Confessions to Mr. Roosevelt Page 12

  “Mr. Calley let me look through old newspapers, and I saw the mention of your marriage. The write-up called you the ‘town’s well-liked seamstress.’ There wasn’t very much detail about the wedding, the way some write-ups are today with their descriptions of what the bride wore and the names of bridesmaids.”

  Ivy smiled. “That’s the way most of the marriage notices were back then, although some were more elaborate if you were somebody real important in the community. I have that little announcement in the memento box, too.”

  “What did your mother say about your marriage?”

  “Oh, I suppose she was glad to know I wouldn’t be a spinster. I wrote my parents, of course, but I think it was Nate’s letter praising Wheat that assured the folks I had a good man.”

  Ivy let Ellen put a hand under her elbow as they returned to the car. “You can tell me to mind my own business,” she began, “but this talk of weddings has me wondering if you have a young man. And I don’t mean one of those fellows your mother’s picked out for you.”

  Ellen realized she should have expected Ivy to be curious. Miss Jewell had already skirted the subject. Audrey had asked straight out. Ellen opened the car door for Ivy. “Well, there was this one, but we had a falling out over me working.” Ellen walked around the car and slid into the driver’s seat. “He says he wants me to have a writing career, but I don’t know how I can do that and be married with a house to look after—not to mention the kids that are bound to come along.”

  Ellen glanced at Ivy, who angled her head to one side as if studying the problem. “I don’t give advice on matters of the heart. You’re bound to get blamed if things don’t work out. So, all I’ll say is that it’s up to you what happens, and nobody else.”

  Having said her piece, Ivy settled back. Ellen let the words sink in as she turned the car around and headed back the way they’d come on the river road. Before they reached the road’s intersection with the highway, Ivy asked Ellen to stop. She pulled to the shoulder and into the shade.

  “That grove of trees there is where the Fourth of July picnics were held.” Ivy pointed. “But people stopped coming here after the town park was built.”

  Ellen picked up the notebook. “I’ve driven by the park but never stopped to walk around.”

  “Not every town had a park, but Sylvester Vine wanted one for Opal’s Grove. And it had to be the best. Some folks disagreed with him, but he usually got his way. When it was finished, people came from all around this part of the state to see the walking paths lined with flowers and the occasional bench. A rose garden was arranged around a white marble fountain. There’s a band shell and a picnic ground. After a few years, the city put in a children’s playground. You should go see it, even though the drought and dust storms have wreaked havoc on the flowers. Constance is on a committee to restore the plants, but so far the only plan they’ve come up with is women taking their dirty dishwater out to the park and dousing the flowers. “She chuckled. “Most of the time, they forget, so the plantings languish.”

  Ellen started to close the notebook, but Ivy had more to say. “When we first moved to the claim, Clara and I would walk down to the trees along the river. It was about a mile from the soddie, but sometimes we just couldn’t take the open land and skies another minute. People said there were women who went crazy from the openness. I believe it. Clara and I would wrap our arms around the trees, rubbing our hands across the bark. It lifted our spirits to stand in the shade with the sound of leaves rustling in the breeze. That’s how we met John Featherstone.”

  Ellen stopped writing and looked at Ivy in surprise. “I saw his collection in the library.”

  Ivy was pleased. “He had a little place at the edge of town, a kind of leather shop with living quarters in back. He sold harnesses and saddles—that sort of thing—and repaired them if somebody brought something to him. He took in Ezra Coombs to learn the trade. With Ezra around, Mr. Featherstone had more time to follow his interest in hunting fossils and looking for Indian goods like arrowheads and such. If I came upon him along the river, he’d show me what he’d found and explain what the things were. Sometimes, I’d walk with him in his searches. Some people thought he was an eccentric, but he didn’t seem that way to me. I liked his company, and I think he enjoyed mine.”

  “The county history said he was a mountain man.”

  “Oh, he did lots of things. He was a fur trapper. That’s how he came to meet people from different tribes and got interested in Indian goods. When the trapping trade began to slow, he turned what he’d learned about the country into working as a scout for soldiers and scientists on surveys and scientific expeditions. His interest in fossils began on those trips. I don’t think he had much schooling, but he taught himself. By the time I knew him, John Featherstone was even writing to college professors about some of his discoveries.”

  “The label with the collection said he believed that an old Indian village was located somewhere close. Too bad he never found it.” Ellen saw a closed look pass across Ivy’s face.

  “He found it, didn’t he?” Ellen barely breathed out the words.

  Ivy fidgeted in the seat. “Iris Hewitt came asking me that once, and I’ll tell you what I told her: he never showed me such a thing. And you can write that down.” She jabbed a finger at the notebook.

  Ellen jotted down the words before turning toward the woman. “But that’s not the same as knowing there was one.”

  Ivy looked away, chuckling in spite of herself. “You’re a bright one. Iris Hewitt never figured out how I talked around her question. Now, don’t write this down, and don’t ever tell anyone I told you so. He found something.” She paused. “It was about a year after Wheat and I married. We’d come to town for supplies, and Wheat wanted to see Mr. Featherstone about a horse collar. When their business was finished, he invited us to follow him into this shed he’d built behind his store to hold all the things he’d found. I remember a table covered with bits of pottery, but on one end there were a few small bowls and a couple of little figurines. He couldn’t have found those just picking along the river. When I looked at Mr. Featherstone, I knew from the gleam in his eye that he’d made the discovery he’d always hoped for.

  “Finding it was enough for him. He kept a few pieces but left everything else in place. He covered it over and walked away. He didn’t tell us where. Said he’d take us to see it sometime, but that never happened. He died in his bed two months later. Poor Ezra found him one morning when he went to work. In his will, Mr. Featherstone left the business to Ezra and most of his collection to a college. The remainder was given to the town. That’s how it came to be displayed in the library.” Ivy fanned her face. “In a way, I’m glad he never told me or anyone else. I like the mystery of it.”

  Ivy motioned for Ellen to start the car. “Let’s go home and get something cold to drink.”

  “Thank you for telling me about Mr. Featherstone.” Ellen put the car in gear.

  “He wouldn’t mind my telling you. In fact, I expect someday his discovery will be unearthed.”

  CHAPTER 15

  ELLEN AND THELMA

  Saturday night supper was mashed potatoes and gravy, leftover meatloaf, and a salad made from new lettuce and radishes from Miss Jewell’s garden. Audrey was in a fine mood after her talk with Iris Hewitt. The woman had been sympathetic and most agreeable to giving Audrey what help she could to find a library job.

  “We’re on a roll,” Audrey declared over supper. “I’ve got Mrs. Hewitt and you’ve got Mr. Calley.”

  Audrey suggested they go to the movies as a little celebration. Ellen half-heartedly agreed. She was tired and had already seen the picture, but the night before she’d begged off to work on the article promised to Mr. Calley. She didn’t want to refuse a second night and dampen the general good mood.

  They were just finishing their meal when the hall phone rang. Its shrill tone brought Miss Jewell bustling out of the kitchen, wiping her hands on a stained apron. Anoth
er house rule was that no one but Miss Jewell answered the telephone.

  “It’s for you, Ellen,” the landlady said as she returned to the kitchen. “It’s Mrs. Hamilton,” she said over her shoulder.

  Ellen gave Audrey a puzzled look before taking the call.

  “Agatha and I have a bit of a problem,” Ivy began, her voice sounding strained. “Thelma’s car has broken down. I mean to say her family’s car, and we have no other means.”

  “Miss Ivy,” Ellen broke in, “what would you like me to do?” She listened as the woman at the other end of the line took a deep breath and explained why she’d called.

  After Ellen hung up, she searched for Audrey and found her outside under the arbor with a cigarette. She apologized for upsetting their plans. “Mrs. Hamilton asked me to come over. She thought of a few other things she wants to add to the interview.” Ellen briefly thought about her capacity to make up little white lies on the spot, but Audrey didn’t seem bothered by the news. “I don’t mind going to the movies alone. Maybe I’ll see people from work there.”

  Unh-uh, thought Ellen. Maybe you’ll see Ralph, or maybe that was the plan all along.

  Ivy Hamilton was waiting outside her kitchen door when Ellen pulled into the woman’s driveway. Ellen shook her head and smiled. Ivy and Agatha were full of surprises. She never would have guessed what they were up to.

  Ivy hurried forward as Ellen exited the car. “We can’t thank you enough. Thelma couldn’t ask Bill for his car. He has to use it when the sheriff puts him on night duty, and we just couldn’t think of anyone else.”

  “I’d love to help.” Ellen didn’t add she felt warmed by their trust. She followed the woman into the kitchen, where seven paper bags, with names printed on the side, sat lined up on the table.

  “It’s just that we have things delivered most every Saturday, and there are some folks that count on us.”

  “Even if they don’t know who’s behind the food and clothes.” Ellen finished the thought with a smile. “I’m proud to help,” Ellen reassured her, glancing at the sacks. “Did you sew all this?”

  “Oh, no,” Ivy said, chuckling. “Some is my work, but mixed in are things from the church basement. And this bag here is just diaper cloth for the Allens, who just had their first baby—a boy.”

  Ellen hefted a sack under each arm. Ivy followed with another. When the bags were loaded onto the back seat, Ellen slid behind the wheel. “Thelma’s waiting for me at Mrs. Bright’s?”

  “Yes, and thank you again.” Ivy gave a small wave.

  In less than ten minutes, Ellen pulled into the driveway at the Bright house. As soon as Thelma heard the car, she was out the back door, carrying a sack of groceries. She was wearing a dark, sleeveless blouse, trousers, and her brother’s hand-me-down black, lace-up basketball shoes.

  She nodded to Ellen, the dimple flashing when she smiled.

  “You have a tire iron,” she said as a statement of fact, not a question. “Get it, and put it on the front seat.” She opened the car’s back door and pushed the sack to the middle of the floorboard.

  Puzzled, Ellen retrieved the iron from the car’s trunk, tossing it on the front seat before joining Thelma, who was back in the kitchen, where Martha was folding down the tops of bulging grocery bags. Agatha was giving directions from her seat at the head of the kitchen table.

  “You’re a godsend,” Agatha said when she saw Ellen, drawing her forward with a wave. Gently catching Ellen’s wrist, Agatha stuffed a few dollars into her hand.

  Ellen protested, but Agatha insisted she take the money for gas. Then she turned to Martha. “Give that list to Thelma. They should get started before it gets too dark for them to get around on those country roads.”

  When they finished loading the backseat of Ellen’s car, Thelma and Martha squeezed into the front with Ellen. Thelma held the tire iron on her lap. Martha had to be taken home before they started the deliveries.

  “Why the iron?” Ellen asked as she backed out onto the street.

  “Protection. Just in case.”

  “Protection?” Ellen’s head jerked for a quick look at Thelma. “You’re teasing. Aren’t you?”

  Martha, who had yet to say a word, glanced at her sister and smiled.

  “I had some trouble on the road one night,” Thelma answered casually. “The McAllister brothers. They’re a couple of toughs, always getting drunk on bootleg whiskey and acting stupid. I was going slow, coming back into town, and the two idiots tried to jump on the running boards.”

  “What happened?”

  “Oh, one of ’em was so tipsy, he couldn’t get his balance and fell off into the ditch. The other one went flying when I reached out through the window and hit him in the gut with the tire iron. I keep it right beside me on the seat.”

  The sisters giggled.

  Martha was still smiling when they let her off in front of the Weaver home. Thelma’s brother, Hugh, was in the driveway, working on the family car. He waved an oily rag in their direction. Her mother was seated on the front porch.

  “Ma, I won’t be late, and, Martha, say hello to Chester,” Thelma called out as Ellen pulled away.

  Thelma directed Ellen to take the highway north. Sometimes the deliveries were south of town, made more difficult with the bridge work, and some Saturdays, the route was east. Tonight, the women’s list was for places to the north and west.

  “Chester is Chester Welch, a barber here in town,” Thelma said without Ellen asking. “He and Sis have been keeping company for five years. He comes over, and they sit in the parlor and listen to the radio, or they see a picture show. Sometimes they go for a drive on Sunday afternoons.”

  “For five years?” They reached the outskirts of town. In the west, the sunset lit the sky with startling shades of pink and turquoise.

  “It suits them,” answered Thelma. “Sis wants to live at home, help Mom, and work for Miss Agatha. Chester likes his bachelorhood, living alone above his barber shop.”

  Ellen mulled this over. “So there’s no talk of marriage?”

  Thelma hooted. “If there was, they’d both run in opposite directions. Maybe that’ll change, but for now, they like things as they are.”

  They left Opal’s Grove behind. Thelma leaned forward, getting her bearings. “It’s about five miles before we take a county road on the left. Mrs. McNulty lives farthest out, so we’ll start with her and move back toward town. She’s one of the regular stops when I come this direction,” Thelma offered. “Her husband died some time ago. Her son’s in jail for trying to rob Miss Agatha’s bank. He never had a bit of sense. Tried to make his getaway on a bicycle. Miss Agatha bears no hard feelings, and she worries about Mrs. McNulty living out here like a hermit, ashamed to show her face in town.”

  Thelma raised a finger to her cheek as if something else had just come to mind. “Gee, I hope she’s got her dogs tied up.”

  “I hope you’re joking,” said Ellen. “I don’t mind sneaking along back roads and leaving things on people’s porches, but being chased by dogs that are probably rabid makes me nervous.”

  Thelma giggled. “Sometimes she forgets, but the dogs are old. We can outrun them if we have to.”

  “Wonderful,” Ellen muttered.

  To think of something else besides what awaited at the McNulty house, Ellen asked about Bill. “Sometimes your fiancé drives for you?”

  “He did a couple of times, but then we got worried. If Sheriff Logan found out, he might not like Bill being involved.” Thelma paused. “Not that this is illegal.”

  “Of course not,” Ellen answered, wondering if it was against the law to steal up on people’s porches uninvited. Nancy would know. Probably, thought Ellen, it was against the law. Trespassing. That was it. Ellen wished she hadn’t remembered.

  “But we were afraid Bill might lose his job,” Thelma continued. “Besides, lots of weekends, the sheriff has Bill working. Most every Saturday night, there’s trouble at this rough joint east of town. It’s call
ed the Hurley-Burley. Miss Agatha says there’s been a Hurley-Burley there since the early days. The first one burned. This is the second or third.”

  “They sell liquor? That’s illegal in this state.”

  “Malt beer is legal. You know, what they call three-two beer.” Thelma corrected her. “It’s the hard stuff that’s illegal, and Bill says there’s a pretty good trade for it out the back door. Once in a while, there’s a raid just to slow down the bootleggers and moonshiners.”

  Thelma pointed to a side road, and Ellen made the turn onto a surface that was more washboard than gravel. She kept the car to a crawl. When they reached Mrs. NcNulty’s, she drove slowly past the dilapidated clapboard house with a sagging front porch. It was best, cautioned Thelma, to go on to another driveway and turn around so they were facing back the way they’d come.

  Ellen agreed with the strategy. The last of the evening’s sunset was fading. Better to be headed out than down some unfamiliar country road in the dark.

  Ellen let the car glide slowly back past the house and stopped. Thelma scrambled out, quietly opened the back door, and grabbed two grocery sacks.

  Ellen watched her dash across the dusty yard to the porch. Just as Thelma set down the sacks, there was a sharp yelp and then a snarl.

  Ellen jumped at the sound. She put the car in gear and was already moving forward when Thelma jumped into the front seat.

  “That dog Lucifer was under the porch. Almost got a piece of my ankle.” She tried to catch her breath.

  “Did he bite you?” Ellen shouted as she pushed down the gas pedal, spraying dirt and bits of gravel in the car’s wake.

  “No.” Thelma sat back. “But he scared the crap out of me.”

  Her hands flew over her mouth. She peeked over at Ellen, not sure how this college-educated girl would react. Nice girls weren’t supposed to say such words.

  “Scared the crap out of me, too!” Ellen shouted over the noise of the motor. They looked at each other and burst out laughing.