Appalachian Heritage

At first—when she first began thinking about the spot—the first night—Mary thought she could brush it off. As soon as it was dry, she told herself—kept telling herself—she could take a brush and brush it off. That night, twice during the night, she woke up thinking about it. She would—she must—remember to clean it early in the morning, early before any of the neighbors came in. Mrs. Haut always came early. Mary would have it spotless before Mrs. Haut came.

She had put a towel under the sofa seat, thinking it would protect the sofa, but Mr. Raft had not used the towel. She should have known he wouldn't. He had never tried to protect her clothes even. She had noticed that. Every week while she was working for Mr. Hart she had sent two or three dresses to the cleaners. But that night was the first time they had used the sofa, the first time he had come to her father's house, to the room where her father said prayers before bedtime; and they had used the sofa where she and Charles had sat.

Before Charles left for the Army—in 1942—he had told Mary he wanted to marry her. Just told her in the matter of fact way in which he told her he wanted to enter college, to get out of going to the Army, to go into his father's business, to make money, to be a leader of men. He had not waited for an answer. He took it for granted as he had taken everything for granted since they went to kindergarten together.

Their mothers had sent them to Miss Vera Gray's kindergarten so that they might have the days free for shopping and bridge playing. This Mary knew, just as she knew and accepted it that her mother didn't love her, didn't even want her, for Mary was not a pretty child, could not sing, dance or play and did not—would not—talk.

Her mother could have loved a pretty child, but since she was not pretty her mother couldn't love her. This she accepted. She acknowledged it to herself only, just as she accepted and kept to herself the fact that her father did not love her. Her father had never had the chance to love her. Her mother had taken complete charge of her since [End Page 40] she had been big enough to say yes, for her mother lived, in secret, on Mary's admiration for her beauty, especially after Mary was big enough to notice her beauty and her clothes and after her mother's beauty began to fade, for her mother was forty-five when Mary was born.

When she came home from school her mother would rush her to her bedroom. "I have been elected president of the U.D.C.," she would say. Then she would go into minute details about how she was nominated, who was for her, who against her, and why, and tell every word she spoke and how she spoke it, who laughed at her wit, who was too jealous of it to laugh and who were her friends. She belonged to every organization in town so that there was no end of it. Mary always agreed with her that she was the most beautiful, the most capable, the most witty of all women. But when she heard her father come in the door she sent Mary to her own room upstairs. "Stay till supper," she said. If at the supper table her father said a few words to Mary, her mother burst into tears, accusing them of thinking her stupid and not taking her into their conversation.

So that Mary graduated from kindergarten and Willis Preparatory School and went on through college without ever knowing her father, without knowing anybody except Charles and her mother, both of whom talked to her about their lives, never questioning that Mary did not agree with them. Other girls at college talked about how proud their fathers and mothers were of them. Mary never tried, never even wanted to enter into these conversations, although the girls tried to get her to talk. She simply listened. She listened for hours to Charles. She went home at night and listened to the trials of her mother, for her mother wasn't always made president.

Mary went to Willis Preparatory School because Charles went. She went to Lealand College because that was where Charles was going. She accepted the fact in college as she did in preparatory school that she was the teacher's favorite. Frequently she had it pointed out to her by Charles. He didn't take art, couldn't understand why she took it. But Mr. Johnson, her art teacher, took interest in her, invited her to his home, begged her to put on the canvas the pictures that were on her mind. This was something she kept hidden from Charles, telling him she took art and English because she was not smart enough to take physics and math as he did, for Charles was to be an engineer [End Page 41] as his father before him had been. Thus she listened to Charles' ambitions, never telling him of the thing that went on in her own mind, the thing that frightened her.

They were seniors and the Founder's medalist was announced. It was Charles. He was proud of it and nodded and bowed and shook hands and told Mary who congratulated him, what he said, how he said it. He assumed that Mary was proud of him too.

It was the day the announcement was made that he proposed to her, if it could be called a proposal. She was the first one he told. She took his hand. All afternoon they walked in Fairview Park. She couldn't think of any words to say. Charles didn't speak till near sundown.

He had mentioned the war from time to time. He pulled out his notice from the draft board. "It came about an hour before the dean called me in," he said. She was relieved. Then he held her tight against his body and kissed her cheeks and forehead. They discussed their marriage after the war. He kissed her hands and arms and neck and made her promise she would never kiss any other man. She promised. She told her mother. But her mother seemed to think it was a long way off. "Maybe he won't come back," she said, and that was all she said about it, getting on to her clubs and parties. Mary heard herself and Charles spoken of as "they." More people smiled at her, more people seemed to love her. She spoke constantly of herself as "we" and thought of her future—away off somewhere—in terms of "we." Charles' kisses were tender. That was all. Her own feeling was not like the thing that boiled inside of her when she was in art class. She wondered about the kisses, although Charles was the only man who had ever kissed her. She wondered what she would do if he tried to go further than a kiss. She wondered why he didn't.

Then she met Mr. Raft. Mr. Raft had a studio near the college and lectured to Mr. Johnson's classes near the close of the term. He saw some of her painting, liked it, told her she should continue, said he wanted to see more of her work, wanted to see more of her. She didn't tell Charles about meeting Mr. Raft, but he heard of the lecture. He was angry, accused her of hiding things from him, of not being a virgin. She thought she should tell him of the thoughts that sometimes came into her mind, but she didn't. She never talked. [End Page 42]

When he was gone she missed him. She was the last one he came to see. The time seemed short although the train was forty-five minutes late. He made her promise that she wouldn't have any dates, that she would write him every day, that she would think of him every minute. She promised them all. She didn't ask any promises in return. She found herself talking of books they had both read, of shows they had both seen, of people they knew, of places they had been or had not been. He didn't offer to kiss her before they left her house. She had expected it. He didn't take her hand as they walked to the station. At the station he tore corners off his ticket, dropped it, picked it up, and dropped it again. She stood up close to him. He looked at her. "I wish there weren't so many people here," he said. The conductor shouted. And he was gone.

Charles' married friend, Robert, asked her to go riding with him that night, and she went. She was angry when he made advances and for several days felt degraded and depressed. She could hardly face her mother and friends. She wrote Charles. She felt as much a sinner as if she had been guilty. She became interested in sex, and she took books from the library and bought books on the subject and talked about it, even to her mother, who seemed not to know what sex was.

Then her father had a car accident. Her mother was jealous of the attention she gave her father, refusing to do anything for him herself, refusing to let a nurse come to the house, calling always Mary away from his bedside.

Her father was badly crippled, could not even walk again without crutches. This Mary accepted, accepting with it the fact that he would not be able to work any more and she would have to get a job.

She had never thought of work, always thinking of the future with Charles, so she wrote Mr. Johnson of her need for a job. Mr. Johnson wrote back that he had the perfect job for her. Then Mr. Raft called, told her how lucky he was, how much impressed he was with her painting, how he had heard she was an excellent typist. He had written a book of art criticism; he wanted her to edit and type it, as he was busy painting. The next Monday she started to work. For some reason—she didn't at first understand it herself—she didn't write Charles about the job until she had been working for a week. He answered right away. He wondered if she had to work, why she had not written [End Page 43] him sooner, told her how much he missed her, how soon he hoped he could come home, so that she wouldn't have to work. Already she had begun tossing his letters into the waste basket after the first quick reading of them, already she found it difficult to write to him every day. It was tiresome, she didn't have anything to say, she was absorbed in her work; things Charles said in his letters irritated her, bored her, disturbed her thoughts.

She was irritable, too, for the first time, with her mother. The eternal talking about herself, about her goodness, her clubs, parties, the church, her morals, the lack of morals. Her father's nightly prayers. Often she had to work late. Mr. Raft was behind schedule with this book and the publishers were in a hurry. This she explained to her mother. This she explained to Charles, giving it as the reason she couldn't write every day. Charles didn't accept it. Later there was a period of two weeks when she didn't write him. He wrote her letters asking what was wrong, scolding her, begging her, accusing her, threatening her.

She was worried when her mother became ill, complained of her health, begged her to spend more time at home, to give up her job now that her father was drawing a pension, telling her that she did not have much longer to live.

Mary had found the thing she wanted. Just when she fell in love she didn't know. She lay awake nights thinking about it, soaking her body, her soul, her whole self, in it. She had no more troubles. She didn't even hear her mother when she spoke of her sorrows, her age, her clubs, her friends or her lack of friends. She opened Charles' letters and read them. Five minutes afterwards she simply could not remember what was in them. Once Robert asked her where Charles was, and she couldn't remember. Somewhere across. Away off. Maybe it was the first day of work when she fell in love, when Mr. Raft did not assume that she agreed with him, that she liked him. He had asked her about her painting. She had talked to him, felt she didn't have to keep her real self hidden from him.

Mr. Raft's hair was gray, the same amount of grayness in it that she believed was in her father's hair, though she wasn't sure. She began to think more about her father—what were his likes and dislikes. She didn't really know her father. In two weeks' time she knew Mr. Raft [End Page 44] far better. He smoked Phillip Morris cigarettes. At four he had his cup of coffee, sugar but no cream. He liked his ash tray emptied while he was out of the studio, things not too orderly around him, his desk cluttered a little. He never failed to thank her for the little attentions, bringing his coffee to him, handing him the letter opener. He smiled, patted her on the back, the shoulder, the arm, her hand. "You spoil me," he said. The words rang in her ears, all through her body. They were sweet words, softly spoken words. She felt them all over her.

It might have been the day he wrote the letter of apology. He had, some time in the recent past, written some biographical sketches for the Washington Art Galleries. In the sketch of Theodore Long he had referred to him as a Negro artist. The director of the art gallery wrote him of the error. Mr. Raft dictated an apology to the director and one to Mr. Long himself, begging him to forgive his stupid blundering ignorance for paying him the compliment of referring to him as a member of that superior race—the African.

As Mary took the letter in shorthand she thought them the most beautiful words she had ever heard. They were even more beautiful as she typed them; and as she read the letter over she could not move or speak.

Or it might have been when he was taking her home one afternoon. He stopped his car suddenly. There was a concerned look on his face. Mary had not seen him so sad before. She saw in front of them the dead copperhead. "I can't let cars run over it, mash it," he said. He got out of the car, found a stick and carried the dead snake to a soft spot of grass, laying it gently there.

Mary thought everything he did, every word he spoke, gentle, kind, fatherly. She bought paper cups in which to carry water to him, lit his cigarettes for him, handed him pen or pencil or paper, obeyed his every spoken and unspoken command. She wanted to look well in his eyes; she spent hours putting on make-up every morning, hours at night washing and ironing. She went into debt for clothes, having to use the money needed at home. It didn't matter to her that her mother fretted and complained, even threatened. She was happy. She was not blind or innocent or caught off guard. She had thought it over many times, determined her own reaction. She had, in turn, denied her passion, acknowledged it, tried to control it, nourished it and fed it on the thoughts of her mind. [End Page 45]

It was April, a warm afternoon, when they went walking into the fields and woods. He had seemed sad that morning. There was sadness and loneliness in his voice when he told her his wife was away for a day or two visiting his mother. In the afternoon he started to dictate a letter. He stopped in the middle of it and said, "I'd like to take a walk. Would you like to take a walk?"

"I'd like it," she told him.

They took the six-mile path through the park. She put her hand in his. He talked of the birds, the trees, the little blue flowers, almost faded. They wandered off the path, sat in the grass. She took his arms in her hands, put them around her. She did not feel ashamed.

He spoke often of her frankness, her lack of self-consciousness, her lack of embarrassment. Just as often he told her he didn't love her, she was ugly, she forced herself on him. At times she was self-conscious about the spots on her clothes. She tried to wash them off with a damp cloth. She tried energine. She blushed. She was afraid to put them in the cleaners. She begged him to be careful. He was not concerned. She knew it. Yet when he looked at her, smiled, spoke kindly to her, she fell upon him, lavished him with caresses, told him of her love.

When she heard, when she knew, that he was having other affairs, she tried all the harder to please. He spoke often of his wife. She didn't mind this. He spoke often too of Sara Whitworth, who came once to have her portrait painted and had been coming to the studio often since. Mary watched Sara walk, listened to what she said, tried to imitate everything she did, even having bangs cut for her short round face. She watched them as they drove off together in Sara's car. She wanted a car, an apartment all her own to take him to. She wanted to cook for him the thing he liked, listen to his music, wear the clothes he liked. She did not let the idea of his coming to her father's house enter her head. Once he suggested it, and she made excuses: she always had company, girl friends in at nights and afternoons after work, her father's friends, her mother's club women. She would meet him at the office instead. She could not understand this caution on her own part, for she was anxious to impress him, to please him; and she was at her best in her home, being a good cook and a good hostess.

Just why she stopped writing to Charles she didn't know. She had never given a minute's thought to a permanent relation with Mr. Raft. [End Page 46] Whenever she thought of the future she thought of it with Charles, of going to meetings with him, having one child, dressing it in white, entertaining his friends, cheering him when he spoke at the Kiwanis Club, the Rotary Club, cooking for him, vegetables—squash and carrots—and meat—fried chicken and barbecued lamb, of having him always there. At times, when her clothes were soiled, when Mr. Raft had asked her a personal question, she wanted to write Charles about it. She felt she would tell him when she saw him. She had never hidden anything from him, never had anything to hide. Mr. Raft had warned her, whatever she did she must not tell Charles. He held her in his arms, and she promised she wouldn't tell. After the promise she had her first feeling of guilt. This she felt all the time that she was not in his arms. Consequently, she wanted, as time went on, to be in his arms more and more. Until at times he almost pushed her from him. She felt all the more sense of guilt when he pushed her away and wanted all the more to be in his arms again.

His trips to Boston became more frequent. He told his wife he was called there to paint portraits. His wife believed it, but instinctively Mary knew why he went. She studied Sara's naked body in the studio—the scarred legs, the flat breasts, the rumors of her perversity.

And then his sudden return, blurting out to Mary that he was going to marry Sara, talking for hours of his love for her, planning his divorce from his wife.

Mary's mother died just at that time. She went home to take care of her father. She had her clothes cleaned, gave many of them away, put others out of her sight. She told herself that time would make her forget the spots on her clothes. She busied herself with the house and with her father and thought about Mr. Raft.

He called her, said Sara had gone back on him, would not marry him, and he was leaving the next day for Chicago. He was going to marry his wife again. Mary told him he could come by to see her—to her father's house—. She took a bath in pine oil, used cologne, bath powder, lotion. She built a log fire in the living room, set the sofa before it, put a towel under the sofa seat, drew the shades before he came, fried chicken, made coffee, ordered Phillip Morris cigarettes. He had said over the phone he just wanted to stop by a few minutes to say good-bye. [End Page 47]

But she knew it would happen, knew the minute it was going to happen. He put his hands on her head. She mentioned the towel. She thought about Charles. Her mother bought the sofa for her and Charles. They always sat together on the sofa.

She tried to clean the sofa with the towel. She couldn't keep her mind on the conversation but kept glancing at the spot. She turned the cushion over after Mr. Raft left. She could not sleep for thinking about it that night. The next morning she tried brushing it off. But it was down into the plush so that she couldn't do it. Later in the day she tried soap and water. That still did not do it. Mrs. Haut did come early. Mary explained that the sofa was dirty. Mrs. Haut didn't see any dirt. "I had company last night," Mary explained, "two girl friends, and they spilled milk on it." She brushed again. She tried energine. She explained to each visitor she had. They all looked at her strangely.

She felt better when she read in the paper that he was really in Chicago. Felt better till the telegram came—the telegram from Charles. He was in the States, was counting the minutes until he could see her.

She made a cover for the sofa, a flowered cover; but every time she passed the room she thought of why she covered it. She explained to Mrs. Haut that she thought the room was more cheerful. Mrs. Haut agreed. All the neighbors agreed. "It was getting dirty," she told each one, explaining about the milk. She stared at them, trying to see some response there, wondering why they didn't say, "Yes, people will spill milk on sofas—it always happens."

Then she sold the sofa, called the secondhand dealer and asked him to buy it. Again she explained to Mrs. Haut. She brought down two old-fashioned rocking chairs from the attic and put them in its place. "I like antiques," she explained to any visitor. "I don't like sofas." They all agreed that sofas were clumsy things. Why did they all agree? Did they suspect anything? She couldn't go to the front porch without glancing in the front room, being reminded of the sofa's absence. She closed the doors, entertained any company in the reception hall, explaining that it seemed cooler there; she liked it better; it was smaller and saved cleaning; the chairs were more comfortable; she didn't need a living room anyway. She could rent that front room. She might do so. They were needing the money. She wondered why Mrs. [End Page 48] Haut just looked at her, why she asked about her health, why she told her she was working too hard.

Then her father died, and the day after the funeral she went downtown and bought a new sofa, as near the size of the other one as possible. She put it in front of the fireplace. That wouldn't do. She put it before the window. So much light was thrown on it there. She put it in the darkest corner. She rearranged all the furniture. She cleaned the walls. She took up the rug, took out the table, brought in another table, took down the pictures, put doilies and vases in the front room that had never been in the front room before. She made new curtains. Still, the room was the same. The neighbors asked her if she wasn't working too hard. She shellacked the floors. She had the wall papered—a pale blue paper with white lilies in it. Still she remembered why she did all this.

Then Charles came. He took her in his arms. She almost pulled away from him. He started toward the sofa. She pulled away and sat in a chair, explaining to him, telling him she wanted to face him, she hadn't seen him in so long; she was glad he was out of his uniform before she saw him. How did he like her new sofa? She asked him about himself. She couldn't tell him anything about herself, except the two deaths, which he knew about already, and the new sofa, explaining to him that her father sat on it so much toward the last that she put it over by the window where he could look out. She brought his food to him, and he spilled coffee—she didn't know why she changed it this time—coffee, she spilled coffee all over it till it was so dirty she had to sell it. She had not liked working for Mr. Raft, she told him, kept telling him, told him five times at least. He was a wicked man; she didn't like him, though she didn't know him very well. She was tired, worn out from nursing; she needed a rest; her doctor said she needed a rest; she had to have a year's rest. She talked fast to keep him from getting to the subject. Then he told her he would spend two weeks with his mother. His mother had moved to Atlanta. He would spend two weeks with his mother, and then he would come back. She was relieved to have the two weeks. She would bury herself in preparations for her new life. She would forget all that had gone before her. She clung to him when he kissed her good night. [End Page 49]

But she couldn't go to sleep. She told herself, kept telling herself, that she was excited over Charles' return. It was not the spot on the sofa. Charles had not been hurt, she had paid for her sin; it had not really been a sin; in the office it had not been a sin; she had needed the job, Mr. Raft had taken advantage of her, just the once had it been a sin. Tomorrow she would start shopping, getting her trousseau—all white—she would give away, no, burn, all the clothes she had, all she had worn to the office.

But she tired easily; she wasn't able to shop. Things were hard to find. They were too big, too little, too expensive, not nice enough for a trousseau. Monday was not the day for shopping. She would try Tuesday. Tuesday she didn't feel like getting up. She wasn't able to prepare her own food. Wednesday she was worse. Mrs. Haut happened to come in. She called the doctor. The doctor gave her some little red sleeping capsules and called a practical nurse for her.

The nurse made her worse. Mary felt that she was invading her privacy, trying to solve the mystery of the illness by watching the mail, saying she wanted Mary to confide in her, wanted to take the place of her mother. She examined the mail that came and was, in general, Mary thought, reading her soul; so that by afternoon she decided she was well and didn't need a nurse. Dr. Worth agreed with her. She had, he said, just needed a little rest and sleep and was now quite all right to be left to herself. Mrs. Haut came over that night, and Mary talked to her at length about her trousseau. Her talk was so convincing that she slept that night, got up early the next morning, and although she was not able to get any breakfast down, she set out to shop. There was something about the pure white panties, she told herself, that would make her forget. She didn't question the price of anything she bought; she was not even careful about the size; she didn't even look at the list she had made out—she just bought. By mid-afternoon she was sick. She had a feeling she was going to fall. She didn't know any more until she awoke, on the sidewalk, with people around her.

She couldn't tell the taxi driver where she wanted to go. She got out at the next corner, went into Crowley's restroom and sat, thinking about the sofa. People came and went and stared at her. There must be reflected in her eyes the sofa with the spot on it. Everybody must know it. She talked to every woman who sat next to her, telling her [End Page 50] about Charles, about her engagement, about shopping, saying how much pleasure it was to shop, showing her articles—all white—to her, mentioning their whiteness. Why did the women stare so at her? She didn't mention the sofa. She kept trying not to think of it.

The thought came to her all of a sudden, what she would do—she would sell her father's house and everything in it. The doctor would agree with her. There had been too much sadness there. She needed to get away. Now that her parents were dead it was best that she get rid of it all.

She took a taxi home, called McGowan and McGowan real estate men, told them it must be sold within a week—she had a job that called her out of town at once. Mr. McGowan spoke of needing time for advertising, for getting the furniture out, of other sales scheduled for that week. It must be done, she told him. She would get it all out of her mind before Charles' return. Then she could face him, not think about the sofa, give Charles the money, forget it, forget it entirely. Charles would never know. She would forget it, never think about it again; it would all be in the past, as if it never happened, and Charles would never know.

The auctioneer refused to sell the sofa first, staring at her for asking it. Why did he stare? Was there a spot on it too? There couldn't be. She wouldn't look. She didn't look. She was tired from packing and from preparing for the sale. She couldn't bear to live with her father's and mother's things, she said. She couldn't bear to see them sold. She lay on Mrs. Haut's bed until the sale was over and she was called to sign the bill of sale. She managed to write her name, not listening when her lawyer tried to explain it to her, turning every detail over to him, explaining to him that she had something else on her mind: a job, marriage, her trousseau—all of it white—she couldn't be bothered. She must get away. Her doctor said she must get away from it all. Soon. She must get away soon.

She did get away soon, leaving it up to her lawyer to pay the debts, deposit the money in the bank, transfer some of it from the estate's account to her own, not leaving the lawyer her address, not knowing how much money he had in the bank, not even keeping any stubs, just checking and checking. She stopped at a hotel in Louisville. She gave to the Human Society, the Crippled Children, the Red Cross, [End Page 51] the Salvation Army, to the poor, to the blind guitar picker on the street. She had a feeling that her money had a spot on it—the sofa had brought seventy dollars. She wanted to send seventy dollars to a leprosy colony. What would Charles say?

Then it was time for him to come. She rushed back to Nashville. She would tell him it was for his sake, because she loved him, she wanted everything else off her mind—all unpleasant things—the death of her father and mother—before she started out with him. She would meet him at the train. She would wear her pale blue dress. Charles liked blue. She had given away all her red dresses. After she got to the station, as soon as she saw Charles, she would never think of it again.

The man called out over the loud speaker: "Train arriving from—Atlanta—." The train! And Charles sitting, no, no. She ran to meet him. She would kiss him different—different so he wouldn't know. "Charles," she said, "Charles." He held her in his arms. "I've bought white things," she said, "White. Everything I bought is white."

He just held her. "Were you comfortable?" she said. "Did you have a good seat on the train? Was it soft? What color was it?" He seemed to be just staring at her. Maybe she should have worn red. Did he—what was he thinking about? Where would they go? She didn't want to sit down there. She didn't want anything to remind her of the—she wouldn't think about it—it had gone from her mind, completely gone from her mind. What did Charles think? She would have to tell him about the house, explain it to him. She clung to him. "Charles," she said. "Charles, I sold it—the sofa, I sold it. There was coffee on it—coffee stains. Charles. They're white. Everything is white." Why did he just stare? [End Page 52]