The Architecture of the Arkansas Ozarks - Donald Harington [151]
Bevis was embarrassed by this useless activity and was afraid that somebody might come and see it and spread the word around the village that Emelda Ingledew had slipped a cog. He realized, however, because he could read her mind, that she couldn’t stop. He knew also that she had given an individual name to each and every one of the dolls, from Abella to Zona for the females and from Aaron to Zuriel for the males. Furthermore, each of the dolls had a distinct personality, and in the dreams they shared at night these dolls began interpersonal relationships, usually of a happy manner that managed to crowd out many of their unpleasant nightmares. There were so many dolls that Bevis and Emelda might not have had any nightmares at all but for the fact that it was a drought year and the crops were failing and John Ingledew had no money to lend them even if he were willing to, which he was not, and Uncle Willis could not extend their credit at the store, and Aunt Drussie was unable to furnish them a free dinner at her hotel, and the only way they could eat at all was for their sons to go down to the bank of Swains Creek each night with a lantern and fish for a mess of catfish, which were always easy to catch after dark, until the Ingledews had caught and eaten them all. They went hungry for four days and then the boys asked permission from their mother to eat a couple of her cornhusk dolls, but Emelda was shocked at the thought of what would amount to cannibalism to her, and could not permit it. Since all of them had given up work, they sat most of the day on the store porch, slightly consoled by listening to Uncle Tearle make jokes about the futility of life. Out of compassion Uncle Willis gave them a can of Vienna sausages; they each had one and saved the rest for breakfast. Surely, otherwise, they would have starved.
One day a fancy automobile, in fact a Cadillac Four-Passenger Sport Phaeton with its top down, came into Stay More and drove around. The passengers were tourists, two ladies and two gentlemen, all wearing baggy knickers, golf hose and bow ties. They did not stop nor get out. They looked at the buildings and pointed at the people, and drove on. When they passed Bevis Ingledew’s house, one of the women shouted “Stop!” to the man driving, and he applied his brakes. “Look at that,” said the woman to her companions, pointing at Emelda Ingledew, who was sitting on the porch in her rocker, making a corn-husk doll named Romola. She was applying the finishing touch: a gingham sunbonnet. “I want one of those, Harry,” the woman said to her companion, and Harry dutifully opened the door of the Sport Phaeton and stepped out, extracting his wallet.
“How much?” he said to Emelda, gesturing at the cornhusk doll.
“Huh?” she replied, never having suspected that anyone would attach a cash value to a cornhusk doll, any more than to a human life.
“That,” he said, clearly aiming his index finger at the doll. “It. Whatever. You sell? Me pay.”
“I never sold one afore,” she informed him.
“Fifty cents? A dollar?” he bargained.
“My lands,” Emelda said, “it aint but some cornshucks and scraps of flour sacks.”
“Harry!” called the woman from the car. “Louise says that she wants one too!”
“You got any more of them?” Harry asked Emelda.
“Aw, shore,” Emelda admitted. “House is full of ’em. You want a he-doll or a she-doll?”
“Louise,” Harry called to the car, “do you want a boy dolly or a girlie?”
“Oh, get one of each, Harry!” Louise said, and the other woman said, “For me too!”
Harry held up four fingers to Emelda; she went into Bevis’s room and got two male dolls, then into her room for another female.
“How much?” he asked her again.
“Whate’er ye think they’re worth,” she said modestly.
“Four bits apiece?” he offered, and laid two one-dollar bills in her hand.
“Thank ye kindly,” she said, and Harry took the dolls to the Sports Phaeton and gave a pair to each of the ladies.
The ladies