His mother’s face blossomed. She picked up the ring, turned it in the light, watched the light splinter into its rainbow of colors in the cut surfaces of the diamond. “It’s beautiful,” she whispered. She looked up at Ben. “It’s time we got to work.”
THE WEDDING OF Ben Phelps and Sally Ledford would be held on Sunday, November 19, in the Jericho Methodist Church, though Sally had agreed to become a Presbyterian by transfer of faith and letter the following week. The ceremony would be presided over by the Reverends Harry Alewine for the Methodists and Conley Clarke for the Presbyterians, two friends of the cloth who were known to have humorous quarrels over the subject of predestination. For Reverend Alewine, the wedding was proof positive that God did not set destiny from his workroom of clouds, like some architect pondering the roof lines of a house; no Methodist was ever destined to be a Presbyterian. It was a choice, plain and simple, and one usually made under duress or the questionable influence of man’s ignorance.
For Ben, the final days leading to the wedding were fear-filled and solemn. He had begun the experience with eagerness and pride, with grins and winks, with a puffed-chest feeling that he was shucking childhood and, at the age of twenty-four, becoming the man that customers of Ledford’s Dry Goods thought him to be. Yet, as October funneled into November, he was seized with the sensation of a man at the bottom of a mountain, looking up at an avalanche of snow hurling toward him with stunning speed and with a force so great it snapped giant trees like dry twigs. It was not fear of facing the wedding; it was fear of surviving the preparation and the daily, cackling warnings of forever-and-ever doom offered to him by carefree men who had sidestepped the avalanche—often in the nick of time—or by head-wagging men who had been caught in it.
Getting married, Ben confessed to his mother, was not for the weak-hearted.
For Sally, the preparation was the most glorious ride of joy she had taken since her first squealing spin on a carnival merry-go-round. She was as jovial and as bright as a spirit and seemed to be in as many places as a spirit could travel by dividing itself into tiny shards of light. Even the sour, defensive behavior of her mother—more and more absent due to real or imagined frailties, as well as her blatant disregard for Margaret Phelps—did not discourage Sally. She simply ignored her mother, made her own plans, confirmed them with Margaret, and explained them to her father, who nodded approval and, Sally supposed, relayed them to the sickbed of her mother. She would never say aloud that she did not care if her mother attended the wedding or not, but she did hint of it in her journal:
I am at the end of my patience with my mother. She has disagreed with everything I want to do, but has not yet made a suggestion about anything. I wouldn’t be surprised if she is too sick to even be at the wedding. If she isn’t, I won’t cry.
For Margaret Phelps, the wedding was therapy, a needed distraction from the loss of Little Ben. Her loneliness had not subsided; it was merely pushed aside for a few hours of each day. At night, alone in her bed, she imagined him, listened for the sound of his voice calling “Gra-Ma,” remembered the curl of his arms around her neck, the way he fit in the cradle of her arms and against her bosom. It many ways, the loss of Little Ben was greater than the loss of her husband, and she thought of it as transferring grief for grief, as some cosmic sign that life renewed itself, even if there was considerable risk in the perfection of the process. She had written letters to Little Ben, addressing them to:
LITTLE BEN LANIER
72 RIVER ROAD
AUGUSTA, GEORGIA
She was never certain the letters had been delivered, for she had never received a reply from Lottie, not even a response to the wedding invitation she had mailed. In the envelope containing the invitation, she had written, Please plan to come to the wedding and stay a few days. If you need train fare, let me know.
Beside her, in a silver frame, was the photograph that Tolliver Barkley had taken of Little Ben on the last day of his stay with her. The smile was shy, a head-tucked smile, the kind of smile he would have just before his arms stretched to her. Each night, she touched the glass covering the face with her fingertips, as though her touch could leap space and find him as he slept on River Road beside the Savannah River.
Yet, Margaret said nothing of Little Ben. The smile that was fitted on her face was as radiant as the smile that Sally wore, and her voice was as high-pitched and excited. There were times when Ben looked at both of them with confusion and horror. Once he said, “Mama, are the two of you planning a wedding or a reception for the governor?” And she answered, “Son, we’re planning a world.”
And so it was. A world.
Through August and September and October, the twosome of Sally Ledford and Margaret Phelps worked with fury—selecting, eliminating, altering, creating the world that would become Mr. and Mrs. Ben Phelps.
Ben made down payment on a home on Reed’s Gin Road, walking distance from the store. The home had belonged to Esther and Luther Proffitt, but after Luther’s death in early spring, Esther had accepted an invitation from her younger sister, Seba, to move to Gainesville, two widows fending for themselves. The home was small, but well-kept, shaded by a pecan grove. One day, Ben would inherit the Phelps home, but until then, the Proffitt place was ideal, Margaret declared, and Sally concurred. To Margaret, it was a matter of economics. To Sally, it was because small meant cozy, and she was eager for cozy.
No one seemed to notice the changes in Arthur Ledford’s life. He isolated himself, surrendered more responsibility of the store’s operation to Ben, often left work early to drive out of Jericho in his motorcar, explaining that he was investigating property for possible investment purposes. There were nights when he took long, late walks, mornings when he arose early, refusing breakfast, to retire to his office at the store to work on correspondence. All these things were regarded as one of Arthur’s periods of contemplation before making a business decision that would likely turn to gold.
His behavior, his mood, had nothing to do with business. He was in mourning.
The only thing Arthur did to cause the people of Jericho to know things were different—and Ben to nearly faint—was to change the name of his store from Ledford’s Dry Goods to Ledford-Phelps Clothiers, and to make Ben a minority partner with one-third interest. It was his wedding present, he announced to Sally, adding, “Of course, one day it’ll all belong to you and Ben.”
For many days after the new sign had been hoisted above the entrance to the store, and the windows had been repainted in gleaming black with white shadowing, Ben would arrive early and stand outside and read the sign with amazement.
In one of his letters to Milo Wade, he had enclosed a clipping from the Jericho Journal, which carried a photograph of the new storefront, and he had wondered how Milo would react. He had written of his engagement to Sally, trying to keep the news light and casual, and he had imagined Milo smiling over his comparison of marriage to baseball. He was reaching the ninth inning of his life, Ben had suggested, and it was time to get in the game and do something. He only hoped that he didn’t strike out as often as he had in Augusta.
After mailing the letter with the news clipping, Ben had dreamed that he was sitting at the ballpark in Boston with Milo sitting beside him, and Milo was laughing wildly, accusing Ben of finding his way in the world by detouring through the bedroom of his employer’s daughter.
Ironically, years later, Ledford-Phelps Clothiers would become one of the largest department store operations in the Southeast under Ben’s leadership, and in 1934, he would refuse Milo’s offer, made through attorneys, to purchase six of the stores as an investment. It would not be a personal decision. Business only. Personally, Ben would be flattered. Professionally, he would find the offer almost amusing.
FOR A WEEK preceding the wedding, the preamble of a hard winter had howled through the South, skimmed off early snow blizzards in Canada and the Dakotas, yet on the morning of November 19, the clouds split and peeled back like the opening of a curta
in, and the sun poured warmth over the city of Jericho and the county of Caulder, causing Margaret Phelps to declare it an omen.
At seven-thirty, Akers Crews delivered a package to Ben that had arrived on the early train from Athens.
“Thought it might be something you’d be needing,” Akers said to Margaret. “I don’t normally take it on myself to make deliveries—especially on Sunday—but this being your boy’s big day, I reckoned he’d be busy enough.”
“Right now, he just looks dumbstruck,” Margaret said, laughing. “But it’s kind of you to bring this by, Akers. We’ll see you at the wedding, I hope.”
“If the Augusta train gets in on time, I’ll be there,” Akers replied. “I never been one to go to weddings, but I like that boy of yours. He’s as good as they come.”
Akers’s mention of the Augusta train made the smile fade from Margaret’s face. She thought of Lottie and of Little Ben.
“Well, I better be going,” Akers said. “You be careful handling that box. It’s heavy.”
“I will,” Margaret said.
THE GIFT WAS an expensive silver service from Martin and Christine Wade, with a note of apology for being unable to attend the wedding. The explanation given had to do with pressing government business in Atlanta for the senator. The final line in the note was Milo also sends his very best wishes to you.
After reading the note, Ben went to his room and took stationery and wrote to Milo:
Dear Milo,
I received this morning, via a message from your mother, your good wishes for my marriage to Sally Ledford, which is to take place in a few hours at the Jericho Methodist Church. I want to thank you for your expression. I hope this finds you well. As always, I am looking forward to the next baseball season and your continued success. All of Jericho is proud of you.
Ben signed the letter as usual: Your friend, Ben Phelps. He addressed it in care of the Boston Red Sox, Boston, Massachusetts, not knowing Milo’s off-season residence.
And though he would continue to monitor the progress of Milo Wade in the years to come, it was the last time Ben would ever write a letter to his boyhood friend. He would be surprised when, in 1957, at the age of seventy-two and in ill health, Milo would tell a reporter for Look magazine that the best friend he had ever had was a man named Ben Phelps, a boyhood playmate. He would also add that Ben had been one of the few men ever to stand up to him in a business deal and still hold Milo’s respect. He did not reveal to the reporter that it had been fifty-three years since he had communicated personally with Ben. The story would cause Ben to laugh. Yet, when Milo died in December of 1960, all of the letters that Ben had written to him were discovered among his personal effects.
AT TWENTY MINUTES before two o’clock, the selected hour for the wedding of Ben Phelps and Sally Ledford, Arthur went, as instructed, to the choir room of the Methodist church, where his daughter waited in the wedding dress she had ordered months earlier from the New York tailors Brickmeyer and Colson. When he saw her, he became weak with awe. The little-girl daughter he had heard spilling laughter at breakfast was now a woman so spectacularly beautiful it caused him to flick his head in shock. He turned his eyes to his wife, who stood beside Sally, and for the first time in months, he saw his wife smile.
“Daddy, are you all right?” Sally asked.
“You’re—beautiful,” her father stammered.
“I thought I was always beautiful to you,” Sally teased.
“You are,” Arthur said. “You are.”
Sally glided to her father, embraced him. “I love you,” she said softly.
“And I love you,” Arthur mumbled. He blinked away the moisture filling his eyes.
“All right, both of you, leave me alone,” Sally commanded. “I need to have the last few minutes of being Sally Ledford to myself.” She motioned them toward the door with a sweeping of her hands. “And behave, both of you,” she warned lightly. “Remember, this is my day.”
THROUGH THE WEDDING, Sally was right. It was her day. From the rippling sighs of astonishment at her appearance in the church, through the glowing smile at Ben’s nervous surrender to the questions of the Reverends Alewine and Clarke, the ceremony of Sally Ledford becoming Sally Ledford Phelps belonged gloriously to her. Even her whisper after Reverend Clarke’s pronouncement of being man and wife—a whisper loud enough to be heard in the front rows and repeated like a song performed in rounds to the back rows—would be remembered as Sally’s Saying: “Now I’m alive.”
It was after the wedding, in the basement of the church’s recreation-dining room where the reception was held, that Sally’s day was surprisingly interrupted.
Akers Crews appeared holding the hand of Little Ben. He stood for a moment at the door, amazed at the merriment of young girls and women dressed in their finest and of men preening in suits that Akers had only seen in magazine advertising. It was a gathering trembling with gaiety, one that had the Reverend Harry Alewine pale with concern over imagined violations of conduct on church property.
“Good God,” Akers muttered. He waded through the revelers, guiding Little Ben before him, until he saw Margaret Phelps at the table displaying the three-layer wedding cake. Margaret was talking in a rush of words to Rachel Alewine, the wife of Harry.
Akers called, “Margaret, you got a visitor.”
When Margaret turned to Akers’s voice, she saw Little Ben, and a shudder of gladness thundered in her. Her hands flew to her face and tears sprang to her eyes. She cried, “My baby.”
She rushed to Little Ben, scooping him in her arms, squeezing him, and Little Ben wrapped his small arms around her neck, clinging to her. He whispered timidly: “Gra-Ma.”
“What are you doing here?” Margaret squealed. “Where’s your mommy?”
A puzzled look crawled over Akers’s face. He said, “Wadn’t you expecting him?”
“Expecting him?” Margaret answered. “Why, no. I haven’t heard from them since they left.”
Akers moved close to Margaret. “We better step outside,” he said in a low voice.
“Why?” asked Margaret.
“We just better,” Akers mumbled.
Margaret glanced around the room. She could see Ben and Sally, surrounded by well-wishers and the music of laughter. Alice Ledford stood in one corner with Oscar Morgan, the doctor. Oscar appeared impatient. She turned toward the door and saw Arthur. He was staring at her and at Little Ben in disbelief, and she pushed her way to him, with Akers following.
“The boy’s here?” Arthur said.
“We better talk about this outside,” Akers suggested.
“All right,” Margaret said.
Outside, Akers led them to an oak tree near the cemetery. He stopped and looked back at the church, and then he said to Margaret, “The train was late coming in, like I thought it might be, which is why I missed the wedding. The boy and his mama were on it. She said you were expecting him to stay a few days while she went on to Athens to help get her sister in a hospital, and she asked me to bring him to you, since the train was about to leave. I put his belongings at the station.”
Margaret let Little Ben slip from her arms. He caught her dress and held to it.
“I don’t know anything about this at all,” she said. “Maybe she wrote to me and I didn’t get it.”
“His mother was on the train?” Arthur asked anxiously.
“That’s what I said, wadn’t it?” Akers replied. He sounded irritated.
“Has it left?” Arthur said.
“Hadn’t when I left, but it probably has now,” Akers told him. “They were taking on some water.”
Arthur turned and began to stride away.
“Where are you going?” Margaret called.
“To the station,” Arthur answered.
“Wait,” Margaret said. “We’re going with you.” She lifted Little Ben and followed Arthur to his car.
Akers stood, watching them. He had no idea what was happening. He shook his head and started walking
back to the church. He had missed the wedding, but he was not going to miss the reception. The only decent thing about any wedding was the reception, as far as Akers was concerned.
IT WOULD BE remembered by Margaret as one of the lasting moments of her life. From the car, she could see the train beginning its slow pull away from the station. Arthur stopped the car and jumped from it and ran toward the platform, taking the steps in one leap before stopping near the door leading into the station. Margaret watched him stand helplessly, his body heaving in hard breathing, as the train took the first long curve leading to Athens. She heard him cry out, “Lottie! Lottie!” The cry sounded desperate.
“Gra-Ma?” Little Ben said.
Margaret pulled him close to her. “What, baby?”
“Where’s my mama?”
Margaret did not answer. She brushed her face against Little Ben’s face. The bellow of the train began to fade. Arthur’s voice sounded like an echo swallowed by a whistling wind.
“Lottie! Lottie!”
And without understanding why, Margaret knew she would never again see Lottie Lanier.
EPILOGUE
I HAVE LEARNED that few people achieve their dreams. They try, fall short, and settle for what happens to them. Oddly, some become famous, more famous than they would have been if their dream had been realized. Some vanish, taking the easy road out, without realizing—or perhaps caring—that the easy road may be trouble for the people around them.
Still, the dream is always with them, like a birthmark hidden from sight. It is, I suppose, both the blessing and the curse God implanted in the human species when he set all of matter in motion.
If we did not have dreams, we would have no reason to wonder, or hope, or believe.
We would have no reason to care about who we are, rather than who we might have been.
THE PEOPLE WHO knew Lottie Lanier have said that as a child, I resembled her, but there is no photograph of her for me to see and I do not know if there is any truth in what I have been told.