The Truth According to Us by Annie Barrows
Layla sighed. The goose she chased seemed more cooked than ever. “I’m looking for a house,” she began. “The Kerns house.”
Della’s eyes narrowed slightly. “For what?”
Layla attempted to explain. “You see, I’m writing a book about the history of Macedonia, and this”—she tapped the cover of Warriors of Western Virginia—“suggests that the Confederate general Imboden and his men were guests at the home of Mrs. Kerns here on Zackquill Avenue during the winter of 1863. But it’s never been certain, and I was thinking that perhaps I might answer that question if I found the house…” She trailed off. “I don’t know what I expected to find, really.”
Della frowned. “I don’t get it. You wanna know for a book you’re writing—what?”
Layla tried again. “Whether General Imboden stayed in Macedonia in the winter and spring of 1863.”
Della’s frown deepened. “General who?”
“Imboden.”
“You wanna know where he was?”
“Yes. I want to know if he stayed at Mrs. Kerns’s house or not.”
“Why?” asked Della blankly.
Layla licked her lips. “Well, historians argue about it. It’s a historical question. People like to know what the generals were doing.”
Della waited until it was clear that this was the extent of the explanation. Then she snorted. “This is it. The Kerns house.”
Layla looked over the rim of her glass.
Della shrugged. “It is. Daisy Kerns. She ran this place back in the day. Did a real good business, too, during the war, the one between the states. The Kerns house.” She flicked her fingers toward the wall. “This is it.” Involuntarily, Layla’s eyes circled the ugly kitchen and returned to find Della watching her. “Not good enough for a general? Yeah, well, he didn’t mind none, I’ll bet.”
“It was—back then—a—um—Mrs. Kerns was a—” Layla stammered.
“How ’bout lady of the evening?” said Della. “That always sounds nice.”
A most gracious hostess, Mrs. Kerns. General Imboden’s whereabouts. A historical question. A giggle bubbled up in Layla’s throat. “Men!” she exploded.
Della broke into a smile. “You said it, sister! You wanna know what the general was doing? Same as they all do! No historical question about that!” Jungle Gardenia billowed from her as she laughed.
Layla couldn’t stop giggling. “I’m going to put it in my book,” she gurgled. “Most gracious hostess! General Imboden! Mr. Davies will just love it!”
“Parker?” chortled Della. “You’re writing a book for Parker?”
“You know Parker?” hooted Layla.
“Honey, I know everyone,” said Della. She settled herself comfortably in her chair, watching Layla wipe her eyes. “ ’Cept you. You ain’t from here.”
“No. No, I’m from Washington. I’m on the WPA. Federal Writers’ Project. I’m just here to write the history of Macedonia.”
Della made a disbelieving sound. “You’re on relief?”
Layla nodded.
“Yeah?” Della eyed Layla’s dress, dubious. “Huh. Where’re you staying?”
“On Academy Street.” Seeing Della’s expression, she added hastily, “I board.”
“Ohh. Who with?”
“A family by the name of Romeyn.”
“ ‘A family by the name of Romeyn,’ ” mimicked Della. “I know the Romeyns, honey. Remember, I know everyone.” She gave Layla a combative look. “I grew up here.”
“Oh. I see,” said Layla, primly uninquisitive.
Della crossed her arms. “Yeah, I was a kid once, just like you. Just like Felix and that sister of his with the funny name. Kids are kids. They don’t care about what your mama does; they just want to play. Don’t have a heart attack, sister, but sometimes I even played with Felix. Him and Vause Hamilton.” She smiled suddenly. “Those two were the devil’s own, I’ll tell you.”
“Oh yes?” In spite of herself, Layla leaned in.
“Yeah-huh. Things they’d do! Once I saw ’em in the middle of the night climbing up to the roof of the pool hall. Felix, he saw me watching and yelled down how they was going up there to pray. I almost died laughing.” Della shook her head in happy memory and added conversationally, “I don’t think he killed Vause. That never made no sense to me. Why would Felix burn down his own daddy’s mill and kill his best pal?” She caught sight of Layla’s face. “What?”
38
After the dramatic episode at the mill, I was prepared for some excitement to ensue. But it didn’t. I had to make my own fun. One hot afternoon, I was out on the porch, pretending to read The Master of Jalna but really listening to Miss Beck tear around the house in a frenzy.
Finally she burst out the screen door, wild-eyed.
“Why, Miss Beck!” I said, glancing up from my book in surprise. “You look fit to be tied.”
She gripped at her curls. “Oh, Willa, I am! I’m supposed to be at Mrs. Lansbrough’s and Jottie’s gone and I can’t find my map!”
That was because I’d hidden it.
“I’ll show you the way,” I said, positively dripping with loving kindness. “I’ve been there plenty of times.”
“Bless you,” sighed Miss Beck. “I don’t know what I’d do without you.”
It was a bear of a walk in the dead heat, but I didn’t really mind. I was willing to suffer as long as I could make Miss Beck suffer, too. When we got to Mrs. John’s house, I decided to take the opportunity to torture her as well, and I kept right next to Miss Beck while she rang the doorbell.
“Miss Beck? So glad to meet you at—” Mrs. John broke off and frowned at the sight of me plastered right up against Miss Beck’s side. “Did Mother call you?”
“No, ma’am.”
Miss Beck put her hand on my shoulder. “Willa is my Indian scout, Mrs. Lansbrough. She showed me the way here.”
“Isn’t that sweet?” said Mrs. John, sucking her teeth.
I smiled like a big crocodile. “May I pay a call on Mrs. Bucklew, Mrs. John? I’d feel real bad if I was here and I didn’t visit with her.”
She couldn’t say no, right there in front of Miss Beck, but I could tell she wanted to. “I’m sure Mama’ll be thrilled to bits,” she muttered. “You run on up there.” She waggled her hand in the direction of the stairs. “Now, Miss Beck, why don’t we set right down here in the parlor?” That was where she kept all her needlepoint cushions and things.
“Lovely,” murmured Miss Beck. She drew off her gloves and turned to look through the arched door. “Such a lovely room! Don’t tell me you made all these?”
Mrs. John tinkled a laugh. “I confess to a passion for needlework!”
Miss Beck tinkled right back. “I’m all admiration, Mrs. Lansbrough. My word! Look at these wonderful cushions!”
They were exclaiming away when I reached Mrs. Bucklew’s door and knocked. There wasn’t any answer, but Mrs. John wouldn’t’ve said to come up if her mama wasn’t there, so I knocked again. Still nothing. After a few more tries, I put my hand on the knob and turned it gently.
Mrs. Bucklew was lying across her bed, fast asleep. She was even snoring a little. I deliberated. Normally, I wouldn’t dare wake a grown-up—except Jottie, who was always real nice about it—but Mrs. Bucklew was different. She could sleep anytime, and she didn’t get much company. I leaned over and rocked her shoulder a little. She didn’t so much as stir, but now I knew why. She smelled of Four Roses whiskey. I looked around for the bottle, but I couldn’t see it. I drifted over to her bureau. It had a mirror on it, also a little paper box of Coty’s powder, and a picture of a man I figured must be Mr. Bucklew. He was seated next to a marble column and he looked real put out about it. I wandered around—I didn’t open any drawers, but I looked at the things she had. There wasn’t much. A Bible. A cane, though I’d never seen her use one. A dusty candy box.
Mrs. Bucklew let out a long, snorty sigh. I watched her for a while, thinking about all the people who w
When I opened the door, it squeaked a little, but I heard no pause in the conversation below. I walked as quiet as I could to the stairs, and then I edged down until I got to the last step they couldn’t see from the parlor. I sat.
Mrs. John was talking. “…can’t take it up in any serious way, what with the press of business, but he’s just as interested as he can be. He reads all these big old books and collects—why he’s just a pack rat, that’s what he is! I say to him, John, honey, you’re going to have to move me out if you buy one more book, but he just does it anyway.”
“It’s quite a collection,” said Miss Beck.
“We had a professor from West Virginia University to dinner not two months ago, and you know what he said?”
“What’s that?”
“He said he hoped John would bequeath his books to the library there! I thought it was a tiny bit morbid, but John was as pleased as punch.”
“I’m sure.”
“Now, these are the books—and other things—about Macedonia, right over on this side. The newspapers are such a nuisance, falling to bits, and who ever wants to read an old newspaper? I say, John, it isn’t news once it’s old, but, well—he doesn’t listen to me!”
“What’s The Hellene?” asked Miss Beck.
“Oh, those. Those are yearbooks. My husband’s high school yearbooks. I don’t know what happened to mine.”
“Really? How fascinating!”
“Mine would be much later, of course.”
“This one is—what? Oh, 1917. My. Can I peek?”
“Yes, of course.”
“Now, show me. Which one is Mr. Lansbrough?”
“Well. Let’s see. John was secretary of his class that year—I guess he’s always been interested in things like history, isn’t that funny?”
“Mmm.”
“Here he is.”
“Oh, yes. Doesn’t he look dashing?”
“And he played football, of course. Let’s see.” Pages riffled.
“Ah. Yes. Is this him?”
“No. That’s Tyler Bowers.” Mrs. John giggled. “He’s just as fat as a roll of butter now, isn’t that something? John’s that one.”
“Oh, yes, I see.” Then Miss Beck’s voice went up a tiny bit. “Who’s this?”
“That? That’s Vause. Vause Hamilton.”
“Vause Hamilton.” Her voice was still high. I listened hard. “Seems to me I’ve heard that name a couple times before.” She was lying. She was pretending that she didn’t know who he was, when she did.
“Well, I reckon you would. General Hamilton was the founder of Macedonia, of course.”
“Yes,” Miss Beck said in a hurry. “Yes, of course, but Vause Hamilton—I’ve heard of him.”
“His father shares his name. Poor old Mr. Hamilton. He’s still alive, but you know—” I imagined she was tapping her head. “He’s a little touched,” she whispered.
“Is that right? Why is that?” She was still lying, I could tell. She wasn’t like me. She wasn’t a natural.
“Vause—this one here—died, and he just never got over it. Poor old thing.”
There was a pause. “He looks like a handsome boy.” What was she after?
“Oh my, yes, he was handsome as a god. I was much younger, of course, but I knew easily a dozen girls who were crazy about him.”
Miss Beck had a smile in her voice. “Good athlete, I suppose?”
“Oh, goodness, Vause took one record after another! Football, basketball, track, everything. And he was the nicest boy, just the nicest boy in the world.”
Mae and Minerva had said that exact thing about him. Mrs. Fox, too. Vause Hamilton must have been pretty nice. For a while, anyway.
“I bet he had lots of friends, then, didn’t he? Was he a friend of your husband’s?”
“Well…” Mrs. John paused. “Yes. Vause was the president of the class, so of course, he and John had a lot to do with each other. For dances and things.” She paused again. “Of course, Vause spent a great deal of time with your—I don’t know what you’d call him. Landlord?” She laughed. “Anyway, Felix. They were old friends.”
“Oh, do you know Felix?”
“Not really. I was so much younger. I knew of him, of course.”
“Famous, was he?”
Mrs. John kind of laughed. “Yes. Of course. Felix and Vause, Vause and Felix. They were inseparable. Until—well, you know.”
“What?”
“Until Vause died.”
“Oh? How did he die?”
Mrs. John gave a little groan that sounded real. “He died in a fire. The poor boy.”
“Why, that’s just tragic!” Miss Beck said, real sympathetic. “Was it his house that burned down?” The liar! She knew he’d burnt down the mill, because I’d told her so.
“The mill. The fire was at the mill. He came back from the Great War—he and Felix had signed up together, but Vause caught flu while he was in France, so he was late coming home. But he came back and he was home for—I don’t know.” Mrs. John sounded like she was telling it to herself. “And then he died. He got caught in that fire and died.” She groaned again. “I wailed when I heard. I just wailed.”
“Terrible,” said Miss Beck softly.
“Terrible,” Mrs. John agreed.
“Did he work at the mill?”
Mrs. John snorted. “Vause? Vause was no mill worker.”
“I thought maybe in management.” Miss Beck spoke smooth as butter.
“Oh. No. That was Felix.”
“What was he doing at the mill, then? You know, when it caught fire.”
“Supposedly he was stealing money from the safe,” Mrs. John snapped. “Which is ridiculous, because Vause wasn’t any kind of thief. He just wasn’t.”
“But he was there? When it caught fire?” pressed Miss Beck.
“There were plenty of reasons why he might be there! Honestly. He and Felix were like this.”
“Oh, was Felix there, too?” Miss Beck’s voice went up. She wanted to find out something about my father. I held my breath. “At the fire?”
I could hear Mrs. John hesitate. “No. No, apparently he wasn’t. I don’t know. There was a big to-do about it. He was at Tare Russell’s playing pool that night.”
“Tare Russell’s?” Miss Beck sounded surprised. Why would she be surprised? People played pool. Lots of people did.
“Have you met Tare? He’s a funny old thing, but oh my, you should see his house! That man has I don’t know how many historical things. He collects them.”
“Yes, but tell me—what, exactly, was the big to-do?”
I could have told her she was pushing too hard, trying to make Mrs. John talk about things she didn’t want to talk about. “Oh. Well, after the funeral”—Mrs. John sounded vague—“lots of people didn’t believe that Vause had been up to anything, you know, wrong. There could’ve been a perfectly good explanation for him being there—maybe he was trying to put the fire out. And the money, too: Maybe he just found it. And it didn’t even matter. To plenty of people, it didn’t matter. It was just too bad.” She sighed. “There were hundreds of people at the funeral. John was one of his pallbearers. There were twelve. Pallbearers.”
“Twelve,” repeated Miss Beck.
“The church couldn’t hold all the people. We didn’t care, nobody cared what he’d done—and it didn’t make sense. Everyone went anyway…” Her voice drifted off. “Because it was Vause.”
She was talking to herself again.
“It must have been heartbreaking,” murmured Miss Beck. “Did he have a girlfriend?”
“A girlfriend?” Mrs. John’s voice stiffened up. “Vause Hamilton? No. Well, some people said he was going with Jottie—”
“Jottie?” Miss Beck squeaked. I thought of the picture of Jottie inside that jacket, and my heart beat fast.
“But tha
“What about Felix?” asked Miss Beck quickly.
“Wasn’t there,” said Mrs. John. “Did not attend.”
“Oh. Well. I guess since the mill belonged to his—well, it must have been a shock.”
“I suppose so.” Mrs. John sounded hard. She was back to normal. “Now, how did we end up on that? Goodness! Talk about history! What I wanted to show you is right over here. John bought it last—oh, I guess it must have been March—off one of those Spurlings—they’ve come down in the world, let me tell you. See?”
“Mmm,” said Miss Beck. “Is it—isn’t that Prince Street? Oh, I see—Spurling Square.”
“Painted in the year 1872.” You’d think Mrs. John had painted it herself.
“How interesting,” Miss Beck said.
“I knew you’d think so!”
I slipped back up the stairs and stood outside Mrs. Bucklew’s room, trying to figure out what Miss Beck wanted. Something about Father, it was clear. Something about him and that fire. What was it? She’d asked whether he was there. Why would he be? If he’d been there, he would have stopped Vause from starting it. Miss Beck was a tricky one. Sometimes I thought she was in love with Father, and sometimes I thought she suspected him of something. She was devious. Father was lucky, though, because he had me, and I was keeping watch over him.
I opened the door. Mrs. Bucklew was still asleep, stretched out on her bed, but she had rolled over so that her face was pressed into her bedspread. I slipped into her room and sat down in her chair, to think.
39
On the other side of town, Jottie passed expertly among the gravestones of the cemetery, weaving through names she had known all her life, until she arrived at her own. Romeyn. James. Forrest. Helen Arantha. St. Clair. Caroline. Charles Loy.