Miss Amy

The land was flat. And to a girl who had lived her whole life in the mountains of north Georgia, almost scary flat like it had somehow gotten out of its assigned place somewhere in Kansas or Nebraska and wandered off, and not being able to find its way home, established itself in the northwestern part of Mississippi. Its flatness was broken only by the trees growing along the creeks and swampy areas which served as the only real dividers between the vast fields of cotton and soybeans.

This was "The Delta," and even though I'd seen it before, the first sight of its broad expanse as the road suddenly dropped off the escarpment of the central hills brought the same feeling to the pit of my stomach that it had four years earlier.

Only a month ago I had been a college student, but now I was a graduate and on my way to Greenville and my first "real" job. As I drove westward on a straight road with little traffic, my thoughts wandered to that summer and my first visit to the Delta.

My college roommate was a lifelong resident of this flat country. She insisted that I come and spend a week with her during the summer after our freshman year. This first visit turned into an annual event during our college years. One summer I made a contact which eventually resulted in a job offer and now here I was about to begin a career in business.

But that first visit seemed more special than the rest. I suppose it was because everything and everybody was new and I was doing everything for the first time. We slept late and then spent a goodly portion of each day in or around the pool at the country club. There was a social event of some kind almost every night as Christy's friends seemed to compete for the privilege of having a party with me as the guest of honor. I'd be lying if I said I didn't enjoy all the attention.

But these local parties paled into insignificance when compared to the Delta Ball on Saturday evening forty miles away in Greenville. Young people from all over the Delta-- even from as far away as Vicksburg--were there. You see, anybody that is anybody in the Delta knows everybody that's somebody socially speaking, that is.

All the social events had been pleasant, but my mind passed over them quickly, much like a brief ray of sunlight flashing across the landscape during an afternoon thunderstorm. My thoughts came to rest on the visit with Miss Amy. She was dead now. Died during our junior year during mid-term exams. She was a person I knew I'd never forget.

Just to have something to do that summer, Christy was doing volunteer work at her church. One of her assignments was to visit the older members, many of whom were shut-ins. During the week of my stay, she had a mid-afternoon visit scheduled with Miss Amy, and she invited me to go along. I was torn between the visit and the country club pool or really the two boys I'd met who were home from Ole Miss for the summer. Finally, loyalty to Christy won out. However, I almost changed my mind when Christy informed me that we'd have to wear dresses rather than the shorts I'd become so comfortable with. "No one would think of visiting Miss Amy without being dressed properly," Christy said with a "proper" almost snob-like tone in her voice.
I pulled a dress out but balked at pantyhose. Christy just shrugged as she pulled hers on and observed, "Maybe Miss Amy won't notice and even if she does, she'll be too much of a lady to point it out." I wondered to myself just what kind of prudish Victorian I was going to see and steeled myself for a long, boring afternoon.

As we drove out to Miss Amy's plantation, Christy filled me in on some of her background. The plantation had been in the family since the early 1800s. Miss Amy was the last of the direct line. She had never married, and had outlived all her brothers and sisters. The best people could figure, she was somewhere in her upper eighties, but no one really knew for sure, and she was not about to tell anyone. And it would be highly improper to ask a lady her age.

Her closest kin were two nephews who ran the 2000-acre spread for her. Upon her death, the place would undoubtedly pass to them. They had built homes close to the large antebellum house in which she still lived.
"Well, here we are," said Christy as she turned the car off the main road onto a graveled lane bounded by two rows of magnolias. Their branches intertwined overhead, which gave one the feeling of driving through a green, leafy tunnel. Only glimpses of the house were visible until we cleared the last pair of magnolias. I let out a gasp as the house, no, the mansion suddenly loomed over us. Scarlett's Tara could not have been more impressive--two tall stories with large columns in front, a red-ribbed metal roof, a shorter wing on one side, a large ell at the rear, surrounded by stately trees that seemed to hold the house prisoner in the embrace of their branches.
As we got out of the car, Christy said, "You'll have to give her your full name. Bev won't do. Miss Amy won't use nicknames or shortened names. Doesn't think that's proper." No one ever called me Beverly Jean except my mother when she was exasperated with me, and I wasn't exactly thrilled by being addressed this way by a total stranger, but I determined to endure everything with as much grace as I could muster.

Before we got across the wide porch, the large screen door was swung open by a tall black man who had obviously been awaiting our arrival.

"Good day, Miss Christine. Y'all come right on in."
"Thank you, Roosevelt. It's nice to see you again."
Roosevelt wore a starched white shirt, black bow tie, dark trousers, and highly polished black shoes. The graying at the temples, the erect posture, and the manner in which he moved conveyed the message that he had been serving in this capacity for many years.

"Y'all come into de parlor while I get Miss Amy. She's spectin' y'all."

He ushered us across the entry hall through a large set of pocket doors into the left front room. After we were seated, he disappeared down the hall toward the rear of the house.

My eyes took a minute or two to adjust from the bright sunlight to the dim interior. No lamps were on. Light was provided by the large windows which were all open, as were the pocket doors between each room. A breeze moved through the house, making it surprisingly cool.

Roosevelt soon returned, escorting Miss Amy. She was a small, slender woman whose step and manner belied her years. Her white hair was done up in a bun at the nape of her neck and her eyes were framed by gold-rimmed spectacles. She wore no makeup on a face that had few wrinkles. She wore a light gray, long-sleeved dress that came down to her ankles. From the way it stood out, I knew she had on more than one petticoat. Old-fashioned lace-up shoes completed the outfit.

"Why, Lillie Christine, how grown-up you're becoming. Thank you so much for coming to spend some time with me." As she spoke, Miss Amy took Christy's extended hand and clasped it into both of hers.

"It's wonderful to see you, Miss Amy," Christy replied. "You're looking great. I do believe you're getting younger."

"Oh, my goodness, girl. You shouldn't flatter a person like that." She dropped her eyes and may have even blushed slightly, but it was evident she enjoyed the compliment.
"Miss Amy, this is Beverly Jean, my roommate from college. She's visiting for a few days."

Miss Amy took my hand just as she had Christy's. Her hands were soft, but the grip was surprisingly strong. She seemed genuinely pleased that we had come to break the tedium of the long summer afternoon.

"Roosevelt, we will take our refreshments in the garden."
Roosevelt bowed slightly and disappeared down the hall.
Miss Amy led us through the house and out a rear door. A large flower garden took up about half of the large back yard. A brick walkway wound its way through the garden and ended at an elevated gazebo on the opposite side. It was shaded by three large oak trees.

As we were seating ourselves around the gazebo's table, Roosevelt came out through another door carrying a large tray. "I hope you girls like lemonade," said Miss Amy. "I had Essie Mae make some shortbread cookies to go with it." The homemade refreshments were both delicious and plentiful. As we ate, we chatted about a variety of subjects: Where I was from, and what it was like to live in the mountains, what it was like in college these days, how much the crops needed rain, the fire in town last month, the families who had weddings coming up that summer, who had died recently.

Since I had little to contribute to most of the topics, my mind began to wander. When we first sat down, I had noticed the ring. Except for the cameo pin at the collar of her dress, it was the only piece of jewelry Miss Amy wore. It was obviously a diamond, large and square-cut. I could not even begin to estimate its weight, but it had to be several carats. The setting was beautiful and old. There had to be a story behind such a ring. Had it been in the family for generations dutifully being passed down to the oldest daughter? Had it been brought from Europe? Had it been buried under the smokehouse during the Civil War? Had it been used as collateral to save the plantation during hard times?

As she was talking about the new discount store being built on the edge of town, Miss Amy caught me staring at her ring. She stopped talking and seemed to be inviting me to speak. I was so flustered at being caught that I didn't have the presence of mind to consider whether a comment on her ring might be too personal, so I blurted out, "Your ring is beautiful, Miss Amy. Has it been in your family for a long time?"

She did not seem offended by my question but did not answer immediately. Instead, she straightened her fingers, held her hand up at eye level, and turned it so that the ring sent flashes of light out in all directions. You could tell from the faraway focus in her eyes that she was revisiting an event of decades past. The look on her face was one I had seen on the faces of some of my friends who had recently been engaged. I knew what the story of the ring had to be! It was her engagement ring. But the wedding never came about. The young man had died tragically from an accident, or a dreaded disease, or in a war.

Miss Amy's eyes came back to the present and a rather impish look came on her face. Her mouth turned up slightly at the corners in a sly little grin; her eyes sparkled behind the gold rims and I thought I detected a slight wink as she spoke with a candor possessed only by the very young and very old.

"No, dear. You see, one day many years ago, I dropped my drawers at just the right time." 

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