Donald McCaig - Rhett Butler’s People

Rosemary stepped into the hall to call upstairs. "Wade! Please fetch your mother. Tell her it's important.”

Belle amended: "Say it's life or death.”

The boy clattered down the back stairs. Rosemary asked Mammy to bring water to the parlor.

When Rosemary came back into the room, Belle was examining the portrait over the mantelpiece. Startled from her reverie, Belle said, "I guess she was a real lady.”

"I believe Mrs. Butler's grandmother was married three times.”

"I'm sorry to show up without no invitation." Belle bent to the roses Pork still picked every day. Belle said, "I got to water my roses with well water.

Roses don't care for well water.”

When Mammy brought the pitcher and glasses, her mouth was set in a tight line. Rosemary forestalled her vocal disapproval, "Thank you, Mammy. The children can take dinner in the kitchen.”

Mammy mumbled, "Poor Miss Ellen be rollin' in her grave...”

A dirty, sweat-streaked Scarlett untied her sunbonnet as she came into the parlor, " 'Life or death,' Rosemary? Ah, Miss Watling ...”

"Missus Butler, I wouldn't have troubled you, but...”

"You certainly needn't trouble us anymore." Pointedly, Scarlett stood aside so Belle could leave.

"Scarlett..." Rosemary protested.

Scarlett's smile was steely. "Dear Rosemary, Louis Valentine is filthy as a chimney sweep. Shouldn't you see to his bath?”

"Scarlett, I don't imagine Belle drove out from Atlanta unless it was important.”

Scarlett brushed dirty hair off her forehead, went to the hunt board, uncorked the decanter, and poured a brandy. She tossed it back and made a face. "Miss Watling, excuse my manners. You are ... unexpected.”

"This ain't easy for me," Belle began. She sipped from her glass. "You've got better water than in town.”

"Belle," Rosemary said, "what...”

Belle rolled the cool glass on her forehead. "Miss Rosemary, I wouldn't be alive today hadn't been for Rhett Butler. Likely my boy, Tazewell, would be dead, too.”

"Miss Watling," Scarlett interrupted. "I've been in the field since daybreak.

I am filthy and irritable.”

Belle Watling rested her head on the back of the love seat and shut her eyes. In a dull voice, she said, "Poppa blames Rhett for all his sorrows.

Poppa says Rhett lured my brother, Shadrach Watling, into a duel and shot him dead, account of Shad killed that trunk master, Will.”

"What on earth are you talking about?" Scarlett demanded.

"Poppa's been comin' by," Belle kept her eyes shut. "Every Sunday, ten o'clock sharp, Poppa comes by.”

Isaiah Watling would come up Belle's walk without noticing how nice she'd kept the lawn, nor her roses, nor the cheery petunias in her window boxes. Belle always had a coffeepot and sweet rolls on the porch in case he'd take something, but he never did. "Mornin, Poppa. “

He always came by himself. He left Archie and josie back in Mundy Hollow.

He'd sit on the glider, feet flat on the floor so the glider wouldn't glide. He kept his hat on. "Daughter. " He said the word as if he wasn 't sure she was.

Isaiah never asked about his grandson, but he didn't seem to mind when Belle read Tazewell's letters; his descriptions of the Severn Bore, Notre Dame, and Longchamps Racecourse, where Taz and Rhett met Mr. Degas, a painter.

"I think a painting should look like what is painted, don 'tyou?" (Belle agreed with his commonsensical view.) "Think of that, Poppa," she said. "They got racetracks in France just like we got here. “

As Belle folded each precious letter, her father always asked, "Does the boy say when they're comin'home?”

"No, Poppa. “

"Butler can't hide behind Miss Elizabeth no more. “

They sat on that porch like any father and daughter on the porch of any house on a perfectly ordinary Sunday morning. Belle picked at a sweet roll.

Sometimes, Isaiah didn't say one word. Other times, he recalled the Watling farm in Mundy Hollow, naming every horse and even that old hound dog her brother, Shad, had loved. "Everybody said your mother's elderberry jam was the best they ever ate, " Isaiah said. "I never cared for elderberry myself. “

He, Josie, and Archie were living just down the road. "The home place is nothin ' now, "Isaiah said. "House n ' barn's fallen in — like we was never there. “

Isaiah had tried to beat the wickedness out of his son.

"Shad was hard-hearted, " Belle said.

"That don't mean Rhett Butler should have shot him. “

"I'm your daughter, Poppa. “

"I been ponderin ' on that. " The glider squeaked. "You ever consider repenting”

"Miss Watling," Scarlett interrupted. "Your father and his gang have terrorized us and frightened our field hands away. I don't know what grievance he imagines he has with me.”

"Oh, he doesn't! Archie Flytte hates you, but Poppa don't think nothin' about you.”

"Miss Watling," Scarlett said, "you said you had a 'life or death' matter ...”

Belle set her water glass down. She picked up her gloves and folded them. Softly, she said, "I never thought this'd be so damned hard.”

"Belle ..." Rosemary prompted gently.

"Miss Rosemary, you know how Poppa felt about your mother. He thought she was a saint on earth. You know Poppa — once he gets an idea in his head, there's no shakin' it. Miss Scarlett, Poppa ain't worried 'bout you, but he's wanted to kill Rhett for the longest time, and now Miss Elizabeth is passed away and Poppa's joined up with that Flytte fella and Cousin Josie ... it's bad.”

"But..." Scarlett said.

"So long's Rhett's across the sea, they can't do nothin', so they been botherin' you so you'll beg him back." Belle was anguished. "Whatever you do, Miss Scarlett, please don't ask Rhett to come home.”

Although the Jonesboro telegraph office was closed Sundays, Scarlett interrupted the telegrapher's supper and cajoled him until he agreed to accompany her to the railway station, where the telegrapher topped his instrument's batteries, rolled up his sleeves, tested his signal strength, and sent Scarlett's frantic warning rattling across the Atlantic.

Scarlett paced until the key clattered Rob Campbell's reply; "Rhett and Tazewell sailed for New York Thursday.”

"Are you all right, ma'am?" the telegrapher asked. "Won't you sit down?”

"Send my message to the St. Nicholas, the Astor House, the Metropolitan, the Fifth Avenue ... for God's sake, send it to all the New York hotels!”

"Ma'am," the telegrapher said. "I don't know the New York hotels. I never been to New York.”

Scarlett wanted to slap the man into usefulness. She wanted to weep in frustration. "Send it to the hotels I named," Scarlett said through clenched teeth.

Riding back to Tara, Scarlett's mind whirled. What could she do? What could any woman do? On the road between somewhere and somewhere else, she reined in her horse. The sky was blue. She could hear a warbler in the brush beside the road. As coldly and clearly as she'd ever known anything, Scarlett knew that if Rhett Butler were murdered, she'd want to die, too.

Curiously, her harsh self-sentence eased her soul. Her mind stopped spinning and she understood what she'd need to do.

As Scarlett dismounted, Rosemary ran to her. "Did you warn Rhett?”

Scarlett took off her bonnet and shook her hair loose. "They've already sailed. When Rhett comes to Tara, the Watlings will ambush him.”

Rosemary clamped her eyes shut for a moment. "Damn them!”

"Yes, goddamn them all! Where are our preening male champions when we really need them?”

In the parlor, a subdued Mammy brought the two women hot tea. The house was quiet; the children were outside playing in the long twilight.

"Rosemary," Scarlett began, "we are unalike in many respects, but we love your brother.”

Rosemary nodded.

"And we would do anything we had to do — anything necessary — to keep him from harm.”

"Scarlett, what are you thinking of?”

"Two times, I've worn black for husbands who died protecting Southern womanhood. I loathe mourning. I will not wear black for Rhett Butler.”

Scarlett poured their tea, added Rosemary's cream and her sugar. When she gave Rosemary her cup, it chattered against its saucer. "Rosemary Butler Haynes Ravanel, like myself, you are twice widowed. When your husbands went off to fight, were you glad to see them go?”

"What? Are you mad?”

"On the contrary. I may be, after many years, putting men's madness aside." Scarlett went to the decanter and poured a healthy tot of brandy into her tea. "Oh, I know, I know. Ladies don't drink brandy in their tea.

Frankly, Rosemary, I no longer care what ladies do or don't do.”

"Scarlett, I feel like a horse is running away with me. Tell me what you're planning. Please! I beg you!”

So Scarlett told her.

First thing Monday morning, Dilcey heated water and they bathed in the kitchen — Scarlett first, then Rosemary while Scarlett toweled herself and dried her hair. Field-work grime turned their bathwater gray.

Mammy ironed petticoats as they sat side by side, wrapped in towels, while Dilcey braided and coiled their hair.

Mammy was torn between dismay at what Scarlett might be up to and delight in their transformation.

The men had been exiled from the house, and after their hair was done, in their shifts, the ladies searched Scarlett's trunks for clothing. When Scarlett unfolded a pink watered-silk dress, a receipt fluttered to the floor: "Mme. Frère, Bourbon Street.”

"Dear me," Scarlett said. "Rhett bought this in New Orleans." She held the dress up to Rosemary. "It flatters your complexion.”

"The bodice? Scarlett, I am not so well endowed...”

"Dilcey will take a tuck in it." Scarlett chuckled. "Did Rhett ever tell you how he and I attended the notorious Quadroon Ball?”

As the ladies prepared, Pork bridled Taras handsomest saddle horses. He rubbed them down, picked loose hair, and clipped their manes and tails before tying them to the hitch rack for Prissy's attentions. In the tack room, he found two dusty sidesaddles and patted the smaller one reverently. "Miz Ellen," Pork said. "Everything's changed at Tara. Not for the better, neither.”

As she plaited manes and tails, Prissy chattered. "They sure gonna look nice, ain't they? Is Miss Scarlett 'n' Miss Rosemary goin' to a barbecue? Way they fixed up, I bet that's where they goin'. Reckon we goin', too?”

She took a step back to admire her work. "I puttin' ribbons in the manes and tails. Pork, what color do you reckon?”

"Miss Scarlett's be green," Pork pronounced authoritatively.

The Jonesboro market shared its siding with the slaughterhouse and Maclver's cotton warehouse. During the harvest, cotton was auctioned here, and throughout the year, Clayton County farmers came to buy and sell livestock. The market's pens and rough shelters butted against the tracks. At the south end of the market, sale animals were delivered, weighed, numbered, and penned until they were driven down the market's wide aisles, gates slamming behind them, into a hundred-foot sale ring enclosed by a horse-high, bull-stout oak fence. On market days, negroes perched on this fence, while whites enjoyed the relative comfort of an open wooden grandstand. Under the grandstand, two dour women in the sales office accepted payments, deducted the market commission, and issued the ticket that let the successful bidder claim his beast. Beside the sales office, a colored woman had a wooden booth where she sold ham slices and corn bread. Out of respect for the Baptists, she kept her demijohn of white liquor beneath the counter.

The market was loud with the bawling, squealing, baaing, whinnying, clucking, and hee-hawing of mules, horses, hogs, geese, ducks, and chickens.

That particular Monday morning, parched grass crunched underfoot and red dust filmed cattle, corrals, and the grandstand. Men's hat brims were tinged red. The dust smelled of dried manure.

Order buyers making up consignments for Atlanta butchers wore linen suits and affixed their ties with gold stickpins. But most here today were poor men who'd brought in a hog or sought a milk cow with a few more seasons left in her. Some men were shoeless.