With the drought in every part of Todd County,
Kentucky, and surrounding counties, survival had become more intensified.
Foreclosures were threatening even the ardently industrious
farmers, but for those who were exceptionally
hardheaded and efficient—such as former Senator Robert Rutherford
Maxwell—procedures at Hillbound in 1930 continued uninterrupted.
Harvest time had signaled the end of yet
another growing season at Hillbound, and the routines of tobacco farming were
not unlike the ones I had watched from my youth. Negro folks still toiled in
the fields—their brows covered with maize-colored straw hats—topping and
cutting, stripping and bailing, but I knew none of them. All new faces had
replaced the familiar ones that I could have spoken to by name. Thoroughbreds
of Father’s wistful dreams roamed the places where I’d previously helped the
children learn to read, practicing on them my rudimentary teaching skills
whenever possible. The young ones were gone now. The mighty oak under whose
branches we’d sat was gone as well.
Robert Maxwell was holding his own, counting
himself among the smattering of gentleman farmers who maintained their property
with economically disabled and politically powerless black laborers. Hard times
had deepened the dependency of the black folks, affording them little choice
but to stay on as hired hands, working the devastated farms that brought in, at
best, a piddling one-third of the revenue they had in the three years prior.
From outward appearances my father projected
prosperity in the way he walked and the way he talked, but I suspected
differently. The previous day I’d spent with him at Hillbound all but confirmed
Father was putting up a front. He’d sold a portion of his beloved five hundred
and sixty acres of burley tobacco farmland along with the forty acres of
wheatland he had acquired when he married Francine Delaney.
Father was an imposing man, dark-complected
with a full head of sleek black hair and a broad smile. Even at sixty he was
straight backed and poised as we rode into the center of Elkton. Other folks,
too, made their way into town for essentials. If any one of them owned an
automobile, more than likely he could no longer afford to drive it. The
depression had hit, and gasoline prices were high, so most folks came in
carriages and congregated at the square.
A late-autumn breeze rippled the surrey’s
fringe that canopied above my head. Our ride into town in the splendor of this
October Saturday was proving to be a chilly one. After two miles of the horse’s
clip-clop, we rounded the last turn. Straight ahead of us was the courthouse
square.
For a small town in Kentucky, the two-story
brick building with its white clock tower stood modestly impressive.
Father halted in front of Jim Carver’s Grocery
and Hardware and stepped down from the carriage, leaving me perched on the seat
while he hitched the reins to a post. No looks, no whispers indicated I had
something to hide.
I held my head high. Even so, gossip’s sting
could prick without warning beneath my skin. I hadn’t thought of the scandal in
months, and it took a mere single night in Francine’s presence to resurrect it.
Her staunch ability to live with herself was not my concern—yet it was, and my
urgent need to guard outcomes for my brother and the entire Maxwell family name
had overtaken my restraint. The moment had crystallized in yesterday’s
outburst.
I wish I had said much more to Francine.
Looking back, I wish I had said less to Father.
My two years spent away at Logan Female
College and the subsequent two at Athens College in Alabama had solidified my
ambitions and reshaped my less constructive attitudes as if they were a lump of
clay. No longer the broken fifteen-year-old or the self-empowered
eighteen-year-old, I accepted the hand Father offered to assist me from the
carriage and grasped his fingers as my foot touched the ground.
“Sister would love some horehound sticks,” I
said, “and of course I want to see Jim, if he isn’t busy. I’ll pop inside and
be right here when you return. That’s all, Father. Nothing too long.”
Father was quick to plant a kiss on my
forehead. “Fine and dandy, Gracie, go ahead. Give my best to Jim . . . I won’t
go in this time. We should get us over to Millicent’s house directly. I’ll be
across the street, but only for a few minutes. If you’re ready to go before
that, don’t hesitate to send word,” he said, nodding with a two-term-senator
polish to a passerby.
The out-of-doors had a way of doing wonderful
things for me. I breathed deeply the refreshing air as I waltzed toward my
brother-in-law’s store, my long coat fluttering behind me. Several of the
town’s men had gathered in front of Carver’s Grocery and Hardware to exchange
news of the day and toss about their ideas on how the turn of events might
affect the nation. Most of them were nowhere near recovering income losses that
supported their livelihood.
I gave them a passing smile and continued
toward the store. My father’s agenda was evident to me, and time wasted was
intolerable. I had come to accept the vigorous manner that let his wishes be
known.
Inside, a buzz of activity swirled about in
immeasurable contrast to the motionless bystanders outside. I went straight to
the candy counter without dilly-dallying. My mouth watered in anticipation of
the taste of chocolate. “Glorious day, isn’t it, Miss Baxter?”
“It is at that. And I’m just glad as I can be
to have you visiting every now and again. Tickled pink, I am, you’re spending
another year nearby. Good thing for us folks here in Elkton that Russellville’s
just a hop, skip, and a jump away.” A generous smile spread on her face. “So
tell me: how’s our young schoolteacher doing?” she said, squeezing her chubby
hands together atop the glass case that covered the candy confections.
“Fine, fine. I haven’t expelled anyone in the
first two months of this term . . . and not anyone last year either,” I said, grinning,
briefly distracted by the appearance of a tall man warming his hands by the
potbelly stove at the rear of the store.
Miss Baxter gave a jolly laugh to acknowledge
my attempt at humor, and my glimpse of the gentleman ended.
“You’re right. Russellville’s not very far.
And you haven’t seen the last of me, unless I start spreading out like Sunday
dinner on a picnic cloth,” I said, realizing Miss Baxter resembled my remark.
“Then I’d have to stop eating chocolates.”
“Me too,” she said with a never-you-mind
gesture, relaxing her forearms farther across the counter. It was clear, she
was in no hurry for my candy selection. “Your sister sure tries to keep
everybody up to snuff around here. Got her own schoolgirl nowadays. That little
Louise is cute
as a pie. Second grade . . . Goodness,
goodness!”
“I know. It’s certainly amazing how time
flies,” I said, focusing on the candies.” Point out what Louise would like,
then the usual: three sticks of horehound for Millicent. Now then. Chocolate.
Let me . . . um . . . decide between the—”
“Please excuse me for interrupting. May I
offer a recommendation for the chocolates before you make your decision?” The
smooth voice slid into our conversation like butter on a hot biscuit.
Surprised, I turned to find the tall gentleman
from the back of the store standing next to me. Having captured my attention,
he smiled a gorgeous smile that momentarily broke my concentration.
“The finest of the fine is right before your
eyes—your beautiful eyes, if I may be so bold. I’m something of an expert on
the subject.”
Seriously? I thought. An expert on how time
flies or chocolate?
“But first things first. My name is Simon
Hagan.”
After a slight hesitation, I gave him a brisk
once-over during which time his smile never faltered. I’d not ever met a
statelier man and maybe not a better-looking one. The weight of his gaze caught
me off guard. But only a little, I told myself. I then recast my answer: “How
do you do, Mr.
Hagan? I am Gracie Maxwell.”
Miss Baxter wasn’t helping the situation’s
awkwardness. She no longer rested against the candy counter, but rather leaned
in to hear what she could hear. Her mouth had dropped, and I warned mine not to
do the same.
I tried to give as little heed as possible to
Mr. Hagan’s remark about my eyes and forced myself to look straight at him as
he continued to speak of how glad he was to meet me. Perhaps he missed the cold
shoulder that I thought I was presenting. He proceeded to select a bar of
chocolate from the case with one hand, then gave coins to Miss Baxter with the
other.
Father passed the window. A tip of his hat
indicated he would just as soon be on his way.
I stood dumbfounded as Mr. Hagan handed me the
chocolate bar. Jim Carver’s voice rose above others, dickering politely with a
woman who had doled out produce and eggs for his consideration. Their
transaction seemed to be coming to an end, and my brother-in-law turned toward
us at the front of his store where Mr. Hagan continued to stand at my side.
Miss Baxter’s smile was way too big.
Flustered by the simultaneous doings, I
offered a quick thank you to the tall stranger, snatched the horehound that
Miss Baxter had laid on the counter—forgetting to pay for the candy
sticks—forgetting the candy treat for Louise—then darted straight out the front
door without a backward glance.
“Gracie!” Father was waiting outside when I
emerged. “Guess I should have come inside . . . I’d already unhitched us,
though. Here, let me help you up. When you see Jim later today, do remember to
give him my regards.”
I hopped up onto the seat, and Father steered
the horse around the town square, its hooves plodding noisily on the
cobblestone street. The ride was quieted as the buggy rolled onto the dirt road
leading to Millicent’s house.
“Glad you didn’t, Father. No need to come
inside,” I said without knowing why. “It will be a good visit with Jim tonight
at supper.”
He peered over at me. “You seem preoccupied,
Gracie. Everything all right?”
I didn’t look at him. “Of course. Just met a
gentleman . . . He must be related to Mr. Hagan who got me my teaching job.”
Slightly embarrassed, still puzzled by my own doings, I held up the chocolate
bar and waited for Father’s reaction. “I believe he said his name is Simon.
Yes, Simon Hagan.”
“Ah! For sure. Simon’s been away from Todd
County for quite some time. Didn’t realize he was back.” Father shot me a
suspicious gander, then signaled the horse to pick up speed, giving the reins
some slack with a nimble foist from the driving whip.
The surrey’s wheels creaked in objection to
the horse’s surge, and the forward jolt startled me. I wondered if the timing
had not been right to exhibit the chocolate. “Oh, Father, he just happened to
be at the counter as I was deciding. All of a sudden, he was there. He simply
insisted on making this a gift.”
“Hardly proper for him to cover your purchase
of chocolate.” Father glanced at the horehound sticks. “He didn’t pay for
those, too, I hope.” Realizing my predicament, I cut my eyes at him. “No. Nobody
did. I got them for Millicent . . . I forgot to pay. Silly me! Mr. Hagan was
just being kind,” I said as we rolled up to the front of the Carvers’ house.
“What’s he doing now, anyway? Believe he had
tuberculosis . . . although I could be confusing him with another of the
Hagans. Geoffrey had six or seven boys and a couple or three girls.”
“Heavens, Father! I have no idea. You mustn’t
go thinking poorly of him, though. And I can certainly fend for myself. I am
twenty-three, not fifteen.”
He stepped down from the carriage, hitched the
reins. “Big family, the Hagans.”
Millicent had not missed the sound of the
approaching carriage. Oblivious to the October chill, my sister was out the
door to greet us.
Father paused to serve up his customary
greeting to her. I reminded myself not to compare its woodenness to the top-shelf
affections he openly lavished on Francine, practically from the time of Mama’s
passing. The crater in my heart caused by his attraction had stubbornly closed,
but having spent last night in my stepmother’s presence, old grievances had
threatened to undo family peace that time and my absence had afforded me.
Inside the short day spent in the country, I’d
seen the signs that revealed my brother’s discouragement. Hardest to take was
seeing how Father regarded Henry with cool detachment. Witnessing my brother
falter with every attempt to make a decision was more than I could stand.
Father offered me his hand to steady me off
the carriage step.
Having squelched the bitter rise of contempt for the fresh evidence of Francine’s power over Henry and the ease with which she dominated Hillbound, I rallied, grateful that Father had avoided either subject. Our arrival at Millicent’s had interrupted the discussion of the Hagans. It had stilled, too, the recurrent rusty attitude of bygones that had no place in my reshaped heart.
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