The Sweetest Thing (8 page)

Immediately Father's zeal-filled face flashed in my mind, and I saw him holding his Bible high in the air, pleading with a group of weary spectators. “It's much easier to reach for a human hand first when we're in need. The Good Lord provides us with sisters and brothers to help in our times of trouble. But never forget, never forget, never forget”—and then his voice would crescendo until his face was a deep dark red and his booming voice almost hoarse with passion—“you must go to God first. We humans don't have the answers. God has the answers. Look in here”—he pounded his free hand onto the black leather cover of his Bible—“first!”

I set down the pen and stationery and took my own leather Bible from where it sat on the desk under a pile of new school books. It opened to where I had placed several small photographs. Mother and Father in front of the church, all smiles. Frances and Coobie and I standing by a snowman we had made in the park. And one with my sisters and me with Jackie. We were sitting on the old sofa in our apartment, and every single one of us had our mouths open, we were laughing so hard.

I miss you, Jackie.

Then all thoughts of Bible reading disappeared as I stared at her face in that photo.

Jackie Brown was another example of my parents' charity. I did not know exactly when they met Jackie's mother, doubtless at one of Father's revivals, but I remembered the first time I saw Jackie. I was four or five, Frances just a toddler, and Coobie not yet born. Mother had come into our room one night and said, “Mary Dobbs, I have someone I'd like you to meet.” And there was Jackie. She was about eight or nine at the time, a pencil-thin girl with long, unkempt brown hair and deep brown eyes that seemed too big for her thin, pale face.

“Would you mind sharing your room with Jackie? Her mother is working in another town and unable to care for her.” Mother never said anything about Jackie's father.

I had always dreamed of having an older sister. I was thrilled.

Jackie, whom her mother described as “sickly,” flourished under Mother's loving care and fine meals—in those days, we all had plenty to eat. At first, I thought that her mother had not taught her proper manners, with her vulgar language and complete disregard for rules. But she learned quickly, and soon she was singing the hymns at church with gusto—she had a lovely voice—and helping Mother with cooking and sewing, for which she had a knack too.

I followed her everywhere, and she treated me as a true friend. We became inseparable.

At times her mother would come to get her, determined that she could take care of her child. Mrs. Brown never looked to me like she could even take care of herself, much less a child. She was as thin as Jackie, but she had her face all painted up and wore tight, poorly made clothes and talked in a quick, nervous way, her eyes darting back and forth to Mother and Father and Jackie.

Those days when she came back for Jackie were heartrending for me. Mother and Father and Frances also missed her terribly.

Inevitably, weeks or sometimes months later, Mrs. Brown would bring Jackie back, and she would join our family again. Jackie was often sick—she had weak lungs—but she was strong on the inside. She never really embraced salvation, for her mind was wild and she wanted to try on all of life. More than a few times when I was about eleven or twelve, I sneaked out of the house with her in the middle of the night. The Holy Ghost always grabbed my heart before I got too far away from home, and I'd go back, despite Jackie's protests that I was going to miss out on a lot of fun. Jackie usually didn't return to the apartment until a day or two later, after worrying my parents half to death. She never told me where she'd been, but by the look on my parents' faces, I knew it wasn't good or proper.

Jackie graduated from high school in Chicago and found a job right away. She sent most of the money she earned back to Irene Brown. She had confided to me that she felt responsible for her mother. By that time, at fourteen, I understood what no one had ever told me. Mrs. Brown was what my father referred to in his sermons as a “woman of ill repute.” Jackie hoped to earn enough money to help her mother find a new line of employment.

But it didn't work out that way.

When Jackie suddenly grew ill again, she had to quit her job. Mother cared for her night and day. But then she went to the hospital, and I watched the beautiful young and vibrant woman wither up and look again like the starving child with sunken eyes too big for her pale, drawn face.

I sat by her bed, night and day. I read the Scriptures to her and whispered prayers, and the day before she died, she reached out and touched my hand and whispered through parched lips, “Mary Dobbs. Don't you worry anymore about my soul. I'll be with the Almighty when I go. He's forgiven me.” Those were the last words I heard from her.

Knowing of her salvation was of some comfort at first, but afterwards came the rage and the questions and the deep, deep grief. That was why I understood Anne Perrin Singleton so well. I did not want to hear her doubts about God's ability to provide, because, although I never let myself admit it, I had the same doubts tickling the back of my mind, and I was terrified that one day they would come out and strangle all the faith in my soul.

CHAPTER

6

Perri

I'd been back at Washington Seminary for four days when Mae Pearl and Peggy caught up on either side of me after French class, directed me outside, and sat me down on a stone bench.

Mae Pearl was first to speak. “Perri, you know you mean the world to me. You really do, and I love you like a sister.” Her pretty face clouded and she took my hands. “I've missed you these past two weeks. I mean it's been the hardest time in the world for you, and well, it seems you've been mighty wonderful to Mary Dobbs, but I just don't think you should feel responsible for her, not with all you've been through.”

She stopped abruptly, and I knew it was torture for Mae Pearl to get up the nerve to say anything even slightly negative about anyone. She squeezed my hands and added, “I surely hope we can go for lunch at the Driving Club tomorrow. I hear there's a marvelous buffet.”

Before I could say a word, Peggy said in her blunt way, “Listen, Perri. Mary Dobbs is a very interesting and enthusiastic person, but we just don't want her to run you over with her . . .” She searched for the right word. “Her
zeal
. Why, just today in history class—where were you anyway?—Miss Spencer was talking about women's suffrage, and Mary Dobbs just up and launched into a speech about how in 1913 women in Illinois won the right to vote and that Chicago was the first city east of the Mississippi to allow such a thing and the importance of being involved in the cause to support women's rights. She went on and on, and everyone felt so awkward and Miss Spencer got flustered and Mary Dobbs seemed completely oblivious until finally Brat tugged on her skirt and she came to her senses and sat down. She'll never make friends like that.”

“She is a bit overly enthusiastic.” I weighed my words. I had, in fact, already heard from Brat about Dobbs's impromptu speech in history class, a class I'd skipped because, in spite of my resolve to be strong, I had needed to cry alone for an hour. “I'm awfully sorry I haven't been good company, Mae Pearl. Of course we can go to the Driving Club.”

But I had nothing else to say. I kept my mouth closed, because if I tried to explain the truth to my two dearest friends, I would injure them deeply. How could I tell them that I enjoyed spending every possible minute with Dobbs Dillard, that I
admired
her zeal, and that, although I had only known her for twelve days, she already seemed closer than any other friend I'd ever had in my whole life?

———

Saturday morning, Mr. Robinson came over and sat with Mamma and me as we once again went through the endless paper work that had become our responsibility. I didn't want Mr. Robinson to come visit us on business. I wanted things to be the way they used to be.

Mamma and Daddy had often had the Robinsons and the Chandlers and the McFaddens over to play bridge. I'd always thought the men made a funny quartet—Daddy all tall and thin and dark; Mr. Chandler, big and boisterous with thinning hair and a thick belly; Mr. McFadden with his pale blond hair, taller and skinnier than Daddy; and little Mr. Robinson, prematurely gray, bookish-looking with his thick glasses. But they laughed, played bridge with their wives, and then retired to the library, where I imagined they puffed on cigars and sipped brandy and talked business. Pretty, petite Mamma sat in the garden with Josephine Chandler and Patty Robinson and Ellen McFadden, chatting gaily, sipping on a drink, and occasionally breaking into melodious laughter, like the trill of a flute.

Oh, how I longed for those lazy summer evenings, my windows wide open and the sound of Daddy's low rumbling laugh and Mamma's trilling. It seemed like another life, a strand of music that I would never hear again.

But Mr. Robinson was definitely at our house on business and, true to his word, was determined not only to educate Mamma about the state of our affairs but also to help her find solutions, specifically to allow us to keep the house.

Mamma shocked both of us that morning by announcing in the midst of looking at the accounting books, “I plan to go to work.”

I dropped my pencil.

“John McFadden's brother works down at the capitol and has found me a job in the tag department.” Mamma's brow creased a little. She cleared her throat, sat up straight, and said, “I'm sure it will be just fine. It's nothing hard, a little monotonous, perhaps, but I feel lucky to have this prospect so quickly.” She smiled at me, reached over, and patted my hand. “And if we have to sell the Buick, well, I can ride the streetcar to the capitol. You can even bring Irvin and Barbara to see me after school if you want.”

I could not imagine Mamma working at a job, but Mr. Robinson looked awfully pleased. He took off his glasses and said, “Why, that's wonderful news, Dot!”

“Yes, isn't it? I'll be starting right away.” Mamma sounded as excited as if she had been asked to set up all the floral arrangements for the Garden Club's annual fund-raising event—something she adored doing.

She gave me a sad smile. “Don't look so distraught, Perri. It'll be okay. You and Barbara can still attend Washington Seminary, and Irvin will be fine at Boys High. Really, the only thing that will change at all is that I've told Ellen McFadden I'll have to step down from being president of the Garden Club for a while. She was disappointed, of course, but said I was doing the absolute right thing, considering the circumstances.”

I felt proud of Mamma and relieved for her job, but I made up my mind right then that no one would look down their noses at us. Somehow we'd keep our house and our membership at the country club and our car and our position in society. We came from a well-respected family, and there was no way Daddy's horrible death was going to turn us into a family to be pitied. Not if I could help it.

When I returned from lunch at the Piedmont Driving Club with Mae Pearl, I found Dobbs waiting for me on my front porch. She was dressed in the pretty bright pink dress that Mrs. Chandler had bought for her and looked as if she were ready to go to the Driving Club herself, all fresh and glowing. As soon as I stepped from the car, she rushed down the steps and across the yard, her face all aflame with excitement.

“Oh, Perri! I thought you'd never get home! I've the most wonderful news. The absolute best in the world.”

“What are you talking about? And why are you all dressed up?”

“Well, I don't have anything else except my school uniforms and my potato sack.” She flashed me a smile. I expected Dobbs to start twirling around, but instead she grabbed my hand, pulled me back to the car, and said so sweetly, “Jimmy, can you please take us to the Chandlers'?”

Jimmy gave her another one of his suspicious looks but nodded.

We hopped in the back seat of the Buick, and Dobbs started explaining, “Well, it came to me in the middle of French class yesterday. After that I could not pay one bit of attention, and when I got home, I went straight to Aunt Josie and told her my idea and she thought it was fabulous, and we have already gotten Hosea and Cornelius working on it out in the barn, and even Uncle Robert smiled when I told him—and you know he can be quite a sourpuss. He said, ‘Mary Dobbs, I believe that is a very sensible idea and may even prove to be helpful in a financial way,' and so anyway, it's almost as good as done. So I—”

She would have continued, but I was not particularly in a mood for her wild tangents. “Slow down, will you? What in the world are you talking about?” I thought of Peggy's criticism of the way Dobbs launched into her speech in history class.

“The darkroom!” she said.

“The darkroom?”

“
Your
darkroom! For you to develop your photographs.” She said this as if her words made the most perfect sense.

“I've told you I already have the use of the school's darkroom.”

“But that's so inconvenient. You can only go there when the school is open. This is going to be all yours. A little room built right in the Chandlers' barn, right next to Dynamite's stall. You can come any time of the night or day. Pretty soon—I've got it all figured out—you'll be selling your prints for a nickel apiece, and then, well, who knows? You'll establish yourself in the community, and it will be money for the family. I just
know
it will work!”

I wanted to be mad at Dobbs. I wanted to ask her who in the world she thought she was, waltzing into my life and making plans for how I could help my family. I had always been perfectly competent at planning, and I liked to do things in an orderly way. But as she rattled on with her cockamamie idea about a darkroom in the Chandlers' barn and the freedom to work there anytime night or day and the fact that perhaps I could
sell
my photographs, something in me perked up, so that by the time we arrived at the Chandler property I was truly excited about the possibility, and I hopped out of the Buick and let Dobbs pull me along to the barn. Then I actually felt butterflies flittering in my stomach as I watched Hosea and Cornelius hammering away, building a little room right beside the stall of a small bay mare. And eventually I felt the slightest twinge of hope settle in my soul.

———

Two weeks after Daddy took his life, Mamma let boys start coming to see me again. Up until his death, on weekdays, when I'd get home from school, I'd sit in the formal living room in cold weather, or on the front porch of the house when it warmed up enough, and entertain several young men from Boys High or college boys from Emory and Oglethorpe and Georgia Tech. And on Sunday afternoons, many girls at Washington Seminary, like me, had front porches filled with boys.
Pop-calling
was the term we used. We didn't have a date; boys just “popped in” to see us.

On that Sunday, I heard the doorbell ring, and I leaned out my upstairs window in just the right way—no one could see me, but I could see them down below—as Mamma opened the front door. I felt a little hiccup in my heart when I recognized the young man as Spalding Smith, a junior at Georgia Tech. He was holding a huge bouquet of flowers, which he presented to Mamma, and said, “We have been so distressed about your tragedy, Mrs. Singleton.”

“Thank you, Spalding. These are lovely. Your mother's been an angel, helping organize meals and making phone calls. Come on in. I'll call Perri.”

I came down the stairs slowly after checking my reflection in the long mirror in my room. I wanted to look just right for Spalding Smith. Just about every girl at Washington Seminary had a crush on him. He had black hair cut short and parted on the side, thick black eyebrows, charcoal eyes, and a smile that could knock you over. He played quarterback for Tech, one of the stars on the football team, and he was twenty-one! I had met him at the Chandlers' Valentine's Dance, and we had talked a little, but I never expected him to come for a visit. I felt light-headed to have him sitting on my porch.

He stood. “Hello, Perri.”

“Hi, Spalding. How nice of you to come by.” I sat down on the little wrought-iron bench covered with a beautiful yellow-and-red cushion, something Mamma had bought on one of her trips to Provence. I ran my hands along my legs, straightening my skirt.

Spalding sat in one of the Westport chairs. “I wanted to express our condolences in person. I hope you received my card.”

We had, in fact, received almost four hundred sympathy cards, and I had not yet read them all. “Yes, thank you,” I said. Nothing else came out of my parched mouth.

Thank goodness Mamma came onto the porch and offered us iced tea, which we accepted, and I gulped down several swallows.

After pleasantries, Spalding asked, “Perri, would you consider being my date for the SAE formal on April 15?”

I was speechless. Every girl at Washington Seminary had heard about the formal—it was a special dance given by the Sigma Alpha Epsilons, one of the best fraternities at Georgia Tech—but none of us expected to attend.

I sat up a little straighter, cleared my throat, and tried to sound very sophisticated. “Why, thank you, Spalding. I think that would be delightful.”

I could hardly wait to tell Dobbs. I called the Chandlers' residence, hoping to heavens not to wake Mr. Chandler from a nap. “Hello, this is Anne Perrin Singleton,” I squeaked out when he answered the phone. “I'm so sorry to bother you on a Sunday afternoon. I was wondering if I may speak to Mary Dobbs.”

Mr. Chandler mumbled something, probably to his wife, and she came on the phone. “Perri? Yes. Hello, dear. Could you please hold a moment? I believe Mary Dobbs is in her room. I'll let her get the telephone upstairs.”

I waited, impatiently tapping my foot and gnawing on a fingernail. Finally Dobbs came to the phone. “Perri, is it you? Are you okay?”

“Hey, there! I'm swell. Just swell! I hope I didn't interrupt you. Are you busy with pop-calling?”

“With what?”

“With boys at your house?”

“Boys? The only boys around here are Uncle Robert, Hosea, and Cornelius, and I have no idea what you mean about ‘pop-calling.' ”

In the midst of the shattering events, I had forgotten to educate Dobbs on this very important part of Washington Seminary protocol. “It's just how things work around here.” And I explained the process to Dobbs. “. . . And in fine weather, you sit out on the porch and drink lemonade or iced tea or even coffee, if you're allowed. I'll bet Mrs. Chandler would allow it. I serve tea cakes and cookies and all kinds of delicious things that Dellareen bakes for us. We girls like to kid each other and say that the house with the best food gets the most boys.”

“Well, there's no one around here, and I can't imagine a boy showing up unannounced at this house. And anyway, I'm not interested in the least. I've got Hank.”

I was frowning into the phone, accustomed by now to Dobbs's blunt retorts. “Yes, of course you do, but he's not here, and we aren't dating. It's just social and fun.” Then I asked, a bit timidly, “Are you completely against fun?”