go and what to do.
Those months after the war were jubilant ones for us and for the whole country. We’d pulled together and been victorious. Our men were home, and we had sugar, coffee and gasoline again. Henry was spending more time in Memphis, and I was hoping to get pregnant. I was thirty-seven; I wanted to give him a son while I still could.
I never saw the axe blow coming. The downstroke came that Christmas. As we usually did, we spent Christmas Eve with my people in Memphis, then drove down to Greenville the next morning. Eboline and her husband, Virgil, hosted a grand family dinner every year in their fancy house on Washington Street. How I hated those trips! Eboline never failed to make me feel dull and unfashionable, or her children to make mine cry. This year would be even worse than usual, because Thalia and her family were driving down from Virginia. The two sisters together were Regan and Goneril to my hapless Cordelia.
When we pulled up at Eboline’s, Henry’s father came and met us at the car. Pappy had been living with Eboline since Mother McAllan died in the fall of ’43. One look at his grim face and we knew something was wrong.
“Well,” he said to Henry by way of greeting, “that stuck-up husband of your sister’s has gone and killed himself.”
“Good God,” Henry said. “When?”
“Sometime last night, after we’d all gone to bed. Eboline found the body a little while ago.”
“Where?”
“In the attic. He hanged himself,” Pappy said. “Merry Christmas.”
“Did he leave a note saying why?” I asked.
Pappy pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. The ink had run where someone’s tears had fallen on it. It was addressed to “My darling wife.” In a quavering hand, Virgil confessed to Eboline that he’d lost the bulk of their money in a confidence scheme involving a Bolivian silver mine and the rest on a horse named Barclay’s Bravado. He said he was ending his life because he couldn’t bear the thought of telling her. (Later, when I was better acquainted with my father-in-law, I would wonder if what Virgil really couldn’t bear was the thought of spending one more night under the same roof as Pappy.)
Eboline wouldn’t leave her bed, even to soothe her children. That job fell to me, along with most of the cooking for a house full of people; Henry had kept the maid on for the time being, but he’d had to let the gardener and cook go. I did what I could. As much as I disliked Eboline, I couldn’t help feeling terribly sorry for her.
After the funeral, the girls and I drove home to Memphis while Henry stayed on to help his sister sort out her affairs. He would just be a few days, he said. But a few days turned into a week, then two. The situation was complicated, he told me on the phone. He needed more time to settle things.
He took the train home in mid-January. He was cheerful, almost ebullient, and unusually passionate that night in our bed. Afterward he threaded his fingers through mine and cleared his throat.
“Honey, by the way,” he said.
I braced myself. That particular phrase, coming out of Henry’s mouth, could lead to anything at all, I never knew what: Honey, by the way, we’re out of mustard, could you pick some up at the store? Honey, by the way, I had a car accident this morning.
Or in this case, “Honey, by the way, I bought a farm in Mississippi. We’ll be moving there in two weeks.”
The farm, he went on to tell me, was located forty miles from Greenville, near a little town I’d never heard of called Marietta. We’d live in town, in a house he’d rented for us there, and he’d drive to the farm every day to work.
“Is this because of Eboline?” I asked, when I could speak calmly.
“Partly,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze. “Virgil’s estate is a mess. It’ll take months to untangle, and I need to be close by.” I must have given him a dubious look. “Eboline and the children are all alone now,” he
Those months after the war were jubilant ones for us and for the whole country. We’d pulled together and been victorious. Our men were home, and we had sugar, coffee and gasoline again. Henry was spending more time in Memphis, and I was hoping to get pregnant. I was thirty-seven; I wanted to give him a son while I still could.
I never saw the axe blow coming. The downstroke came that Christmas. As we usually did, we spent Christmas Eve with my people in Memphis, then drove down to Greenville the next morning. Eboline and her husband, Virgil, hosted a grand family dinner every year in their fancy house on Washington Street. How I hated those trips! Eboline never failed to make me feel dull and unfashionable, or her children to make mine cry. This year would be even worse than usual, because Thalia and her family were driving down from Virginia. The two sisters together were Regan and Goneril to my hapless Cordelia.
When we pulled up at Eboline’s, Henry’s father came and met us at the car. Pappy had been living with Eboline since Mother McAllan died in the fall of ’43. One look at his grim face and we knew something was wrong.
“Well,” he said to Henry by way of greeting, “that stuck-up husband of your sister’s has gone and killed himself.”
“Good God,” Henry said. “When?”
“Sometime last night, after we’d all gone to bed. Eboline found the body a little while ago.”
“Where?”
“In the attic. He hanged himself,” Pappy said. “Merry Christmas.”
“Did he leave a note saying why?” I asked.
Pappy pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and handed it to me. The ink had run where someone’s tears had fallen on it. It was addressed to “My darling wife.” In a quavering hand, Virgil confessed to Eboline that he’d lost the bulk of their money in a confidence scheme involving a Bolivian silver mine and the rest on a horse named Barclay’s Bravado. He said he was ending his life because he couldn’t bear the thought of telling her. (Later, when I was better acquainted with my father-in-law, I would wonder if what Virgil really couldn’t bear was the thought of spending one more night under the same roof as Pappy.)
Eboline wouldn’t leave her bed, even to soothe her children. That job fell to me, along with most of the cooking for a house full of people; Henry had kept the maid on for the time being, but he’d had to let the gardener and cook go. I did what I could. As much as I disliked Eboline, I couldn’t help feeling terribly sorry for her.
After the funeral, the girls and I drove home to Memphis while Henry stayed on to help his sister sort out her affairs. He would just be a few days, he said. But a few days turned into a week, then two. The situation was complicated, he told me on the phone. He needed more time to settle things.
He took the train home in mid-January. He was cheerful, almost ebullient, and unusually passionate that night in our bed. Afterward he threaded his fingers through mine and cleared his throat.
“Honey, by the way,” he said.
I braced myself. That particular phrase, coming out of Henry’s mouth, could lead to anything at all, I never knew what: Honey, by the way, we’re out of mustard, could you pick some up at the store? Honey, by the way, I had a car accident this morning.
Or in this case, “Honey, by the way, I bought a farm in Mississippi. We’ll be moving there in two weeks.”
The farm, he went on to tell me, was located forty miles from Greenville, near a little town I’d never heard of called Marietta. We’d live in town, in a house he’d rented for us there, and he’d drive to the farm every day to work.
“Is this because of Eboline?” I asked, when I could speak calmly.
“Partly,” he said, giving my hand a squeeze. “Virgil’s estate is a mess. It’ll take months to untangle, and I need to be close by.” I must have given him a dubious look. “Eboline and the children are all alone now,” he
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