Mr. L. A. Bailey

         The sun sunk into the west, but the humidity lingered leaving a heavy feeling in the air. I had finished my work in the fields with Papa and having eaten my supper I rode my horse down to the river for a swim. The sky was a mixture of blue and pink, and great big cream-colored clouds strewn across.
         My family had owned that land for a half a century, a parcel roughly 160 acres on the south bank of the Etowah River, a mile or two below Kingston, Georgia. My grandfather had purchased it from desperate gold-miners who had sought fortunes in the area during the gold rush in the early part of the century, and who now wanted nothing more than to break even. After the death of his parents, he spent his inheritance on the land and built a modest house for himself and his wife, his two young children, and his young sister, who was left in his care. The family arrived in Cass County on Christmas Eve in 1846, during one of the bitterest Winters in recent memory.
         The land was left to my Papa shortly after the War when grandpa passed, and as far back as I could recall I felt the land was a part of me. The broad hills were filled with patches of dense forest which flattened out near the river, which formed a wide arc before flowing south to Cartersville. This gave us the advantage of a good deal of waterfront property.
         Each time I came to the river, I tried to imagine the scenes that had played out here long before my birth. My parents spoke seldom of the War, but what I do remember was that while Papa was away in the cavalry, Union troops crossed the river near the island, in the shallow ford onto our land on their way to Atlanta. Several skirmishers remained at the river bank. Mama had taken many of the valuables to the barn loft to keep them safe, hiding them beneath the hay. The soldiers, which would be known for their cruelty, must have had some pity on Mama, for they left the house in tact, only taking with them my parent’s wedding silver.
         I tried to visualize Sherman’s troops crossing as I came upon the river. It seemed impossible that something as historic as that happened on our tiny farm. My daydream was cut short as I spotted a figure in the river from a distance. Drawing near, I saw it was a girl of twelve or thirteen, no younger than I was. A plain brown dress hung from her tiny frame, and the dress was pulled up and tied with a ribbon to her side, as not to get wet.
         It was then that I realized what she was doing. In those days it was common for women in the area to bring their garments to the river to launder, and beat them on the rocks to pound out dirt and stains. This young girl was doing precisely this, but she used a wooden club called a battling rod to do the job. She stood in the water near the island on the large rocks on the edge of the bank, though typically women of the community used the part of the river on the edge of our property.
         “Excuse me, miss, but what is it you think you are doing there?” I asked, sitting high on my young colt.
         “Why, hello there, boy. I’m doing a bit of wash, can’t you see?” She asked, and went right back to her chore, not seeming to give me any thought whatsoever.
         “I believe you should take that downstream a bit, though. I would like to have a swim here, and I wouldn’t feel all too comfortable doing so in the presence of a lady, least of all a lady I don’t know.”
         “I’m afraid you will have to find a new place to swim. I was here first.” She stated, finally looking up at me.
         “You don’t seem to know who I am. My family owns this land, which means you are trespassing here.” I told her, with an air of superiority.
         “You may own the land, but you don’t own the river, now do you?” she replied with a small giggle, and put her hand on  her hip.
         “We most certainly do! We own this land, and that island and everything in between! That includes the river.” I said, growing tired of this girl.
         “How can you own this river? If you owned all the water that has or ever will flow through these banks, I reckon you would own a large part of all the water available on this planet, and I don’t believe that you do. Now please, I really must wash these clothes.”
         She had tried me enough.
         “You listen here, whoever you are. Either you move or I will move you!” She was fairly small, and I knew I could back up that threat should I need to.
         “My name is Ophelia, and I would be thrilled to watch you try and move me.” she said, her countenance growing more serious than before.
         What impertinence! This was MY land, and MY river! I dismounted and stepped into the river, wading toward her.
         “Don’t you dare touch me!” she warned.
         I reached for her arm, but before I grabbed her she struck me with the battling rod in her hands. The blow came below my shoulder on my right arm. There was a terrible crack as the rod broke in half fracturing my arm.
         The pain rushed through my body, and I fell to my knees in the cool rushing water.Ophelia came behind me and wrapped her arms around my chest and pulled me to the river, as I begged her to leave me alone.
         “Now, I am very sorry I resorted to violence,” she said, laying me down in the grass “but you should have moved on to another spot.”
         She was right, and under normal circumstances, I wouldn’t give her the satisfaction of knowing that, however at the moment I didn’t press the issue. I started to feel a few tears run from my eyes, but I wiped them away before she could see.
         “Assuming you learned your lesson, what is your name and where do you live? We must get you a doctor it seems.” She said, holding my arm in her cold hands.
         “My name is Jack, and I can make it home myself. I think you’ve done more than enough.” I said, standing to my feet, pulling my arm from her grasp. I pulled on the reigns of my horse and left for home.
         “Goodbye, Jack! I hope to see you soon!” she cried out for me before going back to her washing.
         Papa was out back when I came to the house.“What happened to your arm, Jack?” He asked.
         I had to think quickly. There was no way I could tell him a girl hurt me! “I fell from my horse out by the river, Pa.” I lied.
         “You’ve got to be more cautious! How many times have I told you about that?” He replied.
         I sighed deeply, realizing he had believed me.
         The following Sunday at church I saw Ophelia again. She had cousins in the area with whom she was staying. I had a group of boys surrounding me admiring my sling as she approached me. She caught the tail end of my yarn about my stubborn horse.
         “It seems to me” she added “that perhaps it is not your horse, but you who is stubborn, Jack.”          
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         Morning came too early for me that day. Mama’s voice could be heard from downstairs, and even as I covered my head with the pillow her voice rang through calling us to breakfast.
         “I’m up!” I hollered, though I wasn’t yet certain who or where I was. Coming to my senses, I felt a pain in my arm. Though the accident had happened 4 years earlier, it still hurt me from time to time. I walked over to the wash basin by the window and splashed my face with the water. I stood up straight and looked out the window. Over the trees and beyond the hills I could see the sun rising, covering the ground below in soft light. Today would be a hot day, as was the day before, but the heat wasn’t the worst part; it was the humidity that made it unbearable.
         I went over to my mirror. My hair was naturally thick and course and the humidity made it a fluffy mess on my head. I brushed it back with the last of my pomade. I had a round face, and a sallow complexion. My grey eyes stood out underneath my thick eyebrows, which I arched as I tried to look at every inch of my face from every conceivable angle. I never thought I had an exceptional face, but I knew it wasn’t grotesque. There wasn’t much I could do had it been, so I didn’t waste much thought on worrying over it.
         Dressed in my work clothes I greeted Mama with a kiss as I entered the kitchen. Our home had a large dining room adjacent to the kitchen, but as mother had gotten older, it was more convenient for small meals to be eaten in the kitchen, which had ample room for a sturdy wooden table. The table was set for breakfast, and she stood over a skillet frying eggs.
         “How did you sleep, Jack?” she asked, and though it seemed to  be done from habit, she sounded sincere.
         “Not well, as you can imagine. Today is a big day.” It was a big day, a large wedding was to take place that evening. I reminded myself of the tasks on my list. After working at the store I needed to pick up flowers for my sisters, purchase a new razor and hair pomade for myself and my brother at the general store, and join the band before the ceremony.
         My mind went to my father, who would give the nuptials that night. He had performed his share of weddings, being the only justice of the peace in the area, and during the summer it seemed every spare moment he was found at an altar. Being more than willing to oblige any couple who called on him, he had become very skilled at delivering the vows.
         “Doesn’t Papa ever tire of weddings, Ma?” I blurted out. That thought had been in my head since I woke, and I realized as I asked it that she may have been taken aback by my candor.
         “Of course not! Why, whose heart isn’t warmed by the sight of young love?“ She replied.
         “That may be, but doesn’t the ceremony become old? He says the same things each time, to a dopey couple before a room of misty-eyed friends and family. It has to become routine at some point, am I right?”
         “The words and actions may be the same each time, but the love is always new and fresh. As for the rest, it’s never the same. You wouldn’t believe all the various places and ways he’s given the vows. Once, a couple came in from Canton, looking to get hitched, having fled from their unhappy parents. They caught him outside in the yard one afternoon, and having signed the appropriate papers earlier that day, they were prepared for the rite. Your father married them right there in the street, and they didn’t even step down from the carriage!” Mama laughed at that last part. I had to admit it was funny to think of someone that hurried as to get married in a buggy.
         “You’re right, but what does it matter that they repeat after him? Aren’t they the same people before as they are after?” I asked.
         “Now, Lawton, I’m surprised at you. You know better than to ask that. You know as well as I that God sanctioned marriage, and there may not be a visible change taking place, but it is true that in spirit, the two present become one. Now, eat your breakfast, boy.”
         I was right though. Weddings were a waste. If you love a girl, why should you go through the trouble of inviting all your kin to a stuffy room and promise her you won’t run off and leave her?
         “Don’t forget the flowers for your sisters.” interrupted Mama “They chose yesterday which ones to wear.”
         “I haven’t forgotten.” I said with a tone of indigence. She was quick to assume I would not remember. How could I possibly forget the flowers? Honestly, the ordeal the women in my house made over something as silly as flowers was ridiculous at the very least.
         I heard my sisters come bounding down the stairs just as I picked up the paper. They seemed to have developed a sixth sense for predicting just the moment to bring in their girlish commotion where it was least wanted.
         “…or shall I wear the green one with the gold buttons down the back? Has Bill seen it? Oh, never mind! Perhaps the one with the big red bow?”
         “Oh, now Mary, I heard his favorite color is blue. If you wear the blue one, it will draw out the color of your eyes. You are a vision in that gown!” Mattie coaxed.
         “Why, I hadn’t thought of that!” she said ”Did you hear that he preferred blue from that dolt, Maisy Gordon? I haven’t believed a word she has said since she told me Rebecca was seen with Charles behind the schoolhouse!”
         “But you know, I haven’t seen a girl in blue in months, do you think it has gone out? Oh, what will you wear!” Mattie exclaimed.
         “It matters very little what either of you wear, or are both of you too silly to know any better?” I chimed in. “Bill Lowry doesn’t care one iota what color you wear, so long as you don’t appear tonight in black. I guarantee he will either be spending every spare thought on the food they will be serving, or the fact that he has to wear a tie on a day other than Sunday. Now will both of you use the sense God gave you to talk about something that actually matters?” The last part I emphasized by turning the page of my newspaper loudly.
         “Oh, Jack! You’re insufferable! Mama, tell him he has no idea the pain we women must bear to please ungrateful men like him.” said Mary furiously.
         “Will you three give me a moment’s peace for heaven’s sake? And where is your brother?” replied Mama before calling to him. “Watt, your breakfast is becoming cold!” Oftentimes her responses never seemed to be suited for the moment, rather they seemed to be taken from a area of her mind filled with generic replies that could end any matter at any time. I found no fault with her technique at the moment, however, as now my sisters sat eating silently.
         Into the quiet room walked little Watt. I say ‘little’ not merely because he was a year younger than I, but because his build would suggest he was three or four years my junior at least.
         “Welcome to the world, little guy” I said, grinning widely.
         He didn’t reply. Instead, he gave me a cold, indifferent look. He was not a morning person by any stretch of the imagination, but neither was I for that matter. I simply understood that morning had come whether I wanted it to or not, and I had better get used to the idea.
         “Are you coming down to work with me today?” I asked Watt.
         “Have I got to?” he answered, his eyes now filled with regret for agreeing to a week prior.
         “Of course you haven’t got to, but we sure could use you. We have to work quickly to finish before we close early this evening.” I was referring to that most dreaded ceremony taking place tonight-- a wedding. I had never been a sentimental soul, and ordinarily I wouldn’t bother attending, but I was asked to play fiddle, and I wouldn’t turn down some cool money.
         “Mama, sit down and eat. You’ll exhaust yourself!” said Mary.
         “Don’t you fuss on my account. I’m just fine.” Mama replied, but feeling a wave of fatigue, she sat down in a chair by the window. Mama was just shy of her sixtieth birthday, yet she was ever as spry as she had been before any of us were born. Although time had given her a fair share of wrinkles, it had not taken the color from a single hair on her head, nor had it stolen the twinkle of her eyes.
Mama’s family moved here from South Carolina when she was 14. Grandpa Wingo was the youngest son of a wealthy landowner, and Mama’s childhood was spent in the midst of luxury and privilege. A portrait of her hung in the parlor which was painted before they moved, though she often asked papa to take it down. I tried imagining her as the young girl dressed in a fine green silk dressed as she is pictured. Now she sat in a modest dress, riddled with patches and in need of washing.
Other than her hair and eyes, the only thing left over from her younger days was the contented look on her face. Though her father had poured all of his inheritance into land in an unknown frontier in Georgia, she never once spoke ill of him. Even as she woke up before the sun each morning to cook breakfast and go on to do any number of back-breaking chores for us, chores which earlier in her life were relegated to others, she did them now and never complained.
         “Come on, Watt, we had best get a move on. W. Y. will have our heads if we arrive late again” I say, breaking the silence. As we leave, I hear the girls strike up their idle conversation again. “Girls. Why must we be made to suffer them?”
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         Mama had carefully chosen names for each of her sons, names that were dignified and original. Papa agreed to all of them, but set out to give us each nicknames. Edwin Whitfield was the firstborn son, and he’d always been dubbed “Whit”. Next came William Yancey, however he had always had the misfortune of being called “W. Y.”, but in that area of Georgia it sounded more like “dub-yee-why”. The third son was Jason Irwin, the first name from my father, and the middle for a distant relative; he had been called Irwin all his life. I’m Lawton Adrien, but somehow “Jack” had been deemed fitting to my papa. Watt Lamar was the last son, and somehow he escaped without a nickname, though we’d all tried our hand at giving him one. Mama was Louisa Amarillys, and Papa always called her “Lou”, and it’s likely that her affection for the pet name he had given her was the reason we all acquired them, though we didn’t like ours quite so much.
         “How come we got to walk today, Jack?” Watt asked, wiping the sweat from his brow. “It’s already too hot to be outside, let alone walking up to town.”
         “Pa needs the buggy to tend to some business in town this morning, and frankly, walking is just what you need, porky!” I replied, and at that last word, I poked him in the stomach.
         At that provocation, Watt started after me and chased me. He had gotten close to catching me until I came to a full stop at the bridge. Since before I can remember it had been a family tradition to cross this particular bridge as somberly as possible. Auntie Albinia’s husband had been drowned when the previous bridge here had collapsed as he and his sons crossed one evening. Though that happened long before I was born, we never felt comfortable breaking tradition. We crossed the bridge silently, as though we were in a funeral procession, and as we came once again to dry land, I dashed off, leaving my brother behind.
         W. Y. owned a small grocery store in town and during the summer months Watt and I were taken on to help in any way he saw fit. He was an outstanding brother, always offering to take us fishing or camping in the woods, but in his store he was not our brother, he was our boss. Watt and I spent many a day laboring over chores ranging from the mundane to the exhausting. His genial demeanor and sense of humor seemed unable to function within the store, at least as it seemed to us. Any wise-crack from us was met with a cold look, and often more work.
         Our house was every step of two miles from town. When we stepped into the store we begged W. Y. for a glass of water before he put us to work. Immediately after, Watt was given the task of washing the windows, and I was entrusted with taking the produce crates  onto the sidewalk to drum up some business.
         Carrying a rather full crate of peaches, I stepped onto the sidewalk, and turned to my left. As I turned, I failed to see someone walking toward me, and we collided, sending my peaches out of the crate and onto the ground. I paid no mind to the victim I had bumped, only offering a simple “pardon me”. I gathered the scattered peaches into a make-shift pouch in my apron. Collecting the last one, I stood and glanced at the person standing there. It was a young lady! She stood there in a yellow dress with a matching parasol. Surprised by her, and worried that my brother had seen this display of inaptitude, I stepped back only to trip on a loose peach, and once again my fruit fell from my apron, as I myself hit the sidewalk with a “thud”.
It was then that I heard it, the most dreaded sound; she was giggling. I looked at the young woman, who stood only five and a half feet tall, with my eyebrows furled.
         “What, may I ask, is so funny, Miss?” I questioned, my words sharp as tacks.
         “I only wonder if you are always this clumsy, Mr. Bailey, or if you are doing it on my account.” she said, before bursting into another round of laughter.
I felt my cheeks growing redder, and just as they did my face grew stern.
         “I’ll have you know, I’m not the sort of fellow who goes silly at the sight of young ladies, Miss, so don’t be flattered by any means.”
         My anger only exacerbated her laughter, and she turned and walked away, twirling her parasol just as blithe as could be. I wondered what sort of girl laughs at the misfortune of a stranger-- a stranger? She called me “Mr. Bailey”, certainly I was not a stranger. Her face was shaded by her parasol, but from what I gathered she wasn’t anyone familiar to me.
         I gathered my peaches, each one now thoroughly bruised, and started back inside, awaiting the scolding I would surely receive. 
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