The Truth According to Us (53 page)

“Jottie?”

“Yes?”

There was a short, embarrassed shuffle on the other end. “This is—well, it's Hank Nole.”

“Hank!” She straightened, shoring herself up against all the reasons he might be calling. “How are you?”

“Fine, thanks.” There was another slight ripple, which Jottie now recognized as the sound of the police chief stroking his walrus mustache. “Ahm, can I talk to Felix?”

“Sorry, Hank, he's not here,” she said. And then, firmly, “He doesn't live here anymore.”

He sighed. “Yeah, I know. What I really mean is, do you know where he is?”

“No.” Oh God, what had he done? “Why?” Not that she cared.

“Well, Jottie, ahm, guess he's been drinking pretty steady past couple weeks, and he got up to disturbing the peace last night.”

“Disturbing the peace?” It didn't sound like Felix. He generally took
pains to maintain the illusion of peace. “Did you arrest him, Hank? Is that why you're calling me? Because I'm not—”

“No! No, I don't have him. But I'm going to have to arrest him if I find him. So if he, ahm, turns up, let him know that, will you?”

“Hank, if I let him know, you won't even see his dust. Whose side are you on?”

“Jottie,” said Hank reproachfully. “Felix has always been real good about keeping his business outside my jurisdiction. I'm returning the favor. I don't want to see his dust.”

Seated at the kitchen table, Layla glanced up from her letter. “Parker Davies tenders you his respects.”

Jottie shifted her cigarette from one side of her mouth to the other without touching it. “He tenders them? He actually used ‘tender'?”

“Yes.”

“Huh,” said Jottie. “Ain't he nice?”

“He'd like to come by and discuss the manuscript tomorrow afternoon.”

Jottie raised her eyebrows. “Old Parker reads pretty fast, doesn't he?”

Layla nodded.

“He wants to come here?”

Layla looked down at the letter again. “Yes. At three. He doesn't exactly sound thrilled.”

Jottie smiled around her cigarette. “Let's make sure Minerva and Mae are here, then.”

“All right,” said Layla apathetically, setting the paper down.

—

Parker Davies was dressed for a bank. In his gray suit and hat, he looked like a chip off a bank that had gone for a walk. He stood on the sidewalk in front of the house and eyed the porch mistrustfully.

Layla got up and opened the screen door. “Mr. Davies, please do come in and sit down.”

“Miss Beck.” He smiled with his mouth closed and came heavily up the stairs. “Seems to get hotter every day, doesn't it—” He broke off as his eyes adjusted to the shade of the porch and he saw Jottie, Minerva, and Mae arrayed before him in light summer dresses.

“Parker,” said Jottie, rising to shake his hand.

“Jottie. Mae. Minerva.” He inclined his head to each. “An unexpected. Pleasure.”

“Likewise,” murmured Mae. Jottie nodded seriously. Minerva grinned at him.

He looked away. “Miss Beck. Shall we—proceed?” He tapped a folder that he held under his arm.

“Oh, yes,” she said. “Please have a seat.”

He glanced at Minerva. “It's a business matter. No need to bother these”—he gestured to the Romeyns—“ladies with our discussion.”

“Oh, Parker, I've been looking forward to it all day,” said Minerva.

“I just love businesslike discussions,” said Mae.

“And, do you know, we've come to feel a real personal interest in
The History of Macedonia
,
”
said Jottie. “Would you like some ice-tea?”

He cleared his throat. “Ice-tea. Thank you. Ice-tea would be very pleasant.” He let himself down stiffly into a wicker chair and balanced his folder on his knee. “Miss Beck, I will not beat around the bush—”

Mae held up a finger. “Wait just one moment, Parker, while I get the tea. I couldn't stand it if I missed what you're going to say.” She rose. “Back in two shakes!”

Jottie and Minerva looked at each other and clamped their mouths shut. Layla gazed at the porch screen.

After a moment's silence, Jottie asked, “Isn't the part about Mrs. Lacey's backyard good? I never knew they burned amputated limbs. Could have knocked me over with a feather.”

“Limbs?” he said, his lips pursing around the word. “I did not care for it, Jottie. I'm surprised you did.”

“You're squeamish?” asked Minerva. “Is that why you never became
a doctor?” She wrinkled her nose sympathetically. “I remember way back when, you wanted to be a doctor.”

“Not that there's anything wrong with being a lawyer,” said Mae, reappearing with the tray.

After the tea was handed around, followed by a plate of cookies that Parker Davies did not touch, he turned, with a genteel puff of impatience, to Layla. “As I said, Miss Beck, I will not beat around the bush. There are passages of this manuscript which must be expunged; there are fabrications and outright lies, all of which must be removed. I cannot think”—he looked at her severely—“why you saw fit to invent such ridiculous falsehoods when the true history of Macedonia is a model American tale!”

Layla straightened in her chair. “To which passages do you refer, Mr. Davies?”

“The General!” he exploded. “You—you—presume to—you call him insane! The General was in no way at all—could never be said to be—
insane!
And here, here”—he ruffled pages hurriedly—“you say he maimed his only son! He didn't maim anyone!” He leaned toward her, breathing heavily.

“You mean except Indians?” said Mae.

He glanced at her and then back at Layla. “Where did you get these ridiculous ideas, Miss Beck?”

Layla sat up even straighter. “I stand by my history, Mr. Davies,” she said, flushing. “According to my sources, there is ample evidence that the General was unhinged. In fact, it is the most generous interpretation of his behavior, and, as for your objection to the word ‘maim,' I don't know what else you'd call it when a man cuts off his own son's toes.”

“What?” he rumbled. “What toes?”

“Yes, indeed,” said Jottie smoothly. “The General cut off his son's toes. With his sword. To keep him from running off with a girl. Stabbed him right through the boot. He limped for the rest of his life.” She took a sip of tea. “Mrs. Lacey told me all about it.”

“Mrs. Lacey!” he cried. “What does she know?”

“I expect,” said Layla, “that, having lived here for eighty-seven years, she knows even more Macedonian history than you.”

Parker Davies clenched his jaw. “I have marked places in this manuscript that require revision,” he said. “The material about the General—nonsense! Reverend Goodacre! Reverend Goodacre established the first Baptist church in Macedonia! If he happened to incur the—the—attentions of a madwoman—and that is exactly what I believe to have happened—there is no cause for you to air old rumors and gossip! I think that I made it perfectly clear, Miss Beck, in my first letter to you, that the subject of
The History of Macedonia
was not merely the history of the town but an account of its first citizens.” He patted the manuscript. “I do not say that you have not included fair descriptions of our best families. You have, and I am pleased, quite pleased, with those passages. But the book”—he glared at her—“the book is tainted by lurid tales and sordid allegations!”

“Well, they stopped being lies, at least,” said Mae.

“The roundhouse! The firemen didn't blow it up!”

“They surely did,” Jottie snapped.

He glowered at her. “Jottie, my argument is with Miss Beck.”

“Your argument's with all of us,” Jottie said. “We think it's a fine book. An interesting book that people will want to read.”

“
I
don't want to read it,” growled Parker. “It's sordid!”

“A lot of people think it's excellent,” said Jottie.

“Who? What
people
?” he sneered.

“Layla, what's that uncle of yours?” said Jottie, turning to Layla. “I never can remember his title—”

“Her uncle? I don't see how her uncle is germane in the least!” Parker interrupted.

“Her uncle is the supervisor of the Writers' Project in Washington,” said Mae. “Jottie keeps forgetting what his title is. Honey”—she turned to Layla—“weren't you telling us about how he had dinner at the White House recently? Or was that your daddy? Her daddy's a senator,” she explained helpfully to Parker.

“It was Ben,” Layla said. “My uncle.”

“And her uncle—the supervisor—thought the book was wonderful,” said Jottie, producing a piece of paper from beneath her cushion. “Let's see, what did he say? He said, ‘Ursula sent me the copy'—Ursula's the state director, Parker, the lady who's running the State Guide—‘Ursula sent me the copy, not to edit, but to crow over. She's delighted, and I can see why. It's informative, interesting, and well written, an excellent example of what we've been trying to pull out of these small sponsored projects. In her letter to me, she said, “The manuscript is much better than I would have believed possible from an untried young woman. She is obviously someone we can, and should, use for other projects.” ' ” Jottie looked up at Parker. “They're going to use it for an example.”

“An example,” he repeated. He slid his jaw forward and back, thumbing the papers in his lap.

“And she wants Layla to write more,” added Mae. “Lots more, all about the area around here. Isn't that right, Layla?”

Layla smiled. “That's what Ben says.”

“Because she thinks
The History of Macedonia
is so good,” said Jottie.

Parker's eyes moved from face to face. “Huh,” he said. “But—” he broke off.

“I thought she did real well with the General's knee pants,” said Minerva softly. Parker jumped as though he'd been stuck with a pin. “She even described that stain he got from George Washington's gravy.” She smiled into his eyes. “Anyone would think it was true.”

“Minerva!” he groaned.

“Parker. You think I forgot a single thing you ever said to me? I never did.” She slouched gracefully against the back of her chair and smiled at him. “Not one word.”

Two pink spots appeared on his cheeks. There was a silence that stretched out into minutes, during which Parker Davies kept his eyes on the manuscript in his lap. “Puh,” he said finally. He looked at Layla. “I insist that you check your facts, Miss Beck. Thoroughly. You will see the places I've noted with a question mark. Please see to them particularly. I am not persuaded that you have looked closely at the statue of
Charity. And your description of the operation of the looms at American Everlasting is incorrect; the proper term is ‘take-up mechanism,' I believe, though of course Mr. McKubin will be the authority—” He stopped speaking as Layla held out her hand.

“I'll check them,” she said.

“There's no need to include that—that story about Ridell Fox,” he said to Jottie. “Mr. Fox will be most displeased.”

“Nonsense,” said Jottie. “We showed it to Belle Fox and she was thrilled. Said it was about time someone got it all down in black and white.”

In silence, Parker meticulously stacked the papers and tapped them on his knees before passing them to Layla.

“I'll check these facts,” said Layla crisply. “And with that proviso, am I correct in assuming that the manuscript is now approved by its sponsor?”

Parker glanced sourly at Minerva. “Yes.”

“I'll need a letter to that effect. If you like, it can be printed in the front of the book,” Layla said. “They'll do that if you want.”

“The town council will write you a letter,” he said. “There will be no need to include it in the book. Which will, I presume, be ready in good time for the festivities?” He looked at her sternly.

“I have every reason to believe it will,” said Layla. “Though the printing is out of my hands, of course.”

“September twenty-fourth,” he reminded her.

“Will there be a parade?” asked Mae.

“I think not,” he said. “A picnic has been decided upon.”

“Oh, goody,” said Mae. “I love a picnic. Don't you just love a picnic, Parker?”

As his steps resounded down the front walk, Willa's head became visible next to the porch. She'd heard it all, thought Jottie, from under the house. Her smooth brown hair shone in the sun as she followed Parker's progress down the street, and then she peered up into the screen.

“Come on in,” said Jottie. “Come have some tea.”

“There's cookies, too,” said Minerva.

Slowly, Willa made her way around the rhododendron bushes and up the stairs. Her face was the color of cream except for the purple smudges under her eyes, but she glanced around at all of them—even Layla—before she sat down. At least she was that interested, thought Jottie, scooting over to make room for her niece. Silently, Willa accepted a cookie and a glass of tea and set them on the table in front of her.

“You're a dark horse, Minerva,” said Jottie. “You truly are.”

“Do you really remember every single word he ever said to you?” asked Layla.