and vain. His pants had to be creased, his handkerchiefs folded a certain way, his shirts starched. He changed them twice a day, not that they were ever soiled by anything but spilled food; he exerted himself only to roll cigarettes and instruct me on how to pack. I dug up some books I thought he’d like, hoping to distract him, but he waved them away contemptuously. Reading was a waste of time, he said, and education was for prigs and sissies. I wondered how he’d ever managed to produce two sons like Henry and Jamie. I hoped that once we got to Marietta, he’d be spending his days with Henry at the farm, leaving the house to me and the girls.
The house was the only bright spot in this otherwise bleak picture. Henry had rented it from a couple who’d lost their son in the war and were moving out west. He described it as a two-story antebellum with four bedrooms, a wraparound porch and, most enticing to me, a fig tree. I’ve always been crazy for figs. As I wrapped dishes in newspaper and boxed up lamps and books and linens, I spent many not entirely unpleasant moments picturing myself walking out my back door, pluckingthe ripe fruit from the branches and eating it unrinsed, like a greedy child. I imagined the pies and minces I would make, the preserves I would lay in for the winter. I said nothing of this to Henry; I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. But every night at supper, he’d bring up some pleasing detail about the house that he’d neglected to mention before. Had he told me it had a modern electric stove? Did I know it was just three blocks from the elementary school where Amanda Leigh would start first grade the following year?
“That’s nice, Henry,” I would reply noncommittally.
The day of our departure, we rose before dawn. Teddy and Pearce came and helped Henry load the truck with our furniture, including my most prized possession—an 1859 Steiff upright piano with a rosewood case carved in the Eastlake style. It had belonged to my grandmother, who’d taught me to play. I’d just started giving lessons to Amanda Leigh.
Daddy arrived as I was making my last check of the house. I was surprised to see him; we’d said our goodbyes the night before. He brought biscuits from Mother and a crock of her apple butter. The eight of us ate the hot biscuits standing in the mostly empty living room, shivering in the chill, licking our sticky fingers between bites. When we were done my father and brothers walked us out to the car. Daddy shook Pappy’s hand, then Henry’s, then hugged the children. At last he turned to me.
Softly, in a voice meant for my ears alone, he said, “When you were a year old and you came down with rubella, the doctor told us you were likely to die of it. Said he didn’t expectyou’d live another forty-eight hours. Your mother was frantic, but I told her that doctor didn’t know what he was talking about. Our Laura’s a fighter, I said, and she’s going to be just fine. I never doubted it, not for one minute, then or since. You keep that in your pocket and take it out when you need it, hear?”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nodded and embraced him. Then I hugged my brothers one last time.
“Well,” Henry said, “the day’s getting on.”
“You take good care of my three girls,” Daddy said.
“I will. They’re my three girls too.”
The children and I sang as we left Memphis. They sat beside me in the front seat of the DeSoto. Henry, Pappy, and all our belongings were in the truck in front of us. The Mississippi River was a vast, indifferent presence on our right.
“You’ve got to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive,” we sang, but the words felt as foolish and empty as I did.
I T WAS NEARING dusk when we turned onto Tupelo Lane. This, I knew, was the name of our street, and I felt a little ripple of excitement each time Henry slowed down. Finally he pulled the truck over and stopped, and I saw the house: a charming old place much as he’d
The house was the only bright spot in this otherwise bleak picture. Henry had rented it from a couple who’d lost their son in the war and were moving out west. He described it as a two-story antebellum with four bedrooms, a wraparound porch and, most enticing to me, a fig tree. I’ve always been crazy for figs. As I wrapped dishes in newspaper and boxed up lamps and books and linens, I spent many not entirely unpleasant moments picturing myself walking out my back door, pluckingthe ripe fruit from the branches and eating it unrinsed, like a greedy child. I imagined the pies and minces I would make, the preserves I would lay in for the winter. I said nothing of this to Henry; I wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. But every night at supper, he’d bring up some pleasing detail about the house that he’d neglected to mention before. Had he told me it had a modern electric stove? Did I know it was just three blocks from the elementary school where Amanda Leigh would start first grade the following year?
“That’s nice, Henry,” I would reply noncommittally.
The day of our departure, we rose before dawn. Teddy and Pearce came and helped Henry load the truck with our furniture, including my most prized possession—an 1859 Steiff upright piano with a rosewood case carved in the Eastlake style. It had belonged to my grandmother, who’d taught me to play. I’d just started giving lessons to Amanda Leigh.
Daddy arrived as I was making my last check of the house. I was surprised to see him; we’d said our goodbyes the night before. He brought biscuits from Mother and a crock of her apple butter. The eight of us ate the hot biscuits standing in the mostly empty living room, shivering in the chill, licking our sticky fingers between bites. When we were done my father and brothers walked us out to the car. Daddy shook Pappy’s hand, then Henry’s, then hugged the children. At last he turned to me.
Softly, in a voice meant for my ears alone, he said, “When you were a year old and you came down with rubella, the doctor told us you were likely to die of it. Said he didn’t expectyou’d live another forty-eight hours. Your mother was frantic, but I told her that doctor didn’t know what he was talking about. Our Laura’s a fighter, I said, and she’s going to be just fine. I never doubted it, not for one minute, then or since. You keep that in your pocket and take it out when you need it, hear?”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I nodded and embraced him. Then I hugged my brothers one last time.
“Well,” Henry said, “the day’s getting on.”
“You take good care of my three girls,” Daddy said.
“I will. They’re my three girls too.”
The children and I sang as we left Memphis. They sat beside me in the front seat of the DeSoto. Henry, Pappy, and all our belongings were in the truck in front of us. The Mississippi River was a vast, indifferent presence on our right.
“You’ve got to ac-cent-tchu-ate the positive,” we sang, but the words felt as foolish and empty as I did.
I T WAS NEARING dusk when we turned onto Tupelo Lane. This, I knew, was the name of our street, and I felt a little ripple of excitement each time Henry slowed down. Finally he pulled the truck over and stopped, and I saw the house: a charming old place much as he’d
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