WILD OATS (28 page)

The boy smiled slightly. It was a warm and easy smile. "Mama started calling me that," he answered with a nod. "I like to build gadgets and motors and such. I guess I manage to get a lot of grease on me."

Little Arthel laughed lightly, his childish voice high-pitched and giggly. "He don't build 'em," the younger boy declared. "He takes 'em apart and half the time they won't never work again."

Greasy gave his younger brother a look of menace that was so typical of feigned brotherly rivalry that both Jedwin and his mother felt sighs of relief drifting through them.

"I believe I've got a bit of apple cobbler up in this pie safe," Amelia told the boys. "You think you could manage a little bit of sweet after your pone?"

When the boys answered enthusiastically, Jedwin made his way to the door, quietly leaving the boys in her care.

He made it through the embalming room and out the back door to the wagon just in time to help Haywood carry in the body.

"Ain't that a sight," Haywood said to him with a gesture toward the house. "Are those two going to be all right?" he asked.

Jedwin nodded affirmatively. "I think they are taking it about as well as can be expected," he said. "Losing both your parents and being suddenly alone . . ." He didn't need to finish the thought.

Haywood nodded. "And especially rough on the older one. He'll be wanting to take care of his brother and raise him up when he ain't even been half raised himself."

Jedwin couldn't help but agree.

"Let's get this body inside," Haywood suggested as the two returned their thoughts to the business at hand.

Jedwin took the shoulders and Haywood the knees as they lifted the man across the bed of the wagon onto a sturdy wooden plank. It was not an easy task. He was a good-sized man and already in rigor mortis. But the two of them brought him inside.

"You'd best not be in here," Haywood told Jedwin as he began to gather the equipment for embalming.

Nodding absently, Jedwin realized almost with surprise where he was. He hated the embalming room. Usually, just thinking about walking inside it caused the back of his throat to burn. Today, as he looked around him, it was just a room.

"I don't feel the least bit ill," he told Haywood in wonderment.

Even the odor of the room, although certainly not pleasant, no longer seemed to hold the horrible gagging smell he hated so much.

Haywood glanced at him curiously, but didn't pursue the subject. "The boy says it's diphtheria," he told Jedwin. "Just 'cause you didn't catch it when it came through town, don't mean you couldn't get it still."

Still slightly stunned, Jedwin hesitated for a moment before nodding in agreement. "All right," he said. "You take care of the father, Haywood, and I'll see what I can do for the boys. I hope the man still does have family here in town."

As if in a measure of respect, Jedwin glanced down at the dead stranger's face.

The man's bright blue eyes stared back at him from unclosed eyelids; he was no stranger. Jedwin stared at a face he hadn't seen in years, but which was as familiar to him as if he'd seen it yesterday.

"Oh my. God!" he whispered to himself.

Without a word of explanation, Jedwin left the room, closing the door behind him with quiet care. He paced the hallway alone for several moments. Facts and questions were bombarding him at such a rapid velocity that he couldn't quite manage to think.

Finally, he stopped his frantic pacing and took a long cleansing breath. Swallowing, he raised his head resolutely and stepped to the door of the kitchen.

"Greasy," he said gently. The young boy looked up from a dish of his mother's best cinnamon-and-apple cobbler. He had to be at least fourteen, Jedwin was sure.

"Could you come with me for a moment."

The older boy rose to his feet and followed.

"How old are you, Greasy?" he asked calmly.

"Sixteen in the spring," the young man answered.

Jedwin nodded.

He led the way through the hall and into the formal front parlor. The boy looked around with curiosity at the formal fancy furnishing of the room shrouded with crepe of black, white, and purple, but brimming with the lightness of numerous vases of brightly colored dried flowers.

"This is where we will be laying your father out," Jedwin told him.

The boy nodded mutely.

"I'll be contacting the preacher this afternoon," he continued. “He will help us to decide what day and time to have the funeral."

Again the boy indicated agreement with silence.

"I, of course, want to do whatever I can to help."

"That's real nice of you, Mr. Sparrow," the boy answered politely.

"Greasy," Jedwin asked in a quiet, almost hesitant tone. "Could you tell me your real name, your full name?"

The handsome young man with the startlingly familiar blue eyes looked up at him.

"Oh, why yes, sir," he answered, not realizing he hadn't done so already. "It's Luther Harlan Briggs, sir, just like my pa."

Chapter Twenty-two

The long, shiny black rig pulled up directly in front of the house. The isinglass shades were drawn down as usual and in the bright light of the afternoon sun it was easy to read the words sparrow mortuary in gold letters above the windows.

Jedwin set the hand brake and tied the lines to it before he stepped to the ground. He pulled off his hat and ran a young, strong hand through his thinning blond hair. Routinely he checked the cleanliness of his fingernails, the straightness of his tie. It was another condolence call, but it was so much more. He adjusted his coat more primly and stepped to the porch of Cora Briggs's little cottage.

When he reached the front door, he took one deep cleansing breath for courage before knocking. She opened the door almost immediately.

"Jedwin," she said in surprise. Since he'd told her that he would be moving out to the farm today, she hadn't expected to see him before sundown. "Don't you look splendid," she told him with pride as she noted the fine tailoring of his best black mourning coat. "Did you come to take tea with me?"

Her smile was so open, it hurt Jedwin to look at it. He shook his head.

Cora glanced beyond him, and saw the funeral coach bold as brass in front of her house in the middle of the day.

"You're parked right in front of the house," she said with confusion. "I thought we'd decided to be very discreet until after the wedding."

"Cora—" he began, slowly removing his hat and holding it in his hand as a sign of respect. "I'm afraid I'm bringing you some bad news."

"Bad news?'' Cora repeated his words with a strange tremor in her voice.

Jedwin looked into her eyes, wishing what he had to say would mean nothing to her, knowing that the past is never truly gone, only buried like the dead, beneath the surface we live upon. "Luther Briggs has passed away, Cora," he said. "His body is at the mortuary."

Cora's eyes widened in surprise and she shook her head in disbelief.

"It's true," Jedwin told her gently. "He died of the diphtheria last night. His sons brought him in this morning."

He watched as those plain, ordinary brown eyes that he had grown to love, welled up with tears.

"Oh Jedwin," she whispered.

"I love you, Cora," he told her.

"I love you, too," she said. The tears began to flow down her cheeks as she stepped forward and into his waiting arms.

The cabriolet stopped directly in front of the main entrance to Miss Maimie's big, white house. Greasy Briggs pulled the team to a halt expertly, before hopping down to assist Mrs. Sparrow.

His brother Arthel scrambled down on his own and was already hurrying up the steps to the porch. The youngster was full of curiosity and jumpy with eagerness.

"Thank you for driving, Luther," Amelia told the young man, offering her arm to him as if he were her escort. “I can drive myself, of course. But I rarely do. I feel such difficult skills are better left to the gentlemen."

Her words were meant as a bolster to the brave adult facade that the young man was desperately trying to hold in place.

"You're very welcome, ma'am," Greasy assured her. Stopping to stare at the huge three-story mansion, he allowed his eyes to travel the distance of the porch and the flow of the lawns. "This is a mighty fine house."

"Yes," Amelia agreed. "It is lovely. This is where your father grew up, you know."

Greasy whistled impressively. "It sure beats our little place in Muskogee," he said.

"And this street," Amelia told him, indicating the worn dirt track they had just come up. "It's Luther Street," she said. "Named for your father."

Greasy turned back to look at the road behind him as if hoping to find something that would somehow make his father closer.

"What a place!" Arthel told them as he came running from the far end of the porch. "It's like a palace or something. Are we gonna live here forever?" he asked.

Both Amelia and Greasy ignored the younger boy's comment. Her mind was still reeling from the events that had transpired. His mind was purposely blank. Not anticipating anything would, he hoped, keep him from being disappointed.

"Go ahead," Amelia urged Greasy, pointing at the large brass knocker above the doorknob.

He raised it and rapped sharply three times. Ill at ease, the three waited on the porch for a very long couple of minutes before the door opened.

"Mrs. Sparrow!" The thrilled youthful voice was that of Tulsa May Bruder, looking especially pitiful in a worn brown work dress and a soiled apron. "Hello," she added shyly to the two boys that she didn't know.

"Good afternoon, Tulsa May," Amelia said, in a clipped businesslike tone. "I need to speak to Miss Maimie, if you please."

“Come on in,'' she answered with easy countrified manners, as she opened the door widely and waved them inside. "I just fixed some tea for Miss Maimie in her sewing room. You want some too, Mrs. Sparrow?"

"No dear, that's not necessary," Amelia answered as she methodically removed her black lace gloves and deposited them carefully in her handbag. Turning to the Briggs boys, she offered a bright smile of comfort. "Let me go up and speak to her," she told them. Amelia patted Greasy comfortingly On his strong, broad, young shoulder. "Perhaps Tulsa May can get you some buttermilk or something."

"Surely, Mrs. Sparrow," Tulsa May answered easily as she watched the dignified older woman hurry up the stairs.

Bringing her attention back to the two handsome young boys standing with her in the foyer, Tulsa May gave them a warm and welcoming gap-toothed grin. "Come on into the kitchen with me," she said. "I can find something to eat if you want."

"I'm starved!" the young one told her gratefully.

"Arthel!" Greasy reprimanded his brother sharply. "All we've been doing all day is eating," he told Tulsa May. "I'm sure we don't need a thing."

Tulsa May grinned at Arthel and nodded at his brother. "Well, come into the kitchen anyway," she told them. "I swear it's the only room in this house where you can sit down and make yourself comfortable. The whole place is just too fancy for normal living."

The two dutifully followed her, gazing around at the fancy furnishings in silent agreement.

"My name's Tulsa May," she told them. "I'm just helping out here for a few weeks until Mrs. Ruggy is a bit more like herself."

The handsome older boy smiled at her politely. "The runt's name is Arthel," he said. "And I'm called Greasy."

"Miss Maimie?" Amelia's voice sounded tentative as she knocked lightly before opening the door to the sewing room. "Afternoon, Miss Maimie."

The old woman looked up from her tea and waved her in. "Back already, are you?" Maimie asked. "You are doing the right thing, Amelia. If you side with that boy and his woman's perfidy against this town, it will surely go against you."

Amelia nodded absently. "I've not come about that, Miss Maimie. I'm afraid I've got some bad news."

Miss Maimie screwed up her face rather unattractively. "Bad news, eh? I know what that means, more business for the gravediggers." The old woman shook her head and then snapped sharply. "It better not be Mattie Ruggy," she said. "I need that old woman to run this place. That red-haired preacher's girl is as stupid as she is ugly!"

"No, no," Amelia said quietly. "It's not Mattie." Moving closer to the older woman, she dropped down on her knees beside her chair and picked up the pale, gnarled hand that lay against the lap quilt. "It's Luther, Miss Maimie."

"Luther?" Miss Maimie looked at her momentarily with incomprehension before her aged eyes widened in disbelief. "My Luther? My son?"

The old woman's cool, spiteful mask crumbled before Amelia's eyes. Reaching out, she wrapped her arms around the woman's neck and allowed her tears to fall upon her shoulder and her sobbing to be muted against her body.

Cora sat in Jedwin's lap in the sewing rocker. She had cried a little, but mostly she had just held on to Jedwin and allowed herself to be consoled. They rocked together slowly as Jedwin thoughtlessly hummed.

“While the train rolled onward,

A husband sat in tears,

Thinking of the happiness,

Of just a few short years.

For baby's face brings picture of

A cherished hope that's dead,

But baby's cries can't waken her,

In the baggage coach ahead."

The sad, mournful tune somehow offered comfort to both of them.

"He was not a bad man," Cora told Jedwin finally. "He was only a weak one."

Jedwin continued to rock her gently. “He must have been a very weak one," he said with a moment of hesitation. "I've met his sons."

Cora nodded. "Sons," she said with a light sigh, and gave Jedwin a ghost of a smile. "The second one was a boy also. I never knew."

"Yes, he looks to be about eight years old."

"That sounds about right."

"He looks a bit more Indian than the older one," Jedwin said. "The older one is a ringer for Luther."

Cora nodded. "That's nice."

Jedwin's hands were steady, but in his heart he was trembling. "It was eight years ago when you were divorced." His words were a statement rather than a question.

"Yes," Cora answered. She hesitated as if, even after all this time, she still did not wish to make explanations, as if she still wanted to protect those who were truly innocent. "The baby was already on the way. That's why I hurried through the divorce proceedings."

"Why didn't he marry her when the first boy was born?" Jedwin asked. "That was years before he met you. Were they separated? Did he not know about the boy?"

Cora shrugged and gave a humorless grin. "He did marry her," she said.

"What?"

Cora smiled tightly and reached over with a gentle finger to close his jaw.”He married her Cherokee fashion,'' she explained.

Jedwin looked at her closely with both concern and surprise.

Cora gently caressed his temples. "I guess it must be something like when you hung your belt on the bedstead," she told him. "The law doesn't recognize it, but the parties involved know vows when they've made them."

"Luther Briggs was married to another woman?" Jedwin was clearly appalled.

"Yes," Cora answered. "I didn't know about it, of course, not at first. Though Miss Maimie kept dropping hints. I'm sure that woman thinks I'm the stupidest female in the territories. I trusted Luther completely. I never worriedat all."

"Because you loved each other?"

The question gave her pause. "No," Cora said. "Luther and I, well, I don't think we ever loved each other." She raised her eyes to meet his, with honesty. "But we were married. I'd been brought up to believe that was reason enough to give my trust."

Jedwin nodded. "Do you think she trusted him, too?" he asked.

"It wasn't the same. Although the Cherokees are basically monogamous," Cora explained. "Occasionally a man will have two wives. Apparently it's even more common when the man is white."

"So, she knew about you, but you didn't know about her."

"No, I didn't know about her. Not until the very end."

"But Miss Maimie knew."

Cora's jaw was set in anger. "It was Miss Maimie's idea!"

"What?"

Cora repeated her words. "She didn't approve of Luther's Indian wife," she said. "She was ashamed that Luther had married her and she didn't want anyone to know."

"And no one did," he said.

"That's right. Luther kept his little family in Muskogee and always came horrie alone. His life in Muskogee was far enough away that nobody in Dead Dog was the wiser."

"But that wasn't enough," Jedwin said, prompting her.

"No. After a time, Miss Maimie decided she needed grandchildren," Cora said. "Luther tried to convince her to accept the one she already had."

"I can imagine Miss Maimie's reaction," Jedwin said.

Cora nodded.

"So Luther married you to please her," he said.

"He tried to avoid it as long as he could," she said. "But it seemed Miss Maimie actually owned all of Luther's companies, all the land, the investments; everything had been left in her name instead of his. She'd held those reins for years and when she wanted grandchildren, she decided to tighten them up." Cora sighed sadly. "She told him that if he didn't marry a decent white woman within six months' time, he'd be a pauper."

"So he married you."

“Yes." Cora nodded.”When he came to the Methodist Home, he was almost desperate for a bride. He'd defied his mother almost to the last minute, and then he saw everything he'd worked for all his life, everything that he needed to support his family, slipping away from him. He asked me to marry him almost immediately. I knew nothing about Cherokee wives or his finances or even his mother. I just saw a handsome young man who was going to take me away from my lonely orphan life and love and cherish me till death do us part."

Cora's tone held a hint of bitterness for her youthful fantasy. Jedwin pulled her more closely in his arms and hugged her tightly.

“He wasn't really committed to living with me or the marriage at first," she said. "His plan was simply to bring me to Dead Dog and leave me with his mother. He wanted to continue to pursue his life in Muskogee with his
real
wife and child."

"But that didn't work," Jedwin said.

"It probably would have," Cora told him. "I never suspected a thing. I was so happy, especially after he built me my own little house away from Miss Maimie."

She sighed, glancing around at the familiar walls that were the legacy that Luther Briggs had left her.

"Building this house really angered Miss Maimie. Maybe it hurt her, I don't know. I only know she wanted to hurt me. It was Miss Maimie herself who told me about everything, the wife, the child, Luther's continued unfaithfulness," she said. "And you know Miss Maimie. She told it in the most horrible, sordid, disheartening way possible. Somehow, even though she was the one who was honest with me, I could never quite forgive her for that." Cora sighed almost apologetically before continuing her story.

"The next time Luther came home, I confronted him immediately. He should have left me then. That would at least have given me some shreds of honor to live with. But he told me that he was going to give her up. That he would be a faithful and dutiful husband to me. And I wanted to believe him. So I let him stay."

"But he didn't keep his promises," Jedwin surmised.

"He tried," Cora admitted. "For the next several months he spent nearly all his time with me. He really tried to make our life a real marriage," she said. "I truly believe that. But, he loved
her.
It was as simple as that."

Jedwin nodded, understanding.

"When he found out she was carrying a child, he just couldn't stay away any longer."

She raised her eyes to Jedwin's. There was no bitterness in them now, only understanding.

"He gave it all up," she said. "Me, his mother, his business, his heritage. He threw it all away for a woman that he loved. I've tried to hate him, Jedwin. But I can do nothing but admire him for that."

Jedwin looked down into the eyes of the woman that he loved. Cora had kept Luther's secret—for Luther, for his children, for Miss Maimie, for the town. She'd shouldered the blame and shame of sins that were not her own. And she had done it because despite the rules of the society and the conventions of the community, she knew it was the right thing to do. Jedwin found he couldn't help but admire
her
for that.

"I love you, Cora," he whispered. He ran a gentle hand along her cheek. "I can't even grieve for Luther Briggs. He's with the woman he loves, and I am with mine."

She swallowed bravely and gave him a tiny smile. "I am truly free to marry now, Jedwin."

His eyes widened as a smile twitched at the comer of his mouth and he feigned shock, squeezing her close. "Absolutely not! You are
my
wife and I have no intention of ever letting you go."

"How?" Miss Maimie asked through the tears. "How did my son die?"

Amelia had held the older woman in her arms through the quaking sorrow of loss. "It was the diphtheria," she answered quietly.

"Diphtheria?" she said, her voice strangely distant. "Just like here. A plague on the people."

"No one knows the whys of disease," Amelia told her soothingly as she dried the tears from the old woman's cheeks with her own handkerchief. Outliving one's child must be the crudest pain on earth, Amelia thought.”Only God knows why he calls some home and leaves others here to ripe old age," she whispered.

Maimie nodded at the sage words. "God's mysteries are beyond my understanding. To take Harlan from me in the prime of life and now dear Luther in my old age, I don't know that I can bear it."

Tears fell from Amelia's own eyes as she hugged Miss Maimie's thin frame to her.

"It's been bad then, in Muskogee?" the old woman asked.

Amelia shook her head. “I don't really know. All I know is what the boys told me."

"The boys?"

Hesitating for only a moment, Amelia smoothed back Maimie's wispy hair. "Luther's sons," she answered. "They brought his body back to Dead Dog for burial."

Maimie appeared momentarily confused before her expression hardened into one more familiar to Amelia than the vulnerability she'd shown so far.

"That squaw had better not have come to my door expecting charity!"

The vehemence of the old woman's words startled Amelia momentarily. "Squaw? You mean the boys' mother?"

Miss Maimie raised her chin haughtily. "I suppose she thinks I will pay her off to keep quiet."

"The woman is dead," Amelia assured Maimie hastily, patting her hand as if trying to revive sense in her.

"She's dead, too?"

"Yes." Amelia took a deep breath before telling her the whole story.

Maimie stared at Amelia for a long minute, as if assessing her words.

"So he sent his little half-breed no-names to me?'' she asked coldly. "Well, I'm not about to have a pair of blanket-wrapped savages sitting on my front porch."

Amelia's mouth dropped open in shock, and she rose to her feet, stepping back from Maimie as if fearful of contagion.

"Miss Maimie," Amelia said, clearly striving to keep in control. "You are not yourself right now. I can understand that you were unhappy with his liaison with this Indian woman. But what he may or may not have done in his life is past now. Death is the final forgiveness." Amelia forced a hopeful smile to her lips. "You have two grandsons who need you."

Maimie raised her chin haughtily. "That's what that squaw wanted," she said bitterly. "Luther thought she loved him, but I knew she just wanted my money, my position, my social standing. She had those foul little half-breeds to try to steal my legacy, to steal a long tradition of noble family from me."

"Miss Maimie, you're not thinking straight," Amelia told her, her confusion rapidly turning to distaste.

"Mine is the finest heritage in the territory," Maimie said. "Perhaps the finest in the entire country. We were the princes of the South before the war, you know. Princes! I would never allow the blood of that greatness to flow through the children of a common native woman."

Amelia tried valiantly to hold on to her temper. Up to now allowing Miss Maimie to pretend to an aristocracy and nobility that was pure fantasy had been a harmless game. But rejecting her son's children based on such a blatant falsehood was beyond Amelia's understanding.

"That blood does flow through their veins, Miss Maimie," Amelia said sternly. "You should see the boys. Both favor Luther. And the eldest could be him in his youth almost exactly."

"It's not true!" the old woman cried. "I know in my heart that it could never be true."

"It is true," Amelia insisted. "Let me bring them upstairs so you can meet them. You'll see that they are Luther's sons. They are the legacy that he's left for you. They are your grandchildren."

The old woman waved away her words. "You would have me acknowledge them?" Miss Maimie shook her head. "I hoped for more from you, Amelia. As a mother yourself, a mother of a boy who is as wayward as my Luther, you should see that I can make no bargains with propriety. If I acknowledge those . . . those
children,
why it would be as good as saying that such illicit alliances are acceptable. Propriety and decency and civilization would be sacrificed. Don't you see that? And what about my Luther? If I bring his half-caste issue into my care, he will never learn that he cannot thwart my wishes."

"Maimie, Luther is dead," Amelia told her. "He can never have his way or learn anything more, not ever."

Maimie started slightly at the words, as if she'd forgotten about the death of her son. Momentarily her bright blue eyes welled up with tears and her face revealed the pain that tore at her heart. But she whisked it away with a defiant glance. "I will never acknowledge those children, not to my dying day. I do not blame them for being born. But they are the unlawful, immoral product of a union that could never be sanctioned."

"They are orphans, Miss Maimie," Amelia pleaded. "They need you."

She shook her head with finality. "I cannot, with good conscience, foist these interlopers on my community. Send them to one of those Indian schools. That's where they belong."

Amelia stood staring at the old woman in the chair before her. Shaking her head, she found it so difficult to believe that any mother, grieving for the loss of her son, could deny or withhold the comfort of her grandchildren. But the evidence of such a lack of loving sat right before her. Turning, she made her way to the door. Numbly, she tried to decide what she would say to the boys. How she would explain a grandmother who was so wrapped in her own self-righteousness that she cared more for the rules of society than for her own flesh and blood?

At the door, she hesitated, turning back to the old woman. “Miss Maimie,'' she said,”you've meant a lot of things to me in my life. When I was a young girl, I was terrified of you. You never hesitated to berate me, to make me feel worthless, to remind me that I was less than nothing to you. When I was older I admired you. You were the town of Dead Dog.- Your favor made or destroyed a person's life. You had power that no other man or woman in this town ever possessed. No one would ever cross you. I wanted to please you. I wanted to be seen with you. Sometimes I was so jealous, I almost hated you. Sometimes life looked so hopeless I wanted to give up because of you."

Amelia sighed heavily as if a giant burden had just been lifted from her shoulders, and she was free for the first time in memory.

"Miss Maimie," she said, "most of my life, I've wanted to
be
you."

As she turned to go, there was only pity left in Amelia's tone. "You are a bitter, lonely old woman. Who pushed her own son away from her years ago. Your son apparently forgave you; he wanted to give you another chance. Two more young lives to share in and take joy from. Most of us have to live eternally with our mistakes. But you were offered a chance to make amends, to try again, to make it right, to truly love."

Amelia shook her head sadly. "And you've repeated the same mistake you made before. You've put what was more acceptable to you before what was best for your child."

Looking back at the lonely old woman in the sewing rocker, Amelia knew that she would never be in this room again, that never again would she have the desire to visit Miss Maimie.

"I used to want to be you," she said. "I used to daydream about it. Plan how to make it happen. Struggle to imitate you. But I will never be you, Miss Maimie. I intend to make a point of that"