Camp Nine: A Novel

Chapter 12

Chapter 12 Grandpa’s cotton sat in the Morton Plantation trucks at the entrance to the cotton gin, waiting their turn to have their heavenly white loads weighed and processed. His trucks had already hauled in the last of Mother’s crops, a special arrangement they enjoyed where he provided services to her farm, and she, in turn, paid him at least as much for the privilege as she would have paid a stranger. He would give no favors to a family member, nor would she have accepted any from him, so their arm’s-length transactions suited them both just fine. I followed Mother as she carefully picked her way toward the gin office, over and around muddy puddles in her high-heeled shoes, clutching her pocketbook among the buttons of her swing coat. “Is our cotton all in?” I asked. “It certainly is,” she said, dodging a pothole. “The beans, too. It’s all in. The boys from Camp Nine were a godsend. We’d have never made it without them.” She gave wide berth to the mule wagon of a tenant farmer. “But I’m glad it’s over. They’ve got to get back to their studies.” As a Morton Plantation truck rolled past, the driver waved to Mother, and she returned it. I’ve since come to understand why Mother had her own place, separate from the Morton Plantation. It was a matter of independence. When Daddy died, she was left with only the proceeds of his life insurance policy—what had once been 133 her source of income had disappeared into a puzzling, iron-fisted trust account in my name in McHenry. Daddy’s share of the Morton Plantation had passed directly to me, his only heir. Grandpa’s hand in that had been evident to Mother. It was his way of continuing control. But Mother did him one better. She made it despite him. Although I was her natural child, not even Mother’s guardianship of me was assured after Daddy’s death. It was just business, Grandpa claimed, when he exerted his influence to have himself named my guardian instead of Mother. That such a thing could have happened in my lifetime is still shocking to me, and I can only imagine how she felt. She never voiced her frustrations about it to me, but I realize she could have picked up and left with me then, gone to another state, and fought him. But she understood that my place was on the plantation, whatever it might mean to her personal freedom . I wish I’d understood then all of the choices she made to preserve my interests over her own. We walked inside the dingy office where Mr. Dewey Holt, the gin manager, sat behind a cluttered desk, his sleeves gathered into garters. As the bells on the glass tinkled, he looked up and smiled brightly. “Afternoon, Carrie!” Mother had that effect on men. Just her entrance into a room guaranteed the brightest part of their day. It was a gift at which I would always marvel, but never possess. Mother removed one glove, then the other. “Hello, Dewey. I came to get my check.” Dewey scooted back his chair and rose. “Yes, ma’am. Got it in the safe. I’ll only be a minute.” He opened the latch on a gate and disappeared through a door. Mother gestured toward a worn, wooden chair. “You may as well sit, Chess.” There was nothing interesting to see in the plain room. A cotton seed company calendar was still stuck on September. A freight train time-and-rate schedule presented a dizzying jumble of information I didn’t understand. Dust gathered around the corners of a painting of ducks landing in a cypress slough. Mother paced along the wooden railing separating the front of 134 — Vivienne Schiffer the room from the back. The stove in the corner cranked out copious amounts of heat and drew an odor of mildew from the walls. I took off my coat and laid it across my lap. The sounds of the activity outdoors flooded the room as the door opened. Mother frowned. Upon seeing her, Mr. Ryfle frowned as well, but recovered quickly and touched his blackened fingers to the tip of his cap. “Miz Morton,” he said. She held her pocketbook closer. “Good afternoon, Hammond.” He removed his hat altogether and wiped his...