CHRISTMAS, 1908. When Walter and Eddie and Captain Cole came back from Papa's trial in Madison County, Jim Cole was the only one who seemed to celebrate.
Innocent? he'd wink. O' course! We got him acquitted, didn't we? And he'd guffaw even louder if I frowned, and try to nudge me. He thinks I'm charmed by him, isn't it astonishing? To be so thick-skinned and stuck on yourself, I mean? That old piney-woods rooter, Mama called him-oh, Mama, I miss you so!
Papa will return to southwest Florida for good, so Eddie says. I don't know how I feel about this, either. This evening I asked John Roach in front of Walter if there was any way of finding a position for Papa at Deep Lake. And Walter burst out, Absolutely not! (Just as John Roach was saying tactfully, Well, your dad has a good business head, no doubt about it!)
Walter never speaks to me so sharply, I got quite upset. It's not as if my father were a criminal, I cried. He was acquitted! Even the Madison newspaper spoke well of him!
All the same, Walter said, in that low, stubborn voice that warns me he is digging in his heels-all the same, he said again, if Jim Cole had not arranged some things, it might have been a very different story.
Was he guilty, then? I asked him later. Is that what you are trying to say in front of Yankee strangers?
John Roach is not a stranger, Walter said, offering to take me in his arms. (I will not tolerate this when he has been drinking.) Didn't we name our little boy for him? he said.
The very mention of our poor dead little John drained all my spirit. I wept, and went to Walter, and he patted my shoulder, the brisk domestic pat-pat-pat that has no warmth in it, and precious little patience.
I don't claim to know about your daddy's guilt or innocence, he said into my hair. All I know is, you are cold with Captain Jim, considering what he done for your daddy.
Did, I said, picking the wrong moment to correct him. Walter gave me one of his flat looks and let me go. Did, he said.
DECEMBER 30, 1908. For the first time in our married life, I cannot sway Walter. (If it were anything else, I might be glad!) He says, I had to lie for him, perjure myself. We all did. That don't mean he's welcome in my house. Though he doesn't say it in so many words, Walter believes Papa is a killer and always has been, he wants nothing more to do with him. And though I flew at Walter and said dreadful things, he would not relent. He went off to the bank feeling miserable, too.
Papa showed up on Tuesday with Edna and her two little ones. Fay and Beuna yelled Grandpapa! and rushed toward the front door but never reached it. I made them cry by sending them upstairs with their Uncle Eddie.
Eddie is living here until his lodgings at Taff Langford's boardinghouse are ready, and meanwhile Frank Tippins has found him a deputy clerk's job at the courthouse. Eddie testified for the defense at Madison, he told them how one Tolen man tried to ambush Papa at Fort White. But now he imitates Jim Cole's curled lip and Walter's words, says perjury was about as far as he aimed to go. He did not even come out to greet his papa, and Lucius wasn't home. Not knowing his daddy would arrive, he'd gone off bird hunting.
Through the curtains I watched my father at the door. He gave it a good rap, he had his chest out, but the rest of 'em hung back, out in the street. It was very plain their money was all gone because they brought no help at all, only a somber Negro man in dirty overalls. In a cart behind them from the railroad station was the sad heap of their worldly goods, down to boxes and bedsteads, reminding me of those poor "Sooners" we children felt so sorry for back in the Territory.
It looked like this time he was headed south for good.
Papa was unshaven and pasty-white from jail, and his Edna looked hollow-eyed, drained of her color, and the tear-streaked children were too worn out to whine. It's so hard to think of these forlorn small creatures as my brother and sister! Goodness! They are younger than their nieces! And they smelled like poor people!
I sent the servant to the door while I composed myself. She asked if she should show them in. I shook my head. Just bring some milk, I whispered, and a plate of cookies.
I went to the door after a moment, and we faced each other. There seemed to be some sort of mist between us. I was trying not to look at something wild and scary in my papa's gaze, something that horrifies me. Or was it only my imagination, after all this rumor? Oh, Papa, I said, taking his hands, I'm so relieved about that awful trial!
My voice sounded false and faraway. He saw right through me. Though he smiled, there was no spark in his eyes, he looked burned to ash. He just nodded, just a little, waiting to see if I would ask them in. Just wanted to wish you folks a Happy New Year, Papa said. And because he was trying to sound cheerful, I had to fight back tears. How shameful to make my own dear papa feel unwelcome in my house, just when he needed his family most, and was reaching out for help!
He made no attempt to hug me, which was most unusual. Poor Papa feared I might not hug him back, was that it? Then he said quickly they would not come in, thanks, they were just on their way to catch Captain Collier, who would carry them south on the Eureka to Pavilion Key and arrange for a clammer to take them home, up Chatham River.
Before he left, he asked about the children. Are those sweet things hiding from their bad old grandpa? I saw he was hurt that Fay and Beuna had not even called out, because they do love him and have fun with him and usually fly to the sound of his growly voice. Eddie must have hushed them, held them back.
The girl came with milk and cookies for Ruth Ellen and Addison. The silly thing was deathly scared of Papa, all the darkies are, though how they hear these things I do not know. She set the tray down too quickly on the steps between us, everything askew. Unable to bear it, I came forward and hugged those poor soiled little creatures and pecked my stepmother, who is younger than I am, and said good morning to the colored man.
Papa frowned when his field hand did not look at me or take his hat off, far less answer. Mama always taught us that what people call stupidity or sullenness in darkies is usually no more than common fear, but all the same I was astonished by his rudeness, and terrified, too, that Papa might assault him on the street. But Papa just touched him gently on the shoulder, and the man started violently, like a dog in nightmare, and took off his hat. Seeing the cookies, still unaware that I had said good morning, he murmured, Thank you.
That poor man wasn't rude, of course, he was just sunk in some dreadful melancholia. (Later I asked Walter if he thought Negroes become melancholy the same way we do, and Walter said that he supposed so, he just hadn't thought about it. Overhearing, Eddie burst out, That's ridiculous! Eddie gives these big opinions when he's feeling most uncertain of himself.)
Papa said, "This man got tried with me up north. He's not quite over his close call yet." Smiling, he drew his finger under his chin and popped his eyes out like a hanged man. Papa was angry, and his eyes had no relation to his smile. The whites seemed to swell under those blue pupils, and Edna gave a peep of fear and turned away.
I tried so hard for Papa's sake, tried to encourage the children to take a cookie. But he had seen my struggle, and he would not help. He pointed at the children's plate on the steps between us.
"They're not pets," he said.
"Of course they're not!" I snatched up the plate and offered it, bursting into tears.
"Good-bye, then, Daughter," Papa said. Those were the last words he ever spoke to me.