Mary, Just Mary Chapter Two

I tried not to look at Jake during the car ride home. I found that the more I looked at him, the longer I wanted to look. There was something…different about him. I knew he wasn’t like Albert or anyone I had ever met. Showing kindness to the parishioners at the church, defending Ronald Ruby, offering to teach me to drive, it was so unusual. So fascinating. I wanted to learn more about him. Everything.

“Ahem. Jake, um, where are you from?” I asked casually.

“I’ve lived here since I was a boy. My father owned the bar on Owen Street. It’s…been closed down for ten years now.”

“Does he live with you?”

Jake swallowed hard. “He’s dead.”

I flushed. “I’m sorry. How…?” My voice couldn’t finish the sentence.

“What street do you live on?” Jake interrupted me.

“Oh. Garden Drive.” I couldn’t say anything else. He was also silent for a moment.

“Were you going to ask how he died?” Jake asked. I nodded.

“He was killed by a man who came in to rob the place. The man…pulled out a gun and demanded money from everyone.”

“Everyone down, now!” the man shot his gun into the air, and the frightened patrons screamed and cowered where they were. Sam Harper raised his hands and glanced at the storage room, praying his son would stay hidden. He looked back at the gunman so the crook didn’t decide to go look for whatever was in the storage room.

“Jake! Stay back!” Sam yelled.

“Shut up!” the gunman shouted. He made his way around the bar, pointing his gun at the customers, yelling “The money! All of it! Now!” The customers quickly emptied their wallets and pockets into his greedy hands.

 

 

“You’re not taking away my hard-earned money!”

“Ernest, please! Just give him what he wants!”

The gunman then turned back toward Sam and Marta Fraise, a waitress who also performed short concerts on occasion. She had hopes as high as the clouds, and wanted to be a famous singer, like Billie Holiday. Though money was tight, Sam always paid her for each concert.

“He…ripped the necklace off one of the barmaids, and decided he wanted to take her, too.”

A slimy, yellow smile broke across the gunman’s face as he ran his fingers across her neck, then ripped off her grandmother’s gold necklace. He cocked the gun and put it in her face.

“You’re coming with me, sweetheart,” he growled. Marta whimpered as he grabbed her by the hair and started leading her toward the door.

“My father wouldn’t let him.”

Sam leapt from behind the bar, grasping the man’s shoulders and pulling him to the floor. He grabbed the gun and tried to wrench it out of the crook’s hands.

“And then I heard it.”

Bang!

The patrons screamed. Sam fell. The gunman ran. A shadow jumped from behind the door of the storage room, and the seventeen year old boy collapsed at his father’s side. Sam tried to say his son’s name for the last time, but his life was spilling, staining the floor red with every passing second.

“Somebody call a doctor!” Marta cried.

“Pa! No! Pa…!”

 “I’m so sorry. Was he a God-fearing man?” I asked softly.

“He was.”

“Then he’s up in heaven now.”

“I suppose.”

“The Lord takes all of His servants home.”

“Maybe the Lord ought to just let things be. Stop taking people before their time.”

“Is your mother dead too?” I asked. I clamped my hand over my mouth right after the question slipped. It wasn’t my place to ask this man such personal questions. Jake sighed heavily, and I felt horrible for dredging up those memories.

“She died having me.”

“Forgive me, I didn’t mean to bring all this up.”

“No, it’s all right.”

“My parents are away on vacation right now, they’re both quite healthy. I can’t imagine losing them.”

“Have you…moved here?”

“No, I’m vacationing as well. This the first time I’ve been here, and it’s very nice. Small towns are so friendly.”

“They can be.”

I hung my arm on the opened window and rested my chin on it, watching the houses, trees, and small town shops as we passed by. I started to wonder what Jake meant by “They can be.” I didn’t know how this place couldn’t be friendly, because it was so lovely. Jake turned onto another street, and I looked up at the street sign that read “Garden Drive.” I sighed in disappointment that our trip was near its end. Jake slowed his truck down.

“Which house is it?” he asked.

“Twelve twenty-four,” I mumbled. He pulled into the driveway of the big, gorgeous house I was now calling home. I slouched in the truck as he got out and opened my door. I would have stayed there had he not given me another one of those breathtaking smiles. I gazed shyly at his smile until I heard the front door bang open and furious high-heeled shoes came running down the deck.

“Mary! Mary! What--? Who is this?” Mrs. Fickley ranted, waving her long, bony finger at Jake.

“Jake Harper, ma’am.” Jake held out his hand, but Mrs. Fickley scowled at him, making it clear she was not about to participate in a friendly handshake. Jake cleared his throat and lowered his hand. “I was just escorting this young lady home.”

“He’s a police officer,” I said.

“Police? Was there trouble?” Mrs. Fickley said.

“No, ma’am. I just wanted to make sure she got home safe,” Jake said.

“Oh. Do you want money?”

“Uh…no, ma’am.”

“Good. Mary, come inside now. Mr. Harper, good afternoon to you,” She put her thin hand on my shoulder and led me back into the house. I looked back at Jake, hoping and praying to the good Lord it wouldn’t be the last I ever saw him. Albert was waiting in the foyer and he jumped out of his chair and ran to me.

“Mary, oh, thank goodness. We were getting worried about you,” Albert said. “Where were you?”

“I just…went to church,” I said.

“Oh, well, I would have been more than happy to escort you, my dear,” he said, kissing my hand.

To a colored church? I doubt it. I thought to myself, smiling at the joke only I knew.

“You should at least not be seen around town with other men. People will talk, and you don’t want the whole neighborhood calling you a hussy now, do you?” Mrs. Fickley asked. I shook my head, and she smiled smugly.



I spent the rest of that week thinking about Jake Harper. Even the awful embroidering that Mrs. Fickley insisted I practice seemed less of a chore with him on my mind. The floral patterns on the doily I worked on in the conservatory began taking the colors of Jake. Stitch one, his light brown eyes. Stitch two, his friendly smile. That was white. Stitch three, his kindness. A light blue, like the sky. Stitch four, and I stabbed myself with the needle. I was never very good at sewing.

 

“Ouch!” I said. A drop of blood seeped into the pale yellow cloth. I set the doily down and walked into the kitchen. I ran my fingers under warm water at the sink and dried them. I glanced out the window and saw a police car driving by. I wondered if it was Jake’s. I even hoped it was. I smiled at the thought of him driving by, watching me.

 

Stop it, Mary.  You can’t think about him.  You’re not marrying Jake, you’re marrying Albert. I told myself as I broke my gaze from the police car fading in the distance.  I stared at the pristine sink for a few moments until I heard music coming from the den.  Music I knew and loved all too well.

 

 

Well since my baby left me

I found a new place to dwell

It’s down at the end of lonely street

At heartbreak hotel

You make me so lonely baby

I get so lonely

I get so lonely, I could die

I tiptoed into the room and saw Margie dusting and dancing to the sultry tunes of Elvis, perhaps the second most alluring man I ever saw. Mrs. Fickley didn’t like the way Elvis would shake his hips and make young girls swoon, and my records had to be kept hidden from her. But not from Margie, and she flicked the feather duster across Mrs. Fickley's numerous and useless knickknacks. I watched as she sang and cleaned, giggling at how she shuffled her feet and rocked her hips.

“Allllll…though it’s always crowded, you still can find some room…where brokenhearted lovers do cry away their gloom…” Margie sang into the feather duster, and I burst out laughing. She gasped and turned to me.

“Oh, Mary, I’m…I’m so sorry, I’ll get back to work,” she covered up her face and turned off the record player. I laughed and walked to her.

"It’s okay. You can listen to music while you’re working,” I said.

“It wouldn’t upset Mrs. Fickley?" she asked.

“Oh, it would. But she’s not here right now, so it doesn’t matter.” I said, smiling at her. I could see the corners of her mouth pull into a small smile.

“You really scared me, you know,” she said, resuming dusting on the fireplace.

“I think the way you’re dancing is what’s scary,” I giggled. She laughed and brushed the feathers in my face.

“Well, I’m sorry but I can’t help it. Were you trying to hide him from me?” she asked slyly, holding up the record sleeve.

“More like hide him from Mrs. Fickley."

“Ah. Ronald doesn't like it when I listen to Elvis either. See, he doesn’t want me swooning over a…” her voice trailed off in uncertainty.

“White man?” I asked. She shrugged. “Oh, but he’s so handsome!” I said.

“I know!” she said. We bumped hips and danced together as the King serenaded us, Margie with her feather duster, and I picked up the hose of the vacuum cleaner that was sitting in the corner of the room. We sang together and laughed, having a great time, even with something as simple as housework.

“I’ve been so lonely baby—”

“What is going on here?”

Margie and I froze.  I turned slowly and saw Albert, cross-armed, and his face looked very cross as well.  Margie quickly ran to the fireplace and started dusting again, and I set the hose of the vacuum down.

“I’m sorry, Albert. We were just having some fun,” I said in a small voice.

“Mary, my dear, she’s not here to have fun. She’s here to work,” Albert said, shaking his head disapprovingly. “You must be dreadfully bored then. Why don’t you go with mother to the market later?” I could think of a million other things I would rather do than go to the market with Mrs. Fickley, but I smiled at him and nodded. Albert gently kissed my cheek and walked toward his office. I walked out of the den and sat on the back porch, where it was quiet and bright, and the only thing weighing me down were my thoughts.

You make me so lonely, baby

I get so lonely

I get so lonely, I could die

Oh, I wonder what Elvis would say…

 

“Listen up, darlin’. You gotta follow your heart. Some things are meant to be.”

“Meant to be? But, I only met Jake a few days ago!”

“Honey, sometimes that’s all the time in the world to get you all shook up.”

"I…I just don’t know which way to go. I feel like I’m caught in a trap.”

 

“And I don’t feel as close to Albert anymore. We drifted apart.”

“And now you’re stuck like glue to Jake.”

“Heaven help me. What should I do?”

“You should take some action!”

“What do you mean?”

“Baby, I’m tired of talkin’ and you should be too. If you really care about Jake, you should grab your coat and start walkin’.”

“Walking? Where?”

 

“Mary? Mary! Mary, are you listening?”

“Huh? What?”

“Mary, grab your coat. We’re going shopping,” Mrs. Finney said.

I would have preferred sitting alone on the porch daydreaming about Elvis and Jake as opposed to listening to Mrs. Fickley complain about the prices of the groceries in the market and how the small town markets didn’t have exactly what she wanted. Margie and I tried to stay as far from her as possible, hoping that would make people think we weren’t with her. I slowly backed away from Mrs. FIckley, and promptly bumped into another woman that was standing nearby.

 

“Oops,” she said.

“Oh, I’m sorry,” I said. “I need to watch where I’m going,”

“Oh, no worries, baby,” the woman said with a smile. She walked over to the shopkeeper. He looked very relieved that Mrs. Fickely was walking away. “Hey, Fred, can I get a pack of Marlboros and a bottle of Irish Cream?” The shopkeeper smiled at her and nodded, and the woman turned back to me.

“You’re a fresh face. What’s your name, sweetie?” she asked.

“Mary. Mary Ellen Baker,” I said.

“Barbara Andrews,” she said. “You can call me Babs.”

“Do you live nearby?” I asked.

“Sure do. My husband and I just bought a new house, over on—”

“Mary! Mary Ellen, come here!” Mrs. Finney’s voice cut off Babs in mid-sentence, and she rushed to my side and started pulling me away from her. I tried to stammer out a quick goodbye, but all I could do was look at Babs helplessly as I was dragged away.

 

“The nerve of ordering alcohol at this time of day! And look at the way she’s dressed. That woman has no morals whatsoever! I don’t want you talking to people like her, Mary!” Mrs. Finney sneered. I quickly looked toward the door in alarm, wondering if Babs heard Mrs. Finney’s insults, but she kept walking away without hesitation. Whenever Mrs. Fickely was yelling it was hard not to hear her, but I guess Babs found it easy not to care about what she said.

No morals? I thought. But she seemed so nice. Mrs. Finney turned to the shopkeeper, berating him for selling the alcohol in the first place. I backed away from her again, trying to give my most sympathetic look to the poor shopkeeper. Margie stepped up beside me and put her hand around my elbow.

“Mary, look who just walked in,” she whispered.  Her tone of voice told me enough.  I didn’t have to look, but I ducked behind a shelf and looked anyway, just so I could see him again.  He was wearing his uniform, obviously on duty, but still managed to look as handsome as ever.  He tipped his hat to the weary shopkeeper, who was still listening to Mrs. Fickley's complaints, and a man in a cowboy hat and dusty pants called out to Jake.

“Jake!” the man called.

“John, how are you?” Jake asked, giving the man a firm handshake and a hug.

“Good, good.”

“How’s your father?”

“Better. Still on bed rest, but he’s holding his own.”

“Jake…” I whispered. I leaned closer, trying to figure out how to casually drop in on their conversation. I hadn’t realized how far I leaned out until I knocked over the box of oranges that was sitting on the shelf. The loud clatter it made was anything but casual. Jake and John both turned quickly and saw…clumsy me, trying to hide my face in embarrassment as oranges rolled across the floor. Margie was trying not to giggle.

“Mary?” Jake asked. Hearing him say my name made me blush even more.

“I’m...I’m sorry,” I said to the shopkeeper when he came over to clean up the mess. My eyes whirled around the shop looking for Mrs. FIckley. I was relieved to find her trying to pick out a suitable chicken, now complaining to the butcher and oblivious to my indiscretion. Jake and John helped the shopkeeper stack up the boxes I knocked over. I chased down every orange that escaped.

 

“I should probably find a better way to display this. These boxes are just so gosh darn flimsy, and always falling apart,” the shopkeeper said. “I apologize, ma’am."

“It’s all right,” I said. He nodded to me and returned to the front counter. Jake walked up to me and…oh, that smile again! My knees went weak and I thought I was going to fall on the boxes of fruit again.

“Hi, it’s good to see you again,” he said.

“Good to see you, too,” I replied.

“Oh, this is my friend, John Miller. He has some farmland down the road from here,” Jake nodded towards John, and John greeted me. “John, this is Mary Ellen Baker and Margie Ruby.”

Had I told him my last name? I wondered as I gently shook John’s hand.

“It’s a pleasure to meet you, Miss Baker. Mrs. Ruby,” John said. Margie looked down shyly, and I understood her apprehension towards white men. She and her husband had little reason to trust them, even those who seemed friendly, like Albert’s business partners that came to dinner a few days ago. Thinking about Ronald reminded me of the conversation John was having with Jake moments ago.

 

“Mr. Miller, did you say you needed some farmhands?” I asked.

“Call me John, miss, and yes,” John said.

“Well, Margie’s husband has been looking for a job, and…” I glanced at Margie as she brought her head up timidly, a smile breaking across her face. John furrowed his brow and for a second I thought he would say the words that I’ve heard a million times out of other men: “I don’t hire them coloreds.” But he rubbed his rusty beard and gave a slight nod.

“Has he worked on a farm before?” John asked Margie.

“No, sir, but he’s a strong, hardworking man,” Margie said.

“Well, I suppose I can talk to him. Is he available tomorrow?”

“Oh, yes!” Margie said excitedly.

“All right, my house is just down the road from here, it’s the big white—” John’s sentence was interrupted when Jake pulled out a piece of paper and a pen from his breast pocket and gave it to him. “Thanks, Jake.” John scribbled down his address on the paper and gave it to Margie. “Have him come to this address at 8 in the mornin’.

“Oh, thank you, sir!” Margie said.

John nodded and tipped his hat to her. “I must be headin’ out now. Goodbye, Jake. Nice ta’ meet you both, Miss Baker and Mrs. Ruby.”

“Goodbye!” I said, waving. Jake chuckled.

“That was very nice of you,” he said.

“It was nice of John to give Ronald a chance,” I said.

"Yes, it was," Margie agreed.

“Well, John’s family comes from a long line of honest farm folk, and they judge a man by the hard day’s work he puts in every day and not what he looks like.”

“If only more people could be like that,” I said.

“Indeed.”

“Margaret!  Get over here and help me with this!” Mrs. Fickley snapped.  Margie rushed over to grab the chicken that was as close to perfection as the butcher could get.  “Mary!” Mrs. Fickley's voice changed to her sweet tone. “Mary, dear, where are you?  It’s time to go!”

“I have to go now,” I said sadly.

“Okay. Goodbye, Mary,” Jake said softly. He slipped in between the aisles of canned goods and box dinners and disappeared just as Mrs. Fickley came stomping up behind me, muttering about prices. I grimaced at her thankless attitude. We walked back over to the car, with Mrs. Fickley complaining the entire way. She snatched the grocery bag out of Margie’s hands.

“The war is over, isn’t it? Hmph, these backwoods hicks must not think so, with these prices,” Mrs. Fickley muttered while digging through the grocery bag. “Margaret, where are the eggs?”

“Ma’am?” Margie asked.

“The eggs, Margaret! I told you to get some eggs!” Mrs. Fickley snapped.

“You didn’t—“ I started to say, but Mrs. Fickley shoved the bag back into Margie’s hands.

“Go get them, now!” she said. Margie nodded and headed back to the store. Mrs. Fickley leaned to my ear. “Go with her. Make sure she brings back all my change,” she said.

I looked by the market, and saw John Miller and a young woman setting up stand in front of the market. Beside the stand was a sign that said “farm fresh eggs.” John Miller and the woman placed a few crates of eggs on the stand, and said a few things to each other before John kissed the woman and headed back to his truck.

That must be his wife. I thought. She had wavy blonde hair and a delicate frame, and looked very beautiful.

“Look, Margie, John Miller is selling eggs. We should buy them from him,” I said. Margie smiled and nodded. We walked over to the stand, and the woman looked up at us and smiled.

“How fresh are these eggs?” I asked her.

“Got them from the chickens myself this morning,” she replied.

“I’ll take a dozen, then,” I said. I paid for the eggs and thought about exchanging some pleasantries with her. I didn’t know most of the neighbors and I wanted to make a few friends if I could. “What’s your name?” I asked her.

“Becky. Becky Miller.”

“Are you John Miller’s wife?”

“Yes. How do you know John?”

“Oh, well, I know his friend Jake Harper,” I said, smiling at his name passing through my lips.

“Mm, Jake is a good man. A good friend to John…and to me. So, what’s your name?”

“Oh, it’s Mary. Mary Ellen Baker,” I said, shaking the girl’s hand. “And this is my friend, Margie Ruby.”

“Yes, John was just telling me about Mr. Ruby. I hope he decides to work as one of our hands.”

“Oh, I’m sure he will. He wants to work again so bad,” Margie said.

“Do you have any children?” I asked. Becky’s smile faded, and she slowly dropped her head.

For a minute she just sat there, very quiet.

“No,” she finally said in a whisper I could barely hear.

Suddenly, the silence was broken by Mrs. Fickley impatiently beeping the horn. Margie put the eggs in the grocery bag and thanked Becky, and briskly walked back to the car. I followed Margie, and looked back at Becky as she was rearranging the egg cartons, her hair covering up her face like a curtain. I felt sorry for her, and had the feeling that there was a reason why she didn’t have children, and it wasn’t good.

Maybe Jake knows why the Millers don’t have any children.

Or maybe it’s none of my business. I shouldn’t be prying into people’s personal lives.

I shouldn’t be talking to Jake anyway. I shouldn’t even be thinking about him.

“Too many things I shouldn’t do…” I murmured to myself as I climbed into the car.

“What did you say, Mary, dear?” Mrs. Fickley asked.

“Nothing.”