Chapter Ninety-Two
DECEMBER, 1893
’Tis been a year of the ringing of the bells—the set of three in the belfry of the First Methodist Church of Howbutker. The church claims them, but they really belong to the community as a means of alerting the citizenry to the hour of the day, outbreak of fire, flood, and criminal mischief. Bank thieves were caught this year when a teller slipped out during the robbery and rang the bells, drawing people out onto the street, including the sheriff, and the felons ran right into the arms of his deputies.
In the spring the bells announced the tying of the marital knots of three couples before the altar of the church. Three of the sons of the third generation of the founders of Howbutker exchanged wedding vows with their brides: Jeremy III in April, Abel in May, and Vernon in June. I would have worn the same dress to all three occasions if Tippy hadn’t sent frocks for each.
“Now, Jessica,” she’d remonstrated in a letter included in the parcel mailed from her spacious offices on Broadway in New York City, “I want to see pictures of you wearing one of these dresses for each wedding. Knowing you, you’ll drag some old thing out of the closet and make it do for all three nuptials. You must do the boys proud.”
As if anyone would notice what an old broken-down grandmother on the grooms’ side of the aisle was wearing. But I was most honored when Abel and Jeremy III asked me to sit with their families for the ceremonies since I am the last of the clans’ matriarchs. Bess DuMont is gone. It was I who found her body in her garden when I had gone to meet her and Jeremy for coffee. The three of us had taken to meeting on Tuesday mornings in one of our backyards, a habit we’d fallen into after we returned from our world cruise. I arrived a bit early and was told that Bess was still gathering flowers for the coffee tray, the little touch she loved adding to the French pastries that Jeremy devoured. I found my beloved friend lying beside her dropped basket of peonies and snapdragons. She lay with her face turned and her eyes open as though suddenly struck by a desire to press her ear to the ground. A butterfly flapped its wings frantically on her shoulder, a bereaved beneficiary of the philanthropist who had provided the beautiful garden.
And so the bells tolled for Bess, too.
Not long after, Armand went to collect the body of his brother, Philippe, who was killed in a shoot-out with members of a notorious group calling themselves The Wild Bunch, a gang of violent outlaws led by a fellow named Bill Doolin. Philippe was still with the Pinkerton Detective Agency and had been called to Oklahoma to help law enforcement agencies deal with the group terrorizing the state. I quote what Armand said at Philippe’s funeral: “I’m glad the angels came for Mama before she had to bury the son she always believed would die by the gun with which he lived.”
And this year claimed the life of my old nemesis, Stephanie Davis. Lorimer succumbed years ago—“of a broken heart once he was forced to share-crop his own land sold to a carpetbagger”—so Stephanie said, and we all agreed, those of us remaining from the Willowgrove Wagon Train. Stephanie died in the Old Folks Home, established for the growing number of aging widows left impoverished by the war, of whom Stephanie most certainly was one. The Sisters of Charity run it, and I volunteer there once a week to offer what little comfort I can to the residents. For a long while, I was a reminder to Stephanie of all she had lost, and she would turn away when she saw me, but gradually, her bitterness faded before the realization that I was among the few who remembered her son Jake and “the way it was.” So we spent long hours remembering Jake and Joshua and our time together in New Orleans and the years of struggle in Texas afterwards.
Stephanie left me with a gift—a box of memories I may never have opened but for her. It inspired me to begin putting into order the material for the history of the founding families of Howbutker. At seventy-six, I cannot afford to delay. I’d anticipated Priscilla’s compilation of family history to sort through as well, but to Thomas’s and my surprise, she took the collection with her after the divorce. Thomas believes his former wife will make a ceremony of burning them.
So the bells rang for marriages and funerals, births and deaths this year of 1893. It closes on good notes and bad, like years do. On the good notes, my son and grandson are happily married. Their wives appear a perfect fit for them. Jacqueline Chastain is a walking blessing to us all; Darla, only to Vernon. If Darla had her way, she would isolate her husband from his family, keep him all to herself as possessive women in need of the undivided attention of their spouses tend to do. She knows Vernon would never allow it and so is careful of her attentions to his father and Jacqueline and me, as well as to the Warwick and DuMont clans my grandson regards as family.
She’s a crafty woman, is Darla Henley. Vernon was beside himself when she agreed to live apart from us on Houston Avenue. He was sure that Darla, coming from modest surroundings, would want to reside in the mansion, but she assured him that as long as they were together, it didn’t matter where they lived. Jacqueline kept her counsel, but I am convinced she saw, as I did, that Darla’s amenable acquiescence was a means to avoid sharing Vernon with the other members of the household, especially the women.
Well, who can blame her? Three women in a house, one deviously controlling, would make for an uncomfortable home life for the men folk. Frankly, Jacqueline and I were both relieved at the newly-marrieds’ decision to rent a townhouse in Howbutker, one owned by Armand DuMont, until they decided when and where to build a home of their own.
On a bad note, the year ends with the country in a financial panic. The lessons of history are wasted on the white man. His greed will not allow him to learn from history’s mistakes so as not to repeat them. The causes of the Panic of 1893 are the same ones responsible for the economic crisis in 1873. Over-building of the railroads, over expansion of buildings, factories, and docks, over-mining and over-planting of crops—bought on credit backed only by the promise of staggering revenues—have led to the collapse of the financial markets here and abroad. Naturally, Somerset is affected.
Thank God for the financial savvy of Jeremy Warwick, who at eighty-seven, still has the sharpest mind in the business world and an understanding of the greed of man. He warned Thomas of the abnormal growth and over speculation going on in every industry and advised him to sell his stocks and bonds before the inevitable crash. Thanks to Jeremy, Thomas did, and there is money to continue operating Somerset and paying expenses.
But that is not to say there is much wiggle room for unwarranted spending. Somerset faces many challenges. The national and international cotton markets are now flooded because of the too rapid expansion of production owing to the convenience of railroad shipping, mechanization of equipment, improvement of crops and farming techniques. Egypt and India have emerged as competitive sources for cotton, and the boll weevil will be a demoralizing worry for years to come.
I have joined those in taking up the new craze of the bicycle as a mode of transportation. I had only to mention my interest to Tippy before she immediately mailed me two costumes designed for cycling. The skirt is cut to resemble a pair of bloomers, and I feel as if my legs have been thrust through pumpkins, but the design is practical for managing the pedals.
At any rate, on my bicycle, I pedaled out to Somerset one day last fall, and the sight of the snow-white fields flowing to eternity nearly stopped my heart. The wind rustled through the tree tops of the bordering pines, and I could almost feel Silas’s hand caressing my face. I felt a surge of pride as I looked upon the fruits of my husband’s and son’s and grandson’s labor, and I, who never pray, asked God to sustain this land of the Tolivers for generations to come. Regardless of the curse that haunts it, the sacrifices made to preserve it, Somerset deserves to be.
And so, with that, I conclude this, my last journal. In the interest of time, my pen in the future will be devoted to the writing of Roses.