Dunaway's Crossing (3 page)

“It was my father went broke before he died,” Will said, “not me. I have money. Now I’m paying the boy. He’s earned it.” To Terrence, he said, “Wait here. I’ll be right back.”

Inside, the empty store smelled of sawdust. Will stepped behind the front counter, opened the drawer underneath, and pulled out his check binder. He wrote a draft to Terrence Taylor, ripped out the check, and took it outside, where he tucked it in Terrence’s front shirt pocket.

“Thank you, Will,” Terrence said.

“Why don’t you come to the house for dinner?” Thaddeus asked.

“I appreciate it, but I’ve got a lot of work to do if I want to open shop Monday. I’ll eat a quick bite here.”

“What, a can of sardines?”

“Nothing wrong with that. They’re good for you,” Will argued.

“Eliza’s right, Will,” Thaddeus chided. “You need to find yourself a good woman to take care of you.”

Will bristled at the mention of marriage. People suggested that almost as much as purchasing a Model A. Amazing he didn’t have more time on his hands with so many people minding his business for him.

“I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it,” he said. “Right now, I got my hands full with this store.”

“If you’re opening Monday, you’ll need to give it a name,” Terrence said.

Will lifted his eyebrows. He hadn’t thought of that. “You got any ideas?”

Both Thaddeus and Terrence surveyed the building and grounds, as if the name would appear from behind a bush.

“You’re at a corner,” Thaddeus said. “How ‘bout Will’s Corner?”

“Hmm,” Will shook his head with uncertainty. “That sounds more like a soda pop stand. What about something plain like Pineview General Store?”

“Nope,” Terrence said. “You got to have your name in it somewhere.” He stared at the crossroads that lay just beyond the remodeled building. After a pause, his face lit up. “This here’s Dunaway’s Crossing.”

CHAPTER 3

Even as she kept to the shady side of Whitaker Street, sweat trickled between California’s braids and tickled her scalp. Why hadn’t Miss Bea Dot sent her to the stationer’s early in the day? Thanks to Miss Lavinia’s tongue, news of Miss Bea Dot’s miscarriage had raced over the telephone lines. Now, even though Dr. Arnold ordered peace and quiet, the Ferguson household had been flooded with visitors bringing flowers, food, and sympathy. Now Miss Bea Dot had run out of paper for the thank-you notes, just when California was trying to cook dinner. A new box of stationery in hand, she hustled back, praying no motorcars stirred up the dust that stuck in her nostrils and throat.

As she crossed Jones Street, Forsyth Park’s azaleas and oak trees appeared in the distance. Not much farther now, thank heavens. She just might be able to get back in time to iron the linens and polish the silver before the chicken was done. Lately she’d been trying as hard as Miss Bea Dot—maybe harder—to avoid Mr. Ben’s fury, and nothing sparked his anger more than a late meal. Fortunately, during Miss Bea Dot’s convalescence, Mr. Ben kept his temper on the back burner. But there was no telling when or what might turn that heat up.

As she approached Gaston Street, the rumble of an engine taunted her. “Nasty motorcars.” She scowled, wondering about their appeal. True, the horseless carriage was fast, but it was also loud and expensive. She rolled her eyes at the amount Mr. Ben paid for his new touring car. The racket grew louder, and Cal tensed her shoulders, anticipating a deposit of dust on her clothes and face. Maybe she could get back to work before another one of those machines drove by.

Holding her hand to her brow, she squinted against the afternoon sun. Ahead Lavinia Barksdale, engrossed in a letter, sauntered along Gaston Street toward the same corner California approached. The car’s rumble, now upon her, drowned California’s voice when she called, “Morning, Miss Lavinia.” Eyes still on her letter, Mrs. Barksdale stepped into the street to cross.

“Miss Lavinia!”

California grabbed Mrs. Barksdale’s arm and pulled her back as the Dodge full of Savannah High School students whipped by, the passengers oblivious to the near miss.  Lavinia yelped as California jerked her out of harm’s way. Pages of her letter flew above her, then fluttered to the ground like leaves.

“What on earth!”

“Miss Lavinia, you almost got yourself killed. You got to watch where you going.”

Dumbfounded, Mrs. Barksdale watched the car disappear around a distant corner while Cal chased after the scattered pages of the letter, picking up papers in one hand while clutching the package of stationery in the other. She handed a wrinkled wad of pages to the perplexed woman.

“Cal, thank you. I don’t know what would have happened if you hadn’t come along.”

“Well, I do. And it would a been some kind a mess. You best put that letter away til you get where you going.”

“Actually, I was on my way to see Bea Dot.” Mrs. Barksdale folded the pages and stuffed them back into their envelope.  “I have a letter from Netta, and I wanted to show her.”

“Hmph. You were bout to go in the wrong direction and get flattened.” Cal followed as Mrs. Barksdale crossed Gaston Street, this time keeping her eyes ahead of her. Almost single file, they walked toward the Ferguson house.

“How is my niece, Cal? Is she recovering?” Mrs. Barksdale asked over her shoulder.

California nodded gravely, more to herself than the lady in front of her. “People been coming every day. They’s got so much food in the house, Miss Bea Dot’s asked me to take some home. Don’t know why people think they got to bring food in a time a sorrow. Grieving people ain’t hungry.” At least black people weren’t. When she lost her own baby all those years ago, sorrow made paste of the smallest morsel of food. For weeks her mama got nothing down her but broth and coffee.

“Poor child.” Lavinia sucked her teeth and shook her graying blonde head, her poofy bun an upside down mushroom of hair. “Considering how it happened, this loss must be even worse than any one of Netta’s.”

California knew better, but she chose her words carefully. “Seems more relieved than anything.”

Mrs. Barksdale stopped and turned, shading her eyes as she looked into California’s leathery face. “What do you mean?”

“Soon as Miss Bea Dot started showing, that’s when Mr. Ben got ornery, scowling at her—and me—all the time.” Cal’s butterflies alit inside her stomach. Miss Bea Dot would probably fire her for divulging such personal information, but what else could she do? She felt partly responsible for her mistress’s condition. And Miss Lavinia could help. “Nothing suited him, not that Miss Bea Dot tried very hard. Fact, she seemed to egg him on. Once I asked her should she be talking to him that way. She tole me to mind my business. That was a week fore she lost the baby.” Cal bit her lip, stopping herself before she revealed too much.

“Oh, Cal. I thought this recent episode was the first.” Miss Lavinia put her hand to her mouth, which must have been open as wide as her blue eyes.

“No ma’am. Course, he never hit her when I’m around.”

Mrs. Barksdale resumed walking. California followed close behind as she talked.

“But it’s all different now, Miss Lavinia. Since the…accident, they act polite to each other, not like married folk. They more like two squabbling children whose parents made ‘em be nice to each other.”

“Well, I declare.” Mrs. Barksdale held her hand to her chest as she frowned.

When she and California had reached the Ferguson home, they stopped in front of it on the sidewalk. Miss Lavinia thumbed the envelope she held as California tacitly prayed,
Stick your nose in her business. It’s what you do best
.

“What can I do to help her?” She spoke more to the letter than the California, who was delighted her prayer had been answered.

“Miss Bea Dot need a change,” she said.

Miss Lavinia sighed and turned her daughter’s letter over in her hands. “You might be right. Maybe she could come stay with me and Mr. Barksdale for a while.”

California looked to the heavens. White women could be so simple. “Miss Lavinia, she don’t need to go up the street. She need to go away.” Moving in with her aunt wouldn’t solve Bea Dot’s troubles, only bring on a new set of them.

“Or maybe she needs to go somewhere she’s loved and needed. I think I know just the place.” Miss Lavinia held her letter in one hand and tapped it on the palm of the other. California watched Mrs. Barksdale ascend the steps to the front door before going round to the back. “Mm, mm,” she muttered. “Thought she’d never think a sending Miss Bea Dot to Pineview.”

#

The scent of roast chicken permeated the house as California situated the aunt and niece in the parlor with a pitcher of lemonade and two glasses filled with ice chips. Then she returned to her work. She should have ironed the linens first, but polishing the silver kept her in the kitchen close to the chicken—and within earshot of the ladies’ conversation.

Miss Lavinia read her reorganized letter and told Bea Dot the news of her only daughter. “She’s feeling fine, thank goodness, but to be on the safe side, she mostly stays home. She goes out only when absolutely necessary.”

“Well, that makes sense,” Bea Dot replied in a dull but polite voice. “After all she’s been through, she has reason to feel gun shy, even this far along.”

Like a silent participant in the conversation, Cal nodded. Three prior miscarriages justified Netta’s caution.

“And Bea Dot,” Miss Lavinia continued, “Netta is heartbroken to hear about your loss, just as we all are. She so wanted you to have children the same age.”

Cal paused with the silverware as Bea Dot paused before replying. Why would Miss Lavinia say something like that? Miss Bea Dot hadn’t heard from her cousin in almost a year. Then a knot formed in Cal’s stomach. She felt partly to blame for that rift.

“Well, that is so sweet of her,” Bea Dot finally replied. “Do tell her thank you for me.”

“Why don’t you write her yourself?” Aunt Lavinia suggested kindly.

California chuckled quietly at Miss Lavinia’s remark. “Might as well ask her to kiss Miss Netta feet,” she mumbled to the sugar spoon.

“Maybe I will,” Bea Dot replied.

Cal shook her head at her mistress’s lie. At the same time, impatience grew in her gut. Miss Lavinia was taking too long to get to the point.

“Why don’t you go to Pineview to visit Netta?” Miss Lavinia continued like a mind reader.

Cal heard Bea Dot cough and plunk her glass on the table. “Aunt Lavinia, I can’t just pack up and go to Pineview.”

“Why not?”

“Well, first of all, I haven’t been invited.”

“Oh, good heavens, Bea Dot.” Exasperation rose in Miss Lavinia’s voice. “You know that’s just a formality. You know you’re welcome at Netta’s any time.”

“No, Aunt Lavinia, I don’t know that.” This time Bea Dot’s voice lost patience.

Another glass plunked down, and Cal hoped they weren’t sloshing lemonade on the table. Those white circles were the devil to get out of the finish.

“You two are being downright silly,” Aunt Lavinia said. “You are a nineteen year-old married woman, and she is a twenty-nine year-old mother-to-be. But the truth is that you’re both behaving like children. It’s well past time to bury the hatchet.”

California pursed her lips and widened her eyes. She’d never heard Miss Lavinia raise her voice. Cal put the meat fork down and listened intently.

“We didn’t just have a spat,” Bea Dot protested. “Netta refused to come to my wedding. She was supposed to be my matron of honor.”

“No, be fair,” Aunt Lavinia replied. “She didn’t think you should marry Ben, and when she voiced her concerns, you told her not to attend.” Bea Dot’s aunt sighed before saying, “True, she crossed a line with her absence, but considering all that’s happened, I can’t help wishing you’d listened to her.”

California stretched her face in surprise. Usually Miss Lavinia ignored the elephant in the room.

“I didn’t have a choice,” Bea Dot said.

“Why not?”

Cal’s eyes popped open. Would Bea Dot tell?

At the young woman’s stammer, Cal relaxed again and picked the meat fork back up. The sound of footsteps told her Lavinia had left her seat to join Bea Dot on the sofa. The woman’s voice softened.

“Bea Dot, darling, you have no idea what it’s like to have siblings. Netta was the closest thing you had to a sister. But as the oldest of three girls, I can assure you that precious as they are, sisters can also pester us worse than mosquitoes. That’s what happened between you two. Netta only wanted what was best for you.”

A long pause nagged at California. What was happening in there?

“You must know,” Miss Lavinia continued, “Netta loves you. Truly. Why, she even named you.”

“Oh, that’s not true,” Bea Dot protested. “I was named after my two grandmothers.”

“Yes, Beatrice and Dorothy were your grandmothers, but Netta complained that Beatrice Dorothy was too stuffy, and she started calling you Bea Dot. You didn’t know that?”

After a pause, Bea Dot said no.

California put a hand on her hip and huffed. She’d told Bea Dot that story dozens of times.