Thirty
Chip and Clara Jean Smallwood arrived the next day at 1:00 p.m. and took me to the graveside service out at the county cemetery. I recognized the chaplain from the prison. He had aged since the last time I saw him, but I remembered him as a kind man and one who genuinely cared about the souls of the inmates.
He was standing by the casket, speaking with a woman I had not met, but knew immediately. She was as dark as Blanche had been, but the opposite in stature. Tall and thin, Tressa Mims Hightower was an imposing figure, strikingly beautiful with sharp, intense features that did not immediately reflect the ready smile that greeted me when I introduced myself.
“Miz Beckworth, at last.” Tressa’s voice was as smooth as her mahogany skin.
“You’re Eddie’s daughter,” I said.
“Yes, Ma’am. I’m Tressa Hightower.”
“I have his belongings. He had two pictures of you, and a couple of others. Would you like to have them back?”
“Yes, Ma’am, I would. We don't have many photographs of my family in the early years.”
I nodded. It was yet another thing I took for granted. I searched for something to say.
“Will you stay in Mayville for a while or are you leaving after the memorial?”
“I’ll be leaving tomorrow morning. I have to stop in Montgomery before I head home.”
“Business?” I asked.
“Always,” she smiled. “I’m an attorney.”
“Oh,” I failed to keep the surprise from my voice. “Eddie didn’t…Eddie never…”
“That’s quite all right, Miz Beckworth,” Tressa smiled again. “I didn’t speak of him much either.”
“I knew your father to be a good man,” I said, suddenly a bit defensive.
“At times he was,” she agreed. “I owe him a great deal.”
“But?”
“Buts don’t matter now, Miz Beckworth. It was what it was and it’s over now. You’re very kind and I appreciate what you tried to do for him. I know he appreciated it, too.”
I didn’t know how to respond to that. And it was not the time or place, regardless. I’d like to think it was kindness that I extended to Eddie, but I can’t look back to a single thing I did for him that was selfless in any way.
A car pulled up beside us breaking the brief uncomfortable silence that had just taken hold. All four doors opened at once and Blanche’s girls appeared, solemnly at first, but unable to disguise the smiles that were meant for me alone.
“Miz Ora!” Grace cried and bolted into my arms, causing Clara to clutch my elbow to support me.
Grace was rail-thin, almost emaciated. What frightened me the most was that Patrice told me how much better she looked now that she had been clean for a few months.
It was as if I were still holding that tiny broken child I took from Blanche’s arms so many years ago. I wanted to go tuck her into bed and hide her wounds with soft chenille and a mother’s sorrow.
“Let me look at you,” I said and, forcing a smile, pushed her away from me and held her at arm’s length.
“Miz Ora,” she cried again, her tears flowing freely.
“Stop, or you’ll make an old lady cry,” I grumped.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “It’s just been so long.”
“Too long,” I agreed. “And who are these other women with you? My heavens, your sisters are getting old!”
Danita and ReNetta moved forward, each kissing me soundly on opposite cheeks. Patrice stood back, smiling like a mother with her brood. Blanche had been dead for only three years, but Patrice had always helped raise the other girls. It was Patrice who stayed in touch and kept me up to date with their lives. It was Patrice who continued to visit Eddie in prison when it became too difficult a journey for me to make. She saw him only two weeks before his death, took him a pound cake baked by Dovey Kincaid’s daughter, who was now Patrice’s best friend. The Lord works in mysterious ways, I’ve always thought.
Tressa Hightower cleared her throat behind me.
“Oh, goodness,” I said. “I’ve forgotten my manners. Girls, there’s someone I’d like you to meet.”
I brought Tressa into my circle of family and made the necessary introductions. “These are Blanche’s girls, Patrice, ReNetta, Danita and Grace. Girls, this is…” I hesitated only for a second. “This is your Aunt Tressa."
I’m not sure who was more stunned by my revelation. I hadn’t intended to tell the girls until after the funeral. But, in that brief moment of introduction, truth compelled me like it never had before.
I explained, as briefly as I could, what Eddie's letter had revealed. We would talk more of it later, but for now it was only fitting and proper that the girls know for whom they were grieving and honor their grandfather for his life and for his sacrifice.
While everyone stood in open-mouthed silence, the chaplain called for the memorial to begin. The chaplain’s words were kind, but rather generic, I thought. He spoke of Eddie’s gentle nature, how he never caused trouble in his ward and how he was often called on to pray for others. He told of the pictures Eddie kept on his wall and how he must have truly loved and missed his family. He spoke of God’s forgiveness and I felt comforted by that. By God’s grace, I would one day be redeemed for my own shortcomings and that day had never seemed closer than it did when they lowered Eddie’s body into the earth. I decided not to bury my lie with him, no matter what the cost.
And so now you have the complete and total truth. Bless Clara Jean’s heart, she has sat and taken dictation for hours on end as I told my long and ragged tale. She has assured me her ears heard nothing that her mouth could ever tell, but her sure and able fingers would set down for me to disclose as I see fit.
Eldred Mims had not run away from his life in Alabama as much as he came home to his family in Mayville when he showed up here in 1975. When Blanche was born, Eddie left to join the new all-black Air Force in Tuskegee, Alabama. He said he always intended to come back, but time went by and he started a new life with another woman. Not wanting to make the same mistake, he married the mother of this child, the one they named Tressa.
I think Eddie really wanted to do the right thing, but addiction is sometimes stronger than the person it holds. And sometimes, like Eddie said, it’s just too late to go back. I don't know why he never told Blanche, but I almost think she knew. My Lord, Blanche knew everything - everything. Always.
I should have told Grace the truth after her mother died, but I didn't and there are more reasons why than I have time to tell. For now, Clara Jean is helping me pack. I don't know if I'll be going to jail or to a nursing home, but I can no longer live by myself regardless, so I'm going to one or the other.
I'm going to do the first selfless thing I've done in years. I'm giving my home to the girls, outright, free and clear. Well, not precisely free, but that's a tax issue that Howard worked out. But, they're paying only enough not to consider it a gift, but a purchase.
Patrice is handling the details of my confession. I didn't ask and I really don't want to know what the process will be. My goal is to clear Eddie's name and to admit what I did to help conceal who really killed Skipper Kornegay. As I said when I first began this story, I reckon there will be a few who wish I had kept my mouth shut. The ones who would truly be impacted are dead, though, and can surely rest in peace. As for me, I've not had a moment's peace since the day my first lie was told. I'm determined to go to my grave with a clear conscience, and I just can't do that until I tell the truth about Grace.
Maybe now, that precious girl can face her real demons and find her way in the world. I hope so. Lord knows I pray that she does.
A Note from the Author
I was born and raised in Central Florida and, except for three formative years in Thomasville, Georgia and three more in Charlotte, NC where I met my true love and best friend, Perry Selleck, I have lived in Florida all my life. Sometime in the 90’s my parents retired and moved to North Florida to escape the rapid (or maybe I should say rabid) growth that had made what I call my “hometown” nearly unrecognizable. In 1998 Perry and I bought a piece of land on the Suwannee River that included a single-wide mobile home on stilts, intending to build a weekend home of sorts. Using chain saws and help from my brothers, we split that trailer into three parts, pushed it off its moorings and hauled it to the salvage yard. We spent nearly every weekend for the next three years driving to Mayo to work on our river house. Not long after it was livable, we decided we’d had enough of the growth ourselves and moved our family, which included our daughter Emily and our yappy little redhead Lucy, to the river. Thus began an adventure that almost immediately gave birth to the characters in The Pecan Man. (Note: the title word is pronounced Pee’-can)
One day in 2001, while coming back from the grocery store in Live Oak, I passed an old man riding a rumpled and rusted old bicycle down a narrow country road. Shortly after that, I passed a man picking up pecans in the front yard of his weathered old house. By the time I got home, I had the bones of my story and the three main characters, Ora Lee Beckworth, Blanche Lowery and Eldred Mims formed in my mind. Once I wrote the first chapter or two, the characters began to live and breathe and I allowed them to write the rest of their story. I make no apologies for my choice in writing the dialect as I hear the characters speak. These voices are as real to me as the characters themselves. And while they are all completely fictitious and are not intended to represent any real person, living or dead, I must admit that they all have characteristics of many people I have known.
The setting is the fictional town of Mayville, but some of the landmarks will be familiar to those in my hometown of Leesburg, Florida. Growing up in Central Florida during such a pivotal time in the Civil Rights era definitely influenced my perspective on the issue of race. I hope readers will forgive Ora her mistakes and celebrate her growth. She is a flawed character to be sure, as are we all.