Livvie's Song (31 page)

He reached inside his sack once more and pulled out the bottle of whiskey he’d bought off Dotson. Carefully, almost reverently, he uncorked it, then took a long swallow, enjoying the burn as it went down. Settling back, he closed his eyes, ready to dream about his beautiful bride-to-be.

***

“So, now you know the whole story,” Will said, having told Livvie all about the day’s events concerning Marva Dulane. They’d been sitting together on her sofa for the past hour, ever since putting her boys to bed, after which Livvie had whispered that her sons had never agreed so readily to turn in for the night.

“I’m thinking about going to the sheriff in the next county to file a complaint against Orville Dotson,” he went on. “There’s no reason he should be allowed to keep up that illegal operation. If Buford Morris isn’t man enough to put a stop to it, then somebody else has got to step up.”

“I wouldn’t do that, Will,” Livvie cautioned him. “You’d be stirring up a wasps’ nest. What if one or more of Dotson’s customers gets word that you reported him and comes after you? A lot of people depend on him for their supply, and they wouldn’t think too kindly of someone stepping in to put a stop to his business. Besides, I don’t know what a sheriff from another county could do, since it’s not in his jurisdiction.”

“He could take it to the next level. I’ve been doing some checking, and the Bureau of Internal Revenue, a branch of the Treasury Department, has been tasked with enforcing the law, and they’ve developed some crack Prohibition agents. There’s a commissioner and a director of Prohibition who share the power, and they don’t have much mercy for these small-time operations. They usually shut them down within days of discovering them. Dotson’s probably due for some jail time, and maybe Marva would go, too, for her part. I don’t know the extent of her involvement, or if what Cora Mae told me is just hearsay, but it’d be worth it to hire a prosecutor to investigate.”

He paused and reached for his coffee cup, which sat beside Livvie’s on an end table. It took a heap of self-control to resist touching her shoulder. Not that he didn’t long to pull her close and kiss her silly, but, now that he’d revealed his feelings to her, he had to be careful not to force the issue. If she was ever going to love him in return, he wanted her to do so unreservedly and without any pressure.

She folded her hands in her lap and briefly studied them. “I can understand all that, Will, but you have to remember, you’re trying to protect your identity, and so you need to be careful about your involvement. At the very least, you should pray for guidance about the best way to proceed. As for Marva, if you tell her that you know what she’s up to with Orville Dotson, it might be enough to make her back off.”

“You make an excellent case, Mrs. Beckman. Especially the part about praying first.”

“I’m a little slow, Mr. Taylor, but I’m beginning to get my spiritual legs back. And it feels good.”

“Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.”—John 14:27

On Wednesday morning, Livvie flipped the “Closed” sign to “Open,” unlocked the front door, and opened it to usher in her first customer—Coot, of course. Although the morning temperature was mild, Reggie panted at Coot’s side, as if the afternoon sun were already beating down on his shiny, black head. In his usual fashion, he waited for Livvie to pat his head, then turned several circles and settled himself on the cool sidewalk under the awning.

“Morning, Coot.” Livvie leaned forward and kissed his weathered cheek.

Without a word, he handed her a Mason jar filled with an array of beautiful wildflowers.

“Are these for me?”

“I’m expectin’ so,” he said as he stepped inside. “Or, might be they’re for Cora Mae or Georgia. There’s a note tucked down inside, but I didn’t look at it. Found ’em right here by the door, sittin’ all pretty-like.”

“Oh, drat! I thought they were from you,” she lamented with a touch of sarcasm.

“I told you when you got that dress, I don’t know nothin’ about givin’ women gifts.”

“It’s okay, Coot. I’ll forgive you this time.” She laughed, carrying the jar of flowers toward the kitchen. “Take your usual table. I’ll get your coffee.”

“I’ll get it for him,” Will said, lifting the coffeepot from the burner and winking at her. “Mmm, you smell good.” She felt herself blush from the neck up and turned to look at him, but he’d already sailed past her to serve Coot.

Since uttering those three special words on Saturday night, he’d made no mention of them. That was not to say that he hadn’t had plenty of opportunities to do so. He’d walked with her to church on Sunday, as usual, but kept quiet about it, and he hadn’t even made a move to sit next to her in the pew; the boys had sat between them, as usual. After the service, while Alex and Nathan joined in a game of tag in the churchyard, folks had greeted them in the friendliest ways, discussing the fine weather, the brush fire out behind Zeke Barlow’s barn on Friday night, and the new Silver Flag Service Station on the corner of Maple and Fall, where the prices already seemed cheaper than those at the Red Top. Helen Brent had approached the group clustered around Will and Livvie and asked them if they planned to attend the annual church picnic in a few weeks. Livvie hadn’t known how to respond, so Will had answered on her behalf. “Well, it sounds like a grand time. Not sure I can speak for Livvie and her boys, but I’ll make every effort to attend.” Had that been his subtle way of dismissing any suspicions that they were a couple?

Since neither Cora Mae nor Georgia had arrived at the restaurant yet, Livvie took the liberty of reaching into the bouquet and pulling out the folded piece of paper tucked among the stems. Her heart thumped lightly against her chest to think that Will might have gone out early to pick the flowers. Eagerly, she unfolded the paper. To her dismay, the handwriting matched that of the scrawled note she’d received with the blue dress.

Livvie,
You looked perty in the dress. I wached you from afar. I emagined myself holding your hand and walking right down Market Street. But that will come. Enjoy these flowers picked jest for you.

Who was this person who’d been watching her? And why didn’t he just come forward?

Uneasiness crawled across her skin as she refolded the note and jammed it inside her skirt pocket.

Will let out an exaggerated sigh on his way back to the kitchen. “Ah, you still smell nice. Pretty flowers. Whose are they?”

“Mine, I guess.”

The back door opened, and Cora Mae and Georgia both entered. Distraction kept Livvie from fully acknowledging them.

“What do you mean, you guess? Who’re they from?” He came to a standstill before her, coffeepot in hand.

She gave him a hard, sober stare. “You didn’t send me that dress, did you? Be honest.”

His forehead furrowed. “That blue dotted dress? No, sorry, I didn’t. Why do you ask?”

“Well, someone sent it to me, and I want to know who!” she blurted out.

“Morning, everybody. What’s going on?” Cora Mae snatched her apron from its hook by the door and tied it around her waist, secured her hairnet, and then turned and glanced at the bar. “Ooh, pretty flowers! Did you pick ’em, Liv?”

Gus came in through the front door, along with two customers, Walter and Minnie Ballard, giving her a moment to think up a response. This was no time to get worked up, not when she had customers coming in and Coot sitting there, listening to the exchange.

“No, I didn’t. Somebody gave them to me.” She forced a fresh smile. “Wasn’t that nice?”

“Humph. I’ll say,” Cora Mae mumbled. “Can’t remember the last time somebody gave me flowers. Let’s see…in fourth grade, maybe. Herbert Jenkins picked me three droopy dandelions during recess.” She shook her head in dismay. “Yep, that was the last time.”

Everyone but Will and Livvie set off in various directions to tackle the day. Gus fired up the stove and oven, Georgia waited on Coot, and Cora Mae greeted the Ballards and led them to a corner table.

“Let me see the note, Liv,” Will insisted. “I saw you tuck it in your pocket.”

Without argument, she brought it out and handed it to him. He perused it in silence, perhaps reading it more than once. “He thinks he’s going to be walking down Market Street with you? Hand in hand?” He frowned. “Who is this character? Did you keep the other note you got with the dress?”

“Yes, why?”

“Where is it?”

“In my dresser drawer.”

He pressed the note into her palm and folded her fingers over it. “Put this one with it. We might need to pay a visit to the sheriff.”

***

Later that afternoon, after the lunch hour had passed, Will stood outside J. C. Penney and studied the skinny mannequin wearing the infamous blue dotted dress in the window display. He decided that it looked much better on Livvie than on the plaster model, but he detested it just the same, all because of the notion that someone—a man, judging from the sloppy handwriting—had given it to her. Moments later, he pulled open the heavy door. If he’d ever stepped inside a department store, he couldn’t recall it, but here he was, standing amid racks of dresses, skirts, and fancy blouses.

“May I help you, sir?”

He pivoted on his heel and faced a middle-aged clerk with graying hair and a pleasant smile. “Yes, I was wondering about that dress in your display window.”

“Ah, the blue dotted Swiss. Shopping for your wife, are you?”

“What? Uh, no, just…shopping,” came his feeble reply.

She frowned. “Your girlfriend, then?”

“No, I just have a question about the dress. That’s all.”

“Oh.” Her darkish eyebrows rose with the single word. “What would you like to know?”

“Well, this will probably sound utterly strange, but, a few weeks ago, I’m not sure of the date, somebody, probably a man, came into your store to buy a dress identical to that one.” Already, she gave her head an adamant shake. “And I was wondering if you might remember who bought it.” Her head didn’t stop moving from side to side, and her lips were tightly pursed. “Or, if you can’t recall, would you happen to know if another clerk—?”

“Sir, no one bought that dress,” she interrupted him.

“I believe you’re wrong. Someone I know received that very dress, and I’m—we’re—trying to determine who—?”

“A dress like that was stolen from our rack. It was the only one we had in stock, besides the one you see on the mannequin. Can you tell me who has it now?”

***

On Thursday morning, after a breakfast he’d washed down with a few swigs of whiskey, Clem leaned against the cold brick wall of the train station and pressed the public phone to his ear, awaiting his wife’s croaky voice. “Come on, come on, pick up the blasted phone,” he mumbled, turning his back to the folks coming and going. He knew no more than a handful of people in Wabash and had given his own name to only one person, Marva Dulane, so he had no worries about being recognized. He just didn’t like standing in a public building in broad daylight. He was used to skulking in the shadows by day and sneaking around in the glow of the moon by night. A train whistle sounded in the distance. He slammed down the receiver, hearing the nickel jingle in the metal coin return. Then, he yanked a tattered piece of paper from his pocket and smoothed it out as best he could to read the numbers. He detested his mother-in-law, but, since Flo basically lived at her house, he figured that was where he’d find her. So, he rattled off the phone number to the operator on the other end, reinserted the nickel, and waited.

On the fourth ring, he shifted his weight in irritation. Finally, a puny-sounding female voice answered. “Hello?”

“Flo?”

“This isn’t Flo. Who’s this?”

“Who’s this?” He wasn’t about to reveal himself to a complete stranger. “Where’s Flo? I been trying to reach her. Is this Nettie O’Dell’s house?”

“Yes. Clem? This is Pearl.”

Pearl was Florence’s sister from New Jersey. He could count on one hand the number of times he’d actually spoken to her, but he did recognize her voice, now that she’d said a few words. “Where’s Flo?”

“She’s…not here.”

“Well, when’ll she be back? I need to talk to her. She tol’ me before I left she wanted a divorce, and I’m ready t’ give it to her.”

“Where are you, anyway? Ma tried to contact you. Flo never did tell her where you went, not that it makes much difference now. The authorities will find you when they want you. Some friends of yours, Hank Swain and Rudy something or other, got thrown in jail, but maybe you already knew that. They got caught red-handed breaking into a service station. Now, the police are holding them for questioning on several other crimes. Rumor has it they’re naming you as an accomplice.

“Eddie’s fine, in case you wanted to know, but then, you never did care much about that sweet little boy, did you? Probably ’cause he isn’t yours. Ma’s taking full custody of him. He’ll be in good hands with her, mark my word.”

His head felt like mush. “What are you—? Just hold it a second, okay?” He cursed. “Slow down and stick to one subject. First, I got to know what’s goin’ on with Flo. And that other stuff…tell it to me one at a time, would you?”

“I’ll give it to you straight, then. Clem, Florence is dead. She ran out in front of a train in Harlem a week ago. Some say it looked like she did it on purpose, but I can hardly believe she’d do that to herself, with the way she loved Eddie an’ all. But Eddie’s daddy, Florence’s no-good lover? She started up with him again, but he found himself another woman, which broke my sister’s heart, so I suppose it’s possible she killed herself on purpose. I won’t believe it, though. I think she just got all distracted, what with Eddie’s daddy running off on her.

“Anyway, the funeral was two days ago. Like I said, we tried to locate you, but nobody knew where you were. Of course, I’m sure those Hank and Rudy fellows would’ve known, but Ma wouldn’t even try to find them. Then, we found out they were both in jail. Won’t be long, and you’ll be joining them. Can’t say it’ll make me sad, or anybody else, for that matter.”

He’d heard enough. He slammed the receiver back on the hook and slowly turned, fearing that if he moved too fast, his breakfast and the whiskey would all spill out in a smelly mess on the cement floor. Dazed and dizzy, he pulled a dirty handkerchief out of his front pocket and mopped his face, which was drenched with sweat. Through clouded-over eyes, he made out the figures of people passing by, then spotted the door. Air. He needed air. On his way to the exit, he bumped into several people. “Hey, watch it!” one fellow growled.