The Ballad of Dixon Bell

He followed her through the parlor as she took the cats’ towels off the furniture and bundled them up in her arms. In several cases, she had to remove a cat, too. Dixon knew he was guilty of exaggerating when he’d told Kate there were too many cats to count. In fact, there were only four—Audrey, Clark, Cary and Marlon. But they moved silently and appeared out of nowhere when he least expected it, so he felt as if he was living with at least twice that number.

“Forgive my confusion, Miss Daisy, but isn’t that what you have a housekeeper for? To straighten the house?”

“I don’t need to hire somebody to pick up your dirty socks.” She handed him the pair he’d left by the couch after falling asleep in front of the television waiting for her to come home. He’d waked up about three in the morning with the long-haired white cat—Audrey?—snoring on his chest. “I get the clutter out of her way so Consuela can do the real cleaning.”

“That’s clear as mud.” Dixon followed his grandmother into the kitchen. “Can I pour you a cup of coffee?”

“I’ve had my daily quota, thank you. I’ll be glad to fix you some breakfast, though. We still have time. Eggs and bacon? Pancakes?”

He toasted her with his coffee mug. “I’m fine. What can I do to help you?”

Miss Daisy was busy putting away the clean dishes still in the drainer from yesterday. Magnolia Cottage didn’t own a dishwasher. “Just be sure your room is neat, dear. And the bathroom upstairs. That will be sufficient.”

Coffee in hand, Dixon climbed the wide, uncarpeted staircase to the second floor, appreciating the fine woodwork. At the same time, he noted a couple of missing balusters and the desperate need for a refinishing job on the banister. In his bedroom, he picked up his shirt and slacks from last night and caught, along with a flurry of white cat hair, a whiff of Kate’s rose-washed perfume clinging to the cloth. Or imagined he did, anyway. His first waking thought, as it was on many mornings, had been of Kate. He wondered if she’d spent time thinking about him last night, or if she’d gone home and straight to sleep. He couldn’t help but notice that she looked exhausted. Beautiful, but exhausted.

In the bathroom, he hung his towel over the rack, as opposed to the shower-curtain rod, stowed his shaving gear in his bag and put it under his arm to take to his room. There was no linen closet, no storage cabinet of any kind in the tiny, white-tiled bath. The sink rested on a stainless-steel frame and the tub was the ancient, freestanding variety. Big but difficult, he was certain, to clean behind.

Dixon decided he’d better get out a notepad and start writing down all the things he wanted to fix in the house. There were too many to keep a mental list.

He spent a couple of pleasurable hours surveying the second floor, thinking about converting a small bedroom into a bath, creating a walk-in closet for Miss Daisy so she wouldn’t have to store her wardrobe in every closet but his. Just as he reached the foot of the stairs again, the front doorbell rang. He opened the door to a short, plump lady with glossy black hair and a sweet smile.

“I am Consuela Torres. You must be Mr. Dixon.”

He took her hand and drew her into the house. “I’m glad to meet you, Mrs. Torres. Miss Daisy says you’ve done a wonderful job taking care of the house, and of her. I really appreciate that.”

“She is easy to care for. And I am glad to have such steady work.” Consuela set the big shopping bag she carried on the floor by the stairs and bent over to extract cleaning cloths and bottles of various kinds. Dixon saw that she winced as she straightened up again.

“Are you okay?”

She gave him another smile. “Of course. These old bones just take some warming up in the morning. I think I will start upstairs today, if that’s all right with you.”

“That’s great.” He watched her as she went up, noted that she was breathing hard by the time she reached the middle of the staircase. She wasn’t an athletic woman, but she wasn’t really “old,” either, and it seemed to him that climbing the steps shouldn’t be that hard.

“Are you sure Consuela’s okay?” he asked Miss Daisy when he found her in the kitchen. “Is this job too much for her?”

His grandmother considered the questions with her delicate eyebrows drawn together. “She’s worked hard since she was a teenager, that I do know, mostly cleaning houses and offices. She has a number of children, several of them very young. I imagine she is tired most of the time, and feels a little older than her years. But I wouldn’t presume to pity her,” Miss Daisy warned. “And I wouldn’t think of firing her. Her husband can’t hold a job, and some weeks her housekeeping money is all they have to eat on.”

Dixon shook his head. “No, I wouldn’t fire her. I just wonder how to make things easier for her…and for you. This place is a wreck, Miss Daisy. We’ve got to get it fixed up.”

Now her bright blue eyes widened in surprise. “Fixed up? What’s wrong with this house?”

For an answer, he walked to the wall beside the back door and chipped off a piece of crumbling plaster with his fingernail. “For starters. And you need new bathrooms, a new kitchen. More phone connections. What would happen if you fell upstairs and needed help? You couldn’t even make a telephone call.”

“I seem to have managed well enough all these years.” Her tone was frosted with injured pride.

“Sure you have.” Putting an arm around her shoulders, he brought her to the table, brushed a fat calico cat—Marlon?—off the chair, and sat her down. The cat immediately jumped onto Miss Daisy’s lap. “And I don’t have any right to criticize when I stayed away for so long, leaving you to take care of everything all by yourself.”

She shrugged a thin shoulder. “You needed to go, and I gave you my blessing. Anyway, I was used to being in charge. Your grandfather died a long time ago. And then your mother and father…” Her sigh spoke of an unhealed sorrow.

“But I’m here now, Miss Daisy, and I want to make this a comfortable, easy place to live in. For you, and for me, for the family I hope to have someday.”

Daisy sat up straight. “Dixon Crawford Bell! You’re planning a family already? And just who might the lucky woman be? Or do I already know?”

He put a finger on her lips. “Don’t say anything—I don’t want to jinx it. But I do want to set things to rights around here, if you’ll let me.”

Her shoulders slumped a little. “I’m comfortable enough, Dixon, but I don’t have the money to do the kinds of things you’re talking about. How are we going to afford all this?”

Though he hadn’t really doubted that she would go along with his plans, he felt better having her permission to begin. “I’ve got the money, Miss Daisy—they’re paying me pretty well to write songs these days, remember? And I have a lot of time and energy to do at least some of the work on the house myself. Don’t you worry about anything but picking out wallpaper and paint colors and countertops. Leave the rest to me.”

By lunchtime, he’d made a survey of the downstairs and his list had grown to twelve closely written pages. More than a little daunted by the task he’d set himself, he went outside into the hot July sun, where mad dogs, Englishmen and crazy ex-cowboys belonged.

There, the grounds met him with their own demands—knee-high grass, overgrown gardens where weeds formed the primary crop, wisteria and poison ivy vines gone crazy as they climbed over pine trees that should have been pulled up as seedlings fifty years ago. The giant magnolias for which the house was named had fostered their own crop of sprouts, smaller trees which, though beautiful, detracted from the majesty of the originals. Dixon thought he would like to transplant those sprouts rather than just cut them down. But that would entail a monumental amount of extra work.

As he stood staring, feeling his shirt stick to the sweat on his back, which was a combination of heat, humidity and sheer trepidation, a blue Taurus came down the gravel driveway and stopped at the front walk. The driver was young, and his olive skin and black hair easily identified him as Consuela’s son.

“Good afternoon.” Dixon extended his hand and got a firm shake in return. “I’m Dixon Bell.”

“Sal Torres. My mother works here.” There was a certain defiance in the words and an arrogant tilt to the boy’s chin indicated resentment.

“I met her for the first time this morning. I really appreciate all she’s done for my grandmother—it’s not easy for an eighty-four-year-old woman to manage on her own.”

Sal Torres didn’t intend to be placated. “My mother always does a good job. She takes pride in her work.”

“As well she should. I’ve done my share of dirty jobs, chores other people turned up their noses at. Work done well is work to be respected.”

The youngster looked a little surprised, then nodded. “That’s true.” His gaze moved beyond Dixon, to the wilderness around the house. “And it looks like you need a lot of work done out here.”

“Yeah. Inside, too. Your mother keeps things clean, but there’s a mountain of repairs to be made.”

“I know people who do landscaping, carpentry, painting.” Before Dixon could reply, Sal gave a shrug, rueful and angry at the same time. “‘Of course you do,’ you’re thinking. Hispanics are the new labor class. We’ve replaced the African slaves.”

“You know, that wasn’t what I was thinking at all.” Dixon unclenched his jaw, got his irritation under control. “I can’t help that my ancestors ran a plantation and owned slaves, and I won’t apologize for that fact. But, as I believe I just said, I respect anybody who does a decent day’s work and I expect to pay them a good wage when they work for me.” He turned on his heel and headed for the house. “I’ll tell your mother you’re here.”

Sal watched the other man go into the grand, sad old house, then went to sit in the Taurus with the air-conditioning blowing full blast. He hadn’t really meant to start an argument about slavery and prejudice, especially not with his mother’s employer. Something about the atmosphere surrounding the mansion, some remnants of past lives, maybe, had stirred resentment in him, and a need to take a stand. Dixon Bell had probably been more tolerant than Sal deserved. L.T. LaRue would have picked him up bodily and thrown him off the place. Or tried, anyway.

Of course, Mr. LaRue had already laid hands on Sal once, for kissing his daughter. Dixon Bell probably wouldn’t be too tolerant, either, when his children wanted to date outside their own class. Kelsey’s mother managed to be polite, but it was obvious she had serious doubts about Sal as somebody worthy of her little girl. All because he had dark skin and came from the south side of Boundary Street, the line dividing the haves in New Skye from the have-nots.

The heavy front door of the house shut with a thud, and Sal looked up to see his mother ease her way down the steps, the heavy shopping bag she always carried in one hand, her other hand holding tight to the rail. She looked tired, and it was only a little past noon. How would she feel at five, when she finished her second cleaning job of the day?

Sal jumped out of the car and ran around to open her door, taking the bag out of her hand. “Let me get that.”

She sank into the front seat with a sigh of relief. “Ah, the air-conditioning feels good. That house is always too hot.”

In the driver’s seat again, Sal flipped the fan up a notch. “Don’t they have AC?”

“Yes, but not enough. And when you’re working…” She shrugged. “Did you go to class this morning?”

He cleared his throat and put the car into gear. “No.”