âHarlow Brynn Batesâ
Armistice of night, copious and quiet, crept on to Gretna at the tail end of February like an old friend. The only thing known to a Louisiana humanity to be chthonic, kept and kind within the law. Peace was never made these days, only dreamt of in soft hums on the dry tongues of men behind bars. Those whoâd come to their epiphanies after anger had run its long course. Most folks took to the night for their reconciliations. Rocking on a sapped porch with empty tin buckets. But often⊠This seed sowed from greed and the feeling of being thieved upon was intractable. Ainât no amount of days, weeks, or months in a concrete box bound to fix up what the prohibition set into the minds of many, many men. Even freedom itself could not soothe the stab and sting of Louisianaâs bread and butter. Or lack thereof.
Families sewed up their loose ends best way they knew how, most of âem honest, too shook in their boots to do much different. The Snows battened down. Still had their fortunes but sure lacked the luxury of paradise parties and aged libations. Where windows were lit and laughter was heard, there was cause for concern. Knocks on polished pine could pass for gunshots due to the intent behind it. The fear in not just this town, but others across the board, was very real. There was no choice left. Honesty had become just another metonym for debt and hunger.
You name one person in this town who ainât been a victim of the Detroit blow inâs. Thatâs right. You canât. Even if youâre honest, you best be quiet âround here.
Hell, even Remington Bates kept his wife off the stoop of the Honey Stop when he heard them black jalopies grumbling their way up the road. Detroit boys were always asking for trouble, knowinâ their upper hand was long and strong and faced little recoil when they wanted to put anybody they so chose through the wringer. Rapping billy clubs âgainst the front doors of homes, window panes of local shoppes, spitting obliquely and staring so hard that itâd make yâsick. Could put a preacher on his head after confessionals. They werenât afraid of nothinâ, took no issue with who they frisked. Rich, poor, woman, man, child. Didnât much matter.
And the Mississippi Honey Stop⊠Turning into an asylum, kept the company of spirits new and old, just lookinâ for some goodness in all the bad. The misfortune [literal] in all of it was that nobody could pick a penny out of the slime of a swamp and make it stretch an hour in Gretna. Times were too hard. Rem and Harlow made the place more of a soup kitchen, the harbor in which anything up the creek could feel warm a little while. Full.
Dandelion shudders outside collected more dust than cicadas. Country strum was all but gone in the waste of winter, even when they hit the high sixties with nothing but sunshine for miles. Fans didnât swing. Just cast shade over the rhythmic two step of a mother and child, cooing in kinship with measured merriment. Least the place was kept real clean. Paint tended to every few months. All yellows and blues like the corn color of summer country. Every table tightened and spotless. Lord knew that was just the way of Harlow Bates, couldnât stand a mess or a singular crumb. When she married, the world thought itâd fall if that boy left a bed sheet untucked. Seemed to work out just fine though. She didnât stir when he cinched a suspender two inches too lose. They got by a lot on smiles, âspite of obvious asymmetry. Made a beautiful home for themselves and the place they grew.
As dusk dipped low on the horizon, a chill blew in through the doorway of the only canteen left in force. Idle silhouettes barely bobbed back and forth. The Honey Stop yielded the same crowd: dark haired butterflies with their ashtrays kept under finger, old Blue and Ruger sloppinâ up a corner designated for dogs surer to go to heaven before out of state cops. The occasional drifter with a rickety soup spoon grasp, then the deputy when he was hurting for a hard cup of coffee.
She loved him. Loved him, loved him loved him.
Took to those Bates like they were her blood all along. Noel, who dug at his brothers something fierce, protected them fiercer. Loved him. Roux, whose eyes were not seldom wide and spoke more to his dog than to people. Loved him. When she married Rem, the tracts between herself and rapture just filled themselves in. His mother said it was something about good love. Knowing the difference was the key. Said Harlow Snow knew all along, thatâs why she chose herself a Bates boy and found all those things she was lookinâ for but could never call by name. She never had to, after Rem.
Love stories aside, the Honey Stop accrued altruism in the most critical of deficits. Some days it seemed like it was all the town had left. Which at times could bear weight on the married couple that ran it. Integrity as a rule came before capital, and lamentably it was startinâ to show.
He knew by the way she wiped dew from her brow on the back of a wrist that was sore every hour of the night. She knew by the way he closed the doors at the stop with shoulders heavy, singular fixed look and not much to say at all. Theyâd never lost their sense of self. But theyâd certainly experienced their sense of sustenance dwindling away. Sophiaâd come by often with a side eye and mumble about bathtub gin, wanting to repay a favor she felt was owed. That girl was full of fire, a spur like nothing Harlow had ever seen. Sheâd be tellinâ a lie if she said she didnât think about pulling her aside and asking for the down low about what risks theyâd run if they wanted to brew something themselves. But went with her better judgment, admitting to herself that if Rem didnât entertain it yet, it was best she donât neither.
Guess what spooked her most was thinking how she was gonnaâ bring little Nola up in this world, in these straits. Couldnât just count on June to stick âround forever and watch the baby, pick up where Harlow couldnât when the days got too rough. June needed to go and live her life. Deserved it most, taking what she did from Daxton.
âJune,â Harlow called quietly over the clink of ware at its last hour, âYou mind taking Nola for a walk âround the porch? Sheâs just about asleep and I wanted to close out the register since my husband wonât hit a lick at a snake when heâs flapping his gums at the deputy.â A playful wink was supplied, then followed with, âAnd June?â
With Nola cradled against both forearms, a chaise only a mother could make, Harlow conferred her to June, âNot too long out there, alright? That detective with Detroitâs departmentâs been snooping around. Thinks we canât see âim in the dark. Got nothing but the candle jars out there so just stay by the windows, holler if you need anything. Remâs right by the door and the deputy, too.â She tucked the baby girl into a blanket, its edges hidden in the crook of Juneâs elbow, âWonât have these men from out of town trying to cut our tails. Shaking down a lady, much less my sister in law.â Harlow rubbed the sleeve of Juneâs shirt. She could feel Remâs eyes imbued with protective nature. Up and down his wifeâs frame in a wordless diction of, âYou gonâ send her out there with Nolâ alone?â
There was a slight pivot in her stance, a small reassuring smile. Heâd take it, graze a short fingernail over five oâclock shadows and continue his conversation but only after he knew that everything was alright. Never missed a beat where their safety was concerned.
Harlow hung a rag over her shoulder, took the candles from the tables and every so often peered onto the porch. Dried her hands on thin ivory, skirt bunched for a second before dropping to its full length again. A soft glow hit the window glass and flickered out of existence in zaps of night wind. Off to the left sat a heartbreaker and victim of her own, Bailey Marie. Harlow racked her brain a thousand times over tryinâ to find any words worth saying to someone who lost the love of their life. Couldnât likely imagine the agony of going on without Rem, and found herself with a creased brow, lump stuck in the throat, giving Bailey pieces of pie she never touched a dozen times over. That Johnson girl was perhaps the only person Harlow couldnât soothe.
The Honey Stop was cozy inside, even with the sadness of transients. Outside was a little colder. Lonelier. Most theyâd see is that tumbleweed of a girl, Anna Leigh. Maybe sittinâ low by the last stair and brooding way she mostly did with her red lips rollinâ under chattering teeth. Girl kept to herself but theyâd seen their share of her at the stop. Fed her a few times, though she insisted she didnât need none. It was quiet. Almost all the time.
It wonât happen to us. Iâm just being cautious. They wouldnât come âround asking questions at this hour, would they?