Read Online The Woods at Barlow Bend by Jodie Cain Smith - Free Book Online
Authors: Jodie Cain Smith
Tags: Historical fiction, Historical, Literature & Fiction, Coming of Age, Genre Fiction, Mystery; Thriller & Suspense
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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
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
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