Jilo (Witching Savannah #4)(12)
She cast a glance in the mirror and patted back her hair, then used her palms to straighten out the creases in her skirt. Who the hell would be coming by now? she wondered, opening the front door and leaning toward the screen. The searing light of the early-afternoon sun bore down hard, squashing the shadows of everything beneath it flat to the earth, then flared up as it reflected off the hood of a shiny new black car. The flash dazzled her eyes. The driver slowed, doing his best to avoid the ruts in the yard.
May felt her jaw tighten. She didn’t recognize the car—most folk around here couldn’t afford a rusting Tin Lizzie, let alone one of the new chrome barges with round fenders. She crossed her arms tight over her chest and took a wider stance. She bit her lower lip. She didn’t recognize the face of the porkpie-hatted dandy driving the car, but she sure as shooting recognized the face of the fool woman sitting beside him, in spite of her dyed-red Myrna Loy hairdo. The car came to a stop, and the driver killed the engine. May pushed through the screeching screen door and went to stand on her front porch, knowing damned well that while the fading haint blue her mama had made her paint the overhang might keep away the boo hags, it wouldn’t do diddly to keep out this Jezebel, this murderer.
Her eyes locked with Betty’s, but Betty looked away and turned to face the car’s backseat. The door behind Mr. Porkpie opened. May’s grandbaby Poppy slid out and ran to her, arms outstretched. “Nana Wills,” the girl cried, and the love May felt caused her heart to leap in her breast. The car’s other back door opened, and Opal climbed out with Jilo in her arms.
Coward, May thought, returning her focus to the woman who used to be her daughter-in-law. Sending the children first. Jilo squirmed in her sister’s arms, and Opal sat her on her feet, taking the tiny girl’s arm as she tottered along. Poppy bounded up the steps, and May knelt and took her in her arms, placing a thousand kisses over the girl’s sweet face.
May heard the car’s front doors open, and she looked up to see that Porkpie had moved around to the car’s rear. He popped the trunk while Betty swung her nylon-covered legs out and found footing. She took a few sauntering steps toward the house, barely covered by a new and way-too-tight crimson dress. “It’s good to see you, May,” she said, her tone guarded. She held her head back and a bit to the right, looking down her nose at May. Her eyes were challenging, but a smile parted her haughty face.
May had to fight the urge to fly from her porch, across the patchy dry grass, and slap Betty’s smile right off her. Seeming to read May’s struggle, Betty stopped a good distance back. This woman. This harlot. She had begged, coaxed, and harangued Jesse, threatening to leave him unless he moved his family to Charleston. Roosevelt’s New Deal money had begun floating into the state through the South Carolina Emergency Relief Administration, and rumor had it there were going to be riches for everyone, white and colored alike. The fool girl had thought Charleston would be an electric-lit land of milk and honey.
Six months after the move, May received the telegraph saying Jesse got himself killed when scaffolding collapsed, sending a rain of bricks down on him. Your son I stole from you is dead. Stop. Send money to bury him among strangers. Stop. Of course, those weren’t the cable’s actual words, but that was how May’s heart remembered them. May hadn’t been able to stop Jesse from leaving, let alone from getting himself killed, but she had managed to get him brought home. Jesse now rested between his own father and May’s mother. The spot she had always believed would be her own resting place.
“May, I want you to meet Walter Williams,” Betty said, placing one hand on her hip. Betty seemed proud, like she was showing off a prize pig at the state fair.
May examined the dark, round-faced fellow. A good three inches shorter than Betty, and a good three inches wider, too. Walter Williams, my eye. Porkpie, a cardboard suitcase in each hand, sidled up beside Betty. The Depression seemed to have spared Porkpie, seeing as he had both a new car and a spare tire around his waist. He didn’t fit May’s image of what a gangster should look like, but she couldn’t imagine how else a man could come by the cash for a chariot like this these days. He set the cases down and doffed his hat.
“Ma’am,” he said, looking at her with a wide smile. His gaze turned instantly back to Betty, and May realized the poor fool was in love.
“What’re those for?” May asked, taking a couple of steps forward to the edge of her porch. “This ain’t no hotel, and you sure ain’t moving in here with that man.”
Betty laughed, a careless sound pealing from a careless woman. “Opal,” Betty called her daughter, never taking her wary eyes off May. The spindly girl let go of Jilo, who scooted off to explore, and took hold of the cases. She set them down in front of the porch steps and looked to her grandmother, not seeming to know what to do next.
“Those are for the girls,” Betty said. “Walter and I, we going on to Atlanta. The girls wanted to stop off here a bit and visit with their nana, ain’t that right, Opal?”
May’s eyes fixed on the young girl’s face. Opal’s worried gaze drifted down, and her lips began to work, but no sound came out. May’s heart nearly broke at the sight. “You bring those cases up here then, girl,” she said to her oldest grandbaby. Opal’s eyes shot up to meet May’s, and a hopeful smile spread across her face. Poor little thing believed I might turn her away, May thought, an even deeper resentment toward Betty growing in her heart. What kind of stories has that creature been telling the babies about me?