Splendora, a novel,

A small town in East Texas near Louisiana

It was the hottest day anyone could remember; around July, near August; yes, that was it, on one of those July-near-August days, each the hottest on record, the starting up of dog days when the old-timers claimed that the creeks, those that had not already gone dry, were poisoned on account of the weather; claimed that water stagnated in the heat, foamed over with summer breathing hard down the neckline, “The hottest breath ever,” Esther Ruth Coldridge would have said had she lived just a little longer; the hottest because it marked the middle-going-on-the-last part of summer; yes then, on one of those hot July-near-August days when the creeks were dried up or nearly, the swamps were parched and cracked, and every drop of ground water there was had already evaporated and was holding up in the air so the town of Splendora seemed to be enclosed inside a blister, that day, and there were many like it that time of year, but that day, that particular one, Miss Jessie Gatewood arrived on the afternoon train.

She had come to assume her post as the town’s librarian, although there was no library building and no real library as such, only a battered-up school bus with shelves. She had come as the librarian of the school bus, had been hired by mail, through advertisements in educational periodicals and city papers. She had applied and was accepted and arrived looking like what she thought was expected of her, Miss Jessie Gatewood, director and driver and organizer of the new bus-bookmobile-soon-to-be, just purchased and waiting for someone with the know how.

She had gotten up early that morning and boarded the train in New Orleans where she had lived for many years. French Quarter nuns were chanting their way to early mass as she hurried through the narrow streets. She forced her way through their procession, got a head of them in a hurry, and disappeared into an alley that opened into a green courtyard where her landlady lived. She deposited her apartment keys in the mailbox, and on perfumed stationery penned a fast note:

Dear heart,

Thank you for your expression of confidence.

As ever,

Jessica Gatewood (Miss)

“Thank the Lord I had the presence of mind to send my bags to the station last evening,” she said to herself as she hurried once again into the narrow street and was trapped behind the same procession of singing sisters. Happily she turned a corner and left them behind; made her way as fast as possible toward Canal Street. Her eyes caught every clock along the way and made mental note of the discrepancy in time. “I must not be late as there is only one train that can take me there,” she reminded herself, and, in spite of her lack of time, she paused for a few moments to admire herself in a shop window. Her reflection was pale, like a wraith, for she was wearing a dress of white eyelet through which could be seen all the furniture in the antique shop, Victorian furniture.

“It’s my very favorite period,” she had been known to say, just as though no one could tell by looking. That morning she had dressed beyond her thirty-three years in order to meet the town’s and the committee’s approval. She was well aware that her hemline fell halfway below her knees and a little farther still for good measure. She was secure in her dress of white eyelet over mint green cut with leg-o’-mutton sleeves, a high neckline, and trimmed with white silk ribbons here and there. She was almost a vision of white except for the green underskirt showing faintly through the eyelet. Her friend Magnolia had designed the dress and had carefully chosen the accessories: white silk, sweet-scented gloves, flowers at her throat, a pocket watch on a gold chair around her neck, and a white sash tied about her waist, giving to her dress a slightly blousy effect, so right for her role, she thought. From her elbow dangled a white linen bag, so practical for traveling, and on her wrist hung a beaded reticule inside which she carried a white lace handkerchief, her cosmetics, and a few cigarettes she had no intention of smoking in public. Her lace-up shoes with one inch heels gave her the feeling of a matron, and her gold wire-rimmed glasses and Gibson-girl hair were just the right touches for a country librarian still living in days gone by.

How glad she was to be leaving the city. For the longest time she had dreamed of being able to live in a country town.

On Canal Street she boarded a trolley for a short ride to Lee Circle where she got off and walked the rest of the way to the train station. It was still early. A mist was rising off the Mississippi River and covering the city, “as though it is some poisonous vapor intent on trapping me here forever,” she said to herself, fumbling in her purse for the ticket.

Fortunately she had thought to carry along a variety of things to occupy her mind on the long trip: a book of Victorian verse, a hoop of embroidery, a traveler’s dictionary bound in leather, a box of assorted candies, a thesaurus, and someone to accompany her the entire way: Timothy John Coldridge.

They were almost inseparable.