The Truth According to Us

  I hadn’t smiled in so long, my face nearly cracked into pieces when I did. I clattered down the stairs as fast as I could without falling and slammed into Jottie in the kitchen. “Come upstairs,” I croaked. I hadn’t said anything at all in a couple days, and Jottie was so excited to hear me speak that she didn’t understand what I’d said for a few minutes. But when she did, she came right along.

  In her room, I gestured to the yellowed cloth. “It’s from Father.”

  She frowned at me. “What? Felix is here?”

  I shook my head. “No. He was. Open it.”

  She gave me a worried look and lifted the package up to pull away the cloth. Vause Hamilton’s coat came sliding out into her hands. She did just what I’d done, down in Tare Russell’s basement: She held it up casually, wondering what it was. And then she realized—or, really, recognized—what she was holding. I saw it come over her face, how she knew that it was his, how she’d seen him wearing it, how it was what he’d been wearing the last time she’d ever seen him. She brought the cloth to her face and breathed it in, and then her eyes closed and she smiled, so happy and beautiful. I sat down on the bed and watched her. I hadn’t seen her that happy in a while.

  After some time passed, she smoothed the coat flat on the bed, brushing it a little with her hand, not because it needed brushing but because she wanted to take care of it. She glanced at me and then reached to the inside pocket. There was the little square photograph of her. She gazed at it for a moment, then shook her head like she couldn’t believe it and put the photograph away and went back to brushing the coat with her hand. Then she looked at me again and reached into a side pocket. She found the buffalo nickel and then went to the next pocket and pulled out the scrap of paper with Father’s writing on it. She read it and her lips folded into a line. “Too late, Felix.”

  She caught me watching her and sighed. “Now he’s willing to let me see it. Now. But it’s too late. You can’t just wipe away eighteen years. You understand that, don’t you, Willa?” She looked at me and nodded to make me agree.

  I shook my head. I’d hoped that the sight of the coat would melt her heart, and I was pretty sure Father had hoped the same thing. I even opened my mouth to say so, but the thought of trying to gather all those words made me so tired I closed it again.

  She waited until she was sure I wasn’t going to reply. Then she said, real gentle, “Honey, he’ll never change. He’ll never—tell you the truth about anything or act like other men, and he’ll never, ever change.”

  I frowned at her, trying to understand what she meant. Finally, I cleared my throat and whispered, “I don’t want him to change.”

  She pressed her lips together and shook her head. Like she didn’t even know she was doing it, her hand reached out to stroke the coat, and she was gone, imagining poor dead Vause, how he had been inside it and how, probably, she hadn’t paid a moment’s mind to the coat he wore and yet now that was all there was of him left to her. Gentle and slow, as if she wanted to make it last a long time, she folded the coat along its creases, smoothing it and touching it as she went. When she was done, she tilted her head, looking at it. “Was it like this? In Tare’s basement?” she asked me. “Folded so neat?”

  I nodded.

  “And wrapped in this cloth?”

  I nodded again.

  “Oh Lord,” she sighed. She rubbed one finger down the cloth. “It would’ve been easier just to go to the penitentiary.”

  I didn’t know what she was talking about. I watched her slip the coat back into its white package. She cleared out the whole bottom drawer of her dresser and put the cloth bundle inside. She gave it a last stroke, and then she closed the drawer and rose. She paused, then went to the window, and my spirits rose because she was looking for Father. But then she made a little noise, a little disgusted noise, and she marched real quick out the door. I heard her heels thumping on the stairs.

  That night Jottie seemed almost lighthearted. She and the others played pinochle, the way she liked to play it, with the curtains drawn tight so that the police chief couldn’t see that they were gambling if he walked by. I didn’t play, of course. I sat on the sofa, not reading my book and wondering where Father was. Two times that night, Jottie went upstairs. She pretended she needed a hankie and then she pretended she couldn’t find her pen, but I knew better. She was looking at Vause Hamilton’s coat.

  “Jottie?”

  “Yes?”

  There was a short, embarrassed shuffle on the other end. “This is—well, it’s Hank Nole.”

  “Hank!” She straightened, shoring herself up against all the reasons he might be calling. “How are you?”

  “Fine, thanks.” There was another slight ripple, which Jottie now recognized as the sound of the police chief stroking his walrus mustache. “Ahm, can I talk to Felix?”

  “Sorry, Hank, he’s not here,” she said. And then, firmly, “He doesn’t live here anymore.”

  He sighed. “Yeah, I know. What I really mean is, do you know where he is?”

  “No.” Oh God, what had he done? “Why?” Not that she cared.

  “Well, Jottie, ahm, guess he’s been drinking pretty steady past couple weeks, and he got up to disturbing the peace last night.”

  “Disturbing the peace?” It didn’t sound like Felix. He generally took pains to maintain the illusion of peace. “Did you arrest him, Hank? Is that why you’re calling me? Because I’m not—”

  “No! No, I don’t have him. But I’m going to have to arrest him if I find him. So if he, ahm, turns up, let him know that, will you?”

  “Hank, if I let him know, you won’t even see his dust. Whose side are you on?”

  “Jottie,” said Hank reproachfully. “Felix has always been real good about keeping his business outside my jurisdiction. I’m returning the favor. I don’t want to see his dust.”

  52

  Seated at the kitchen table, Layla glanced up from her letter. “Parker Davies tenders you his respects.”

  Jottie shifted her cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other without touching it. “He tenders them? He actually used ‘tender’?”

  “Yes.”

  “Huh,” said Jottie. “Ain’t he nice?”

  “He’d like to come by and discuss the manuscript tomorrow afternoon.”

  Jottie raised her eyebrows. “Old Parker reads pretty fast, doesn’t he?”

  Layla nodded.

  “He wants to come here?”

  Layla looked down at the letter again. “Yes. At three. He doesn’t exactly sound thrilled.”

  Jottie smiled around her cigarette. “Let’s make sure Minerva and Mae are here, then.”

  “All right,” said Layla apathetically, setting the paper down.

  —

  Parker Davies was dressed for a bank. In his gray suit and hat, he looked like a chip off a bank that had gone for a walk. He stood on the sidewalk in front of the house and eyed the porch mistrustfully.

  Layla got up and opened the screen door. “Mr. Davies, please do come in and sit down.”

  “Miss Beck.” He smiled with his mouth closed and came heavily up the stairs. “Seems to get hotter every day, doesn’t it—” He broke off as his eyes adjusted to the shade of the porch and he saw Jottie, Minerva, and Mae arrayed before him in light summer dresses.

  “Parker,” said Jottie, rising to shake his hand.

  “Jottie. Mae. Minerva.” He inclined his head to each. “An unexpected. Pleasure.”

  “Likewise,” murmured Mae. Jottie nodded seriously. Minerva grinned at him.

  He looked away. “Miss Beck. Shall we—proceed?” He tapped a folder that he held under his arm.

  “Oh, yes,” she said. “Please have a seat.”

  He glanced at Minerva. “It’s a business matter. No need to bother these”—he gestured to the Romeyns—“ladies with our discussion.”

  “Oh, Parker, I’ve been looking forward to it all day,” said Minerva.

  “I just love b
usinesslike discussions,” said Mae.

  “And, do you know, we’ve come to feel a real personal interest in The History of Macedonia,” said Jottie. “Would you like some ice-tea?”

  He cleared his throat. “Ice-tea. Thank you. Ice-tea would be very pleasant.” He let himself down stiffly into a wicker chair and balanced his folder on his knee. “Miss Beck, I will not beat around the bush—”

  Mae held up a finger. “Wait just one moment, Parker, while I get the tea. I couldn’t stand it if I missed what you’re going to say.” She rose. “Back in two shakes!”

  Jottie and Minerva looked at each other and clamped their mouths shut. Layla gazed at the porch screen.

  After a moment’s silence, Jottie asked, “Isn’t the part about Mrs. Lacey’s backyard good? I never knew they burned amputated limbs. Could have knocked me over with a feather.”

  “Limbs?” he said, his lips pursing around the word. “I did not care for it, Jottie. I’m surprised you did.”

  “You’re squeamish?” asked Minerva. “Is that why you never became a doctor?” She wrinkled her nose sympathetically. “I remember way back when, you wanted to be a doctor.”

  “Not that there’s anything wrong with being a lawyer,” said Mae, reappearing with the tray.

  After the tea was handed around, followed by a plate of cookies that Parker Davies did not touch, he turned, with a genteel puff of impatience, to Layla. “As I said, Miss Beck, I will not beat around the bush. There are passages of this manuscript which must be expunged; there are fabrications and outright lies, all of which must be removed. I cannot think”—he looked at her severely—“why you saw fit to invent such ridiculous falsehoods when the true history of Macedonia is a model American tale!”

  Layla straightened in her chair. “To which passages do you refer, Mr. Davies?”

  “The General!” he exploded. “You—you—presume to—you call him insane! The General was in no way at all—could never be said to be—insane! And here, here”—he ruffled pages hurriedly—“you say he maimed his only son! He didn’t maim anyone!” He leaned toward her, breathing heavily.

  “You mean except Indians?” said Mae.

  He glanced at her and then back at Layla. “Where did you get these ridiculous ideas, Miss Beck?”

  Layla sat up even straighter. “I stand by my history, Mr. Davies,” she said, flushing. “According to my sources, there is ample evidence that the General was unhinged. In fact, it is the most generous interpretation of his behavior, and, as for your objection to the word ‘maim,’ I don’t know what else you’d call it when a man cuts off his own son’s toes.”

  “What?” he rumbled. “What toes?”

  “Yes, indeed,” said Jottie smoothly. “The General cut off his son’s toes. With his sword. To keep him from running off with a girl. Stabbed him right through the boot. He limped for the rest of his life.” She took a sip of tea. “Mrs. Lacey told me all about it.”

  “Mrs. Lacey!” he cried. “What does she know?”

  “I expect,” said Layla, “that, having lived here for eighty-seven years, she knows even more Macedonian history than you.”

  Parker Davies clenched his jaw. “I have marked places in this manuscript that require revision,” he said. “The material about the General—nonsense! Reverend Goodacre! Reverend Goodacre established the first Baptist church in Macedonia! If he happened to incur the—the—attentions of a madwoman—and that is exactly what I believe to have happened—there is no cause for you to air old rumors and gossip! I think that I made it perfectly clear, Miss Beck, in my first letter to you, that the subject of The History of Macedonia was not merely the history of the town but an account of its first citizens.” He patted the manuscript. “I do not say that you have not included fair descriptions of our best families. You have, and I am pleased, quite pleased, with those passages. But the book”—he glared at her—“the book is tainted by lurid tales and sordid allegations!”

  “Well, they stopped being lies, at least,” said Mae.

  “The roundhouse! The firemen didn’t blow it up!”

  “They surely did,” Jottie snapped.

  He glowered at her. “Jottie, my argument is with Miss Beck.”

  “Your argument’s with all of us,” Jottie said. “We think it’s a fine book. An interesting book that people will want to read.”

  “I don’t want to read it,” growled Parker. “It’s sordid!”

  “A lot of people think it’s excellent,” said Jottie.

  “Who? What people?” he sneered.

  “Layla, what’s that uncle of yours?” said Jottie, turning to Layla. “I never can remember his title—”

  “Her uncle? I don’t see how her uncle is germane in the least!” Parker interrupted.

  “Her uncle is the supervisor of the Writers’ Project in Washington,” said Mae. “Jottie keeps forgetting what his title is. Honey”—she turned to Layla—“weren’t you telling us about how he had dinner at the White House recently? Or was that your daddy? Her daddy’s a senator,” she explained helpfully to Parker.

  “It was Ben,” Layla said. “My uncle.”

  “And her uncle—the supervisor—thought the book was wonderful,” said Jottie, producing a piece of paper from beneath her cushion. “Let’s see, what did he say? He said, ‘Ursula sent me the copy’—Ursula’s the state director, Parker, the lady who’s running the State Guide—‘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. 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.” ’ ” Jottie looked up at Parker. “They’re going to use it for an example.”

  “An example,” he repeated. He slid his jaw forward and back, thumbing the papers in his lap.

  “And she wants Layla to write more,” added Mae. “Lots more, all about the area around here. Isn’t that right, Layla?”

  Layla smiled. “That’s what Ben says.”

  “Because she thinks The History of Macedonia is so good,” said Jottie.

  Parker’s eyes moved from face to face. “Huh,” he said. “But—” he broke off.

  “I thought she did real well with the General’s knee pants,” said Minerva softly. Parker jumped as though he’d been stuck with a pin. “She even described that stain he got from George Washington’s gravy.” She smiled into his eyes. “Anyone would think it was true.”

  “Minerva!” he groaned.

  “Parker. You think I forgot a single thing you ever said to me? I never did.” She slouched gracefully against the back of her chair and smiled at him. “Not one word.”

  Two pink spots appeared on his cheeks. There was a silence that stretched out into minutes, during which Parker Davies kept his eyes on the manuscript in his lap. “Puh,” he said finally. He looked at Layla. “I insist that you check your facts, Miss Beck. Thoroughly. You will see the places I’ve noted with a question mark. Please see to them particularly. I am not persuaded that you have looked closely at the statue of Charity. And your description of the operation of the looms at American Everlasting is incorrect; the proper term is ‘take-up mechanism,’ I believe, though of course Mr. McKubin will be the authority—” He stopped speaking as Layla held out her hand.

  “I’ll check them,” she said.

  “There’s no need to include that—that story about Ridell Fox,” he said to Jottie. “Mr. Fox will be most displeased.”

  “Nonsense,” said Jottie. “We showed it to Belle Fox and she was thrilled. Said it was about time someone got it all down in black and white.”

  In silence, Parker meticulously stacked the papers and tapped them on his knees before passing them to Layla.

  “I’ll check these facts,” said Layla crisply. “And with that proviso, am
I correct in assuming that the manuscript is now approved by its sponsor?”

  Parker glanced sourly at Minerva. “Yes.”

  “I’ll need a letter to that effect. If you like, it can be printed in the front of the book,” Layla said. “They’ll do that if you want.”

  “The town council will write you a letter,” he said. “There will be no need to include it in the book. Which will, I presume, be ready in good time for the festivities?” He looked at her sternly.

  “I have every reason to believe it will,” said Layla. “Though the printing is out of my hands, of course.”

  “September twenty-fourth,” he reminded her.

  “Will there be a parade?” asked Mae.

  “I think not,” he said. “A picnic has been decided upon.”

  “Oh, goody,” said Mae. “I love a picnic. Don’t you just love a picnic, Parker?”

  As his steps resounded down the front walk, Willa’s head became visible next to the porch. She’d heard it all, thought Jottie, from under the house. Her smooth brown hair shone in the sun as she followed Parker’s progress down the street, and then she peered up into the screen.

  “Come on in,” said Jottie. “Come have some tea.”

  “There’s cookies, too,” said Minerva.

  Slowly, Willa made her way around the rhododendron bushes and up the stairs. Her face was the color of cream except for the purple smudges under her eyes, but she glanced around at all of them—even Layla—before she sat down. At least she was that interested, thought Jottie, scooting over to make room for her niece. Silently, Willa accepted a cookie and a glass of tea and set them on the table in front of her.

  “You’re a dark horse, Minerva,” said Jottie. “You truly are.”

  “Do you really remember every single word he ever said to you?” asked Layla.

  “ ’Course not,” Minerva said. “I was asleep most of the time.”

  They were still laughing when Emmett drove up in his truck. They watched as he parked and approached the house, unconscious of his audience. He opened the screen door and caught sight of the five of them, all in a row, all smiling at him, and froze. “Do you-all have any idea how frightening you are?” he asked.