The Lady of Kimbrough Court

Jessica Holifield Lipsey

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Word Count: TBD

The Lady of Kimbrough Court

By Jessica Holifield Lipsey

Chapter 1-Leaving

It’s the summer of 1933. I slowly open my eyes as the thick, wet, summer air brushes over my cheeks. It’s still early morning. My sisters, Anne and Kate, lie beside me fast asleep. I hear the symphony of cicadas outside. Their tymbals buzz in the evening and soothe me to sleep like a lullaby. I wonder how something so ugly can create such a soothing sound?

Papa, my Mama’s Pa, always says it’s just like people; you can’t judge them from the outside. I often hear him say that about Hutt, my Pa. Hudson Yow is a huge, handsome man. And he knows it. At 6’9", he towers over everybody—especially Mama. His voice is so strong it makes the candles on the desk tremble. Speaking of Mama, I usually hear her in the kitchen by now starting breakfast but today is different.

I heard her and Hutt last night, arguing. Just then, Mama’s bedroom door crashes open, and she appears. Beads of sweat on her face and panic raised in her brow. She rushes by me so swiftly, I catch a breeze off her suitcase. I can see she packed in a hurry. Doesn’t know or care that her nightgown is caught in the clasp. She turns and looks at me, tears welling in her eyes, as she backs toward the doorway. She doesn’t speak, but her message is clear.

As the screen door slams, I creep to Mama and Hutt’s room. He is kneeling on the ground, holding the side of his head. There’s a line of blood running down his fingers. He brings himself to his feet and shakily mumbles,

“Where is she?”

His teeth are clenched so fiercely, the words barely escape.

“Mama’s gone,” I whisper.

Those two words are more than I have spoken to Hutt in a lifetime. I’m too afraid to speak in this house. And anyways, Mama says talking too much isn’t ladylike. Hutt keeps to himself. He works the fields in the early morning, and by sundown, he’s gone. He spends the hours between yesterday and tomorrow at The Little House. Or as my grandma, G Martha calls it, The House of Singing and Sinning. I often hear Hutt stumble in, drunk. Now and again, I muster up the courage to crack my door and peak at him. Mama’s always there, helping him to bed. I’ll never understand why. I wouldn’t lift a finger for a man like that. But then again, a lady does what has to be done, and don’t forget, with a smile. Helping him is her way of showing us girls how to walk the walk.

“Well, you know how to cook breakfast,” Hutt growls at me.

I’m seven years old. I have watched Mama and Anne make biscuits, but I never have. A tremble starts at my feet, rises the length of my legs, and travels up until it engulfs my shoulders. Thankfully, my oldest sister Anne appears, in the kitchen.

“I’ll do it,” she says.

Her words bring a sigh of relief. Anne must have been listening from our bedroom. It’s a skill we have both been forced to master. Hiding, listening, learning to anticipate. It’s 5:00 a.m., still dark outside. Where is Mama?

Anne makes breakfast—biscuits, bacon we have left from the last slaughter, and fried eggs. By the time she finishes, Kate is up and we sit at the table.

“What happened to Hutt’s head?” she asks, sleep still in her eyes.

“Hush!” I tell her. “And eat your food.”

Hutt tears into breakfast. I have an uneasiness in my stomach that won’t allow it. Anne shifts food around on her plate. Kate is eating with her little doll, Millie, at her side. Mama sewed her from outgrown baby clothes. Kate takes that doll everywhere. Millie is usually stained with the red clay of Dayton but today, she’s clean.

Mama sneaks in once a week, after Kate is asleep of course, and takes Millie for her weekly scrub. Lord help us if Kate were to wake up and discover Mille’s gone! Though Kate is the youngest, I envy her. I could never summon the courage to ask Hutt what happened to his head. She is fearless—a maverick. Well, as fearless as one can be at 4 years old, carrying a baby doll.

Hutt informs us that in Mama’s absence, Anne and I will help in the fields today. Summer in Alabama can only be explained in one simple word: intense. Some days it feels like someone laid a wet wool blanket on top of me. In the afternoon sun, you can see a mirage of heat in the air, flowing like a stream. It makes every task exhausting—especially working in the fields.

Hutt gets a late start, so the sun is already up. As we march out of the house in stair-step order, I look to my left, and down the road I see someone coming toward us on a mule. I place my hand over my eyes to shield the sun and am immediately enveloped in a peace that makes the hot air suddenly grow cool.

It’s Papa!

“Morning, Hutt,” Papa says as he slowly slides off his mule. “Armelia, Anne, Kate, y’all go in there and pack a few clothes up. Throw them in this peanut sack.”

He tosses the sack to me, and we do as he says. A lady listens the first time, no questions asked. And no one questions Papa—not even Hutt. Papa is respected all over Marengo County. He is a hardworking, kind man, and owns over 100 acres of land.

We hurriedly pick out clothes and stuff them in the sack. We move quickly because of Papa and also because we have heard Hutt’s wrath from moving too slow. I have what I need and then I see my one hanging dress. It’s my favorite. I only wear it for special occasions like church picnics or Easter Sunday. It’s baby blue, with a belt at the waist, puff sleeves, and a white collar. I picked up glass bottles to pay for the fabric. No way Hutt would have let Mama buy it for me. The dress is the last thing I grab.

Anne helps Kate pack her things, and we leave. I turn around to take one last look at that house. Something inside tells me I’ll never see it again. I don’t want to see it again, but it’s close to Papa’s place so that is impossible. I have mixed emotions. I’m not sad to leave this place. My sadness is more for Mama. Now, she’s forced to begin again.

I turn to Papa, who nods his head and gives me his “be brave” face. Papa picks us up and places us three on the mule.

“Have a good day, Hutt.”

Papa starts walking, and the mule follows. Hutt never speaks a word to us, but I watch him, standing on that front porch. He grows smaller and smaller, like Russian nesting dolls, until he eventually leaves my sight. I exhale a sigh of relief.

Mama had shown me a picture of those nesting dolls one time, from the 1900 World’s Fair, in Paris. They were stoic, yet small, and delicate. They remind me of Mama. I often see her shrinking herself to fit in Hutt’s world. But finally, she has reached her end and there are no more copies of her to make. If she stays there, she will die. In some ways she already has. At the ages of 9 and 7 respectively, Anne and I have front row seats to watch the little sparkle she has fade. I know even now that is not the life I want. I want to grow up to be a great lady. And not the kind who only speaks when spoken to. Other than that, I’m not really sure what being a lady truly means. Mama, G Martha and Papa often share their versions of what a lady should or shouldn’t do.

In my mind, it means not ever living with a mean man like Hutt. Being able to come and go as I please and wear pretty dresses. Mamas’ eyes are dull and lifeless. She is devoid of joy but mostly hope. I don’t know if Papa knows Hutt hits Mama. He knows he’s possessive of her. Maybe last night was the first time Papa had physically seen the results of Hutt’s anger.

Chapter 2- Papa’s House

Papa’s house is just across the highway. I hear the cows mooing and chickens rustling. They have probably just been fed.

As we get closer to the house, Papa yells out, “Emma Lions, come on out here.”

There’s Mama, coming out the front door. She runs the rest of the way to meet us. She kisses each of us, and she and Papa help us down.

“Me and G Martha just got done with breakfast. Made those biscuits y’all love—even got some fresh-made butter.”

Something is different about her. She’s smiling for one. Relief, the end of fear, and the prospects hope brings, create that smile.

I watch Mama slip her hand to Papa. He gives it a reassuring squeeze and kisses her forehead.

G Martha is the best cook I know, even better than Mama—though I dare not tell her. G Martha says being a great cook is part of being a lady. Knowing how to keep house and tend to animals.

We sit down at the table. Papa takes his hat off and says a prayer.

This is the best breakfast I’ve ever had. Fried eggs, homemade biscuits, so hot the steam rises to meet the butter and melts it. The hot water cakes are my favorite. I glance at Kate’s plate and notice she is drowning hers in Alaga syrup.

It isn’t so much the food, but the surroundings. Papa always makes me feel safe. He is a comforting presence. Nothing bad happens when Papa is with me. Our kitchen at Hutt’s was not a haven. He would get angry if Mama didn’t make things exactly how he likes them. One time he said she scrambled his eggs too hard; he walked outside in eyesight and dumped his entire plate to the pig. Kate wanted to name the pig, but Hutt didn’t believe in foolishness like that. Still, we called him Porky, among us girls.

G Martha is at helm of the stove ordering Mama with next steps though I’m sure Mama has the steps memorized. Familiarity is comfort. Mama seems to enjoy it. To her familiarity is safety.

I am safe.

It’s almost a chant I keep repeating to myself. I am safe. I am safe.

G Martha even makes us a pound cake. She let us have some after breakfast. It is still warm; the smell of vanilla and lemon reach my nose before I take the first bite.

After that day, I tell myself to never think of Hutt again, but I can’t be naive. The wounds he caused will surely open up from time to time. The feeling I have in this kitchen, is home. This feeling—surrounded by people you love and good food. I wish I could bottle it up and keep it forever. Label it with a sign that says, open when needed.

We help G Martha wash the dishes.

“I got helpers today. Cleaning up after yourself and keeping a clean home is the sign of a lady,” G Martha says.

Papa heads out to the fields.

The ground where Papa plants is a different consistency than the red clay roads. The soil is black, but his plow brings up a powdery sand created from the limestone the Black Belt is known for.

My teacher, Mr. Henry, says that’s part of what makes the makeup of Dayton special and unique. Something we should be proud of. Dayton is a small town in the Black Belt of Alabama. Linden is the seat of Marengo County. It’s about 11 miles of northeast of us.

Papa plants everything you can think of. He has the most beautiful plum and peach trees. We pick and eat plums until our stomachs ache.

A few days pass, and Papa starts working on building us a house. I am so excited! He lets me pick out where our bedroom will be. I’m not used to having choices. I hesitate to answer questions. Hutt certainly never let us pick anything. If Mama tried to ask us even the smallest desire, he fiercely shut it down. At some point she stopped asking and we stopped wanting. What was the point? All it led to was disappointment.

Papa works the fields all day and works on our house at night. Sometimes, he lets me ride into town with him to get supplies. Usually, we share a treat on the way home.

I love being with Papa. He is wise and kind. He makes me feel wanted.

One evening, as we pull into Mr. Fredricks’ supply store, I notice a lady walking the streets. Her clothes are filthy, and she is calling out to people, asking for change.

Everyone calls her Dump. Her dark skin is leathered by the sun.

I’m sad for her, yet her presence makes me nervous. I notice people crossing to the other side of the rode to avoid her. She gets closer, and thankfully, Papa comes out of the store.

“Hey baby, you got any change?” she asks.

I wonder how she knows him. But everyone knows Papa. He digs around in his pockets and finds some coins. She never looks up. I hear the coins clang as he places them in her bucket.

Papa has a cold pop in his hand—he gives that to her as well.

“Thank you,” she says.

She turns quickly and walks away.

The soles of her shoes are torn. You can see her dirty socks through the bottom, and her toes poke through the top. The heat leaves her smell behind—the familiar stench of sweat and liquor Hutt always has. Mama says a lady needs to look like a lady at all times. Clean clothes are Hutt didn’t let her have much, but Mama always made sure we were clean, our clothes presentable.

Papa climbs in the wagon and says, “We always help others—especially family.”