Iced Milk

By Jolene Reed

It's the summer of 1924 in the small town of York, Georgia. Jack Hudson, a soon-to-be-priest, plans to live quietly and by the Bible-- until petty thief Lewis Ridley crashes into his life. Inexplicably drawn to him from the start, Jack finds everything he knows to be permanently changed by Lewis' wild ways and trademark grin. From swimming in the Canoochee River to running from the police, Lewis shows Jack an entirely new way to live.

But as Lewis draws deeper into trouble and Jack is pulled closer to the Catholic Church, the world begins to work against the duo. When York cries murder, Jack doesn't know who to trust-- and Lewis, where to run.

Will Jack and Lewis be able to survive their changing times? Or will York tear them apart forever? And when the chips are down, is the blood on their hands?

Iced Milk is a riveting and heartwarming coming-of-age story that delves into the gray areas of life-- an adventure just as relevant in 1924 as it is today.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Jolene Reed
• Release date: Jan 22, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215757499

Book preview

Dedicated to my grandparents, Nanda and Lewis Ripley, and to Father Mark. Without the three of you, Jack and Lewis would have never existed.

One

June 1924

It was June, 1924, otherwise known as migration season for the rich folk of York, Georgia. Around that time of year, those who could afford to would pack their bags, wave their gloved hands to their neighbors, and drive off on the heatwaves of cracked asphalt without ever looking back. The rest of York’s citizens, left behind to endure the wrath of the summer sun, would watch them go with sweat-beaded brows and imagination’s bitter taste on their tongues. Although never said aloud, they all yearned for the same thing: to be one of the lucky royalties smiling and waving, if only to travel someplace cooler than Georgia where the world was wider and the impossible became reality. It had become a tradition, and although an exact date was never set, the richer of York always seemed to have their great escape of the summer heat coordinated. It was my fifth time to witness what people liked to jokingly call the Flight, and like most others with two pennies to rub together, I was spending it in the nearest bar.

Blue Dog Bar was a place as open and dirty as a marsh. The Flight royalty would have never sunk so low as to set foot inside, but those who scraped their way through every day found a strange sense of unity within its wooden walls. Blue Dog Bar was dimly lit from noon to midnight, its lights creating the perfect shadows to kiss your lady in a booth or punch the drunk next to you and get away with it. Its faded sign of a once-sky-blue puppy was practically the flag of its own miniature nation. Blue Dog Bar was one of those rare places in the South back then that didn’t care about anything, from who your parents were to what color your skin was. Drunken brawls were common, as was friendly conversation; both expected in a place that sold every type of drink imaginable. Prohibition had nothing on Blue Dog Bar or York; suds held too near and dear by every police officer in town to be properly banned.

I absentmindedly traced the rim of my glass with a fingertip in a bored circle, watching the few automobiles of the town as they sped past. They were shiny and huge, an array of colors on wheels all laid out like candy in a sweet shop window. Blacks like giant beetles, soft creams often found on a wealthy woman’s purse, maroons as rich as velvet, and a deep green favored among books in the public library. It seemed that the rich folks of York could never get enough of the different high-tech brands and glossy paint, and neither could the hundreds of York eyes glued to the roads. Starving for even the smallest glimpse of riches or whisper of better things, no one dared to look away. Not even me.

I doubted that I would ever get used to the alien machines, but the too-wide smiles of the Flight’s audience didn’t agree. They had already accepted the mechanical beasts with open arms despite the automobile accidents peppering the nation. At seventeen, I was already discovering just how easily awe could dismiss death. Who cared if people died, so long as the grand show carried on...

I worried my brow as yet another black Ford careened by, this one coming dangerously close to the sidewalk and sending a few birds flapping into the sky.

My favorite’s the yellow one. The voice came from my right, outgoing and stuck in the twilight zone between boyhood and manhood. I tore my gaze away from the window and saw that I was no longer watching alone.

A teenager sat in the stool next to mine. I gave him a once-over. He was in the ballpark of my own age, with a mess of dirty blond curls, lively brown eyes, and a sun-kissed face. His suspenders were frayed at the edges, and an unkempt button-down stuck to him with sweat from the summer’s onslaught. Perhaps if I had still attended school, he would’ve been in class with me—but then again, he didn’t strike me as the schoolboy type.

The yellow one? I repeated stupidly.

He pointed at the street.

The yellow automobile that just went by. Belongs to the Stuarts. It’s my favorite machine. Bee’s knees of York if you ask me, he clarified.

Oh.

By the time I glanced at the street, the automobile was out of sight. When I looked back at the boy, his shoes were kicked up on the bar. They were ratty things, their once-proud brown faded and riddled with growing holes. They emitted a stink like dust and dirty clothes, the combination all too common in York. I wrinkled my nose, but the boy took no notice of his missing manners. He flicked a hand at first the street, then my neck.

Hot as hell out there—but I guess I can’t say that to you without going to confession. Or does hot as hell not count in your church-boy book of blasphemy? he asked.

I frowned.

I beg your pardon?

You’re one of those church-boys, right? Studying to be a priest? Or do you wear that necklace to get dolls? he remarked. My hand flew to my rosary like a self-conscious bird while he dropped a wink to a girl. She ignored him.

I’m to be ordained in a few years; yes, I said, rubbing my thumb over the hair-thin grooves in the metal cross. It was a die-hard habit of mine that had replaced my old tendency to bite my nails. I wore the rosary everywhere for my cuticles’ sake.

Pretty young, don’t you think? Never really got a chance to live your life if you join that jazz now, Churchboy.

I took a sip of my half-full glass of water and eyed him over its rim. I was still too thirsty to leave, no matter how talkative this fellow was.

My name is Jack, I corrected. He grinned as if my name was what he wanted all along. He stuck his hand out; a rough, callused thing stained with smudges of ink. When I shook it, it felt much like shaking a leather glove.

Lewis. Lewis Ridley. Paperboy. You come here often? Lewis asked. Suddenly his bold personality and tan made sense. A paperboy, whose livelihood was advertising headlines with a booming drawl to catch attention and nickels. No wonder he was so confident. It was the sole way to stay afloat if you earned your living on street corners.

When I have the pennies to.

Lewis nodded, but it was more to my rosary than to me. His smile stretched into pity and he hissed through his teeth.

"Ah, so you’re that kind of fella. I thought maybe you wouldn’t be—y’know, since you’re here instead of at some fancy gig—but I should’ve guessed. You are a church-boy, after all," he mused, half to himself.

I bristled.

"What is that supposed to mean?" I snapped, but his attention had wandered away. Lewis’ nimble gaze swept Blue Dog Bar, taking its sweet time lingering on the bartender in particular. The bartender, a man as rough as his stubble with a neck so thick it made strangulation anything but his enemy, was busy serving a jolly old man a pint. Lewis’ brown eyes glittered deviously, pools of scheming sin in the making. He threw back the rest of his drink— iced milk, a combination that would make most folks wrinkle their noses. He licked his lips and gave me a mock salute.

Well, it’s my time to fly! Sorry to cut our talk short, Churchboy, but you know how the Flight is. Always on the move. I’ve gotta do the same if I wanna see Mr. Stuart speed outta town. I’ll see you around, alright? he said.

Lewis winked at me, then hopped off his stool and left before I could think of anything to say. It wasn’t until I happened to glance back at his drained glass that I noticed the lack of money beside it. His confusing words played in my head with a new meaning to them, his smile suddenly growing a shadow. Ah, so you’re that kind of person.

I threw three cents down, enough to cover both of our drinks, and raced outside. When I reached the sidewalk, wildly searching the street for the culprit, I found nothing but strangers admiring automobiles. Funny, how not even five minutes after meeting Lewis, I no longer classified him as such...

Lewis had vanished, somehow becoming a shadow in the height of noon.

I sighed and left; the Flight forgotten.

...

St. Gertrude Catholic Church wasn’t far from Blue Dog Bar; only a five-minute walk if you put your shoulders into it. Most didn’t think twice about the convenience, but if you knew much of anything about Catholics and their alcohol, you would know better. I reached St. Gertrude’s dining hall without bumping into any curious nuns or Father Casius and was forcing the church telephone’s sticky dial around within seven minutes.

I gave the name of the place I had thought up to the telephone operator and drummed my fingers against the table impatiently. I held fast to Lewis’ name and face in my mind, keeping my mental grip vicelike lest a single detail slip through my memory’s fingers.

I heard a couple clicks, and then the crackle of the other end coming to life.

Hello. York Police Department. How may I help you today?

It was a woman’s voice, the one woman who worked at the York Police Department back then. I could picture her perfectly. Lucinda Clark, sitting behind a desk sidled up to the telephone and wielding a pencil ready to scribble down everything I said. I opened my mouth to recount my encounter with Lewis, but the memory of the glass of iced milk lodged a cork in my throat.

Out of everything from Blue Dog Bar, the image of his grin and his drink were crystal clear. The crescent of milk at the bottom of the glass, caressed by condensation to a watercolor, was so detailed it was as if I was still staring at it. And why was that smile even more attention-getting than the Flight? Why did it feel like those brown eyes were watching me? How had he sinned so casually?

Hello? Is anyone there? Lucinda asked, eternally polite.

My jaw snapped shut and I hung up. I blinked at the telephone before ambling over to the window, my head so stuffed with fog I could’ve been dreaming. I narrowed my eyes against the afternoon’s harsh glare as the back end of the Flight’s parade sped by St. Gertrude. For whatever reason, my encounter with Lewis had quickly developed into a pebble in my shoe; a bothering matter that wouldn’t stop nagging at me, but one for me and me alone. Besides, what were the police going to do over a glass of milk? I would be bothering them to mention the tiny robbery and wasting their time if they cared to look into it. After all, the milk cost what? Two cents?

I tried to put the crime out of my mind by readying myself for the mass that would take place the next morning. I talked to Father Casius, double and then triple-checked that everything was in its proper place, even walked laps around the church’s perimeter and fed a stray cat, but the echoes of Lewis and I’s conversation wouldn’t let me forget.

That night in my quarters, my daily prayer was heavy with guilt.

Stealing was a crime, no matter how small. Lewis was a paperboy. He made pennies all day every day. It wasn’t as if he didn’t have the money to buy himself a cheap refreshment. Aside from God, I was the sole witness, so wasn’t it my responsibility to do something? If I didn’t take care of this sinner then wouldn’t I too, be sinning? No, this was not a matter for the police...

As I laid awake that night, staring up the parallelograms of moonlight stretched across my ceiling, I formulated a plan. A list of places, a collection of people... yes, this was the perfect way to ensure Lewis Ridley shook hands with justice.

After all, what better way to catch a snake than in his very own habitat?

Two

October 1924

Isearched for Lewis for days.

I dropped by popular paperboy corners, but the faces beneath the brims of their signature hats were never familiar. I visited Blue Dog Bar, but the stool beside mine remained empty. I described him to passerby. I asked after a Lewis Ridley at The York Sun Office, York’s newspaper, but the name didn’t ring a bell. I camped out on sidewalks like some predator. I prowled alleyways. I became a regular at the York Police Station, thumbing through grainy photographs of freshly-arrested crooks.

I didn’t quite know why I was so determined to find Lewis—it was only a glass of iced milk—but something about his casual sin disturbed me. Even now, I couldn’t tell you if I was chasing after him out of intrigue, heaven-sent guilt, or if it was something else. Even now, all these years later, I cannot decide if I am glad I pursued Lewis Ridley or not.

I came up empty-handed in every endeavor, and after two weeks, gave up, thinking I would never see him again.

As it turned out, I was wrong.

Three months passed. It was October. The rich had returned to York, trickling into our southern streets with fresh stories about the enticing north and blessing St. Gertrude’s donation baskets with their careless dollar bills. The relentlessly humid and hot air turned bitter and withered all the leaves on the trees. Fur coats came out of hibernation, warm drinks were treasured, and firewood became a popular necessity. I had forgotten about Lewis entirely, the memory of our brief encounter fading and gathering dust.

One crisp Saturday, Father Casius sent me to fetch firewood for St. Gertrude’s sitting room. The cold bit like a hungry dog that day, pinching noses pink and puffing my breath like a smoker’s exhale. The wind’s icy hands crept under shirts and slapped people across the face. I tried to disappear into my warm coat and walked faster.

I found a seller a mere two blocks from St. Gertrude’s, sending advertisements into the breeze with the same boisterous energy as an experienced paperboy. He was bent over a fat pile of firewood, his thin button-down shirt rolled up to his elbows in spite of the autumn chill. He rearranged bundles of wood, angling them aesthetically as if his claimed patch of sidewalk was a regular store window. I stopped in front of his makeshift shop, inspecting the logs and sticks with a frown, when the seller looked up.

The grin that split his face was the same one that had haunted the backs of my thoughts for weeks. He spread his arms wide, as if to embrace me.

Churchboy! Hey! Lewis exclaimed merrily, the greeting so unexpected and blatantly friendly that all I could do was stare at him. He had slithered through the shadows of York’s alleyways for months and vanished as if he didn’t exist at all. Now here he was, having apparated before me like some dream.

My jaw dropped.

"Lewis?"

That’s me!

Lewis held his arms up for a moment more, still awaiting the hug I wouldn’t give him, before dropping them back down to his sides. He quirked his eyebrows expectantly at me. When my only reply was a gape, his grin turned smug and he nudged me with his elbow.

"Cat got your tongue, Churchboy? I know it’s been a while, but it hasn’t been that long," he teased, the same way an old friend or a hearty boss would. His joking tone sparked my tongue back to life. I jabbed an accusing finger at him, the words I’d been meaning to say since June stumbling from my lips.

You—you stole that glass of iced milk!

Lewis fixed a funny look on me as if he didn’t remember. Impossible. How could he have committed a crime and forgotten?

I beg your pardon?

At Blue Dog Bar! You never paid for your milk! I exclaimed. Understanding dawned on his face. He chuckled quietly to himself, but nothing was funny.

Oh. Yeah, I didn’t pay. What’s it to you? he asked, the King of Casual so frustratingly nonchalant.

I blinked at him.

You broke the law!

So?

That doesn’t... mean anything to you?

He shrugged.

It’s three cents, not a machine.

I pointed down the street.

I should turn you in to the police. They’ll arrest you for stealing, you know.

I don’t know why I made the threat. It was as empty as Lewis’ supply of remorse. He tilted his head to the side and studied me with a smirk; able to see through me as easily as God.

And? Big deal. I’ll sing like a free man until they let me out and make me one. He whistled a jazzy tune to prove his point. Besides, you don’t mean that, he said confidently. I narrowed my eyes to blind myself to the nakedness of my soul. With Lewis’ x-ray intuition, I began to suspect that none of my intentions would slip past his sharp senses...

How would you know? I asked.

Because if you did, you would’ve turned me in the day you met me. And here we are, what, three months later? Lewis paused, shaking his head. No, you don’t mean it, Churchboy.

I hated that he was right, but couldn’t think up anything that would prove him wrong—anything that didn’t sound completely pathetic, that is.

As I stood there, my jaw working while I scrambled for a good defense or comeback to spit out, Lewis picked up a bundle of firewood. It primarily consisted of sticks, but some promising logs protruded from the ranks of their skinny kin. He handed it to me. With the dips and rises of the wood’s bark rough on my palms, Lewis’ surprising occupation finally registered.

I thought you said you were a paperboy, I said.

Lewis’ mouth twitched, pleased that I had remembered his supposed profession. Come to think of it, perhaps he wasn’t a paperboy at all. The York Sun owner did tell me a Lewis Ridley didn’t work for him, and I had never caught sight of Lewis selling papers anywhere...

I am. It’s not a crime to have a couple jobs, is it? he asked.

Well, no, but—

But what? Not all of us live off the cats’ donations, Churchboy.

I winced, the remark ringing true. When Father Casius sent me to go buy something, money was never an issue. The donation baskets on Sundays always returned to the altar full. St. Gertrude’s had more than enough money to keep its doors open and allow Father Casius and I to live comfortably. Living in the church made my life financially blissful in ways most of York could only dream of. The nickels and pennies in my pocket suddenly doubled in weight. Too guilty to try and defend myself, I said,

"It’s Jack, not Churchboy."

I know. I think it’s good to have a nickname; gets you closer to Earth and farther away from your holy heavens, Lewis said.

Excuse me?

Once again, Lewis wasn’t paying attention. His eyes tracked a dark green automobile as it growled by. They glittered with an almost dangerous boyish excitement. I shied away from the automobile and resisted the urge to whirl around so I could face the metal monstrosity. Lewis’ keen gaze noticed my cringe.

Interesting, he muttered. My face flushed. He messed with his firewood.

Tell me, Churchboy, have you ever tasted iced milk? he asked suddenly. The question was so random I had to fish for an answer.

No.

He wasn’t surprised.

Mm. I figured. You should try it sometime. Then perhaps you would understand.

A powerful wind gusted through York, tossing a lock of my black hair into my eyes and sending shivers through Lewis. He hunched his shoulders against Mother Nature, but it didn’t do anything for him and his thin button-down. When pitted against the cool temperatures, his clothes were no better of a shield than paper. I briefly wondered why he wasn’t wearing anything warmer before the notion was quickly swallowed by a larger one.

Understand what?

Lewis patted me on the shoulder.

Enjoy your firewood, Churchboy. Don’t worry about your nickels. It’s on me, he said. I stood there, perplexed, as he sold an approaching man the next-best bundle. He turned back to me after he sent the man on his way. His eyebrows jumped, as if he hadn’t expected to see me still standing there.

"You’re... giving me the firewood?" I asked. Lewis gently pushed my shoulder and saluted me again, even though neither of us were old enough to have fought in the Great War.

Consider it my donation to St. Gertrude’s. Now run along. I know I’m a hoot to be around, but I’ve got wood to sell.

Skeptical, I hovered at his side for a moment more, letting suspicion swipe its brush over my face. In return, he flashed me his wide, radiant grin that would grow into just as much of a legend as Lewis himself. It made most want to punch him, and some with nerve actually did. Even with a mouthful of blood, he would keep on grinning...

I opened my mouth to say something, but the words were caught on an invisible hook. I would soon learn that Lewis had that effect on people; a man who could leave anyone wanting to say too much or having nothing to say at the same time.

I spun sharply on my heel and left, abandoning Lewis to fend for himself against the seasons without remorse. Why would I feel bad when his very presence scratched my patience to irritation? It was clear that he wasn’t going to hand over any answers. Not why he stole the milk or why he gifted me firewood or what I apparently didn’t understand. I would be wasting my time trying to weasel anything from the grinning paperboy. Besides, what did it matter? He was nothing more than a lowly thief. It was silly of me to have obsessed over finding him to begin with.

That night, I sat alone in front of the fireplace. My half-eaten plate of supper was cold on the coffee table. My appetite had faded to forgetfulness at some point and I hadn’t bothered retrieving it. Traces of the smell of candles and cornbread lingered in the dining hall. Somewhere, a clock ticked, on and on and on, running the endless marathon of time. Lively flames danced on the fire’s dying logs. Shadows, partners to the flames, did their best to move in time to the beat of the crackling heat. They casted shapes over the room, morphing paintings of even the most innocent saints into hypocrite devils.

Jack? What are you doing in here?

The familiar voice jerked me out of my thoughts. I flinched violently and twisted around to meet Father Casius’ raised eyebrows. His age showed with the expression, the wrinkles on his forehead no longer able to hide behind a smooth disguise.

Father! Apologies. I uh... didn’t see you there, I said lamely.

Father Casius nodded at my plate.

Are you eating dinner alone? he asked.

Father Casius had been the priest of St. Gertrude Catholic Church for as long as anybody in York could remember. His Latin was flawless, his attitude was strictly professional to everyone, and his hair had been graying for what seemed to be the past thirty years, but something about the crinkles spidering his eyes comforted people. His reputation was as big as Coolidge’s in our little Georgia town, but saying he was a kind man would be a stretch. He was the sort of person who could make you squirm if he stared at you for too long, and would leave a bastard child outside to freeze in the dead of winter. But his heart, although often blinded by his religion, was in the right place most of the time.

Father Casius’ concern was hard to miss, but then again, so was my cold supper.

Yes, Father. Had a long day. Needed some time to think, I said, which was true. I had wasted the better half of the past hour staring blanky at the fire’s weakening embers, thinking about not thinking about Lewis.

Father Casius nodded.

So did I. Two baptisms and lunch with the sisters. Sister Catherine was particularly talkative, he said.

The nun’s face popped into my head, complete with her dark eyes and buckteeth. Sister Catherine was barely older than me, but had already talked so much that she had likely uttered as many words as someone in their forties. Some said that she sprayed more than she spoke—her spit was as common at St. Gertrude’s as holy water. Her chatty nature made the nuns age faster and left people exhausted after a single conversation with her. The church’s children called her Chatty Catherine, a nickname I only halfheartedly tried to stop them from using. Being unfortunately close to her in age, I was Sister Catherine’s favorite person to hunt down during Sunday breakfast and talk the ear off of. Needless to say, the sound of her cheery hello was the stuff of dread-filled nightmares.

As usual. Doesn’t she talk your ear off enough at Sunday breakfast to leave you alone for once? I said dryly, recalling her blabbing about birds the week before. Father Casius scowled, adding a few years more to his face.

Now, now, Jack, have some heart. She’s just... how to put it...

Shunned by the other sisters because she never learned the virtue of silence? I suggested. The scowl deepened, making his wrinkles match his age.

Don’t say things like that, he snapped.

Even if they’re true?

Let God speak the truth. It’s not your place to. Besides, a little chatter never hurt anybody, he reprimanded. I bit my tongue as heat shot through my face.

Yes, Father. Sorry, Father, I apologized, but didn’t mean it as much as I should’ve.

Father Casius sat in the chair next to mine, both groaning. He rubbed his hands together and held them out in front of the fire, his long fingers pressed together. He had perfect fingers for piano-playing. Sister Lillian, a nun even older than he, once let a story slip that Father Casius used to be a junior Mozart on the organ before he pursued priesthood. All this time later, I can still perfectly remember his hands as the fire’s golden light danced across his palms...

I see your day was successful, Father Casius remarked.

Hm?

Lewis’ face popped into my thoughts. I shoved it away.

The firewood, Father Casius clarified.

Oh. Yes.

To call it successful was a coin in itself—on one side was the firewood, and on the other, finding Lewis at last—although I could no longer say for certain if I was glad for what the afternoon had brought.

We lapsed into silence, Father Casius scooting his chair closer to the fire’s measly warmth. The spits and pops of the flames sounded like the pulsing city life of York, footsteps and automobiles and cigarettes all rolled into one noise...

Is something bothering you? I know you don’t have nearly as much of a case of the chatties as Sister Catherine, but you’re awfully quiet tonight, Father Casius asked.

I didn’t have to think.

No, Father. It’s nothing.

Are you sure? he pressed; his x-ray eyes boring into me in a way that made me nervous just to breathe. If you scolded me for joking about Sister Catherine, I can only imagine what you’ll say if I tell you about Lewis... I swallowed my body’s silent protest to the lump of an answer I forced out.

Yes, Father. I’m just distracted. I did my very best to convince myself it was nothing. I am no liar. I thought, but even in my head, the words came off as feeble and pathetically hollow. If my run-ins with Lewis were truly nothing, then why was I worrying about them hours later?

By what?

The... cold. My teeth have chattered so much it’s even eaten my appetite away. All I can think about, I lied. How I wished it were true.

Just like that, Father Casius was young again.

Oh. Well, you could add more logs to the fire if you want. I wouldn’t mind. It could help if the cold wears on you so much, he offered, nodding at the stack of firewood against the wall. Lewis’ firewood; what had to be the hundredth reminder of the boy.

I tried on a polite smile.

Thank you, Father, but I think I’m going to retire for the night soon. Get some rest before mass, I said, then made a mental note to do exactly that so it wouldn’t be a lie. He mirrored my expression, his far more genuine than mine.

Good lad. I’ll leave you and your thoughts to it, then.

Satisfied with the fire’s job well done, Father Casius rose from his chair. It wasn’t until he left that I allowed myself to relax, and wasn’t until the last of Lewis’ firewood crumbled to ashes that I finally left the dining hall.

On my walk to the front door, the paintings of saints and Jesus Christ were alive. Their eyes seemed to move in their oil sockets, their holy gazes hovering between protective and wary as they eyed my every step. I was careful to keep my posture ramrod straight, giving no leeway to the pressure from above, even as as I fought to suffocate my tangled lies.

I let a local stray cat finish off my supper, something Sister Lillian would’ve undoubtedly scolded me for. I could practically hear her screechy whine right then: Stop feeding it, it’ll keep coming back! Bad luck is nothing the church needs... The cat was a small creature thinned from a diet of survival. His jet-black fur was soft and his yellow-green eyes sparkled with curiosity. I named him Soot. As Soot took tiny bites of my cornbread between pleased purrs, I stuffed my hands in my pockets and stood outside in the cold, immune to the bitter wind, thinking...

...

In York, everybody knew everybody. Generation after generation had been born, grown up, and died there, the decades producing only a handful of dreamers who moved off to bigger and better things. It was why every successful business in York was owned by local families whose names had been around as long as York itself, simply because nobody trusted anything else. Such familiarity made so much as an outing for lunch a public ordeal. You couldn’t do so much as turn your head without being nodded to or waved at— if you came from a respectable family.

Those who were less fortunate were rarely greeted with the same small-town friendliness. They were usually left out of public gatherings and events, and were frequently mistaken for out-of-towners. Other folks’ gazes slid right over their faces like water on pebbles; unimportant and unrecognizable.

I had not escaped being well-known, nor was my name missing from the gossip that hung over York as thickly as the Georgia humidity did. In 1873, my grandfather Robert Hudson opened Hudson-Monroe Bank with his best friend, Andrew Monroe. Business boomed and its popularity in York grew as rapidly as the heat. Another location was opened in the next town over, and then a third a little farther south. Then before the start of the 20th century, Andrew Monroe caught smallpox and died an unmarried man, leaving the Hudson-Monroe Banks and their fat fortune to be passed along to my father. Four out of five middle-class folks were customers of Hudson-Monroe Bank, and three out of five had met my father at least once. Add my mother, one of the better-known beauties of York whose family ran a five and dime store, and most everybody knew of the Hudsons one way or another.

I had lived at St. Gertrude Catholic Church for eight years, but every Saturday my parents invited me over for lunch, and every Saturday I journeyed through the nicer neighborhoods of York to my old house. This Saturday was no different.

Humble was a far throw from how the Hudsons lived. Our house was nice, with three bedrooms, a living room, a study, a dining room, a kitchen, and the most exciting aspect—a bathroom, whose plumbing worked more often times than not. A small garden bloomed fiercely in the backyard near a rich trove of magnolia trees, the strongest of the latter complete with a rope swing for my little sister. Croquet mallets leaned against the wall, and a dainty set of furniture ruled the back porch as it awaited company. My father’s Ford lived in a large shed hidden behind the house, while my mother’s best flowers lined the steps to the front porch, daring the other neighborhood wives to grow something half as pretty.

I rang the doorbell (a somewhat-recent Christmas present from some cousins in Alabama) and waited.

Ruth, our housekeeper, opened the door. Her dark eyes touched mine for only a moment before they dropped to her feet. Ruth had worked for the Hudsons ever since my older brother Wayne was born some twenty-two years ago. She cooked for them, cleaned, watched after the children when my parents were away, and lived in a little house six miles away. My parents were constantly rude to her and often dished out loud insults about her kind that they knew she could hear. I felt bad and was sure to visit her and her husband a few times a year. I sometimes left flowers on Ruth’s front steps. I never told her it was me, but I think she knew.

Ruth bowed her head respectfully and shuffled aside to make room for me.

Mister Jack. Welcome back, she greeted, her voice soft and her syllables accented with a southern twang. I nodded at her.

Thank you, Ruth. Are they eating already? I asked, letting my gaze slide past her and down the hallway, as if to see through the walls and to the dining room on the other side of the house.

Yessir. Mister Wayne and Miss Clare didn’t want to wait, but I’ve kept your food warm in the kitchen.

I took it in stride, having received the same answer at least three other times in the past month. My brother and his fiancé weren’t the patient type.

Thank you.

As promised, I found the Hudsons and Clare enjoying their feast of roast chicken and vegetables without me. The sun was bountifully bright that afternoon, flooding the dining room with generous golden light. My mother carried a polite conversation with Wayne and Clare about their upcoming wedding. My father sat at the head of the table, oblivious and annexed from the chatter. His salt-and-pepper hair peeked out over a newspaper while his meaty hands gripped it on either side of an article about a new factory. The plate of food Ruth worked so hard on for him was victim to the bottom of the page; forgotten.

I sat in my usual chair between Mother and my sister Dollie, prompting a bump in the road of wedding-talk and derailing the conversation.

Mother. Clare, I said politely, inclining my head to each woman in turn.

Jack, Clare returned, albeit a bit tightly at my interruption. Clare Davis was a snare drum of a woman. Her tone was always clipped, her impatient heeled foot constantly tapped the ground, and her smiles were rarely painless. Her blonde corkscrew curls were as tidy and firmly kept as her attitude was. How someone as loose as my brother Wayne had caught her with our money was nothing short of a miracle.

A grin broke across Wayne’s face, courtesy of his relief. Free to do something other than talk for the first time in minutes, he shoveled peas into his mouth.

Jack! You’re a whole ten minutes early! Mother exclaimed, her eyes darting to the grandfather clock ticking through lunch in the corner.

Yes, well, last time I was five minutes early, so I thought perhaps I would catch the start of lunch if I was earlier. Apparently, you all get more excited to eat every week, I said lightly, then took a bite of a roll while I had the chance to. Mother laughed as if it were a joke and rested her fingertips on my shoulder; the most physical affection she could bear. Her hand returned to her lap as quickly as a jumpy bird before I could even see what color her nails were painted that week.

"Oh Jack, you know how it gets. If we don’t drive into town, there’s absolutely nothing to do on a Saturday, so when the day gets warm, we figure, why not go ahead and eat? Keeps us from getting bored. I’m afraid if we didn’t have the backyard and the Ford to entertain us, the pantry would be empty by now!" she exclaimed. Her hand jumped to my father’s shoulder next in the same brief, almost forced contact.

"Don’t you think so, Howard? Don’t we