The Truth According to Us

  I couldn’t explain. I was too tired.

  The night Father left, I had a dream. It became a dream I had nearly every night, and that was why I was tired. I stayed awake, trying not to have it, and then I woke up after it with my heart pounding and couldn’t go back to sleep. In my dream, Father came home. I could hear the soft thump of his hat falling onto the hook, even though I was up in my room. “I’m home!” he called, just the way he always did. And, along with knowing he’d come back, I knew he wouldn’t stay very long. So I had to rush, rush downstairs to see him before he left again. I could hear Bird and Jottie, Minerva and Mae and Emmett, all coming out to greet him, surprised and happy. But then, in my dream, just as I was running out of my room, I looked down and saw that my dress was dirty or torn—something was wrong, and I didn’t want Father to see me like that, so I had to change. My fingers fumbled at my bureau and slipped off the drawer handles, my clothes dropped off their hangers to the floor, and I scrabbled around to pick them up. “I’m coming!” I called. “Wait for me!” Sometimes I’d find a dress that looked all right and slip it on, only to catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror and find that it had turned to rags, that my hair was tangled, that there was lipstick on my mouth, that my face was dirty. And all the while I could hear him downstairs—usually, he was laughing. Every time, it was the same. When at last I got my clothes on, yanked the door open, and raced downstairs, I’d find everyone in the front room, everyone except Father. “Oh,” they’d say, “Felix? He just left.”

  50

  August 23, 1938

  Mrs. Judson Chambers

  Deputy Director, Federal Writers’ Project

  1013 Quarrier St.

  Charleston, West Virginia

  Dear Mrs. Chambers,

  Enclosed please find the complete Editorial Copy of The History of Macedonia. I have submitted the same to the sponsor, the Town Council of Macedonia, for their approval.

  Yours sincerely,

  Layla Beck

  “How about I take it to the post office for you?” said Jottie, eyeing Layla’s crumpled dress. “I could use the walk.”

  A moment passed before Layla looked up. “Oh. Yes. Thanks. Thanks.” She handed the manuscript in its envelope to Jottie and subsided back into her chair.

  Jottie glanced through the back-porch screen to see Willa drifting across the yard toward the red oak tree. Jottie watched, frowning, as Willa placed one palm against the trunk of the tree and rested there, motionless. It’s like living with a ghost, she thought. Two ghosts, she amended, looking back to Layla.

  It was a relief to leave her haunted house behind, and, despite the soupy heat of the afternoon, Jottie dawdled along Academy Street, interesting herself in Grandma Pucks’s hydrangeas, the dead-empty windows of the Casey house, and Seneca the dog, currently sporting an abscess on his ear. “You shouldn’t fight with cats, you dumb old thing,” Jottie said to him. She passed over Academy Creek Bridge, leaning over the stone parapet to note the spot she and Vause and Felix had favored for digging worms to fish with.

  Three ghosts, really.

  For now Vause was hers again, and each night after she kissed Sol and waited to hear his shoes slap, slap away on the sidewalk, she flew upstairs to her bed so she could raise Vause from the dead and remember, unfettered, everything, every tiny thing, every beautiful thing.

  It’s adultery.

  No, it’s not, she argued. That’s only if you’re married. And I’m not, yet. Plus, he’s dead. It can’t be adultery if he’s dead and I’m not married. I’ll stop when I’m married.

  It’s deceitful. It’s dishonest.

  Yes.

  Sol’s an honest man, a good and honest man. He loves you. He’s given you a new life. Everything you wanted. He deserves your love and loyalty. You should be ashamed of yourself.

  Yes. I am.

  Conscience-dogged, Jottie hurried down Council Street and then rushed up Prince to the post office. Feeling boiled, she plunged headlong through the massive doors and collided powerfully with a hard pink bosom.

  “Well! Heavens! What on earth—” exclaimed Mrs. John Lansbrough.

  “Oh my! Are you all right?” exclaimed Jottie at the same moment.

  “Oh!” said Mrs. John, recovering herself quickly. “Jottie Romeyn! Goodness!” She put her gloved hand on her chest and trilled with laughter. “Aren’t we a pair? John’s always telling me, Watch where you’re going, honey, and I guess he’s right!” She gave Jottie a sparkling smile. “You all in one piece?”

  Astonished, Jottie groped after her manners. “Why, I’m just fine, Mrs. John. It was only a bump. You?”

  “Oh yes!” sang Mrs. John. She paused, turning her head slightly to give Jottie a roguish look. “I heard a little something about you,” she whispered.

  Jottie goggled at her. “Oh, yes?” she said finally.

  Mrs. John smiled. “Well, I wish you the very best. Both John and I do. We’re old friends of Sol’s.” She gave Jottie a friendly tap on the arm. “We’ll have to have you up to the house for a little dinner party, after the happy event. You know, to celebrate.”

  “Why”—Jottie swallowed air—“that’d be real nice. Such a nice thought!”

  “We’d just be thrilled.” Mrs. John wrinkled her nose, indicating thrilled-ness. Jottie felt her lips catching on her teeth as she smiled in response. Mrs. John leaned forward confidentially. “You heard what that Auralee Bowers wants for the next meeting?”

  “Next meeting?” asked Jottie.

  “Of the Daughters,” explained Mrs. John. Then, seeing Jottie’s blank expression, “Daughters of Macedón.”

  “Oh!” Belatedly, “What?”

  “She wants to talk about that Mr. Gandhi.” Mrs. John gave a little rippling shudder. “Which is all right with me, I said, as long as I don’t have to look at him.” She chortled. “He wears just about nothing at all!”

  Utterly at a loss, Jottie found herself chortling back, and a wave of self-loathing washed over her.

  “Well,” Mrs. John’s voice dropped to a piercing whisper, “don’t you forget—John and I want to be the very first to invite Mr. and Mrs. McKubin to dinner!” Twinkling, she nudged Jottie and swept away.

  “I’ll look forward to it!” sang Jottie, hating herself more and more. I’ll see you in hell first, Wanzellen Bucklew, she said to herself as, with numerous waves, she moved toward the counter. But even dire imprecations failed to comfort her. She had truckled to a known foe. She was a hypocrite and a liar. But the most loathsome thing of all was that she had attained her goal. She had been accepted. She was an eminent gentlewoman of Macedonia. Prestige had been granted, instantly, automatically, by virtue of her engagement to Sol. And it stung. Why? Because she hadn’t earned it herself. Because she was being rewarded for seeing the error of her ways, for changing horses and choosing a winner, for shucking off her misguided loyalty to Felix. As though what she had been before was shameful.

  Well, she said to herself, aren’t you a one? You were ashamed. You wanted Sol’s prestige. You were desperate for Sol’s prestige. And now you have it, you’re ashamed of yourself for wanting it? That makes no sense atall.

  But she was lying to herself, she knew. It made sense. Because it made her no better than Wanzie Bucklew, who had cleaned herself of her dirty past when she married John Lansbrough, cleaned herself so thoroughly that she kept her mother locked away so nobody could see what she had come from and by doing so made herself far, far dirtier than her childhood had ever made her.

  Sol’s an honest man, she recited, a good and honest man. He loves you. He’s given you a new life. Everything you wanted. He deserves your love and loyalty.

  “Miss Romeyn?” said Harlan Kasebier, the clerk, beckoning her toward his postal altar. She had known him since he was three and had dimpled knees. “Well,” he said, his official face breaking into a smile, “I heard something real nice about you.”

  —

  Jottie trailed out of the post office. Dispirited
by her own failings and blinded by the glare of the sun on the macadam, she didn’t notice the Lloyd boys sitting on the stairs until she nearly fell over them.

  “Miss Romeyn!” squawked Jun. “Y’all right?” He leapt to his feet and held out his hand to steady her. “I’m sure sorry! Gee!”

  Jottie smiled into his sweaty, sorry face. “It’s all right, Jun. I’m fine. I seem to be banging into everyone I meet today.” Her eyes moved over the three brothers. They were arrayed in their Boy Scout finery, and she could see that their shirts were turning their necks blue.

  “Jun,” said Dex meaningfully. He looked hard at Jottie.

  Jun swung around and tried again. “You sure you’re all right?” he asked. “I ask because we can help if you’re not. All right, I mean.”

  Jottie’s heart lifted. To the Lloyd boys, at least, she had intrinsic value. Obligingly, she slumped. “Well, I do feel kind of dizzy, Jun. It’s awful close, you know?” He nodded vigorously. “I’d feel a lot better if you boys would help me across the street.” She tried to look pitiful.

  “I’ll do it!” yelped Frank, leaping to his feet.

  “You get out!” cried Dex. “It was me she tripped over.”

  “Oh,” said Jottie hastily. “I’d feel better if it was all of you.” She swayed.

  Jun grinned at her. “Thanks,” he said in an undertone, as he stiffened into a military posture. “Get on over to her side, Dex! Whatsamatter with you?” he barked. “Frank, get her elbow!”

  With Dex and Frank supporting an arm apiece, and Jun grandly striding ahead to stop traffic, Jottie tottered into the crosswalk.

  A car slammed against the curb, and Sol slung himself out into the street with his face askew. “Jottie!” he called, rushing to her side. “What happened?”

  Jottie saw the Lloyds exchange glances, expecting betrayal. She was glad to have the opportunity to redeem herself. “Oh, Sol, I was feeling real flimsy from the heat, and these nice boys said they’d help me across the street. Aren’t they good boys?”

  “Yeah.” Sol nodded cursorily at Frank. “Thanks, fellas. I’ll take her from here.” Without even knowing he did so, he nudged Dex out of the way and slid his hand under Jottie’s arm. “Come on, let’s get you in the car, honey, and I’ll take you right home.”

  Jottie cast a helpless look at Jun. “Thanks!” she called to him. He nodded bitterly.

  “Don’tcha want a glass of water, even?” yelled Dex.

  Sol glanced at him and then turned away without answering as he opened the car door for her. “There you go,” he said, as she settled herself on the seat.

  She turned to wave at the Lloyds. “Thanks, boys!” It was the best she could do. “Sorry!” she called.

  Sol took his place behind the steering wheel and turned to inspect her soberly. “You feel dizzy? You look a little pale.”

  Jottie doubted it. “I’m fine, Sol. It was a—” The impossibility of explaining it overcame her and she fell silent. Even if she could explain it, he wouldn’t think it was funny. “It was nothing.”

  Sol nodded sympathetically. “It’s damn hot. Let’s get you home where you can put your feet up. I stopped there a few minutes ago to find out where you were.” A pause. “I wanted to tell you my news, honey. I wanted you to be the first to know.”

  She knew then, but she turned to him expectantly. He took her hand. “Shank’s out,” he said. “And guess who’s in.”

  “Oh, Sol, that’s wonderful,” she said, squeezing his hand. “You deserve it, you truly do. You’ll be a wonderful president.” He would be, she knew.

  He let out a long, amazed breath. “Honey,” he said in a low voice, “I have everything I ever wanted.”

  August 29, 1938

  Dear Layla,

  My God, you’ve pulled it off! When Gray told me that you were refusing to attend your mother’s party in order to finish your manuscript, I thought perhaps the Second Coming was at hand—and in Macedonia, West Virginia, of all places! (You didn’t miss much, by the way. Both Lance and Alene looked as though they’d prefer the rack. Your mother was in her element.) Then I figured you’d come down with boils or lice or some other rural affliction and didn’t dare show your face. I’m sure you’ll understand when I tell you my first thoughts were for my own safety; you know your father well enough to know that he’d happily shoot me before he’d allow one hair on your head to be mussed.

  But you were actually working, by God! Ursula sent me the copy, not to edit, but to crow over. She’s delighted, and I can see why. It’s informative, interesting, and well written, an excellent example of what we’ve been trying to pull out of these small sponsored projects. Ursula may not effuse—against her policy,

  I believe—but in her letter to me, she said, “The manuscript is much better than I would have believed possible from an untried young woman. She is obviously someone we can, and should, use for other projects.” In other words, watch out. Ursula’s told me of some problems she’s been having with the Field Assistant in Martinsburg—Iliff or Liffle or something. It seems he’s incapable of producing copy, and she’s had to compose his material for the State Guide herself, which is not only against project rules but quite an annoyance to her. However, now she’s seen what you can do, she’s had the bright idea of hiring you to take over, not on the State Guide, which is nearly done, but for a couple of other projects she has in the hopper. Ursula’s a go-getter, and I’d advise you to consider the offer. You’ve made a real success of this business, Layla, and I extend you my heartiest congratulations, along with a few apologies for ever having doubted you.

  Fondly,

  Ben

  P.S. I wish you could have seen Gray at the party, torn between the desire to brag about your industry and the shame of admitting that you’re on relief. He solved the dilemma in his usual way—a couple of bottles of Champagne and he couldn’t say anything.

  51

  “Just let me try it.” Mae ran her fingers through Emmett’s hair.

  “Leave me alone,” he grumbled, peering at the frayed electric cord on the lamp beside him.

  “But you’d look so handsome. Wouldn’t he?” She appealed to Minerva.

  “You’d look like Tyrone Power,” Minerva said. “Don’t you want to look like Tyrone Power?”

  “No.” He picked up the lamp and looked at the bottom.

  Layla drifted through the hallway. “Don’t you think Emmett would look handsome with his hair combed straight back?” called Mae.

  Layla returned to the doorway and stood there, looking slightly dazed.

  “You don’t have to answer that question,” said Emmett, embarrassed.

  Layla hesitated. “My mother used to straighten my hair when I was a child,” she said softly. “I thought it was a violation of the Fourth Amendment.” Her eyes sought Emmett’s. “Unreasonable seizure.”

  Emmett’s face lit up. “That’s right! You’re exactly right!” He turned to his sister. “Hear that, Mae? Touch me with that comb and I’ll call the attorney general.”

  Layla gave him a small smile and disappeared.

  Mae’s eyes followed her. “I could just kill that Felix,” she said after a moment.

  Minerva nodded. “Me too.”

  “What’s so wonderful about him, anyway?” demanded Mae. “Nothing.”

  “Nothing,” agreed Minerva. “Nice teeth is all, and that’s not much to write home about. Plenty of people have nice teeth.”

  Simultaneously, they turned to glare at Emmett. “To hell with all of them,” said Minerva.

  Emmett’s eyes widened and fled to his lamp.

  It was hot everywhere and it was hottest upstairs, but I didn’t care. I liked to visit Father’s room. Every day, I checked on it, not to see if he was there—I knew better than that—but to make sure no one had touched anything or messed it up. I closed the door behind me and looked around. It looked nice, nice and tidy. There was a stretch of wall between his dresser and his desk, and I liked to sit there. I d
idn’t disturb anything; I just sat on the floor with my back to the wall and thought about nothing. It was my own place. Probably not even Father had ever sat right there. When he left, there’d been a penny on the floor, under his dresser. It had made me feel good, seeing it there—just something he’d dropped and would pick up someday. But one week when Jottie cleaned, she found it and put it on his desk. I don’t know what upset me more, that it wasn’t where he’d left it or that his desk was changed.

  One afternoon, just the most stifling afternoon you can imagine, I came to his room to sit for a while. I attended to the door, closing it without making a noise, and then I turned. Something was different. I couldn’t quite tell what it was, because most things were the same, but after a moment I got it. The window was open more than it had been. One of his pictures had been moved. The penny was gone.

  Father had been there. I quick went to his closet, to his dresser, to his table drawers, and searched for things missing—had he come for clothes, money, what? There was a pair of shoes gone—his other black ones—but besides that, everything was there. I stopped in the middle of the rug, breathing hard, and then I got a wild hope that he was somewhere in the house. I raced out of his room and down the hall, opening doors. I checked our room first and then I went into Miss Beck’s room without knocking, but she wasn’t there anyway, and neither was he. I banged into Jottie’s room—I didn’t need to be sly about that—and saw at once why he’d come. On Jottie’s faded pink bedspread, there was a package wrapped in white cloth gone yellow with age. It just sat there, where he’d set it. He had given it to her.