The Truth According to Us (12 page)

The tall man looked after her from the doorway. “You know her?” he called to the group at the lamppost.

“Hey, Emmett,” one of them said.

“Hey. You know her?” Emmett repeated.

“Nope. Wish I did,” the man replied.

“You can just get off right here,” said the one who had been lounging on the post. “I saw her first.”

Emmett snorted. “I'll tell Louise you said so.”

“You hear about Shank?” the first man asked.

Emmett's eyes scanned the distant sidewalk for one more moment. Then he turned. “No. What?”

They told him—forty-four men fired, just like that, yesterday, that bastard Shank, he didn't care, Tom Lehew, what's he going to do, sixty-three and his land all run out—and Emmett listened. Then he told them what he thought, and at first they laughed. Union? You're crazy. He talked some more, and they glanced at one another, jutting their chins out, which was how it looked when they began to agree. Emmett shrugged. Don't listen to me, he said. Talk to someone who knows. Talk to someone who's done it. Huh, said one of them. Maybe you're right. Could be, said another. Maybe. Maybe. Well, Emmett said, I'd better get on home. See you, Emmett. See you. See you. See you later.

But not once did he stop thinking about the girl outside the window, how she'd smiled at him. He didn't forget about her for an instant.

“Oh, for God's sake,” muttered Jottie.

“I hates to be beholden to you.”

“Hell, Ma'am, they ain't too many of us shiftin' for a livin' out here. I'd be a pore man—
”

Jottie slammed
The Yearling
shut and burrowed into a corner of the sofa.

“I don't know why you keep reading it if you hate it so much,” said Mae, pausing at the foot of the stairs.

“I want to get to the part where the deer dies,” Jottie replied with her eyes closed. “Hush, now. I'm thinking.”

“Looks an awful lot like sleeping to me,” said Mae. “Good night, honey.”

“Night,” yawned Jottie. She was thinking. There was never enough time to think, during the day. Especially this day, she reflected, which had begun so long ago with Willa asking after Miss Beck—who knew why—and then Geraldine Lee and her army and her Reds. Cautiously, Jottie approached the painful spot: “I wish we were like everybody else. I get real tired of lying.” It hurt. She examined the wound: Willa lies about us. Why? The enemy voice that lived inside her head supplied
the answer readily enough: She's ashamed. Jottie's eyes snapped open. Had Irma Lee said something? Had she hinted something about Felix or mocked Willa about her mother? Had she been the one who'd told Willa about Vause? Had she dared?

I'll kill her, Jottie promised, breathing shallowly with rage. I'll kill anyone who makes Willa worried or ashamed.

It's not just Irma, her enemy voice continued implacably. You can't kill everyone in Macedonia, and you can't keep Willa shut up in a box. She's going to hear it all, sooner or later. She'll hear about Felix, she'll hear about you and Vause, she'll hear about the fire, and she'll hear about Sol—she's already beginning to wonder about that; you saw it last night—and she'll be worried and ashamed, and there is not one thing you can do to stop it.

“I wish we were like everybody else. I get real tired of lying.” It was a special distillation of shame, to have to lie about your family, and a special distillation of agony to learn of it. Jottie's mind flicked over her own heedless childhood, recalling the protection and authority she hadn't even known she enjoyed. How light and lordly she'd been, how free, how certain that her happiness was the product of her own virtues and powers. How wrong she'd been. How foolish. And how very, very lucky.

If only Willa could have what I had, Jottie mourned. If only she could be so certain and proud. It was an illusion every child should have. And Willa was losing it, right before her eyes.

If only we were still respectable, thought Jottie disconsolately.

Her own thoughts shocked her. No! We're still respectable! We certainly are! Lots of people like us. And believe in us. And we have the house, too, the Romeyn house. We're
respectable
.

But safe? asked the enemy slyly. What about safe?

Her heart sagged. Yes. That was what she wanted for Willa. Safety. She wanted them to be safe for Willa. Unremarkable, irreproachable, and safe.

She imagined how it might sound, being unremarkable: Oh, the Romeyns, yes, of course. Nice people. Real pleasant.

The comparison came along, an uninvited guest: Why, sure, the
Romeyns. They used to be a big family in town. Poor old Mr. Romeyn would just about die if he could see what that Felix is up to now. He always was a shady one; remember the way he used to sneak into every place in town? Jottie? Well, she always pranced around like the Queen of the May, but she got her comeuppance when Vause Hamilton threw her over. Didn't surprise me any, but she took it real hard. Nobody even saw her for almost a year after the fire, and I'll tell you, plenty of people think Sol McKubin was right about that fire. Now? I guess she's raising those girls, Felix and Sylvia's girls, and oh Lord, what a fiasco that was, after he practically got himself killed marrying her. After all that, they fought like cats and dogs. I heard stories about the two of them that would curdle up all the blood in your body. It wasn't long before he brought the children back here and Sylvia stayed up in Grand Mile, and you won't believe it, but she and Parnell Rudy are living, well, like man and wife—

Jottie groaned softly to herself and spread her fingers over her face, listening to the clock soldier forward. The darkness inside her hands was calm and soothing. She reached up and turned off the lamp, and her agony ebbed a little.

There's got to be some way I can change it.

For Willa and Bird, I'll do anything.

But what can I do?

I can—she leapt into the abyss—join a ladies' club. There! That's respectable! That's something I can do! I can be ladylike. Why, I can be more ladylike than anyone, as long as I can keep myself from saying the first thing that pops into my mind.

I'll fix it, she thought with returning energy. I'll fix everything. I'll make Willa safe. I'll make all of us safe. I'll start with the ladies' club. And after that, I can learn about flower-arranging, maybe. And, why, there's knitting. Anyone can knit. What about canasta? I'll take up canasta. I can have one of those card parties. And maybe Felix would help, if I asked him. He could do a little gardening. Clip the hedge, maybe, or rake leaves. People like a man who works in the garden. I'm sure he'd help, if I asked him right. And then we'll be safe, safe…

When Jottie opened her eyes again, Felix was there. He was sitting on the coffee table, smoking, silent.

“Felix?” she whispered. “I've been thinking—”

“Listen,” he broke in, “you don't owe him a damn thing.”

“Who?”

“Hamilton. Mr. Hamilton.” He ran a hand through his hair, standing it on end. “I don't know why you do it. Let him burn his house down. What do you care?” His eyes were bright and hot. “And if you've got some crazy idea you're doing it for Vause, forget it. You sure as hell don't owe Vause anything, either. I don't know why you can't remember that.” He ground his cigarette viciously into the ashtray.

Jottie tilted her hand to shade her face, wishing she were still asleep. “It was his birthday today. Vause's.”

“I know,” he said. “Thirty-eight.” Of course he knew. She realized that he knew it with the same involuntary timekeeping that told him his own birthday. He would never not know it. “Doesn't mean you have to celebrate the occasion with his father.”

“Mr. Hamilton is an old man,” she said slowly. “He's old and confused. He thought Vause died in France. That's what he thought today. He was fussing about his medals.”

“Medals? Jesus.” Felix shook his head. “Vause didn't get any medals. He got the Argonne clasp, but we all got that.”

She watched her brother's face soften. Tell me, she begged silently. Tell me how it was, with Vause in the Argonne Forest. Tell me everything. But she couldn't say it out loud. If she said it out loud, Felix's face would tighten again. Remember how he double-crossed us, he would say. Remember how he lied. And then she would have to pretend to despise Vause. She should despise Vause. She did despise Vause. She loathed him.

“Well,” she said. “I told him that they buried him with his medals. He calmed down.”

One eyebrow up and scornful. “He's off his rocker.”

She nodded. Change the subject. “You never told me about your trip.”

He smiled. “My trip? To Obion, Tennessee? Home of the white squirrel?”

That was better. She curled toward him cozily. “What's a white squirrel?”

Felix's eyes glinted. “It's a squirrel. It's white. Town's full of them and they're real puffed up about it. They got a big statue of one in front of the jail. Six feet tall. Scared me half to death.”

She laughed—and then stopped. “What were you doing in front of the jail?”

“Pure happenstance,” he said with dignity.

“You weren't in it?” she pressed, thinking of Willa.

“Honestly, Jottie! You got a suspicious mind, you know that? I wasn't doing anything
to
be in it!” He grinned at her. “A man can't even sell a few chemicals without you getting—”

“Felix?” Impulsively, she reached for him. “Sweetheart, don't you want to try to get a job right here in town?” Stay home, she thought. Stay home and do something irreproachable, and I'll arrange flowers. We'll look like everyone else, and the girls will be happy and safe.

He frowned at her. “What are you talking about? There's no jobs here. Maybe you heard? There's a Depression on.”

“What about Equality?” she asked, trying to sound offhand, an effect she immediately ruined by adding, “You could ask, couldn't you?”

“Equality Mill?” he said, his frown growing. “Don't know what rock you've been under; they're barely making payroll. And anyway—no thanks. I worked in a mill, once.” He waved the idea away.

She nodded, remembering. Felix, shoes glittering, shirt blinding white and crisp, hand raised—So long!—setting off for American Everlasting at their father's side. That was the first day. It was different later.

He eyed her ruminatively, his thumb scraping the rim of his jaw. “You want me home, is that it?” he asked. “I was thinking the same thing. I was thinking I'd stick around for a while.”

That startled her. “Really?” And then, dubious, “Why?”

“Whatsamatter? I thought you wanted me here!”

“It's not that girl, is it?”

He smiled. “Maybe.”

“You just met her yesterday!” Jottie protested.

“I know. I like her. I think she's cute.” He was still smiling, but his words were very distinct.

“She's only a
child
,” said Jottie recklessly. “She said so herself.”

“Meow.”

“No, Felix, listen—she's—well, she probably has a man somewhere, don't you think? Girl like that?” She nodded hopefully at him.

He shrugged. “Not my lookout. You shouldn't leave a girl that pretty on her own.”

Jottie rolled onto her back and looked at the ceiling. “Think,” she said. “For once in your life, think about what could happen.”

“I'm already thinking about one thing that could happen,” he said, and laughed when she turned to glare at him.

“There's probably some law against that—besmirching the morals of the WPA or something,” she said. “You'll probably end up in jail.”

“Won't be the first time,” he said cheerfully.

“No! Felix, listen, we've got to be more careful!” Her hand darted out to catch at his. “You've got to think of Willa—Bird, too, but Willa's growing up! You can't carry on right in front of her! She'll know what it means and she'll be…embarrassed.”

She had gone too far, she saw; she had accused him. Felix pulled his hand free and drew his cigarette case from his pocket. “Embarrassed,” he said coolly.

“Well,” Jottie mumbled, retreating. “You know.”

“I
don't
know.” He tipped his cigarette to a match, and she heard the faint crackle of tobacco consumed by flame. “Suppose you tell me. Suppose you tell me why you got nothing better to do than nag at me like a little old lady. What the hell's going on, Jottie?” He scowled at her through a curl of smoke. “You want me to get a job at Equality and you want me to stay away from girls, and you're trying to tell me it's all for Willa?” The eyebrow rose again. “I think it's for you, honey. I think you're jealous—”

“I am not,” she began, but he talked over her.

“You're jealous,” he repeated. “You're jealous because you never go anywhere. Why don't you go out on a date, Jottie? Don't let me hold you back.” His smile was bright with malice. “You think I can't see what you want? I can. You want me to act like Daddy. That's it, isn't it?” he sneered. “Showing off in a suit, tipping my hat right and left, smiling like a sucker—so you can make believe you're an eminent gentlewoman of Macedonia.” He hissed with disgust. “It's not going to happen, Jottie. If you think I'm going to join the Elks and go to church, you can think again.” He leaned forward, his hands closing into fists. “Never.”