Down to the Potter's House

Chapter 1

With the drought in every part of Todd County, Kentucky, and surrounding counties, survival had become more intensified. Foreclosures were threatening even the ardently industrious farmers, but for those who were exceptionally hardheaded and efficient—such as former Senator Robert Rutherford Maxwell—procedures at Hillbound in 1930 continued uninterrupted.

Harvest time had signaled the end of yet another growing season at Hillbound, and the routines of tobacco farming were not unlike the ones I had watched from my youth. Negro folks still toiled in the fields—their brows covered with maize-colored straw hats—topping and cutting, stripping and bailing, but I knew none of them. All new faces had replaced the familiar ones that I could have spoken to by name. Thoroughbreds of Father’s wistful dreams roamed the places where I’d previously helped the children learn to read, practicing on them my rudimentary teaching skills whenever possible. The young ones were gone now. The mighty oak under whose branches we’d sat was gone as well.

Robert Maxwell was holding his own, counting himself among the smattering of gentleman farmers who maintained their property with economically disabled and politically powerless black laborers. Hard times had deepened the dependency of the black folks, affording them little choice but to stay on as hired hands, working the devastated farms that brought in, at best, a piddling one-third of the revenue they had in the three years prior.

From outward appearances my father projected prosperity in the way he walked and the way he talked, but I suspected differently. The previous day I’d spent with him at Hillbound all but confirmed Father was putting up a front. He’d sold a portion of his beloved five hundred and sixty acres of burley tobacco farmland along with the forty acres of wheatland he had acquired when he married Francine Delaney.

Father was an imposing man, dark-complected with a full head of sleek black hair and a broad smile. Even at sixty he was straight backed and poised as we rode into the center of Elkton. Other folks, too, made their way into town for essentials. If any one of them owned an automobile, more than likely he could no longer afford to drive it. The depression had hit, and gasoline prices were high, so most folks came in carriages and congregated at the square.

A late-autumn breeze rippled the surrey’s fringe that canopied above my head. Our ride into town in the splendor of this October Saturday was proving to be a chilly one. After two miles of the horse’s clip-clop, we rounded the last turn. Straight ahead of us was the courthouse square. For a small town in Kentucky, the two-story brick building with its white clock tower stood modestly impressive.

Father halted in front of Jim Carver’s Grocery and Hardware and stepped down from the carriage, leaving me perched on the seat while he hitched the reins to a post. No looks, no whispers indicated I had something to hide.

I held my head high. Even so, gossip’s sting could prick without warning beneath my skin. I hadn’t thought of the scandal in months, and it took a mere single night in Francine’s presence to resurrect it. Her staunch ability to live with herself was not my concern—yet it was, and my urgent need to guard outcomes for my brother and the entire Maxwell family name had overtaken my restraint. The moment had crystallized in yesterday’s outburst.

I wish I had said much more to Francine. Looking back, I wish I had said less to Father.

My two years spent away at Logan Female College and the subsequent two at Athens College in Alabama had solidified my ambitions and reshaped my less constructive attitudes as if they were a lump of clay. No longer the broken fifteen-year-old or the self-empowered eighteen-year-old, I accepted the hand Father offered to assist me from the carriage and grasped his fingers as my foot touched the ground.

Sister would love some horehound sticks, I said, and of course I want to see Jim, if he isn’t busy. I’ll pop inside and be right here when you return. That’s all, Father. Nothing too long.

Father was quick to plant a kiss on my forehead. Fine and dandy, Gracie, go ahead. Give my best to Jim . . . I won’t go in this time. We should get us over to Millicent’s house directly. I’ll be across the street, but only for a few minutes. If you’re ready to go before that, don’t hesitate to send word, he said, nodding with a two-term-senator polish to a passerby.

The out-of-doors had a way of doing wonderful things for me. I breathed deeply the refreshing air as I waltzed toward my brother-in-law’s store, my long coat fluttering behind me. Several of the town’s men had gathered in front of Carver’s Grocery and Hardware to exchange news of the day and toss about their ideas on how the turn of events might affect the nation. Most of them were nowhere near recovering income losses that supported their livelihood.

I gave them a passing smile and continued toward the store. My father’s agenda was evident to me, and time wasted was intolerable. I had come to accept the vigorous manner that let his wishes be known.

Inside, a buzz of activity swirled about in immeasurable contrast to the motionless bystanders outside. I went straight to the candy counter without dilly-dallying. My mouth watered in anticipation of the taste of chocolate. Glorious day, isn’t it, Miss Baxter?

It is at that. And I’m just glad as I can be to have you visiting every now and again. Tickled pink, I am, you’re spending another year nearby. Good thing for us folks here in Elkton that Russellville’s just a hop, skip, and a jump away. A generous smile spread on her face. So tell me: how’s our young schoolteacher doing? she said, squeezing her chubby hands together atop the glass case that covered the candy confections.

Fine, fine. I haven’t expelled anyone in the first two months of this term . . . and not anyone last year either, I said, grinning, briefly distracted by the appearance of a tall man warming his hands by the potbelly stove at the rear of the store.

Miss Baxter gave a jolly laugh to acknowledge my attempt at humor, and my glimpse of the gentleman ended.

You’re right. Russellville’s not very far. And you haven’t seen the last of me, unless I start spreading out like Sunday dinner on a picnic cloth, I said, realizing Miss Baxter resembled my remark. Then I’d have to stop eating chocolates.

Me too, she said with a never-you-mind gesture, relaxing her forearms farther across the counter. It was clear, she was in no hurry for my candy selection. Your sister sure tries to keep everybody up to snuff around here. Got her own schoolgirl nowadays. That little Louise is cute as a pie. Second grade . . . Goodness, goodness!

I know. It’s certainly amazing how time flies, I said, focusing on the candies. Point out what Louise would like, then the usual: three sticks of horehound for Millicent. Now then. Chocolate. Let me . . . um . . . decide between the—

Please excuse me for interrupting. May I offer a recommendation for the chocolates before you make your decision? The smooth voice slid into our conversation like butter on a hot biscuit.

Surprised, I turned to find the tall gentleman from the back of the store standing next to me. Having captured my attention, he smiled a gorgeous smile that momentarily broke my concentration.

The finest of the fine is right before your eyes—your beautiful eyes, if I may be so bold. I’m something of an expert on the subject.

Seriously? I thought. An expert on how time flies or chocolate?

But first things first. My name is Simon Hagan.

After a slight hesitation, I gave him a brisk once-over during which time his smile never faltered. I’d not ever met a statelier man and maybe not a better-looking one. The weight of his gaze caught me off guard. But only a little, I told myself. I then recast my answer: How do you do, Mr. Hagan? I am Gracie Maxwell.

Miss Baxter wasn’t helping the situation’s awkwardness. She no longer rested against the candy counter, but rather leaned in to hear what she could hear. Her mouth had dropped, and I warned mine not to do the same.

I tried to give as little heed as possible to Mr. Hagan’s remark about my eyes and forced myself to look straight at him as he continued to speak of how glad he was to meet me. Perhaps he missed the cold shoulder that I thought I was presenting. He proceeded to select a bar of chocolate from the case with one hand, then gave coins to Miss Baxter with the other.

Father passed the window. A tip of his hat indicated he would just as soon be on his way.

I stood dumbfounded as Mr. Hagan handed me the chocolate bar.

Jim Carver’s voice rose above others, dickering politely with a woman who had doled out produce and eggs for his consideration. Their transaction seemed to be coming to an end, and my brother-in-law turned toward us at the front of his store where Mr. Hagan continued to stand at my side.

Miss Baxter’s smile was way too big.

Flustered by the simultaneous doings, I offered a quick thank you to the tall stranger, snatched the horehound that Miss Baxter had laid on the counter—forgetting to pay for the candy sticks—forgetting the candy treat for Louise—then darted straight out the front door without a backward glance.

Gracie! Father was waiting outside when I emerged. Guess I should have come inside . . . I’d already unhitched us, though. Here, let me help you up. When you see Jim later today, do remember to give him my regards.

I hopped up onto the seat, and Father steered the horse around the town square, its hooves plodding noisily on the cobblestone street. The ride was quieted as the buggy rolled onto the dirt road leading to Millicent’s house.

Glad you didn’t, Father. No need to come inside, I said without knowing why. It will be a good visit with Jim tonight at supper.

He peered over at me. You seem preoccupied, Gracie. Everything all right?

I didn’t look at him. Of course. Just met a gentleman . . . He must be related to Mr. Hagan who got me my teaching job. Slightly embarrassed, still puzzled by my own doings, I held up the chocolate bar and waited for Father’s reaction. "I believe he said his name is Simon. Yes, Simon Hagan."

Ah! For sure. Simon’s been away from Todd County for quite some time. Didn’t realize he was back. Father shot me a suspicious gander, then signaled the horse to pick up speed, giving the reins some slack with a nimble foist from the driving whip.

The surrey’s wheels creaked in objection to the horse’s surge, and the forward jolt startled me. I wondered if the timing had not been right to exhibit the chocolate. Oh, Father, he just happened to be at the counter as I was deciding. All of a sudden, he was there. He simply insisted on making this a gift.

Hardly proper for him to cover your purchase of chocolate. Father glanced at the horehound sticks. He didn’t pay for those, too, I hope.

Realizing my predicament, I cut my eyes at him. "No. Nobody did. I got them for Millicent . . . I forgot to pay. Silly me! Mr. Hagan was just being kind," I said as we rolled up to the front of the Carvers’ house.

What’s he doing now, anyway? Believe he had tuberculosis . . . although I could be confusing him with another of the Hagans. Geoffrey had six or seven boys and a couple or three girls.

Heavens, Father! I have no idea. You mustn’t go thinking poorly of him, though. And I can certainly fend for myself. I am twenty-three, not fifteen.

He stepped down from the carriage, hitched the reins. Big family, the Hagans.

Millicent had not missed the sound of the approaching carriage. Oblivious to the October chill, my sister was out the door to greet us.

Father paused to serve up his customary greeting to her. I reminded myself not to compare its woodenness to the top-shelf affections he openly lavished on Francine, practically from the time of Mama’s passing. The crater in my heart caused by his attraction had stubbornly closed, but having spent last night in my stepmother’s presence, old grievances had threatened to undo family peace that time and my absence had afforded me.

Inside the short day spent in the country, I’d seen the signs that revealed my brother’s discouragement. Hardest to take was seeing how Father regarded Henry with cool detachment. Witnessing my brother falter with every attempt to make a decision was more than I could stand.

Father offered me his hand to steady me off the carriage step.

Having squelched the bitter rise of contempt for the fresh evidence of Francine’s power over Henry and the ease with which she dominated Hillbound, I rallied, grateful that Father had avoided either subject. Our arrival at Millicent’s had interrupted the discussion of the Hagans. It had stilled, too, the recurrent rusty attitude of bygones that had no place in my reshaped heart.

Chapter 2

Happy Birthday, Father. What a handsome sixty-year-old you are, too.

And you’re looking well, Millicent, Father said. How’s that Jim? In good health and prosperous, I trust. Haven’t gotten into the store lately. I will. I will.

Busy there, as you might guess. Ownership has its demands. Long hours, you know, but Jim’s quite well. Do come in, both of you. Gracie, how radiant you look.

Father and I shed our wraps in the parlor before moving to the kitchen and seating ourselves at the table. A tea kettle gurgled on the stove. It had been awhile since the three of us had been in a room together when Francine wasn’t close by. Even so, neither Millicent nor I would consider rehashing the past with our father.

Sister! I have been dying to see you. Even in the short couple of weeks since I was here! I was completely bursting at the seams. You’ve been more than gracious. Jim too. I love being here.

Father seemed to squirm at the mention of my landing place being at Millicent’s rather than my childhood home, but now was not the time to count the cost of treachery or calculate the price of greed.

And where’s our little Louise? I gave Millicent a look, hoping the scars we’d endured were soothed by the salve our bond had provided, that our being sisters had helped us make it through the tumultuous years.

She’ll be along after church tomorrow. Gets to spend the night at her Granny Carver’s. I wanted you all to myself for once! So now, tell me what’s happened since I last saw you!

I’ll visit only a short spell, our father said, perhaps sensing the urgency of our desire to catch up or, better yet, his need to attend his esteemed thoroughbreds. Truly, I must be on my way soon. Gracie, however, does have a mysterious bar of chocolate . . . and, shall we say, ‘lifted’ horehound?

He was amused. His inference that I had some explaining to do had Sister on alert.

Sheepishly, I admitted I’d come with horehound candy that I had not paid for and nothing for Louise. But I do have a gift from a gentleman. May I emphasize ‘gentleman’? Simon Hagan. I felt the color explode on my cheeks as I went to the parlor and retrieved the bar of chocolate I’d stashed in my pocket. I plopped back down at the kitchen table. Happy to share this with anyone interested.

I continued. You know the Hagan family’s farm, Millicent. It’s north, Father said. Half dozen boys, couple of girls, I think. Geoffrey Hagan married Zack Peterson’s widow—

Yes, I know the connection. They’re in the store, of course. Jim thinks highly of them, I’m sure, Millicent said.

And there’s more. The elder Mr. Hagan is responsible for my teaching job. Don’t think the particulars of that ever came up for discussion. Otherwise you’d have known. He was on the school board, and I met him. Guess it’s been three years ago now . . . the summer of ’28. Mr. Hagan appreciated the fact that I was getting my degree from Athens College. Anyway, enough about me. I have him to thank for my first teaching job.

Millicent’s right, Gracie. Geoffrey Hagan’s a well-respected man. I was merely teasing you a mite about the chocolate, odd as it is for Simon to . . . Well, anyway, a piece of news was associated with his farm. Interestingly enough, the skeletal remains of a Shawnee Indian turned up on the property. Been ’bout two years ago. Father relaxed with his account of the story. Smoke from his cigarette curled in the air between us. My understanding’s that it was discovered very much intact.

That is fascinating! Had I been living here at the time instead of Alabama I would have been extremely interested! I’d love to hear more!

The find attracted a good deal of chatter through these parts, and—

Humph! Millicent rolled her eyes indignantly. Is there any possible chance of my getting in a word, edgewise or otherwise? Fine, fine on dead Indians. What about Simon Hagan?

Apparently Father took the mention as his cue to leave certain discussions to the women. Draining his cup, he stood. Listen, ladies, I’m gonna head on. Just making sure, now, your plan is for Jim to get you back to Russellville. Correct, Gracie?

A fragment of his smile remained, clinging to the charisma that had him suited up for more important things than sticking around to talk with two of his daughters.

I shrugged and turned to my sister. Will that work out for Jim?

Of course, and Father, Millicent said, please let Francine know that we couldn’t have come out last night even if she’d invited us to celebrate your sixtieth birthday with you.

Father looked deliberately at her and crushed his cigarette in a nearby ashtray, perhaps deciding he had misinterpreted the inflection. He pushed his chair from the table and smoothed his tweed vest as he stood. Good to have you back, Gracie.

I kept my seat as if a weight held me there, simply stirring more cream into my coffee. After what seemed forever I raised my head to look up at him. You’ll always be my father. Always. It’s just probably best if it don’t go back out to—

Yes, I know, Father said, and his dark, lamenting eyes sought to pierce my thoughts with a constant glare. Then came his attractive smile. He bent over to kiss me on the cheek, and the few small lines in his brow eased and vanished.

I waited in the kitchen as Millicent walked Father to the door.

Well, Gracie? she said with him gone. Was my sarcasm terribly unbecoming?

There was not a reason in the world I couldn’t speak my mind to my older sister, but moments passed and I did not answer. Her self-affirming nod said she was ashamed, but a twinkle in her eye said she was justified. Thick black waves in her hair framed the youthful face that held back a grin.

Not really, but I think he’s past our disapproval of Francine. I sipped the last of my coffee and gently set the cup down, part of me wanting to applaud her. The other part wanted the past to just heal itself, like a crab regenerating its lost leg. There is a very high wall between me and Father. Rightly so. Maybe.

How was it? Millicent sat down across from me, her mirth diminished. Being there again. Be honest.

If you want my opinion, I don’t believe Father could ever have calculated the cost. Seems to me he was blinded . . . incapable of knowing what diminishing returns lay hidden beneath the surface. I walked to the window, wiping away tears that brimmed from my eyes.

Being honest meant looking at the past, not running, not cowering, neither letting injustices destroy the essence of my core, nor come close to ripping apart the fiber of a family in the way Francine had Moe Lee’s.

I’m hesitant to ask again, but has anyone heard from Moe Lee? I turned to face Millicent.

She was wagging her head. Not a word that I’ve heard, she said, and my heart seemed to swell beneath the flattened hand I laid over it.

You know my direction changed the day Henry told me Moe Lee and his family were run off the farm. There, behind the great white facade we call Hillbound, upstairs in my room, I made my decision to come here in the middle of the night. Remember?

She hadn’t forgotten. None of the Maxwells could have, and in my remembrance I still credited the episode with my calling to go to the mission field.

It was a terrible time, Gracie. I’m so glad you came here. Millicent reached across the table and patted my arm. And we’ve loved every minute you’ve spent. When you went down to that potter’s house in Madison County that year—even then you could have been here with us if we’d only been aware of what was happening.

I don’t know what I would have done without you and Jim giving me a place to live. My having your home to come back to during those four years of college was so generous of you. And I’m sure Emma would have been glad to have me except for lack of space and the children. She’s a wonderful sister, too.

Talking provided some relief. I smiled. Y’all are bound to have seen it yourself, just how Francine’s influence is trickling like a slow drip over a pile of stones, etching in Henry a visible erosion. That’s just what occurs over time. Do you know what I mean, Sister?

I gave her a little space to answer, trying to get my concern in the open before it burned a hole in my heart.

Whew . . . I’m thankful you intended to spend only one night there, she said. You’re right, though, Gracie. But who knows if, given the chance, Father would roll back events and do things differently. She’s pushed everything and everybody, starting with Father, and I suspect he will never give up his—what? Obsessions? Addictions . . . if that’s what horses and betting are.

I think you see it on a regular basis, in bits and pieces. But for me to come back and witness firsthand Francine’s callous regard for our brother is almost obscene. The rest of it? Yes, most anything can become an obsession. I had to breathe deeply. On that note, I do have to say things work out. Interesting, isn’t it? Because it was that very trip to Madison County that gave me a new beginning. Actually, it instilled in me a confidence in God’s grace and a way to climb to new heights.

But who doesn’t have the family celebrate a sixtieth birthday? Millicent gave me a sly look that said we’d covered the rough spots on the subject of our stepmother. Maybe she’s just a teensy bit too young yet. You’d think she would enjoy having some folks around the place, and close to her age—like us!

We both burst into laughter. I had to cover my mouth. Millicent wiped tears. A good laugh helped everything.

We do have a lot of wonderful memories, Gracie, and a lot of goodness to carry us on, she said. "Things never stay the same, do they? Enough! Tell what you think about Mr. Hagan. Simon Hagan. Might he be a very interesting topic?"

Get in this house, James Carver! Gracie and I have bones to pick with you. Come sit at the table and start talking. We want details. Simon Hagan. Start at the beginning.

Sister, please. You’re embarrassing me. I couldn’t fool myself. I definitely wanted to know what my brother-in-law had to say. And I do need to apologize, Jim. I rushed out today without speaking . . . and I owe you some money, too.

Ah, no worries. Millicent may put you to work washing dishes to cover for yourself. Jim laughed and gave me hug, then peeled off his jacket and hung it on the hall tree. Would seem, he said, taking plenty of time to position his hat on the hook above the row of coats, I’m getting caught right in the middle, aren’t I?

Indeed! Spill the beans! Gracie told me she left him talking to you. Or starting to, anyway, Millicent said, dragging him by the arm into the kitchen. Fess up.

I caught the wink he sent in Millicent’s direction. Stop it, Sister. There’s probably nothing to tell. Is there?

So happens, young Mr. Hagan’s gonna be working for me. I offered to let him take my old truck. Don’t know how he was gonna get out to his homeplace without it, but he took it and headed out there. He took a seat, put his elbows on the kitchen table, and laced his fingers together. Millicent and I stood over him, waiting. Come Monday morning he’ll be back in for work. Been away from these parts for quite a while—ten years, I believe he said. Frankly, I didn’t recognize him. Geoffrey’s got six boys and a couple o’ girls. Simon’s the oldest of all of ’em. He laughed and started to fiddle with the corner of