nightgowns I was looking at—I couldn't really tell without holding them up—because there was lace and slippery pink stuff, all tumbled together. I caught sight of a piece of satin, too, with embroidery. Suddenly I thought that maybe this was what she wore underneath, and I blushed. It was just exactly what seductresses wore underneath—lacy, satiny things. The picture of Mae and Waldon flickered through my mind, even though I didn't want it to. I turned away, but not before my stomach squeezed a little.

Miss Beck's table wasn't slovenly atall. There was a typewriter standing in the middle of neat stacks of paper, some typed on, some clean. I almost forgot my promise to God and touched the stack of fresh white onionskin, I loved it so. Just at the last second, I pulled my finger back. I turned my head sideways to read the paper on top of the stack:

Mr.and Mrs. Arwell Tapscott (know Jottie)

Mr. and Mrs. John Sue

Mr. and Mrs. John Lansbrough

Mrs. Hartford Lacey (knows Jottie)

Mr. Tare Russell (knows Jottie?)

Dr. and Mrs. George Averill (hospital?)

Mr. and Mrs. Tyler Bowers TUESDAY, 3:00

Mr. and Mrs. Baker Spurling

Mr. and Mrs. Ralph Shank (Amer. Everlasting) THURSDAY, 2:00

Mr. and Mrs. Sloan Inskeep

Mrs. Alexander Washington

Mr. and Mrs. Eugene Silver

Pretty boring, I thought. But then I looked again. Someone—Miss Beck, I figured—had drawn an arrow next to Mr. Shank's name, an arrow pointing to a note: “Why no job fr Felix, Amer. E? When?” That was easy to figure out—she wondered why didn't Father have a job at the mill. Mind your own business, I sneered. And then I thought about what I was doing and I had to bite my mouth to keep from laughing out loud.

I turned to the other things on the table: ink, a red fountain pen, a few pencils, a dictionary, a notebook I was too honorable to open, and a stack of letters. She got a lot of letters. “Get thee behind me, Satan,” I whispered, and he did. I only bent down and blew a tiny bit, no more than a breeze might have done. The stack of envelopes shifted, and a thick creamy one slid off and fell to the floor. On the back of it, in dark-blue printing, it said “Senator and Mrs. Grayson Beck, Hillyer Place, Washington, the District of Columbia.”

I straightened up and peered at the father in Miss Beck's photograph. Could he be a senator? His stomach looked like a senator's, but he didn't seem old enough otherwise. I looked at Miss Beck's table once more and my heart flopped. There, where the stack of envelopes had fallen sideways, I could see the edge of a piece of paper peeking out from beneath, and on that paper was my father's writing. It was just three words I could see, but I could tell his straight up-and-down writing anywhere. The words were: “you're alive. F.”

Oh, then temptation did come up and nearly crush me.
What
“you're alive. F”? I could think of a million things but only one that was important: “I'll love you as long as you're alive. F.” Never mind that it was impossible to imagine my father writing such a silly thing; in that moment, torn to pieces as I was, I could see him doing it. No, no, no, I told myself. It's just something you made up, like thinking Miss Beck was royalty. I saw him walking away with Miss Beck on his arm. No, I said to myself, you made it up and it's not real. There's one way to find out. No there's not, I said. God will strike you down if you do. God will understand.

My hand crept out, all on its own.

I heard the screen door slam. “Anyone home?” called Jottie.

I was halfway down the stairs before I knew where I was. Jottie would save me.

Felix appeared suddenly as they were eating dessert. One moment, the door was an empty square, and the next, he was leaning against the door frame, smiling at them all. Minerva, lifting a forkful of pie to her mouth, squeaked.

Jottie raised an eyebrow. “He is risen.”

“Daddy!” squealed Bird. She squeezed out of her chair without bothering to push it back and threw her arms around him.

“Hey, Birdie,” he said, cupping his fingers along her cheek. He smiled at Willa. “Hey, sweetheart.”

“Hey—” she began, but her soft voice was drowned in Minerva's.

“I don't know why you have to
creep
up like that, Felix!”

Hooking his arm under Bird's, he pulled her along with him into the dining room. “Anything left for me?” he asked. “Or did Layla eat it all?”

She looked up, smiling, to protest, and he dropped her a wink.

“Want some pie?” Jottie asked.

“Sounds all right,” he said, pulling out his accustomed chair. “Come on up here and sit in my lap,” he said to Bird. “You can be my napkin.”

“Don't spill pie on me,” warned Bird, hoisting herself up by his belt. “This is my fourth-best dress.”

“Mm,” he said. “Good thing. I'd probably go blind if you were wearing your first-best.” He took the plate Mae handed him. “Thanks. Any coffee in that pot?”

“How was your business trip?” asked Layla.

“Fine, fine.” He glanced at Jottie. “These girls behave themselves?”

She passed him a cup. “They weren't as bad as they usually are.”

“Any news?” His eyes circled the table.

Mae sighed. “Nothing much. Hot as can be, but that's not news.”

There was a short silence.

“Miss Betts and I had quite a discussion about history today,” offered Layla. She glanced at Jottie. “She recommends that I beware my sources.”

“Oh, she does, does she?” said Jottie.

Layla nodded, her mouth full of pie. “And”—she swallowed—“I heard about a certain incident in her father's funeral parlor.” She gave Felix a conspiratorial smile. “Something involving coffins.”

He did not return the smile but merely lifted one eyebrow and reached around Bird to stir his coffee.

Flustered to find she had miscalibrated, Layla swerved to a new subject. “Yes, well, we were discussing your father, really. And American Everlasting. I've got an interview with Mr. Shank next Thursday, and I thought I should do some research.” She looked around the table hopefully. “Miss Betts said your father was very popular. Much beloved, she said.”