The Sweetest Thing (13 page)

“It was a sweet time in the family. Billy planned to attend Moody—tuition was free and he felt he owed it to the whole family to make up for his wild past. Papa gave him a small stipend for room and board. When he left on the train, we all embraced and he had tears in his eyes. He told each of us how much he loved us.” Aunt Josie looked away and cleared her throat. “But we didn't see him much after that. We all attended his wedding, of course, in Chicago, and loved your mother right away.

“After the wedding, your father rarely came back to Atlanta, seemed like he didn't want to have anything to do with his family. It ripped Mother's and Papa's hearts in two again. Something changed, Dobbs, and we couldn't get him back.”

Now Aunt Josie definitely looked vulnerable. “You hardly got to know your grandparents, Mary Dobbs, and they were such lovely people. Fine Christian people. I never could understand Billy's reasoning—I guess he thought being back in his old surroundings might drag him back into his former ways. I don't know. I've wondered and wondered about it.

“Papa begged Billy to take some money back in the early twenties, when things were so tight for your family, but Billy refused. Your grandparents wanted you and your mother to visit, they wanted to help, but Billy could not accept it. And then Mother died and Papa followed soon after.”

She put down the needles and gave a long, slow sigh. “I love your father; he has a good heart and all the enthusiasm in the world. I just wish he could accept us as we are.”

Her story haunted me for days afterward. How could my father, the epitome of a Christian man, refuse to accept his own flesh and blood, who loved him dearly? And right on the heels of that question was the one that Perri had asked. What had happened to all the money Father surely inherited after my grandparents' deaths? Did he refuse that too?

I admired my father; I'd watched him suffer and stand firm in his convictions. I wanted to brush away that tickling suspicion in the back of my mind, but I found the itch just out of reach, like so many other things in my life.

That night, as was my habit, I read from my Bible. The photo of Jackie Brown with me and my sisters stared out at me from the psalms. Jackie Brown. She had died when I was fourteen, and no amount of Father's prayers or Mother's visits to the hospital had helped at all.

Jackie's death affected me a lot more than those of my grandparents.

I could still hear the horrible wailing of Jackie's mother, Irene, and of her accusations
. “What kind of preacher prays for the sick and they die!”
But even at fourteen I knew . . .
It wasn't Father's fault. It was God's.
Humans had access to supernatural power through God's Spirit. But God was the one who decided.

I should not have kept that photo of Jackie in my Bible. It rubbed salt in the wound, again and again. It whispered to me an accusation against God Almighty. That scared me more than my perplexities about my father and his spending habits. After all, Father was merely human and thus prone to mistakes. But everything I had ever been taught about God, and what I believed down in my heart, was of His goodness and mercy and justice and loving-kindness.

Jackie Brown was the fault line in my theology. Perhaps I was naïve. All I knew was that God didn't always provide in the way we expected, and who in the world was I to tell Perri Singleton that He did?

CHAPTER

11

Perri

The last half of May proved to be sweltering, and we suffered inside the high-ceilinged rooms at Washington Seminary, fanning ourselves and dreaming of swimming at the Capitol City Country Club. Mae Pearl swore she was going to faint, and poor Dobbs pulled her hair into a ponytail and got to twirling it up in a bun because of the heat. She looked even more out of style, but no less pretty. We struggled to concentrate on our lessons, and most of us had knots in our stomachs, knowing that exams were just around the corner.

Every year when the Georgia heat started its slow and lazy creeping up to Atlanta and the peaches on the trees in our orchard got rosy cheeks, Dellareen would make her famous homemade peach ice cream. It was the most delicious and refreshing food I had ever put in my mouth. Barbara and Irvin and I loved to stand out on the porch with her as she put the fresh peaches and cream in the small inner bowl of the ice cream machine. Irvin filled the outer bowl with salt and ice, and then we kids would swap off emptying the melted salt water in the outer bowl while Dellareen kept turning the crank, around and around as the mixture slowly became ice cream. We always made at least two batches, because the moment Dellareen let go of the handle, signifying the ice cream was ready, Irvin reached in and gobbled up handfuls of the delicacy. So of course, Barbara and I clamored to get our share too.

One Thursday afternoon, we got home from school to find Dellareen, her face shiny with perspiration, humming some song as she prepared the ice cream. We rushed up the steps to the porch just as Jimmy came from the barn, where he had been tending to the horses.

He slapped Dellareen on the bottom and said, “Lemme take over, woman.” Then he winked at us and we laughed. We enjoyed watching what Barbara dubbed “the strange, ongoing courtship of Jimmy and Dellareen.” They teased and hollered throughout every day, but anyone could tell that they were absolutely crazy for each other.

“We come together like a pair o' shoes. Kain't have one without the otha',” Jimmy was fond of saying. Oh, how I didn't want that to change! I hoped we could keep them on.

Once the ice cream was made, Barbara and Irvin delved in, ladling huge scoops into their bowls. Dellareen scraped out the rest into a big bowl, handed it to me, and started making her second batch. I went in the house and chipped off a big block of ice from the icebox, got a milk bucket, and packed it with peach ice cream for Jimmy and Dellareen to take home to their five children.

After Jimmy and Dellareen left, Spalding and three other boys from Georgia Tech came over to visit. For the afternoon, I forgot about selling the house and how my friends had turned against Dobbs, and worrying for Jimmy and Dellareen. Instead, I listened to the boys talk about one of them getting hired by Coca-Cola, a big thing during the Depression, and another planning on getting a summer job at the Chicago World's Fair before he started his senior year at Tech.

“Would y'all like some homemade peach ice cream?” I asked, and of course they all said yes. I fairly skipped inside, so happy with the way Spalding was paying such close attention to me.

Those boys devoured the ice cream in no time flat, and before long the other three stood to leave.

Spalding called out, “See ya later, guys,” and came and sat next to me on the cushioned bench. “What a nice evening. Would you like to take a ride with me, Perri?”

“Sure!” I said, knowing full well I had a stack of school books I needed to review before exams started the following Monday. But off we went in his fancy car, and I don't remember a thing we talked about, but I do remember the way he looked at me before he told me good-night, and I thought I might melt, like homemade peach ice cream on a humid Georgia night.

———

The next evening, Mrs. Chandler took Mamma and me and Dobbs to the opera, a special production of
Madame Butterfly
. I was beside myself—it had been months since I'd gone to the opera—but Dobbs was even more excited. We wore our long dresses from the May Fete, and I could tell Dobbs was starstruck. Maybe she couldn't attend parties or movies, but her father had never forbidden her to go to the opera, and when we got to the theater, she was like a kid at Rhodes Bakery, inhaling the experience.

The opera was held in the Fox Theatre, my absolute favorite place to go to the movies. “It's like a castle or a Byzantine temple,” Dobbs said, breathless. Dobbs was staring up at the intricate gold painting on the foyer ceiling. Then she gasped, “Look at the gorgeous gowns those women are wearing. And their hats!” She twirled around right there in the foyer, and her pink tea dress billowed out around her legs.

We all found our seats, and when the lights went out, Dobbs grabbed my hand and exclaimed, “Oh, Perri! Have you ever seen anything like it? It's a literal
Patches from the Sky
!”

High up above us, the ceiling was painted ultramarine blue so that it really looked like the sky. Thanks to some kind of technological magic, fluffy white clouds floated in the blue, and a sun rose on the east side of the theater and slowly traveled across the blue to set on the west side. As it did, hundreds of sparkling dots shone above us, just like real twinkling stars.

“ ‘The night has a thousand stars,' ” Dobbs whispered to me and squeezed my hand.

Then the opera began, and Dobbs was completely mesmerized by the music and the costumes. She dabbed her eyes throughout the whole thing, whispering “Magnificent!” whenever the audience broke into applause.

During intermission, I took Dobbs down the red-carpeted winding staircase to the bottom floor, where the fancy powder rooms were located. We had just come back upstairs when someone said, “Mary Dobbs? Mary Dobbs Dillard?”

We both turned around to see a handsome young man with curly blond hair smiling at her.

“It's Andrew. Andrew Morrison. I met you at the May Day celebration.”

Dobbs's cheeks went crimson, and she seemed completely at a loss for words, so I stepped in to help. “Hello, Andrew. I'm Perri Singleton. I've seen you down at the SAE house.”

“Perri! Yes, of course.” He cleared his throat, and his face was beet red too. “Good to see you both.”

Dobbs finally found her voice. “Yes, nice to see you again, Andrew.”

Right then the lights flickered off and on as a signal for us to find our seats, and Andrew left us.

As soon as we took our seats, Dobbs said, “I've got Hank. So don't say a thing.”

I laughed and nudged her in the ribs.

She giggled, too, and whispered, “He is kinda cute, isn't he?”

Then the curtains came up and the opera started again.

I had been to the Fox many times before, but that night, dressed finely, sitting by my dearest friend, and with memories of the beautifully photographed night sky in that little book, I really did feel I could float to heaven and that things were going to be all right. I didn't think about the house, not when I was at the opera with thousands of stars twinkling above. Life seemed, for that short time, perfectly normal, with all kinds of wonderful possibilities ahead.

If only, oh, if only, it could have stayed that way.

We were just leaving the Fox Theatre and crossing the street when I heard a familiar “Yoo-hoo!” Macon and Lisa rushed up to me, all smiles. Macon started talking with her hands, proclaiming, “Wasn't it just absolutely grand! Oh, the diva could sing!” Then they caught sight of Dobbs, walking just ahead of me with Aunt Josie.

“What in the world is
she
doing at the opera?” Macon whispered, a little too loudly.

“Her aunt invited us all,” I said, slowing my pace to give room between Dobbs and us. “It was Mary Dobbs's first time at the opera, and she loved it.”

“Well, at least she didn't stand up in the middle of it and start preaching about the poor and needy!” Lisa said with a laugh.

Anger flashed through me, and I wanted to defend Dobbs. But I didn't. I just said, “We're getting a drink at the Georgian Terrace, so I'd better run along!” and waved good-bye to Lisa and Macon. As I caught up with Mrs. Chandler and Mamma and Dobbs, I suddenly felt like a traitor.

———

Saturday night, I spent an hour flipping through our school annual—we finally got it—and I must say I felt so proud to see ten of my photographs in there. My favorite one was on the Class Memories page. I'd taken a picture of Mae Pearl and Peggy, all dressed up at the Christmas tea that benefited the children's hospital. Each was leaning over on either side of a little girl in a wheelchair, and they were kissing her on the cheek. The expression of pure delight on the little girl's face definitely depicted what Dobbs called “reality,” and again, I got a warm feeling of pleasure. With my new darkroom and all the materials, there was no telling what type of photos I could provide for next year's
Facts and Fancies.

I was cuddled up on the couch in the living room with
Facts and Fancies
lying over my chest and the
Saturday Evening Post
lying at my feet. Irvin and Barbara were playing a game of checkers, and neither one was whining, which was a miracle. Mamma was sitting out on the back porch, smoking a cigarette and sipping on lemonade as she talked with Mrs. Chandler and Mrs. Ferguson, who had both stopped by after dinner for a chat. The sun had set, so the air had lost some of its heavy humidity, and the window in the living room was open so that we could hear the crickets “going to town,” as Dellareen said, and again, life felt calm and normal.

If I closed my eyes, it was easy to pretend that Daddy was just down the hall in his study, puffing on his pipe. I almost believed that at any minute he'd step into the living room and go stand over the checkers game. Then, talking in the funny way he did when he was holding the pipe between his teeth, he'd give little hints to Irvin about what piece to move, and Barbara would get exasperated and call out, “Daddy, that's cheating!”

The memories were so sharp, like a perfect snapshot from my camera, that I felt my heart accelerate and then plummet as I realized my reverie. Daddy wasn't in our living room, and soon we would not be sitting in this house, in this room, comfortable with its memories. Soon the rooms would be bare and our life would be packed up in cartons.

I felt tiny pinpricks of tears in my eyes and got up quickly from my chair and went down the hall to the powder room. A light was coming from Daddy's office. I walked in and was surprised to see Mamma at Daddy's desk. I had not heard her friends leave nor seen her come back in the house.

She had her head down, and she was sobbing.

She looked up—“I'm sorry, Perri”—and swiped at her tears, but they just kept running down her face, and she looked more haggard and desperate than ever. “I can't do it! I can't pack up his things. I . . . I thought he was doing better.”

She was clutching a professional photo of the five of us.

“I thought he had turned the corner. Everything seemed so black, but then for a few days there, he was better.”

I pried her hands open and took the framed photo from her. Setting it back on the desk, I reached out to Mamma and hugged her. I wanted with everything in me to keep being strong, but I found tears spilling out of my eyes too.

I don't know how long we sat there, but finally I said, “Mamma, don't stay in here. You don't have to pack all this up. Someone else will do it, but not you.”

She followed me up the stairs like a frail old lady, and as she climbed the steps, I thought,
Thank heavens Barbara and Irvin are still sitting in the den playing their slow game of checkers, oblivious to the fact that their mother is falling apart with grief.

———

On Sunday afternoon, I had a date with Spalding. I wore a pretty frock that Dobbs had plucked from Becca's closet, and I felt fashionable and almost sophisticated. He looked at me in that way he had—careful appraisal and then approval—and whisked me off to see the Joan Crawford movie
Today We Live
. Twice during the movie, Spalding took my hand in his, especially when I cried at the end. Then, ever the gentleman, he gave me his handkerchief to wipe my eyes and insisted I keep it to remember him by when he wasn't around. I thought that was such a romantic thing to say and put it in my purse.

On the way back from the movies, I asked Spalding to let me off at the Chandler residence.

“Whatever for?” he asked.

“Oh, I've just got a few things to do with Mary Dobbs. You know, exams are coming up.”

He frowned, looked for just an instant irritated, recovered, and said, “Okay. As you wish, my dear.” And he winked at me.

I just beamed at him on the drive, ignoring every thought except that I was out with one of the wealthiest young men in Atlanta.

When we stopped in front of the Chandler property, he came to my side of the car and opened the door. As I got out, he took my hand and pulled me to himself. I smelled his aftershave, a whiff of something strong and masculine, and I thought he truly was going to kiss me. I almost closed my eyes, trying to prepare myself for the moment. Instead, he tightened his hold around my waist and said, “Remember, I've got dibs on you now.” He pressed his lips to my cheek and let me go. I waved good-bye to him with a giddy feeling in my stomach and stumbled toward the Chandlers' house, once again inebriated on nothing but his all-out good looks and strange kind of charm.

We developed my first roll of film that night, Dobbs and I, with Parthenia perched beside us, oohing and ahhing with every step in the process—especially when I turned on the red light and opened the camera to remove the film. She watched anxiously as the film was submerged into the vat that held the chemical solution.

For two hours we worked printing pictures. My favorites were of Dobbs on her bed, but Parthenia pronounced the ones of herself “the most gorgeous things I ever done seen” and she “hoped to high heavens” she could take one to her mama at the Alms House next week.