The Calamity Club by Kathryn Stockett - 16

“ O h my gosh, it feels so much better out here,” Frances said, flopping onto the cot next to mine. I was staring up at the slatted ceiling as the long summer Sunday drifted from gold into twilight. The light blue paint up on the ceiling was cracked and peeling, and I sometimes woke up to flecks of it on my face. I’d heard somewhere ingesting paint could make you sick or loony or, dear Lord, both, and I wondered if I was the crazy one here?

“I had no earthly idea it was so much cooler on the porch,” Frances said. She’d slung a pale arm above her head like a woman in a Renaissance painting and I wondered how, after living here almost a year, could she not know this was the best bedroom in the house? Situated in a shady upstairs corner, this room enjoyed a breeze even in the dead sea of summer while the screens kept the swarms of mosquitoes and no-see-ums out, along with that dark dread you felt when you woke up at three in the morning too hot, too sticky, and thinking about all the wrong things you’d said the day before.

“Franny.”

“I know—I’m asking him as soon as he comes upstairs. He’s down in his study getting things ready for his client in Jackson.”

That wasn’t what I was gonna ask, but good . I wanted to get it over with . But if I was leaving here on Wednesday, there was something else we needed to discuss.

Frances rolled over, propping up on an elbow. “I’m really glad Ella Jane got adopted,” she said and sighed.

“Oh, you sound it.”

“I am , I’m happy for her,” she said, picking at a brown feather poking out of the mattress. “I’m just gonna miss her is all.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ll see her again soon. I give it a week tops.”

“She does scream. A lot. But she’s so sweet when she wants to be and so cuddly—don’t you miss that little girl that worked in the office?”

“Her name is Meg, Frances, and yes, I do miss her.” I kept my eyes on the peeling blue ceiling. I’d thought I could tuck this one away and head back home—not every injustice was my business to solve, or so people told me. But if I didn’t make it my business, then who would? “It still burns me up how awful Garnett treated Meg, and I don’t understand why she did.”

“Well, the girl was lucky to be there.”

“Lucky? Garnett pulled her out of school and separated her from everybody. She was stuck in that moldy office—”

“She drew a real dirty picture, Birdie.” Frances gave me big eyes. “Of Jesus. Giving the finger .”

“Meemaw gives me the finger all the time,” I said. “I don’t stick her in a moldy room for it.”

“Well, that’s neither here nor there, and Jesus wouldn’t do that.”

My Jesus would. “Do you know … what actually happened when Dr. Pittman brought Meg to the orphanage? How he happened to find her out in that cotton field by herself?” I was only thinking of that because Dr. Pittman had looked appalled at church when I’d brought her up.

“Dr. Pittman was out giving free inoculations around the county and if he hadn’t found her, she would’ve starved to death, or worse. She’d’ve turned into another unwed mother with ten illegitimate children—”

“Oh, Frances, stop and listen to yourself. This isn’t about illegitimate children.” I pushed myself up on the cot and sat Indian style and so did she. I needed to make my point before I went home but with Frances I had to take a circuitous route to get there.

“A month after Meg arrived at the Orphan, Garnett got herself elected chairlady. You know that, right? She was only a part-time volunteer before then.”

“So? She wanted to make it a better place. What’s wrong with that?” she said.

“Nothing but … why do you think Garnett keeps soapboxing about feebleminded women? And that the only solution is to lock them up for good—didn’t you say Meg’s mother was deemed feebleminded?” Frances frowned. I didn’t dare mention that Meg’s mother had come back, because Frances would blab it to Garnett. “Which according to Garnett must’ve been passed down to Meg, like it was a given. You know as well as I do Meg is nowhere near feebleminded.” Nor did her mother seem to be either, now that I thought about it. “But Garnett locked her in the office and treated her like she was.”

“What is your point?” she said.

“The point is—” I didn’t know what my point was about everything I’d said, but I did know this: “I want you to stop believing every single thing Garnett Pittman says, Franny. I don’t think Garnett had good intentions for Meg, and I don’t believe she’s got them for the rest of the big girls either. Mildred said the same thing, and she got fired. Garnett’s sending twelve-year-olds to work in a cannery, for God’s sake.”

“She heads a charity , Birdie. For orphans—of course she’s got good intentions!”

“How do you know?”

“ Because. The Pittmans are good Christian people.”

I laughed at that. There were Christian people and there were good people but the two didn’t necessarily always overlap. “Well Garnett sure was awful to Meg. If that’s what you call being a good Christian.”

“Well, that’s your opinion.” I could hear Rory’s church shoes clapping up the stairs. Frances got up and put her hands on her hips. “And you better not repeat any of these opinions of yours outside this room, you hear me? Or I’ll tell Mama you got drunk on my birthday and slept on the powder room floor.”

I stood up too and set my hands on her shoulders. “Will you please just think about something for me, Franny? Would you want Ella Jane to be working in a canning factory when she turns twelve? Locked up in there for the rest of her childhood because Garnett thinks she was born a bad girl?”

Frances looked away. She was intelligent; the problem was her craving for status outsmarted her brain sometimes. “It’s a wonderful opportunity,” she said, but I heard a little catch in her throat when she said it.

She walked out, and I heard her calling to Rory. Ten minutes later she reappeared in the doorway and mouthed the word yes and left me alone, soaked in relief.

The next morning, I overslept and missed Rory before work. I’d hoped to catch him alone at breakfast to thank him. Since he was already gone, I swiped his newspaper and was reading it out on the back porch when I heard Mrs. Tartt in the kitchen, through the screen door.

“What? That can’t be .” Her voice was louder, shriller than her usual velvety drawl. Picador was saying something too soft for me to hear.

I turned back to the paper. The left column of the front page read: “Mrs. Welty Pittman of Oxford Accepts State Charity Award for Christian Program to Aid Orphaned Girls.” So that was what she was calling putting little girls to work in a cannery.

“This’s got to be a misunderstanding, Picador.”

I gazed out at the theater before me, the tall weeds that covered the backyard, an ugly red thistle that had sprung up overnight. A pair of noisy blue jays fussed in the trees. I went back to the article.

“Mrs. Welty Pittman, of right here in Oxford, was introduced by Dr. Hubert H. Ramsey, former superintendent of Ellisville, also known as the School and Colony for the Feebleminded.” This Ramsey must be important because they printed his entire speech on page 3. I skipped it for now and went to the bottom of the piece. “As folks enjoyed their delicious lunch of Chicken Breast Au Gratin with a Scuppernong Jelly Mold for dessert …”

Behind me, I heard Mrs. Tartt say, “You need to tell me, Picador. Please .” Trying not to pry, I kept reading: “Mrs. Welty Pittman, wearing a red poplin suit, gave her speech. ‘With ample Christian organizations and churches handing out food to the poor, clothing and blankets for warmth, I ask you to consider this: With all those resources available, what kind of mother abandons her own child? I will tell you what kind. A mother who has a hereditary lacking in sense and a moral deficit, many of whom are deemed feebleminded and have passed this trait along to their own children.’” I could just see Garnett tapping her temple, showing how smart she was compared to these women. “‘So we must protect these girls and ensure, for their sake and our own, there aren’t more born like them.’”

What did that mean—“there aren’t more born like them”? These were orphans, poor girls who’d been born to poor families. The article went on to say, “Mrs. Pittman is also on the ticket for president of the Anti-Vice League of Mississippi.”

“ Yes, but how long exactly has it been since you were last paid? ” I heard Mrs. Tartt say in such an agitated voice that even the blue jays hushed their cawing. I turned around in my rocking chair. Through the screen door, I could see Mrs. Tartt’s back, and Picador and Polly facing her. Polly’s hair was in black shiny curls from church yesterday.

“We coming up on three weeks, ma’am,” Picador said. “Since our last pay.”

“We reminded Mr. Rory ’fore he went to work this mawning. But we in a pinch now, ma’am.”

Mrs. Tartt inhaled sharply, her whole blue quilted housecoat filling with air. “I declare, it’s that money obsession of his again. Picador, I am so sorry. I will straighten this out with Rory tonight and get you your pay. You both have my word on that.”

So far, it looked like it was gonna be a real hot day. According to yesterday’s Oxford Eagle , Oxford hadn’t had rain in nearly three weeks, and now we were in an August heat wave this state hadn’t seen in years. When Frances left for the Orphan and Mrs. Tartt had gone to bridge club, I put somebody’s straw hat on and gave the garden a good watering and weeding. The coriander had gone to seed, the parsley had cooked, but the gourds and tomatoes might be all right if somebody cared for them. The weather gauge, appropriately sponsored by the outfit O H Douglas & Co. Undertakers, read 102 degrees with 95 percent humidity . Afterward, I lay naked on my cot and read for a while, aiming the electric fan across me. I felt guilty to be so relieved that Rory was loaning us the money when he hadn’t paid Picador and Polly. Frances had been just as surprised by the news as Mrs. Tartt, though she’d immediately stood up for him—“He probably just forgot, he works so hard.”

The book I’d taken from the Tartts’ library was As I Lay Dying , a perfect title on a day like this. It was written by a man who lived right here in Oxford.

Sometimes I aint so sho who’s got ere a right to say when a man is crazy and when he aint. Sometimes I think it aint none of us pure crazy and aint none of us pure sane until the balance of us talks him that-a-way. It’s like it aint so much what a fellow does, but it’s the way the majority of folks is looking at him when he does it.

As I reread it, I thought about Meg’s supposedly feebleminded mother. This Faulkner fellow seemed to be on to something in this town.

By four o’clock, even the sleeping porch was smothering under a wet, warm blanket of air. I’d moved to the back porch when Mrs. Tartt walked out and gasped. “Good heavens, it’s hot today. Polly, could you?” Like she knew the drill, Polly hoisted the three parlor windows open and turned the tombstone-shaped radio around on the sill to broadcast outside as well as two black electric fans. Finally, I felt a few degrees slide off my slick skin.

Mrs. Tartt was quiet in her rocking chair, waiting on Rory and Frances to get home. Silently, she got up and stripped the brown fronds off a fern by the stairs. She rarely sat out here—probably because she couldn’t bear the view, which I’d entitled Still Life without Yardman . Frances didn’t find that funny. Now and then, Mrs. Tartt narrowed her eyes on that high grass, reminding me of a brooding hen, regal and quiet and determined.

After a while, I heard the front door shut, and Frances came out on the back porch. “Why’s it so hot today?” she said and sat in the rocking chair next to mine. “I ’bout died walking around town. I stopped by Neilson’s to look at that red dress in the window.” Ever since Garnett had worn that red suit for her award, Frances wanted herself one. Rory owed her that allowance, was what she’d told me last night.

Polly came out with a tray of tomato sandwiches and set them on the wicker table. It was too hot to eat anything tonight but a tomato. “Thank you, Polly,” Mrs. Tartt said. “You and Picador can go on home now.” Something more passed between them, unspoken.

When Rory’s Studebaker pulled up beside the barn, the sun was still a blazing red ball over the fields. He trudged through a path in the high grass without seeming to notice it. His usually too-tight necktie was pulled loose, suit coat off and draped in his hand over his briefcase. A clump of blond hair had broken loose from his hair tonic and curved down around his right eye.

Mrs. Tartt said, “ Son ,” but did not put her cheek out to be kissed.

“God, it’s hot,” he said and instead of pecking Frances on the cheek, Rory leaned back against the porch rail, facing the three of us. He was smoking a cigarette. I didn’t even know Rory smoked.

“Pic made tomato sandwiches for supper,” Frances said.

“I’m not hungry yet.” He took a drag and flicked his ash over the rail.

Next to me, Mrs. Tartt said, “Rory. I want to talk to you about something. In the house.” She started to get up.

Rory set his briefcase down with a thump. “Can’t it wait, Mother? I just got home.”

Mrs. Tartt clutched a magazine in her lap. “No, it cannot. This’s gone on long enough, son. First you let Mr. Jake go without asking me, and now Pic and Polly say they haven’t been paid in weeks.” Her red lipsticked mouth was puckered and furious.

Rory sighed. “We discussed it this morning. I told them I forgot—”

“That is not how we do people, Rory. Pic and Polly look after us, and we look after them—”

“I told them I’d pay them Friday . You don’t need to get in a huff, Mother.”

“Why not just pay them tomorrow? Tuesday, bring it home with you.”

“Because I’m working late tomorrow getting numbers ready for my clients in Jackson .” He’d slurred that, Jachson . I looked over at Frances. She was tapping her foot like she was waiting her turn to say something.

“Why not pay them Wednesday, then? Why wait till Friday?”

He blinked at Mrs. Tartt like was she dumb? “Because Wednesday’s Polly’s day off and I’m leaving at the crack of dawn for Jackson before Picador gets in and I won’t be back until Friday.” He didn’t slur this time. I couldn’t help but wonder—had Frances not told him I was leaving on Wednesday? “And anyway—”

“Fine, then bring Pic and Polly’s pay home tomorrow night and I’ll get it to them,” Mrs. Tartt said. Behind her, the radio station had started playing “Honky Tonk Train Blues,” all wrong with its cheery, bouncy piano.

“And anyway —” Rory’s arm slipped off the rail and he dropped his cigarette in the yard. He scowled down at it and I thought, He’s drunk. I oughta know. “I’m giving them both Thursdays off from now on. We don’t need help seven days a week.”

Mrs. Tartt’s blue eyes widened.

“ You don’t give my help days off, I do! And I like at least one of them here every day. Polly gets Wednesdays off, Picador gets Saturday—”

“You can survive one day a week without a maid, Mother.”

At this, Mrs. Tartt started rocking her chair, jutting her chin out. I felt like I ought to go inside to let them talk in private, but I stayed still.

“Well, I think you’re being cheap. Your father was never cheap. He paid our help to come every day if they wanted the work, and believe me, they’re grateful for it.”

“For God’s sake, Mother, do you even look at the newspaper? Do you see what’s going on in the world? Or is all you think about the spoiled, sheltered life you live? You assume as long as you’re happy, everyone else must be too?”

“I am very aware of how fortunate we are, son, but just because I assigned you as my custodian doesn’t mean I don’t get a say in this house. And by the way, don’t think I haven’t noticed you hadn’t brought my quarterly dividend home yet either.”

“Or my allowance,” Frances added quietly. I’d never heard her take Mrs. Tartt’s side, but getting money happened to be Frances’s side too. Jesus. It was all our sides.

Rory looked at Frances, stung. The sun behind him had turned him into a silhouette. For a moment he was blazing around the edges.

“I’ll just have to go withdraw it from the bank myself,” Mrs. Tartt said. She picked up the Good Housekeeping and fanned herself. “Even though you know I don’t like going in there. The secretaries look at me like they don’t even know who I am. But I’ll collect my dividend to pay Pic and Polly with, and then I am going shopping.”

“I need to go too,” Frances added.

“I told you both, please , don’t go buying new things right now,” Rory said. “It looks awful when people out there can’t even feed their families anymore.”

I wondered how could he say that. Didn’t it look worse to fire the yardman and not pay your help of twenty-six years? And though I felt guilty thinking it, I wondered where did our loan rank on the list?

“But I haven’t bought anything in months,” Frances whined, “except for a pair of stockings and some cotton gloves—”

“Don’t you tell me how to spend my money, son,” Mrs. Tartt said.

“—and there’s this red dress at Neilson’s I really need if you’ll give me my allowance—that’s two months you’re behind on now.”

The jumpy song was over and now a lonesome, home-on-the-range tune played. Rory’s round face looked yellow and sickly as he listened to them get on him. After more whining from Frances about how he hadn’t given her the jewelry she’d wanted for her birthday, how “that really hurt,” Rory glanced back at his car, looking as trapped as he had that first night. I could practically read his thoughts: The insistence of my sister’s needs would never cease; at twenty-six, he still lived in his mother’s house. I knew that caged feeling, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t.

“So I think I deserve that dress after everything I’ve been through,” Frances said. Obnoxious, even by her standards.

I was about to go do some dishes that didn’t exist, to give this man one less set of eyes needling him, when he said, “You know … maybe you’re right.” He sounded defeated. “Why don’t you all go shopping tomorrow, the three of you.” The sun singed the edges of his white shirt. “I’ll drive you myself in the morning.”

I shook my head to show I was not part of this shopping idea.

“Can we really?” Frances said.

“Get yourself that new dress, Frances. In fact, buy whatever you want. Tell Mr. Lewis to put it on the account. Mother, if you’ll please wait, I’ll bring your dividend home Friday and I’ll pay Pic and Polly and be sure and tell them it won’t happen again. They’ll understand.”

She sighed but nodded. “Alright, son.”

Frances was going toward Rory, arms open, but he reached down and stuck another cigarette in his mouth before she could get to him. As he lit it, she managed to kiss his cheek.

“Thank you, darling,” she said. “I’m so excited, and don’t forget—” Frances glanced at me and said softly, “Birdie leaves on Wednesday. Her train’s at noon.” He nodded, and I felt a wash of relief.

“Maybe you can meet us on the square for lunch tomorrow after we shop?” Frances asked. “We don’t have to go anywhere fancy, Buffaloe’s Café’ll do just fine.” I thought about Meg’s mama coming out here. If they went to lunch, or even shopped after, maybe I could come back here and talk to her in private.

“I think I’ll come back and work out of the house since it’ll be nice and quiet,” Rory said. “So make a day of it. When you’re done, have Mr. Binny drive you home.”

At quarter to ten, Rory drove us to town. He was quiet—and hungover, I assumed. He certainly smelled like it. Smoking again, he had the little triangle window open, but smoke still curled inside the car. After last night, no one dared complain. Beside him, Mrs. Tartt was in her signature ice blue, a washable silk with fussy ruffles, and a matching pillbox hat. In the back seat, next to me, Frances frowned down at something.

“Sorry,” I said, following her gaze. I scraped mud off the hem of my blue dress. It sort of came off. She had on her perfectly pressed navy-blue dress with comfortable black patent leather Enna Jettick pumps, since she did not intend to lose precious money-spending time due to sore feet.

“How are you so unaware of how you look?” she whispered.

“Oh I’m not. It’s just that irritating you gives me so much joy.” In truth, I didn’t like mud on my dress either, but I also knew nobody was looking.

Rory took the curve at the fork fast, gravel pinging the sides of the Studebaker.

“Slow down, son, Neilson’s isn’t going anywhere. It’s lasted almost a century and might last another if they get our business today,” Mrs. Tartt said and chuckled. Rory slowed down to spark a new cigarette off the old one, but by the Percy mansion, he’d sped back up. This time, Mrs. Tartt didn’t say anything.

Turning on the square to drive the circular road around it (funny how those worked), we passed Old Miss Rondo begging on the corner. She always shook her peach can a little more aggressively when I walked by; I guess people just sensed it about me. In the alley beside Neilson’s, the long wooden porch rail was full of men waiting on work.

“Can we get something for you today, darling? A shirt or some new ties?” Frances asked, leaning over the front seat.

“You just concentrate on yourself, Frances,” Rory said, rolling up to the entrance. Overhead, the sign read Established 1839 The J. E. Neilson Co. Department Store . “Remember to call Mr. Binny when you’re done.” Frances held her hand out over the seat for cab fare. When Rory ignored it, she pulled it back without a word. Frances was not about to rock the boat today.

Rory walked around and opened his mother’s door first. As he helped her out of the car, he kept hold of her white-gloved hand a second longer.

“I’ll see you later, Mama,” he said.

Mrs. Tartt looked up at him, squinting in the glare. “Is everything alright, son?”

“Everything’s just swell,” he said. He didn’t sound swell, he sounded bitter. “Take your time shopping, I could use the peace and quiet at home.”

“See you later, darling,” Frances called. All I could say was everything felt off . But it was probably just me, being too much myself. I followed Frances and Mrs. Tartt under the awning, over the gray marble landing out front, through a pair of glass doors. For a moment I stopped and just looked. I’d never been inside Neilson’s, and I’d never seen this much merchandise for sale in one place before. Who did they expect to buy all this, in these times? I wondered. I watched Frances, head jutted forward, eyes bright, and I knew, my sister , that was who.

It was a large room full of bright, dyed colors. The left side, the ladies’ side, was stuffed with tables of sweaters, racks of dresses, cases of “accoutrements”—all ready-to-wear. An octopus stand held cloche hats, pillbox hats, slouchy hats, fedoras. On the right was the men’s department, displaying dark suits and shirts and hats, shoes and socks and silk ties. I decided these people had either an inventory problem or a customer problem or both. By my count, the total population in here was us, four store attendants, and a man behind a desk, his head bowed over a book. It was the man I’d seen cleaning the windows weeks ago, who’d given me the strange look when I’d mentioned Rory. I looked back, but Rory’s car was gone.

“Why, Viktoria, what a nice surprise.” A lady, much older and thinner than Mrs. Tartt, glided toward us, hands out. She had high distinct collarbones and wore the palest of pinks. She was probably Meemaw’s age but with more teeth and definitely more manners.

“Miss Ella,” Mrs. Tartt said, clasping the woman’s hands. “It’s always good to see you. I believe you know my daughter-in-law, Frances, and this’s her sister, Birdie. Birdie, Oxford wouldn’t be the same without Miss Ella McGuire.” Miss Ella smiled hello, her lips trembling slightly.

“You must be looking forward to the young folks coming back,” Mrs. Tartt said. And I remembered, that was why they had so much inventory—the customers hadn’t gotten to town yet.

“Oh, we are. You know The Miss’ippian said enrollment’s way up this year, thank heavens.”

“Well, it’s about time, after what that scoundrel Bilbo did,” Mrs. Tartt said. “We’re all glad the school’s finally getting its letters back.” It’d been big news in the paper, that our former Governor Bilbo had fired all the Ole Miss teachers a few years ago, and the university had lost its accreditation.

Frances stuck her neck in, she’d had enough chitchat. “Miss Ella, I’d like to try on that red dress in the window, please.”

“Why, of course. I believe you’re a size … two?” Miss Ella nodded over to a young blond wearing a name tag that said HELLO I’M NELLY .

But Frances wasn’t finished. She looked down at a list she’d made at home titled Fashions to Get Noticed In , from ideas she’d gotten out of one of her Photoplay magazines . Such beautiful penmanship for such stupid, stupid words.

“I’ll need a hat to match the dress and a pair of tan heels and some new gloves and stockings, two silk, two rayon, a plaid skirt, but not a real Ole Missy–looking one, and are you carrying a blouse with a faille collar and big bow like Frances Dee in The Crime of the Century ?”

Even Mrs. Tartt’s eyebrows went up a little, a mix of disapproving and impressed by Frances’s gall. I left them and wandered around the store.

I passed a long wooden table stacked with red and blue woolens, Swell Sweaters for the University Gal! , for three dollars, slim fall dresses like Frances favored for three dollars, six dollars, some even ten dollars apiece. Here I was, relieved we’d be able to afford heating oil and cornmeal this winter—and then I stopped at a snowy, winter-white wool coat. Simple black crewelwork curled around the collar. I felt the sleeve—good Lord, why is that so soft? Was it made of newborn baby hair? Sewn in the back of the coat, a label said 100% cashmere , and the sign said fourteen dollars . I stroked it again, glancing at the man at the desk, who was watching Frances trying on hats.

After a while, bored, I cut over to Ladies’ Millinery. Frances already had the red wool dress on and a red, short-brimmed hat to go with it and was turning side to side in the mirror, asking Hello I’m Nelly did she like this one or that other?

“That one,” Nelly blurted out. She was already under a mountain of sweaters and dresses Frances’d picked out. I sure hoped she worked on commission.

“We almost done, Franny?” I asked. Frances looked at me like I’d lost my mind; it’d only been half an hour. “I’m kidding,” I said. “I’m gonna go send Mama a telegram and tell her the good news so she won’t worry. I’ll be back.”

“Birdie?” Mrs. Tartt called, coming over. “Would you mind coming to the bank with me? I don’t like going in there, but I can’t stand the thought of Pic and Polly having to wait till Friday.”

“Be happy to,” I said. I could go to Western Union afterward.

“But I can keep shopping, can’t I?” Frances asked. She looked a little panicked.

“Of course, dear. We’ll be back in a little while.”

There wasn’t but one bank left in Oxford, down from three or four before the crash, a fact that my daddy would’ve approved of since fewer banks meant fewer bankers, neither of which he could stand. Around Footely the general thinking was, Keep your money in your mattress and take fire insurance on your bed , and most had only ever put money in pants pockets and a Crisco can. Even Mr. Parkins kept his money in an old Florsheim shoebox up under the counter.

I held the heavy oak door of the Bank of Lafayette County open for Mrs. Tartt. We walked into a long, wood-paneled room, about the length of the Tartts’ grand hall but wider. It was cooler in here, thank God, and smelled like pocket change, metallic, a little oily, kind of what you’d imagine a bank robber would smell like.

“Hello, Henry,” Mrs. Tartt said to a life-sized portrait just inside the door to the left, of a fiftyish-looking, broad-chested Henry Tartt. Then she took a few steps forward and waited, hands crossed over her front.

Several feet in front of us, a pretty redheaded young lady sat at a desk, writing. Behind her were several other larger desks with older women secretaries, and along the right wall, three tellers, all men, stood behind gold-barred windows with a sign overhead that read Now FDIC Insured . Along the back and left walls were a few offices with glass fronts. Nobody came forward to greet us.

“Heavens to Betsy, I don’t see a one of Henry’s people here,” Mrs. Tartt said. And then, to herself, “Nothing but Baptists working here anymore.”

After a few seconds, Mrs. Tartt walked up to the first desk, and the pretty redhead looked up. “May I help you?”

“I’m Mrs. Henry Tartt,” she said and left it at that.

The young woman’s eyes widened slightly and she stood up. “Oh. How nice to meet you, Mrs. Tartt. I’ve heard so much about you.”

“Of course you have, dear,” Mrs. Tartt said.

“Alright, um—please follow me.” She led us to some curved wooden chairs near the back wall of offices. Then she went and whispered to an older lady, and they both looked over at us.

We sat down and Mrs. Tartt perched her black shiny pocketbook in her lap and held the handle tight like a ride.

Sitting in the chairs across from us was a couple on the high end of middle-aged, both sitting very upright. She had on a sagging hat with a faded purple paper flower pinned to it. There was a tattered red ribbon on the lapel of his old brown suit, maybe an old war medal of some kind. I could see the faint whites of his knees through his pants.

“If Rory was in today, we wouldn’t have to wait,” Mrs. Tartt said.

The man across from us pulled a watch chain out of his pocket, then shut his eyes a second before he tucked it back in. No watch was attached to it anymore. I looked away. Daddy was probably right, nothing good could happen in this place.

The older couple stood up quickly, watching behind us, and the husband touched the red ribbon on his lapel, maybe for luck, and I looked back to see a man as tall and barrel-chested as Henry Tartt walk out of one of the offices behind me. He looked to be in his mid-thirties, with a soft dusting of short blond hair. He surveyed the four of us in the seating area and said, “I’ll be right with you, Mr. and Mrs. Davis.” He gave me and Mrs. Tartt what I assumed was a very well-paid smile.

“Mrs. Tartt,” he said. “I’m Jack Walsh, I don’t think we’ve met.” I stood up, but Mrs. Tartt stayed seated. “Mr. Allison’s out this morning, but he asked me to see to anybody that came in.” As he shook her hand, the seams of his gray suit coat strained a little. Then he took my hand. His was big and warm.

“Nice to meet you,” I lied. “I’m Birdie Calhoun.”

“Mr. Walsh, I came to collect my dividend since Rory’s working from home today,” Mrs. Tartt said. “I’d like it in small bills, please.”

He looked from me to Mrs. Tartt. He had the build of a lumberjack, and my guess was he’d probably have pretty serious back pain later in life. He frowned. “I believe you’ll need to talk to Rory about that, Mrs. Tartt.”

“But he’s not in today,” she said and smiled. “So I’d like you to help me.”

He nodded. It took him a second to answer. “You would need to wait and speak to Rory about the dividend.”

“But I don’t want to wait.” Mrs. Tartt smiled harder. “I’d like it now, please.”

Jack Walsh started to say something but reconsidered it. Then: “I’m afraid Rory’s not employed here anymore, Mrs. Tartt.”

We both stared up at him. Then Mrs. Tartt stood and looked around, maybe for someone smarter, but gave up. “Rory Tartt ,” she said more clearly. “My son works here, but he’s working from home today.”

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but Mr. Tartt was—he was let go, three weeks ago.”

Mrs. Tartt looked at me like Could I please help this man understand what she was asking?

I said, “He was here at work yesterday, Henry Tartt’s son.”

“I’m sorry, but—” He shook his head. “Rory’s been let go.” He pressed his lips together. “I take it he didn’t tell you?”

Mrs. Tartt leaned back on her heels a little. “You’re not—this doesn’t make any sense.” Mr. Walsh looked up over our heads and nodded. “Here he is—Mr. Allison just came in.”

We turned to see a much older man coming through the front door. He was tall but only half the weight of the lumberjack. When he saw Mrs. Tartt, he sort of startled. Then he took his hat off and walked toward us. “Viktoria, how good to see you,” he said, clasping her hand. “So good, so good. I hope you’re faring alright out at the house?” He was smiling so hard now he looked apt to break a tooth, which were thin and yellow, like him.

“Mr. Allison, I came in to collect my dividend, and this man’s trying to tell me Rory was let go ?”

Mr. Allison’s wrinkly neck turned pink. “Please know how sorry we all are that it turned out this way. We’ve been expecting you to come in for some time now …”

It was finally starting to sink in enough for me to give it some credit. They’d fired Rory? Where the heck had he been these past three weeks?

“But Rory handles our holdings.” Mrs. Tartt’s voice rose a few octaves. “What in the devil’s going on here?”

“Mrs. Tartt.” She was Mrs. Tartt again. “We thought—we were sure you were aware of the situation. Please …” Mr. Allison licked his lips. “Why don’t you come in my office a minute, where we can speak in private.”

Mrs. Tartt turned to me, looking astonished. I nodded: This is preposterous. “I’ll be right here,” I said and watched as he led Mrs. Tartt gently by the elbow into his office and shut the door. Through the glass I could see Mrs. Tartt lower herself into the chair, tucking her skirt under her rear. Mr. Allison sat at his desk, facing her. Rory’d been lying to his mother and Frances this whole time? Every morning after pancakes, he was just, what—driving around town? I shuddered, thinking of the Studebaker that had driven past the fruit truck that morning. I should’ve told Frances.

Mr. Allison reached across the desk and held Mrs. Tartt’s hands. He looked like he was telling her a bedtime story.

This Jack Walsh fellow had gone back into his own office with the older couple. After only a few minutes, his door opened and the couple walked out. Their mouths looked sunken, toothless, their faces ashen. Mr. Walsh escorted them up to the front door and stepped ahead to hold it open for them as they left. He watched them go before letting it close again.

As he walked back to his office, I stepped in his way. “Can you tell me what’s going on here? My sister, Frances, is married to Rory Tartt.” That was my only credential.

“I’m sorry, ma’am, but I—don’t really know.” He rubbed his cheek and it made a scratchy sound. When he glanced over at Mr. Allison’s office, I studied him close. Golden stubble was already coming in at eleven in the morning.

“Yes, you do,” I said. “I can tell you do.”

“Ma’am. Miss—”

“Calhoun.”

He considered his response before speaking. “All I can say is the officers here asked it be kept quiet out of respect for the Tartt family, and considering the—” He stopped short on that. “I, we all assumed Rory’d told his family.”

It still made no sense. Rory was constantly working. What was he working on? Maybe he had other prospects or was still handling the family business?

“Does Rory have—” I was a little embarrassed to ask this. “Does he still have bank clients down in Jackson?”

Jack Walsh let out a low, gravelly sound, not really a laugh, but I found it inappropriate. “Ma’am, we’d be so lucky if somebody in Jackson wanted to deposit money in this bank. Most folks right now don’t have a cent.” Again that dark laugh.

“Well, I’m glad these hard times are so amusing to you, Mr. Walsh.”

He looked straight into my eyes. “Oh no, ma’am, I don’t find it amusing at all.” His tone had turned dead. “This is one of the saddest years of my working life.”

He turned to Mr. Allison’s office. Mrs. Tartt stood up quickly from her chair, and so did Mr. Allison. She opened the door herself, and he followed her out. She was blinking, an odd, lopsided smile on her face.

“… we have all the papers with your signature, Mrs. Tartt. Eleanor, find the papers—”

Eleanor, the pretty redhead, hurried over to a set of wooden file drawers and pulled open a high one. On tiptoe, she walked her fingers through the files. Mrs. Tartt set her hand down on the closest desk, to steady herself. Jack Walsh watched her, standing close, like he was ready to catch her.

“Rory handled all the accounts, your personal holdings and the family’s,” Mr. Allison was saying. “Stocks and bonds, you assigned him as such—”

Eleanor laid two folders open on the desk, turning pages fast and noisily. Mrs. Tartt peered down at one with her handbag dangling from her elbow. “Yes, that’s my signature, but I had no idea …”

“Rory brought home statements to you.” Mr. Allison lowered his voice. “He never discussed them or the mortgage he took out?”

“He told me we’d lost a fair amount back in ’29 from the crash but said our holdings were still fine on account of a—a trust Henry’d set up—”

“So you are aware that the mortgage payments are overdue?” At those words, my heart felt like it stopped.

“What?” Mrs. Tartt looked around like she wasn’t sure where she was, a frozen smile still on her face. “Wait a minute, what about all the land we sold, behind the house? What happened to that money?”

“There was money from a land sale, yes, there was, but Rory stopped making mortgage payments, so we required he put a good portion of it down on the principal, and the rest he had to use to cover his draw in the market.” He picked up a folder and shook it in the air. “He acted very perilously with his investments—very perilously. He didn’t just lose on the big boys like most people did—his portfolio was full of risky businesses, silver mines in Mexico, a luxury cruise liner, expensive car companies. Nobody in their right mind’s buying luxury goods right now. We tried to advise him, but he wouldn’t listen.”

“You’re not … looking at all the accounts, you can’t be. What’s the total on all these?” She tap-tapped a page. “Add it up for me, young lady.”

Mr. Allison nodded to Eleanor. She sat down and started adding on a little noisy machine. While we waited, Jack Walsh ran his hand over his blond hair, thin to where I’d bet it would probably be gone in a decade. One day he’d be a bald banker with back pain, but for now he was still a good-looking man. Eleanor whispered something up to Mr. Allison.

“Thirty-six dollars and fourteen cents.” Overhead, a wooden fan on the ceiling squeaked in a lazy circle. Mrs. Tartt dipped in the knees, and we all stepped up quick, but I got my arm under hers first. She looked around her, for somebody, anybody, but all she saw was me. “He lost it? Is he saying he lost it all?” Light as dust, those words blew that smile right off her face, leaving nothing but a red cut of lipstick.

“Let me—I’ll get you a chair,” Mr. Allison said, but she shook her head, leaning on me.

“How much is due on this mortgage?” I asked him, holding on to her. I could feel her sweating through her silk dress.

Mr. Allison ran a long finger down the page on the desk. “Two thousand seven hundred fifty-four dollars is what the Tartts owe.” My mouth opened in sheer awe and he continued in a whisper, “That needs to be paid right away.” This man … he was a coward . He should’ve told Mrs. Tartt this a year ago. I couldn’t tell if Mrs. Tartt had heard any of this.

“Viktoria, what you need to do is contact your lawyer, ask does he know of any other holdings in Henry’s name.” Mr. Allison placed his hand on her shoulder in a gesture that, if you didn’t understand the situation, might look courtly. “If I recollect—Harry Holtzman, yes, that’s who Henry used.” He nodded, he felt better to tell her this. “Harry Holtzman down in Jackson, that’s who it is.”

“I want to go home,” Mrs. Tartt said. I could feel her shaking. “Please take me home, Birdie.”

Slowly, Mrs. Tartt let me guide her to the front door. The telegram to Footely would have to wait. I didn’t know what it would say anyway. We needed to collect Frances and tell Mr. Binny, who was waiting at the taxi stand, to drive us home to Rory. Trailing behind us, Jack Walsh held the heavy door open for us. When I looked back, this time everyone in the bank was watching us, and huge Jack Walsh raised the flat of his hand in a silent goodbye.