There Is a River Page 5

  It was not long before even what Janson called “long sweetening” could hardly be found. Syrup was bought up, and even sorghum and molasses. In so many ways there was a sense of pulling together in the County, of everyone working to try to help in the war effort, that Elise could not help feeling guilty as she drank her unsweetened coffee and prayed the equivalent of an Old Testament pestilence of ants to infest the sugar of all those who were hoarding—but she knew she was not the only one to complain; there suddenly seemed to be complainers in every walk of life. Farmers did not want a reduction of farm prices; storekeepers did not want price ceilings; labor did not want wages frozen; most ordinary citizens thought price fixing was not drastic enough; and no one wanted rationing—but they were doing it for the war effort, and winning the war was what was important to almost everyone.

  To Elise, it was not just winning the war, and it was not just ridding Judith of the nightmares of the mill village being bombed, nightmares that blackout curtains and time had only worsened, it was getting it all over with before things could get bad enough for Janson to be called. He had had to register with the Selective Service near the end of 1940, but, being over the age of twenty-seven, and being a father, had kept him out of it thus far—but what if it kept going? she found herself wondering as she lay awake almost every night. Men between the ages of forty-five and sixty-four had already been required to register with the Selective Service at the end of April, in the fourth national Selective Service registration—if men that age were now required to register, how much longer would it be before fathers Janson’s age lost the III-A classification that kept them from being inducted?

  Even worse was the thought that came into her mind when she looked at her tall son as he turned fourteen on the next to the last Saturday in June that year—what if it kept going long enough to take Henry.

  Dorrie Keith slowly cleared the kitchen table on a Friday afternoon in early fall of that year, placing upturned plates on top of bowls of vegetables and putting them away in the refrigerator. She had cooked too much. She always cooked too much these days, with no one but her and Clarence in the house. All of her boys were gone now, Wheeler James lost at Pearl Harbor, Pete and Steven both in the Army, and Jerry volunteered for the Navy. All her boys gone, and the house was so unbelievably empty.

  Clarence came into the room and kissed her cheek. “What’re you gonna do with all them vegetables?” he asked.

  Dorrie sighed. “I was thinkin’ I’d carry th’ squash t’ Lynette, an’ maybe th’ beans t’ Elise an’ Janson.”

  He nodded and began to pull on his jacket.

  “You goin’ t’ th’ civil defense meetin’?”

  “Yeah, I’ll be home soon as it’s over.”

  He kissed her cheek again and headed out of the room. She watched him go, hearing the screen door slam shut behind him as he left the house, then she turned back to her clearing of the table, forcing the worry from her mind. Clarence had had to register with the Selective Service at the end of April, along with all the other men his age and older, men who ought to be thinking about grandchildren and old age, and not being called to fight in a war. It did not matter that the government said men his age would never be called into combat—she had already lost one son in service to her country, had three more in the service. She was terrified now they would take her husband as well.

  She finished putting the food away in the refrigerator and closed the door, then stood staring at it. She had wanted an electric refrigerator so badly, and Clarence had finally bought one for her no more than weeks before war broke out, replacing the old icebox she had used since she and Clarence first married—but now she missed that old icebox, with its handles worn smooth from children’s hands. She missed the daily visits of the iceman who now passed by their house in his truck. She could remember how in the summer when the boys were little, they would run out to the ice wagon as soon as it was on their street, to get chips of the ice as a treat from the iceman. Wheeler James had usually been the first one there, leaving the shade of the front porch of the mill house with his finger in a book to mark his place. Wheeler James had never gone anywhere without a book. He had never—

  Wheeler James—

  She choked back tears and turned away from the refrigerator. Her first-born son was dead now, and there was nothing she could do to bring him back.

  What else could be asked of her in the war effort? She had already given what was dearest to her heart.

  The house was so silent without the sound of boys’ voices as she moved from the kitchen into the middle room of the house. She had found herself wishing lately she were young enough to have another baby, several babies. But they would probably be boys and a war would come along and take them as well. She was glad she would never have a girl. Men could go off and fight wars, but women were left behind to put back together the pieces of whatever world they had shattered at the time. Women were left to clean up the mess.

  And to bury them too often.

  Dorrie was afraid now she might never have grandchildren. All four of her sons had left sweethearts at home, Wheeler James a fiancé. If he had only married Lynette before he shipped out, then there might have been a grandchild. He had felt the war would come, and had not wanted to leave a widow and family behind, and so they had not married—but he had left them behind anyway. A grandchild would have meant so much to her and Clarence, and it would have been a comfort to Lynette. As it was, there was nothing left to them of Wheeler James but memories.

  Dorrie moved slowly through the middle room and into the front one in their half of the mill house, too tired to sit still, and too tired to work. She had pulled down doubles every day this week until the overseer had sent her home, telling her to rest—but she could not rest, any more than could any woman in the village who had sent even one son off to the war.

  She sighed and went out on the porch in the cool, early darkness, then sat in a rocker to watch people move about on the street as she set the chair in motion slowly back and forth. She was soon chilled, but she could not make herself get up to go back into the house for a sweater.

  Children ran and played in a yard across the way.

  Young girls walked arm-in-arm down the road.

  A young man passed in uniform, and she watched him until he left her sight.

  On the window behind her was all that was left to her of her sons, a flag bearing stars. Three blue, one each for Pete, Steven, and Jerry, and a gold one that stood in the place of Wheeler James.

  “That’s outrageous!” Helene Price said on an afternoon in February of 1943 as she stood in the living room of her daughter’s home, staring into the arrogant face of her son-in-law.

  “That’s the price for sugar without ration stamps; take it or leave it,” Buddy Eason said, returning her stare.

  Helene looked to where her daughter sat on the nearby sofa applying red nail polish to her fingernails, but Cassandra did not even acknowledge her presence. Helene had bragged openly only that morning in Fluellen’s Grocery—after all, she could not shop in McCallum’s in the village any longer, not now that she was Buddy Eason’s mother-in-law—that she could get whatever she wanted, rationing or not, shortages or not, war or not. And she could—she only had to pay the price, just as did everyone else. Since the war began, she had had to do without few things. The money she could extract from her husband—even when Bert said they could not afford it—along with the connections she had through her daughter’s marriage to Buddy, had allowed her to buy sugar without rationing stamps, meats when grocers told others that they were unavailable, butter, cigarettes—it just took money.

  Helene bragged to anyone who would listen of how wise she had been to store a supply of things she had believed would become shortened or unavailable—and it was not hoarding, she told herself. It was only being smart, looking after yourself because no one else would look after you. She had told no few p
eople that her son-in-law could get her anything she wanted, and that Buddy was happy enough to do it for her—she just did not tell anyone that he did not do it out of respect for her and love for her daughter, as he should, but because Helene paid him, just as did everyone else.

  “You didn’t charge me that much two weeks ago.”

  “Prices are going up, haven’t you heard?—and the OPA can’t put price ceilings on the black market.” He smirked at her—he actually smirked, she was certain of it—one side of his mouth rising in a tight, little half-smile that made her furious.

  “Well, I won’t pay it!”

  “Suits me fine.”

  He turned away, shrugging in an off-hand manner, as if her clear stand on common principle did not matter to him.

  “If you don’t want to pay the price, other people will.”

  And they would. For all the self-righteous patter that everyone spread about so freely, Helene was certain that almost everyone dealt in the black market at one time or another. There was only so much sugar one could buy with ration stamps, only so much gasoline allowed with the ration sticker each person had been issued, only so much meat available because of scarcity, and Helene knew that even the black market had its limits—but Buddy was being ridiculous. He was profiteering off of a family member, off of his own wife’s mother, the grandmother to his children, a woman who he should—

  But Helene had to have the sugar. She had begun to attend First Baptist on Main Street shortly after Cassandra married Buddy—after all, she was Buddy Eason’s mother-in-law now, and she could not be expected to continue to attend church in the mill village as if she were nobody. A number of ladies from First Baptist and First Methodist were supposed to come to her house the following day to discuss plans for a paper drive. It had taken Helene weeks to get herself placed in charge of the drive, and days more to get the women to agree to come to her home in the village—why Bert insisted on living there now was beyond all good reason, Helene told herself, and she wondered sometimes if he did not keep them there just because he knew it annoyed her. It was no different from his having refused to attend church with her uptown. She always had to face the First Baptist women alone on Sundays, just her against their ranks, for Bert had never once gone with her. He continued to attend the little church in the mill village, and called her “uppity” for her choice of First Baptist. Cassandra and Buddy did not attend any church—although Helene knew she had raised Cassandra better than that—and the twins went to First Methodist with old Mr. Walter, his frail wife, Patricia, and that great cow of a woman who was Buddy’s widowed mother.

  They were all against her; Helene was certain of it, but she would show each and every one of them. She would make a cake the likes of nothing those First Baptist and First Methodist women had seen anytime recently. She would serve them real coffee in her best cups, and give them ready-made cigarettes to smoke, luxuries they could find nowhere else with the war going on. They would see she was indeed a woman to be respected.

  Buddy was turning away, dismissing her completely, as if she were no longer even in the room.

  “Oh—all right, I’ll pay it, and I need cigarettes, and coffee, too,” she said, opening her purse to take out her week’s allocation of grocery money. Bert would be furious, but she would not worry about that now. She counted out the amount she was told and handed it to Buddy, watching as the smirk returned to his face. Then he left her alone with Cassandra as he went to fetch her purchases from wherever it was he kept goods stored there in the huge house his grandfather had at last moved him and Cassandra into not long after Wally and Rachel were born. Helene wished she could take the time to see the twins before she left, but she knew they would only muss her hair and dress, and there were other errands she had to run to get ready for the First Baptist women before tomorrow.

  The children were probably with their nurse, Georgia, anyway, for Cassandra spent very little time with them. They were practically being raised by that Negro woman, Helene told herself, and she had meant to speak to Cassandra about it. Helene had at least taken the time to raise her own daughter herself.

  She tapped her foot impatiently as she waited for Buddy’s return, and turned her eyes to Cassandra. The younger woman was blowing on her newly painted nails—red as a hussy’s, Helene told herself. Cassandra would never have dared to paint them that color when she had lived in her mother’s house, or to wear all that makeup, or such a tight dress. One of her eyes was noticeably black even through the makeup—she’d never keep Buddy happy if she couldn’t learn to be a better wife and mother, Helene told herself.

  “Cassandra, you ought to look at yourself in the mirror. I’ve always told you—”

  “Mind your own fucking business,” her daughter said, glancing at her only briefly.

  “Cassandra Marie Price, don’t you ever talk to me like that again! If I ever—”

  “You’re in my house; you can’t tell me—”

  “Shut up,” Buddy said, entering the room. He had not even glanced at Cassandra, but she immediately fell silent, though there was an obvious look of anger on her face as she turned her eyes to him. He handed the sack of sugar to Helene, along with the cigarettes and coffee, then watched as she shoved them down into the box she had brought for that purpose, covering them with crumpled brown paper she had brought as well.

  The look on his face annoyed Helene—he thinks I’m just like the rest of them, she told herself. She was not like the other people who bought on the black market, and she knew it. They were all selfish, trying to get more than they had any right to—but Helene was not like that. She had no selfish motives behind the cake she would make from the sugar she was buying today; she had no selfish motives behind the coffee and cigarettes she would offer the First Baptist and First Methodist women as they planned the paper drive. Helene had only the best intentions, she told herself—and, really, when you came right down to it, what she was doing was for the war effort anyway.

  Oh, but wait until they see the cake I’ll make, she thought as she left her daughter’s house that afternoon with her black market goods safely hidden from sight. Just wait.

  It was not long into the following afternoon when Helene Price realized that things were not going at all as she had intended. The women from uptown sat in her living room, speaking to her rarely, their hands busy knitting socks or baby booties, or sitting quietly in their laps, leaving her lovely cake virtually untouched. The fine coffee she had made, coffee that was so hard to come by, set cooling in cups, her scarce, ready-made cigarettes remaining unsmoked on the coffeetable.

  There was a two-year-old roaming around the edges of the room, handling and dropping each whatnot she had placed out on display, causing Helene to have to go after him again and again to rescue a treasure. Already he had forced one pudgy hand into the side of her cake, leaving a huge imprint there, almost pushing it, plate and all, from the table—the horrid mother had only tugged him away, had told him “mustn’t touch,” but had not offered one word in apology. The child had licked the icing from his hand, then quite purposefully, Helene was sure, smeared his messy prints all over the insides of her front windows—Helene would be cleaning up after him all afternoon, she told herself, but at least Bert would have to realize that he would have no choice but to hire some help for her now that she would be entertaining regularly.

  There was another child as well, the two-year-old’s elder brother, Helene believed, though no one had laid claim to him, for reasons Helene could clearly understand. He stood near Helene’s chair almost all afternoon, picking his nose only to occasionally examine his find, staring at her and asking questions.

  “How old are you?” he asked once, though Helene did not answer him. He rubbed the toe of one shoe repeatedly into a spot in the rug, until she thought he would leave a thin place there before he was finished with it.

  “I bet you’re old,” he said a little later, movi
ng closer to her as he examined her face, one hand resting on the skirt covering her lap. He leaned in, pointing with a finger only recently removed from his nasal cavity, to the skin alongside one of her eyes, once actually drawing a line from the edge of her vision and up into her hairline.

  “You got lines by your eyes that looks like bird’s feet.”

  The twisting of the toe of his shoe into her good rug resumed and he studied her even more closely. Helene made a face when she was certain no one would notice, but even that did little good.

  She turned her attention instead and tried to follow the conversation around her, bending forward with the intention of cutting another piece of cake.

  “Why are you so fat?” the boy asked, leaning now on the arm of her chair, one finger up his nostril again as he stared at her face.

  His little brother—if that was who the other miscreant was—sent a lamp crashing to the floor, but none of the ladies bothered to right it. Helene stared at him, until Annabelle Fitzgerald—eighty years old if she was a day—dragged her attention away. The woman took a pipe from her handbag, filled it with tobacco, then lighted it. Helene rose quickly to offer her the tray of ready-made cigarettes, bending completely across the coffeetable to do so, holding them out as she thought a proper hostess ought to present them.

  “Thank you, but no,” the old woman said, clenching the pipestem between her teeth in the midst of the wrinkled face, her lips sinking into a pucker as she puffed. She stared at Helene for a long moment, and Helene wondered if she would ever look away—she’s as mad as a hatter, Helene told herself, thinking she would rather be dead than to live long enough to become an embarrassment to those around her.

  She offered to make another pot of coffee, said she had another brand of cigarettes, and tried even to offer cake to the nose-picker, though his mother would not allow him to take it.