Taking Lottie Home

  “Let me bring it up,” Arthur suggested. “Maybe if it comes from me—if I say that I’ve asked you to do the gentlemanly thing—it’ll be more reasonable.”

  “Yes sir,” Ben said in relief.

  Arthur swallowed. He looked again at Lottie. “When—would you be prepared to leave?”

  “Day after tomorrow, I think,” Ben answered.

  Arthur nodded solemnly. “I’ll talk to Sally this afternoon.”

  KNOWING WHAT HE knew about Lottie Lanier, what he had shared only with Arthur Ledford, had made Coleman anxious and jittery. Keeping such news sealed behind his jaws was the same as holding his breath underwater. He had to say it, or drown. Or he had to calm his nerves.

  He took his first drink at ten o’clock. At noon, he locked the door to his shoe repair business and tilted a Closed sign against the window, and went into his back room to continue drinking and to work on the repair of a saddle for Simon Greer. By four-thirty, he could feel the corn-made whiskey crawling on his skin, like ants, yet he did not feel drunk. He felt free, exhilarated. He could taste Lottie Lanier with each swallow of the whiskey, could feel her close against him, her naked breasts pressed into his naked chest.

  He washed his face to clear his eyes and then he rubbed lilac water into his neck and cheeks to hide the smell of the whiskey. He put on a clean white shirt and a new pair of trousers he had purchased at Ledford’s, balanced the new straw hat on his head, and left by the back door.

  He avoided the main street of Jericho, knowing the street would likely be crowded with last-minute shoppers. They were the worse kind, he thought. Rushing in, making demands, expecting people to put aside a day’s worth of work to do their bidding. In his shop, he had sent many of them on their way red-faced with anger or shock. Anybody who knew him knew he would invite the president of the United States to kiss his ass if the president got too pushy.

  He laughed aloud at the thought.

  Kiss my ass, Mr. President.

  He passed the back of the pharmacy, where Dewey Capes, the pharmacist, stood packing trash into a trash can. Dewey was smoking his pipe. When he saw Coleman he nodded and called, “You looking all spiffed up there, Coleman. Looks like you’re going to revival.”

  Coleman tipped his finger to his hat, knocking it from his head, but he caught it before it hit the ground.

  Dewey laughed.

  “Kiss my ass, Dewey,” Coleman growled. He replaced his hat on his head and walked away. He could hear Dewey’s laugh following him.

  At Confederate Street, he turned right and continued to Main Street. He stopped under the shade of an elm tree that grew in the corner of Merriweather’s Furniture and Appliance. Across the street was Ledford’s Dry Goods. He pulled his handkerchief from his pocket and wiped the whiskey perspiration from his neck, and he fanned his face with his hat.

  All he wanted was a look. He wanted to get close enough to smell her perfume. Maybe speak to her. If she spoke back, he would know for sure she was the carnival girl who had bought the jar of whiskey from him. He grinned, felt a shiver along the back of his arms. Maybe she would say to him, “You don’t tell on me, I’ll give you what you want.”

  The door to Ledford’s opened and Sally Ledford rushed out of the store, turned right, and walked briskly down the street.

  Going to see Ben, Coleman thought. Ben was a lucky son of a bitch. Had one woman hightailing to him and another one sleeping across the hall from him. Two best-looking women in Jericho. Wouldn’t mind a go with that Sally myself, he mused. Got to be hot and tight and high-strung as a colt.

  He licked his lips and let the grin sink deep into his body. He wished he had brought along a drink.

  He crossed the street to the store, paused for a moment at the door, letting his eyes sweep the street. He saw two boys running up the sidewalk, away from the store. No one else. He opened the door only enough to slip quickly and silently inside. He stood, scanning the store, listening. He did not see anyone, but from the back, in the storeroom, he heard the quiet voice of Arthur Ledford. Not the words. Only the voice. He moved noiselessly across the marble floor to the menswear department and found a rack of suits to hide behind. Giggled softly. He felt like a boy playing a prank. So what if Arthur Ledford came out of the storeroom and found him? He could say he was thinking of buying a suit, but didn’t see anybody when he came in, and was looking for one himself. What would Arthur do, anyway? There was a bond between them. Arthur was as trapped as a fox in a den surrounded by hounds.

  He removed his hat and peeked through the suits to the door leading to the storeroom, and he saw the door open and Arthur step through it, followed by Lottie.

  He heard Arthur say, “Don’t be long. They’ll be expecting you.”

  “I won’t,” Lottie said.

  He saw Arthur glance around the store, then saw him reach to touch Lottie’s face, saw Lottie smile.

  “Give the key to Sally,” Arthur said. “She’ll bring it to me. But if you forget it, I’ve got another one.”

  “I won’t forget,” Lottie told him.

  Coleman fought not to laugh. The old bastard, he thought. No damn wonder he wants it kept quiet about Lottie being with the carnival. He’s getting his fill of her, there in the storeroom. Probably holding it over her. Probably told her it was known about her being in Jericho, and if she wanted to keep it quiet, she’d better do what he wanted done. The old bastard.

  He watched Arthur leave the store and lock the door. Through the window, he could see Arthur hurry down the street, toward his home. He thought of Alice Ledford, and thinking of her, he could understand why Arthur would take to Lottie. Alice Ledford was a bitch. Cold as an icehouse. Meanness in her eyes.

  Coleman stepped from behind the rack of suits. He could see Lottie in the storeroom, holding a broom, sweeping. He moved quickly across the store, staying close to the wall and the displays of clothing. When he reached the storeroom, he saw that Lottie had her back to the door, and he stepped inside the room and closed the door with a hard push. Lottie whirled to the sound.

  “Hello, miss,” Coleman said. He smiled.

  Lottie held the broom in both hands. She said, “Mr. Ledford’s gone.”

  “I know it,” Coleman told her. “Saw him leave. Saw that sweet little touch he put on your face. Saw him lock the door. I was trying to find me a suit, but wadn’t nobody out there to wait on me.”

  “I—don’t sell,” Lottie said.

  Coleman stepped toward her. “I know you don’t, honey. I know what you do. Been knowing it from the first time I laid eyes on you. Maybe you don’t sell, but you buy.” He rolled his hat in his hands.

  Lottie looked nervously at the closed door.

  “Don’t go worrying about it. They’s nobody here but me and you,” Coleman said easily. “Just me and you, and I thought we’d take up where we left off about six years ago.”

  A look of surprise flickered in Lottie’s eyes.

  “You don’t remember me?” Coleman asked. He laughed.

  Lottie moved back, toward Ben’s rolltop desk.

  “I was the one you bought the jar of corn from,” Coleman said.

  The look of surprise faded from Lottie. She remembered.

  “I made you a offer. You recall that?” Coleman continued. “A little trade? Well, I got another little offer. Why don’t we get on with what we could of done six years ago, and I won’t tell nobody about you and Mr. Arthur Ledford, or about you being here before with that carnival and knowing Mr. Ben Phelps, which is the only way you would of showed up with him. What’d you and Ben do? Have you a little time together?” He stepped closer to Lottie. “You show him what it’s about? Does his mama know? What about Sally? You tell her yet?”

  “What do you want?” Lottie asked in a whisper.

  Coleman could feel the whiskey streaming through him, cheering him. His mouth filled with saliva, his tongue burned against his teeth.

  “First thing, I want you to take off every stitch of clothes you g
ot on,” he said in a low, threatening voice. “Then we gone go from there.”

  Lottie leaned the broom against the rolltop desk. She began unbuttoning her dress.

  “Slowlike,” ordered Coleman. “I want to see it kind of peel off.” He dropped his hat and stroked the front of his pants, touching the erection rising against his leg.

  Lottie thought of her sister, of Lila. Could hear Lila’s voice telling her that all she had to do was think about breathing, and everything would go away. Sooner or later, everything would go away. Inhale. Hold. Exhale. Pause. Her fingers worked in the rhythm of her breathing.

  And then she was nude.

  “Great Goda’mighty,” Coleman whispered in disbelief. He did not believe it was possible for anyone to be as beautiful, and he had seen many naked women, from rough-skinned farm girls in hay barns to creamy-skin whores in mansions turned into whorehouses. The nipples of her breasts were honey-gold, matching the color of her eyes. The V-patch of hair gathered at her legs was luxuriously dark, oil-coated, fluffed.

  Coleman shook his head, blinked rapidly. A cackling little laugh raced from his throat. She did not move, but the whiskey in him believed she did, believed the shadow of a smile flew to her lips, perched on them birdlike. And then he believed he saw her legs part slightly, her hips turn, her breasts rise up to lick at the light that fell over her.

  “You goddamn whore,” Coleman sneered. Blood roared through him, his erection was hot against his skin. He ripped at his belt, fingered his trousers open, yanked them down with his underwear. He stood, exposing himself, glaring at her. His face was flushed and damp. He was breathing in slow, hard swallows of air. “I been waiting six years for this,” he said. He touched the tip of his erection. “Six years.” He moved toward her.

  Lottie closed her eyes. She inhaled, held the breath, exhaled.

  The door flew open before Coleman could reach her, and Arthur Ledford stepped inside the storeroom. A look of shock was on his face. He opened his mouth to speak, but did not. Coleman stumbled back, tripping on his trousers, and suddenly Arthur was in front of him, grabbing him by the shirt, flinging him against the desk.

  “You son of a bitch,” Arthur growled.

  Coleman struggled to stand. He said, “Goddamn it, Arthur, get your hands off me.”

  Arthur did not move. His face flamed with rage. “You son of a bitch, I ought to kill you,” he hissed.

  Coleman raised his hands in defense. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” he whimpered. “She’s a whore. I saw you with her.”

  A cry erupted in Arthur’s chest and his fist flashed through the air, hitting Coleman in the mouth, breaking teeth. Blood spurted from Coleman’s lips. He slumped to the floor. Arthur leaned over him, spitting words into his face. “You’ve got a choice, damn you. Either you get out of here and forget you ever saw this woman anywhere, or I’ll call the sheriff and have your sorry ass arrested for attempted rape, and I’ll make certain everybody in Caulder County knows what happened here if I have to go house to house to do it. Do you understand me?”

  Coleman nodded. He held his hand over his mouth, and the blood seeped through his fingers. He glanced past Arthur to Lottie. She was holding her dress in front of her. “It was her,” he said hoarsely. “I was right.”

  “No, you weren’t,” Arthur snapped. “What you saw was a woman who looked like her, but not as tall. The woman you saw had a hard look. I saw her myself.” He paused, leaned over Coleman. “Do you doubt me?”

  Coleman did not answer.

  “You’re lucky Dewey Capes told me he saw you headed toward the store,” Arthur said. “If you had touched her, I promise you one thing: you would have died one way or the other.”

  “Jesus, Arthur,” Coleman whined. “You want her, you can have her.”

  Arthur did not move from Coleman. “You are talking about a lady, you bastard. Someone who just lost her husband, someone who took it on herself to help somebody from our town, and that’s how you will think of her, and how you will treat her. Now get up and get out of here, and don’t ever show yourself in this store again, and don’t ever speak to me again. Have I made myself clear?”

  Coleman nodded. He pulled himself away from Arthur and worked his pants back over his waist.

  “You leave through the back door,” Arthur told him. “I don’t want anybody to even know you’ve been here.”

  Coleman’s face dripped with blood as he dressed. He picked up his hat, took one look at Lottie, still holding her dress in front of her, and then he staggered to the back door of the storeroom and left.

  Arthur turned to Lottie. “Are you all right?” he asked gently.

  She nodded. “Yes,” she said.

  “Did he touch you?”

  She shook her head, pulled the dress closer to her body. Her eyes were moist.

  “He won’t say anything,” Arthur told her. “I know him. He won’t go against me.” He paused, looked at the back door, then back to Lottie. She seemed as helpless as a child, yet she was not a child. She was a woman, as beautiful as a woman could be. “Why don’t you dress,” he said softly. “I’ll wait up front.”

  Lottie nodded.

  TWENTY-TWO

  MARGARET PHELPS HAD met her late husband during the year of her eighth grade when a cotton broker named Jonathan Phelps moved to Jericho from Greensboro, North Carolina, bringing with him a wife named Louise and a lanky, freckle-faced, forever-grinning ninth-grader named Elton. It took exactly one second of looking into Elton’s eyes during their introduction for Margaret Grace Lowell to know she had met her future husband.

  It was the nature of Margaret to believe that life was not complicated if you did not make it complicated. She took the good, nurtured it, and refused to let the bad linger. The only exception—and it was still painful—was the death of her husband. Because it was sudden and unexpected, she had never fully accepted it, and there were moments when the thought of him caused her to feel faint, and she would have to sit and take short, gulping swallows of air to keep the thought from suffocating her.

  Now, there was another sadness, one that had caused her to weep into her pillow late at night and to make her claw at the bedcovering, pulling it to her chest, as though holding on to something that was being ripped from her.

  The something was Little Ben.

  After supper, sitting with his mother on the porch, Ben had announced he would accompany Lottie and Little Ben to Augusta in two days.

  “Mr. Ledford and I talked about it,” Ben had said, “and it’s time. Mr. Ledford thought it would be the right thing to do if I went with them.”

  “Sally won’t like that,” his mother had warned.

  “Mr. Ledford explained it to her,” Ben had replied. “And then she talked to me when she came over after work. I think she’s all right with it. She might even be a little relieved. No matter how much she says she likes Lottie, I can see a little bit of jealousy in her once in a while.”

  His mother had sighed with grief. “Ben, I don’t know if I can stand having that little boy going away.”

  “It’s going to happen sometime, Mama.”

  “I know, son, but he’s so happy here.”

  Ben had smiled and reached to pat his mother’s arm. “I think he is, too. About as happy as somebody else I know.”

  She had begun to cry, and could not stop crying.

  It was early, before sunrise, and Margaret moved as quietly as possible in the kitchen, building the stove fire, preparing for breakfast. She would cook pancakes for Little Ben, she thought. Pancakes were his favorite. Pancakes drenched in maple syrup. And she would cook the sausage that he liked. And after breakfast, when the stores of Jericho opened, she would take him to buy some toys and books that she would send with him to Augusta, and she would stop by Tolliver Barkley’s home and pay Tolliver to set up his camera and take a photograph of Little Ben for her to keep.

  She sat at the kitchen table, taking the one cup of coffee she allotted herself each morning,
though today, she thought, she would cheat on her habit. She needed the coffee after a sleepless night. The burning wood in the stove had a sweet smoke odor, and somehow it reminded her of the pipe that her husband had enjoyed after his evening meal. Even now, years after his death, she would take the pipe from a drawer and sniff it, and the still-sweet scent of tobacco would bring her to tears.

  She wondered if she would cook pancakes simply to remember Little Ben, and if she would weep.

  It was inevitable that Lottie and Little Ben would leave. She had known so from the beginning, and yet she had wanted to believe the leaving would not be so soon. Their presence had filled the house with energy, and she had reveled in her role as hostess and caretaker, as mother-figure and grandmother-figure. It had been like living in the highly charged gaiety of a festival that did not rest or stop, and as she sat, drinking from her coffee, she believed she could hear the rollicking laughter of it caught in the kitchen curtains like sunlight.

  She closed her eyes and lowered her head at the table and thought of Ben.

  It had not been easy for Ben, having Lottie and Little Ben in the house, knowing, as he must, that Lottie had feeling for him, though it did not seem a feeling of want as much as gratitude. It would have to be that. Lottie was a widow, her husband recently buried. Women—even young women such as Lottie—did not turn immediately to other men. There was a time of mourning. Yet, Lottie did not speak of her marriage, which meant that her husband could have been a difficult man whose death was a blessing. Not like Elton. Men such as Elton were mourned for a lifetime, and when her friends gently suggested that at her age—not yet fifty—she should think again of marriage, for companionship if for no other reason, she hushed them with a look.

  Lottie was young. Ben’s age, perhaps younger. She would marry again. There would be many willing and eager men vying for her attention and for the privilege of sharing her bed. If not for Sally, Ben likely would have been one of them, Margaret suspected. Still, Sally was the right woman for Ben. No one, including Lottie, would care for him as completely, or as passionately, as Sally.