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  Mother paused while I stood before her, staring at the floor like a scolded child. I had never seen her in such a state. My heart ached when I thought of the turmoil I’d brought to my peaceful home.

  “When did this happen? Where’s Flo?”

  Mother looked away into nothingness and shook her head. “Two days ago. She bled too much after the birth. Doc thinks she’s in some sort of coma.”

  “You mean she’s just unconscious, right?”

  Mother pressed her lips and fought back the tears, nodded.

  “Mickey, I don’t think the little fella’s going to make it.”

  The baby’s noises faded as I walked down the hallway toward the bedroom Flo and I shared. My brain felt like a shock absorber, taking in one blow and then the next. I paused at the closed door, dreading what I would find on the other side. I saw Sophia sitting by the bed beyond the crack in the door. Her weary eyes were fastened on Flo who didn’t know she was there. She looked comforted at the sight of me. She slipped out of the room to meet me.

  “How you holding up, little brother?”

  I massaged her shoulder looking for words that weren’t there. I wondered what I, the man of the house, should do at a time like this.

  “I don’t know. How about you?”

  Sophia shook her head and turned toward the kitchen. I peeked through the cracked door. Flo was asleep. I couldn’t see past that. Not knowing what to do, I followed Sophia to the kitchen. She checked the coffee kettle on the stove and poured a cup of thick chicory coffee.

  “It’s still warm. Do you want some?”

  I nodded and waited for her account of Flo’s condition. Sophia sat on the bench across from me and rubbed her weary eyes.

  “Oh Mickey, I hope she wakes up soon. She hasn’t moved since the baby was born. We shook her. We threw water on her. Miss Sara applied a vile smelling herb poultice that ran us all out of the room. No amount of force or witchcraft seems to help. Doc James is coming back this afternoon. Maybe he can tell us something.”

  Sophia paused, warming her hand on the blue-speckled coffee mug. “You know Mickey, I really like Flo. She’s charming in an uncomplicated way. She hasn’t been tamed and molded like the rest of us. Her mind is freewheeling and alive with possibilities. Being with her is refreshing. I can see why you love her.”

  I let my guard down. I said the thing I thought I’d never admit. “I don’t love her. I love Marianne.”

  She murmured, “I know. But I thought that was over, now that you have Flo.”

  I searched my sister’s face. She never lied. “How do you know?”

  “I was helping Marianne with her wedding dress a half-hour before she said, I do. She told me to tell you that she was sorry.”

  “Is that all she said?”

  Sophia nodded. Sophia wasn’t the type to judge. If anyone had to know my secret, I was glad that it was her. She walked over to the sink and washed the cups.

  “Why didn’t you tell me?”

  Sophia surprised me when she gripped her fingers around the curve on the sink and answered sharply, “We all have to accept reality. The truth of it is that Flo is here and Marianne isn’t and never will be. My dreams of love didn’t come true either, but what life has given me is tolerable, and I accept it. You will have to adjust, possibly learn to love her.”

  Her words stung, but I knew she was right. “Yeah, possibly. I’ve created quite a mess, haven’t I? Mother said the baby might not make it.”

  Sophia’s voice returned to the soft nature I was accustomed to. “Mickey, Flo’s not ready to be a mother. She’s still a child herself. It may be for the best.”

  I searched her face, unable to understand her intent. The baby was the only reason I married Flo. I couldn’t accept that life wouldn’t follow my plan. I couldn’t stay in that house another minute. The baby struggling to live, Flo looking dead already, Mother and Sophia judging me; I couldn’t face the mess I’d made of my life. I bolted out the backdoor, down the wooded path to my secret place.

  I walked a steady gait into the darkness of the hidden path behind the house. A thick canopy of green sheltered me. Perfumed Poplar flowers covered the path, still fresh and unspoiled by the sun. An invisible Brown Thrush rustled last year’s dead leaves. Titmice and Chickadees flitted back and forth. A White-breasted Nuthatch ran up and down a scrub oak looking for bugs. The darkness and familiar sounds of the woods comforted me and made me feel safe.

  A mile behind our house, my father built a crossing of stones and packed dirt over the creek. I was ten years old and it was our secret place. He said that every man needed a getaway. After he fell off the ladder a year later, the creek crossing became my refuge. I’d disappear for hours, taking in the sounds and smell of the creek, connecting with my dead father. Meme would send Lewis to find me. Later, she would scold me when I finally slipped back into the yard. But I never revealed the whereabouts of my secret place. Every man needed one.

  I took off the railroad issued work boots and hung my legs over the side of the dirt-packed bridge, watching the water wash away the debris from the low hanging limbs. A fat catfish scoured the bottom of the clear stream beneath my feet. Its long whiskers, like tentacles, swept the surface clean. I searched my heart for a different kind of cleansing. I lived the first five years of my adulthood consumed in hunger and lust. I hungered for Marianne, the woman I couldn’t have. I worked to fulfill my lust for a snazzy car and fancy clothes. I gave in to the physical desire Flo conjured within me. My selfish needs consumed my life, leaving me with nothing but regret and turmoil in my soul.

  I vowed to change my ways and live for my family. I would make life better for Mother and the girls, my newborn son and Flo. I took pride in my newborn son. The idea of taking care of Flo and the boy fulfilled me. I would lead an honorable and productive life as a husband and father. Flo and the babe were so small and frail that they couldn’t survive without me. Flo made me feel needed; now she and our son needed me more than ever.

  Mustering up my strength, I put my shoes back on and headed to the house. As I walked, I began to think of a name for my son. Michael, for my father and me, and Lewis – Michael Lewis MacDonald, I nodded, pleased with my decision. I decided that when he’s old enough, I would share my secret place with him like my father did with me.

  I slipped through the brush to see Mother and Doc James standing next to his black Ford. They didn’t see me until I was almost upon them. The skin on Mother’s face stretched taut with tension and sadness.

  “Mickey. Where have you been?”

  Her pause didn’t give me time to answer. “Son, your baby is dead.”

  The news fell like a dead weight on my soul. I stared at the packed red dirt under my feet. A tremor of grief trickled over my face. The hopes and dreams of a meaningful life born at the creek were washed away with my son’s death.

  Doc James’s hand gently rocked my shoulder. “I’m sorry, Son. He was just too small to eat. He probably wouldn’t have made it even if his mama had been awake.”

  I kept my eyes on the ground to hide the shame and guilt written on my face. “How is she?”

  The doctor moved his hand to his pocket. “Her pulse is steady. If she doesn’t come around in the next few days, I think we should take her over to Grady for observation. I’ll be back day after tomorrow. If she’s the same, I’ll order an ambulance to take her into Atlanta.”

  I finally looked up and faced the doctor. “Why is she sleeping like that?”

  Doc James shook his head. “I don’t know. I wish I did.”

  ***

  I took a week off from work to attend to my family. Mother, Lewis, Miss Sara, and I watched the gravedigger bury Michael Lewis MacDonald near my father on the family plot. In those days, tiny tombstones topped with angels were common. Mother chose the angel marker, and I paid for it. Mother grieved hard over her grandson’s death. She’d gotten attached to the babe, and she was in an awful state.

  Flo missed the death and bu
rial of her firstborn child. She woke up the next day, fine as could be. She looked alert and refreshed after her five-day rest.

  Sophia’s voice rang through the house. “She’s up. Mother, she’s awake.”

  Mother and I joined Sophia at Flo’s bedside. She sat up, wide-eyed as if she was seeing the world for the first time. Sophia cooed at Flo gently, as if she might break.

  “Flo, how do you feel?”

  Flo looked around the room and said, “Awright, I reckon. Where’s my baby?”

  I stepped forward and sat on the bed next to her. “Um, the little fella didn’t make it, Flo. Doc James said that he was just too little to eat.”

  Flo looked at my feet or the floor beside the bed. I couldn’t see what she looked for. She didn’t cry or do anything I expected. Flo was strange that way; you never knew what would come next. After about a minute, she looked at me curiously.

  “It was a boy? What was his name?”

  I felt proud repeating the fine name I’d given my son. “Michael Lewis MacDonald.”

  Flo’s big blue eyes popped wider. “You named my baby after a darkie?”

  Mother leaned over Flo. “You look here, Missy. I just buried my grandson, and I’m in no mood for your foolishness. The little fella didn’t live long, but his father gave him a fine name, Michael Lewis MacDonald. We’ve been pussy-footin’ around you since you came here. Now it’s time for you to straighten up and act like you’ve got a lick of sense. No more name-calling in this house.”

  Mother straightened her dress and turned to walk out of the room. “You seem to be feeling better now. I expect to see you at dinner, and you can wash the dishes after.”

  Flo sat there in silence. Like the rest of us, she knew who was boss. I left the room so that Sophia could attend to Flo’s needs and help her dress. When Flo entered the dining room later that day, the dark maternity dress dwarfed her tiny body. Flo didn’t make a sound; she didn’t have to because her wide eyes usually talked for her. That day I couldn’t read any messages in Flo’s eyes.

  She took her seat next to me at the table. Her stomach was a bottomless pit. I filled her plate with chicken and dumplings three times, and she put away four thick slices of cornbread slathered in butter. Sitting next to Flo at dinner, I realized that I had missed her. She had been through so much in such a short time, I wanted to help her. I put on an apron, cleared the table, and loaded the dishes in the pan. Flo plopped down on the bench at the kitchen table and held her head up with her fist.

  “Whew, I’m beat.”

  I put the plates in the rinse water and glanced at her out the corner of my eye. She’d been through so much, poor little kitten. I wanted to cheer her up. “You just rest. I’ll finish here. Say, Flo. What do you say we go to Atlanta when you get to feeling better? We’ll buy you some nice dresses. Maybe even go to the picture show.”

  In a flash, Flo was at my elbow, rolling those blue eyes up at me. “A picture show? I ain’t never been to a picture show before.”

  I moved her over so I could wipe the dishes. “Why sure. But remember what Sophia taught you. Say ‘I haven’t been to a picture show’.”

  “I haven’t been to a picture show,” she repeated. “And you say I can get some dresses, too?”

  I dried my hands on a towel and took her into my arms. She was so slight, I thought my passionate embrace might break her. Those were the days when Flo was easy and manageable. I was in control and she accepted it. Back then, Flo had it made. She just didn’t know it. Even though the baby boy was dead, I kept the promise I’d made at the creek. I would spoil Flo and give her everything she wanted.

  Chapter VI

  Changing Times

  1939

  Once a month, I drove Flo to Atlanta. Flo took to shopping like a duck takes to water. She stocked up on movie magazines and acquired a fine eye for fashion. She preferred form-fitted dresses made of rayon that swayed with her walk. Flo liked anything bright and showy, red or polka dot. In the five years since our marriage, Flo had grown into a beautiful woman, flashy and seductive. With the hard times behind us, I felt tip-top again strolling down Peachtree Street with a beautiful woman on my arm.

  Once in awhile, we’d eat at the Five and Dime lunch counter in Decatur and stop in on Jack at the Texaco. Jack told us that Flo’s brother had been sent up the river for armed robbery after the cops shut down his speakeasy. The news didn’t seem to have an effect on Flo. She wasn’t sentimental that way. Jack also told us that he and Maude had bought a new house in the Kirkwood neighborhood. Flo and I rode over to the new housing project.

  A streetcar rail ran in the middle and young oak trees lined the street. Jack’s house was white plank with a screened in porch on one side. I drove to the end of Edinburgh Drive where new brick bungalows were under construction in three or four alternating designs.

  “Mick, look at that one. That’s the prettiest house I’ve ever seen.”

  I stopped the car in front of a recently finished bungalow. Straw covered the sloping front lawn to protect the new grass seed. A pink dogwood sapling sprouted four blooms in the front yard. Three wide windows stretched across the front of the house. A concrete walk circled from the driveway to a front porch outlined by attractive arched columns. A car garage sat at the end of the driveway. The deep backyard ran 300 feet back.

  I opened the car door for Flo and said, “Let’s take a look around.”

  Flo and I stood on the front porch and cupped our hands against the sun’s glare to peek in the window from the porch. I could smell the freshly varnished wood of the polished oak floors through the windowpane. A wide oval opening led from the living room to a dining room.

  As the car pulled away from the curb, Flo turned around in her seat to take another look. “Wouldn’t it be just the best to live in a house like that?”

  Flo’s excitement touched that spot in my heart reserved especially for her. “Yeah, it’s pretty nice, all right.”

  On the way home, Flo looked through her new movie magazine. I thought about the house that she liked so much. Lately, Flo and Mother had been at odds with each other. Mother never warmed up to Flo after the baby died. She complained that Flo spent her days in our bedroom primping and listening to the radio. Mother had a strict housekeeping schedule and expected Flo to do her share. After a long week away from home, I looked forward to holding my wife. Week after week, I found myself standing up to Mother to keep the peace between Flo and me.

  Mother would say, “That girl is as lazy as the day is long.”

  Sadie wrote Flo off as a ninny and ignored her. Sophia enjoyed visiting Flo in our bedroom. She liked the scent of Flo’s lilac perfume that filled the air. Flo coiled Sophia’s hair into the latest style and shared her collection of fashionable hats. They listened to big band music on the radio, and Sophia helped Flo read her first novel, Gone With The Wind. I was grateful to Sophia for being Flo’s friend. Flo would have a miserable life while I was away if left with only Mother and Sadie. I was put out with both of them for the way they treated my wife.

  One Sunday evening, I retired to the parlor with a copy of Railroad Magazine. Mother was there, opening mail at her secretary. The tension between us had risen steadily over the past year. As much as Mother meant to me, my loyalty remained with Flo. I felt that Mother should have been kinder to Flo. She should have risen above the pettiness that gnawed at her and tried to help Flo, the way Sophia had. Mother also weaved her feelings toward my wife into our conversations, sometimes asking me to take her side. Expecting a battle every time I saw Mother kept me on guard, and I spoke to her less and less.

  Mother turned around in the swivel desk chair, holding a letter in her hand. “Mickey, I have a letter here from the RFC in Atlanta.”

  I set my magazine aside. “What’s RFC?”

  Mother tilted her head back to read through the small lens of her spectacles. “It’s the Reconstruction Finance Corporation on the behalf of the Federal Emergency Relief Administration. It says here
that these state programs support FDR’s WPA program.”

  Looking at Mother while she read the letter, I noticed that she had gained weight, and her hips filled the spaces between the rungs of the chair.

  “What do they want with us?” I asked.

  Mother interpreted the letter. “They’re looking for timber for new government construction projects in Atlanta. They plan to build housing for poor people. The letter says they’ll pay top dollar. Well, what do you think of that?”

  “Does the letter say how much they’ll pay?”

  Mother shook her head. “No. There’s just an address on Peachtree Street and telephone number.”

  “If you’d like, I’ll make an appointment and go with you to see what it’s all about.”

  Mother sighed. “That sounds fine. I think this Depression is finally winding down. It’s about time. Maybe we can get some extra money coming into the house again. I’d like to replace the wood burning stove in the kitchen with a gas burner and plaster the wallboard with the extra money. You can help Lewis do that in your spare time.”