The Sweetest Thing (33 page)

Then she got a sly look on her face. “And Miz Perri says that I can take photos with her camera—that's what she says. I'm going to three other graduation teas, too, and taking the photos. So by the time your party comes along, well, I'll practically be an expert.”

I thought of the photos that Parthenia had taken and which were now in Coobie's hospital room. “You do have an eye for photography. I'm glad Perri is giving you this chance.”

But all that I really wanted in the whole world was for Parthenia and Coobie to be frolicking around the grounds of the Chandler house, hand in hand, with Mother and Father and Hosea and Anna looking on. I wanted God to provide in that way.

Perri

All during the second half of April, in addition to being invited to all the senior Seminary girls' graduation parties—teas and soirées given in honor of each graduating girl—I also got hired, through Mr. Saxton, to be the photographer at many of these affairs. Spalding was always my date for the soirées, but I often left him, to take photos. I learned to be inconspicuous at the parties, taking candid shots of people. In truth, I had another reason to go unnoticed. I kept my camera poised, ready to snap a photo of Spalding or anyone else who happened to slip a silver fork or spoon into his pocket.

Mrs. Chandler allowed Parthenia to go with me, and she was a quick learner and a great help. Everything I had taught her when she watched me in the darkroom and at the Alms Houses, asking never-ending questions, she applied when we were with our clients. And Parthenia provided entertainment, bantering with the girls about all the wonderful things Cornelius built or how pretty my photographs of her were, so the girls were always in the best humor for their photos. And when the colored servants at those parties passed by with silver trays filled with tiny sandwiches and petit fours and offered them to Parthenia, she got “tickled pink.”

On the way home from the parties, she'd be all bubbling over with enthusiasm, and then she'd say something like, “But jus' you wait, Miz Perri. Not a one of these fancy parties will hold a candle to what Miz Chandler's got planned for Miz Mary Dobbs. You jus' wait and see if I ain't right.”

Dobbs and I were in the darkroom one evening, developing the photos from Brat's graduation tea. “Would you look at this,” I said, as I finished one roll. “These are Parthenia's photos. I let her use my Eastman Kodak at Brat's party. She's got talent for such a young girl. And about as much mischief as Coobie. Why, she snuck right up to Brat's brother and his steady and took a picture of them kissing in the woods. And they never noticed a thing.”

Dobbs grinned. “I'm not surprised.”

I held up the photograph to prove my point. Parthenia had been lying on her stomach, under a bush, she claimed, and had shot the photo from the ground up so that the young couple looked elongated, their legs wider and their bodies narrowing and their heads so small, they were completely out of proportion. But they were kissing for all they were worth, and that made the photo seem just right.

———

A letter from Philip arrived, and I felt a quick flush come to my cheeks when I read it.

Dear Perri,

Mary Dobbs has invited Luke and me to the graduation party that the Chandlers are giving for her at the beginning of May. We were hoping to come down for it. If I could be so presumptuous, I wonder, would you be my date? We could take pictures together and maybe share a dance or two.

Your photographer friend,

Philip

I could think of nothing I'd enjoy more than being Philip's date for the graduation party. But I was still pretending to be pinned to Spalding, and so I wrote to Philip on the back of a postcard photograph of me and Parthenia that we'd printed for our business:

My dear fellow photographer friend,

How delightful to hear that you will be coming to Atlanta soon. I look forward to seeing you and Luke. And I appreciate your invitation more than I can say. Unfortunately, I've already got a date for the Chandlers' party, but if you are staying for a few days, I'd love to show you around Atlanta. Maybe we could go for ice cream at Jacobs' Drugstore.

Shooting away!

Perri

Dobbs

April was another paradox for me—divided between Piedmont Hospital and parties, the smell of anesthesia and rubbing alcohol and perfume and rich foods. When I was with the Phi Pis at the fancy tea parties for us girls and our mothers and grandmothers, I felt buoyed up by their enthusiasm. They talked of the future and they talked of Coobie and they had absolute faith that the treatments she was undergoing would be successful.

Twice, Mother accompanied me to a tea party, and she fit in perfectly with the other mothers, wearing a beautiful deep blue suit that she had stitched for herself. Aunt Josie had insisted that Mother and I both go to the beauty salon, and Mother emerged with her long hair bobbed and styled like mine, and she was fairly glowing with the pleasure of it. When the hair stylist had commented, “You look more like sisters than mother and daughter,” she gave the sweetest laugh, a light and happy melody in my ears.

Andrew Morrison took me to every single soirée
.
There was something intoxicating for me about putting on the lovely party dresses—some from Becca and a few that Mother made me from material Aunt Josie provided. I savored the feel of the cool satin and the soft silk and the crisp cotton. I liked how Andrew's eyes lit up when I walked down the stairs at the Chandlers' house in my gown, and I liked being with him. He had a serious side, and we talked about faith and our dreams for the future, but he also had the power to make me forget my worries and fears for Coobie for a few hours while I was swinging around in his arms and he was smiling down at me with his eager eyes and a boyish grin that melted my heart.

But only for a while.

Then I came back to Coobie, and every time I walked into that hospital room, reality took my breath away. Coobie was not getting better.

One day when Mother and I entered her room, Coobie was lying on her side. I thought she was asleep, but she heard us and whispered, “I'm awake.” A cough. “Could you help me write—” another cough and she tried to sit up in bed—“a letter to Parthie?”

Slowly, with a breath between each word, sometimes each syllable, she dictated. “Dear Parthenia, I miss you. Thank you for your letter. I read it every day and I pray the same prayer too. I can't wait to count the fireflies and see the wildflowers on the hill with you. Love, Coobie.”

How I wanted Coobie to see that field of flowers with Parthenia! I wondered if maybe, perhaps, the doctor would allow Coobie to leave the hospital—if only for one brief hour. The letters and photos cheered her up. Wouldn't time in the sun with all the flowers around her do much more?

That night, when Uncle Robert and Aunt Josie had left to go see Becca's little baby girl and Mother and I were sitting on the screened porch, I dared to whisper, “Mother, if anything happens to Coobie, I'm afraid I'll hate God and stop believing forever.” I sat on my hands, swung my feet like a nervous little girl, and whispered, “Won't you too?”

I watched her closely, wishing I had not let my doubts escape. Mother's skilled hands set down the pale blue dress she was hemming, and she stared out into the dusk, where crickets were making their strange, persistent music and fireflies gave tiny explosions of light. She scooted closer to me on the little loveseat and looked me straight in the eyes—black eyes staring into black eyes.

“My dear Mary Dobbs, faith doesn't work that way. You don't just believe when you get everything you want. That's not our choice. We share in the sufferings of others, Mary Dobbs. We bear the burdens together. We take what comes, and we believe. It's not down here that it will all be equal and okay. It's later. Here, well, the Lord promised us sometimes we will have hardship and suffering. He also promised He'd never leave us. His presence, His holy presence is with us here.

“And later,
there,
that's when the tears will be wiped away. Later.”

I hated Mother's answer, but I knew deep down it was the absolute truth. “I don't understand God at all!” I whispered, a little ferociously. “He provided for all those poor people in Georgia that I didn't really care a thing about. He gave them food through us, Mother, and He won't heal Coobie. I just don't understand Him at all!”

Mother smiled over at me, that winsome smile of wisdom and patience and, I thought, heartbreak. She cupped my chin in her hand and said, “Mary Dobbs Dillard, never have you pronounced a truer statement. Our part is to get to know God, as a Father and a friend. But to understand Him? His ways are far past our understanding. Infinitely far.” Then she took me in her arms and held me against her. And in a broken voice, she said, “We trust Him because He loves us, even when we don't understand.”

Later that evening, I took out my Bible, turned to Genesis 22, and read the familiar passage about God asking Abraham to sacrifice his only son, Isaac. And Abraham had obeyed, but just as he was going to slay his only son, an angel hollered down and said “Stop,” and Abraham saw a ram caught in the bushes.

I always thought of God like that—providing in the nick of time—believing in Him got me something: a miracle, or at least help. God owed me something.

But with Coobie, it wasn't working. The money had all come in, but she wasn't improving. And finally it hit me. Selfishly, I wanted a formula to fit God into, something that could be explained the way Perri helped me in mathematics class. It had seemed almost easy—the way He'd provided for us so many times before. But Mother was right. God was past understanding, and He was asking me to trust Him as a good God and Father before I knew there would be a ram.

Mother and Anna and Father were completely convinced that God was at work wherever they happened to be—an Alms House or a hospital or a tea party or a revival filled with destitute people. And it wasn't so important that everything worked out the way they wanted—they just needed to trust that God knew what He was doing.

I kept thinking back to the first thing Anna told me—that after they'd tried everything, she figured the Good Lord had her at the Alms Houses for a reason.

God could provide—no doubt about it—but would He?

I dropped down on my knees, and I gave God my little sister—figuratively, but as well as I knew how to do. “I trust you to know what is best.”

Down on my knees, by my bed, immobile, it seemed nonetheless that I moved one inch forward in what Father called “the wisdom that cometh from above.”

I was still on my knees when I whispered, “Don't leave me, Jesus. Please don't leave me now.”

CHAPTER

27

Perri

As usual, along with the parties, April was devoted to preparations for May Day. The entire school was involved in writing skits and rehearsing the dances all around the theme of the seasons of the year, borrowed from Greek mythology. I thought that Dobbs would brandish her Bible and scold us for reenacting mythology, but she had truly changed, and she participated as one of the maidens in the Winter Dance. Mae Pearl got the main role, and as she practiced and practiced, she indeed looked like a movie star and a ballerina, leaping and pirouetting and spreading spring to everyone as she tossed handfuls of rose petals across the stage.

She was also voted to be on the May Court, which came as no surprise to anyone. The May Court was all about beauty, just as sororities were about good looks and personality. Such things had mattered so much to me for so long, and often in past years I had dreamed of being on the May Court. So when Peggy announced that I was Queen of May Day—she smiled and lifted an empty hand, as if she held a champagne goblet in it, and said, “I toast you, Queen Perri, our dear girl of a thousand dates”—I should have been over-the-top, deliriously happy. But things had changed. What had once seemed so important did not anymore.

There was enthusiastic clapping, and I thanked the girls ever so much, but my cheeks were on fire, and I wondered what Dobbs would say.

“It's marvelous, Perri,” she told me the next day at school. “You're all around the most beautiful girl in our class, and you deserve it.”

Seeing my frown, she narrowed her eyes and said, “It's not the most important thing in the world, granted, but you should enjoy the honor.” Then she twirled a strand of her short black hair around a finger, a habit she'd developed ever since she'd had her mane cut, and said, “I've been thinking a lot about what Jesus says about laughing and weeping. And, you know, Jesus loved a good party. Weddings were His favorite, but I think He'd be okay with May Day, Greek mythology and all.”

To my relief, she didn't say a word about how Jesus viewed weeping, because I didn't want her to think about poor Coobie, who according to Dobbs, was nothing more than skin and bones and limp black curls.

Dobbs

Every day Parthenia, holding the letter Coobie had written her, asked me how much longer until Coobie could come see the wildflowers, and every day I tried to think of something positive to say. But finally exasperated, Parthie said, “I don't see how those doctors know nothin' 'bout what's good for her. Why, if you leave her cooped up in bed for two whole months, she shore will get weak and pale and ever so grouchy and tired. Didn't they eva' read
The Secret Garden?
Miz Chandler let my mama borrow that book, and she read it to me when I was five, and now I read it myself two more times. You kin learn a lot from a book, and here's what I done learned. That wild boy, Dickon, knew about how to make that sick boy, Colin, well—he sho' nuf did—and waddn't letting him stay all sassy and mad in his bed. Uh-uhn. He needed to go outside.

“And that's what Miz Coobie needs—sunshine and air and flowers and even . . .” Here her eyes got wide and sparkly. “Even horse manure. Did you know Coobie likes the smell of horse manure?”

I did not know that, but it didn't surprise me a bit.

———

The next time I saw the doctor alone, I decided to follow Parthenia's advice. “I know it's not protocol, but, sir, she doesn't seem to be getting better—worse, really—and could a few hours of sunshine hurt her? You said the treatment lasted two months. It's been two months. What are your plans from here?”

“Miss Dillard,” he said and gave a very long sigh, “your sister is quite ill.” He rubbed his hands across his eyes. “Very weak.”

Then, to my intense relief and amazement, after a thoughtful pause, he added, “But perhaps you're right. Perhaps the sunshine and familiar surroundings will do her good. All I know is that I've run out of options for the time being.”

He glanced around as if what he was about to say was secretive. “We'll have more effective treatments for this disease in five years, ten years at the most. We're making progress. I'm so sorry that we're not further along for your sister.”

“Maybe love will keep her alive.”

He shrugged. At last he said, “It can't hurt to try, Miss Dillard.”

“So we can take her for the day?”

“No. Not the day. I'll discharge her. Tomorrow. For right now, I'm afraid we've done all we can. Give her sunshine and flowers,” he said. Then he added, “And love.”

———

We brought her home on Tuesday at noon. Hosea drove so slowly it was as if he thought a bump in the road might kill her. Coobie lay in Mother's lap, covered with a blanket. When we got to the Chandler house, Aunt Josie and Uncle Robert and Cornelius and Parthenia were standing out under the trees, waving.

And right beside them were my father and Frances.

Parthenia rushed up to the car, leaned in the window, and thrust a handful of wildflowers into Coobie's lap. Neither little girl said a thing, but they grinned at each other for a long, long time.

Then Father came and lifted Coobie out of the car, and she buried her head in his chest.

“I've missed you so much, my Coobie.”

“I've missed you something awful too, Father.” And it seemed like the most natural thing in the world for me to lace my hand through Father's arm and hold on tight as we walked into the house.

I don't even remember one thing about exams. I took them, we all did, but my focus was on getting home every day, and going out on the porch where Coobie was stretched out on the chaise lounge, lying under a crisp cotton sheet, and Parthenia was curled up on the floor beside her, both little girls whispering and giggling. The cough wasn't completely gone, but it no longer sounded like a death sentence.

On those afternoons, I often found Father sitting outside under an oak tree, discussing politics with Uncle Robert or walking hand in hand with Mamma around the property or even working out in the garden right beside Aunt Josie and Parthenia and Hosea and Cornelius. Sometimes I'd even blink a few times to make sure of what I was seeing—my father looking happy and comfortable and at home at his sister's house in Atlanta.

One afternoon, I asked him, “Father, whatever happened to Irene Brown? Did she really use the money to pay off her debtors? Did she move from Atlanta and start over?”

Father shook his head. “She paid off her debts and moved up to be closer to Jackie. But she never found steady work and eventually fell back into her former occupation. Her health deteriorated. Your mother and I went to visit her whenever we got the chance, but she never got over losing Jackie. I think she gave up. She died one year after Jackie.”

“I'm sorry, Father. Sorry about it all.”

“Me too.”

I waited for him to say something about sin, but instead he just put one arm around my shoulder and held me there.

I knew Coobie was getting stronger when she asked me one day, “Why'd Hank have to go back to Chicago?” She was propped up in Becca's bed with five different pillows surrounding her. “He told me in his letters he got a swell job here with Coca-Cola.”

“He did. But then he decided that wasn't the best thing. That he should be back at Bible school and preaching at church.”

“You don't love him anymore, do you, Dobbsy?”

“Oh, I do. I care very much about Hank.”

“Caring for somebody isn't necessarily loving somebody, and Parthie says you weren't behaving properly to him. She said you were ignoring him when he went an' got the job for you. An' now you're spending all your time with that other boy, the one who gave you the fancy hair clip.”

“Coobie!”

“That's what she said, and I believe Parthenia.”

What could I say to that?

I had invited Hank to the party my aunt and uncle were giving for me—how could I not invite him? But he wrote to say that since he had been back in Chicago for less than a month, he did not think it wise to come back down to Atlanta, for “many different reasons.” I knew he was right, and I suppose I felt relieved, but it hurt to see it in writing.

Coobie was furious with me when I told her Hank would not be coming to the party. “If anybody can make me feel better, it's Hank! Why'd you have to go and chase him away?”

That tugged at my heart a lot, because more than anything else in the whole wide world, I wanted Coobie to get better.

Cornelius repaired an old wheelchair that my grandmother had used during her last year of life. Coobie sat in it and Parthenia pushed her down toward the lake. From a distance they could have been Dickon and Colin, reincarnated out of the pages of
The Secret Garden,
on their own quest for health and life, looking at the wildflowers on the hill.

———

Lisa Young's parents gave a party—a hayride at their farm—on the evening before May Day. Perri had begged for Andrew and me to ride to the party with her and Spalding. They showed up at the Chandlers' right on time, Perri calling out to me. “Hey, Dobbs! Andrew? Y'all here?”

Parthenia and Coobie and Andrew and I were sitting on the screened porch, sipping iced tea and playing Old Maid.

“Come on out here,” I hollered.

They found us on the porch, and Perri went over and gave Coobie a kiss on the forehead, and then she said, “Hey, Parthenia.”

Parthie gave her classic curtsy and smiled up at Perri. “Hello, Miz Perri. You shore does look mighty pretty tonight.”

“Thank you, Parthenia. Have you met Spalding?”

My breath caught a bit when I realized Parthenia might fall to pieces as she stood face-to-face with Spalding, but she simply batted her eyes, gave her coquettish smile, and curtsied again. “I have never had the pleasure of meeting you, sir. But I've seen you sometimes at parties.”

Spalding laughed and said, “Well, it's good to meet you, Parthenia. I've heard all kinds of nice things about you.”

Parthenia got embarrassed and put her hand over her mouth to hide her huge smile.

Perri rolled her eyes. “We need to go.”

“Okay, y'all go on,” I said. “I'm coming in a sec.” When Andrew and Perri and Spalding had left the porch, I knelt down in front of Parthenia and looked her straight in the eyes. “You've seen Perri's boyfriend before?”

“Oh yes, ma'am. Loads of times. He's almost always at the parties. I've even taken his picture some. He is the most handsome young man I believe I have ever seen.” There was not a hint of fear in her eyes.

I thought about this for a long time as I sat beside Andrew in the back of Spalding's red convertible coupe. If it wasn't Spalding Smith's photo that had scared Parthenia, whose was it?

Perri

Spalding and I rode with Dobbs and Andrew and three other couples in a wagon overflowing with hay and pulled by two mules. We laughed and made light conversation as the mules toured us around the Youngs' plantation. Then we ate barbecued pork and corn on the cob and baked beans and peach cobbler topped with homemade vanilla ice cream.

Stuffed and content, Dobbs, Lisa, Brat, Peggy, and I lay down on the quilts that were spread out under a huge tent and gabbed about May Day while the boys sauntered off to play some kind of game.

When the band began to play, the boys came back and found us. Right away, I noticed the smell of alcohol on Spalding's breath. Ever since Prohibition had been overturned in December, it was lots easier to sneak beer and spirits into the parties.

“You've been drinking.”

He smiled. “Not much. Let's dance.”

The band was marvelous, and for thirty minutes, maybe an hour, we danced with all the other couples, and I felt safe there, in the crowd. Parthenia had politely turned down my offer to come to this party to help me photograph, preferring to stay with Coobie, and Dobbs seemed distracted by so many other things, so I asked Mae Pearl, and she agreed. We took turns—she'd dance with Sam while Spalding went and got us drinks and I snapped photos, and then we traded. Mae Pearl thought it was “simply over the top” to take photos, even though she hardly knew a thing about it.

As Spalding and I were slow dancing, I glanced over to where she was sitting. She lifted the Zeiss Contax, put on a flashbulb, and pointed it straight in our faces, and boom! She and I caught each other's eyes and laughed, and then Spalding pulled me closer, but I pretended for just a moment that I was dancing with Philip, who'd be coming down to Atlanta in just three days.

“I'm burning up, Perri,” Spalding said. “Too many people under this tent. Let's take a walk.”

“I'm tired, Spalding. I don't feel like taking a walk right now.”

He put his face next to mine. “Come on, girl. Just for a minute.” He grinned, his eyes just the slightest bit drooping, his speech a little slurred. “I hear they have the biggest pig in the county over in the barn.”

Reluctantly, I followed him away from the crowd. The music from the band still reverberated loudly as we walked inside the barn. Several horses nickered, and I heard the clucking of chickens. As we walked farther back, sure enough, enclosed in a stall was the biggest pig I had ever seen. “He's kind of disgusting,” I said. “And it stinks in here. Let's go back.”

Spalding laughed a bit too loudly, and that's when I knew he was truly intoxicated. “Oh, not yet, Perri. The fun's just beginning.” He put one arm around my waist and, with the other, began to unbutton my blouse.

“Stop it! You're drunk!” I shoved his hand away.

“I'm not too drunk to know what I want. I want it now.” He pulled me closer to him.

I struggled away. “Stop it! You do not own me, Spalding Smith, and I'm not afraid of you.”

Now he was gripping my wrist so tightly that I gave a little yelp of pain. “You should be.”