White River Red, page 1
WHITE
RIVER
RED
A NOVEL
Becky Marietta
Relax. Read. Repeat.
WHITE RIVER RED
By Becky Marietta
Published by TouchPoint Press
Brookland, AR 72417
www.touchpointpress.com
Copyright © 2021 Becky Marietta
All rights reserved.
eBook Edition
ISBN-13: 978-1-666213-69-0 (hc)
ISBN-13: 978-1-952816-14-7 (sc)
This is a work of fiction. Names, places, characters, and events are fictitious. Any similarities to actual events and persons, living or dead, are purely coincidental. Any trademarks, service marks, product names, or named features are assumed to be the property of their respective owners and are used only for reference. If any of these terms are used, no endorsement is implied. Except for review purposes, the reproduction of this book, in whole or part, electronically or mechanically, constitutes a copyright violation. Address permissions and review inquiries to media@touchpointpress.com.
Editor: Jenn Haskin
Cover Design: Hannah Linder Designs
Visit the author’s website at http://beckymarietta.com
First Edition
For Molly, the bravest girl I know, who read this story in its infancy and decorated the pages with hearts; for Casey, in whose arms I am always safe; and for Colin, my mirth-maker. You’ll have to read the book now that your name is in it, Son.
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Author’s Note
Acknowledgements
Chapter One
Fayetteville, 1972
WHEN SHE WAS TWENTY-THREE years old, Betty McLaughlin met her first real-life hero, and, as is so often the case when heroes are involved, she didn’t realize how important the moment was until much, much later. In truth, she was just trying to get out of writing obituaries.
Betty had landed a job at The Springdale Times a week after graduating with a degree in English from the University of Arkansas, and in the year that followed, her job had consisted of writing the weekly “What’s About Town” announcement column (garage sales, fairs, church rummage sales, Little Miss Sweet Pea results) and obituaries. She’d gained a certain amount of popularity when she first penned an obituary for a Mrs. Fredericka Hammond, 73, opening with the lines, “It is with great joy and humble acceptance that we release our beloved Fredericka into the Lord’s loving arms.” People really liked the shift from the typical “It is with great sorrow” intro of most obits; soon they were calling in to The Times regularly, telling whoever was answering phones that day that they needed an obituary written, and they’d sure like the “humble joy” writer to do it.
At first, Betty had been flattered, feeling as if she’d already begun making her mark as a writer and a journalist, a dream she’d had since childhood. After a while, though, the shine began to rub off the penny. She’d been the first person in her family to graduate college, and trying to convince her father, who’d paid for that college, that the money had been well spent was getting harder as each month passed. He’d wondered, more than once, if anyone with a pencil and a grasp of basic English grammar could do Betty’s job without the expense of school. Betty hated to admit that lately she’d been wondering if maybe her dad was right.
One day as Betty sat wearily at her desk, trying to come up with ten different ways to say the same thing, she decided it was time to, as Dr. Jeffries, her favorite English professor at the U of A, loved to say, “effect radical change.” She shoved herself out of her chair, sending it squealing behind her as she stood. Kevin Ash, in charge of sales and ads for the paper, glanced up at the sound, squinted at her for a moment, then settled back into trying to solve last week’s Sunday crossword puzzle.
Before she could lose her resolve, Betty marched in her clunky leather clogs to the door of Murray Jackson, editor-in-chief and boss-man extraordinaire, and rapped on the wooden door loudly. Her knock was answered by a low, weary voice saying, “Come.”
Betty opened the door and stepped in, pulling the door shut behind her. Murray was, as usual, half-hidden behind several disheveled piles of papers, his eyes down on whatever he was reading, his bald pate pointed at her like a pale pink stop sign. Now she was there, she found she was too afraid to speak. Maybe tomorrow would be a better time to effect some change, and less than radical would be fine.
Murray barked, “Well?” and Betty jumped a little. He looked up. “What do you want? I’m drowning in next week’s deadlines already.” His eyes, behind the rimless glasses perched precariously on the end of his nose, were about as welcoming as a drink of unsweetened tea. Betty swallowed hard and thought of her favorite line from Pride and Prejudice: “My courage always rises at every attempt to intimidate me.” Surely Murray could be no worse than Lady Catherine de Bourgh.
“Murray,” she said, then stopped, gathering herself. She’d always been slightly terrified of him, not only because he was her first boss, but also because he’d never seemed charmed by her youth and prettiness. It was what she liked best about him, too—when he hired her, she knew it was because he believed she could do the job, not because he hoped for a little tussle on the desk with a sweet young dolly. In the busy world of journalism, as much as she’d seen of it anyway, Murray was unique in this. He’d never asked her to make coffee for him, never dropped a pen so he could make her pick it up in order to admire her shapely derriere, never once called her “honey” or “sweetie.” He was a good boss—but he was scary.
“Good grief, Betty, speak,” Murray snapped. “Did you finish the Clark woman’s obit? The family wants it in this weekend’s paper because the funeral is Monday.”
“Yes, sir,” Betty said. “I finished it—it’s probably in that pile there.” She pointed to a half-foot high stack of papers on the right edge of Murray’s desk.
“So?”
Courage, Betty told herself again. She realized she was twisting her hands together in front of her and forced herself to quit fidgeting. “Murray, you know how much I like working here, and honestly, I don’t mind the obits and local happenings, but. . . .” She took a deep breath and put her hands on her hips. “Well, isn’t it time I get to do something else? I mean, Carson has been here six months and you’ve already got him writing headlines. He’s not a better writer than me.” Actually, she thought Carson was barely literate, but she wisely kept that to herself. Bad-mouthing others to push herself forward was not her way.
Murray sighed. “I suppose you are going to bleat at me until I give you something,” he grumbled. “That’s usually how it works with you young folks. You’re never happy where you are. Lucky for you, I’ve learned that it isn’t worth the aggravation to say no.” He shook his head, and then began rummaging around in his nest. He finally pulled out a yellow sheet of lined legal paper and held it out to her. “Sunday special story insert—one of those ‘where-are-they-now, pull-the-heart-strings deals.”
Betty took the paper from him and looked at the scribbled writing on it: White River Red, aka Forrestina Campbell. Fayetteville Oaks Nursing Home. “White River Red?” she asked.
“You don’t know about her?” Murray said. “I’m surprised—though I guess you’re a little young to have seen her around. There was once a time when she was a pretty common sight, especially during fair season. She ran a betting game that used real, live rats at the annual carnival.” He shook his head. “As a kid, I heard more wild stories about that old bird than you can shake a stick at. You never did see such a fiery-haired, fiery-tempered crone in your whole life. I remember her stomping all around town dressed in old denim overalls, her hair cut short, wearing an old leather hat and boots, swearing at any man who got in her way, including the sheriff. Especially the sheriff.” He laughed. “I tell you, I think some of the first dirty words I ever heard came out of that woman’s mouth.”
Betty watched in astonishment as a wry smile appeared on Murray’s normally sour face. “She didn’t act that way around other women, though. The minute another female her age or older entered the scene, Red would suddenly become like a lady born and bred, complimenting the other woman on her dress or hair, talking about fine weather and flower gardens, like she was on her way to a cotillion and butter wouldn’t melt in her mouth. And though she always looked as poor as a preacher’s pocket, everybody knew somebody she’d helped out in some way—she’d pay doctors’ bills in secret or leave sacks of vegetables or piles of wood on the porches of people down on their luck.” He shook his head, still smiling. “I didn’t know she was still alive until someone called the other day to ask if you’d had to write an obit for her. I was curious, so I dug around a
“I can handle it,” Betty said, nodding. “I’ve always wanted to practice my snake-charming skills.”
“Famous last words,” Murray snorted. “In fact, you may want to go ahead and write up your own obituary to have on hand, just in case.” He returned to the pile of papers in front of him. “I’ll give you three weeks for interviews and a week to get it polished,” he said. “Now, get.”
“Thank you, Murray,” Betty said. “You won’t be sorry, I promise.”
“Yeah, yeah,” Murray said as Betty turned to leave. “You still have to keep up with the obits and town happenings. On time and with all that humble joy.”
On her way back to her desk, Betty nabbed a dog-eared, coffee-ring-stained Yellow Pages from a battered table where general reference material was stacked haphazardly. She settled into her chair and, searching the yellow page listings, found the number and ad for Fayetteville Oaks Nursing Home. She read through the description of the listing and frowned. Fayetteville Oaks was a government-funded institute. She remembered her Grandma Mary extracting a promise from Betty’s mother to never put her in a government place, claiming that it was like an orphanage for old folks with no money. “Destitute and alone—that’s who gets stuck in there,” Grandma Mary had said. “You’ve read Oliver Twist, Jean. You want your momma begging for a little more gruel?”
“Poor Red,” Betty muttered, staring at the listing. Picking up the phone’s receiver and holding it to her ear with her shoulder, she punched in the number. The phone rang twice, and then a clipped voice said, “Fayetteville Oaks Nursing Home.”
“Hello,” Betty said, “This is Betty McLaughlin from The Springdale Times. I believe you have a resident there, a Mrs. Forrestina Campbell, and I’d like to set up an interview with her at her earliest convenience. Do you think she is—”
“Is she what? Crazy? Lucid? Yes to both—and with a mouth that spits acid. More’s the pity,” the woman on the other end of the line said. Betty, feeling strangely defensive of the supposed legend she’d never met, decided she didn’t like this person on the phone at all.
“Available, was what I was going to ask,” she said coldly. “Do you think she’d be willing to talk to me?”
“She’d talk the leg off a kitchen table because it couldn’t run away,” the no-nonsense voice replied. “As far as available, I’m pretty sure she’s got nothing on her busy calendar. No one ever visits the old coot, though she does get a letter every couple of weeks or so from some place up north. I’ll tell her to expect you tomorrow at 1:00; after lunch she is usually in a more amiable mood. Since we’re having beans and weenies, which I believe is a particular favorite of hers, she may not even take your hide off.” The attendant paused, then said, “What do you want to talk to her about, anyway?”
Betty did not feel like engaging in a cozy conversation, but she knew that reporters who burned bridges early on were usually stuck on the wrong side of the bank. She replied, “Well, ma’am, if all goes well, you’ll be able to read about it in our paper in a few weeks. I’ll give you a free copy for your help. Thank you, and goodbye.”
After hanging up the phone, Betty rose and grabbed her tan windbreaker from the back of her chair. Kevin glanced up and said, “Geez, Betty. You’re not quitting for the day already, are you?”
Betty patted the edges of her shoulder-length, feathered-cut hair. “Go back to your puzzles, ad-man,” she said airily, pushing her arms through her jacket sleeves. “I’ve got to do an interview for my feature, and I need to go home to prepare some questions. It’s too noisy to think in this place.”
Kevin whistled low. “Get a load of Dorothy Parker,” he said to no one listening. He picked his pencil back up. “You know a four-letter word for shark food that starts with a ‘c,’ Dorothy?”
“Chum, chum,” she said, slipping the long leather strap of her purse over her shoulder.
Kevin traced the letters in the squares and grinned. “Go get ‘em, kid,” he hollered after her as she left the office. She tossed him a wave with the back of her hand and hurried out the door. She’d told Kevin a fib—she didn’t have a problem with the staccato clacking of typewriters and murmurs of telephone calls in the office; in fact, she found the din comforting. The truth was, she wanted to get out before Murray had a chance to change his mind.
Betty spent a feverish evening writing up a list of questions. The next day, after a bologna-on-white-bread lunch at her desk, she hopped in her light blue Volkswagen Beetle and drove to Fayetteville Oaks, glancing down at the handwritten directions on the seat next to her. What she saw when she arrived filled her with dismay—the nursing home was a series of rectangular yellow-bricked buildings with absolutely no oaks in sight. In fact, there weren’t any trees near the premises at all. Betty pulled into the asphalt parking lot in the front and clucked disapprovingly. Instead of a lawn, there were half-moon shaped spaces along both sides of the glass-paned entrance filled with glaringly white gravel, presumably to keep ground-care to a minimum. How awful it would be to have to spend one’s last days in such an ugly, disheartening place.
Betty walked up to the front desk just inside the automatic sliding doors of the main building. “Hello. . .” she said cheerfully. She leaned forward a bit and read the nametag of the woman behind the laminate counter. “. . . Sue.”
Sue, thin and pinched-faced, barely looked up from the National Enquirer magazine spread out in front of her. Betty could see the article that claimed the woman’s attention was about an alien’s love child with a farmer’s wife in Idaho. Betty tried again. “I’m Betty McLaughlin from The Springdale Times. I have an interview with one of your residents—Mrs. Forrestina Campbell.”
Sue flipped the page. “Down the hall on your left, all the way t’ the end, door on the right,” she droned. “Hope you’ve had your shots.”
Betty resisted all her Southern instincts to be polite and say thank you. Instead, she turned on her heel and stalked off down the hallway.
“You’re welcome,” Sue called after her, sounding irritated.
“Kiss my Bundt cake,” Betty muttered under her breath. She wondered why everyone in this place was so hateful about Forrestina. She refused to believe the woman could be so bad—Murray’s brief wander down memory lane in his office had been tinged with grudging admiration and a little affection. But then, he’d also made that comment about rattlers, so maybe there was a good reason for all the snide remarks she’d heard from the staff. Still, Betty was resolved to give Forrestina a fair shake and make up her own mind.
At the very end of the narrow hallway, she found a door with a faded purple construction-paper sign taped to it. On the paper, written in blocky black marker letters, were the names “Campbell and Lyons.” She knocked tentatively. Nervousness, combined with the overwhelming smell of the Pine-Sol used to wash the cheap vinyl floors, made her feel a little sick to her stomach.
“Enter!” a gravelly voice called out. Betty pushed the door open and stuck her head into the room. “Ms. Campbell?” she said. “I’m Betty McLaughlin, from the paper, and—”
“I know, I know. You’re here to do a story about me. Well, come in. You’re letting all the air conditioning out.” The woman cackled at a joke Betty didn’t get; it was artificially freezing in the hall. She wondered why the AC was on so high in April. It was just starting to warm up outside, and every elderly person she’d known was always colder rather than warmer. She stepped into the room and noted a diminutive woman in the single bed closest to the door lying curled on her side under a thin beige cotton blanket, her body barely substantial enough to make a shape under the covers. She did not react to Betty’s presence but simply stared with blank, faded eyes. Another woman, obviously the one who had invited her in, said, “Don’t mind Ethel. She’s out of it most of the time.”
