Free The Woods at Barlow Bend by Jodie Cain Smith Page A
Authors: Jodie Cain Smith
looked at me in the mirror, “We’ll talk more about this after church. Hurry downstairs and get some food before it gets cold.” She kissed the top of my head and left me alone in my bedroom.
After church, while Meg and the boys were in Sunday school, I convinced Mittie not to tell them what was going on with Daddy. We told Meg that we had some business to attend to with the café, prior instructions from Daddy. We told her, in support of our lie, and that she would have to miss school to help Uncle Melvin and Henrietta out with the breakfast and lunch service. Needless to say, she shared a few choice words with me about the injustices of her life once we were alone in our bedroom. As hard as it was, I didn’t snap back at her with the truth. There was no need for both our lives to be turned upside down.
Early Monday morning, Mittie and I headed to the courthouse. Each man we passed tipped the brim of his hat at Mittie, and would then try to slyly look her up and down. Unlike Momma, Mittie either didn’t like attention from men or didn’t notice their admiration. Depending on her mood, Momma would have offered a coy smile or a “Morning, Handsome!”
Momma found the effect she had on men delightful, even hysterical at times, but not Aunt Mittie. Mittie stoically stared straight ahead, her hand tightly grasped around mine.
As we walked, hand in hand, I feared that every man, woman and child on the streets of Grove Hill that morning knew that secretly hidden in my purse was $46.25, the money I had taken from the register and hid under my mattress Saturday night. I had never in my life seen, held, much less walked around in public with that kind of money. I kept expecting someone to snatch my purse and flee down the street so fast that I would never catch up with the thief. I wriggled out of Mittie’s grasp and wrapped both hands tightly around the handles of my purse, holding it close to me. When we reached the courthouse, walked up the stairs, and crossed into the foyer, I breathed a sigh of relief that I wasn’t robbed on the street and, therefore, wouldn’t have to explain to Daddy how all of the money earned on Saturday was stolen from me.
My relief was short lived . On a large placard next to the courtroom’s entrance was the docket for the day. Fourth on the list was Daddy’s name and, next to it, the words Murder 1 st Degree . I stared at his name for probably a full minute, still unable to believe what happened in our dining room Saturday afternoon. Mittie tugged on my arm, pulling from my stupor.
We took our seats in the courtroom, fifth row from the front on the left side. I had hoped to be on the front row so that Daddy could see me clearly, but the room had already begun to fill. I saw reporters from the Clarke County Democrat, Sheriff’s Deputies, and dozens others I assumed were concerned family members of other men and women on the day’s docket. Aunt Mittie pointed out the prosecuting attorneys seated at the table on the right, directly in front of the judge’s bench. Mr. Frank Poole and County Solicitor A. S. Johnson represented the state of Alabama. Daddy knew these men! They ate at our café at least twice a week, if not more often. How could they think Daddy was guilty of such a crime? For God’s sake, Mr. Johnson came in for lunch three times the week before Daddy was arrested!
I was so surprised at the sight of these men who, until that moment, acted as if they were friends with Daddy, that I nearly missed the man seated three rows in front of us. Grandpa Andrews, Daddy’s father, must have arrived very early to get such a good seat. I couldn’t imagine what he felt when he learned his youngest child was handcuffed and thrown in jail like some common criminal. I don’t even know how Grandpa Andrews learned that Daddy was arrested, but I was thrilled that he was there. Judge Bedsole would see General Jackson Andrews; named so not for any military service, but because he completely
After church, while Meg and the boys were in Sunday school, I convinced Mittie not to tell them what was going on with Daddy. We told Meg that we had some business to attend to with the café, prior instructions from Daddy. We told her, in support of our lie, and that she would have to miss school to help Uncle Melvin and Henrietta out with the breakfast and lunch service. Needless to say, she shared a few choice words with me about the injustices of her life once we were alone in our bedroom. As hard as it was, I didn’t snap back at her with the truth. There was no need for both our lives to be turned upside down.
Early Monday morning, Mittie and I headed to the courthouse. Each man we passed tipped the brim of his hat at Mittie, and would then try to slyly look her up and down. Unlike Momma, Mittie either didn’t like attention from men or didn’t notice their admiration. Depending on her mood, Momma would have offered a coy smile or a “Morning, Handsome!”
Momma found the effect she had on men delightful, even hysterical at times, but not Aunt Mittie. Mittie stoically stared straight ahead, her hand tightly grasped around mine.
As we walked, hand in hand, I feared that every man, woman and child on the streets of Grove Hill that morning knew that secretly hidden in my purse was $46.25, the money I had taken from the register and hid under my mattress Saturday night. I had never in my life seen, held, much less walked around in public with that kind of money. I kept expecting someone to snatch my purse and flee down the street so fast that I would never catch up with the thief. I wriggled out of Mittie’s grasp and wrapped both hands tightly around the handles of my purse, holding it close to me. When we reached the courthouse, walked up the stairs, and crossed into the foyer, I breathed a sigh of relief that I wasn’t robbed on the street and, therefore, wouldn’t have to explain to Daddy how all of the money earned on Saturday was stolen from me.
My relief was short lived . On a large placard next to the courtroom’s entrance was the docket for the day. Fourth on the list was Daddy’s name and, next to it, the words Murder 1 st Degree . I stared at his name for probably a full minute, still unable to believe what happened in our dining room Saturday afternoon. Mittie tugged on my arm, pulling from my stupor.
We took our seats in the courtroom, fifth row from the front on the left side. I had hoped to be on the front row so that Daddy could see me clearly, but the room had already begun to fill. I saw reporters from the Clarke County Democrat, Sheriff’s Deputies, and dozens others I assumed were concerned family members of other men and women on the day’s docket. Aunt Mittie pointed out the prosecuting attorneys seated at the table on the right, directly in front of the judge’s bench. Mr. Frank Poole and County Solicitor A. S. Johnson represented the state of Alabama. Daddy knew these men! They ate at our café at least twice a week, if not more often. How could they think Daddy was guilty of such a crime? For God’s sake, Mr. Johnson came in for lunch three times the week before Daddy was arrested!
I was so surprised at the sight of these men who, until that moment, acted as if they were friends with Daddy, that I nearly missed the man seated three rows in front of us. Grandpa Andrews, Daddy’s father, must have arrived very early to get such a good seat. I couldn’t imagine what he felt when he learned his youngest child was handcuffed and thrown in jail like some common criminal. I don’t even know how Grandpa Andrews learned that Daddy was arrested, but I was thrilled that he was there. Judge Bedsole would see General Jackson Andrews; named so not for any military service, but because he completely