Beginning with Cannonballs Read online

  Beginning with Cannonballs

  Copyright © 2020 Jill McCroskey Coupe

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, digital scanning, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, please address She Writes Press.

  Published 2020

  Printed in the United States of America

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-848-4

  ISBN: 978-1-63152-849-1

  Library of Congress Control Number: 2019917601

  For information, address:

  She Writes Press

  1569 Solano Ave #546

  Berkeley, CA 94707

  Interior design by Tabitha Lahr

  She Writes Press is a division of SparkPoint Studio, LLC.

  All company and/or product names may be trade names, logos, trademarks, and/or registered trademarks and are the property of their respective owners.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, businesses, institutions, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Contents

  Nobody’s Business (1951)

  The Cocktail Party (1956)

  Charlotte’s Birthday (1958)

  Parallel Lives (1964)

  The Medicine Tree (1968)

  *Sophie Makes a List (1970)

  Auld Lang Syne (1979)

  Not Solomon (1983)

  Two Envelopes (1984)

  Investigation Report (1985)

  Lettergate (1985)

  First Stop: 6221 Osage (1985)

  The L-shaped Sofa (1986)

  Flames Floating on a Lake (1986)

  Seeing Ghosts (1993)

  Jefferson Davis Highway (1996)

  *Published in a slightly different form in The Summerset Review,

  Summer 2016.

  Nobody’s Business

  Knoxville, Tennessee, 1951

  SOPHIE, TOO, HAD A NOTION to jump into the ocean. Even better, the Chesapeake Bay. Not that she minded sitting by the Madisons’ swimming pool, with her bare feet up on the orange cushion of her favorite lounge chair. Afternoons like this were the best part of her job.

  Already this summer the girls had played their silly game hundreds of times, taking turns jumping off the diving board. They were eight years old. Each time was as much fun as the one before.

  A year ago, Gail had gone to a neighborhood pool party, and the next day she couldn’t wait to show Hanna what she’d learned. Jump off the diving board, grab hold of your shins, and pull your knees to your chest. By turning yourself into a little ball—a cannonball—you’ll make a huge splash.

  “Notion, ocean,” Gail was chanting now, from the side of the pool, as Hanna, looking like a pint-size Miss America contestant with a suntan, strutted out to the end of the diving board. Before jumping off, Hanna shouted, “Ain’t nobody’s business.” Gail then shrieked, “If I do.”

  What would Billie Holiday think if she could see them? It was her song they were murdering.

  “Mama,” Hanna yelled when she came up for breath. “Did you see my huge cannonball?”

  “Too huge,” Sophie said. “That one got me soaking wet.”

  “Next time she’ll be more careful,” Gail said. “Won’t you, Hanna?”

  But Hanna was underwater, swimming for the ladder, and didn’t hear.

  The friendship wouldn’t last. Sophie knew this in her bones. Just like back in Maryland, when she was a girl.

  Gail wouldn’t be the one to break it off. Her parents would find a way to do that. One day soon, Miss Bessie might say, Sophie, we don’t really need live-in help anymore.

  Maybe the Madisons would keep her on as a daily, or maybe she’d have to find a new job. Either way would be a problem. No child should have to live with a father who didn’t want her around.

  The girls would be heartbroken. Hanna would try not to show it, but Gail wasn’t any good at pretending. And the more Gail pleaded with her parents to change their minds, the more they’d believe they were doing the right thing.

  All the Madisons knew about Sophie’s own family was that on Sundays, her day off, Del’s black Pontiac would be waiting at the curb after breakfast. Sophie always rode up front with her husband. Hanna climbed in back with her brother.

  Half-brother was how Del saw it. But to Sophie, Jeremiah and Hanna seemed closer than most brothers and sisters.

  Mr. Madison drove Hanna to the colored school each morning, on the way to his law office in downtown Knoxville, but it was Jeremiah who made sure Hanna got on the right bus coming home. Every single afternoon, he did this. Sophie never had to worry.

  On Sundays, Del would drop Hanna and Jeremiah off at their church for Sunday school and take his wife home to bed. There were times when she could, but mostly she didn’t want to. Not with so much anger in the room. She and Del would lie there on their backs in the bed, not touching or even speaking.

  Were there other women during the week? Sophie never saw any use in asking that question.

  When the children came home from church, the family, if that’s what they were anymore, would have lunch at the kitchen table. Couldn’t really call it a Sunday dinner, but Del did keep food in the icebox.

  Jeremiah, bless his heart, would joke around with Hanna. But Del? Del hardly ever said a single word to the smart and beautiful little girl who just might be his own daughter.

  “Pop,” Hanna said to him one Sunday, “do you like Billie Holiday?”

  Sophie watched as Del speared a pickled beet with his fork, held it up, and stared at it. Would he come right out and say what he was thinking? I’m not your father. Or would he suddenly push back his chair without a word, the way he usually did, and go off to spend the afternoon jamming with his musician friends?

  “All the woman does is sing.” Del pushed back his chair. “Can’t even read music.” And he stormed out of the house.

  Still angry. Angry at what that white man had done and angry at his wife for reminding him of it by keeping the baby. Most of all—and Sophie was beginning to understand this now—Del was angry at how helpless he was to do a damn thing about any of it.

  Hanna asked what he’d meant. How could a person read music?

  “It’s those lines above and below the words in a hymnal,” Sophie said.

  “They tell you what keys to hit on the piano,” Jeremiah said.

  “Oh.” Hanna’s eyes lit up. “Those little round feet with skinny legs? I always wondered what they were for.”

  Eight years ago, with a new baby girl and a husband in a military hospital, Miss Bessie had been so desperate for a live-in maid that she’d never even asked Sophie for references. And Sophie had been so desperate for a job where she could take three-month-old Hanna with her that she’d moved right in.

  Del had made it clear. He did not want that high-yella baby in his house.

  The night Sophie had come home barefoot, bleeding, her clothes torn, she told Del how that Mr. Barker had come up behind her when she was washing dishes and held a knife to her throat. The next morning, Del drove her to the police station. An officer listened to her and even wrote some of it down. He acted like he believed her, and maybe he did, but Sophie knew believing wasn’t the same as doing something about it. She was colored. That horrible man, whose third wife had just left him, was white. There would be no arrest, no trial, no nothi
ng.

  When she learned she was pregnant, she told Del the baby could be his, from before that awful night. She still believed this. What had happened to her had been happening to women like her for centuries. Colored babies often came out lighter than their parents.

  At first, Hanna and Gail had shared a crib, upstairs, in the Madisons’ nursery. Sophie slept next door, in the guest room, so she could get up whenever one of the girls started crying. Bessie Madison needed her sleep. Most nights, Sophie cried, too, her tears leaking into the guest room pillows or onto whichever baby she was trying to shush.

  Love at first sight was the only way to describe how those two babies couldn’t take their eyes off each other, how they’d reach out for the other one with their tiny little fists. Sophie nursed Hanna, but Gail was bottle-fed, except for those times Miss Bessie never knew about, at night, when Sophie didn’t bother going down to the kitchen for another bottle.

  Miss Bessie, who was from up North, spent most days in the den with the door closed, working on what she called her dissertation. It was about someone named Abigail Adams, so Sophie figured Gail must be short for Abigail, the way Hanna was short for Susquehanna.

  Mr. Madison, who’d grown up here in Knoxville, in this very house, had been badly wounded while fighting against Mussolini and was recuperating in a hospital in Washington, DC. The week before he came home, Sophie was told it was time for her and Hanna to move down to the little room in the basement.

  No one slept much that first night, or the next one, or the next. With Gail up in the nursery and Hanna two floors down, the babies would not, could not stop crying for each other.

  “They’ll adjust,” Miss Bessie said. “They’ll have to. Those girls can’t sleep together forever.”

  And finally, they did get used to being apart at night. Maybe because they were together every minute of the day.

  On warm afternoons, Sophie sometimes spread a sheet for the girls to play on under the mimosa tree in the side yard. One day Hanna pulled Gail upright, and that’s when Gail took her first steps. Seemed like Gail was always trying to keep up with Hanna, who was two months older and a little taller. Hanna would give the signal, and they’d both fall down and start tickling each other with the pink mimosa blossoms, giggling themselves silly.

  When Miss Bessie started teaching at the University of Tennessee, she wanted to be called Dr. Madison. But since Mr. Madison had a law degree, Sophie didn’t think it was right to call him Mister and her Doctor, so for a while she just stuck to Ma’am. Then she went back to Miss Bessie, like it was a habit she wasn’t smart enough to break.

  The summer the girls turned four, Sophie asked if she could teach them to swim.

  “You know how to swim?” Miss Bessie raised her dark eyebrows.

  “Yes, ma’am. I grew up on the Chesapeake Bay.” Sophie’s father had made his living on the water. No matter what color you were, swimming was a way of surviving.

  “But I thought you were from here.”

  “Eastern Shore of Maryland,” Sophie said.

  “Underground Railroad. Harriet Tubman.”

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Then how did you end up in Knoxville?” Miss Bessie looked confused.

  “Married a man from here.” After his mother’s death, Del had lived in Cambridge, Maryland, with his uncle for a while, working in a boatyard, where he’d learned how to repair outboard motors, including one belonging to Sophie’s father.

  “As did I,” Miss Bessie said. “Then we have something in common.”

  Like daughters the same age. And being female. “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’d need to get in the water with the girls,” Miss Bessie said, “if you’re going to teach them to swim.”

  The Madisons’ swimming pool was surrounded by a high picket fence decorated with No Trespassing signs. Sophie waited to be told she wasn’t allowed in there, but Miss Bessie asked if she had a bathing suit, then what size to buy.

  Hanna and Gail were given bathing suits, too, and it wasn’t long before they were paddling around in the shallow end, while music played on the old Victrola stored in the pool house. Mr. Madison’s grandfather had made a list of all the records, in the most beautiful handwriting Sophie had ever seen.

  But when Miss Bessie started writing a book about the early days of the recording industry, the Victrola and the 78s were moved into the den. A brand-new record player appeared in the pool house. With Sophie as DJ—little wet fingers might get shocked—the girls became fans of Billie Holiday. Their favorite song? “T’ain’t Nobody’s Business If I Do.”

  “Mama,” Hanna yelled from the diving board, “you’re not watching us.”

  “You better believe I’m watching. Every minute of every day.”

  “You can’t see us when we’re at school,” Gail said.

  “I see you even when you don’t see me,” Sophie said. “Fifty years from now, my ghost will still be watching you.”

  Hanna stuck out her arms and waved her hands around. “Whooooo!” she cried, as she ran off the end of the board, grabbing her knees in mid-air.

  “Ghost cannonball,” Gail said. “I’m gonna do me one of those.”

  Where would Del be in fifty years? Right now, angry as he was, he was working hard and paying the rent and taking care of their son. Was he trying to tell his wife something? There was only one way she’d ever be able to hear the words. He’d have to open his mouth and say them out loud. “Come on home. The both of you.”

  The Cocktail Party

  Knoxville, Tennessee, 1956

  A WOUNDED MUFFLER WOULD announce Hanna’s arrival. While pacing up and down the driveway, trying to stay warm, Gail listened intently, her nerves on edge.

  For the past seven weeks, the room in the basement had been empty, the bed stripped, the shelves bare. Her one phone conversation with Hanna had been awkward. What were you supposed to say to your best friend when her father was in jail?

  And of course she and Hanna couldn’t even see each other at school.

  “Why can’t Hanna go to my school?” Gail had complained to her father, back when she and Hanna had started first grade. The Attorney, they sometimes called him, though not to his face. “She lives in this neighborhood.”

  Charles Madison had a way of nodding his head while considering a legal issue. It didn’t mean he agreed with you, although he might. “Maybe in a few years she can,” he said. “The laws are changing.”

  “Would it be against the law for me to go to Hanna’s school?”

  “Excellent question. I’ll look into it.”

  “So, can I? Segregation is stupid.”

  He shook his head. This meant no. “Life isn’t always fair. You’re not too young to learn that lesson.”

  But he himself could be unfair. “Why can’t Hanna live with her father?” he’d grumbled one night at the dinner table, his voice low, so that Sophie and Hanna, who ate in the kitchen, wouldn’t hear.

  In response, her mother had inclined her head in Gail’s direction. Meaning, or so Gail had thought at the time, that Hanna stayed where she was because the two of them were such good friends.

  Now the Attorney was defending Sophie’s husband, Del, who had a “rock solid” alibi for the night Randy Barker, a white man, had been bludgeoned to death with a tire iron. Unfortunately for Del, when the police had tried to question him at the auto repair shop where he worked, he’d threatened them with the same type of tire iron the killer had used. And because he was a Negro accused of killing a white man, Del’s bail had been set so high he couldn’t pay it.

  “Lots of people had reasons for doing Randy Barker in,” Gail’s father told her. “The man was a brute.”

  He warned her she might hear things at school. All she heard was that Sophie used to work for the Barkers. Gail didn’t understand the implications until the Knoxville newspapers reported that, in September 1942, Sophia Norris had accused Randall Barker of rape. Although the charges had never been dropped, they had
n’t been prosecuted either.

  There were photos of both men. Randall Barker had bred horses at his farm off Alcoa Highway. Del Norris was an auto mechanic during the week and a musician on the weekends. His band, the Del Rays, had made several records in Memphis. Memphis was where Del claimed to have been the night the homicide occurred.

  After studying the photos of the victim and the accused killer, Gail decided Hanna didn’t look like either one of them. Nor did she look like Sophie. Where had those dimpled cheeks come from? The devil must’ve got you with his pitchfork, the milkman had teased Hanna one morning.

  But then Gail didn’t take after her parents, either. She had her father’s light brown hair, but that was all.

  What was taking Sophie so long? Gail had almost decided to risk going inside for a pair of gloves, when, finally, Del’s Pontiac, with its ailing muffler, roared into view. Waving both hands in the air, she ran down to the street.

  But Sophie, leaving the more convenient parking spaces for the soon-to-arrive guests, didn’t slow down until she was in the next block. It was the Saturday before Christmas, time for the Madisons’ annual cocktail party.

  Hanna was going to help with the hors d’oeuvres, which Sophie would pass around to the guests. Hanna’s older brother, Jeremiah, would tend bar.

  Gail began to run, expecting Hanna to do the same. But once Hanna was out of the car, she hung back, barely visible behind the other two.

  “Be that way,” Gail muttered, retreating to the hickory tree in her front yard. A few yellow-orange leaves still clung to the branches.

  As Sophie started up the driveway, she gave Gail a solemn nod. Jeremiah, who was even taller than his mother, stared straight ahead. Hanna glanced over and put a finger to her lips. Their own private signal. Not now.

  After seven long weeks, wasn’t now the perfect time to say hi? The minute Hanna disappeared around the back of the house, Gail turned in that direction and stuck out her tongue, something she hadn’t done for years.