NINETEEN

TO TELL THE story of his marriage proposal to Sally Ledford would be one of the pleasures of Ben’s late life, for his memory of it was exaggerated humorously and he would develop an old man’s habit of pausing to think over what he had just said before continuing with his story, and the pausing somehow made it all seem more interesting.

In Ben’s telling, the news squealed from the porch of his mother’s home, paused for a gasp in Betty Render’s yard, and then was shot with electric quickness throughout Jericho, going house to house, shop to shop, in a relay of words that every woman in town seemed to be waiting to hear. No one used the telephone, Ben vowed. There was no reason for it. The telephone was not as quick as the tongues of women.

“And once it gets told, you might as well forget taking it back,” Ben always added philosophically, and with a wink. “Men don’t know it, but women do. When the word’s out, you’re already married. You just haven’t had the ceremony, or anything else that comes with it.”

It was a tale containing foolishness and a great deal of truth.

By the time Sally reached her home, less than an hour after accepting Ben’s proposal, her mother had heard the news and had retired to her bed, leaving instructions with Lena, the maid, that she felt particularly exhausted, but held good thoughts about the proposal and looked forward to speaking with her daughter about it at breakfast.

“Miss Alice ought to be ashamed of herself,” Lena fumed boldly.

“She can’t help having bad health, Lena,” Sally said in a weak defense of her mother.

Lena shook her head vigorously. “Honey, you just been asked the biggest question you ever gone be asked, other than are you ready to pass through the Golden Gates, and your mama takes to her bed without so much as a hug. That’s not right.” She motioned for Sally. “You come here, let Lena hug you.”

The embrace from Lena was powerful and warm. Sally could feel trembling from inside the huge woman, and she wondered if it was for joy or pity. Or both.

“You got you a good man, honey,” Lena said, nodding her head against Sally’s shoulder. “I been knowing his mama a long time. His daddy, too, when his daddy was alive. They good people.”

She released Sally and looked at her for a long, gazing moment. Then she said, “You go off and be Miss Sally. Don’t you try to be like your mama or your daddy. Now, they good people, too. Always treated me fine. But they don’t talk to each other enough, honey. Don’t you let that happen to you and that fine Mr. Ben Phelps. You keep talking to him. Ask him every day how he feels. Make out like you just can’t wait to hear the next word that come falling out his mouth.”

Sally could feel tears rinsing the corners of her eyes. Her mother had never given her such advice.

“Lord, honey, having a husband’s a lot like having a puppy,” Lena said softly, touching a tear from Sally’s face. “You just got to talk mush-talk and keep him fed and watered and scratch his belly once in a while, and when he starts to wagging his tail, it’ll be you he’s wagging it at.”

Sally pushed herself close to Lena again, felt Lena’s arms circle her. “I love you,” she whispered.

“And I love you, too, child,” Lena said.

SALLY DID NOT ask her father who informed him of Ben’s proposal. He had worked late at the books, and when he arrived home, he knew—from someone, he knew; someone on the street or someone lingering at a front-yard fence on the walk across town—and he embraced her warmly, telling her he was glad. It was expected news, of course, he said, but it was still good to have something firm in place.

“Have you set a date?” he asked at the dining-room table, during their supper.

“November,” Sally told him.

“Very good,” her father said, forcing an accommodating smile.

“Are you all right?” asked Sally.

“Of course I am. What makes you ask that?”

“You just seem like you’re somewhere else.”

Her father turned his face to the food before him. “Just a couple of things in the books,” he said. “I’m thinking about having a sale.”

“If you do, can we wait until Ben gets back?” Sally asked.

“I’m sure we can,” her father said. “I expect he’ll be on his feet, good as ever, in a few more days.”

“He looks a lot better,” Sally said.

Her father nodded, chewed his food, gazed out the window at the gathering night.

“Did you put out some more women’s cologne after I left?” asked Sally.

Arthur turned to her, frowned darkly.

“I just smell it,” Sally said. “I thought you might have gotten some on you.”

Arthur lifted his hand to his face and sniffed. He could smell the perfumed scent of Lottie Lanier, and a stroke of panic and guilt washed through him. He wiped his hand over the napkin, fought to keep the redness out of his face. He said in a serious voice, “I don’t remember putting any out, but I must have moved a bottle, or something.” He touched the napkin to his lips and then to his forehead, as though in thought. “Now that I think of it, there was a bottle that somebody had left the cap off of,” he added. “Probably one of Carla Dupree’s girls. I put it back on just before I left. I didn’t notice that any had spilled, but I guess that was it.”

“You’re blushing, Daddy,” Sally said lightly.

Arthur put down the napkin and picked up his glass of tea. “It’s a little embarrassing to be going around with women’s cologne on you,” he said. “I suppose I’m so used to it, I don’t smell it anymore.” He drank from the tea, then added, “I’m sorry your mother’s not feeling well. She’d like to be sharing this time with you, I’m sure.”

Sally smiled, but did not reply. Her father was merely playing his role. He had apologized for her mother for so many years he did not know when he did it, or to whom.

“Maybe having a wedding to plan will be good for her,” Arthur suggested. “Give her a responsibility to enjoy.”

“I hope so,” Sally replied.

“You will have to be aware of one thing,” her father added, “and that’s to not let Margaret Phelps take over things.”

“She won’t do that, Daddy.”

“She’s a strong-willed woman, Sally. Don’t ever forget that. I’ve known her since childhood, and she’s always been—well, forceful.”

“I’ll get Mama and Mrs. Phelps together, and we’ll work things out,” Sally said.

Her father glanced at her. A frown wormed over his eyebrows. It was not a meeting he would want to attend. His wife had never cared for Margaret Phelps—not even enough for polite pretension—and he knew how such a meeting would end: his wife’s face hard-set, her lips sealed, her eyes cold. And Margaret Phelps would not notice anything unusual. His wife had been a near-recluse for so many years, people had long given up hope of seeing happiness in her. Margaret Phelps would ring bells of laughter; his wife would sit in silence and resentment.

“Take my advice,” her said after a moment. “Don’t get them together until you have to.”

Sally turned to her father. An expression of amusement was on her face. “Daddy,” she said, “you make it sound like a war instead of a wedding.”

“I don’t mean it that way,” he replied. “I just want you to be aware of what you could be facing, that’s all, and to let you know if you ever want to talk about it, I’ll listen. Right now, I suspect you’ve got stars in your eyes, and sometimes that makes a person blind.” He paused. “Happens to everybody,” he added quietly.

Sally reached across the table and touched her father’s hand. She said, “I’ll watch out for them. I just hope Mama feels up to everything. Sometimes I think she gets tired around me, and I’m not really sure she thinks my marriage to Ben is a good thing.”

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t know. She never said anything, but sometimes I can feel it. Maybe it’s because he’s older.”

“May I ask you something?” her father said gently.

“Yes.”

“Are you happy?”

“Of course I am.”

“And it’s because of Ben Phelps?”

Sally nodded.

“Then hold to that,” her father said. “No matter what happens, hold to it. No matter what people say, hold to it. If you don’t, you’ll always wonder, always regret.” He paused again, gazed into his daughter’s large, bright eyes. She was a child. A child. “Believe me,” he whispered, “you don’t want that.”

Sally did not speak. She slipped from her chair and moved to her father and embraced him awkwardly as he sat.

“Go see Ben,” Arthur told her. “I would imagine he wonders where you are.”

“Maybe I shouldn’t,” Sally said hesitantly. “Maybe I should sit with Mama.”

Arthur shook his head. “No, you go see Ben. I’ll take care of your mother.”

“I won’t be long,” Sally promised.

“It’s all right,” her father said. He smiled faintly, and she saw moisture in his eyes. “I might as well start getting used to you being somewhere else.”

IT WAS AFTER sunfall—not light, not dark—and Ben sat in the swing on the front porch of his mother’s home, waiting for Sally to return from sharing the news of her engagement with her parents. He had expected her earlier and now wondered if something had happened. An argument, perhaps. He had been around Alice Ledford enough to know that argument thrived in her bitter look, that it could erupt suddenly, unexpectedly.

His mother had guessed his worry. She had said, “I’m sure they’re as excited as I am, and they’re just spending some time with her.” It was meant to comfort him. His mother also knew Alice Ledford.

The mood at his home had been festive. After their supper, his mother had found the ice cream churn and made ice cream with fresh peaches, taking turns with Lottie for the cranking. He had volunteered to help, but was refused. He was not strong enough for such labor, his mother had declared. Besides, the night was in his honor—and Sally’s.

“She’ll be here soon enough,” his mother had said, leaving him on the porch. “I’m going to help Lottie get Little Ben ready for bed, but be sure and get some ice cream for Sally, and tell her I’ll see her in the morning, if not tonight.”

Ben had stopped her. “Mama, do you think Lottie’s all right?”

“Seems fine to me. Why?” his mother had replied.

“I don’t know,” Ben had answered. “She was real quiet when you told her about me asking Sally to marry me.”

“Well, son, maybe it took her by surprise,” his mother had said quietly. “And maybe she’s had a little crush on you herself, the way you helped her out so soon after her husband died. Women never forget that sort of kindness from a man, and, who knows, maybe her husband was as sorry as a carpetbagger.” She had glanced at the door of the house and then moved close to Ben. “I haven’t said anything about it, but I have noticed how shy she seems around you. That’s usually a pretty good sign that a woman has an interest, and I think you should know that Sally sees it, too. Oh, she hasn’t said anything about it to me, but she doesn’t have to. I can tell.”

“I think you’re wrong, Mama,” Ben had protested.

“And I think you’re still a little boy sometimes,” his mother had replied.

If his mother could see that Lottie might have affection for him, could she see anything else? Ben wondered. Something he could not see. Something about Lottie that he seemed to sense, but did not understand.

Lottie had arrived from work an hour later than usual, her face blushed from the heat. She had heard the news of the engagement from his mother, and had turned to him, offering a smile. Her only words had been “That’s good.” And then she had excused herself to change clothes and to play with Little Ben. Throughout their supper, and the making and eating of the ice cream, she had seemed remote and preoccupied. It was not in her behavior, or what she said—or didn’t say—but in a mood that seemed to wrap around her like an invisible shroud.

And perhaps, Ben thought, she was merely tired from the work in Ledford’s, or she had grown weary of the role-playing to protect him. There were times when he caught her gazing out of a window, and the cast of her eyes went far beyond their seeing. In those times, Ben believed she was unbearably lonely, and that she missed the traveling of the carnival and the places she had visited. Missed the pitched tents with quilt flooring, the smell of earth and lantern oil. Missed the trickery of silk-scarf magic and the calling of drumbeat and calliope whistle, like an anthem for wanderers. Missed the hope of dreams promised by slicksters selling chances at winning cheap prizes.

Curiously, at such times Ben did not think that Lottie missed Foster as much as she did the carnival. If she did, she did not show it. She had spoken to him only once of Foster since arriving in Jericho, and that was the first night, in her promise not to talk of his visit to Kentucky.

Yet, at other times, he watched her huddled with Little Ben, her face tucked against Little Ben’s face, and he knew that she was once again in Kentucky, sitting before the embers of a fire from the fireplace, listening for the rattle of Foster’s breathing, waiting for the breathing to stop.

In a few days, when he was again at full strength, he would accompany her to Augusta, as he had promised Foster. He would explain to Sally and to his mother that he felt an obligation to Lottie, and that his duty to her would be done when he led her, and Little Ben, to the front door of her parents’ home. He would also say he wanted a day to find a suitable engagement ring in an Augusta jewelry store.

He pushed his toe against the porch floor, swaying the swing. It would be strange not having Lottie around, he thought. And Little Ben. Little Ben seemed born to the home. Without Little Ben, the home would be tomb-quiet.

The moving chain of the swing had the sound of cicadas.

He wondered if he would ever see Lottie Lanier after taking her home.

Maybe for the wedding. His mother would want to invite her, because she would want to see Little Ben.

But she would not come to the wedding, Ben reasoned.

When she left Jericho, she would disappear from their lives.

He heard his name being called and twisted his body to the street to watch Sally rushing toward him, lifting the hem of her skirt. She slipped onto the swing and folded her arms around his chest.

“Did you miss me?” she asked.

“Yes,” he admitted.

Sally stayed only long enough for ice cream and to sit again in the swing with her head nestled against Ben’s shoulder. She did not say anything about her mother’s sudden illness or her father’s advice to her. She was, Ben thought, more relaxed than he had ever known her.

Before she left for home, she asked, “Do you love me, Ben?”

“If I don’t, I think I’ve let myself in for a lot of trouble,” Ben told her.

“Just say yes, Ben.”

“Yes,” Ben said quietly.

“You’re going to make a wonderful husband.”

“And you’re going to make a wonderful wife,” Ben replied.

“Do you think of me as a little girl, or a woman?” Sally asked.

“Some of both,” Ben answered after a moment. “It’s hard to forget when you used to aggravate me to death, running around all over the place, keeping things messed up just to make me straighten up after you.”

“Did I do that?”

“Yes, you did.”

Sally leaned to him, kissed him. “I’m sorry. I’ll make up for it. I promise you.”

“You already have,” Ben said.

“How?”

“By growing up to be who you are.”

AFTER MIDNIGHT, LOTTIE again opened the door to Ben’s room and slipped quietly inside. Again, she was wearing the pearl-silk nightgown. Again, she knelt at his bed, took his hand and opened it and gently rested her face in his palm, like someone giving alms to a beggar.

“I’m glad for you,” she whispered.

“Thank you,” Ben said.

She looked up. Ben could see that her eyes were damp with crying.

“What’s wrong?” he asked.

“I just had a dream,” she told him.

“What dream?”

“I dreamed it was me you married.”

Ben said nothing.

“I was dressed in a dress that was white as a cloud, Ben, and we were out in a field like the ones in Kentucky, and you were there, and so was Foster, and he was standing up by a tree watching us, a grin all over his face. The preacher was there, too—him and his wife, and Mr. Quick and some of the others, and so was your mama and Little Ben and Mr. Ledford and even Sally. And I was standing close to you and the preacher was saying we’d been married.”

She paused, sucked in a quick breath, rolled her face in his hand, leaving it damp.

“It’s all right, Lottie,” Ben said softly. “It was just a dream. Me and you, we’re friends. We always will be. I’d say you were dreaming that our friendship got married. I’ve had that same dream myself. Almost exactly the same.”

For a long moment, Lottie did not speak or move her face. Then she said, “I need to leave, Ben. I need to go on home.”

“I understand,” Ben told her. “Two or three more days, and I’ll be up to it.”

“You don’t need to go with me. I can go by myself.”

“No,” Ben said. “I promised Foster.”

Lottie nodded against his palm.

“A lot of people here wish you’d just stay,” Ben said. “Including me.”

Lottie stood. “I can’t,” she said.

“I could talk to Mr. Ledford about work,” Ben said. “I know he thinks you’re a good worker, and Mama would keep Little Ben. In fact, she’d probably steal him from you if she could.”

Lottie shook her head. She turned away from the bed. “I got to go, Ben. I can’t stay. If I stayed, nothing would be right.” She moved quickly to the door and out of the room.

Ben lifted his hand to his mouth and let his tongue tip the palm. He could taste the salt of Lottie.