A Place to Hide

One Sunday, Myra Jean Evans was trying to leave Hull Crossing Baptist church without being noticed. She had just squeezed around two of the ushers to avoid Sarabell Simms, the town’s biggest gossip, and her minions Jessie and Jenny Bird, who, like Myra Jean lived at Mrs. Meade’s boarding house. Outside the door, she stopped to take a breath and nearly backed into Bitty Johnson, the minister’s wife.

Mrs. Johnson grasped her hand. “Oh, Miss Evans, I’ve been hoping to see you. Could you come for coffee at my house Tuesday at 10?” Before Myra Jean could take a breath, she went on, “It would be just the two of us.” Again, without waiting for an answer, she said, “Or it could be another day, if that’s not convenient.”

Cutting into the flow, Myra Jean tried to pull her hand free. Her arthritis had gotten much worse with the Virginia humidity, and her knuckles ached. “Tuesday will be fine,” she said.

“Oh, that’s wonderful,” Bitty said, pulling her into a hug and dropping the hand in one smooth motion.

Myra Jean stood paralyzed, her arms pinned to her side, looking down at Bitty’s head. She had on her usual camel-colored hat, like the one Greta Garbo wore in “Women of Affairs.” Today Bitty had added a blue broach to the grosgrain band to match her blue print dress.

After what seemed like several minutes, Myra Jean felt the warm arms slacken and she pulled away. “I’ll see you Tuesday then.” She turned and walked as quickly as possible down the marble steps.

On Tuesday, Myra Jean put on one of her church dresses, coiled and recoiled her salt-and-pepper bun several times, and finally went down to breakfast.

“My, don’t you look nice, hon. I hear you’re going over to the Johnson’s for coffee.” Mrs. Meade handed Myra Jean a glass of apple cider.

Already used to the way gossip traveled in the town, she simply answered, “Yes, so I’d better not eat too much now.”

“You’re right about that, hon. If I know Bitty Johnson, she’ll serve you her famous fluffy biscuits. I’ve tried and tried but I just can’t get mine to do like hers.”

Jessie Bird set a bowl of grits in front of Myra Jean and said, “Watch out you don’t get roped into church work.”

Jenny, already seated across the table, added, “Bless her heart, that Bitty Johnson is just full of ideas.”

Kate Meade intervened. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think I smelled a green-eyed monster. Y’all hush up and say grace now.”

Myra Jean tasted the grits, added salt, then added sugar, and pushed them around the bowl for a while. When enough time had passed, she said, “Thank you, Mrs. Meade,” and left the table.

 She went to her room and tried to write in her journal, keeping one eye on the clock. “I really need a chair in here,” she said out loud. “But where would I put it? Maybe I could ask Mrs. Meade to take the bureau out and all my clothes could go in the wardrobe.” She got up and began rummaging in the wardrobe, and the next time she looked at the clock, it was time to leave for the Johnson’s. She patted her bun to make sure it was intact, then quickly picked up her hat, jacket and purse and headed downstairs, leaving her door ajar.

She walked briskly down Magnolia Street, noticing an overgrown yard here and a shabby roof there. Someone had said that Sarabell Simms lived on this street, but she wasn’t sure which house it was. She stopped for a moment to admire a white clapboard building with pine green shutters and wrap-around porches. “I guess they call them verandas here.” She looked at her watch and put on extra speed, turning on 3^rd street. The parsonage was behind the church, which dominated the corner of Elm and 4^th.

Bitty answered her door wearing trousers and smiled at Myra Jean’s expression. “You’re not too early. I just thought I’d show you the real me. Come on in.” She ushered Myra Jean into the living room. “This is the way I dress at home. I hope you don't mind.” Although Myra Jean estimated Bitty’s age at about 30, she seemed like a young girl with her fresh, lightly-freckled complexion and amber eyes. A bright red bandanna tamed Bitty’s curls, making her look even younger.

Myra Jean took off her hat and clutched it with both hands, her handbag over her arm.

“Here, let me take your things,” Bitty said.

Myra Jean handed over her hat and purse, then removed her jacket, already feeling a bit warm. As Bitty hung everything on a hat rack in the corner, Myra Jean looked around. The room doubled as a parlor and dining room, with a sofa and easy chairs at one end and a dining table in front of an unused fireplace. The furnishings were simple, and the few decorative items included family photos.

“I made some real coffee that my mother sent us from Richmond,” Bitty said. “Did you have a big breakfast?”

Myra Jean, who had bent down to look at a photo, jumped slightly. “It was grits today.”

Bitty smiled. “Oh. Not your favorite I would imagine. You know what? Let’s go sit in the kitchen. I didn't start the coffee yet because I wanted it to be nice and fresh.” She led the way into the kitchen, which was at the back of the house. “Would you like a biscuit with fig preserves?” She pulled out a chair at the kitchen table, and Myra Jean sat down.

“That sounds delicious. Mrs. Meade says your biscuits are famously fluffy.”

Bitty turned on the gas burner under the coffee pot. “Don’t tell anybody, but my secret is keeping the baking powder in the icebox so it doesn’t go stale.” She took a butter dish from the refrigerator and put it on the table. “Do you take cream, Miss Evans?”

“No thank you, but please call me Myra Jean.”

“Myra Jean…”

“And thank you for pronouncing it as two words instead of saying ‘Margine’ like everyone else here.”

Bitty laughed. “People in this area have an interesting accent, don’t they? When I moved here from Richmond, I could barely understand anyone. You’d think such a short distance wouldn’t matter, but it’s almost like another country.” She bustled around the kitchen with plates, cups and cutlery while the coffee perked, releasing a tantalizing scent. She took some biscuits from a large ceramic jar and placed them on a platter, which she set in the middle of the table. Handing Myra Jean an empty plate, she said, “Now you just help yourself.” She put a mason jar next to the biscuits. “Daphne Brown made this fig preserve with her own fruit and honey. I swear it tastes just like heavenly nectar.”

Myra Jean took a biscuit, split it open and spread some of the preserves on it. “This looks delicious, and Mrs. Meade didn’t exaggerate about your fluffy biscuits.”

“Eat up now, there’s more where this came from.” When the coffee was ready, Bitty poured two cups and sat down.  The two women sipped and ate in silence for a moment.

Bitty wiped her mouth on a cloth napkin. “Myra Jean, there’s something I’ve been wanting to ask you. I’ve noticed that you don’t seem very happy in Hull Crossing. I was wondering, did you come here on purpose? You didn’t just get off the steamboat at the wrong dock or something?”

Myra Jean stared over her cup. “What do you mean?”

“No offense, but why would you choose to come to a place that makes you unhappy? Did somebody give you the wrong information?”

“I really don’t understand.” Myra Jean looked at the biscuit on the plate in front of her.

“Oh dear, I’m sorry. I didn’t express myself very well. I was curious about what made you leave Baltimore and how you chose our little town.”

Myra Jean said, “I was never happy in Baltimore and with the Depression, I couldn’t afford to stay anyway. I suppose I didn’t think much about where I wanted to go. I just chose Hull Crossing so I could save money.” She looked down at her clasped hands. “I’m not used to making my own decisions.”

“Oh, I see,” Bitty reached over and patted Myra Jean’s wrist. “Mrs. Meade said you saw her ad in the Baltimore Sun. She put it in when Jenny Bird couldn’t afford to keep a separate room and had to move in with Jessie.”

Myra Jean, about to take a bite of the biscuit, stopped with her hand midway to her mouth. “Oh, I didn’t realize…”

“Well, they have a place to stay and plenty to eat, and not everyone can say that these days. They help with the housekeeping in exchange for part of their rent. Besides, if you hadn’t moved in, it would have been somebody else.”

Myra Jean put the biscuit back on the plate. “I suppose you’re right.”

“I’m sure the good Lord brought you to Hull Crossing for a reason. I’m mighty glad he did. Is there anything I can do to make you more comfortable here? Anything at all?”

“I don’t suppose you have the power to make me invisible?”

Bitty laughed. “Not used to small town life?”

“In Baltimore, nobody knew me, not even most of the other teachers I worked with. Here, even strangers know my name.”

Bitty laughed again. “But they just can’t pronounce it. Don’t you want another biscuit?”

“No thanks. I just can’t get used to the rich diet here.”

“That explains your slim figure.” Bitty looked down at herself. “I was always chubby, and then being a preacher’s wife, there are the covered dish dinners and people bring us food all the time… Anyway, I’m just making excuses. Thank heavens the flapper days are over and women can have curves again.”

***

While Myra Jean was at Bitty’s house, the daily routine at Mrs. Meade’s went on as usual. Jenny went upstairs after dusting the parlor and noticed that the door to Myra Jean’s room was partly open. She put her head in to look around. “Just a little peek at my old room won't hurt,” she said, going inside. Myra Jean had added very little of her own personality.. The bureau top was empty other than a brush and mirror set. “Mercy, you’d hardly know anyone lives here!” Noticing the journal on the bed, she walked over, picked it up and began browsing through the pages.

“Jenny, what on God's green earth are you doing in that room?” Jessie's voice startled her. She dropped the journal and spun around.

“Well she left the door open, and curiosity got the better of me. How can a person live like this?” She pointed to the bureau. “Not a personal item anywhere! It would look so much better if she just added a few feminine touches.”

Jessie said, “Well, so would she, for that matter. She looks exactly like the retired Yankee schoolmarm she is. Now come on out of there before you get caught.”

“Aren't you just a bit curious about this diary?” Jenny asked, tilting her head to one side. “Wouldn’t you like a teeny-weeny glimpse at her mysterious past? Beside she won't be back for hours. You know how Bitty can talk.”

Jessie entered the room and closed the door quietly behind her. “Well I don't know.”

“Just a little look. Maybe we'll be able to understand her a little better.”

Jessie sat down on the bed. “All right, but we can't breathe a word to anyone else. Understand?”

“I know, I know.” Jenny picked up the journal again and sat next to her sister, opening the pages at random. “She has nice handwriting.”

“I suppose she would have to, being a school teacher and all.”

Jenny pointed. “Look, here she's writing about her father being sick, bless her heart. Remember when Papa got so ill?”

Jessie nodded. “Everything just seemed to fall apart.” They read silently, with Jenny turning the pages.

“Mercy to goodness,” said Jenny, “that poor women has been through the same things we have.”

“But we can't let her know that we've read her journal,” Jessie said sternly. She looked up. “Did you hear footsteps on the stairs?” They both jumped up. “Miss Ryan's already left, so it must be Mrs. Meade. We need to get out of here.” Jenny replaced the journal and they smoothed the bedspread before retreating to their own room, closing the door behind them. They stood in the hallway for a moment listening for footprints.

“Hello girls,” Mrs. Meade said when she had come up high enough to see them. “Would one of you like to go to the market with me?”

“I’ll go,” Jenny said, heading into her room for her handbag.

“I’ll watch the pork roast,” Jessie volunteered. As soon as the two other women left, she made a beeline for the telephone.

***

Myra Jean’s boardinghouse room looked even smaller and shabbier after visiting Bitty’s cozy home.

She caught a faint whiff of lilacs. “Someone was in here!” Her journal wasn’t exactly where she’d left it. “Those gossipy Bird sisters!” She sat down hard on the narrow bed, scrabbling for the journal. “How much did they read?” She flipped to the page where she’d written about the “blue-haired spinsters.” Instead, the book fell open to the day of her father’s death.

“So now everybody knows he lost our money in the Crash and died in debt. Maybe it’s not an uncommon story these days. I just hope that’s all they saw.” She closed the journal. “I need to find a safe place to keep this.” She looked around at the sparse furnishings. “I need a place to hide myself.”