1
THREE WEEKS after Granny Blakeslee died, Grandpa came to our house for his early morning snort of whiskey, as usual, and said to me, âWill Tweedy? Go find yore mama, then run up to yore Aunt Lomaâs and tell her I said git on down here. I got something to say. And I ainât a-goân say it but onceât.â
âYessir.â
âMake haste, son. I got to git on to the store.â
Mama made me wait till she pinned the black mourning band for Granny on my shirt sleeve. Then I was off. Any time Grandpa had something to say, it was something you couldnât wait to hear.
Â
That was eight years ago on a Thursday morning, when Grandpa Blakeslee was fifty-nine and I was fourteen. The date was July 5, 1906. I know because Grandpa put it down in the family Bible, and also Toddy Hughes wrote up for the Atlanta paper what happened to me on the train trestle that day and I still have the clipping. Besides that, I remember it was right after our July the Fourth celebrationâthe first one held in Cold Sassy, Georgia, since the War Between the States.
July 5, 1906, was three months after the big earthquake in San Francisco and about two months after a stranger drove through Cold Sassy in a Pope-Waverley electric automobile that got stalled trying to cross the railroad tracks. I pushed it up the incline and the man let me ride as far as the Athens highway.
July 5, 1906, was a year after my great-grandmother on the
Tweedy side died for the second and last time out in Banks County. It was six months after my best friend, Bluford Jackson, got firecrackers for Christmas and burned his hand on one and died of lockjaw ten days later. And like I said, it was only three weeks after Granny Blakeslee went to the grave.
During those three weeks, Grandpa Blakeslee had sort of drawn back inside his own skin. Acted like I didnât mean any more to him than a stick of stovewood. On the morning of July 5th, he stalked through the house and into our company room without even speaking to me.
Granny never would let him keep his corn whiskey at home. He kept it in the company room at our house, which was between the depot and downtown, and came by for a snort every morning on his way to work. I and my little redheaded sister, Mary Toy, always followed him down the hall, and he usually gave us each a stick of penny candy before shutting the company room door in our faces. While our spit swam over hoarhound or peppermint, weâd hear the floorboards creak in the closet, then a silence, then a big âH-rumph!â and a big satisfied âAh-h-h-h!â He would come out smiling, ready for the day, and pat Mary Toyâs head as he went past her.
But this particular morning was different. For one thing, Mary Toy had gone home with Cudn Temp the day before. And Grandpa, instead of coming out feeling good, looked like somebody itching for a fight. Thatâs when he said, âWill Tweedy?â (He always called me both names except when he called me son.) Said, âWill Tweedy? Go find yore mama, then run up to yore Aunt Lomaâs and tell her I said git on down here.â
Lots of people in Cold Sassy had a telephone, including us. Grandpa didnât. He had one at the store so he could phone orders to the wholesale house in Athens, but he was too stingy to pay for one at home. Aunt Loma didnât have a phone, either. She and Uncle Camp were too poor. Thatâs why I had to go tell her.
I ran all the way, my brown and white bird dog, T.R., bounding ahead. As usual when we got to Aunt Lomaâs, the dog plopped down on the dirt sidewalk in front of her house to wait. He couldnât go up in the dern yard because of the dern cats, of which there were eighteen or twenty at least. They would scratch his eyes out if he went any closer.
I found Aunt Loma sitting at the kitchen table, her long curly red hair still loose and tousled, the dirty breakfast dishes pushed back to clear a space. With one cat in her lap and another licking an oatmeal bowl on the table, she sat drinking coffee and reading a book of theater plays.
Mama never knew how often Aunt Loma put pleasure before duty like that. Mama liked to stay in front of her work. But then Loma was youngâjust twentyâand sloven.
When I told her what Grandpa said, she slammed her book down so hard, the cat leaped off the table. âWhy donât you just tell him Iâm busy.â But even as she spoke she stood up, gulped some coffee, set down the cup still half full, and rushed upstairs to change into a black dress on account of her mother having just died and all. When she came down, carrying fat, sleepy Campbell Junior, her mass of red hair was combed, pinned up, and draped with what she called âmy genteel black veil.â
Campbell Junior pulled at the veil all the way to our house, and Aunt Loma fussed all the way. When we got there, she handed the baby over to our cook, Queenie, and hurried in where Grandpa was pacing the front hall, his high-top black shoes squeaking as he walked.
I couldnât help noticing how in only three weeks as a widower he already looked like one. His dark bushy hair and long gray beard were tangled. The heavy, droopy mustache had some dried food stuck on it. His black hat, pants, and vest were dusty and the homemade white shirt rusty with tobacco juice. Granny always prided herself on keeping his wild hair and beard trimmed, his shirts clean, his pants brushed and ânice.â Now that she was gone, he couldnât do for himself very well, having only the one hand, but he wouldnât let Mama or Aunt Loma do for him.
âMorninâ, Pa,â Aunt Loma grumped.
âIs that yâall, Will?â Mama called from the dining room, where she was closing windows and pulling down shades to keep out the morning sun. We waited in the front hall till she hurried in, her hair still in a thick plait down one side of her neck. I always thought she looked pretty with it like thatâalmost like a young girl. Mama was a plain person, like Granny, and didnât dress fancy the way Aunt Loma did every time she stuck her nose out of the house. Even at home Aunt Loma was fancy. She
wouldnât of been caught dead in an apron made out of a flour sack, whereas Mama had on one that still read Try Skylark Self-Rising Flour right across the chest. The words hadnât washed out yet, which I was sure Aunt Loma noticed as she said crossly, âMorninâ, Sister.â
Taking off the apron as if we had real company, Mama said to me, âSon, you go gather the eggs, hear? With Mary Toy gone, you got to gather the eggs.â
âYesâm.â My feet dragged me toward the back hall.
âLet them aiggs wait, Mary Willis,â Grandpa ordered. âI want Will Tweedy to hear what I come to say. Heâll know soon enough anyways.â Then he stomped toward the open front door and put his hand on the knob as if all he planned to say was good-byeâor maybe more like he was fixing to put a match to a string of firecrackers and then run before they went off.
My mother asked, nervous-like, âYou want us to all go sit in the parlor, sir?â
He shook his head. âNaw, Mary Willis, it wonât take long enough to set down for.â He took off his black hat and laid it on the table, pulled at his mustache, scratched through the white streak in his beard, and turned those deep blue eyes on Mama and Aunt Loma, his grown children, standing together puzzled and uneasy. When he began his announcement, you could tell he had practiced it. âNow, daughters, you know I was true to yore mother. Miss Mattie Lou was a fine wife. A good cook. A real good woman. Beloved by all in this here town, and by me, as yâall know.â
Hearing Grandpa go on about Granny made my throat ache. Mama and Aunt Loma went to sobbing out loud, their arms around each other.
âNow quit yore blubberinâ, Mary Willis. Hesh up, Loma. I ainât finished.â Then his voice softened. âSince yore maâs passinâ I been a-studyinâ on our life together. Thirty-six year we had, and they was good years. I want yâall to know I ainât never goân forget her.â
âCourse you w-wonât, Pa,â said my mother, sobbing.
âBut sheâs gone, just like this here hand a-mine.â He held up his left arm, the shirt sleeve knotted as usual just below the elbow. Grandpaâs blue eyes were suddenly glassy with unspilled tears. He
struggled to get aholt of himself, then went on. âLike I said, sheâs gone now. So I been studyinâ on what to do. How to make out. Well, I done decided, and when I say what I come to say I want yâall to know they ainât no disrespect to her intended.â Grandpa opened the door wider. He was about to light his firecrackers.
âNow what I come to say,â he blurted out, âis Iâm aiminâ to marry Miss Love Simpson.â
Mamaâs and Aunt Lomaâs mouths dropped open and their faces went white. They both cried out, âPa, you cainât!â
âI done ast her and sheâs done said yes. And Loma, they ainât a bloominâ thang you can do bout it.â
Aunt Lomaâs face got as red as if sheâd been on the river all day, but it was Mama who finally spoke. In a timid voice she said, âSir, Love Simpsonâs young enough to be your daughter! Sheâs not moreân thirty-three or -four years old!â
âThet ainât got a thang to do with it.â
Mama put both hands up to her mouth. With a sort of whimper, she said, âPa, donât you care what folks are goân say?â
âI care bout you carinâ what theyâll say, Mary Willis. But I care a heap more bout not beinâ no burden on yâall. So hesh up.â
Aunt Loma was bout to burst. âThink, Pa!â she ordered, tears streaming down her face. âJust think. Ma hasnât been d-dead but three w-w-weeks!â
âWell, good gosh aâmighty!â he thundered. âSheâs dead as sheâll ever be, ainât she? Well, ainât she?â
2
I THOUGHT Mama was going to faint. She stumbled toward her daddy, arms outstretched, but Grandpa glared at her and she stepped back.
âIâm lonesome.â He said it kind of quiet. Then he hugged each weeping daughter and walked out the door, hitching up his trousers with the stub of his left arm.
On the veranda, Grandpa turned back and spoke his defense. âI ainât goân be no burden on yâall. Not ever. Which means I got to hire me a colored woman or git married, one, and tell you the truth, hitâs jest cheaper to have a wife. So Iâm a-goân marry Miss Love. And I ainât got but one more thang to say. All yâall be nice to her. You hear?â He said all yâall, but it was Aunt Loma he glared at when he said it.
With that, my grandfather stalked tall down the steps. We watched as he strode past Mamaâs pots of pink begonias and Papaâs life-size iron stag and walked through the iron gate. Banging it shut, he passed the tall pink crepe myrtles that lined the dirt sidewalk in front of our house, crossed the dirt street called South Main, went over the railroad tracks onto North Main, and headed for the store.
Soon as Grandpa got out of sight it was as if somebody had wound Mama and Aunt Loma up and let go the spring. Mama wailed that she could never show her face in Cold Sassy again, she was so embarrassed. Aunt Loma was just plain mad. âRemember Maâs funeral headline, Sister?â She spat out the words.
Mama nodded into her handkerchief. âY-yes, of course I do. It said, âGrieving Husband Left to Walk Through Life Alone.ââ
âI can just see the engagement notice: âGrieving Widower Finds Woman to Walk With.ââ
âYou know Bubba wouldnât do that!â Mama cried. Bubba Reynolds was editor of the Cold Sassy Weekly.
âHe will if he thinks of it,â said Loma. âSister, that woman ought to be ashamed. And Iâm goân go tell her so.â
Mama was alarmed. âNow, Loma, once you get started, you donât know when to hush.â Then she added, âBut it might do some good to tell her how stingy Pa is, and how hard he is to cook for. That might make her think twice.â
There was a silence, except for Aunt Loma pounding her right fist into her left hand, bam, bam, bam, glaring at me as she did it. Finally she said my daddy might could talk Grandpa out of it.
Mama didnât think so. âHoyt donât even dare ast Pa to raise his pay. Get your Camp onto him.â She was being sarcastic. Iâd heard her say that Grandpa thought Uncle Camp was still in knee britches. Aunt Loma didnât answer. She knewâthey both knewâthat nobody could stand up to their daddy.
Then Loma shook both fists in the direction of the store. âDog bite your hide, Love Simpson!â she screamed. âAnd dog bite yours, Pa!â
âLoma, hush. The neighbors willââ
âHow could he do it, and her a Yankee!â
Mama was always fair, even when flustrated to distraction. âNow, Loma, everybody calls Miss Love a Yankee and she does kind of talk like one. But Maryland is not a Northern state.â Then, as another thought struck her, Mama collapsed onto the leather davenport there in the front hall. âLoma,â she wailed, âPa didnât have on his black armband!â
âWell, should he, Sister? When heâs engaged?â Aunt Loma like to choked on the word engaged.
âBut they cainât marry for a year or more. I donât see why Pa couldnât wear an armband for Ma.â
âWhile Love Simpson wears an engagement ring for Pa?â
âSurely he wonât give her a ring! He just said he wanted us to know, not the whole world!â Mama jumped up and stuck her nose right in her young sisterâs face. âNow you listen to me.â Loma backed off a little. âI want you to keep your mouth shut. It may all blow over, and nobodyâll ever know. Maybeâmaybe Pa just thought she said yes.â
âGrandpa ainât hard of hearinâ,â said I, but they didnât seem to notice.
I was amazed at Mama. She was usually just the mildest sort of person. Ordinarily if anybody was saying hush up around here, it was Aunt Loma, despite she was fourteen years younger than my mother. No doubt Aunt Loma marveled, too, because she didnât say anything sassy back. Just jerked off her genteel black veil and threw it hard as she could towards the front door.
âSister, I was fixinâ to ast Pa for Maâs piano,â she burst out. Tears of flustration wet her red face. âAnd I want the mirror that Cudn Pearl painted Saint Cecilia on. Just think, while I was waitinâ a decent time to ast for a piano and a mirror, come to find out he was astinâ for a wife!â Screaming the words out, she stomped her foot.
I knew Mama wanted the piano so Mary Toy could take music lessons. Mama always liked the Saint Cecilia mirror, too. Everybody in Cold Sassy except us had Saint Cecilia painted on something. And though Mama wasnât the kind to ask for things, Iâd heard her tell Queenie she was goân see if her Pa would let her swap our mismatched parlor furniture for Grannyâs nice parlor suit. She knew he wouldnât care one way or the other.
âI just cainât understand it,â Mama fumed, getting up to pace the hall just the way Grandpa had. âI thought Love Simpson would marry Son Black. I know his mother donât approve, but heâs not gettinâ any younger, and they been courtinâ a year or more.â
âAnd Love deserves him,â said Aunt Loma. She used to be sweet on Son Black herself, so I reckon she knew what she was talking about when she added, âSonâs right nice-lookinâ and smart, but his mouth sure isnât any prayer book. And heâs meanerân a snake.â
âYeah,â I chimed in. âI heard he had him a pet snake one time that bit him and the next day the snake died.â
They ignored that. Mama said, âLove is too used to town life and dressinâ fashionable. Maybe she donât care to stay out there on the farm with Sonâs mama and raise chiâren. Maybe she thinks sheâs too good to marry a farmer.â
âShoot,â retorted Aunt Loma, âwhat about that rancher out in Texas she was engaged to before she came here? A rancher has lots of land and money but heâs a farmer just the same. Lord, I wish to heaven sheâd married him. If only he hadnâââ
âSh-h!â Mama nodded toward me.
I knew Loma was fixing to say âIf only he hadnât got Miss Loveâs best friend in trouble and had ...