Flowers in the Snow (3 page)

“This caption says Beatrice; isn’t your name Betty?” Frankie asked, scrutinizing the picture as she scrunched up her nose.

Betty wrung her hands together for a minute as she thought it over. “Beatrice is my birth name, but I haven’t been called that since my parents died. It’s the name they gave me, but it’s not who I am. Sometimes you have to take control of your own life and reinvent yourself in order to be happy. Stick around, and you’ll hear all about it.”

“Should I open the wine?” Piper asked, gesturing to the bottle on the small table next to her.

Betty sat back in her chair and began rocking slowly. “No honey, someone go get the bourbon.”

1961 – Edenville, North Carolina

“Beatrice, I don’t wanna tell you again. Get your skinny butt down here. I need those eggs from Mrs. Winters if I’m going to have your father’s birthday cake made tonight.”

Reluctantly Beatrice rolled off her bed and shuffled her feet down the long hallway toward her mother’s kitchen. The shrill voice calling out to her was nothing new. Her mother always seemed to have a prickly edge when it came to addressing her. She’d never heard either of her parents say they loved her but, worse than that, she never felt like they did. They tolerated each other, and for a long time Beatrice assumed that was how all families were. It wasn’t until she started school and saw others that she realized what she was missing.

In general she wasn’t finding being eleven all that easy either. It meant she was old enough now to run errands on her own but still too young to do anything fun.

“How many eggs, Mama?” she asked as she rested her elbows on the counter, looking completely bored with the idea of her chore.

“How many ya think? A dozen, of course. There’s fifty cents on the counter. It should only cost forty-five cents so bring that nickel back to me. Don’t go spending it on penny candy again. Your daddy works too hard for that money for you to be wasting it. Don’t be dragging your feet either. I’ve got the flour all sifted and everything ready to go. I’m just waiting on you.” Her mother pointed her finger threateningly.

“Yes, Mama,” Beatrice muttered back obediently. But she did drag her feet. She couldn’t help it. The two-mile walk to town was boring, and the only thing that made it better was disappearing into her mind and pretending her life was some kind of exciting adventure. She wasn’t walking to town to get eggs; this was an expedition across the desert to search for a new species of lizard. Her boring worn-out purple jumper that had grown too tight would transform into the gear of an explorer. Her black and white saddle shoes would become tall boots fit for the wilderness. Sadly, the best thing Beatrice could ever be was usually anything other than what she was.

“It’s been four days straight with no sign of the purple-beaked dragon lizard, but I’m not giving up hope.” Beatrice put her hand to her brows to block the sun as she scoured the woods to her left and right for a sign of the imaginary creature. When you spent as much time alone as she did you didn’t worry much about looking ridiculous. She didn’t have much of an audience to embarrass herself in front of. And those people she did see regularly never really seemed to see her. That was why she didn’t care if her clothes were snug or worn out. Her mother always bought or sewed her something new when Beatrice got around to asking for it, but it never seemed like a big deal. She saw girls at school who were keeping up with the latest fashions, but she was never one of them. It all seemed like a lot of work, especially if no one would even notice. Plus, like now in the woods, she could imagine herself wearing anything she liked.

“Crazy goofball,” a voice rang out as someone raced past her on two wheels. Simpson had been a burr under Beatrice’s saddle for as long as she could remember. Two years older than her, he took every chance to give her trouble. He blew spitballs at her in the hallway at school. He made faces at her in church when no one was looking. One time last year he’d slipped a frog into her lunchbox. The joke was on him though, because Beatrice loved frogs. She loved the look of disappointment on his face when she lifted the frog gingerly off her peanut butter sandwich, tucked it in the pocket of her jumper, and named him Simpson, sighting the uncanny resemblance.

But today she wasn’t in the mood for him. She was bored and lonely, and the last thing she needed was some teasing. “Shut up, Simpson. Go on,” she yelled, kicking a rock at him. In her opinion he was a gangly goofy-looking boy with mud brown hair and hand-me-down clothes. But if you listened to the other cackling girls at school you’d think he was a rock star. They all giggled about his dimples and the sly half smile he flashed. They made up stories, fueling his bad boy imagine that Beatrice could see right through. He wasn’t cool and troubled; he was a troublemaker. “Go back to that little old shoe you and your seven brothers live in.”

Dragging his toes in the dirt, his bike skidded to a stop a few feet in front of her. “At least I’m not the loony bird out talking to herself. Nobody even likes you.”

“Then why are you standing here? Just get going. I’ve got to get eggs and get back to my mama. Get out of my way.” Propping her hands on her hips, she gave him her best dirty look. Something she hadn’t perfected yet.

Jumping from his bike and letting it topple over, he stomped toward Beatrice and grabbed a handful of her braid, yanking it hard. He dodged her hand before she could give him a slap. Even as she lunged toward him, Simpson managed to evade her and hop back on his bike.

“Loony bird,” he called out over his shoulder as he pedaled hard to speed away.

Kicking at some loose rocks on the dirt path, Beatrice clenched her teeth together and grumbled under her breath. She quickly whispered a prayer for forgiveness. She didn’t know if there was a patron saint of apologies, but she knew the words she just said, even if they were true, weren’t nice to say. She settled on making the sign of the cross as she hurried her pace, remembering the warning her mother had given about not dawdling.

She reached the fence at the edge of the Miller’s farm, which meant if she ran she could be in town in a matter of minutes.

Edenville was divided into sections. On the edge of town were houses like Beatrice’s, plopped between the farms. Her bloodline hadn’t had the money to own much land over the years, so a house on an acre of unfarmable land was the best her grandfather had been able to manage. When he died her father had taken over the deed and done his best to keep the house standing, but it was an uphill battle most days.

Then there were farms set on large plots of rolling hills with mostly rundown fences framing them in. The smell of manure, made worse by the high temperatures in the summer, bowled you over. The barns were all capped with corrugated metal roofs, covered hit-and-miss with paint sandblasted away by soaking rains and blazing heat. Beatrice had always imagined farm life as exciting, but the more farmers she spent time with over the years, the more she realized it was backbreaking work and not quite so glamorous.

Past the farms was Main Street, a bustling culmination of everything anyone could ever need. The street was narrow, barely wide enough for two cars to pass, but on either side of the road were gloriously decorated storefronts, calling patrons in. Bright blue mailboxes lined the corners and brighter signs pointed the way to whatever you needed. Men carrying briefcases made their way to the diner at lunchtime. Women held their babies on their hips and met with the seamstress or the butcher. Old men sat around the tables outside the meatmarket and played checkers. Beatrice loved to see the stakes grow so high that one man would shout and flip the board right off the table. They played with passion.

She didn’t know much about the other side of town. She lived on the east side and had never really ventured to the west side. Her father had warned her it wasn’t safe, and that was all it took to make her steer clear. She’d heard stories of the haunted shacks and the murderers who lived in those parts. It made her thank her lucky stars to be on this side of town.

Giving a quick pat on the noses of two horses that grazed by the edge of the fence, Beatrice scurried along on her way to Main Street.  She was sure the Millers had named the horses, but she’d taken it upon herself to rename them April and Ted.

Taking in a few deep breaths, she imagined herself as an Olympic runner. Pretending to grab the baton from her teammate, she charged forward. With her braided pigtails bouncing wildly and her heart thumping, she made her way down the long hill that led to the edge of Edenville’s Main Street.

Edenville was a quiet town where not much of anything seemed to happen. Most people walked to where they had to go; cars were a luxury most of folks couldn’t afford. That kept the streets quiet. Beatrice had her favorite places on Main Street, even though she rarely went there without getting in trouble.

The bakery was one of those places. Baker Sam always saved the broken or old cookies and sneaked them into a small brown bag for her. They weren’t perfect, but they were something sweet and homemade, which she hardly ever got at home. She decided if she were quick enough getting the eggs, she could sneak in for the cookies and eat them on the way home. As she dreamed of the crumbly, slightly stale, but still good gingersnaps her mouth started to water.

The sidewalks were quieter today than normal, and people seemed to be scattering and heading away from the decorative fountain in the center of the grassy divide. Beatrice felt a nervous cramp in her side. Something seemed very wrong. Slowing her pace to a walk, she curiously inched closer to the place people seemed to be quickly leaving. A bit of excitement would be welcomed, but in an instant she was proved wrong. There were certain types of excitement better left unexplored.

A man was slumped over the side of the fountain. He was a colored man, which was unusual to see on Main Street in the middle of the week. It was an unspoken rule the colored folks only came into town on Mondays and Thursdays. Beatrice didn’t know when they had decided that, but she just knew that’s how it had been for as long as she could remember. Her daddy had always avoided town on those days, saying it was too full of disease to be walking around. Since Edenville had pretty clear lines dividing where coloreds went and where whites went, Beatrice had spent most of her life around people who looked just like her.

She crept toward the man and could see he was bleeding badly from a cut on his head, which was also quite unusual. The biggest shock of all was the realization that his blood was the same color as her own. She’d always assumed they’d have darker stuff inside them since their skin was so dark.

Her mother had told her time and again to steer clear of the colored folk. They stayed over there, and her people stayed over here. Every now and then, though, one or two would come into the east side of town while Beatrice was there, and she couldn’t help but stare hard at them. They looked so different than she and her kin did. She watched them closely and decided they acted pretty much the same as anyone else she knew.

Taking a few steps closer to the injured man, she figured he must have slipped and fallen, knocking his head on the fountain. Looking over her shoulder, she searched for a familiar face to help him, but everyone had moved on. The door to the diner that was always propped open this time of day was shut. The shades in the office building across the way had all been drawn. She thought for a moment that maybe none of this was real. Beatrice spent many afternoons dreaming up all sorts of wild stories to fall into. Could this just be another fantasy?

She pinched the fat of her arm to make sure she was awake. Then it hit her. This must be a message from God. Her mother had often told her to listen closely and she’d hear what God wanted from her. This all made perfect sense. Just this last Sunday Beatrice had learned the story of the Good Samaritan.

This was exactly the same. The Samaritans and the Jews did not spend any time together, and didn’t seem to be friends, Beatrice remembered. But when the Samaritan saw a Jewish man who’d been hurt he ignored the fact that the man was different and stopped to help him.

Her mother was always telling her to walk in the light of God and find more ways to be one of his children. Always wanting to please her mother, yet never succeeding, Beatrice took this as a sign to be compassionate and help the man. Jingling the change in her pocket meant for the eggs, she ran into the general store and bought an ice-cold bottle of soda pop and asked Eli, who ran the store, if she could borrow the rag he had over his shoulder. With her supplies in hand she rushed over to the man, who was still propped up and groaning against the fountain. Upon further inspection she realized he couldn’t have just fallen here. His injuries were too severe.

“Sir,” she whispered, “are you okay?” Her heart was thumping in her chest, but she pushed past her fear and reminded herself how pleased her mother would be when the news got back to her.

His eyes turned toward Beatrice, and she could see they were nearly swollen shut. With all the energy he had left, he waved her off and grunted something that sounded like, “Go on.”

“I brought you a soda. It’s ice cold. And here’s a towel. I can wipe some of the blood away for you,” Beatrice offered, trying to sound comforting and unafraid.

He shook his head, but Beatrice heard the words of Jesus at the end of the Good Samaritan story flowing through her:
“Go and do likewise.”

She knelt beside the man and began using the towel to put pressure on the cut on his head. The blood was coming fast but the towel seemed to help. She imagined herself as the Samaritan, stopping to help. Concern for another human, even a stranger or an enemy, was the message that had touched her heart. She had sat there in church and realized that people never noticed her. Perhaps if she were known for something like this act of genuine compassion, people would start to pay attention.  “Drink this,” she insisted, shoving the glass soda bottle she’d opened into his hand. “If you can walk I’ll help you get to Dr. Sherry’s office. He’ll mend you up.”

“No, he won’t,” the man muttered. “Are you blind or something?”

“I ain’t blind. You might be if you don’t get your eyes fixed up,” she shot back. “They look like they’re about to swell shut. You need some tending to.”