The Woods at Barlow Bend (6 page)

Daddy and the children
would come down the stairs around seven. I served the kids breakfast at a little table tucked in a corner of the kitchen, and then turned my attention to the customers in the dining room. Daddy, Meg, and I served the guests as they arrived downstairs from their rented rooms or stopped in for a bite on their way to work.

Most of our
hotel guests were migrant workers in search of a new start at a mill or factory, but only earned enough money for a couple of nights before moving on to the next stop on the L&N rail. Many of our café customers, however, were long-time residents of Grove Hill. The Clarke County Courthouse was three blocks down Main Street from our café, so several of the attorneys, bailiffs, sheriff deputies, and clerks stopped in for breakfast or lunch. Sometimes, I would linger as I cleared away dishes and wiped down tables just to hear the men debate their latest cases over bowls of stew, sausage gravy, or fried pork chops.

The café wa
s small, but lovely. Each table was preset every night with coffee cups, silverware, napkins, a small vase with a fresh flower, and a small jar of jelly, usually blackberry or strawberry. Often, guests would comment on how good the homemade jelly was, sweet and bursting with fruit. I found it hard not to swell with pride when I heard their compliments or saw how quickly our hungry companions devoured breakfast. I liked talking with the guests and listening to their stories, especially the odd court cases and stories from the railroad, but I wondered if that was all my life was going to be: serving breakfast, lunch, and dinner to guests crowded around twelve café tables, and listening to the stories of strangers rather than having my own to tell. As each guest finished, Daddy worked the register, making sure that every penny was accounted for, and I returned to the kitchen to help Miss Henrietta wash, dry, and put away stacks of dirty dishes.

After
Meg and the boys left for school and the guests were off to work, Daddy and I would sit down to breakfast. Every morning, without fail, Daddy laid out the day’s chores for me. A woman named Ruthie came by every other day to change the linens on the twelve guest beds in the little hotel, but most of the other tasks were my responsibility. Daddy dictated the lunch and supper menu as I made a list of any items needed from the corner market. He also reminded me of the rotating cleaning schedule, which I knew by heart: Tuesdays and Saturdays, we mopped the floors; Wednesdays, we dusted all surfaces; and Thursdays, we wiped all windows and sills. The floors were swept and the indoor bathrooms, one on each floor, were cleaned daily. Meg, Billy, and Albert would all pitch in with the list after school because most of my day would be spent in the café, prepping lunch and dinner, washing dishes, waiting on customers, and wiping down tables after each service.

M
y reprieve came on Fridays when the Tuscaloosa Bookmobile came to town. The bookmobile was a large, older model black wagon. Behind the cab, the rear sides folded down to reveal hundreds of books. The first time I saw the bookmobile’s sides fold down, I couldn’t believe how many books were waiting on the shelves for me. A bookmobile didn’t stop in Frisco City, so I had never seen one before. Miss Hendrix’s collection paled in comparison to the treasures before me. Each week, I returned my picks from the week before and checked out at least three new novels, mainly romances and mysteries. Both librarians knew me by name and marveled at how quickly I tore through the pages.

At night, afte
r I put Billy and Albert to bed, made sure the dining room downstairs was set for breakfast service, and the kitchen was spotless, I liked to lie in my little bed and read. I was always tired to the bone, but my mind raced with my new responsibilities as café waitress, hotel maid, and mother to two young boys and a girl who believed wholeheartedly that she was all grown up at twelve years old.

I crave
d the distraction I found between the musty pages of my books. Each contained the possibilities of new friends and formidable enemies, desperate circumstances and paradise settings, all in sharp contrast to my humble and mundane existence in the hotel. The fourth and top floor of the small hotel I called home was a far cry from the luxurious suites I read about in my novels.

I
liked to lie in bed and read, but Meg demanded, night after night, that I turn off the little lamp that barely lit our room.

“Hattie, turn off that dreadful light right now!
I am plum exhausted and can’t sleep with it shining in my eyes!”

Meg
’s whining made finishing a novel in the comfort of my bed impossible. In order to keep the peace, I turned off my lamp and tried to force myself asleep. Some nights, I was successful, reciting prayers from our church in Frisco City in my head until I drifted off, but other nights, most nights, no amount of tricks would work. As soon as I closed my eyes, Momma’s face would appear. Her blue eyes and bright smile sparkled in my mind. I could hear her laughter, full and contagious. Some nights, I could almost feel her lying next to me, the warmth of her body pressed against my side as we squeezed together in my tiny bed.

On the nights when I miss
ed her too much to lie there in silence; when I felt the pain of her absence welling up in my throat; when the loneliness that her death created seemed to take my breath away; I snuck downstairs. Quietly in the dark, I would go to the kitchen first. My favorite late night snack was corn bread crumbled in a glass of milk, but crackers in milk would also do if the corn bread had all been eaten. I would take my glass and book and sit at the far corner table in the dining room. By candlelight, I read.

A
fter a couple of hours alone with my book, my candle would have nearly burnt away and my mind would finally, albeit momentarily, be quiet. I made sure to leave the table as I found it, removing any evidence of my midnight retreat. I would sneak back upstairs my feet snugly encased in socks, creep inside our bedroom making sure not to disturb Meg, close my eyes, and sleep. I didn’t choose to leave school to work in a hotel with my father, Miss Henrietta, and Ruthie; to raise three children at the age of fourteen; or to lose Momma; but each week, I would eagerly go on countless written adventures with my newfound heroes and heroines, pirates and detectives, damsels in distress, and quick-witted villains. In those pages, I found a new education and a lifetime escape route.

Chapter 8

September 1934

Grove Hill, Alabama

My Saturdays we
re so much different than they used to be in Frisco City. Before the last time Momma went hunting with Daddy at Barlow Bend, I waited all week for Saturday, eager to find out what she had in store for us. Would we spend the morning in the garden and the afternoon listening to her stories on the front porch? Would we spend the day in the kitchen with Aunt Matt canning vegetables and making jellies? Would we be hurried to Momma’s car and carried off to theater houses or dance halls, open pastures or moss-covered woods?

I
n Grove Hill, Saturdays were utterly predictable. My day would be spent in the café. The businessmen of the workweek, with the exception of a few from the courthouse held over for long trials, would transform into family men. Our little café became crowded with mothers in fine crepe and silk dresses; seated between fathers in polished welts; and children in their best cotton frocks. The fascinating conversations centered on crime details and trial strategies were replaced with shopping lists and pleasantries about the weather. If Saturdays in the café weren’t so busy with every family from the surrounding countryside coming to town for the day, I would have been bored to tears.

*****

On September 15, 1934, I went about my regular duties as café hostess and waitress. The breakfast service was typically slow for a Saturday morning, but the lunch service was one of our busiest yet. Miss Henrietta fried every piece of chicken we had, and nearly all of the catfish and pork chops as well. Daddy seemed extremely pleased with the booming sales, and after the last table from lunch paid their bill, he carried the drawer to the back room to count the register with a big smile on his face.

Just as I was wiping down the last table and about to set the tables for the dinner service, the strange man from that day
way back in April in Frisco City walked into the café. I recognized him immediately. He wore a white buttoned-down shirt, black vest, and navy pants, and was just as big as he seemed before. He was sweating from the warm temperature even without the large, dark jacket he wore in April. Who could blame him in this heat and with his thick hair? His thick, unruly mane must feel like a wool hat pulled tight down to his ears and collar.

“Good afternoon,
Sir. Sit wherever you like,” I smiled at him as I motioned to the empty dining room, “We are out of chicken, but still have a few pork chops and catfish. Can I get you an iced tea?”

“No, Miss.
I’m looking for Hubbard Andrews. Is he here?” He stood directly in front of the door and scanned the café with his dark eyes.

I told the man
to wait there and went to the back to get Daddy. When we returned to the dining room, Daddy first and me directly behind him, two deputies wearing Clarke County badges had joined the strange man. Daddy stopped suddenly when he saw the three men standing between him and the door.

“Hubbard
Andrews,” the strange man said and revealed the handcuffs he was holding in his giant hand, “You are hereby under arrest for the murder of Mrs. Addie Andrews.”

Part 2: Motive & Opportunity

Chapter 9

September 1934

Grove Hill, Alabama

“Stop it
!” I leapt toward the strange man and struck his chest with both of my hands bound tightly into fists. All of the anger I felt toward the gossips of Frisco City came out of me in sharp blows. One after the other, I struck the man with every bit of strength I had. “Leave us alone! Leave us alone!” I cried as I continued to strike him.

That was
what my heart wanted to do, but, in reality, I froze. My lips allowed no sound. My feet were still, as if bolted to the floor, and my limp arms dangled at my sides. Daddy was arrested right in front of me. Daddy was handcuffed and treated like a criminal, a murderer. Daddy murdered Momma? The sheriff thought Daddy looked into Momma’s beautiful eyes and pulled the trigger of his rifle. These men thought Daddy took her away from me.

Before I
really knew what was happening, the strange man, who I would later learn to be Detective William Murray of the Clarke County Sheriff’s Office, handcuffed Daddy and told him that he could keep silent if he wanted and that he would be given an attorney.

Daddy glanced at me and said, “I won’t be long. Don’t worry.”
Then, the three men took him away.

The front door
slamming felt like a slap in the face. Daddy was supposed to fix the hinges on the door that afternoon so it wouldn’t slam shut every time a customer walked through the door. I guessed the door would continue to slam until Daddy came home. I just didn’t know when that would be. As the sting faded, I realized that I was holding my breath.

“Were handcuffs
really necessary?” I asked to the empty room.

For a moment, I looked around
, wondering what I was supposed to do.
Do I tell Meg, Billy, and Albert that Daddy was handcuffed and taken to jail? Do I finish getting the dining room ready for dinner service? Do I tell Henrietta that Daddy was just arrested so I have no clue what we’re supposed to do with the hotel guests or dinner service? Do I run four blocks over to the jail and beg the men inside to let Daddy go?

“Henrietta, I’m going out for a bit
,” I yelled toward the kitchen.

I propped the
Sorry, We’re Closed
sign in the window, and rushed through the café door. I ran down Main Street and then turned right onto Jackson Road, dashing passed the few pedestrians sauntering down the sidewalk. In four short blocks and what felt like mere seconds, I was standing, out of breath, in front of the Clarke County jail. My heart was racing, and I felt beads of sweat streaming down my back under my cotton frock and apron.

I must have
appeared insane sprinting down Jackson Road, with my apron on and clutching my pen and tablet, one in each hand. The old biddies back in Frisco City would have loved each delightfully embarrassing morsel of the scene I surely made.
I quickly took off my apron, wiped my face with the hem, and then rolled it into a ball around my pen and tablet. I smoothed my hair and tried not to look as crazed as I felt. As I walked into the foyer, I tried to remember all of the legal terms used in the murder mysteries I loved to read, but, much to my disappointment, I just felt incredibly aware of standing alone in a jail looking for my father.

“May I help yew, Miss?” asked the officer seated behind
a desk toward the back of the room. The way he squished and dragged out the ‘yewww’, made the hair on my arms stand up, and reminded me of the voices of the men outside Hendrix General Store in Frisco City.

I approached
him and said, “I am looking for my father, Hubbard Andrews. I think he was brought here just now.”

“Speak up now,” he said, “I can barely hear ya,
Girl.”

So much for discretion
,
I thought. I repeated myself loud enough for everyone in the entryway to hear.

“Uh, huh,” the officer muttered, “And why do you think that?”

“Because they just arrested him in our God-forsaken dining room!” My voice cracked as tears filled my eyes. I swallowed hard and forced myself not to cry. I looked the officer directly in the eyes; after all, what did I have to be ashamed of; and asked, “Will you please see if he was brought here? Mr. Hubbard Andrews?”

“Wait here, Miss.
I’ll go check.”

I sat down on the hard
, wooden bench and waited for what seemed like an eternity until the officer finally came back.

“Miss
Andrews, your daddy was brought here,” the officer said, then gave me the all too familiar head tilt of sympathy, “Seems the charge is murder. Your momma?”

“Are you asking me if he did it?”

“Oh, no, Miss. Just…well, he was brought here. They’re processing him now. He’ll have to stay here a while.”

“When can he come home?”

“Well, it bein’ Saturday and all…Judge Bedsole won’t be back till Monday. So, the judge will decide Monday.”

“Decide what?”

“Oh, ya know, bail, trial dates, all that,” said the officer as if Daddy was arrested for murder every day of the week; as if Daddy being arrested was common or mundane. I wanted to smack him hard, right across the face, but thought better of it.

“So, he can’t come home yet?”

I felt like I was six years old again lost at the State Fair. I was supposed to hold onto Momma’s hand, but I let go, just for a second. When I turned to grab her hand again, she was gone. All I could see was a sea of legs. The crowd swept in so fast and chaotic, it pushed me away from Momma until I was completely alone standing on a grassy patch next to the main drag. Luckily, on that day, Momma found me within minutes. Momma’s hand wouldn’t lead me away from the nightmare that surrounded me in the jailhouse.

I left the jail and
walked back toward the hotel with my head spinning. Daddy would be
arraigned
on Monday, a term I had learned from my novels. Daddy would enter his plea of
not guilty
, the judge would set his bail, I would pay the clerk, and then we would wait for the trial, at least that’s what happened in my books. So, I would go to the courthouse on Monday and wait for him. I would get him back.

A
round four o’clock, I snuck in through the back entrance to the hotel, cutting through the kitchen. I could smell that Henrietta already had the grease hot for the dinner service. We would have customers soon, so I ran the four flights of stairs up to my room to clean up before going to work. I splashed some water on my face and brushed my hair, re-pinning it back on the sides.

“
Meg?” I called down the hall.

She responded with an annoyed, “Yeah, Hattie, what?” from the room we used as a parlor.

“Make sure the boys get dinner and washed up before bed. We’ve got church tomorrow, and you kids have Sunday school,” I told her, “Oh, and, Daddy’s out. If you need me, I’ll be downstairs.” For this last part, I looked straight at her from the doorway of our makeshift parlor, “Make sure it’s an emergency.”

I didn’t have time to tell
Meg what happened. I planned to tell her later that night, after the boys were asleep and the customers had all come and gone. Meg would surely have made a huge scene and give some sort of tear-soaked monologue, but I had work to do, so I put off the inevitable, ran down the stairs, and gave the dining room a quick once-over. At four-thirty on the dot, I unlocked the front door and flipped the
Sorry, We’re Closed
to
Yes, We’re Open! Please come in
.

The café was crowded that night with a steady stream of hungry customers.
When the place was empty and clean, and the front door securely locked, I sat down to a bowl of butter beans and ham. After devouring every bite, I carefully counted the register drawer. Between lunch and dinner that day, there was $46.25 in the register. Daddy always counted the drawer privately after every service, so I had no idea so much money would be in it. I also had no idea how much Daddy’s bail would cost. I hoped the $46.25 would be enough.

The next morning, I
awoke in a foggy haze. My muscles ached, and I immediately panicked over Daddy being arrested. When I opened my eyes, I couldn’t believe what I saw. Momma was sitting at the end of my bed, staring at me.

“Wake up, Hattie.
We gotta get to church.”

I sprang up and
was about to wrap my arms around her neck, sure that the nightmare of the last nine months was over. However, as my eyes cleared, I realized that I wasn’t looking at my mother’s, but rather her twin’s, face.

“Aunt Mittie, what are you doing here?” I whispered as I glanced at
Meg’s bed.

“I
already sent Meg downstairs with the boys for some breakfast,” Mittie answered, “I figured we needed to have ourselves a little talk, just us ladies.”

I couldn’t believe how much Mittie looked like Momma
, even if she did look a bit older. Momma’s skin was always so smooth, but Mittie had the beginnings of lines around her eyes and more of a tan than Momma ever let herself get. “A wide brim hat is a ladies best friend,” Momma would say every time we headed to the garden to dig around in the dirt. Still, Mittie had my mother’s eyes, cobalt blue, with the power to convince anyone of anything. I hadn’t looked into those eyes for months.

“So, I guess you heard about Daddy?” I asked.

“Yes, Honey. Melvin and I heard last night. You should have sent word. We’re your family.”

“Aunt Mittie, I haven’t seen you since
before Momma…”

“I know.
I’m sorry. I just couldn’t…but you need me now more than ever. Now, have you heard anything? About your Daddy?”

“
All I know is that he’s been arrested for killin’ Momma. His arraignment is on Monday. I’m going.”

“Oh.”

“Yes, and nobody else knows yet, and I think that’s best. I thought about tellin’ Meg, but decided not to. I’ll go on Monday and get this all straightened out. He’ll come home, and there won’t be nothin’ more to talk about.”

With that
, I hopped out of bed and went to my wardrobe. I chose my blue floral dress and cream slip. From the top shelf, I pulled down my straw hat with a lily-of-the-valley detail on the side that I thought complimented the little flowers on the dress. I also pulled out my cream gloves that matched the hat.

“That’s a pretty dress,” Mittie said.

“Thanks, Daddy gave it to me for my birthday,” I said. I may have emphasized the word
Daddy
too hard. I saw Mittie flinch in the reflection of the little mirror on my vanity.

“Hattie,
Honey, we don’t know what’s gonna happen with your daddy. I know you want him to come home, but just in case…”

“You don’t want him to come home?” I snapped back at her.

“Hattie, I didn’t say that. What I meant is that we have to have a plan. You kids cannot stay here by yourselves if Hubbard doesn’t get out.”

“I’m not a kid.
I did just fine yesterday. And we’re not by ourselves. Henrietta and Ruthie are here to help out.”

“You
’re barely fourteen years old. Working to the bone in a café is no place for a young lady. You’ll be old and withered before you know it! And who do you think is going to take care of Meg and the boys?” Mittie’s refined façade started to crack.

“I will!
I have been doin’ this for months and will keep doin’ it!”

I stopped myself from saying that I was taking care of this family long before Daddy went to jail.
By the look on Mittie’s face, I could tell she had her reservations regarding Daddy. I slipped my dress over my head and turned to the little mirror. I looked tired. My hair desperately needed to be washed. My dress was much looser than it was a month ago. Nine months ago, my face was full, and my cheeks had a rosy tint. Sure, I was a little plump then, but I was pretty. Now, my face was a sallow mess. Maybe Aunt Mittie was right; maybe I did need some help.

Mittie stood up and looked at me in the mirror, “We’ll
talk more about this after church. Hurry downstairs and get some food before it gets cold.” She kissed the top of my head and left me alone in my bedroom.

After church, while
Meg and the boys were in Sunday school, I convinced Mittie not to tell them what was going on with Daddy. We told Meg that we had some business to attend to with the café, prior instructions from Daddy. We told her, in support of our lie, and that she would have to miss school to help Uncle Melvin and Henrietta out with the breakfast and lunch service. Needless to say, she shared a few choice words with me about the injustices of her life once we were alone in our bedroom. As hard as it was, I didn’t snap back at her with the truth. There was no need for both our lives to be turned upside down.

Early Monday morning, Mittie and I headed to the courthouse.
Each man we passed tipped the brim of his hat at Mittie, and would then try to slyly look her up and down. Unlike Momma, Mittie either didn’t like attention from men or didn’t notice their admiration. Depending on her mood, Momma would have offered a coy smile or a “Morning, Handsome!”