She traveled by train. Mama E and I met her at the station on a bright Saturday morning in June.
She “disembarked,” as she called it, wearing a black-and-white polka-dot dress and a wide-brimmed white hat. She wore one white glove and carried the other and gripped the handle of a large bag that looked to have been made from an old Persian rug. I lightly ran my fingers over the fabric.
“It’s an authentic carpet bag, left over from Reconstruction days,” she said. “My great-grandmother passed it down. Her daddy shot a carpetbagger who was attempting to steal the last mule the family had left after the war. The Yankees took our mules, our horses, and our cows, but he got that Yankee’s carpetbag.”
“She means the Civil War,” Mama E said low to me as we stood watching Aint Hat collect her trunk and two suitcases from the brakeman in charge of baggage.
Right off the bat, I nearly blew it with what was meant to be a friendly gesture.
“Let me carry something, Aint Hattie.”
The old bat turned arrogant eyes on me, chin aloft, expression scornful.
Mama E jumped in. “Aunt Hattie will be pleased with any help you can give, I’m sure, and let’s hope it will all fit in the car.”
I about died, but I got the message. I had to switch from Aint to Aunt, PDQ.
“I’m having the trunk delivered,” Aunt Hattie said. “And don’t worry, I’m not moving in. I’m on a Southern pilgrimage. After I finish up with you two, I’m heading to Paragould to visit Cousin Nettie and her family, then on to Hot Springs to take the baths. Let me hold onto your arm, Julie. I’d hate to take a tumble before I even get to the house.”
“Isn’t Paragould up near Memphis?” I asked, hardly daring to say anything at all, but thinking I would draw more attention to myself if I didn’t join in.
“It is,” she said. “And no, I won’t be visiting the new star of rock ’n’ roll. Are you a fan of Mr. Presley, Julie?”
“I’m not only a fan, I’m a friend. We’ve been writing for over a year.” I had my mouth open to tell her he sent me his records too, when I caught Mama E’s wide eyes and slight shake of her head.
“You’re corresponding with a person who exhibits himself on the stage? I’m sorry to hear that, Julie.”
The increased pressure of Aunt Hattie’s grip on my arm with her ungloved hand riveted my attention on her ring, half encased in her fleshy finger, its enormous diamond glinting in the sunlight. To a girl like me, whose mother wore only a gold band and a pair of dangling earrings my stepfather bought her on their honeymoon, it looked to be at least fifteen carats.
“Four,” she said, reading my mind. “Four carats, and don’t gawk. You’ve seen it before. Every time you’ve been with me, in fact, given that I haven’t been able to get it off my finger since nineteen ought nine.”
A frenzied need to perform a vanishing act seized me.
When the polka-dotted hem was tucked safely out of the way, I shut the door of the front passenger seat and crawled in back, grateful to have my face behind her so it couldn’t betray me again. On the drive home, she and Elizabeth chatted about the world situation, which Aunt Hat declared was deplorable with the cost of gasoline at thirty-one cents a gallon.
“How much do you make a year, Elizabeth, working at that old law office?”
“It’s not an old office, Auntie, and I make thirty-five hundred dollars a year. Look how pretty the courthouse is with all the flowers planted around it.”
“Thirty-five hundred dollars a year! How do you keep the child in clothes?”
Elizabeth sighed. “I manage.”
“Those cheapskates ought to at least pay you a living wage. After all, without you and others like you to type their so-called erudite briefs, they’d never darken the doors of a courtroom.”
Elizabeth gave a little bounce behind the wheel. “If women could unite and form a union like the coal miners, we’d have some clout behind our struggle for higher wages,” she said, her breath coming in quick jerks. “Not to mention health care and a pension.”
Aunt Hattie turned her face toward Mama E, allowing me a view of her profile.
“You haven’t turned Communist, have you, Elizabeth?”
Mama E shot a quick look at Aunt Hattie. “How could you even think such a thing?”
“People in unions are Communists.”
“Just because people unite to have strength in numbers doesn’t make them Communists,” I said.
She turned raised eyebrows at me. “Is that what they’re teaching you in school these days?”
“We’d best change the subject,” Mama E said.
Aunt Hattie whipped her head around to face the front.
“What about alimony? Couldn’t you squeeze a few dollars out of Scott Morgan now that he’s sobered up enough to hold down a job?”
“How do you know about that?” Mama E asked.
Aunt Hattie’s hat bobbed. “I have my sources.”
I could see the blood drain from Elizabeth’s face. That comment must have struck her to the core, as it had me. Could Aunt Hattie’s “sources” have informed her about me and Julie switching places?
Mama E slammed on the brakes at a red light.
“I wouldn’t take a dime from him!”
“Pride goeth before a fall,” Aunt Hattie pronounced, turning again to look back over the seat at me. “Do you see your father at all these days?”
“What do your sources tell you?”
Mama E shouted, “Carmen!”
Aunt Hattie straightened. “What did you say, Elizabeth?”
Mama E cleared her throat. “I started to say, Carmen Newton, Julie’s half-sister, is living here in town now, and she and Julie have gotten together of late. Isn’t that so, Julie?”
“Uh . . . yes.” I held my breath that her sources hadn’t told her my mother had left town.
“I shouldn’t think you’d allow the child to associate with riffraff,” Aunt Hattie said.
“Carmen isn’t riffraff!” My voice was way too loud.
“I was referring to your father, Scott,” Aunt Hattie said. “I’ve never so much as laid my eyes on Miss Carmen. But I don’t imagine she could be anything other than riffraff herself, considering her background and lineage.”
My voice trembled with rage. “Half of her background and lineage is the same as mine!”
“But your other half is not the same, and half is enough to save you,” the old biddy said.
It wasn’t easy dealing with people in Julie’s social class. Hypocrites, all. If Mama E hadn’t turned into the driveway right then, there is no telling what else I might have said.
We hauled the suitcases to the guest room, and while I went to check the mail, Mama E fixed three glasses of iced tea. There was a letter from Elvis, and a letter from Mother. Glancing over my shoulder, I tore into it, knowing it was imperative, as Mama E would say, to keep it hidden from Aunt Hattie. All Mother said was she had arrived safely in London and that my stepfather sent his love. I didn’t know what to do with the letter from Elvis.
Aunt Hattie was still in her room when I joined Mama E in the den.
“Any mail?” she asked.
“A letter from Mother,” I mouthed.
“Take it to the incinerator in the backyard and burn it. Now!”
“Don’t get so rattled. It’s safe in my pocket. I have to copy down her address before I get rid of it.”
“You’re not doing well,” Elizabeth said in a low voice. “Calling her ‘Aint’ Hattie.”
“It’s your fault. You never told me to pronounce it ‘aunt.’ As for who isn’t doing well, you called me ‘Carmen.’”
Mama E wiped her brow. “Thank God you’ll be in summer school most of the time. Any other mail?”
“A letter from Elvis.”
“You didn’t open it, did you?”
“No, I didn’t open it,” I said, my words dripping with disgust at her lack of trust.
“I promised I’d forward any letters from him. She wouldn’t like it if they were opened.” After a few minutes, she asked, “Where did you put it?”
“I left it on the doohickey.”
“The doohickey you’re referring to wouldn’t happen to be the antique commode in the living room, would it?” an imperious voice said from the breakfast room. Aunt Hattie was making her way into the den, holding the letter aloft.
Me and Mama E both lost our cool.
“You know how kids are,” Mama E said. “Julie can’t bear to call it by its proper name.”
“No, I absolutely cannot,” I said.
“I presume this is from Mr. Presley,” Aunt Hattie said, waving the envelope, “since it bears a Memphis postmark.”
“May I have it, please?” I asked, putting on my polite voice.
“Since you put it so nicely, here.” She thrust the envelope into my outstretched hand and settled herself on the red couch next to me. After a few moments, she asked, “Aren’t you going to open it?”
I had her now. Aint Hat, the old bat, was curious about Elvis. That meant she liked him but would die before she’d admit it.
“Do you want me to?” I turned on my innocent face. “I thought it might not be good manners to open it in front of you. That’s why I left it out there on the doo . . . commode.”
She sighed. “At least you’re making an effort.” She patted my hand. “Go ahead, Julie, dear. Open your letter. I wouldn’t mind hearing what Mr. Presley has to say myself.”
Mama E’s mouth flew open, and she burst out laughing.
“After all, Elizabeth, times are changing. Hurry up, Julie. I always did want to read a letter from a king.”