Chapter 17 #5
“The way I see it is, Mrs. Tartt’s got two options,” he said.
“She can try and find somebody willing to buy that big house of hers and make a down payment by September 15. That, as a good-faith payment, would go to the bank, and believe me, they’d be thrilled to get it.
Then, after she closes on the sale, she could pay off the rest and maybe have something left over to live on for a while. ”
That sounded like a long shot to me. “How much do you think she could get for a house like hers? If she could even find a buyer that quick?”
He picked up the piece of paper and looked at it.
“Prices are terrible right now, but if Rory was able to mortgage it for five thousand after the crash, I would think she could still get around that, maybe a little less.” He rubbed his cheek.
“Her other option is to sell everything else she’s got.
If she can come up with anything over two thousand dollars, I bet it’d buy her some time to pay the last seven or eight hundred on the note. ”
So that was it, those were the options. I knew from our own tax situation that what the Tartts owed would keep on growing with interest. “I can’t wait to go home and tell Mrs. Tartt what her two options are,” I said.
“They’re lucky they’ve got any options at all. Lot of folks don’t,” he said. “Rory probably didn’t tell y’all, but the bank paid the Tartts’ back taxes this year so the county couldn’t take the house to auction it off for themselves. Then the bank would get nothing.”
Too bad the Calhouns didn’t have a bank to pay our taxes. “What else do you know about back taxes?” I asked.
“I know that the tax collector’ll take your house a lot faster than a bank will.”
I almost laughed—of course there was even worse news.
“You know about the big tax rush last spring?” he asked.
I nodded; yes, I knew. Anyone who’d seen a newspaper knew that a fourth of the property in Mississippi had been seized for back taxes.
Jack shook his head. “I heard that sheriff who just left had a big time, banging on doors and throwing people out of their houses. Rumor is he enjoyed it a little too much.”
I smiled. “You bankers have all the good news, don’t you?” I wanted to put my head down on the table, but I wouldn’t do that in front of him. I had one last try: “Jack, do you think there’s anything you could do to help the Tartts get more time?”
He looked me straight in the eyes. “How I wish I could. I’m afraid it’s too far gone. It’s out of Mr. Allison’s hands too, though he doesn’t want to admit that.”
The waitress set a ticket on our table, and he slid it in front of him. “You don’t have any idea at all where Rory might be?” I shook my head. “Did you look at the telephone bill? See if he made any calls before he left?”
“I didn’t know you could do that, but I’ll look.” I’d used a telephone twice. I folded the bank letter up and slid my sad dime over to him.
“Please, put that away.” He slid it back over.
“I prefer it,” I said and slid it back at him. He shook his head and muttered, “Stubborn, just like me.”
“Thank you for talking me through all this. It was very kind of you,” I said and added, “’Specially for a banker.”
He looked amused, but I hoped he knew my thanks were sincere. He set his hands flat on the table and leaned up again. “Do you want to go see a picture sometime? Next week? Might take your mind off all of this for a couple hours.”
My face flushed warm, like a teenager. “Um—why?”
“What do you mean, why?”
“I mean—is that some sort of bank courtesy? We’re taking the house but we’ll take you to the picture show to say we’re sorry?”
“No.” He squinted at me. “You’re a funny woman, you know that?”
“Yes.”
He put a quarter and a nickel down on top of the check and slid my dime back to me again.
Before I could refuse it, he laid both his hands on top of mine.
I went still. His hands were heavy and warm and covered mine completely.
The heat on my face spread down my neck and kept going.
It occurred to me that I hadn’t had a man touch me in a non-bookkeeping way since … I wasn’t sure how long ago.
“Yes. I will go to a picture show with you, Jack.”
On the way home, I cut through the dry courthouse grass, past the Confederate statue and farmers selling the last of this summer’s watermelons and tomatoes and okra.
I went in Neilson’s Department Store, where we’d shopped that day while Rory had plundered the house.
In the cool quiet, I let myself gaze at a mannequin wearing a slim burgundy dress with cap sleeves, a little rise in the collar.
I might have a date next week. Wouldn’t it be something not to have to wear one of my same-ole blue dresses.
When I was finished dreaming, I went over to speak to Mr. Will Lewis at the register, but then here she came coming. Pripp.
“Birdie,” she said, looking me over. She was buying a green wool hat with a red feather on it. “I hope Frances is feeling better? She missed her day, said she musta ate something that didn’t agree with her.”
“Must have.”
She leaned up like she had a secret but didn’t lower her voice. “Birdie, what in the world is going on out at the Tartt house? Every time I drive out there, that yard looks worse and worse. Garnett drove by there the other day and she said the same thing.”
“They’re looking for a new yardman,” I lied. I wondered why Garnett was driving by the house. That road only led out of town and I did not want Garnett Pittman to know anything, let alone that Charlie was staying with us.
“Well I thought Mrs. Tartt would want to know, her help came by my house yesterday looking for work. I was just surprised as can be and told ’em we didn’t need any help.
That little one is kinda uppity, you know.
Birdie, what is going on? Are the Tartts having trouble of some kind?
” She licked her lips, like she was salivating to know.
“It’s nothing for anybody to worry about, Pripp.” Behind the desk, Mr. Lewis cleared his throat, waiting for one of us to step up. “Please, go ahead,” I said to her. “I’m not in a hurry.”
“If you insist.”
When Pripp had left, I asked Mr. Lewis what surely he now knew: “Frances may need to return some of the things she bought. How long would she have to do that?”
“Seven days is what we allow for returns, and we’d appreciate if the Tartts could take care of their—”
“Thank you,” I said and got out of there before I had to answer that.
“It’s that time of year, isn’t it?” Mrs. Tartt said in the kitchen.
I was standing in front of the electric fan, letting the thing blow at me.
She was at the round breakfast table, gluing the handle back onto a gravy boat Rory’d broken.
It was the most productive thing I’d seen her do all week.
I still hadn’t seen Frances produce more than chopped ice.
“When I first married Henry, the old kitchen was out yonder by the barn, before it burned. If Inez, that was Henry’s cook, was off seeing to her family, I’d have to cook something for us right here in this hearth.
And let me tell you, that was hot.” She gestured at the brick fireplace here on the eating side of the kitchen.
It had a little clay pot of African violets in front of it.
“After Inez died, we got a coal stove, and then of course Henry brought the big Duparquet oven in here.” She shook her head.
“Picador does not like that big ole thing, does she?”
“No, ma’am, she does not,” I said. She spoke like Picador and Polly still worked here. I started stringing green beans from the garden over the sink to keep my hands busy. How I dreaded telling her the options Jack had laid out.
Charlie came in the screen door, toting a laundry basket. She was wearing an apron over the sad yellow dress. “I took the sheets off the line, I hope it’s alright. They’ve gotten pretty dusty, hanging up out there.”
“Heavens to Betsy, those sheets’ve been hanging out there all week. Thank you, Charlie.” I hadn’t noticed them out there either.
Charlie carried them to the little washroom off the back of the kitchen. “There’s a pile of clean napkins in here,” she called. “I could go ahead and iron them for you?”
“Oh, now, you don’t have to do that,” Mrs. Tartt said, but I could hear it in her voice: Please iron those napkins.
“I don’t mind,” Charlie said. Outside the washroom door, she pulled the ironing board down from the wall. In twenty-four hours, she’d managed to graduate herself from cleaning porches outside to working here in the kitchen.
“We used to have help seven days a week,” Mrs. Tartt said. “It’s just a temporary spot we’re in.”
“Seems like everybody’s having a hard time these days,” Charlie said.
“Don’t I know it,” Mrs. Tartt said and then softer, “I just didn’t ever think it’d be me.”
Charlie climbed up on the step stool and plugged the electric iron into the ceiling light. I hadn’t told her much about the situation here, but clearly she was trying to give Mrs. Tartt every reason to let her stay longer.
“Picador didn’t want to switch to an electric iron either. She wanted to keep using the old hot plates on the stove,” Mrs. Tartt said.
“My mother was the same way,” Charlie said. She smoothed out a linen napkin on the board, sprinkled water on it from a bowl, and pressed the electric iron over it. Steam rose in her face. I kept stringing beans, sort of curious to hear how these two would get along.
“Whereabouts did you say you’re from, again, Charlie?” Mrs. Tartt asked.
“Just outside Memphis.”
Mrs. Tartt sat up straighter. “I’m from Memphis! I grew up on Adams Avenue.”
Charlie nodded like she knew it. “My mother was a housekeeper, not in town, out by the mill.” There was no shame in her voice. “She kept a very proper house.”
I smiled, thinking about Meg telling me how her mother used to clean. And here I am with her in the kitchen not even a month later …
“Whenabout did you leave Memphis?”