The Sweetest Thing (15 page)

It was the next step in the unwinding of my life. I was amazed at how I had been able to smile on the outside and even bat my eyes at Spalding and the other boys, could chatter with Peggy and Brat as if my life were just humming along, when in reality, it was imploding, crashing in on me.

I went into the barn, and the memories from that horrid day assaulted me—the strand of hay on the floor, the way the horses were stamping and fretting, Daddy's shoe. With tears sliding down my face, I went over to Daddy's gelding, Windchaser. He poked his fine head out of the stall, ears pricked forward, and greeted me as if I hadn't seen him in three days instead of three months. “Bye, Chase,” I whispered, and ran my hand over his muzzle and then along his wide, flat forehead.

Jimmy and Ben—they had come on Saturday specially to help with the moving—entered the barn and led the horses out, first the chestnut gelding and then the gray pony that I used to ride as a child. My bay mare, Shadowbox, threw her head impatiently in the air, and I went to her then, my throat catching horribly, and hugged her around the neck, trying my hardest to pretend I wasn't saying good-bye to her, saying good-bye to all those Saturdays of fox hunting with Daddy—him riding dark, dappled Windchaser, and me following on Shadowbox. The scene of my first fox hunt flashed before me.

The crisp October air stinging my face, I was galloping across an empty field behind Daddy, who was wearing his scarlet coat, with the sound of the hounds' frantic baying before us. At twelve, I was thrilled to be out on a real hunt with Daddy. The hoofbeats of two dozen horses thundered along while the hounds screamed their bloodthirsty cry. At the end of the field, we crashed through the woods, lying flat on our horses' necks as we dodged brittle limbs. At last, we came to the clearing where the hounds had trapped the poor fox inside a hollowed-out log. When it came time for the killing, I closed my eyes and squealed.

“Got to get used to it, Perri,” Daddy said. “It's part of the thrill of the hunt.” But I never did. I hated the killing, but my love for my father, my desire to be with him, propelled me along on those Saturdays. I became a fine equestrian for him and him only.

Now I was saying good-bye to a part of Daddy and an era of my childhood and adolescence that I could never reclaim.

We had decided to sell all the accessories with the horses—the tack and blankets and lead shanks, the buckets and brushes and hoof-picks, even the bales of fresh hay that made me sneeze and the bins filled with oats. All of it was being packed into the horse vans to travel to Virginia. I lifted the wooden cover off the deep bin where we stored the oats and thrust my hands into them. In sharp contrast to my tin of pennies, the oats had the comfortable feeling of sticky honey and hard kernels, and they smelled sweet and musty. I got an aching in my chest.

“Good-bye,” I whispered as I stood in the very room where Daddy had taken his life.

I turned to where my saddle hung on a wooden rack. I pressed my nose to the pommel, closing my eyes and relishing the smell of the leather. I ran my hand over the seat, brushing off a layer of dust that had accumulated from months of unuse. I ran my hand down one stirrup leather, noticing how many of the holes looked worn, a testimony to my lengthening legs over the years, and then held on to the cool metal stirrup
. “Heels down, Perri! Keep your heels down,”
I could hear Daddy admonishing.

I lifted my saddle from the rack, to carry it out to the van, and as I did, a white envelope floated in slow motion to the floor. I watched it, entranced, set the saddle back on the rack, and leaned down to retrieve the envelope.

Perri
was written across the envelope in my father's stilted cursive.

I dropped the letter with a gasp, as if it had burned me, and stared at it lying overturned on the dusty floor beside strands of hay. It had fallen in a corner and lay trapped within a few spider webs.

Catching my breath, I picked it up again, my hands shaking, and fiddled with the envelope's flap. I steadied myself by holding on to the saddle rack with one hand and, with the other, dislodged the single sheet of Daddy's monogrammed stationery.

My dearest Perri,

I am so sorry, so sorry.

I promise I didn't do it!

I love you, Daddy

Then something was scratched out, and underneath his name he had scribbled, so that it was almost illegible—
Don't give up.

I began heaving and holding my stomach as I leaned over, trying to catch my breath. Then I sank to the ground and balled up the letter in my hands, the letter that had been waiting for me all these months. I imagined Daddy slipping it under my saddle only moments before he slipped the noose of the lead shank around his neck. Why? As a proof of what? Despair and love? Perhaps he had expected me to go out and ride Shadowbox a few days after his death and find the letter. Surely he hadn't planned for me to stay away for a long time and stumble upon it almost by chance, so that the scab on the wound was knocked off and I started bleeding all over again.

“Oh, Daddy, why? Why did I leave you that day? I saw the pain in your eyes, and the fear. Why did I think Mr. Roosevelt's speech would make everything better? You had decided long before what your course of action would be, but why, Daddy, why?”

I unfolded the crumpled note and forced myself to read it again.
I didn't do it.

“What do you mean, Daddy?” I said out loud. “You did it! You did! You killed yourself.”

I stayed in the barn, sobbing, for probably ten minutes, until Ben and Jimmy came in to get the last of the tack and found me there. I'd stuffed the letter into my pocket, so all they saw was me lying on the floor in tears. Skinny Jimmy, bless his heart, tenderly picked me up and carried me to the house, just as he'd done on that fateful day in March.

I lay out on the porch and wept.

Mamma was at a Junior League event, raising money for a charity—we'd planned it that way so she didn't have to witness the horses leaving—and Barbara and Irvin were at friends' houses. Jimmy ran and got Dellareen, and when she found me, she kept saying, “Chile, chile. You don't need to be the strong one, Miz Perri. Don't go breakin' yore heart in two all ova' again. Stay here now.” She brought me peach ice cream and a Coca-Cola and left me alone on the porch while the ice cream turned liquid and the Coke lost its dark caramel color as the ice melted in the glass.

I didn't want to be alone. I wanted to drive over to the Chandlers' and spill out everything in my heart to Dobbs. But there was no way I would spoil her one weekend with Hank, and so I just lay on the bench, fanning myself and staring into nowhere.

I watched Ben and Jimmy load up the horses and could tell they were torn up about seeing them go. I cried all over again when Shadowbox walked up the ramp and disappeared into the van. I suddenly got ferocious cramps, much worse than with my period, and thought I would vomit, but I didn't. I just lay there and watched another part of my life come to an end.

Spalding came by in the afternoon. I honestly didn't remember if he had asked me on a date or if he was just pop-calling, but he found me unmoved from that spot on the porch, my face and hair a mess and my light blue dress still covered in shavings and hay. He was wearing a smart-looking golf outfit—a crisp polo shirt and blue and green plaid knickers and high socks and white golf shoes. He looked like an ad I'd seen in the
Atlanta Journal
of a young man leaning on a golf club. In spite of myself, my heart skipped a beat. Heavens, he was handsome.

“What on earth is the matter, Perri?” he asked, sitting down beside me.

I swiped at my tears, too despairing to even care about my appearance. “A horrible thing. Oh, the worst.” And because I had no one else to share with, I poured out all I was feeling to Spalding. “We sold the horses today, moved everything out of the barn, and I took my saddle and there was an envelope with a letter in it, left by Daddy on that day, that horrible day, and it was for me, and he said he was sorry and that he didn't do it, and I don't know what he meant by that. Oh, if only, if only I had known and I could have stopped him.” I started sobbing all over again.

Of course Spalding took me in his arms, just engulfed me with his whole body, saying things like, “I'm so sorry, Perri. How very disturbing that must have been,” and “Stop crying now; it can't help,” and “Here, dry your eyes, my dear.”

And then he did what I had always detested in men in the movies. As soon as the damsel in distress started crying, the hero, or villain, as the case might be, would swallow up the fragile lady in his arms and try to soothe her pain. Right at her weakest moment, he'd bend his suave and handsome face toward her, look her straight in the eyes, and kiss her on the lips. And she, all worn out from sorrow, would accept the kiss without protest. I always boiled with anger in those scenes and murmured to myself, “He's just taking complete advantage of her, the rotten cad!”

But in that moment I was the damsel in distress, and when Spalding pressed his lips to mine, I first felt shock, then foreboding and then a tinge of pleasure, and I held on to him more tightly because I did not know what else to do, and I needed to be held. He kissed me more forcefully. When he finally stopped, I felt limp in his arms. He smiled his seductive smile and whispered, “There now. Do you feel better?”

I nodded yes, but I wanted to shout,
No! No! That's not what I need. You don't understand at all!
But he, of course, did not see this, and his eyes were burning again with desire, a desire so fierce I felt momentarily afraid.

I took a deep breath, backed out of his arms, and said, “Thank you for caring, Spalding. Please forgive me, but I am all worn out, and I haven't got the strength for anything now.”

He kissed me again—all of this right on our front porch, where Dellareen could have seen it. Maybe she did. Jimmy and Ben were still gone with the van. He finally left me there, looked back at me, and said, “You sure you don't want to go for a ride in the country?”

When I shook my head, his face clouded with disappointment, and I felt a tinge of guilt.

“I'll come by tomorrow. Rest, my dear. Rest, and don't think another minute about the letter.”

I stumbled upstairs to my bedroom, fell on the bed, and cried again. I curled up in a ball, covered my face with my hands, and succumbed to one crushing sentiment—feelings of guilt over Daddy's death and about Spalding's kisses, for I had enjoyed them in spite of the initial repulsion.

When Dellareen called up to me and I didn't answer, she climbed the steps, saying, “I'm going on and catchin' the streetcar, Miz Perri.” Then she stepped into my room and saw me there and came over and took me in her arms and rocked me back and forth. She stayed with me until Mamma got back from the Junior League event, brushing her hand through my hair and whispering over and over, “Chile, chile. Honey chile, I want you to remember somethin', you hear me? Your daddy loved you so much, and he was a fine, fine man. He was. You remember.”

I thought that even though she didn't know a thing about Daddy's letter, she was giving me exactly what I needed—human warmth and touch with no expectation in return. She had consoled me for seventeen years, and she did it once again, and I fell asleep right there on my bed with Dellareen's thin dark arms around me.

CHAPTER

13

Dobbs

We had a delicious dinner on Saturday evening, a big pot roast with rice and gravy and homemade biscuits and butter and honey and several types of vegetables. I watched my sisters' eyes grow round with pleasure as they ate. Frances waited politely to be offered seconds, but Coobie kept reaching for hot biscuits and gobbled down her food so quickly that I was sure she would have a stomachache. It hurt me to watch them eat, seeing their thin, pale faces erupt in pleasure with the bounty before them. I was so thankful that Mother and Father had decided to send them down to Atlanta for the summer.

Uncle Robert, usually silent and serious, had taken a quick liking to Hank, and they carried on their own private conversation about FDR's second Fireside Chat and what people were calling the New Deal and the president's first months in office. I think Uncle Robert was delighted to have another man around the house. They talked nonstop throughout the meal, and Hank seemed as at ease with my uncle as he was with my father. As I watched Hank with Uncle Robert, I realized how proud I was of my boyfriend, and I wanted with all my heart to be worthy of his love.

But I realized something else. I liked the sight of my sisters all full on good food and laughing and happy in the midst of plenty. I liked wearing a pretty dress and having a room to myself and going to a fine private school. I liked the feeling of comfort. Perhaps I would never fit in with the Atlanta girls, but it sent a chill up my spine to think that I hoped Hank would find a job soon—a good job, a job that meant we wouldn't be eating rice and potatoes for the rest of our lives.

———

Sunday morning, before church, Aunt Josie got the notion to have Hank try on several of Uncle Robert's old suits. “Things he outgrew in the gut long ago,” she stated bluntly. By the time we left for church, Hank looked almost, but not quite, comfortable in a suit that Aunt Josie had fished out of the attic and pronounced just his size. It was a dark gray pinstripe that he wore with a blue tie, also Uncle Robert's. The tie almost matched the color of his eyes, and he did indeed look sophisticated. I wore the bright pink dress that Aunt Josie had bought me, and I wished that Perri would appear and snap our picture together, because that Sunday I felt on top of the world and as beautiful and stylish as anyone in all of Atlanta with Hank beside me.

After church at St. Philip's, Uncle Robert took us to the country club. Coobie was beside herself with excitement as we drove out there, all smushed together in the Pierce Arrow. Even Frances could not stop smiling as she fiddled with her white gloves and kept tugging at the blue dress, which was too short for her. I suspected that Aunt Josie was noticing every movement and formulating a plan to provide dresses for my sisters.

At the club there was an enormous buffet, a smorgasbord of choices that seemed decadent for the middle of the Depression, but we helped ourselves without guilt. Frances and Hank and Coobie and I all had fried chicken—a southern specialty that we Dillards had rarely tasted. Coobie ate three pieces, a thigh and two legs, and she had two helpings of mashed potatoes with gravy and lots of green beans and corn casserole, and then, for dessert, she loaded up her plate with apple pie and plopped a scoop of vanilla ice cream on top—and she ate all of that too. A little color had come to her face, but her off-white dress, another old hand-me-down, still hung pitifully on her, and in my mind, I was saying,
Eat your fill, Coobie. Eat and eat and eat.

Hank ate his fill, too, slowly and deliberately, enjoying every bite, occasionally wiping the starched white napkin across his mouth and saying things like “This is absolutely delicious.”

I could tell my aunt and uncle approved of Hank, even if he had the slightest bit of a lost look at the club. I was pretty sure Hank had never been to a restaurant before, much less a country club.

“I'm going to take Frances and Coobie to the swimming pool,” Aunt Josie announced. When Coobie protested that she didn't have any swimming bloomers, Aunt Josie smiled and said, “We'll fix that.” I accompanied them to the ladies' lounge, and somehow my aunt came up with a blue-and-white-striped swimsuit for Coobie and a red-belted maillot with boy-cut legs for Frances. Coobie had the hardest time tucking her black curls under the bathing cap, and she squealed when Frances accidentally yanked her hair. They were beyond happy as they left the lounge, trotting obediently after Aunt Josie out to a large rectangular swimming pool, the water shimmering in the sun.

Uncle Robert encouraged Hank and me to go for a stroll around the grounds while he smoked a cigar in the men's lounge, and we needed no extra prodding.

The club spread out over acres and acres of land in northwest Atlanta, some of the prettiest land I'd ever seen. The buildings were sandstone and cobbles. Walking toward the golf course with Hank, I said, “I'm so proud of you for coming down here and fitting in with Uncle Robert. Oh, Hank, I know it isn't easy, but you've been splendid. And now that you've gotten a taste of all this, tell me what you think.”

“I think it is completely scrumptious,” he said, pulling me close to him, his arm around my shoulder. We walked for a while in silence, and then his arm came off my shoulder and he took my hand in his and my heart started thumping in a way that I could feel it.

At length, I asked something that I'd wanted to discuss with Hank but never dared mention in all my letters to him. “Do you think it's wrong to go to movies, Hank? Everyone here loves them. And parties? Are parties wrong? There's no liquor at them, I'm sure, with Prohibition. Just dancing. Is all dancing wrong? And what about social clubs? It's like you need to be part of these things if you're going to belong to this society. At first I thought it was all wrong, and all I could hear in my head was Father talking about it, but now I'm not so sure. What do you think?”

Hank had a way of taking his time before answering a question—said he liked to turn things over in his mind. So I waited while we walked down a path that led beside the golf course and then into a wooded area that opened into a perfect little garden, complete with a natural spring trickling into a pond of goldfish.

“I actually kind of like dancing,” Hank said with a big smile, and he took my hand and twirled me around him and then slowly pulled me close to himself.

He pecked me on the cheek. “Think of square dancing. Nobody I know has a problem with square dancing. Not even your father, I believe.” Then he crisscrossed our hands, promenaded me home, and gave a quick little bow, and I curtsied and giggled again. A golf ball swished somewhere overhead, and Hank pulled me along, back through the woods and onto a path that led around the lake.

“I don't blame people for wanting a little fun, Hank. I really don't. Why, the radio and Hollywood and musicals and parties are just a way to escape the trying times for a few hours. Is that so bad?”

At last Hank seemed to seriously consider my questions. “Your father preaches against anything that takes the place of God in a person's heart. He says America is always trying to find something bigger and better to fill up our hearts, but most of us can't figure out what we really need.”

I nodded. Father's words were all too familiar.

“Movies are just one way to fill ourselves up for about a nickel. Could be the radio, or the dance hall, or a social club. But it could be books and learning for learning's sake or charity work or anything, no matter how worthy, that takes up too much room in our hearts.” He blushed and added, “At least that's what I've always felt the Scriptures were saying.”

“Exactly! ‘Where your treasure is, there will your heart be also,' ” I quoted the familiar verse.

“I think it's up to each of us to decide, before the Lord, what is right for us in entertainment. Ultimately, it just comes down to your heart, Mary Dobbs.”

I knew my heart. My heart wanted to do whatever Hank said and follow him anywhere. I wanted to throw myself into his strong arms and stay there forever because I felt sure that with him I'd always be making the right decisions, those that honored God.

Maybe he sensed what I was feeling, because he came close again and gave me another twirl and then just held me tight, our arms crossed in front of us, and he whispered, “Dancing is just fine as long as you do it always and only with me.”

“Only with you,” I happily agreed.

Then he found a bench along the path. We sat down, and he said, “I mean it, Dobbs. The Lord will take care of us together. I don't want you to worry about that, okay?”

“Okay.”

And for just a few seconds, he kissed me softly on the mouth, and I took a long breath of the hot summer air and gulped in his love.

I had not seen Perri all weekend, and when she called and reminded me that we'd promised to go on a double date with Spalding and her, I didn't dare refuse, especially since she sounded almost desperate.

“All right, but you know Hank and I don't have a cent between us. Let's make a picnic supper and just drive somewhere—it's such a beautiful afternoon. Will that work?”

“Of course! That's a fine idea.” Then she added, “I need to talk to you something awful—not with the boys around, of course. But maybe later tonight, after you take Hank to the station.”

So Hank and I got together a picnic, and Spalding and Perri showed up at four in his sporty red Ford Roadster convertible. Spalding was wearing his typical attire—plaid pants, with a dark blue polo shirt that lit up his eyes. He had on his white leather tasseled shoes, and every black hair on his head was in place. Perri looked pretty in a light-green tea dress. I had begged Hank to keep on his suit slacks and Uncle Robert had lent him a polo shirt, and I was still wearing the pink frock, so we at least looked on the same social level as Spalding and Perri, which for some reason mattered to me that afternoon.

“Nice to meet you, Hank,” Spalding said, offering a confident smile and a firm handshake. “Glad you could come down from Chicago for the weekend.”

I had hoped that the two of them would engage in easy conversation, as Hank had with Uncle Robert, but almost at once I felt a tension between them.

We ended up driving way out to a place called Stone Mountain for the picnic. It took nearly an hour to get there, and with the top down in Spalding's convertible, I was more than content to sit beside Hank in the back after pulling my hair into a quick braid so that the wind wouldn't whip it into a tangled mass.

“My family has always liked to come out here,” Spalding told us as he pulled off the road. “It's a swell place for a picnic . . . and other things too.” He turned in his seat and winked at Hank.

We got out of the car, and Spalding directed us to a path. It wasn't long before we turned a corner and there before us appeared an enormous monolith, a completely treeless hunk of rock, sitting like some gigantic round-topped spaceship in the midst of fields and woods. “Heavens!” I said. “It's huge!”

Spalding looked pleased with my reaction. “That, my friends, is Stone Mountain, the biggest piece of granite in the world, or so they say.”

The immensity of the mass of granite took my breath away. It seemed to belong to another world.

“And as you can see, they're busy carving a sculpture into that stone. Or, should I say,
were
busy carving it.”

Indeed, a large unfinished sculpture of two men's heads and the outline of a horse were roughly carved into the side of the granite that faced us.

“Is that supposed to be Jefferson Davis and Robert E. Lee?” Hank asked.

“Exactly,” Spalding said. “Our Confederate heroes. It's probably never going to be finished, though. The first sculptor, who designed and began the work in 1923, threw a temper tantrum a few years later, destroying all his sketches.

“Another sculptor took over and got as far as you see today. He managed to blast off Davis and Lee and the outline of Lee's horse, Traveler, but didn't finish before the owners reclaimed the mountain. So the sculpture has stood there in its unfinished glory for five years.”

“That's too bad, but it is a wonder, isn't it?” Perri said. She had brought her camera, which pleased me immensely, and she snapped a photo.

The area was crowded with people milling around, sitting at picnic tables, buying soft drinks at little kiosks. There were even trolleys taking tourists around the base of the mountain.

“There's a path that winds around to the top, if you'd like to climb up,” Spalding said.

“Oh yes, let's!” I cried, and so we followed Spalding as he narrated the history of the mountain. “Used to be a tower on the top, a lookout of sorts, with a restaurant and club, back in the 1850s . . .”

We climbed slowly, feeling wilted by the afternoon heat. None of us were really wearing the appropriate clothes. Spalding started humming a song that Perri explained was the fight song of Georgia Tech, and then he asked Hank, “Where'd you go to college?”

Hank rubbed his head and looked for a second like a real hillbilly. “I didn't get any higher education right away. Needed to keep working to help the family. But I'm taking night classes at Moody Bible Institute now.”

“His father died when he was ten,” I volunteered, trying to steer Spalding away from potentially hurtful questions.

Spalding slapped Hank on the back and asked, “Do you mind if I call you Henry? Kinda like the sound of it.”

Hank scowled momentarily, but Spalding paid no attention and continued, “And where is your work, Henry?”

“I've been at the steel mill for years, but they just closed it down.”

“So you're out of work like the rest of the country. That's too bad.” But Spalding didn't sound one bit concerned. “I think my dear mother would like for me to go to work for once in my life, but I've still got the studies to fall back on if anyone prods me too hard. Studies and, of course, the football team. And girls. Always girls.” Then he realized what he'd said and corrected, “Well, one girl now. I've found my girl.”