<< Go Back

The Sweetest Thing

By Elizabeth Goldsmith Musser

Order Now!

Chapter 1
Perri

I met Dobbs on the day my world fell apart. It was 1933 and most everyone else’s world in the good ol’ United States of America had fallen apart years ago. But I had survived virtually unscathed for four years. The Depression, as far as I could tell, had hardly invaded my niche of paradise.
And then it came to a screeching halt, along with Herbert Hoover—on the last day of his presidency. The banks died, and so did my world.
It didn’t start off as a terrible day. In fact, it felt as if there was electricity in the air. I slept in late that Saturday—I had gone to a fraternity party over at Georgia Tech the night before, and I was worn out. Mamma woke me at ten, as I’d asked, and after gobbling down my grits and eggs, I joined my whole family in the dining room, where our wireless radio sat perched on the buffet.
The announcers were in a ruckus of excitement, describing the scene there in Washington, D.C. “There are crowds and crowds here stretching across ten acres of lawn and pavement, all awaiting the president-elect. . . .”
Mamma and Daddy and my younger siblings, Barbara and Irvin, and I scooted as close as we could to the radio. Jimmy and Dellareen, our servants, were there too, with their five children. Mamma had invited them over on that Saturday—they usually only worked for us on the weekdays—to hear Mr. Roosevelt being sworn in.
It was as if all of America was holding her breath, waiting to see if maybe this new president could save us from ourselves. I felt a nervous anticipation, Mamma kept her society smile plastered on her face, but Daddy did not try to hide his dark mood. That very morning, March 4, 1933, every last bank in America had closed its doors, and Daddy was a banker. The country was afraid—or maybe terrified was a better word.
As we waited for the speech to begin, Mamma went over to Daddy and pecked him on the cheek. “Holden, I believe Mr. Roosevelt is going to get us back on track.”
“It’s too late, Dot,” was Daddy’s reply.
Typical, I thought to myself, irritated that he might spoil the drama of the moment. I guess Daddy had every reason to be pessimistic. As one of the heads at Georgia Trust Bank, he looked at the economic situation with little hope for a miracle cure—no more reliable than the fancy elixirs that Jacobs’ Drugstore proposed at the soda fountain.
“He’s simply a charmer, that Mr. Roosevelt,” Daddy said to Mamma. “He’s never said one practical thing about how he was going to change things. His speeches are optimistic rhetoric with a little humor mixed in. No one knows the man.”
Mamma patted Daddy’s hand and gave a little shrug. We could hear music in the background, and every once in a while the announcer cut away to a commercial about Coca-Cola or Sears and Roebuck Company or Haverty’s Furniture. Finally it was time for the new president to speak. Dellareen hushed up two of her little boys who were squabbling on the floor. I sat on the dining room table, my feet propped in Irvin’s lap, and no one told me to get down.
I think we were all praying for a miracle. Everybody in the United States needed a miracle. Bankers and servants and everybody in between. Republicans and Democrats, old people and young. My parents were staunch Republicans, but personally I was happy to see Herbert Hoover leave office. I’d had enough of “Hoovervilles” and a hundred other things we had mocked the poor president for. The thought of change excited me.
Mr. Roosevelt’s voice crackled across the radio lines, and we all leaned forward a little more.

. . . This great Nation will endure as it has endured, will revive and will prosper. So, first of all, let me assert my firm belief that the only thing we have to fear is fear itself—nameless, unreasoning, unjustified terror which paralyzes needed efforts to convert retreat into advance. . . .

We all listened, enraptured—except perhaps for Daddy—by the voice of Mr. Roosevelt, his paternal tone reassuring, confident, pronouncing words I thought could produce miracles.
“And he embodied that strength and optimism by pulling himself out of the wheelchair and making his shriveled-up legs walk across the stage to the podium,” the announcer ranted after the speech ended.
I hoped that the new president’s speech had buoyed dear Daddy’s spirits. I had watched his mood grow more and more morose over recent months. My father often confided in me—things about his business which I found fascinating. But lately he’d spent a lot of time alone in his study, and the night before I had overheard him arguing with Mamma about the banks closing.
Mamma had a positive outlook on life, which helped soothe my brooding father. His moods were as dark as his hair—hair that was black without a trace of gray. I thought it odd that my father, so often melancholic, looked young and vital, while Mamma had rings under her pretty green eyes and her dark blond hair needed dyeing every other month, an extravagance that we had never even thought extravagant until Daddy had come home the month before angry and forbidding poor Mamma to go to the beauty parlor.
Mamma was resourceful and figured out a way to get her hair cut and dyed on her own—Dellareen knew lots about fixing white ladies’ hair. I’d watched Dellareen preparing her concoction and hoped to heavens it worked, so that my Atlanta friends wouldn’t think that the Singleton family had fallen on hard times.
That Saturday in early March, Mr. Roosevelt had soothed the nation with his words, and I actually felt hopeful. I had friends, parties to attend, dates galore, and now the new president was somehow going to fix the nation’s economy. And the banks. Oh, please, the banks, especially Daddy’s.
“Perri, I’d really like for you to go with me to the train station in a little while,” Mamma said after lunch. Irvin had scooted out to play baseball with friends at the park, Barbara was over at her best friend Lulu’s house, and Daddy had retired to his study.
I wanted to walk down the street to see my friend Mae Pearl and ask her what she thought of Roosevelt’s speech. I made a face. “Aw, Mom. Why?”
“Josephine Chandler is going to pick up her niece who’s arriving from Chicago. She’ll be staying at the Chandlers’ for the rest of the year and is going to attend Washington Seminary.”
“Starting school now—in March?”
“I think her family’s come on hard times, and Mrs. Chandler has offered for the girl to live with her and get an education.”
Everyone has fallen on hard times, I thought, a little frustrated with Mamma for ruining my afternoon plans. But this girl was lucky. The Chandlers’ lived in the biggest house in the neighborhood and had parties almost every week in the summer, and loads of girls I knew would have given up iced tea in August to spend time in the Chandler home.
“Holden, we’re gonna take the Buick to the Chandlers’,” Mamma called back to Daddy. He must have grunted his approval because the next thing I knew we were driving down Wesley Road towards Peachtree in Daddy’s two-door Buick Victory Coupe. Daddy was so proud of that car that he hardly ever let Mamma drive.
He’s in a good mood on account of Mr. Roosevelt, I thought.
Mamma, always a little nervous behind the wheel, made me nervous too, but I tried not to show it. Mrs. Chandler was waiting for us, her driver ready to take us in the Pierce Arrow convertible to the train station. Oh, it was an elegant car! She climbed in the front passenger seat, and Mamma and I huddled together in the back as the breeze of early spring tousled our hair, lifting and twirling it like new leaves on a dogwood tree.
“Her name is Mary Dobbs Dillard. She’s sixteen or seventeen and will be in your class at school, Perri.” Mrs. Chandler turned in her seat to speak to us and her perfectly coiffed hair blew slightly in the wind. “I hadn’t seen her in years, and then I went up to Chicago last fall and found her there with my brother and his wife and their other children, in a very difficult situation. I insisted she come down here. She’s quite intelligent and deserves a good education.
“My brother, Billy, bless his soul, he means well. All kinds of benevolent ideas to help others, but it seemed to me like his family was starving while he handed out his charity. I wanted the two younger sisters to come as well, but Billy’s wife, Ginnie, said they were too young to live away from home.”
I pictured Mrs. Chandler’s niece in my mind—skinny, hollowed-eyed, meek, hungry—and imagined that Mrs. Chandler’s brother looked something like the subject of the famous photograph by Dorothea Lange—my hero in those years—called “White Angel Breadline.” It showed a group of beat-up men, old-looking but probably not old, waiting in a breadline, and it focused on one man, facing the camera, a worn hat on his head and a tin cup cradled in his hands. He was leaning on a fence, and he looked completely destitute.
We pulled up to the elegant Terminal Station, with its arches and tall towers, and Mrs. Chandler, Mamma, and I hurried into the station and found the track where the destitute girl of my imagination was scheduled to arrive. A few minutes later, in a mist of steam and fog, Mary Dobbs Dillard stepped off the train, and I gasped.
My first sight of her was spellbinding. Mary Dobbs was the most gorgeous girl I had ever laid eyes on, but in a strange, unorthodox way. She had softly-tanned skin—not at all the perfect pale that we considered stylish—and thick wavy black hair that she wore loose to her waist. Her eyes were black—truly, big black oval onyx stones—and her face was a perfect oval too, with high cheekbones and skin that had never known a blemish, I was certain. She was small-boned and not particularly tall, but she looked strong, a determined kind of strong. She wore a faded dark blue cotton dress that hung all wrong on her thin, thin frame.
Maybe her family had fallen on hard times, but she did not look meek. She stood straight up, shoulders back, and had an expression of wonder on her lovely face.
“Hello, Mary Dobbs,” Mrs. Chandler said, giving her niece a friendly pat on the back.
Mary Dobbs set down a small suitcase, off-white, scuffed, and well-used, to say the least, and threw her arms around Mrs. Chandler and hugged her tightly. “It is so, so good to be here, Aunt Josie!”
Wearing a startled expression, Mrs. Chandler politely undid herself from Mary Dobbs’s embrace and said, “I’m so glad you made it safely.” Then she turned to Mamma and me and said, “Mary Dobbs, I want you to meet dear friends of mine, Mrs. Singleton and her daughter Perri.”
Mary Dobbs surveyed us, gave a warm smile that showed a perfect row of teeth, and reached out and took my hand, shaking it up and down forcefully. “Nice to meet you,” she said, and added in a whisper to me, “I’ve dropped Mary. I just go by Dobbs now.”
We met eyes, briefly, and I felt my face go red.
“Well, Mary Dobbs,” Mrs. Chandler said, “I’ll get my chauffer to retrieve your bags.”
She motioned to the driver, but before he could start up the steps to the train, Dobbs shook her head, pointed to the worn suitcase, and said, “This is all I have.”
Again Mrs. Chandler seemed surprised, but she recovered quickly and said, “Well, if this is all, then I suppose we can be going.” The driver took the suitcase from Dobbs and headed out of the train station, with us following.
On the way home, I sat in the back seat with Mamma on one side and Dobbs on the other. I watched, fascinated, as Dobbs’s long black mane flew out behind her like a flag in the May Day Parade. I didn’t know another girl with long hair.
Mamma gave me a little nudge in the side, which meant, Say something, Perri! So I asked, “Have you ever been to Atlanta?”
“Once or twice, a long time ago. I don’t remember much, but my father has described parts of Atlanta to me.”
“He’s from here?”
Dobbs looked at me with suspicion. “Well, yes. My father is Mrs. Chandler’s brother. He grew up in the house she lives in now.”
My face heated. Of course, what a stupid question!
I wanted to tell her she was amazingly lucky to be living in that huge house, but that would not have been polite. For whatever other faults I had, I did know I must be polite, especially with Mamma sitting in the seat beside me. I also wanted to ask Dobbs about her life in Chicago, but considering what Mrs. Chandler had said about their situation, I didn’t think that would be polite either.
So we sat in silence.
Mamma turned to me and tried to make conversation. “Perri dear, why don’t you tell Mary Dobbs a little about your school, the girls in your class? I’m sure she’s eager to hear about it.”
I scowled a little. She didn’t seem eager, she seemed overeager, her eyes wide with enthusiasm, and that annoyed me. “Washington Seminary is the name of the school. I guess you know that—”
Dobbs cut in, “Oh yes! Washington Seminary—and it’s not a seminary at all. It’s ‘an efficient and beautiful school for girls’—something like that. There are thirty experienced teachers and four courses leading to graduation, and you have a French club and a Spanish club and all kinds of sports—basketball and field hockey and a swim team— and May Day festivities . . .”
I stared at her with my mouth open. She sounded like an advertisement for the school as she spoke with an accent that was certainly not Southern.
She gave me a warm smile and said, “Aunt Josie sent me last year’s yearbook. I’ve read it through. Facts and Fancies.”
“Oh. Well then, I guess you know everything there is to know. Nothing much I can add.”
Mamma glanced at me with disapproval in her eyes, and I shrugged.
“No, I don’t know everything,” Dobbs said sweetly. “Of course not. Tell me something about yourself.”
I did not want to talk to this effervescent girl, but Mother nudged me in the ribs. I rolled my eyes. “I’m seventeen, in the junior class—there are thirty-two of us—I write for Facts and Fancies, and I’m a photographer. I head up the Red Cross Club, I’m vice-president of the junior class, and I’m in the Phi Pi sorority. I love parties and my circle of friends attends two or three a week. Dances, you know, and all the swell boys are there from the boys’ high school, which has the most boring name in the world—Boys High—and from the colleges in Atlanta—Georgia Tech and Emory and Oglethorpe. And several girls in my class are pinned.
“After school we go to Jacobs’ Drugstore and order Coca-Cola or something else from the soda fountain. I love to ride horses. Fox hunting is my favorite. Let’s just say I’m rarely bored.”
Dobbs stared at me the whole time with a tiny smile spreading across her lips. She cocked her head and just kept staring—jet black eyes looking straight through me—and said, “Well, thank you for that monologue, Perri Singleton. But I’m sure there’s a lot more to you than that. It will be nice to get to know who you really are.”
I glared at her, stuck my nose in the air, and turned to Mamma, who always said when I was mad, lightning bolts flashed from my eyes, “seeking someone to sizzle.”
Dobbs did not seem to notice but leaned forward and said, “Aunt Josie, wasn’t Mr. Roosevelt’s speech fabulous! ‘We have nothing to fear but fear itself!’ He’s going to bring this country around! I just know it! The way he said we have enough, but that we just haven’t been using our resources the right way, is the plain truth!”
Dobbs sat beside me in her rags and talked on and on about the “religious tone of Mr. Roosevelt’s address” and how he put words to the feelings of the American people. Mrs. Chandler nodded politely but looked as if she were more worried about getting a crick in her neck as she twisted around in her seat to look at Dobbs.
I thought to myself, She’s just trying to impress Mrs. Chandler.
I finally shot Dobbs my lightning-bolt look, and she smiled back at me, completely unfazed. “What did you think of the speech, Perri?”
When I didn’t respond, even after Mamma elbowed me twice, the three of us sat in silence again.
Thank heavens we arrived at the Chandler place a few minutes later. I mumbled “Nice to have met you,” and Dobbs said, “Likewise. See you on Monday at school.”
“What a strange person,” I said to Mamma as she drove the Buick back home, and turned onto our street. “She’s a bit dramatic, wouldn’t you say? Babbling on and on about the new president as if she knows it all, in her potato-sack dress and pitiful suitcase. I’m glad we wear uniforms at Washington Seminary. At least the girls won’t have to see her wardrobe. Yet.”
“Shh now, Perri. Yes, she is a bit different, but I think she’s simply very excited to be here, considering where she came from. She’ll fit in fine, I’m sure. Please try to introduce her to a few girls on Monday. And don’t judge her too soon.”
Sweet Mamma, she always gave people the benefit of the doubt.
Dobbs to me spelled trouble.

We got back home, and Mamma parked the car in the driveway. “Holden, dear. Holden,” she called out lightly once we were in the entrance hall. “I made it just fine in the coupe. Not one bump or scratch. But I left the car in the driveway, as you like. I’ll let you maneuver it into the garage.” She chattered along, walking back to Daddy’s study.
I had turned to go upstairs when Mamma uttered a tiny shriek and came into the hall with one hand over her mouth and holding a piece of Daddy’s stationery in the other. “Your father . . .” she started. “We’ve got to find your father!”
She ran out the back door toward the garage.
I felt my heart pumping so strangely in my ears, and my vision went momentarily blurry, taking in the horrible expression on Mamma’s face. Then I followed her out the door and took off at a dash in the opposite direction from Mamma—across the back lawn to the stables where Daddy kept his horses. Riding and fox hunting were his favorite hobbies, and I imagined he had gone on a trail ride. I flung open the door to the stable. The long hallway was empty, save a few strands of hay probably dropped by the stable boy from the morning feeding. The horses, all five of them, were pacing nervously back and forth in their stalls, nickering.
“What is it, fella?” I asked, as I ran my hand along the forehead of Windchaser, Daddy’s favorite. Then I caught sight of something out of the corner of my eye. I turned and went into the tack room, and there I saw it—Daddy’s leather tasseled dress shoe turned on its side where it had fallen amidst a few strands of hay and shavings. I looked up to see . . .
Daddy’s lifeless body was swinging from the rafters, a lead shank around his neck, his long legs in their dark gray business slacks, moving almost imperceptibly, one foot hanging shoeless. The guttural scream that issued from inside me seemed to go on forever.
Then I fainted.
That was where they found me, Jimmy and Dellareen and Ben, their oldest son. Ben splashed water on my face, and as I came to, I looked to the side and saw tall, thin Dellareen running out of the stable gate to where Mamma was approaching, grabbing Mamma around the waist, and pulling her away from the stable door. Mamma fought with her, but Dellareen’s strong dark arms engulfed Mamma, dragging her away while Mamma’s stricken face looked at me and screamed “Holden, Holden, Holden.”
I remember the fierce determination on Dellareen’s face, and I remember her words too. “You ain’t gonna see none of it, Miz Dorothy.”
Then Jimmy, who was as thin as Dellareen and not any taller, picked me up, carried me back to the house, and laid me down on the sofa in the sitting room, and Dellareen placed a damp cloth on my head.
I guess Jimmy and Ben got Daddy down.
The afternoon became a blur of people parading in and out of the house. I was thankful that Barbara and Irvin were still gone. I sat petrified—like a piece of old wood—on the sofa, watching people in a type of fog. Mrs. Chandler and her servant showed up first, then Daddy’s business partner from the bank. Later his good friend and accountant, Mr. Robinson, stopped by, and Mr. Chandler came off the golf course, dressed in his plaid knickers and polo shirt. Little by little the house filled up with people, and the stench of body odor—all of ours, all of our grief let out from the pores of our body—permeated the downstairs.
Evidently, after some discussion, Mrs. Chandler called Lulu’s house, where Barbara was playing, and the coach of Irvin’s baseball team, and asked if the children could stay over until after dinner.
After a while, Mrs. Chandler took Mamma upstairs, and at one point, I heard Mamma wailing, “Poor Perri! And how am I going to tell Barbara and Irvin?”
I was still sitting on that sofa, arms wrapped around myself and just plain numb, but when I heard Mamma’s stricken voice, I said to Dellareen, “I’ll tell them.”
She looked at me, startled, and shook her head. “No. No, Miz Perri. It ain’t yore place.”
“I want to. I need to. Mamma can’t do it. You know that.” I still had not shed a tear, but my face was burning with the fever of tragedy, and I could feel the red splotches on my cheeks.
Dellareen squeezed my hand, her brow wrinkled with worry, her face shiny with perspiration, her servant’s uniform, usually impeccable, soaked under the arms with her sweat. She took my face in her calloused hands and looked me straight in the eyes.
Dellareen had known me from the time I was “knee high to a grasshopper,” as she always put it, and that day she read my mind. “It ain’t your responsibility, Miz Perri. You understand that? I know you loved your papa and he loved you, and he wouldn’t want you carryin’ this on yore shoulders.”
The tears came readily, and I let Dellareen pull me into her arms while I cried. Finally, I whispered through the ball in my throat, “I wanna see Mamma.”
I found her propped up in her bed with Mrs. Chandler beside her. Mamma’s pretty powered face was smudged with mascara as she wept softly. She reached out to me. “Perri, Perri.” Then she whispered to Mrs. Chandler, “Perri’s the one who found . . . who found . . .”
I squeezed Mamma’s hand, and Mamma pulled me into her arms. I stood there leaning down over Mamma for a few seconds, feeling her tiny arms around me, the weight of her body, so frail, holding on to me, it seemed, for life. I held her tight, and from somewhere outside of myself, I pronounced the words, “It’s gonna be okay, Mamma. Somehow it’s gonna be okay.”
But in my mind, I was thinking, Nothing will ever be okay again, unless I make it okay. It’s up to me now.

Order Now!

<< Go Back