Pamela Morsi (37 page)

The platform area was brightly lit with lanterns and torches, The approaching darkness in the western sky, painted with bright pinks and purples, would not be sufficient for the crowd to see one another clearly. But the pool of light surrounding the stage showed its occupants more clearly than the noonday sun.

Finally it seemed as if Mayor Honey might start the program.

He hurried to the podium and ineffectively tried to quiet the crowd. After several moments of his not being able to capture attention, Joe Simpson jumped up on the side of the stage, stuck two fingers in his mouth and let loose a loud, blasting whistle.

The din was immediately brought to silence.

“Thank you, thank you,” the mayor said, apparently grateful to both Simpson and the crowd. “We are so glad to see all of you here today,” he continued. “I am not going to personally address the citizens of this great town. I’m only going to be introducing the other people who are here to address you.”

A little spattering of applause ensued.

“Oh, thank you, thank you,” the mayor said effusively.

Pansy wondered quite mischievously to herself if the people had been applauding because they were so grateful that the mayor was not going to speak.

Reverend Holiday came forward to offer prayer. He was sufficiently loud, as he always was, and as verbose and lyrical as ever as he asked for continued guidance and protection for the town and the families that resided there. There was one thinly veiled reference to
the benefit to the people as opposed to the enrichment of any single person
.

Pansy didn’t allow the words to affect or concern her in any way whatsoever. She was no longer a praying woman. She and God had yet to truly settle their differences about her husband’s death. But in that quiet, reverent moment she did offer a silent plea.

Give me the strength to try to make things right
, she said.

With a hearty, “amen!” Reverend Holiday left the podium. The mayor jumped up from the pastor’s chair like a jack-in-the-box.

“First up to speak to us is Mr. Huntley Boston,” the mayor announced. “For any of you who might not know him, he’s our local banker and president of the Monday Morning Merchants Association.”

Huntley rose to his feet and walked to the podium. The mayor took his chair. His speech was a simple welcome to the people of the community and recognition of specific members of the association for their exceptional efforts for the picnic.

Pansy noted that it was Amos who was thanked as chairman of the fireworks committee. Rome’s part in the display was not even mentioned.

Harry Potts, editor of the
Beacon
, was presented for the second address of the evening.

The mayor announced, “He’ll be speaking to us about the fifty-year history of Cottonwood and the Founding Fathers who made it great.”

The enthusiasm for the newspaperman was not a good deal better than it had been for the mayor. And as Potts unfolded what looked like a very lengthy speech, Pansy knew why.

She sat politely as he went through the past fifty years of history. Describing, as if he knew for certain, how Able Richardson had traveled out from Tennessee seeking fertile farmland. He’d settled on the Trinity
River near a strand of cottonwood trees. When he’d gotten a solid roof over his head, the first house in town, now the Jacks Building on Landingside, he’d sent for his wife and children.

Once they were here, a few neighbors settled nearby. Richardson installed a ferry to connect both sides of the river and facilitate travel in the area. Within the first decade of its existence, Cottonwood was already a prime river crossing and a growing commercial center.

Pansy knew all these facts. She knew the role the Richardsons had played and how their fortunes rose with that of the town. Not that Grover had ever bragged about his family’s importance. He considered it what it was, an opportune twist of fate that made his father the founder and himself the legacy. He could just as easily have come from a family history less widely celebrated.

Pansy’s own parents had settled in Cottonwood after the war, when her father, a former inmate in a Union prison camp, came west seeking a climate more healthy for his consumptive lungs. Everyone in this town had ties of history to people who had pulled up stakes where they were settled and bravely started over. They’d started out in this new place, maybe not with a completely clean slate, but they’d given it a chance. And the sons and daughters, grandchildren and great-grandchildren, in the audience before her were both the result of that formidable risk and the reward for it.

The newspaperman finished his treatise with a hopeful glance into the future. He foresaw a bright little community facing the twentieth century with fine public schools, adequate business growth and modern amenities.

The last, Pansy thought, was a veiled reference to the sewer system. As if they were still trying to win her over at the last possible moment.

“Our final speaker of the evening,” the mayor announced, his voice actually tremulous with nervous jitters. “Our speaker is Mrs. Pansy Richardson, widow of Cottonwood benefactor, Grover Richardson. She is here today to talk to us about … I … ah … I’m sure she can tell you herself. Mrs. Richardson.”

Pansy rose from her seat. She was not accustomed to any sort of public speaking, nor did she enjoy having every eye focused upon her. But she had sought this moment, for good or bad; she’d maneuvered and coerced for it. She was not about to shy away from it now.

Pansy stepped up to the podium. She glanced around her, recognizing faces in the crowd. Old Penderghast perched upon a crate near the front, his cane before him, between his knees. His wife, Eliza, sat with him, and her sister, Mrs. Boston, was by her side.

Kate Holiday was trying to both listen and corral a group of noisy children, not all of whom were her own.

Clive Benson, in his much-braided and festooned band uniform, stood with Perry Wilhelm and Matt Purdy.

She saw Amos Dewey. The man these people unknowingly had to thank for her appearance today. She had awakened him from his sleep of sorrow and offered to him herself, her love. His abhorrent rejection of her illustrated how tarnished and disgraced he found her to be. Their eyes met for an instant. She felt the pain so sharply she hastened to look away.

Pansy caught sight of her neighbors, Wade and Vera Pearsall. Wade carried a picnic basket, still covered by a clean dishtowel. His jaw was tight and his eyes narrowed
in disapproval. His wife, Vera, was watching Pansy intently and gossiping behind her hand with Loralene Davies and Lulabell Timmons. Both women were nodding over and over, obviously in agreement of every unkind word Vera said.

Lulabell’s daughter Lucy and her new husband stood nearby, both sufficiently serious.

A group of younger people centered around Betty Ditham were less long-faced, their interest in the fun of the festivities rather than in the lasting importance of them.

Pansy spotted Helga Shultz and Dr. Wise. The quiet and retiring Mr. Everhard and the fresh-mouthed and intractable Pete Davies. They were all there. All the people she had known all her life. They had helped her grow up, celebrated with her when she married, mourned with her at her husband’s funeral and turned from her when she flouted their conventions and affronted their moral sensibilities.

“Ladies and gentlemen of Cottonwood,” Pansy began, sternly keeping the quiver out of her voice. “I come to you today both upon my own behalf and upon that of the Richardson family.”

She swallowed nervously.

“For myself, I offer apology to you and your families. My life, since the death of my husband, has been far from exemplary. I have outraged your morals and offended your sense of decency.”

“Harlot!” The word was a woman’s scream and was followed immediately by a piece of soft, smelly, overripe fruit that landed beside her on the stage, splattering the hem of Pansy’s gown. The second piece was more on target, landing with an audible splat upon her sleeve.

“Stop it! Stop it!”

The words came from several different voices.

Huntley Boston came forward to shield her and was pelted with a rotten tomato upon his fancy dress coat for his trouble.

“NO!”

The booming voice of Reverend Holiday was heard over the noise of the crowd. The area quieted immediately.

“The Bible says, ‘Let he who has no sin cast the first stone,’ “ the pastor quoted. “Wade Pearsall, if you are thinking that you and your wife are sinless, I’d beg to differ.”

Pansy hadn’t realized it was her neighbors who had chosen to express their opinion of her in this way. She looked out now and saw Joe Simpson wresting the picnic basket from Wade’s hands.

“Please, please, Mrs. Richardson,” Huntley Boston begged her. “Do not allow the unconscionable acts of two foolish people to determine your decision about the future of an entire town.”

Pansy couldn’t ignore his tomato-stained coat or worried expression.

“My decision was made several weeks ago, Mr. Boston,” she told him. “It is unshakable. I am not overly concerned about foolish people. I have been a foolish person for a long time myself.”

As the gentlemen took their seats, the crowd quieted, more attentive than before. Even the children were silent, observing.

“As I was saying,” Pansy continued, “I have outraged your morals and offended your sense of decency. Which, as we have seen, instills in some of you the need to retaliate. I understand your anger. But I ask you instead for forgiveness.

“There can be no excuses for the things that I have
done. I therefore offer none. What I can offer is a sincere apology and repentance. And a promise to attempt, from here on out, to live a life in this community that is upright, worthy and above reproach.”

They were all looking at her. All wondering at her. Pansy didn’t know if they believed her, if they would give her another chance. But she had vowed to do her part, and she would live up to that.

“As I said, I wanted to speak today both for myself and for the Richardson family. What I have just said to you, about my shame at my past behavior and my vow to live a more circumspect life, that is what I have to say for myself. As the last vestige of the Richardson family in this town, I have different concerns. Please do not confuse what am to say to you now with anything I’ve said about myself. The one has nothing to do with the other.”

She spotted Amos Dewey in the crowd once more. His brow was furrowed. His eyes were watching.

“Before his death, my husband, Grover Richardson, announced his intention to donate land south of the city for a modern lagoon sewer system that would serve the needs of the Cottonwood community, protect the drinking water and end the fouling of the river. Unfortunately, because of his untimely death, Mr. Richardson never signed over the land to the people of Cottonwood. But it was clearly, beyond all question, his intention to do so.”

From her sleeve, the one splattered with rotten fruit, Pansy drew out the paper that she had carried there all day.

“I have signed and notarized the transfer of that property from my personal holdings to the community of Cottonwood.”

There was a flurry of murmurs through the crowd.
Pansy didn’t know if they were pleased at having won or disappointed that it was all over.

Pansy turned, handing the deed transfer to Huntley Boston. Then she opened a second piece of paper and read the carefully thought out words she had written there.

“In honor of the Richardson family, and on this very special anniversary of the fiftieth year of the town that they founded, I would also like to gift the Monday Morning Merchants Association’s Sanitary Sewer Project with the sum of eight thousand seven hundred and fifty dollars, the total estimated amount necessary for the construction of the four-pool lagoon system. This should free up funds for the faster laying of lines throughout town and guarantee the success of the city-wide sanitary sewer system.”

She looked up into faces of silence. They were all staring at her. Startled, stunned, uncertain.

Her eyes locked with those of Amos Dewey. His brow was no longer lined with worry. He looked proud. He looked pleased and proud. Pansy watched as he raised his hands and brought them together in appreciation. One pair of hands was clapping in the quiet crowd. But it was the right pair and Pansy was moved nearly to tears.

Suddenly Amos was joined in his applause by the gentlemen near the podium and then by old man Penderghast and those beside him and then everyone was clapping, cheering, shouting.

“Thank you. Thank you,” Pansy said.

She turned to find the gentlemen behind her had all risen to their feet. In turn they each shook hands with her. Offering words of praise and congratulation, as if she had actually done something more than what she should have, which, in truth, she had not.

When she reached the steps of the stage, people were lined up to greet her. They were warm, welcoming, kind and grateful. She shook hand after hand after hand. Until she reached one that looked very familiar.

She looked up to see tall, handsome Amos Dewy smiling at her from behind wire-rimmed spectacles. He reached past her offered palm to wrap a protective arm around her shoulders.

“Let’s get you away from here,” he suggested.

Surprisingly, the citizens of Cottonwood allowed him to direct her through the crowd, away from the lantern light and into the privacy of the darkness. Once they were alone, Pansy felt almost shy with him. They had known each other for most of their lives. They had, on one unforgettable afternoon, been lovers, but in many ways they were strangers, utter and complete strangers.

He took out his handkerchief and began to wipe at the disgusting mess upon her sleeve.

“Don’t worry about it,” she told him. “It’s likely stained and will never come clean again.”

Amos nodded. “It is perhaps the kind of stain that could be turned into a badge of honor,” he said.

“Does that happen?” she asked him.

“I hope it does,” he answered.

They smiled at each other.

“Pansy, I’m in love with you,” he stated.