The Last Ballad(11)

“You’d better bring presents if you come down that chimney,” she said.

“I will,” Charlie said.

“I don’t got a chimney.”

“Then you’d better leave this window unlocked.”



The first time Ella had ever laid eyes on Charlie Shope was back in February when he’d catcalled her from the back of a Model T flatbed as it rumbled past on the Kings Mountain Highway. She and Violet had been crossing the field that separated Stumptown from Bessemer City on their way to work the night shift. The weather was cold and damp. The sky was white. The man’s legs were covered over with a blanket. His feet dangled off the back of the truck. A battered suitcase sat beside him. An old guitar rested on his lap. Ella and Violet watched him get smaller and smaller as the distance between them and the truck grew. He tipped his hat and blew a kiss, and then he was gone.

They walked in silence for a moment.

“What in the hell was that?” Ella had finally said.

“That was a white man in a truck,” Violet said.

“I know that,” Ella said. “Who’s he think he’s whistling at?”

“You, white girl.” Violet forced out a laugh. “You think he was hollering at me? Shoot.”

Violet had stopped walking, had stared at Ella. Then she looked behind her in the direction of Stumptown. A few roofs were visible on the far side of the hill. She looked toward the forest on their right, the leafless trees wispy in the distance. Then she turned her eyes to the road where the truck had just passed. The air was cold. It smelled of wood smoke. Their noses ran.

“What in the world else was he whistling at?” Violet asked. She took a handkerchief from her pocket, blew into it.

“I don’t care,” Ella said. “I just mind my own business.”

Violet smiled, put the handkerchief back inside her pocket.

“Come on, girl,” she’d said. “We’re going to be late. Neither one of us can afford that. This world ain’t going to pay you in whistles.”

The second time Ella saw Charlie Shope was the very next night, in the spinning room at the mill. He sidled up to her where she stood on the line, took off his hat, and held it over his heart. He was small, not much taller than her.

“I seen you yesterday,” he said, his voice barely reaching her over the noise of the machines. “Crossing the field with that colored girl.”

Ella acted like she didn’t hear him. She kept her eyes on the strands as they coiled around the bobbins. He leaned toward her, cupped a hand around his mouth.

“I seen you yesterday!” he hollered. Ella looked up as if she’d just realized that someone had spoken to her.

“Yeah?” she said. “You saw me? Good for you.”

“Yeah,” he said. “You seen me?”

Ella looked at his sweaty brown hair, his ruddy face, the gap between his front teeth when he smiled.

“Where do you work?” she asked.

He stood up as straight as he could. “Down in the carding room for now.”

She shook her head, allowed her face to register a smile. The doffer boy came through, and she and Charlie both stepped back as he lifted the full bobbins from the spinners and replaced them with empty spindles. Ella moved quickly behind him, fixing the strands to the bobbins. Charlie followed her.

“I’m just in the carding room for now,” he said.

“What’s ‘for now’?” she asked.

“The carding room,” he said. “I’ll be weaving here soon, and I make most of my money with my guitar anyway.”

“Okay,” she said.

He stopped following behind her, asked, “Did you see me out there on the road yesterday or not?”

“If I seen you I don’t remember it,” she said. “And if I remember you I done forgot you already.”

“That’s okay,” he said. “We got all the time in the world to get acquainted. I’m going to marry you.”

Ella laughed and looked over at him again, noted the greasy cowlick he’d smeared down on his forehead.

“I already had me one husband,” she said. “Took me ten years to run him off. I ain’t got that kind of time anymore.”

“All right, honey,” he said.

She fought another smile.

“Heard Dobbins is heading this way,” she said. “You better go on. You don’t want to get fired your first night in the carding room, especially when you ain’t even in the carding room.”

“Hell,” he said, “it’d be worth it if you keep talking. What’s your name?”

“Busy,” she said.

“Okay, Busy,” he said. “I’m Charlie. Charlie Shope. But here soon you’ll just be calling me sweetheart.”

The third time she’d laid eyes on him was five nights later, when his face appeared on the other side of a row of spinners.

“When do you go on break?” he’d hollered.

“No time soon,” Ella said. She moved down, kept her eyes on her work. He followed her on the other side.

“I’m serious,” Charlie said. “When?”

Ella stopped working, looked up at him. He smiled. “I get fifteen minutes at ten p.m.,” she said. She went back to her work.