Fleetie's Crossing Read online

  On the walk up the hill, Fleetie ordered us ahead of her. “I can’t think one clear thought with all your jabbering,” she said. “Get on up the hill and give my ears a rest.”

  As she fell silent, Leatha and I ran ahead and left her with her head down, a deep frown dividing her brow. Most of the women in the valley wore the same half-sad, half-scared look. At the top of the hill, she walked around the house and, just below the kitchen windows, stopped and took a long look down the valley. Standing there, you could see the curving river, the county road, and the small village across the way. This was her view when she was a child. Her aunt Myrtle and her uncle John once lived in the house. She stood there for a minute to catch her breath, while both of us waited with her. She finally turned and walked the flagstone path to the back door and knocked. I stepped ahead of her and pushed open the back door. Mother had seen us and was waiting just inside.

  Before I could say a word, Fleetie blurted out, “Kathleen, would you mind to come to Geneva’s baby shower?”

  There was a broad and obvious gap between Fleetie’s mountain raising and my somewhat refined mother. She always said she didn’t fit at Fleetie’s gatherings, and I saw her force a smile to hide her dread of another miserable afternoon. The women were unfailingly polite, but Mother’s attendance would dampen the laughter and fun of the party. They all acted too conscious of faded dresses, run-over shoes, and work-roughened hands. Not a single one of them would have said that Mother ruined the party, but they did think she was “quair.” She didn’t put on airs, she wasn’t fancy, and she was soft and gentle, but she was different. They knew it and let themselves feel judged.

  “Oh, Fleetie, I don’t know. When is it? I may have to help Ed at the office.”

  “Saturday afternoon at two o’clock. We would be purely pleased for you to be there.”

  You could tell it took real effort for Fleetie. She tried hard to say the right words now that she had gotten the nerve to ask. The air was sticky with her effort. I stood there with my fingers crossed behind my back, knowing how a turndown would shame Fleetie. I could just hear Burl’s mean laugh taunting her foolishness. He never had a care for Fleetie’s feelings—wouldn’t ever either, I could tell.

  “When is Geneva’s baby due, Fleetie? Seems like she just had the twins last month.”

  She was stalling. Mother had told me that with Fred on strike and Geneva ready to deliver her third child in sixteen months, their situation was desperate. How the neighbor women were going to scrape out gifts from their meager reserve was a mystery. Given half a chance, Mother would have carried in armloads of things we had outgrown. But as little as she knew about how to make friends with the women in the settlement, she did know that playing Lady Bountiful would ruin it forever. After you earned their loyalty, mountain people took it with them to the grave, but on the other hand, they would refuse to forgive with the same passion. Forgiveness might take as long as fifty years; a quarrel can last that long or even longer. Moonshining and murder in a righteous cause were lesser offenses, but lying and puffed-up pride would bring the wrath down.

  It was beginning to look like it was going to be years before Mother would ever understand the innate dignity of the women in the valley. As she told it, her Bluegrass people used wealth and land to size up one’s place in the social scheme of things. With little material wealth to measure, mountain kin settled on other standards. A big garden, early rising, a clean swept yard, good manners, a soft voice, clear moonshine, a good aim, and well-trained hounds were traits found in the respectable members of the clan. Could you kill a snake? Were you honest with your neighbor? Did you take care of your own? Or were you prissy, a put-on, a drunk? Were your kids’ clothes dirty, your sugar jar empty, and your fence so poor, it wouldn’t hold your milk cow? This was how judging went in the mountains, not much like counting out stacks of dollar bills.

  “Them twins is just over a year old. She is gonna have a mess of babies in that house in a week or two. I worry about her some. She’s not strong like she oughta be with all she has on her. She makes me uneasy.”

  “Less than a month? Poor child. I suppose Fred gives her a lot of help?”

  Fleetie clamped her hand over her mouth and smothered a laugh. Fred Clement had never known a minute of woman’s work and never would. Mother didn’t seem to reckon on how it was.

  “Fred’s never been much of a hand around the house. Mammy spoiled him pretty good. But all us is trying to help out ’fore it gets here. Burl don’t know it, but I’m seeing to it that he’s puttin’ her up a new clothesline. Susanny has went and got a new zanc tub. Dolly has found rubber pants over at Middlesboro. Did you ever? You don’t have to bring something new. Just any old thing you might have left from your own babies would do. Do you think you might come?”

  Mother gave up. She must have sensed the urgency, even though you could not hear it from our matter-of-fact salt-of-the-earth neighbor. “Thank you for inviting me. I’ll be pleased to come. What can I do to help you?”

  I uncrossed my fingers.

  Fleetie blushed red. “Oh, that’s all right. I’ll put the young’uns to the mopping and cleaning. It’s nothin’ they can’t knock off real quick.”

  Mother had run smack into the wall again. The day had not yet come when these two women could sweep each other’s floors. Their friendship was tied up with competing rules of what was proper and seemly to say or do. It was not an easy foundation for a relationship, but somehow, the two women managed to cross enough of the gap to care for each other. Kids covered some of the barriers, but even there, you couldn’t help but see the differences. The Sargeant children could never come up the hill unless invited. Never go into the house. Never ask for a Band-Aid or accept lemonade and cookies. Never leave a mess in the yard. Never call her Kathleen—especially strange to Mother since they all used Daddy’s first name.

  “Where are my manners? Please come in, Fleetie. I want to show you the matching dresses I am sewing for the girls.”

  Fleetie hesitated as usual when she was on our doorstep. Some paths just naturally seemed to stop at the door, and others led right to the kitchen table. Fleetie always stopped at the porch. She hesitated for a minute as she pulled her gray shawl closer around her and turned to leave.

  Mother seized on the tiny pause. “Could you help me just a minute? I need another pair of eyes to help me decide how deep to take the smocking. I usually get it too shallow. Just one look?”

  “Yes, I will be glad to look at the smocking. It is easy to misjudge. Once, I was smocking and got sleepy and forgot how far down I had gone and about near smocked the whole front of the apron. It turned out pretty, but law, that was a lot of work. I could have done two aprons for it. Pretty soon, I’d better get on back down the hill. I hate to leave the young’uns in the house when the stove is hot, but I reckon I can step in just a minute.”

  Fleetie wiped her feet about twice as long as needed before she stepped into the house that seemed such a marvel to her. Leatha had told me that her mother said if times turn good, this house was exactly what she wanted her own house to be. It was simple enough, but everything in it seemed just right—soft rugs, puffy white curtains, crisp slip covers, and little pretties sitting comfortably at home on tables, shelves, and bookcases. She told Leatha that the place always took her by surprise. It had been not much more than a shotgun when her uncle lived in it with two porches, a stove in the front room, rough-hewn wood floors, a pump in the kitchen, and solid shutters at the windows that let in precious little light.

  Mother had the soft dimity dress spread out on the kitchen table. The smocking was well on its way, and for a moment, Fleetie let her hands run through the soft buttercup folds spilling across the table, looking for all the world like billowing silk.

  “Law’ me, Kathleen, look at that. You couldn’t be laid out in nothin’ finer,” she said.

  “My aunt in Lexington sent me the
cloth for Easter outfits. It’s a simple pattern. That’s why I wanted to do the smocking. It adds a little frill for trim. There is a lot of the material left. What do you think if I made the baby a dress and matching quilt?”

  Fleetie paused a long time. “Geneva would just downright cry, but Saturday is right on us. You might not have time to do a quilt.”

  Mother fell silent. “What if I tied it instead? I could tie it with tiny yellow bows instead of heavy string or yarn.”

  “I never seed that done. Would it hold good?”

  “No, it wouldn’t hold for much washing. It would just be a quilt for church or a party.”

  Fleetie stared at Mother. I wondered how Mother thought Geneva would ever walk the two miles to church, carrying her new baby wrapped in a fancy quilt and pulling the twins along with her. Fleetie probably wanted to ask Mother to give Gen some hand-me-down receiving blankets instead, but asking anything came hard for Fleetie. Anybody would know that Geneva would love the dress and quilt a lot more than a plain old tub or clothesline.

  Fleetie laughed a nervous laugh I had never heard before. “She’ll be proud. Probably won’t ever let the baby use it though. Geneva is one to save back.”

  “Saving back is not all bad. You never know when there will be a call for something special, and having a little extra hidden away can come in handy,” said Mother.

  Fleetie took a long measuring look at the smocking and added, “I ’spect about three more rows would be just about right, don’t you?”

  “Oh good, I don’t mind smocking, but it is slow work. I have about worn out my thimble. Would you sit down and have a cup of tea? The girls can have some ginger ale and cookies. It’ll give us a little lift before we have to get supper on the table.”

  It was one thing to help measure smocking length, but passing time over a cup of tea was different. Fleetie was a proud woman, and she was careful not to step beyond the rigid, unspoken customs. She had stepped through Mother’s door unbidden. To stay beyond just a scant few minutes to carry out the necessary errand was simply not done.

  “I better get on back. Thank you kindly. We’ll be seein’ you come Saturday. Come on, Leath. Tell Mrs. Ramsey you had a nice time.”

  Leatha squeezed my hand. I knew she wanted to sit down and have a drink and cookies, but Fleetie’s fear that she had already overstayed took them out the door. She gave a quick wave and hurried around the house and down the long dirt road.

  Mother stood in her front window and watched Fleetie until her white bonnet disappeared down the grade. She said, “I’ll have to remember that if I mention tea, she’s gone! Next time, I’ll pour the cups first without asking.”

  I helped Mother fold the dress and fabric and put them away. “I’ll finish Janey’s dress later. I better start on the baby dress right now if I am going to get it and a quilt finished in time. You know, it’s been more than three years now since I did Logan’s layette. It’s going to feel good to have baby stitching to do again.”

  “Why is it better than making dresses for me now that I’m bigger?” A twinge of jealousy wormed itself to the back of my mind.

  “A new baby brings so much promise. Will it have blue or brown eyes? Will it be happy and curious, active or colicky, maybe have curly hair or straight? Just a world of things to think about with every stitch.”

  “It doesn’t look like much fun. I’d rather climb a tree after apples or mistletoe,” I said.

  “Grown-ups play different as we get older. Someday not too far away, you’ll see.” Someday was her favorite word for me.

  Chapter 3

  THE PARTY

  On Saturday afternoon, as Mother and I walked down the dirt driveway, the sky seemed heavier than usual. From high on our hill, we could see the guests coming to the party by four different paths. Mary Middleton walked down the creek bed on our side of the mountain. The cousins from Tunnel Hill were walking on the county road. The valley women were on the railroad tracks, and there was even a tiny rowboat carrying Susanna and Dolly across the drought-stricken river. They landed on the bank right behind the Sargeant house. None of us paid any attention to the threat of rain.

  Any kind of get-together or party was a rare treat in the midst of the strike fury and tension. The men walked the picket line and vented their frustration with threats, fights, and curses. But the women, for the sake of the kids, did their best to hide their fear. The kids knew better, but their mothers still worked to keep up what passed for normal.

  The march a few days back frightened everybody in the valley. Daddy somehow managed to keep the killing at bay that time, but we all knew the danger was not over. It would only be a matter of time before the fear and anger would boil over again. The weight of what the next battle could bring hung over the valley.

  It seemed that all of us managed to arrive at almost the same time. When Mother and I stepped inside the front door, everyone was talking and answering at the same time. Laughter and teasing filled the room, and we greeted one another like long-lost kin.

  Geneva took the presents with a wide smile. “Oh, Kathleen, you didn’t have to bring nothing, but thank you kindly.”

  Mother probably fretted too much about ruining the party because all the women were enjoying themselves, and while no one talked directly to her, they all talked plenty loud to one another.

  Leatha and I sat on the floor in front of the sofa to save room for the overflow of company. It positioned us right where we could take in all the gossip and fun. Fleetie acted as nervous as a trapped cricket and rushed out with her box of games just as everyone was finding a seat. The first game required that we unscramble words directly connected to new babies. There were giggles over the easy ones like nettibass for bassinet and groans over alumrof for formula. The list was long, and we soon began to peek at one another’s papers. Mother was a great source for answers. I was the only one in the room who knew she was at her happiest when she was in her world of words. So it was just natural that the answers to the games would fly from her tongue and pen. I could tell she didn’t even try to cover her paper, and she puzzled the words aloud, so more than a few of her answers slipped out. She was so generous, even Leatha and I got most of them untangled. There were lots of ties. The prize, a pint of Fleetie’s coveted pickle relish, was won by guessing a number. Fleetie’s sister Hattie picked fifty-eight, their mother’s age, and won the prize.

  Hattie was the exact opposite of Fleetie. Her hair was as straight as Fleetie’s was curly, with Fleetie short and Hattie tall. The only way you could tell they were sisters was by the dip of their brown eyes. It made them look sadder than they ever told.

  Fleetie was so pleased with how the first game worked out, she would give us no rest. She had us forming little words out of longer words, rhyming funny rhymes, and making lists of baby names and relatives now long dead. As soon as one game was over, she pushed us to start another.

  Finally, Geneva rebelled. “Fleetie, I’m plum tuckered with games, and so is everyone else.”

  “You know better.” Fleetie laughed and picked up her old bassinet now filled with bright packages. “If you won’t play, then you can get to work and open all these pretty presents!”

  Leatha and I moved so we could squeeze close to Gen. As each present was opened, almost the same words rolled out. “That’s so pretty. I remember when Tressie wore that for her first Christmas. You will get a lot of good out of that. Diapers—can’t have too many of those.” Each gift brought on a chorus of expected polite and correct comments.

  As the pile got smaller, the noise level got louder, and Geneva reached for the last gift, Mother’s large yellow package. Gen slipped off the wide ribbon and tried hard not to tear the shiny wrapping paper. Since we were in on the surprise, Fleetie, Leatha, and I hung even closer to Gen. I almost held my breath. Sure enough, when the top came off the box, Geneva caught her breath, and tears filled her eyes.
/>   She lifted the tiny baby gown trimmed with delicate cut lace, embroidery, and almost invisible smocking stitches. The room was quiet as Geneva unfolded the shimmering quilt. A wide satin ribbon framed the coverlet, and each square was tied with a tiny yellow bow with an embroidered bloom in the center of each knot. The care and workmanship that had been poured into the gift silenced everyone in the room, including Fleetie. I swear I could hear the clock in the bedroom ticking. No one stirred or even looked up.

  Mother had done it again. To be as smart as she was, it was a pity she didn’t seem to use good common sense sometimes. The quality and beauty of the gift put all the rest of the presents to shame. The aunts and cousins had given the best they could share, and the condemning silence in the room made my ears throb.

  Geneva finally and blessedly broke it. “Kathleen, this is the prettiest baby gown I ever saw. You make the littlest stitches there ever was. I love it. I never saw a quilt tied with ribbons. It is just beautiful.”

  “Thank you, Geneva. I had the material left over from some sewing I was doing for the girls.”

  The uneasy silence lengthened. Oh lordy, my poor mother! Not only was the gift more expensive both in labor and cost than all the others, but she also put it down as being made from scraps from her kid’s clothes. Why didn’t she know better than to show up the others by overdoing?

  Mother didn’t seem to have any notion about how important it was to avoid “the slightest hint of putting on.” It just came natural to us kids. If you were called a “put-on,” no one would be caught dead talking to you. It was a lesson ingrained from birth. Mountain-borns never make such a mistake.