Dawn of a New Day (11 page)

“You're right there. You can't get rid of poverty by passing a law. The Lord Jesus says the poor you have with you always, and I reckon I've seen that.” He hesitated and said, “I came over to meet you and welcome you but also to talk to you about Prue.”

Something in Deforge's voice caught Maxwell's attention. He lifted his head and waited, saying only, “Yes? What about your daughter?”

“I don't know how to put this any way except to be honest. Prue's a young woman, and you're a single man. Prue's a good girl, and I hope you're a good man, but I don't know you yet.”

Maxwell smiled briefly. He tapped his right leg and said, “In the first place, I'm not a woman chaser, and in the second place, even if I were, I couldn't catch a woman on this bad leg.” Then he sobered up and said, “You don't have to worry about that. My word on it.”

Deforge studied the man, then said, “I'll take your word, sir, and you and Prue can work out the details. I hope you and me will get to know each other better.”

“I'd like that.”

Dent left soon after, and when he got home he called Prue, who was out feeding the chickens. “I met your Mr. Maxwell. He's a little bit hard to know, but I told him the rules of the game.”

Prue laughed. “Did you threaten to take a shotgun to him if he offered me any insult?”

Dent laughed with her. “Just about,” he said. “I don't think you'll have any problem, so I said you'd be by to work out whatever workin' rules you have to.”

Prue arrived at Kent Maxwell's house at nine o'clock the next morning. When he came to the door she said, “Dad told me he came by and talked to you. He said it would be all right if I would work for you.”

“Well, that's fine. Come in and we'll talk. Come on in the kitchen.” He limped through the house, down the hall, turning to the left where a wood-burning stove drove the chill out of the air. “I hate that stove,” he said, “but it's all that was here. Sit down, Prudence.”

“I can cut the wood for you. I do most of that at our house,” Prue said quickly.

“How about some coffee?”

“That would be nice, Mr. Maxwell.”

The two sat there and talked over duties and wages, and finally Kent said, “I work up in the attic.” He waved his hand around and said, “You know housekeeping better than I do. Why don't you just do whatever you see needs doing while I go up and try to get something done. You might fix something to eat about noon, if you would, Prudence.”

“Most people call me Prue.” Getting up, she said, “I'll do the best I can for you.”

Maxwell nodded and moved out of the kitchen. As soon as he disappeared Prue went to work. The old house had not been thoroughly cleaned for a year. Maxwell, obviously, had made some attempts, but the kitchen itself was in sad condition. Quickly she began to wash the dishes and then organized them in the cabinets. She put more wood in the fire after she had finished the kitchen, then started work on the rest of the house. At eleven she stopped work, came back into the kitchen, and surveyed the supplies. Evidently Maxwell had simply piled whatever he could think of into a basket and brought it out; everything was all jumbled together—cans, dried beans and rice, sauces, and what seemed like, in the refrigerator, an enormous amount of ground beef.

“He must have been livin' on hamburgers,” Prue said with a smile. She pulled the ground beef out and found some Worcestershire sauce and tomato soup; she took out a carton of eggs and beat three of them in a bowl with a hand beater, chopped up an onion and some green peppers, and soon popped a meat loaf into the oven. Since the old wood-burning stove had no gauge, she simply had to guess at it.

While the meat loaf was cooking, she made a recipe she had developed herself: potato croquettes. She sang to herself while she was cooking, pleased that she had found something to do.

Finally at noon she went to the foot of the stairs, hesitated, then ascended to the upper level. It was a two-story house, and there was another flight of stairs leading up to the attic. She climbed these, knocked on the door, and said, “Mr. Maxwell, can you take time out to eat dinner?”

There was silence for a moment, then she heard his cane tapping across the wooden floor. Stepping outside the door, he asked, “Dinner already? What time is it?”

“About noon. Everything's ready to eat.”

As she descended the stairs, Prue walked more slowly than she would have ordinarily, not wanting to make him feel inferior. She had a natural courtesy, partly southern hospitality in its finest form, and was sensitive to the shortcomings of others. Maxwell, she had already discovered, was sensitive about his bad leg, and as they made their way to the kitchen, he looked around, saying, “Why, you've done a lot of work, Prue.”

“Oh, it wasn't in really bad shape. It's a nice old house.”

The two entered the kitchen, which was very large in the manner of old, southern houses, and Prue said, “I thought we might eat in here where it's warm.”

“Something smells good,” Maxwell said. He sat down and leaned his cane against the wall; then Prue walked over to the stove. Using two small towels, she took out the meat loaf in the rectangular glass dish, then did the same with the potato croquettes. She had put only one plate on the table, and Maxwell said, “Why, I'm not going to eat alone. Sit down, Prue.”

“All right.”

Prue had put out the salt and pepper, a glass of milk, and the bread that her mother had sent; now she took a plate for herself as Maxwell cut into the meat loaf, cutting an enormous square. He put it on his plate, along with two large spoonfuls of the potato croquettes, and began to eat hungrily. Even as Prue was filling her plate, he was saying, “Why, this is delicious. What kind of potatoes are these?”

“Spanish potato croquettes,” Prue said.

“Where did you get the recipe? I never tasted potatoes this good.”

“Oh, it's just something I made up myself. Not much to it, and they're good when they're cold too.”

Prue was amused at how heartily the man ate, and finally he slowed down. “Can you make pie?” he asked.

“Some kinds.”

“Can you make a chocolate pie?”

“Oh yes! I make pretty good chocolate pies!”

“Well, I'd like to have one of those.”

“I'll make you one before I leave if you have the ingredients here.”

The meal was pleasant. The weather had warmed up, and outside the sun was shining cheerfully.

As they ate, Maxwell asked a few questions about Prue and listened as she spoke of her life. He noticed she did not ask him and thought,
That must be part of the southern culture
.

Finally he rose and picked up his cane. “That was excellent. After you get the dishes cleaned up, come upstairs to my workroom. It's a mess!”

“All right.” Prue went to work at once cleaning up the kitchen and started the pie. She was very quick at such things, and soon she was able to leave and go upstairs. When she got to the attic room the door was closed, and she hesitated, then knocked.

“Come in.”

Prue opened the door, and when she stepped in was stopped dead still. The roof had skylights in it letting the sun in, and near two large windows at one end, Kent Maxwell stood before a canvas. He had a board of some kind in front of him on a table, and a paintbrush in the other. He turned around and said, “Come on in, Prue.” He waved the paintbrush and said, “Look, this place is worse than downstairs. It's where I stay most of the time, and I'm embarrassed that it's such a mess.”

Prue glanced around, noticing the soft drink bottles, milk cartons, and remains of the aluminum plates that had held TV dinners. Then she saw the canvases. Pictures everywhere! Some of them barely started, some of them half finished; she came forward hesitantly and looked at the picture he was painting. It was a landscape, she saw, and at once said, “Why, that's the pond over by the pecan orchard.”

Maxwell nodded. “Yes, I can see it from the window over there.” He turned and cocked his head at the painting. “I haven't got it exactly right.”

Prue edged still closer until she was right behind him. “Oh, it's just right!” she said. “Look, that's the old hollow tree where the pileated woodpecker lives!”

“Pileated woodpecker? What's that?”

“Oh, it's the biggest woodpecker in the woods. A huge bird, black and white with a red crest.”

“I'd like to get that in there. I've heard him, but I've never seen him.”

“He's real shy,” Prue said. “You could see him if you sit real still though, and he'll come back.” Her eyes went back to the picture and she whispered, “That's so good. I never saw a real picture like that, only prints. Except for those we saw at the museum in Fort Smith.”

Maxwell studied the young woman. She was wearing a brown skirt with a green blouse that buttoned up with large, brass buttons. He noted that the sleeves were too short, and he noticed, also, the excitement in her dark eyes. Her hair was pulled back and tied, but in the sunlight he caught faint gleams of auburn. Her lips were half parted, and he noted that, unlike most girls, she wore very little makeup. She had a strong face, not pretty, but the bone structure was what all really handsome women had, he thought.

“Could—could I watch you paint after I clean the room up?”

“Why, of course.” Maxwell shrugged. He turned again to the painting, and with an intensity that he brought to nothing else, worked steadily. He was vaguely aware of the girl moving around the room cleaning up, but he forgot about her as he applied himself to the strokes.

Finally he leaned back, took a deep breath, and turned to see her on a stool, absolutely silent. “Most people pester me with questions,” he observed. He turned back and made three or four more strokes that seemed to transform a blob of paint into a clump of flowers with brilliant red blossoms.

“How do you do that?” Prue whispered. “It's like magic.”

“Do you know anything about art?”

“No, just what I learned in school.”

Maxwell turned to face her, put the brush down, and picked up a cloth already stained with many colors. He wiped his hands on it and said, “I came out here, Prue, in the backwoods to get some bugs out of my system.”

“What kind of bugs?”

“Art bugs, I guess. I've done nothing but paint and teach art for so long that I've gotten stale. It's not good to come to art that way.” He spoke meditatively, and a faraway look came to his eyes. “You need to get away from art to come to it fresh. Not do it every day for a living.”

“You teach people how to paint?”

“Yes.” He stared at her. “I hope you're not one of these undiscovered, great artists.” He laughed. “I get a lot of them.” He did not notice the swift expression that passed across Prue's face, nor did he dream that she had been on the verge of asking him to teach her something about painting.

“No, sir, but I like to watch.”

Maxwell liked the girl. She was a little bit strange—so tall and serious, but he found her interesting. “You make chocolate pies, and you can watch me paint all you want to.”

Prue rose at once. “There's one downstairs. I made it before I came up.”

“Well, let's go get it!” Maxwell limped down the stairs again, sat down, and tasted the pie that she put out on a saucer for him. He shook his head with wonder and said, “You make me a chocolate pie like this once in a while, and I'll let you watch all you please, Prudence Deforge.”

A week later Prue was writing in her diary. It was late afternoon, and she had just come from cleaning Maxwell's house and cooking his supper. She had left early, and now she sat at her desk and wrote:

C
hristmas came in 1965 bringing with it a longing for better times. The country had been stirred, and shaken, all year long. The air strikes in Vietnam had escalated the war, and young men from all over America were going there to fight and to die. The civil rights movement continued to escalate, and in Alabama there had been a Freedom March that drew the eyes of the world.

Cassius Clay had beaten Sonny Liston for the heavyweight title, and in Watts violence had broken out as race riots exploded in the city.

Perhaps as the Stuarts gathered in the little town of Cedarville, which was the closest thing called a town to the old home place, they had come to put some of these things behind them as far as possible. But it was more than that. For all of the older members it was a hallowed time when they would come together and feel again the sense of family.

Amos was gone, and Lylah was growing so feeble that it was a matter of time before she would leave an empty place at the table. Owen, also, was feeling his age, and looking it.

Logan, Peter, Lenora, Gavin, and Christie were all in good health, and as they came from their homes they were all aware of the two empty places in their circle, but no one complained.

Not all of the younger Stuarts came, for they were widely scattered, and some could not afford the trip. Jerry and Bonnie were there, as were two of their three children. Stephanie had come with Jake and their two children. Richard and his wife, Laurel, and their family had come early.

This smaller group was having supper at the old home place, and Jerry said, shaking his head, “I been meaning to tell you that Bobby says he's going to be here.”

Instantly Richard looked up. He was Bobby's twin, although not his identical twin. He had flown in from Los Angeles, taking time out from his work in a street ministry in the worst part of that city, and now he said, “When's he coming, Dad?”

“I don't know, but it's going to be a problem.”

Bonnie, Jerry's wife, looked over and said, “How could it be a problem?”

“He's bringing Lannie with him.”

A silence fell over the group. They were all aware, as was most of America, at least those who kept up with the world of rock stars, that Bobby Stuart and Lannie Marr were living together.

Jake Taylor shook his head. “That's going to be awkward, isn't it?”

Jerry's face was grim. “Yes, it is. I've taken two rooms for them at the hotel, although that won't fool anybody.”

Bonnie came over and put her arm around Jerry. “It's all right. It'll do them both good to have Christmas here. I've never given up praying for that young woman.”

Bobby had brought Lannie by on a brief visit once, but Lannie had been stiff and very formal. She was aware of the Stuarts' disapproval of the “arrangement” that she and Bobby had, and it had not been a good time for any of them.

Stephanie was sitting quietly, but finally she said, “I remember when we were all growing up together, just kids, you and I, Richard and Bobby. Life was so simple then, wasn't it?”

“Yes, it was,” Richard said at once, “but I'm like Mom. I'm not giving up on Lannie Marr.”

“All right. We'll all pray for her then. We've already prayed for Bobby so much that God's got to hear,” Jerry said. He smiled and put his hands out. “Let's claim them both for the Lord right now.”

The Palace Hotel, as was customary, was blocked out during the Christmas holidays for the Stuarts. They filled all the rooms, and on Christmas Eve the great supper was held with all of the children present.

The cooks had done their usual magnificent job so that golden turkeys, succulent vegetables, corn-bread dressing, and pumpkin and pecan pies filled the dining room with a rich aroma as Owen Stuart rose and tapped on his glass. The talking and laughter was so loud that he could not get their attention, so he raised his voice and said, “All right! May I have your attention!” Owen's voice, even at the age of eighty-two, was still full and powerful. Everyone turned around and William Lee, his son sitting next to him, stuck his fingers in his ears. “Hey, Dad! Watch it! You're going to deafen me!” Laughter went up and Owen smiled benevolently, then began to speak. “Well, once again we meet at the good old Palace Hotel, and our thanks to our host, and to all the cooks, and to the fine, young folks who are serving us. Let's have a big round of applause for all of them.” He waited until the applause died down, then said, “You know, I'm told that some Jewish people have the tradition at some of their ceremonial meals that they leave an empty place at the table—waiting for Elijah who is coming back.” He looked around and said, “We could set an empty place today for Amos, but as I have said so many times, we haven't lost him. For when you lose something, you don't know where it is, and we know where Amos is—with the Lord Jesus.” He smiled then and said, “We Christians never say good-bye, for we're only separated by a moment.” He looked around the table and said, “So, here we are, Lylah. It's been a long time since we sat at this table as children, hasn't it?”

Lylah was eighty-five now and fragile, and her voice was not as strong as it had been when she had been on the stage or in motion pictures. But there was still a spark of fire in her, and she said, “It has been a long time, Owen, and I thank God that I'm able to be here today.” She looked over and named off her other brothers and sisters. “Logan, Peter, and Lenora, Gavin and Christie. Christie, you're the baby of the family now. How old are you? Sixty-nine?”

Christie Stuart Castellano smiled and put her hand on her husband's arm. She and Mario both had white hair but were in good health. Christie said, “God has been good to all of us.”

Lenora, at seventy-five, spoke up from her wheelchair. “I would have wheeled myself all the way from Chicago to get here. I look forward to it all year, and like the rest of you, I thank God that we are all together again.”

Owen smiled at his brothers and sisters, then said, “I usually ask the blessing, but tonight I'm asking a younger member, one of the new generation, to do that chore. Reverend Richard Stuart, I can't tell you how proud we all are of you for the work you are doing in Los Angeles. There are others in this country who are more famous, but none doing the work of God more faithfully than you, my brother, in the terrible parts of that large city. Richard, ask the blessing.”

The meal continued, and after it was over Richard sought out Bobby. He asked, “Where's Lannie?”

Bobby appeared to be embarrassed. “She went to her room.”

“I wish she had stayed. We could get to know her better.”

“I don't think she's feeling too well.”

Both of the men knew that this was not so, and Bobby tried to smile. “I can't lie to you very well, can I, Richard? I never could.”

“Naturally she must feel a little uncomfortable. It's all strange to her.”

The two went outside the hotel and walked up and down the streets of the small town, speaking of unimportant things. Finally when they had come to the park, which was vacant because of the temperature, Richard said, “Bobby, I want to talk to you about the way you're living. I know you don't want to hear it, but I'm going to say it anyway.” He spoke for a few moments about Bobby's lifestyle and finally said, “Even if I weren't a preacher, I'd hate to see you throwing your life away. Look at you, Bobby, you're full of drugs right now. You're living an immoral life, and there's only one end to that.”

Bobby felt Richard's hand on his arm, and for a moment tears came to his eyes, but he blinked them away and jerked his arm back. “I didn't come here to get preached at, Richard! You keep your religion, and I'll keep what I've got!”

Richard watched as Bobby turned and walked angrily away. He went inside and sat down beside his father. “I tried to talk to Bobby, but he wouldn't listen.” He shook his head sadly. “He's headed for a hard awakening someday.”

Bobby went upstairs, knocked on Lannie's door, and then stepped inside without waiting. She was lying on the bed, and he knew she was doped up. He reached over and pulled her up to her feet. “Sober up!” he said. “We're getting out of here!”

Lannie murmured, “These people all talking about God! They're nothing but a bunch of religious nuts!”

Bobby, for the first time since he had known Lannie, reached out and slapped her. “Shut up!” he said. “You can't talk about my family like that!”

Lannie was barely conscious of his words, and she felt her face stinging from his slap. She stared at him as he pulled her suitcase out and began throwing her clothes in it, and finally when he pulled her up and forced her to get dressed, she could barely function.

Without stopping to say good-bye to his relatives, Bobby walked outside, thankful that no one saw Lannie, as he practically had to carry her to the car. He shoved her inside, slammed the door, then moved around and got behind the wheel. Starting the Cadillac, he pulled away, but he turned and looked at the hotel, and something rose in him, bitter and harsh. Shaking his head, he drove out of town and stopped only when he could drive no farther. He went inside a liquor store and bought two fifths of bourbon, checked himself and Lannie into a motel, and got dead drunk, unable to face his thoughts or his memories.