I was surprised by how attractive he was up close, thick hair, sky-blue eyes, handsome in a
rumpled sort of way. We nodded hello, and he looked a little embarrassed that we were blocking
the way, or maybe embarrassed was just his natural state. He’s the one who found Meg, he saved
her life, I thought. It was so curious to me. I said to him, “I knew Meg Lefleur, Dr. Pittman. She
told me about you.” My point was to ask how he had found her, but his mouth dropped open and
he looked so appalled it stopped me from getting the rest out. Then his wife’s bony hand pulled
him away, and the crowd moved down the steps, and I had not an inkling of what had just
passed.
Chapter 15
“Oh my gosh, it feels so much better out here,” Frances said, flopping onto the cot next to mine.
I was staring up at the slatted ceiling as the long summer Sunday drifted from gold into twilight.
The light blue paint up on the ceiling was cracked and peeling, and I sometimes woke up to
flecks of it on my face. I’d heard somewhere ingesting paint could make you sick or loony or,
dear Lord, both, and I wondered if was I the crazy one here?
“I had no earthly idea it was so much cooler on the porch,” Frances said. She’d slung a
pale arm above her head like a woman in a Renaissance painting and I wondered how, after
living here almost a year, could she not know this was the best bedroom in the house? Situated in
a shady upstairs corner, this room enjoyed a breeze even in the dead sea of summer while the
screens kept the swarms of mosquitoes and no-see-ums out, along with that dark dread you felt
when you woke up at three in the morning too hot, too sticky, and thinking about all the wrong
things you’d said the day before.
220
“Franny.”
“I know—I’m asking him as soon as he comes upstairs. He’s down in his study getting
things ready for his client in Jackson.”
That wasn’t what I was gonna ask, but good. I wanted to get it over with. But if I was
leaving here on Wednesday, there was something else we needed to discuss.
Frances rolled over, propping up on an elbow. “I’m really glad Ella Jane got adopted,”
she said and sighed.
“Oh, you sound it.”
“I am, I’m happy for her,” she said, picking at a brown feather poking out of the mattress.
“I’m just gonna miss her is all.”
“I’m pretty sure you’ll see her again soon. I give it a week tops.”
“She does scream. A lot. But she’s so sweet when she wants to be and so cuddly—don’t
you miss that little girl that worked in the office?”
“Her name is Meg, Frances, and yes, I do miss her.” I kept my eyes on the peeling blue
ceiling. I’d thought I could tuck this one away and head back home—not every injustice was my
business to solve, or so people told me. But if I didn’t make it my business, then who would? “It
still burns me up how awful Garnett treated Meg, and I don’t understand why she did.”
“Well, the girl was lucky to be there.”
“Lucky? Garnett pulled her out of school and separated her from everybody. She was
stuck in that moldy office—”
“She drew a real dirty picture, Birdie.” Frances gave me big eyes. “Of Jesus. Giving the
finger.”
221
“Meemaw gives me the finger all the time,” I said. “I don’t stick her in a moldy room for
it.”
“Well, that’s neither here nor there, and Jesus wouldn’t do that.”
My Jesus would. “Do you know . . . what actually happened when Dr. Pittman brought
Meg to the orphanage? How he happened to find her out in that cotton field by herself?” I was
only thinking of that because Dr. Pittman had looked appalled at church when I’d brought her up.
“Dr. Pittman was out giving free inoculations around the county, it’s what he does, and if
he hadn’t found her, she would’ve starved to death, or worse. She’d’ve turned into another
unwed mother with ten illegitimate children—”
“Oh, Frances, stop and listen to yourself. This isn’t about illegitimate children.” I pushed
myself up on the cot and sat Indian style and so did she. I needed to make my point before I went
home but with Frances I had to take a circuitous route to get there.
“A month after Meg arrived at the Orphan, Garnett got herself elected chairlady. You
know that, right, Franny? She was only a part-time volunteer before then.”
“So? She wanted to make it a better place. What’s wrong with that?” she said. “You of all
people.”
“Alright, why do you think Garnett keeps soapboxing about feebleminded women? And
that the only solution is to lock them up for good—didn’t you say Meg’s mother was deemed
feebleminded?” Frances frowned. I didn’t dare mention that Meg’s mother had come back,
because Frances would blab it to Garnett. “Which according to Garnett must’ve been passed
down to Meg, like it was a given. You know as well as I do Meg is nowhere near feebleminded,”
Nor did her mother seem to be either, now that I thought about it, “but Garnett locked her in the
office and treated her like she was.”
222
Frances bit her lip, thinking this over. She was intelligent; the problem was, her craving
for status outsmarted her brain sometimes. “This is just like you, you know that? Just because
you don’t like Garnett, you want to turn me against her.”
“I do—but that’s not the point—”
“Then what is your point?” she said.
“The point is—” I didn’t know what my point was about everything I’d said, but I did
know this: “I want you to stop believing every single thing Garnett Pittman says, Franny. I don’t
think Garnett had good intentions for Meg, and I don’t believe she’s got them for the rest of the
big girls either. Mildred said the same thing, and she got fired. Garnett’s sending twelve-year-
olds to work in a cannery, for God’s sake.”
“She heads a charity, Birdie. For orphans—of course she’s got good intentions!”
“How do you know?”
“Because. The Pittmans are good Christian people.”
I laughed at that. There were Christian people and there were good people but the two
didn’t necessarily always overlap. “Well Garnett sure was awful to Meg. If that’s what you call
being a good Christian.”
“Well, that’s your opinion.” I could hear Rory’s church shoes clapping up the main stairs.
Frances got up and put her hands on her hips. “You better not repeat any of these opinions of
yours outside this room, you hear me? Or I’ll tell Mama you got drunk on my birthday and slept
on the powder room floor.”
I stood up too and set my hands on her shoulders. “Will you please just think about
something for me, Franny? Would you want Ella Jane to be working in a canning factory when
223
she turns twelve? Locked up in there until she’s seventeen because Garnett thinks she was born a
bad girl?”
Frances looked away, doubtful, like maybe I was trying to trick her. “It’s a wonderful
opportunity,” she said, but I heard a little catch in her throat when she said it.
She walked out, and I heard her calling to Rory. Ten minutes later she reappeared in the
doorway and mouthed the word yes and left me alone, soaked in relief.
***
The next morning, I overslept and missed Rory before work. I’d hoped to catch him alone at
breakfast to thank him. Since he was already gone, I swiped his newspaper and was reading it
out on the back porch when I heard Mrs. Tartt in the kitchen, through the screen door.
“What? That can’t be.” Her voice was louder, shriller than her usual velvety drawl.
Picador was saying something too soft for me to hear.
I turned back to the paper. The left column of the front page read: “Mrs. Welty Pittman of
Oxford Accepts State Charity Award for Christian Program to Aid Orphaned Girls.” So that was
what she was calling putting little girls to work in a cannery.
“This’s got to be a misunderstanding, Picador.”
I gazed out at the theater before me, the tall weeds that covered the back yard, an ugly red
thistle that had sprung up overnight. A pair of noisy blue jays fussed in the trees. I went back to
the article.
“Mrs. Welty Pittman, of right here in Oxford, was introduced by Dr. Hubert H. Ramsey,
former superintendent of Ellisville, also known as the School and Colony for the Feebleminded.”
He must be important because they printed his entire speech on page 3. I skipped it for now and
224
went to the bottom of the piece. “As folks enjoyed their delicious lunch of Chicken Breast Au
Gratin with a Scuppernong Jelly Mold for dessert . . .”
Behind me, I heard Mrs. Tartt say, “You need to tell me, Picador.” I kept reading: “Mrs.
Welty Pittman, wearing a red poplin suit, gave her speech. ‘With so many Christian
organizations and churches handing out food to the poor, clothing and blankets for warmth, I ask
you to consider this: With all those resources available, what kind of mother abandons her own
child? I will tell you what kind: a mother who has a hereditary lacking in sense and a moral
deficit, many of whom are deemed feebleminded.’” I could just see Garnett tapping her temple,
showing how smart she was compared to these women. “‘So we must protect these girls and
ensure, for their sake and our own, there aren’t more born like them.’”
What did that mean—“there aren’t more born like them”? These were orphans, poor girls
who’d been born to poor families. The article continued, “Mrs. Pittman is also on the ticket for
president of the Anti-Vice League of Mississippi.”
“Yes but, how long exactly has it been since you were last paid?” I heard Mrs. Tartt say
in an agitated voice. Even the blue jays hushed their cawing. I turned around in my rocking chair.
Through the screen door, I could see Mrs. Tartt’s back, and Picador and Polly facing her. Polly’s
hair was in black shiny curls from church yesterday.
“We coming up on three weeks, ma’am,” Picador said. “Since our last pay.”
“We reminded Mr. Rory ’fore he went to work this mawning. But we in a pinch now,
ma’am.”
Mrs. Tartt inhaled sharply, her whole blue quilted housecoat filling with air. “I declare,
it’s that money obsession of his again. Picador, you should have told me this sooner.” Picador
was looking down at her feet.
225
Mrs. Tartt said, “I will straighten this out with Rory tonight and get you your pay. You
both have my word on that.”
***
So far, it looked like it was gonna be a real hot day. According to yesterday’s Oxford Eagle,
Oxford hadn’t had rain in nearly three weeks, and now we were in an August heat wave this state
hadn’t seen in years. When Frances left for the Orphan and Mrs. Tartt had gone to bridge club, I
put somebody’s straw hat on and gave the garden a good watering and weeding. The coriander
had gone to seed, the parsley had cooked, but the gourds and tomatoes might be all right if
somebody cared for them. The weather gauge, appropriately sponsored by the outfit O H
Douglas & Co. Undertakers, read 102 degrees with ninety-five percent humidity. Afterward, I
lay naked on my cot, and read for a while, aiming the electric fan across me. I felt guilty to be so
relieved that Rory was loaning us the money when he hadn’t paid Picador and Polly. Frances had
been just as surprised by the news as Mrs. Tartt, though she’d immediately stood up for him—
“He probably just forgot, he works so hard.”
The book I’d taken from the Tartts’ library was As I Lay Dying, a perfect title on a day
like this. It was written by a man who lived right here in Oxford.
Sometimes I aint so sho who’s got ere a right to say when a man is crazy and
when he aint. Sometimes I think it aint none of us pure crazy and aint none of us
pure sane until the balance of us talks him that-a-way. It’s like it aint so much
226
what a fellow does, but it’s the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he
does it.
As I reread it, I thought about Meg’s supposedly feebleminded mother. This Faulkner
fellow seemed to be on to something in this town.
By four o’clock, even the sleeping porch was smothering under a wet, warm blanket of
air. I’d moved to the back porch when Mrs. Tartt walked out and gasped. “Good heavens, it’s hot
today. Polly, could you?” Like she knew the drill, Polly hoisted the three parlor windows open
and turned the tombstone-shaped radio around on the sill to broadcast outside as well as two
black electric fans. Finally, I felt a few degrees slide off my slick skin.
Mrs. Tartt was quiet in her rocking chair, waiting on Rory and Frances to get home.
Silently, she got up and stripped the brown fronds off a fern by the stairs. She rarely sat out
here—probably because she couldn’t bear the view, which I’d entitled Still Life without
Yardman. Frances didn’t find that funny. Now and then, Mrs. Tartt narrowed her eyes on that
high grass, reminding me of a brooding hen, regal and quiet and determined.
After a while, I heard the front door shut, and Frances came out on the back porch.
“Why’s it so hot today?” she said and sat in the rocking chair next to mine. “I ’bout died walking
around town. I stopped by Neilson’s to look at that red dress in the window.” Ever since Garnett
had worn that red suit for her award, Frances wanted herself one. Rory owed her that allowance,
was what she’d told me last night.
Polly came out with a tray of tomato sandwiches and set them on the wicker table. It was
too hot to eat anything tonight but a tomato. “Thank you, Polly,” Mrs. Tartt said. “You and
Picador can go on home now.” Something more passed between them, unspoken.
227
When Rory’s Studebaker pulled up beside the barn, the sun was still a blazing red ball
over the fields. He trudged through a path in the high grass without seeming to notice it. His
usually too-tight necktie was pulled loose, suit coat off and draped in his hand over his briefcase.
A clump of blond hair had broken loose from his hair tonic and curved down around his right
eye.
Mrs. Tartt said, “Son,” but did not put her cheek out to be kissed.
“God, it’s hot,” he said and instead of pecking Frances on the cheek, Rory leaned back
against the porch rail, facing the three of us. He was smoking a cigarette. I didn’t even know
Rory smoked.
“Pic made tomato sandwiches for supper,” Frances said.
“I’m not hungry yet.” He took a drag and flicked his ash over the rail.
Next to me, Mrs. Tartt said, “Rory. I want to talk to you about something. In the house.”
She started to get up.
Rory set his briefcase down with a thump. “Can’t it wait, Mother? I just got home.”
Mrs. Tartt clutched a magazine in her lap. “No, it cannot. This’s gone on long enough,
son. First you let Mr. Jake go without asking me, and now Pic and Polly say they haven’t been
paid in weeks.” Her red lipsticked mouth was puckered and furious.
Rory sighed. “We discussed it this morning. I told them I forgot—”
“That is not how we do people, Rory. Pic and Polly look after us, and we look after
them—”
“I told them I’d pay them Friday. You don’t need to get in a huff, Mother.”
“Why not just pay them tomorrow? Tuesday, bring it home with you.”
228
“Because I’m working late tomorrow getting numbers ready for my clients in Jackson.”
He’d slurred that, Jachson. I looked over at Frances. She was tapping her foot like she was
waiting her turn to say something.
“Why not pay them Wednesday, then? Why wait til Friday?”
He blinked at Mrs. Tartt like was she dumb? “Because Wednesday’s Polly’s day off and
I’m leaving at the crack of dawn for Jackson before Picador gets in and I won’t be back until
Friday.” He didn’t slur this time. I couldn’t help but wonder—had Frances not told him I was
leaving on Wednesday? “And anyway—”
“Fine, then bring Pic and Polly’s pay home tomorrow night and I’ll get it to them,” Mrs.
Tartt said. Behind her, the radio station had started playing “Honky Tonk Train Blues,” all wrong
with its cheery, bouncy piano.
“And anyway—” Rory’s arm slipped off the rail and he dropped his cigarette in the yard.
He scowled down at it and I thought, He’s drunk. I oughta know. “I’m giving them both
Thursdays off from now on. We don’t need help seven days a week.”
Mrs. Tartt’s blue eyes widened.
“You don’t give my help days off, I do! And I like at least one of them here every day.
Polly gets Wednesdays off, Picador gets Saturday—”
“You can survive one day a week without a maid, Mother.”
At this, Mrs. Tartt started rocking her chair, jutting her chin out. I felt like I ought to go
inside to let them talk in private, but instead I stayed still.
“Well, I think you’re being cheap. Your father was never cheap. He paid our help to
come every day if they wanted the work, and believe me, they’re grateful for it.”
229
“For God’s sake, Mother, do you even look at the newspaper? Do you see what’s going
on in the world? Or is all you think about the spoiled, sheltered life you live? You assume as
long as you’re happy, everyone else must be too?”
“I am very aware of how fortunate we are, son, but just because I assigned you as my
custodian doesn’t mean I don’t get a say in this house. And by the way, don’t think I haven’t
noticed you hadn’t brought my quarterly dividend home yet either.”
“Or my allowance,” Frances added quietly. I’d never heard her take Mrs. Tartt’s side, but
getting money happened to be Frances’s side too. Jesus. It was all our sides.
Rory looked at Frances, stung. The sun behind him had turned him into a silhouette. For a
moment he was blazing around the edges.
“I’ll just have to go withdraw it from the bank myself,” Mrs. Tartt said. She picked up the
Good Housekeeping and fanned herself. “Even though you know I don’t like going in there. The
secretaries look at me like they don’t even know who I am. But I’ll collect my dividend to pay
Pic and Polly with, and then I am going shopping.”
“I need to go too,” Frances added.
“I told you both, please, don’t go buying new things right now,” Rory said. “It looks
awful when people out there can’t even feed their families anymore.” I watched him close, how
could he say that? Didn’t it look worse to fire the yardman and not pay your help of twenty-six
years? And though I felt guilty thinking it, I wondered where did our loan rank on the list?
“But I haven’t bought anything in months,” Frances whined, “except for a pair of
stockings and some cotton gloves—”
“Don’t you tell me how to spend my money, son,” Mrs. Tartt said.
230
“—and there’s this red dress at Neilson’s I really need if you’ll give me my allowance—
that’s two months you’re behind on now.”
The jumpy song was over and now a lonesome, home-on-the-range tune played. I was
embarrassed to be out here listening to this and worried about our own loan. Rory’s round face
looked yellow and sickly as he listened to them. After more whining from Frances about how he
didn’t give her the jewelry she wanted for her birthday, how “that really hurt,” Rory glanced
back at his car looking as trapped as he had that first night. I could practically read his thoughts:
The insistence of my sister’s needs would never cease; at twenty-six, he still lived in his
mother’s house. I knew that trapped feeling, I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.
“So I think I deserve that dress after everything I’ve been through,” Frances said.
Obnoxious, even by her standards.
I was about to go do some dishes that didn’t exist, to give this man one less set of eyes
needling him, when he said, “You know . . . maybe you’re right.” He sounded defeated. “Why
don’t you all go shopping tomorrow, the three of you.” The sun singed the edges of his white
shirt. “I’ll drive you myself in the morning.”
I shook my head to show I was not part of this shopping idea.
“Can we really?” Frances said.
“Get yourself that new dress, Frances. In fact, buy whatever you want. Tell Mr. Lewis to
put it on the account. Mother, if you’ll please wait, I’ll bring your dividend home Friday and I’ll
pay Pic and Polly and be sure and tell them it won’t happen again. They’ll understand.”
She sighed but nodded. “Alright, son.”
Frances was going toward Rory, arms open, but he reached down and stuck another
cigarette in his mouth before she could get to him. As he lit it, she managed to kiss his cheek.
231
“Thank you, darling,” she said, “I’m so excited, and don’t forget—” Frances glanced at
me and said softly, “Birdie leaves on Wednesday. Her train’s at noon.” He nodded, and I felt a
wash of relief.
“Maybe you can meet us on the square for lunch tomorrow after we shop?” Frances
asked. “We don’t have to go anywhere fancy, Buffaloe’s Café’ll do just fine.” I thought about
Meg’s mama coming out here. If they went to lunch, or even shopped after, maybe I could come
back here and talk to her in private.
“I think I’ll come back and work out of the house since it’ll be nice and quiet. So make a
day of it. When you’re done, have Mr. Binny drive you home.”
***
At quarter to ten, Rory drove us to town. He was quiet—and hungover, I assumed. He certainly
smelled like it. Smoking again, he had the little triangle window open, but smoke still curled
inside the car. After last night, no one dared complain. Beside him, Mrs. Tartt was in her
signature ice blue, a washable silk with fussy ruffles, and a matching pillbox hat. On the back,
next to me, Frances frowned down at something.
“Sorry,” I said, following her gaze. I scraped mud off the hem of my blue dress. It sort of
came off. She had on her perfectly pressed navy-blue dress with comfortable black patent leather
Enna Jettick pumps, since she did not intend to lose precious money-spending time due to sore
feet.
“How are you so unaware of how you look?” she whispered, but she sort of smiled.
“Oh I’m not, it’s just that irritating you gives me so much joy.” In truth, I didn’t like mud
on my dress either, but I also knew nobody was looking.
Rory took the curve at the fork fast, gravel pinging the sides of the Studebaker.
232
“Slow down, son, Neilson’s isn’t going anywhere. It’s lasted almost a century and might
last another if they get our business today,” Mrs. Tartt said and chuckled. Rory slowed down to
spark a new cigarette off the old one, but by the Percy mansion, he’d sped back up. This time,
Mrs. Tartt didn’t say anything.
Turning on the square to drive the circular road around it (funny how those worked), we
passed Old Miss Rondo begging on the corner. She always shook her peach can a little more
aggressively when I walked by; people just sensed it about me. In the alley beside Neilson’s, the
long wooden porch rail was full of men waiting on work.
“Can we get something for you today, darling? A shirt or some new ties?” Frances asked,
leaning over the front seat.
“You just concentrate on yourself, Frances,” Rory said, rolling up to the entrance.
Overhead, the sign read Established 1839 The J. E. Neilson Co. Department Store. “Remember
to call Mr. Binny when you’re done.” Frances held her hand out over the seat for cab fare. When
Rory ignored it, she pulled it back without a word. Frances was not about to rock the boat today.
Rory walked around and opened his mother’s door first. As he helped her out of the car,
he kept hold of her white-gloved hand a second longer.
“I’ll see you later, Mama,” he said. There was a softness in his voice.
Mrs. Tartt looked up at him, squinting in the glare. “Is everything alright, son?”
“Everything’s just swell,” he said. He didn’t sound swell, he sounded bitter. “Take your
time shopping, I could use the peace and quiet at home.”
“See you later, darling,” Frances called. All I could say was everything felt off. But it was
probably just me, being too much myself. I followed Frances and Mrs. Tartt under the awning,
over the gray marble landing out front, through a pair of glass doors. For a moment I stopped and
233
just looked. I’d never been inside Neilson’s, and I’d never seen this much merchandise for sale in
one place before. Who did they expect to buy all this, in these times? I wondered. I watched
Frances, head jutted forward, eyes bright and I knew, my sister, that was who.
It was a large room full of bright, dyed colors. The left side, the ladies’ side, was stuffed
with tables of sweaters, racks of dresses, cases of “accoutrements”—all ready-to-wear. An
octopus stand held cloche hats, pillbox hats, slouchy hats, fedoras. On the right was the men’s
department, displaying dark suits and shirts and hats, shoes and socks and bright silk ties. I
decided these people had either an inventory problem or a customer problem or both. By my
count, the total population in here was us, four store attendants, and a man behind a desk, his
head bowed over a book. It was the man I’d seen cleaning the windows weeks ago, who’d given
me the strange look when I’d mentioned Rory. I looked back, but Rory’s car was gone.
“Why, Viktoria, what a nice surprise.” A lady, much older and thinner than Mrs. Tartt,
glided toward us, hands out. She had high distinct collarbones and wore the palest of pinks. She
was probably Meemaw’s age but with more teeth and definitely more manners.
“Miss Ella,” Mrs. Tartt said, clasping the woman’s hands. “It’s always good to see you. I
believe you know my daughter-in-law, Frances, and this’s her sister, Birdie. Birdie, Oxford
wouldn’t be the same without Miss Ella McGuire.” Miss Ella smiled hello, her lips trembling
slightly.
“You must be looking forward to the young folks coming back,” Mrs. Tartt said. And I
remembered, that was why they had so much inventory—the customers hadn’t gotten to town
yet.
“Oh, we are. You know The Miss’ippian said enrollment’s way up this year, thank
heavens.”
234
“Well, it’s about time, after what that scoundrel Bilbo did,” Mrs. Tartt said. “We’re all
glad the school’s finally getting its letters back.” It’d been big news in the paper, that our former
Governor Bilbo had fired all the Ole Miss teachers a few years ago, and the university had lost
its accreditation.
Frances stuck her neck in, she’d had enough chitchat. “Miss Ella, I’d like to try on that
red dress in the window, please.”
“Why, of course. I believe you’re a size . . . two?” Miss Ella nodded over to a young
blond wearing a name tag that said HELLO I’M NELLY.
But Frances wasn’t finished. She looked down at a list she’d made at home titled
Fashions to Get Noticed In, from ideas she’d gotten out of one of her Photoplay magazines. Such
beautiful penmanship for such stupid, stupid words.
“I’ll need a hat to match the dress and a pair of tan heels and some new gloves and
stockings, two silk, two rayon, a plaid skirt, but not a real Ole Missy–looking one, and are you
carrying a blouse with a capelet collar like Heather Angel in Murder in Trinidad?”
Even Mrs. Tartt’s eyebrows went up a little, a mix of disapproving and impressed by
Frances’s gall. I left them and wandered around the store.
I passed a long wooden table stacked with red and blue woolens, Swell Sweaters for the
University Gal!, for three dollars, slim fall dresses like Frances favored for three dollars, six
dollars, some even ten dollars apiece. Here I was, relieved we’d be able to afford heating oil and
cornmeal this winter—and then I stopped at a snowy, winter-white wool coat. Simple black
crewelwork curled around the collar. I felt the sleeve—good Lord, why is that so soft? Was it
made of newborn baby hair? Sewn in the back of the coat, a label said 100% cashmere, and the
235
sign said fourteen dollars. I stroked it again, glancing at the man at the desk, who was watching
Frances trying on hats.
After a while, bored, I cut over to Ladies’ Millinery. Frances already had the red wool
dress on and a red, short-brimmed hat to go with it and was turning side to side in the mirror,
asking Hello I’m Nelly did she like this one or that other?
“That one,” Nelly blurted out. She was already under a mountain of sweaters and dresses
Frances’d picked out. I sure hoped she worked on commission.
“We almost done, Franny?” I asked. Frances looked at me like I’d lost my mind; it’d only
been half an hour. “I’m kidding,” I said. “I’m gonna go send Mama a telegram and tell her the
good news so she won’t worry. I’ll be back.”
“Birdie?” Mrs. Tartt said, coming over. She seemed unsure about something. “Would you
mind coming with me to the bank? I don’t like going in there, but I can’t stand the thought of Pic
and Polly having to wait till Friday.”
“Be happy to,” I said. I could go to Western Union afterward.
“But I can keep shopping, can’t I?” Frances asked. She looked a little panicked.
“Of course, dear. We’ll be back in a little while.”
***
There wasn’t but one bank left in Oxford, down from three or four before the crash, a fact that
my daddy would’ve approved of since fewer banks meant fewer bankers, neither of which he
could stand. Around Footely the general thinking was, Keep your money in your mattress and
take fire insurance on your bed, and most had only ever put money in pants pockets and a Crisco
can. Even Mr. Parkins kept his money in an old Florsheim shoebox up under the counter.
236
I held the heavy oak door of the Bank of Lafayette County open for Mrs. Tartt. We
walked into a long, wood-paneled room, about the length of the Tartts’ grand hall but wider. It
was cooler in here, thank God, and smelled like pocket change, metallic, a little oily, kind of
what you’d imagine a bank robber would smell like.
“Hello, Henry,” Mrs. Tartt said to a life-sized portrait just inside the door to the left, of a
fiftyish-looking, broad-chested Henry Tartt. Then she took a few steps forward and waited,
hands crossed over her front.
Several feet in front of us, a pretty redheaded young lady sat at a desk, writing. Behind
her were several other larger desks with older women secretaries, and along the right wall, three
tellers, all men, stood behind gold-barred windows with a sign overhead that read Now FDIC
Insured. Along the back and left walls were a few offices with glass fronts. Nobody came
forward to greet us.
“Heavens to Betsy, I don’t see a one of Henry’s people here,” Mrs. Tartt said. And then,
to herself, “Nothing but Baptists working here anymore.”
After a few seconds, Mrs. Tartt walked up to the first desk, and the pretty redhead looked
up. “May I help you?”
“I’m Mrs. Henry Tartt,” she said and left it at that.
The young woman’s eyes widened slightly and she stood up. “Oh. How nice to meet you,
Mrs. Tartt. I’ve heard so much about you.”
“Of course you have, dear,” Mrs. Tartt said.
“Alright, um—please follow me.” She led us to some curved wooden chairs near the back
wall of offices. Then she went and whispered to an older lady, and they both looked over at us.
237
We sat down and Mrs. Tartt perched her black shiny pocketbook in her lap and held the
handle tight like a ride.
Sitting in the chairs across from us was a couple on the high end of middle-aged, both
sitting very upright. She had on a sagging hat with a faded purple paper flower pinned to it.
There was a tattered red ribbon on the lapel of his old brown suit, maybe an old war medal of
some kind. I could see the faint whites of his knees through his pants.
“If Rory was in today, we wouldn’t have to wait,” Mrs. Tartt said.
The man across from us pulled a watch chain out of his pocket, then shut his eyes a
second before he tucked it back in. No watch was attached to it anymore. I looked away. Daddy
was probably right, nothing good could happen in this place.
The older couple stood up quickly, watching behind us, and the husband touched the red
ribbon on his lapel, maybe for luck, and I looked back to see a man as tall and barrel-chested as
Henry Tartt, walk out of one of the offices behind me. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with a
soft dusting of short blond hair. He surveyed the four of us in the seating area and said, “I’ll be
right with you, Mr. and Mrs. Davis.” He gave me and Mrs. Tartt what I assumed was a very
well-paid smile.
“Mrs. Tartt,” he said. “I’m Jack Walsh, I don’t think we’ve met.” I stood up, but Mrs.
Tartt stayed seated. “Mr. Allison’s out this morning but he asked me to see to anybody that came
in this morning.” As he shook her hand, the seams of his gray suit coat strained a little. Then he
took my hand. His was big and warm.
“Nice to meet you,” I lied. “I’m Birdie Calhoun.”
“Mr. Walsh, I came to collect my dividend since Rory’s working from home today,” Mrs.
Tartt said. “I’d like it in small bills, please.”
238
He looked from me to Mrs. Tartt. He had the build of a lumberjack, and my guess was
he’d probably have pretty serious back pain later in life. He frowned. “I believe you’ll need to
talk to Rory about that, Mrs. Tartt.”
“But he’s not in today,” she said and smiled. “So I’d like you to help me.”
He nodded. It took him a second to answer. “You would need to wait and speak to Rory
about the dividend.”
“But I don’t want to wait.” Mrs. Tartt smiled harder. “I’d like it now, please.”
Jack Walsh started to say something but reconsidered it. Then: “I’m afraid Rory’s not
employed here anymore, Mrs. Tartt.”
We both stared up at him. Then Mrs. Tartt stood and looked around, maybe for someone
smarter, but gave up. “Rory Tartt,” she said more clearly. “My son works here, but he’s working
from home today.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Tartt was—he was let go, three weeks ago.”
Mrs. Tartt looked at me like Could I please help this man understand what she was
asking?
I said to him, “He was here at work yesterday, Henry Tartt’s son.”
“I’m sorry, but—” He shook his head. “Rory’s been let go.” He pressed his lips together.
“I take it he didn’t tell you?”
Mrs. Tartt leaned back on her heels a little. “You’re not—this doesn’t make any sense.”
Mr. Walsh looked up over our heads and nodded. “Here he is—Mr. Allison just arrived.”
We turned to see a much older man coming through the front door. He was tall but only
half the weight of the lumberjack. When he saw Mrs. Tartt, he sort of startled. Then he took his
hat off and walked toward us. “Viktoria, how good to see you,” he said, clasping her hand. “So
239
good, so good. I hope you’re faring alright out at the house?” He was smiling so hard now he
looked apt to break a tooth, which were thin and yellow, like him.
“Mr. Allison, I came in to collect my dividend, and this man’s trying to tell me Rory was
let go?”
Mr. Allison’s wrinkly neck turned pink. “Please know how sorry we all are that it turned
out this way. We’ve been expecting you to come in for some time now . . .”
It was finally starting to sink in enough for me to give it some credit. They’d fired Rory?
Where the heck had he been these past three weeks?
“But Rory handles our holdings.” Mrs. Tartt’s voice rose a few octaves. “What in the
devil’s going on here?”
“Mrs. Tartt.” She was Mrs. Tartt again. “We thought—we were sure you were aware of
the situation. Please . . .” Mr. Allison licked his lips. “Why don’t you come in my office a
minute, where we can speak in private.”
Mrs. Tartt turned to me, looking astonished. I nodded: This is preposterous. “I’ll be right
here,” I said and watched as he led Mrs. Tartt gently by the elbow into his office and shut the
door. Through the glass I could see Mrs. Tartt lower herself into the chair, tucking her skirt under
her rear. Mr. Allison sat at his desk, facing her. Rory’d been lying to his mother and Frances this
whole time? Every morning after pancakes, he was just, what—driving around town? I
shuddered, thinking of the Studebaker that drove past the fruit truck that morning. I should’ve
told Frances.
Mr. Allison reached across the desk and held Mrs. Tartt’s hands. He looked like he was
telling her a bedtime story.
240
This Jack Walsh fellow had gone back into his own office with the older couple. After
only a few minutes, his door opened and the couple walked out. Their mouths looked sunken,
toothless, their faces ashen. Mr. Walsh escorted them up to the front door and stepped ahead to
hold it open for them as they left. He watched them go before letting it close again.
As he walked back to his office, I stepped in his way. “Can you tell me what’s going on
here? My sister Frances is married to Rory Tartt.” That was my only credential.
“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I—don’t really know.” He rubbed his cheek and it made a
scratchy sound. When he glanced over at Mr. Allison’s office, I studied him close. Golden
stubble was already coming in at eleven in the morning.
“Yes, you do,” I said. “I can tell you do.”
“Ma’am. Miss—”
“Calhoun.”
He considered his response before speaking. “All I can say is the officers here asked it be
kept quiet out of respect for the Tartt family, and considering the—” He stopped short on that. “I,
we all assumed Rory’d told his family.”
It still made no sense. Rory was constantly working. What was he working on? Maybe he
had other prospects or was still handling the family business?
“Does Rory have—” I was a little embarrassed to ask this. “Does he still have bank
clients down in Jackson?”
Jack Walsh let out a low, gravelly sound, not really a laugh, but I found it inappropriate.
“Ma’am we’d be so lucky if somebody in Jackson wanted to deposit money in this bank. Folks
right now don’t have a cent.” Again that dark laugh.
“Well, I’m glad these hard times are so amusing to you, Mr. Walsh.”
241
He looked straight into my eyes. “Oh no, ma’am, I don’t find it amusing at all.” His tone
had turned dead. “This is one of the saddest years of my working life.”
He turned to Mr. Allison’s office. Mrs. Tartt stood up quickly from her chair, and so did
Mr. Allison. She opened the door herself, and he followed her out. She was blinking, an odd,
lopsided smile on her face.
“. . . we have all the papers with your signature, Mrs. Tartt. Eleanor, find the papers—”
Eleanor, the pretty redhead, hurried over to a set of wooden file drawers and pulled open
a high one. On tiptoe, she walked her fingers through the files. Mrs. Tartt set her hand down on
the closest desk, to steady herself. Jack Walsh watched her, standing close, like he was ready to
catch her.
“Rory handled all the accounts, your personal holdings and the family’s,” Mr. Allison
was saying. “Stocks and bonds, you assigned him as such—”
Eleanor laid two folders open on the desk, turning pages fast and noisily. Mrs. Tartt
peered down at one with her handbag dangling from her elbow. “Yes, that’s my signature, but I
had no idea . . .”
“Rory brought home statements to you.” Mr. Allison lowered his voice. “He never
discussed them or the mortgage he took out?”
“He told me we’d lost a fair amount back in ’29 from the crash but said our holdings
were still fine on account of a—a trust Henry’d set up—”
“So you are aware that the mortgage payments are overdue?” At those words, my heart
felt like it stopped.
242
“What?” Mrs. Tartt looked around like she wasn’t sure where she was, a frozen smile still
on her face. “Wait a minute, what about all the land we sold, behind the house? What happened
to that money?”
“There was money from a land sale, yes, there was, but Rory stopped making mortgage
payments, so we required he put a good portion of it down on the principal, and the rest he had to
use to cover his draw in the market.” He picked up a folder and shook it in the air. “He acted
very perilously with his investments—very perilously. He didn’t just lose on the big boys like
most people did—his portfolio was full of risky businesses, silver mines in Mexico, a luxury
cruise liner named Le Fancier, expensive car companies. Nobody in their right mind’s buying
luxury goods right now. We tried to advise him, but he wouldn’t listen.”
“You’re not . . . looking at all the accounts, you can’t be. What’s the total on all these?”
She tap-tapped a page. “Add it up for me, young lady.”
Mr. Allison nodded to Eleanor. She sat down and started adding on a little noisy machine.
While we waited, Jack Walsh ran his hand over his blond hair, thin to where I knew it would
probably be gone in a decade. One day he’d be a bald banker with back pain, but for now he was
still a good-looking man. Eleanor whispered something up to Mr. Allison.
“Thirty-six dollars and fourteen cents.” Overhead, a wooden fan on the ceiling squeaked
in a lazy circle. Mrs. Tartt dipped in the knees, and we all stepped up quick, but I got my arm
under hers first. She looked around her, for somebody, anybody, but all she saw was me. “He
lost it? Is he saying, he lost it all?” Light as dust, those words blew that smile right off her face,
leaving nothing but a red cut of lipstick.
“Let me—I’ll get you a chair,” Mr. Allison said, but she shook her head, leaning on me.
243
