Dunaway's Crossing (17 page)

A bell rang in the store, and Bea Dot turned her head toward the doorway, calling, “Be right there.”

“That was a good idea to hang a bell on the front door,” Netta said. “Better go tend to your customer.” Just as Bea Dot turned to go, Netta called out, “When you’re finished, though, I could use some help with this floor. It’s a pitiful sight.”

Of course, Bea Dot met that request with a shake of her head and a chuckle before she went back into the store. “Good afternoon, can I help you?”

Netta returned to her work and listened to Bea Dot chatting with customers. She always made such a production of how busy she was with the mail, the telephone, and her “inventory,” as she liked to call it. She could call it inventory all day long, but her interest in commerce lay in one particular item, which at the moment was building coffins in Pineview.

Netta couldn’t shake her concern about Bea Dot’s fondness for Will. Not that she resented the friendship. Of all people, Bea Dot deserved a man who respected her and loved her. If Ben Ferguson didn’t exist, Bea Dot and Will would make a good pair.

But Ben did exist. And that complicated matters.

True, she had invited Bea Dot to Pineview for a respite from Ben’s hostility, but she hadn’t intended her cousin to fall for someone else. What would Ben do if he found out? Netta chewed her lip as she considered the possibilities. She’d have to talk to Bea Dot about her attraction to Will—before he returned to the crossing.

Netta finished scrubbing the cabinet and started on a drawer, wishing Will had at least lined it with paper. With her fingernail she scraped out the dirt in the corners.

Bea Dot entered again, this time holding a newspaper. “Netta, could you help me? Mr. Ellis Floyd is here with his Macon Telegraph, and I’m trying to find some paraffin for Mr. Anderson. Can you read to Mr. Floyd please?”

Netta examined her loaded kitchen table and sighed.
Why of course, Bea Dot, she thought. I was just sitting around waiting for something to do
. She inhaled deeply as she searched for her patience. She gestured toward her soiled apron and worn stockings and she replied, “I’m hardly prepared to receive guests.”

“Oh, please, Netta,” Bea Dot persisted. “You can stand behind the counter so he won’t see your feet.”

Netta opened her mouth in protest, but Bea Dot stopped her, holding up her palm. “I know, I know. I made the deal with him to read the articles in exchange for the paper, but I don’t think I’m the only one around her who pours over the news when it comes.”

Netta’s shoulders slumped. “Oh, all right. Tell him I’ll be there in a minute.”

Bea Dot smiled and returned to the store. Netta plunked the balled rag into the water, which splashed up and left a gray splotch on her apron. She followed Bea Dot into the store and stood behind the counter, though her face burned with shame about her looks. Mr. Floyd’s pale blue eyes watered from the outside chill, and his cheeks and nose glowed a bright pink, although Netta believed the weather accounted for their color less so than his home-made alcohol. He handed his newspaper to Netta with a shy greeting and word of thanks. Netta unfolded it and browsed the front page stories. From the back room, Bea Dot’s voice floated in as she spoke to Mr. Anderson.

“Let’s see, Mr. Floyd. What’s happening in the world today? Oh, this article says that President Wilson telegraphed the Democratic convention delegates meeting in Macon this week.”

Mr. Floyd nodded with a quiet “Hmmm.” Apparently he wasn’t much  interested in politics.

“And in this article,” Netta continued, “there’s a report about a woman named Jeannette Rankin who’s running for U.S. Senate.”

“Why that’s ridiculous.” Mr. Floyd lifted his chin and his eyes glowed like the blue of a gaslight flame. “First women want to vote. Now they even want to run for office?” He slapped his palm on the store counter. “This world’s going straight to hell on a runaway train. You know last week, the paper said that down in Waycross, they let women vote in city elections.”

“Yes, I think I heard about that,” Netta said, trying not to antagonize him further. She turned the page to find a different article.

“And now those suffragists in Atlanta want the city to give them the same rights up there. I’m telling you, it’s just plain wrong! Why can’t those women stay in the kitchen where they belong?” Mr. Floyd’s breath smelled like tobacco.

“I do declare,” Netta muttered. She wished Bea Dot would finish up with Mr. Anderson. The cupboard was waiting. “Here’s some news of the war,” she said, pointing to another article. “This is good news, too. It says that Arab and British forces have captured Damascus from the Turks.”

“How’s that good news?” asked Mr. Floyd.

“Why, the Turks are allies of the Germans,” Netta explained.

With that remark, Mr. Floyd wrinkled his nose and scowled. Any mention of Germans got similar reactions from most Georgians.

Netta continued. “Arabia has been liberated under the leadership of an officer T.E. Lawrence. The British now refer to him as Lawrence of Arabia.”

Mr. Ellis grunted, possibly still thinking of the German forces.

Bea Dot and Mr. Anderson returned from the storage room. “As soon as I speak to Mr. Dunaway again, I’ll ask him to restock on paraffin,” she told him. She handed him his mail and called a goodbye to him as he left.  Then she turned to Netta and Mr. Floyd. “Any news about influenza? Is it subsiding at all?”

“There’s an article here.” Netta returned to the front page. The headline read, “Spanish Influenza Crosses State.” She skimmed the article before summarizing it for Mr. Floyd. “In Macon, two hundred fifty new cases have been reported this week.”

“How far away is Macon?” Bea Dot asked as she absently shuffled envelopes from the mail bag.

“I’d say about fifty miles,” Netta replied. She looked to Mr. Floyd for confirmation, and he nodded his white-haired head.

Bea Dot chewed her lip as Netta scanned the rest of the article. “It says that flu masks are now in use in Macon, but that Atlanta has taken even stronger measures. ‘The state capital reports only eight deaths this week,’ it says, ‘with one hundred five new cases reported. As a precautionary measure, the Atlanta city council has declared all public gatherings closed for the next two months.’” Netta lifted her eyes from the paper and alternated her gaze from Bea Dot to Mr. Floyd and back. “That includes libraries, churches, and theaters. It also says that street cars are to keep all windows open except in rainy weather.”

“My heavens,” Bea Dot murmured with her hand to her chest. “Well, Atlanta’s a big city. If only eight people have died, that’s good, isn’t it?”

Netta shook her head slowly, unable to see how eight deaths could possibly be considered good news. Besides, the article was several days old. No telling how many people had died since it was published. Her thoughts, as usual, turned to Ralph working tirelessly to keep Pineview alive. She prayed silently, probably for the hundredth time, for Ralph’s wellness. Then she sighed.

“I’m sorry, but this talk of the flu has me a bit troubled. Would you mind if I stopped?” Netta folded the paper before placing it on the counter top.

Mr. Floyd patted her fat hand and smiled for the first time since she’d begun reading. Brown stains had settled at the crevices of his teeth. “You’ve been kind to read to me, Mrs. Coolidge. If you could just tell me what Lil’ Abner’s up to, I’ll leave you two ladies alone and be on my way.”

Bea Dot took the paper from Netta and said, “I’ll do that, Mr. Floyd. Netta, thank you for your help. Why don’t you go back and rest?”

Netta said her goodbyes to Mr. Floyd and returned to the kitchen. The pots, pans, and dishes taunted her from the table top. Reading the paper had drained her energy, and she no longer cared for cleaning Will’s cupboards. Still, she had to finish what she started, so she began sorting and replacing the dishes. Once she’d finished with the plates and cups, she straightened her back and rubbed it. Then she sat in a chair and rubbed her feet.

Bea Dot’s voice startled her. “I’m sure we have something in here you can use.”

At once Bea Dot stood at the table with Terrence Taylor behind her, holding a string of wet, dripping fish.

“Oh, my gracious, Bea Dot.” Her facing went blazing hot as she stood. “You should have warned me. I look a fright. Excuse me, Terrence.” She lumbered out of the kitchen bumping into the table and making the cutlery clink as she did so. From behind the bedroom door, she heard Bea Dot’s and Terrence’s voices.

“This’ll do,” he said. “I’ll clean these fish on the dock and bring ‘em back to you. I won’t take but a minute.”

“Thank you, Terrence,” Bea Dot replied.

Netta waited for the door to open and close. Instead, Terrence’s comment turned up the flame behind her cheeks. “You know what, Miss Bea Dot?” he asked. “My mama done the same thing before she had her baby.”

“What do you mean?” Bea Dot replied.

“All this scrubbing and sorting and what not,” Terrence explained. “She done the same thing just a day or two before little Troy come along. You think Miss Netta’s baby’s coming?”

“I don’t know, but we’ll find out soon enough.”

Netta heard in Bea Dot’s voice the same touch of worry she felt in her own chest. She sat on the bed, and her round stomach moved, like a puppy trying to crawl out of a burlap sack. Netta rubbed over the moving lumps as she spoke to her unborn infant. “Please, baby, just stay put a little while longer.”

#

Bea Dot had turned over in her cramped bed at least twenty times in the last hour, but she couldn’t sleep. Disturbing her more than Netta’s light snoring was the voice of Terrence Taylor’s innocent question, “You think Miss Netta’s baby’s coming?”

Oh, dear Lord, she hoped he was wrong.

But fear of Netta’s delivery was only one problem weighing on her mind. Will had been gone almost a week, and her inventory was running low. Not only did she not have paraffin for Mr. Anderson, but she had also run out of cane syrup and baking soda. Others requested goods that had never been on the shelves—Lux soap, rubbing alcohol, Vaseline. Will hadn’t left instructions, so she didn’t know what to do with the short supply.

Giving up on sleep, she sat up and stared out the window at the lake shimmering in the full moonlight. She wished Will would come home, though she dared not utter that thought aloud. Netta already cut her eyes at the slightest mention of him, as if every utterance of his name were a declaration of undying love. How could she not bring up Will Dunaway when she was living in his house and minding his store? Still, she had to acknowledge Netta’s cause for concern. Bea Dot had developed a fondness for Will, and although she missed him and worried for his safety, her logical side knew she was better off with him at a distance. Sparking a romance with Will would mean hellfire from Ben.

What a pickle her life had turned out to be. All she knew of her mother was the constant despondence she saw in her father.  She longed for a home of her own with real love and a happy household. But thanks to her father’s drunken despair, she’d been forced to make one desperate decision that pushed her storybook ending far out of reach. She leaned her elbow on the window sill and rested her head on her fist. If only she could wish on one of those stars outside and reverse the clock.

A low growl interrupted her reverie, and Bea Dot smiled, thinking of how embarrassed Netta would be to learn she’d begun to snore. At another growl, this one louder, Bea Dot frowned and straightened her spine. That wasn’t Netta. Then several growls sounded outside, and Bea Dot’s heart sped.

“Netta, are you awake?”

Netta rolled in her bed, a blanket-covered mountain in the darkness, before resuming her rhythmic breathing. Bea Dot sat wide-eyed, staring out the window, wondering what lurked on the other side of the pane. Two sharp growls made her jump and yelp, and Netta awoke.

“Bea Dot? Is that you? Are you all right?” She sat up and rubbed her eyes.

“There’s something outside.”

Netta yawned and stretched. “Maybe you were just dreaming.”

“No, I heard something.” Bea Dot shook her head sharply. “Growling. There’s something out there.”

They both sat mute for a few moments before the noise occurred again. “What was that?” Bea Dot asked.

“Sounds like animals,” Netta said. “Look out the window.”

“I already have.” What if the animals saw her? Could they jump at the window? She peered through the glass again, this time squinting, as if that would illuminate the pine trees outside.  “I don’t see anything,” she said at first, but then she gasped as something shifted in the shadows.  “Wait. There it is.”

The growling recommenced, this time continuously, as Bea Dot crouched in front of the window, her hands on the sill.

“What is it?” Netta asked nervously.

“It’s hard to tell.” Bea Dot watched the movement in the darkness in the grass. “All I see is shadows. Maybe it’s two animals of some kind. Looks like they’re fighting over something.” She turned her face to Netta, who looked angelic with the moon shining on her pale face and blonde hair.

“Are they raccoons?” Netta asked.

“Is that what raccoons sound like?” Bea Dot shrugged. “I’ve never heard them.” She bent as she put her face closer to the window. The cold from the glass radiated onto her cheeks.