The Heart Remembers (6 page)

“Yessir, I know you will, and I thank you. We're goin' to miss him, though.”

One of the younger children, awed and bewildered by all that was going on, suddenly wailed, and the woman turned and struck at the child, a weak, ineffectual blow which the child side-stepped so deftly that one knew he was long accustomed to such blows and to such avoidance of them.

“Go up to the commissary, Annie, for whatever you and the children need. The storekeeper will see that you get it. I've made the arrangements,” said Jim over his shoulder as he slid beneath the wheel.

“It's right kind of you, Mr. Jim. I'm purely thankful to you,” said Annie politely, as the station wagon drove off.

As they reached the bend in the narrow lane, Shelley looked back, and wished that she hadn't. For the
tableau
on the rickety, sagging porch was one she would not be able soon to forget. The gaunt, white-faced woman, surrounded by weeping, frightened children, the baby clutched in her arms, was the most heartbreaking picture she had seen in a long, long time.

A short distance down the highway, Jim once more followed a lane, this time one that was carefully kept so that the station wagon had no difficulty following it.

Here again there was a clearing in the woods and a shabby old house; but this one stood hip-deep in flowering shrubbery, and the front lawn was dotted with clumps of daffodils and narcissi and there were neatly trimmed peach trees blooming riotously in the back.

There was a chicken yard at the back, and a plump, middle-aged woman in a clean blue dress and a checked gingham apron was scattering food scraps to a flock of handsome, healthy-looking Buff Orpington chickens.

She looked up at the sound of the station wagon, put down the pan and came hurrying over, smiling,
wiping her hands on a bit of cleaning tissue in her apron pocket. As she reached the car she caught sight of the man who sat in the back seat and her plump face beneath the old-fashioned “slat” sunbonnet hardened and the eyes behind her old-fashioned golden-rimmed eyeglasses flashed.

“Bud Lively, you good-for-nothin', worthless creature! Are you off to jail
again
?”

“Yessum, Miss Hettie—kinda looks like it,” Bud admitted sheepishly.

“Jim Hargroves, you make me so blasted mad!”

The woman turned furiously on Jim.

“Keep your shirt on, Aunt Hettie,” protested Jim wearily. “I figured it was better for me to take him in than to let 'em come and get him. You wouldn't want Lije Holcomb coming after him, would you?”

“Well, no, I reckon I wouldn't want Lije Holcomb arresting a yaller dog of mine, not if I liked the dog any,” the woman admitted reluctantly. “But I swear to goodness, Jim, I don't see how poor Annie and those young-'uns are going to make it without him, worthless and no-'count as he is.”

“I tole Annie to go to the commissary for whatever she and the children needed,” Jim admitted.

The woman sighed in exasperation.

“Well, I reckon if it comes to that, she fares better when Bud's doin' time than when he's home stirring up trouble. Only the poor fool grieves so for him, worthless as he is.”

Bud squirmed a little.

“Now, Aunt Het, you hadn't orter talk like that.”

“Dont you ‘Aunt Het' me, you good-for-nothing, or I'm liable to do what somebody ought to have done a long time ago. I'd just purely enjoy taking a buggy-whip to you and might' near skinning you alive!” snapped the woman furiously. And Bud subsided, looking a little uneasy.

Jim interrupted quickly, “Aunt Hettie, this is Shelley
Kimbrough. She's bought the old
Harbour Pines Journal
and the house that goes with it. The house isn't fit to live in but she thinks if she could get somebody to help her give it a thorough cleaning—”

Aunt Hettie forgot her age-old grievance against Bud, to turn to Shelley and say with warm, friendly interest, “Well, now, I do declare! I was that put out with Bud being arrested again, I didn't even notice you had comp'ny with you, Jim. I'm real pleased to meet you, Miss Kimbrough.”

Her warm friendliness was as enveloping as a bright wrap on a cold day, and Shelley reacted to it with a little glow.

“Thank you, Mrs.—”

Aunt Hettie laughed richly, warmly.

“Not Mrs., honey. Miss Jenkins. I never found myself a man, somehow,” she chuckled. And then she glared at Bud, who squirmed a little. “And now that I've had time to look over some of the specimens other women found, I see how lucky I am.”

“And you'll help Miss Kimbrough out, Aunt Hettie?” Jim was plainly anxious to be gone.

“Well, now, Jim, did you ever know me to fail a neighbor? Certainly I'll help her out. I'll be plumb glad to. Get out, child, and let Jim get on with taking old No-Good to jail, where he belongs,” said Aunt Hettie briskly. “You and me can go back to town in my old Lizzie.”

Bud was obviously deeply relieved when Jim turned the station wagon, headed back toward the road and said over his shoulder to Shelley, “I'll pick you up at the shop about six.”

As the station wagon rattled away, Aunt Hettie sighed and shook her head.

“I declare, it would be a right nice world if there wasn't so many Bud Livelys in it! Folks in these parts was plum overjoyed when the Army caught him and sent him off to a camp up North. Annie and the
young 'uns got a check from the government every blessed month and had everything they needed and it was plumb nice to watch 'em. But the Army didn't keep him more'n six or seven months and sent him right back with his discharge papers. Even they wouldn't be bothered with him, bad as they needed soldiers.”

“From what I saw of the service, men like Bud Lively were a liability, where assets were badly needed,” Shelley admitted.

“Men like Bud Lively are liabilities anywhere, any time, anyhow,” said Aunt Hettie grimly, as she whipped off her apron. She went on in a different tone, “I'll be ready in a minute, child. You'll be wanting to get to work.”

And five minutes later, Shelley was gazing in honest awe at an ancient wreck of a car that Aunt Hettie was proudly piloting out of the barn. It was a 1929 Ford, its two front fenders fastened to the body with baling wire. It shook and shivered and protested loudly in every joint. Its tires were solid, so that every bump on the by no means smooth road was felt to an excruciating degree.

Aunt Hettie sat bolt upright to drive, her hands gripping the wheel tightly, and drove with a concentrated attention that did not detract in the least from her feeling of delighted importance.

“Lizzie ain't much for looks,” she confessed. “But she gets me where I want to go and back again, and that's what's important to me.”

Shelley couldn't answer for a moment, because just then they ran over a small log at the edge of the road and Shelley went up in the air and banged her head painfully on the top of the car, biting her tongue. But Aunt Hettie was not a bit disconcerted and chattered gaily.

“Kinda funny. Harbour Pines having a newspaper again,” she was saying cheerfully as they reached the
little house and went up the walk. “I remember when the old paper shut down. Folks that run it was mighty nice. I always liked Mis' Newton real well, and you coulda knocked me over with a feather when they carted Mr. Newton off to jail. Folks around here was mighty hard to convince that he was a thief, but I reckon them folks at the courthouse had so much evidence they just had to believe it. Always thought myself, though, that there was a heap back of the whole business that never did come out during the trial, ner afterwards.”

Shelley lowered her head, and pretended to be estimating the work to be done, so that she could conceal the little wave of sick emotion that swept over her as she went once more into the forlorn little house.

By the end of the week, thanks to Aunt Hettie's unflagging zeal, and Shelley's own undaunted courage, the little old house was shining clean inside. Bright with fresh curtains and new paint and gay with slip-covers, with bowls of flowers around and new rag rugs scattered over the floors that had been freshly painted.

Aunt Hettie had arrived on Saturday morning with the back of faithful old Lizzie stacked with potted plants, and when Shelley had cried out in protest, albeit with delight, Aunt Hettie had brushed her aside.

“Shucks, child, a house ain't a home till you got some flowers growin' around. You'll have plenty in the garden once I find that triflin' Mose to work on it. And I got so many potted plants I don't scarcely know what to do with 'em. This here angel's wing begonia'll look right pretty here on your bookcase and I'll put this bleedin' heart on the table by the window. Soon's the nights get a little warmer you
can set 'em on the verandah.”

Shelley had brought her luggage with her when she came that morning and was now definitely settled in her own little home. Selena had been polite, but had had difficulty in concealing her relief at Shelley's departure; a relief that Shelley had felt as keenly as Selena. Aunt Hettie was going to spend the night with Shelley and was as pleased as a child at the prospect. She and Shelley were fast friends by now.

They walked from room to room of the house, a brief journey but one that they made slowly and happily, gloating over every bit of their work that had transformed the shabby old house into cheerful, modest comfort.

There was a shiny new oil cook-stove in the kitchen and Aunt Hettie eyed it happily.

“Now, ain't that a fine stove? My, it certainly would seem like a treat to just strike a match, turn up a wick and start cooking, instead of having to chop wood and kindlin' and build fires and wait for the stove to get hot,” she said happily, and Shelley laughed and hugged her.

Sunday she and Aunt Hettie went to church, and Aunt Hettie saw to it that Shelley met everybody, including the gracious old minister. There was a pleasant, friendly buzzing about the newspaper, and when she went to bed that night, Shelley felt that she had made a most excellent start, both in her secret purpose and in her public enterprise.

Now that the house was clean and shining, and the new equipment she had ordered for the newspaper plant would be arriving soon, she set about getting the office cleaned and ready. As she walked in on Monday morning, she was startled to see doors and windows wide, and through a thick cloud of dust she saw a strange man busily wielding a broom.

“Oh, good morning,” he greeted her politely, pausing in his labors. “If you've brought us some business,
we're very grateful, but it will be at least a week before we're ready.”

“I'm Shelley Kimbrough.”

“Oh, forgive me. My new boss! Editor and publisher of the
Harbour Pines Journal
, of course. My mistake. I was expecting somebody older and—er—much less decorative. Permit me to introduce myself,” said the man. “Philip Foster Esquire—printer extraordinary—who would like to be your staff. Together, I think we could stand this hick village—oh, forgive me, of course I mean this—er—charming little town on its ear—in a perfectly nice way, of course.”

Shelley blinked, but laughed, for the man was disarmingly friendly and attractive.

“But I don't understand, Mr.—Foster? Who engaged you?” she asked, puzzled.

His smile was oddly charming. He was too thin, too gaunt, with eyes almost feverishly bright. But he was obviously an educated man; despite his worn, shabby garments his bearing was that of a gentleman.

“Well, strictly speaking, nobody hired me, Miss Kimbrough,” he admitted, smiling hopefully. “I heard in Atlanta that the
Journal
was going to be revived, and since I'm fond of this part of the country, and being out of employment, I decided to take a chance that the somewhat misguided lady who had acquired said
Journal
might not yet have found herself a printer. So I blew in and went to work—hopefully. But say the word and I'll blow out—with no hard feelings.”

He presented her a worn wallet, in which she found the credentials that attested to his training and his standing with the union.

“I'm afraid the wages won't be much, not right at first,” she warned him.

“My needs are few and modest,” he assured her, and some of his light humor faded. “There's a small
shed-room at the back there. Sort of stockroom, I suppose, but there's an Army cot there. I'll pick up a ten-cent-store mirror in which I can see to shave my whiskers, and I'll need only a bit over for food—and—one more thing.”

He hesitated a moment, and now every trace of humor was gone from his eyes, and he looked older, thinner, almost bitter.

“Of course, that one other thing requires explanation,” he went on grimly. “You may as well know in the very beginning, Miss Kimbrough, that I'm a confirmed alcoholic. It's a sort of occupational disease suffered by most tramp-printers of my sort. To put it plainly, once the paper has been ‘put to bed' for the weekly issue, and my responsibility until next press-day has ended, I ask the single pleasure of steeping myself in strong drink. Brutally, to get stinkin' drunk and stay that way until I am needed again.”

Shelley's eyes were wide and she could only say, “Oh!”

The man nodded and ran his fingers through his thinning hair.

“Quite,” he agreed politely. “If you prefer not to have such a one as I on your pay-roll, you have only to say the word. But I
would
like to assure you, on my word of—I could scarcely say honor, could I?”

“Why not?”

His eyes widened and his brows went up a little.

“Thank you,” he said quietly, with a little bow. “Then I shall say it. On my word of honor, I shall never let you down. I shall be sober, industrious, a busy little beaver until after the paper goes to press on Wednesday and is ready for Thursday's distribution; I shall be as sober as the proverbial judge.”