The Tobacco Wives: A Novel

One

My mother woke me in the dead of night again. I felt her standing over my bed, the heat of a flashlight on my face.

Maddie, get up.

I tried to wake, but stay asleep too, fighting with myself in some in-between place. She paced back and forth, arguing under her breath with an imaginary someone.

I wondered what the matter was this time. Surely it couldn’t be worse than what she did last Sunday.

Get up, and come with me, she’d said that night. It was four in the morning and her green eyes were wild. She’d rushed me onto my feet, the wood floor cool and in need of sweeping, gritty under my toes. I need your help, she’d said, her voice urgent.

I still had a sore spot on my arm where she’d grabbed me in that moment, dragging me into the living room. I thought maybe I had left my sketchbook and dress patterns out, that I was in for it. Then I saw the living room and understood it wasn’t my mess she was worried over; she’d made one of her own. Momma had stacked up clothes and Daddy’s model airplanes, paintings, and pictures. There were novels with their spines bent back and photographs ripped into little pieces, an unruly pile smack in the middle of the room.

We have to get rid of all your father’s things . . . all of them.

Momma had hauled the outdoor trash can inside, the heavy metal one, leaving a wet, brown trail on the carpet.

Why? I asked, tears in my eyes at the sight of Daddy’s belongings strewn around so careless. Why would we do that?

My father’s undershirts were stacked on the worn cushion of his favorite wingback. His hat lay on the floor next to the wooden kit he propped his foot on to shine his shoes. I loved the gasoline smell of his shoe polish and the brisk sound of the brush when he buffed his boots to a high gleam. I reached out to rescue it, to save the memory of my daddy, but Momma gave my hand a smack.

I’m the mother and you do as I say.

The mother. She always said it that way. Like she needed to remind me—or maybe herself—of her place.

When Daddy died last fall, Momma took to her bed for months. At first I thought she’d come down with a bad flu. I wiped her brow with cool washcloths and set steaming mugs of honey lemon tea at her bedside. I sat with her through the long days, making sure she was still breathing. But she wasn’t sick, least her body wasn’t. Finally, she came out of hibernation, and over the last few weeks, had barely slept at all. She was real alert when darkness came, pacing, scribbling notes in a steno pad, and waking me to join her.

Flashlight in hand she’d jolt me out of bed in the middle of the night to tell me that she had to move on, that she had to find a new husband to pay the bills. She couldn’t very well court a suitor with reminders of Daddy lying around the house, now could she?

I’d started hiding things from her after the fire. Not just possessions, feelings too. On the night we burned what was left of Daddy’s belongings, I’d hidden his pin and Grandpa Sykes’s pocket watch in my sewing satchel, where I kept my sketchbook, fabric swatches, and patterns. All the secret things I didn’t want Momma getting her hands on were in there, including my stash of cigarettes and all my money: six dollars and change I’d earned sewing house dresses and mending hand-me-downs for the neighbors.

Your father left us, Maddie! Momma had shouted the night of the fire, grabbing her wedding photograph. The edge of the metal frame scraped her arm, causing a red line to bloom up through her skin.

Momma, you cut yourself.

She didn’t seem to hear me. There was no talking to her when she got like this.

Three years I waited for him to come home, she said, tossing the picture in the metal trash can with a clank. Three years of waiting for him to make good on his word. ‘I promise, honey’ he said, ‘when this war is over we’ll move out of Haywood Holler, get away from the smell and find a nice house up on Pine Mountain.’ I promise. Hmph. Well promises are cheap. Now we can hardly afford this place.

Momma always complained about the smell of the paper mill. I’ll be damned if I’m gonna live out the rest of my days next to that stench, she’d say. Our whole town stank like rotten eggs from the heat and chemicals they used to pulp wood chips into paper, but Daddy had worked there. All the other daddies too. Didn’t that count for something?

You don’t know what you’re talking about, she’d said, when I told her the good outweighed the bad, that without the paper factory, Daddy wouldn’t have a job. But she didn’t listen to me. She sure didn’t listen the night of the fire. He can’t help his plane got shot down. He didn’t want to die, I’d said, trying to defend Daddy, trying to pull things from the pile, trying to make sense of it all. He was going to make a better life for us and all, Momma. He was answering the call of duty.

She sneered at this, her face turning ugly. He didn’t get called up, Maddie. He volunteered. I begged him not to go and he left us anyway.

Momma’s words were a hard slap. Daddy told me he got drafted. I’d wondered at the time why he didn’t have a draft card. Most men showed theirs with pride, but not daddy. He acted funny every time I asked, and now I knew why. He never got one. Still, it was hard to believe. Why would he leave me? Her I could understand, but not me.

Momma shook my shoulder again, startling me out of my dark memory. Are you getting up? Put your coat on over your nightgown, she said, brandishing the flashlight like a gun.

She had never laid a hand on me. Momma loved me, I knew that, and I loved her too, but something in her died with Daddy. She wasn’t who she used to be, and neither was I. It was like we didn’t know how to act, now that there was just the two of us. Like we didn’t know how to fill the space he’d left behind.

Maddie, are you even listening? Dammit girl, you’re always off someplace else.

She was right about that. I got away from here in my mind anytime I could, any way I could. Sketching helped. Sewing helped the most. When I was stitching or hemming, dreaming up new designs, the hours would just disappear. All my problems would melt away. I didn’t have to think about Momma or the empty chair at the dinner table. It was just me and the needle making the thread go where I told it to go.

I squinted. Can you get that out of my eyes?

Don’t get smart with me, she snapped, and pulled back the covers with a cool whoosh. The mountain nights were chilly in June, even though most days it warmed up to scorching by noon. She threw her suitcase and my navy peacoat on the bed.

Why do I need a winter coat? Where are we going?

Get your kerchief on and your saddle shoes, the new ones. I’ll finish packing, she said.

She yanked dresses from my closet and threw them in the suitcase, just grabbed them by the hems and pulled, the wooden hangers falling with a clatter. I’d cut and sewed every last piece of my wardrobe myself, and here was Momma casting my dresses about as if they were rags. I wanted to shout at her, tell her to be careful, but I knew better than to say anything when she was like this.

I escaped to the washroom, locking the door and turning on the light. Momma’s new rule to stop using electricity didn’t make a lick of sense to me. Batteries for the flashlight cost more than the light bill. Not to mention she didn’t mind spending a pretty penny on lipstick and rouge.

I studied my face in the mirror, smoothed my auburn curls. My hair was thick and shiny, but always a bit wild. I was forever trying to tame it, to wrestle the whole mess into a victory roll like Rita Hayworth, but there was no use. My hair was just like Daddy’s. My eyes were too. Ice blue, just like his.

Maddie! my mother shouted, banging on the door so hard it shook on its hinges. We’re leaving. And what did I tell you about the lights?

I fumbled with my kerchief, folded it in a big triangle, and lined it up along my hairline. It was damp from last night’s rinse.

Coming! I answered, tying it at the base of my neck and tucking in the tail.

Momma had loved to run her fingers through Daddy’s thick red hair. It was striking, she said, a color all his own. When he left for basic training, she made him promise to save a few locks when he got his buzz cut. She wanted to keep them in an envelope with my strawberry-colored baby ones. Then Daddy stopped writing and the telegram arrived. After that, my hair became a painful reminder. Cover your head, she had said sharply. You look just like him.

Momma was waiting for me outside the washroom door. Put this on, she said, handing my peacoat to me.

It was going to be itchy against my bare arms, but I did as she said. Where are we going? I asked her again.

You’ll see, she said. She placed the suitcase on the floor and fastened my coat, her pink nails clicking against the buttons. It’s for the best. Really it is. She paused and looked at me sweetly, a bit of her old self coming through. She held my face in her hands and kissed me on the forehead. You’ll see, baby.

I followed Momma out back, the screen door slamming behind us. I could barely see the stone path to the driveway.

Our yard still smelled from last Sunday’s bonfire, but sweet too, because she’d thrown the dried eucalyptus on last.

The sounds of night were loud and powerful around me, an owl hooting in the distance and the big pines swaying with the wind, making that rushing-hushing sound I so loved.

The car was already running in the driveway, and Momma told me to sit in back so I could stretch myself out and sleep.

You’re wasting gas leaving the car running, Momma, I said. You won’t let me turn on a lamp, but you’ll gladly burn up a gallon of gasoline without a second thought. It’s not fair.

Life’s not fair, Maddie. Get in.

She heaved the suitcase onto the passenger seat up front and got behind the wheel.

Wait! I said, before sliding into the backseat. I have to go to the bathroom.

Good lord, girl, you just came out of there. Hurry up.

I ran back into the house and felt my way down the hall to my bedroom. I pulled my blanket aside and slid my hand between the mattress and box spring, tugging my sewing satchel from its hiding place. I checked the secret pocket for Daddy’s pin. The metal was cool and smooth except for the raised words lieutenant sykes, 82nd airborne. It looked brand-new, not a scratch on it.

Right before Daddy shipped out, at the end of October of 1943—I remember the month on account of my birthday being November first and we celebrated early—he put the pin on me and let me order him around.

At your service, Lieutenant Madeline Sykes. He saluted me. Private Daddy Sykes reporting for duty. Your wish is my command.

I giggled as he marched up and down the living room and let me take a tiny sip—my first ever—of his frosty Budweiser. I was only twelve at the time, but it was just a little foam, and we were careful to make sure Momma didn’t see.

The horn honked. I quickly tucked the bag under my coat and ran back to the car before Momma could wake up the whole neighborhood.

Are you ready now?

Yes, I said, slamming the car door and scooting across the backseat. Are you going to tell me where we’re going? I can’t be seen like this. My nightgown was so thin you could practically see through it.

Quit complaining. Momma lit a cigarette and shifted the gear to D with her same hand. Anyway, you can change later.

Now that we had an automatic, Momma loved to drive. We got it when Daddy came into good money before the war, a used Buick, light blue like the Tar Heels. He had left the paper mill six months before he shipped out to work on the Blue Ridge Parkway roads project. The days pouring asphalt were hot, but the pay was good. He wanted to make sure we had a reliable car while he was gone.

As we drove out into the night, I thought maybe we were just going to ride around the Parkway again. We’d driven on the smooth, new road before, always in the middle of the night, the only ones snaking around hairpin turns until we got to the top of Beaucatcher Mountain. I felt bad about using more than our share of gas on these drives, but when I reminded Momma about the rationing, she said this family’s sacrificed plenty. Then her voice went from harsh to soft. It helps me feel close to your daddy, she’d said. Driving up here.

The last time we’d done it, we’d reached the highest overlook just as the sun was coming up. Momma pulled the car over onto the gravel shoulder and we walked to a rock at the edge overlooking the valley.

Isn’t it beautiful, Maddie? Momma said. There were tears in her eyes. I’m sorry, honey. I haven’t been myself lately. Your momma’s not perfect, but she sure does love you. You know that, don’t you?

She hugged me tight, the smell of tobacco and lemon drops on her breath. Sure, Momma, I said and hugged her back, but not as freely as I used to.

This time we weren’t going up the mountain, we were headed down. My ears popped as we zigzagged our way to the bottom, leaving the Blue Ridge Mountains and Haywood Holler behind. I rolled the window down and leaned my head out, the wind pounding against my ears, making that noise that comes and goes, comes and goes. It smelled of pine and the air was damp, misty. I took my kerchief off and closed my eyes, the wind whipping my hair against my face.

Momma seemed different when she drove, happy even, almost like her old self before she started arguing with Daddy about shipping off. She used to hum while she cooked dinner. I loved to watch her float around the kitchen with a spatula in one hand and a cigarette in the other. She’d let the ash get so long, I was sure it was going to fall in my supper. Daddy said it wouldn’t hurt me if it did.

Hell, it’s good for you, Shug. It’ll put hair on your chest. He laughed.

Daddy, that’s disgusting!

Jack, really? Momma said, turning to smile and point her spatula at him. What am I going to do with you?

I’ll show you later, he teased, then walked over and smacked her on the behind.

The radio station cut in and out as we made our way down the mountain. Momma flipped around a bit and finally locked into a new channel. A woman was speaking, her voice high and clear, like a bell.

Say, what’s that lovely scent, Jane? asked the radio actress.

Oh, it’s MOMints, the new, mild cigarette that’s coming out soon. It’s made right here in Bright Leaf.

"Made in North Carolina for North Carolina, said a second voice, this one low and sultry. My doctor suggested I try them. Did you know that according to a statewide survey, more doctors recommend MOMints for their female patients than any other cigarette brand? Only MOMints are made with North Carolina bright leaf tobacco and mint oil to calm our fragile nerves, which means they’re great for expectant mothers—and also for brand-new ones, just like you, Carol! Here, you must try one!"

There was a pause, followed by the sizzle of a match being lit, and then a long, slow exhale. The first actress sighed with pleasure.

Oh, Jane, you are absolutely right. A MOMint is exactly what I needed!

New MOMints, said the two voices in unison. Coming soon. Because every woman deserves a moment to herself.

After a beat of dead air, an announcer came on and read news about the troops coming home. Eastern North Carolina’s boys will be among the last to return, he began.

Return. What a sad word that turned out to be.

Momma quickly flipped the channel. I was glad she did.

Maddie, roll up that window and lie down, Momma said. You best rest up before we get there.

She still hadn’t told me where we were going, but I knew we were leaving home, heading east.

I didn’t get it. I didn’t get it at all. School had just let out for the summer and I was hoping to earn some extra money working. Mary Landis had four little ones and needed someone to help with the youngest a few hours a day and do some repairs on the clothing. If I did a good job for her maybe she would suggest me to her friends. I could make curtains and hem skirts and take in dresses. And Mr. Evans at the paper store had let me put a sign that listed my services in his window. I had gotten a few small jobs from that already. Just this week, I had talked it all over with my friend April. She was going to work in the diner covering the lunch rush and would earn tips on top of her hourly pay. We’d both have money to spend during the summer and could go to the movies or buy magazines. And I’d give some to Momma, of course, to help with the bills.

As I thought about my plan, I wondered where we were going and why I was the only one with a suitcase. I was about to ask Momma again, but before I could get the words out she turned the music up loud.

When your heart aches, when you fear it may break,

believe that it isn’t so

The sun will still rise, wipe the tears from your eyes

And smile pretty, my darling dear.

Two

Aunt Etta was the best professional seamstress in all tobacco country, just about anyone would tell you so. She learned the basics from her mamaw when she was just a girl, then she got really good by studying Vogue magazine and the works of her favorite designers, Coco Chanel and Claire McCardell. Aunt Etta told me all about how Coco Chanel thought women should be able to dress like men if they wanted, and how Claire McCardell thought that clothes should be practical. If not for them, we’d still be wearing corsets, she had told me.

I was eight when Momma and Daddy first let me visit Aunt Etta on my own, and every summer since, they would send me to Bright Leaf for three glorious weeks in August. We’d drive halfway there to the Texaco station off the highway near Monroe, where we’d meet Aunt Etta. I still remember how I could hardly sleep the night before that first trip. I rose early to the smell of pancakes and Daddy standing over the stove, flipping golden brown flapjacks in his undershirt and work pants.

Morning, Shug, he said, ruffling my hair and pointing for me to sit. Excited?

Before I could answer, Momma appeared in the doorway. Well, you two are up early. I don’t suppose there’s any coffee left for me? She was always saying things like that, acting like we were leaving her out. We couldn’t help it if we loved going to Aunt Etta’s. She was Daddy’s aunt and all the family he had left. To me, she was like a grandmother, though I’d never known any of my grandparents, so I am just guessing. She taught me to sew and helped me develop my talent. Truth is, once I started spending summers there on my own, there was no place else I’d rather be.

I woke up in the backseat of our Buick and the first thing I saw was that big red Texaco star. I knew then that we must be meeting Aunt Etta. This was the first time at the Texaco since Daddy died. Before Daddy had gone off to war, he always drove and always insisted on paying for Aunt Etta’s gas and giving her money for our sweet tea too. He was a gentleman like that. Plus, Aunt Etta had often taken care of Daddy when he was a boy, and he liked to find ways to show his gratitude.

This would be the first time seeing Aunt Etta since she came to stay with Momma and me for the week after Daddy’s service, and I felt a fresh wave of sadness. I wondered if it would always be like this, the pain rearing its head with every first.

I stretched my neck, looking around the gas station. It hurt something awful from sleeping in the backseat. There was no sign of Aunt Etta or her car either, just Momma and the same station attendant as ever, grinning and smoking a cigar.

Gus always gave Momma an oil change for free. She’d say oh, she couldn’t possibly, but well, if you insist. Then she’d remind him to check the wiper fluid and antifreeze. Oh, and could he spare one of those ice-cold Pepsis and a few peanut butter crackers?

Men were forever giving Momma special treatment, watching her in that hungry way. I tried to tell her that she shouldn’t be flirting like that, but Momma just said I didn’t understand the way the world worked.

A lady has to use her assets. You best learn that if you want to go anywhere in life. I thought Momma’s flirting was disrespectful to Daddy when he was alive; it bothered me even more now that she was on the hunt to replace him. Not a year since he had passed and she was already fixing for some strange man to sleep on Daddy’s side of the bed. She shouldn’t be doing that and I told her as much the last time she brought a fella around, but she just shushed me and said I was gonna ruin her chance at happiness.

Now Momma was over by the gas pump, making eyes at Gus, and throwing her head back to laugh at whatever dumb joke he was telling. I knocked on the window, hard. They turned to me, and I waved at her to come over. She tapped Gus on the shoulder and giggled again, then walked over to my side of the car.

I rolled down the window. What’s going on, Momma? Is Aunt Etta coming to meet us? I said, slinking down in the seat so Gus wouldn’t see me.

Momma examined her pink nails for a moment and then said, Well no, not exactly. We’re driving the whole way ourselves this time.

But why are we going now, when it’s her busy time? I’ll be in her way.

Aunt Etta sewed for lots of folks in Bright Leaf, rich and poor alike. But she really made her money in June and July sewing custom dresses and gowns for the women she called the tobacco wives. The wives were married to the richest, most powerful men in Bright Leaf, the ones who owned the fields, the drying barns, the cigarette factory, practically the whole town.

All June and July Aunt Etta cut and sewed, fitted and flitted from mansion to mansion, getting the wives ready for their summer festivals and garden parties and galas.

On occasion, I would get a glimpse of these women from afar when Aunt Etta took me into town. It was a thrill to see them strolling down the town’s sidewalks in their wide-brim cartwheel hats and fitted suits or shirtwaist dresses, their hourglass silhouettes like Hollywood starlets.

My first summer staying with Aunt Etta, I’d actually met one of them. I’d never seen a tobacco wife up close before, and this one—Mrs. Winston—was even doing her own shopping. Most of the wives sent their maids to buy their produce and select the best cuts of meat, but not Mrs. Winston. Aunt Etta said she was very particular about the meals she served on her long mahogany table. She had a reputation for being the best hostess in town.

That day in the butcher shop, Mrs. Winston wore a shirtwaist dress, short white gloves, and a green hat with yellow and white sunflowers on the side. Her skin was porcelain white and she moved with elegance and grace, like a trained dancer. When she reached the front of the line at the counter, she spoke to the butcher like he was a personal friend. I’ll have that roast on the con-ah, darlin’, she said in an accent so honeyed that it drowned out the rs in corner and the g on darling too.

Mrs. Winston caught sight of us then, tucked her pocketbook neatly under her arm, and made her way over to where we stood.

Good morning, Etta. Don’t you look lovely today. And who is this precious angel traveling with you? she said, bending down and placing her hand under my chin. A bracelet with charms hanging from it jingled lightly. The air above her wrist was scented with rosewater.

Aunt Etta introduced us, and I smiled and blushed. After a few minutes of small talk, with me answering Mrs. Winston’s questions as politely and carefully as I could, she glanced at her watch.

Will you look at the time? she said. I’m late for Garden Club, but it was wonderful to see you both. I do hope you enjoy your visit, Miss Maddie. She undid the smart gold clasp on her purse and pulled out two crinkle-wrapped pieces of butterscotch, which she pressed into my hand with a wink. Then she was gone.

It was a rare treat to encounter a tobacco wife in real life. I was used to admiring their magnificent clothing hanging on the racks at Aunt Etta’s house, ready for an update or repair, or still in fabric pieces on the worktable like a fancy jigsaw puzzle just waiting to be put together. There were evening gowns and smart Sunday suits with shoulder pads sewn in; broad-brimmed hats for day; sequined fascinators for Friday and Saturday nights; floaty tea party dresses with wide bell skirts; and even swimsuits. Last summer, all the wives wanted polka-dot bathing suits just like Ava Gardner, and my clever aunt stitched up every last one. Even the ladies who were past their prime were asking for an Ava two-piece. Miss Gardner was a North Carolina native, so her fame must have felt especially personal to the women of Bright Leaf. It made sense that they would claim a kinship with her, that they would feel as if they had the right to imitate her. She might have been an international movie star, but she was still one of them, practically speaking.

Come August, the busy season was over and Aunt Etta could get back to working on uniforms for the factory workers at the tobacco plant, mending things for regular folk, and planning for the tobacco wives’ fall and winter parties. That’s when I would show up.

It was the same every year. When the last bell rang in June, I’d race out of school, glad for freedom and the warm days ahead. There was always something to do in the Holler—swimming at the quarry with April, bike riding, trying out a new dress pattern, or reading a Nancy Drew book on the porch. Before Daddy joined the service, he surprised me and Momma one summer with a Monopoly game. We’d spread the board out on the table after the dinner dishes were cleared and the three of us would play for hours in the cool evening air. Momma always picked the car for her game piece and I was the thimble, of course. Daddy alternated between the cannon and the top hat. Momma bought the most expensive properties. Boardwalk and Park Place were her favorites. Poor Daddy always seemed to land on them and he’d have to pay dearly. Momma got a real kick out of that.

But for the most part, the long summer days were spent practicing my stitching and sketching. Always in the back of my mind would be Aunt Etta’s encouraging voice. When I had first started helping her, my job had been to pin the uniform patterns on fabric for her to cut out. But slowly I graduated to hems and darts, then cutting the pieces myself. Two summers