Dunaway's Crossing (31 page)

Bea Dot turned back to the sink, glad the war was over, but hardly in the mood to celebrate. She folded her dish towel, then slipped past Bonner to the hallway and sat at the telephone stand. She asked the operator to connect her to the telegraph office, but as soon as she heard the words, “Western Union,” on the other end, a fat finger pressed on the receiver, disconnecting her call.

“How dare you?” Bea Dot glared at Bonner, whose cylindrical form stood over her in her small chair.

“Mr. Ferguson says you are not to make or receive any telephone calls,” he said plainly.

Bea Dot’s anger mixed with despair, which heightened her headache and left her at a loss for words. Instead of making matters worse by retaliating, she pushed past him and retreated to her bedroom. She slammed the door, then gripped the bedpost as a strong wave of dizziness nearly took her off her feet. After steadying herself, she shuffled into her bathroom. The sight of her toilet made her retch again, but afterward, her headache subsided.

She saturated a wash cloth with cold water, then went to her bed and laid the cloth on her forehead. Her head swirled with worries about Will, grief over California’s death, and anger at her husband, but fatigue eventually took over, and Bea Dot sank into a heavy sleep.

She awoke to knocking. Had the sound been real? Or had she dreamed it? Sunlight streaming through the shutters indicated that hours had passed. It must be late afternoon. Another knock. “Mrs. Ferguson? Are you in there?”

Bea Dot rose slowly. Her head still ached, but the pounding had stopped, and the dizziness subsided. She cracked open the door to find the round Mr. Bonner.

“So sorry to wake you,” he said from underneath his mustache, “but Mr. Ferguson phoned. He says you’re to be ready for dinner at his parents’ house at eight.”

Bea Dot studied the man with the tubular frame. Although his weasely eyes and small pointy nose enhanced his irritating demeanor, and even though his craftiness and haughtiness angered her, he was not aggressive. Bonner was not her enemy. Ben was. All she had to do was gain Bonner’s trust, or at least his sympathy, and she might be able to slip by him.

“Are you all right, Mrs. Ferguson? Did you hear what I said?”

“Oh, yes,” she replied. “I’ll be ready.”

At the sound of an odd rumble, Bonner patted his stomach. Blushing, he said, “I was wondering, well, Mr. Ferguson told me my meals would be provided during my stay here.”

Bea Dot bit her tongue to keep from laughing. Where did he think he was, the DeSoto Hotel?

“Oh, would you like something to eat?” she replied flippantly. “Where are my manners? Please follow me.” She hadn’t eaten since she left Pineview, and she was hungry also. But she didn’t dare tell him that. Instead, she glided past him and led him to the kitchen, where she pretended to search her empty cupboards.  “Let’s see,” she said as she looked. “I’ve been away for a while.” She turned to look at him with a raised eyebrow. “As you know.” Continuing to open cabinets, she said, “I’m afraid I don’t have much.” She pulled out a small canister and shook it and heard a faint brushing sound. “I do have a few grits. I could cook them for you. I have no butter for them, though.”

Bonner stiffened, then said, “Mr. Ferguson and I agreed on a fee that included board and three full meals a day.”

“Then I suggest you take this matter up with Mr. Ferguson,” Bea Dot said with hand on hip, leaning on the countertop. “But you have sealed no contract with me. What’s more, I can assure you that Mr. Ferguson gave no thought to your needs, only his.”

“We had an agreement.” Bonner shifted his weight. His whiny voice grated on Bea Dot’s nerves.

“My husband has hired you to ensure that I stay locked up in this house with no access to my friends or family. In short, you’re a private prison guard,” she said. She paused to let him process the information. Then she asked, “Does he sound like someone who cares whether you eat a solid lunch?”

Bonner stammered, but offered no response.

“For now I can offer you a bowl of grits,” Bea Dot continued, shaking the canister again, “but if you’ll let me use my telephone, I can order food and a block of ice. I can have the milk delivery reinstated, and I just might be able to have it done in time for you to have dinner.” She omitted the fact that she hardly knew how to cook.

“That’s not what Mr. Ferguson said…”

“We’ve already established that, but fine.” Bea Dot placed the canister on the table. “Grits it’ll be. But first I must bathe and change my clothes. I must look a sight. I’ve been wearing this outfit since Pineview.”

She moved toward the kitchen door, but Bonner stopped her.

“All right,” he said. “Make the calls. Do what you need to do.”

Internally, Bea Dot beamed at her success, but she kept a straight face as she made her way to the telephone stand. As she placed orders, first with the grocer, then the ice man, then the dairy, she extended her conversations, hoping Bonner, who stood over her monitoring every call, would become bored and go back to his newspaper.  But she’d expected too much too soon. She’d have to sneak in a call to the telegraph office later. Maybe tomorrow.

Will inhaled fresh air—it felt so good to breathe normally again—and slowly ascended the three cinderblock steps of the small, weathered house. Lola, along with most other black residents of Pineview, lived on the north end of town in a section many Pineviewans called Boar’s Head. Will never understood where the name came from.

He rested a second on the top step before knocking. As he waited for a response, he took in the worn, warped boards, brownish gray from decades without paint. A scrawny woman, about as old as the house, shuffled to the door and met Will’s eyes without a word.

“Is Lola home? I’d like to speak to her please.”

The woman lifted one eyebrow, then turned her back on Will, calling into the darkness of the house. “Sista! You got comp’ny!” The volume of her screechy bird voice surprised Will. She shuffled her skinny, stooped form away from the door, leaving him to wait alone.

Lola appeared wearing a pink calico dress and a flour sack apron splattered with grease. A red rag wrapped around her head. Although her eyes appeared less tired than they did the last time he’d seen her, they revealed uncertainty or maybe skepticism. Remembering the numerous soldiers at Belleau Wood, he recognized the permanent countenance of someone who’d witnessed a horror most people would never imagine.

“Mr. Will, I surprised to see you here.” Lola wiped her hands on her apron. “Come in, will you?” Her flat voice belied her reluctant hospitality.

“No, thank you,” he said, quickly pulling his hands out of his coat pockets and folding them behind his back. “I’ll only be a minute. I just wanted to thank you for tending me while I was sick.”

Lola’s stiff spine softened, and she tilted her head to one side.

“I would have thanked you earlier,” he continued, “but you left Ralph’s house so quickly. I’m sure you were eager to see your family.”

“I preciate that, Mr. Will. I knew you would pull through. You had a strength about you. I ain’t seen that in many patients, but you had it. Glad you all right now.”

Will nodded and an awkward pause hung over the two like a bad smell.

“I’m sorry to hear about your sister,” he said, staring at his shoes.

“Thank you,” she replied, putting her hand to her chest. “She in a better place now.” After another awkward silence, Lola broke it. “I spose you going back out to the crossing.”

“Yes.”

“When you gone get yourself an automobile like all the other white folks?” Lola tilted her head toward Will’s horse and wagon. “Make all that mail carrying a lot easier. And faster.”

“Buster’s got a long way to go before he’s done,” Will smiled sheepishly.

“You an old soul, ain’t you, Mr. Will? Don’t take to change like the other folks do.”

Will shook his head and smiled faintly. He felt a camaraderie with Lola, a kinship he felt with no one else in Pineview. Somehow he knew she’d understand what he’d never been able to articulate to anyone else. “Lola, after what I went through in France, I don’t belong behind the wheel of a motorcar.”

“Maybe so,” she replied, “but you done survived the Great War. Then you come home and survived the worst disease this town ever seen. Now I don’t know bout you, but seems to me somebody up there want you around delivering the mail. Could get a heap more done in a motorcar.”

“Food for thought,” he said, unconvinced. He stepped down one step, paused, then turned to speak again. “But wouldn’t that same principle apply to you?”

“What you mean?” She put her hand on her hip and frowned, but her voice revealed no anger.

“I hear you quit working for Dr. Coolidge,” he said. “He needs you more than ever now that Netta’s gone.”

Lola huffed. “I done give him enough a my time. And my hide. All those weeks slaving away at his house. All for nothing. Didn’t get paid one dime.”

“True,” Will said. “But how much do you think Ralph got paid for doing the same work at the hospital? All those nights he spent there with no time off? And those nurses? They worked the same hours as you. I don’t think one of them had a chance to punch in a time card.”

Lola stood silent.

“You were all in the same boat,” he continued. “And Pineview would be in ruins if it weren’t for you. We all owe you a debt of gratitude.”

Lola’s stature softened, but her frown remained. She leaned on the door jamb and folded her arms in front of her. “What’s that got to do with me working for Doc Coolidge?”

“Netta always wanted you to mind her baby,” Will said. “I’m sure Ralph would consider it an honor if you did that.”

“Hmph.”

“Didn’t he pay you a fair wage before the influenza hit?”

“Yeah.”

“I’m sure he’d do it again if he had the chance.”

Lola raised her chin and eyed Will for a beat before replying. “Heard he hired some woman from Atlanta.”

“But he’d rather have you.”

Lola sighed and gazed out into the distance. Will pulled the corner of his mouth back and shrugged. He’d tried.

“Well," he said, “I just wanted to thank you for taking care of me, Lola. I won’t take up any more of your time.” He descended the last two steps, but just as he’d picked up Buster’s reins, Lola called to him.

“If I was to work for Doc Coolidge,” she said, “I’d need a horse. I been on my feet enough. Don’t intend to walk to work no more.”

“Okay.” Will scratched his head, confused.

“You decide to get yourself a motorcar, you sell me that horse, and I can ride it to work.”

Will grinned. “So you’ll do it?”

“Didn’t say that,” she replied. “But I got to work somewhere. I’ll buy that horse from you. For a decent price anyhow.”

“Lola, if I ever decide to buy a car, you’ll be the first to know.”

#

Buster came to a stop at the crossing. Harley sat next to Will on the bench, his own horse tied to the back of the wagon.

“You feeling all right? You’ve been quiet for the past fifteen minutes,” Harley said. He’d finally washed all the oil off his skin.

“I don’t have all my strength back,” Will said, “but I’m fine. I’m just a little tired.”

They climbed down, and as they unloaded supplies and moved them indoors, Harley insisted on carrying the heavier crates. “Need help unpacking them?” he asked.

“Thank you, but no,” Will said. “I’m not going to do that right now.”

So Harley said his goodbyes and untethered his horse. Will watched him ride away before unhitching Buster and taking him to the barn. Patting his horse on the neck, he said, “Been a long time since you stayed in your own stall.”

Back inside, Will surveyed his store, then his small home. The floor had been scrubbed clean since Netta’s death, and one bed frame sat empty of a mattress. The corner looked desolate without Bea Dot’s trunk filling it. Of course, she would have taken it to the Taylors’ house. He’d have been in a world of hurt if they hadn’t stepped in to help Netta and Bea Dot. He didn’t know how he’d ever thank them enough.

Throughout the house and store, little things reminded him of Bea Dot. The bottle of medicine still sat on the kitchen counter. When he went to the storage closet to roll up his pallet, he remembered the last night he’d spent on it with her. Even when he opened his ledger book, he found Bea Dot’s handwriting. His chest ached from missing her, but his body hummed in anticipation of seeing her again.

He pried open a can of sardines and ate them quickly for lunch. Then he cleaned his teeth before setting off bareback on Buster toward the Taylor farm.

Riding up the wooded path along the lake, he passed his grandparents’ old house where he’d killed the bobcat. Then he rode into a clearing and along the edge of a cotton field, where hired hands picked and stuffed the fluffy white fibers into their croker sacks.

As he approached the Taylors’ house, a model T in the yard told him Ralph Coolidge had arrived. When he knocked on the door, Terrence let him in and immediately left to help Thaddeus in the field. Will entered to find Ralph awkwardly holding his baby daughter. Eliza stood over him, baby Troy on her hip, giving instructions.