Introduction

It is 1962, and Agnes Hayden Bashford, Haddie, a brainy Southern teen from a tradition-bound family, dreams of breaking free from suffocating expectations placed on girls and from Wicomico Corners. She vows to escape to the exhilarating world beyond its narrow borders, like her handsome, older friend Gideon Albright who is going to Vietnam. A series of shocking incidents brings the outside world crashing down on her peaceful village, exposing long-buried family secrets and setting Haddie on a collision course with an unstable firebrand who will have to silence her to protect his identity. Haddie witnesses the fatal shooting of a black teen by a white down-on-his-luck farmer trying to protect his retarded son. The resulting murder trial attracts outside agitators and political aspirants, and pits townspeople against each other. Excited about being a witness in the trial, Haddie sees her moment of notoriety dissolve into frustration and discomfort and tragedy claim the people around her. The racially-charged case exposes civic fault lines and secrets within Haddie's own family, shattering her comfortable home life, and unleashes an arsonist who terrorizes the community by night. In Deed So, a young girl and an entire town lose their innocence in the last year of innocence, the year before the Kennedy assassination, the civil rights struggle, feminist activism and the Vietnam War changed America forever.

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Excerpt

Chapter 1

I was a waitress for Christ. Recruited into the legions of church supper servers, who answered the call across the South every fall, I reported to our parish hall and delivered platter upon steaming platter of artery-choking victuals to appreciative suspender-slapping locals and city folk who came down in sleek motor coaches. I started when I was six. Child labor laws could not stand up to the will of Dixie's God.

We were Episcopalians and our specialties, offered for generations at our fall festival, were old ham, fried oysters and beaten biscuits. The Methodists did fried chicken and double-crust peach pie. The Catholics were famous for fried perch, new potato salad and deviled eggs. I do not know what the Baptists served because I was a white girl not allowed to go to their church suppers.

In Wicomico Corners, everybody knew everybody. Heck, you only needed to go up three rungs on your family tree to claim relation to half the county. People attended the same church their great-grandfathers had and dealt at the same general store. The county boasted two stoplights, one near the courthouse across from the war memorial and one at the main gate of the navy base. Doors were left unlocked. Chickens, dogs, children and the occasional escaped milk cow ran free.

This is the story of the year I graduated from Calvert Elementary, entered Chesapeake High, and nearly died. Chesapeake was a grade seven through twelve institution. In those days, Boards of Education approached schooling as one big swimming lesson: when you completed grade school, they threw you directly into high school, the social and sexual deep end, and you sank or swam under the predatory eye of upper classmen.

My name is Agnes Hayden Bashford, but since my great aunt Agnes was very much alive and using her moniker back then, everybody called me Haddie. I was twelve and a half and the brightest girl in my class. It was 1962 and the high school opened a new wing to accommodate the spit-polished offspring of the WWII victors. We were not yet called boomers, nor were we aware of our economic power or any other peculiar qualities apart from our ability to duck and cover. My father, a naval aviator during the war, instructed me in leadership, ham radio operation and ramrod posture, although my erect stature was impaired at the time by an ill-fitting training bra handed down from a cousin.

That summer I took catechism in the kitchen of the parish hall. Our class consisted of four of my cousins, the daughter of the head of the Altar Guild (to whom I was distantly related) and one black kid, Tiny Barber. Parishioners called Tiny the diocesan guinea pig, because he was the first in our parish to participate in an integrated catechism class. Chances are, I was related to Tiny too, but this was a subject discussed rarely by adults and only in whispers.

A precocious child, I fired questions at Reverend Harrison during those catechism lessons. For example, when Eve bit that apple and discovered Adam's nakedness and a bunch of other skinny she was not supposed to know, God considered her act so disobedient she deserved banishment. My beef was this: If the incident was so terrible wasn't Eden changed by her behavior? How could the place be the same with the principal residents shamed and in exile?

As far as I could see, the garden of perfection was as tainted as our vegetable patch the year of the blight. Paradise with a crack, a damaged porcelain plate pushed to the back of the china cabinet. Because I was an Eve apologist, I pointed out that flaws might make Eden more fun and a heck of a lot more exciting than Wicomico Corners. It was the only time I ever recall Reverend Harrison reduced to speechlessness. Despite my heretical postulations, I passed ecclesiastical muster and earned the right to sip wine every Sunday. I was almost an adult.

Our rural county slumbered on through that last peaceable summer, its population still just a hair over the headcount it boasted during the American Revolution, but change was coming. Not just the building of new schools for the science project generation. Not just the clamour for the new stoplight at Helena to slow down the big rigs from up north. Change was disturbing the stately trees and chasing the ebbing tide. We sensed it stalking us, all sinew and ferocity poised on big cat's paws, and believed it would saunter down our claustrophobic peninsula from the grand national beyond, trapping us between our two salty, unforgiving rivers. We did not see it crouching, claws sheathed, eyes slanted, waiting for its moment, in our own hearts.

Chapter 2

Our church supper was well underway when I saw Gideon Albright for the first time in over a year. We had filled the tables in the parish hall basement twice over by the time he arrived. I paused with a platter of fried oysters in one hand and bowl of fatback-flavored green beans in the other as I drank in the sight of him. Gideon's olive army slacks and khaki shirt set off his tanned skin and shoe-black hair, grown out slightly from its martial buzz cut. My old chess-playing pal was a man now.

Sarah Jane elbowed me in the spine as she sidled by juggling three baskets of biscuits. "What are ya waiting for? Hades to freeze over? You drop those oysters, you'll get what for."

I walked forward and placed the food on one of my assigned tables.

"Haddie, we're outta ham down here." Delbert Parsons pointed at the empty platter with a half-eaten biscuit that dripped melted butter on his double-wide fingers.

"Yes, sir. Right away." I leaned over Mrs. Parsons and retrieved the plate.

The All Saints parish hall would not be air-conditioned until 1975. The scent of perspiration mingled with talc wafted up from Mrs. Parson's person, but could not cover the smell of her husband's musty, sweat-stained and ancient Sunday-go-to-meeting suit.

Sailing back to the pickup window where platters of steaming food were lined up neater than our high school marching band, I passed close to my father, who was pouring boiling water from one part of the coffee and tea machine to the other. Because he was an engineer, Dad was steward of the ancient, temperamental contraption. He was the only person able to keep the thing functioning.

"Dad, Gideon's home."

"Glad to hear it. Don't get too close; the tea canister is threatening to boil over."

I grabbed a plate of old ham and a heaping dish of fried oysters, twirled on my sneakers and headed for the aisle, hoping Mr. Maxwell, our official seater, would place Gideon in my section.

As I handed Mr. Parsons the ham, Mr. Maxwell gestured to Gideon, indicating an empty seat at one of Jessie Mae Bell's tables. I waved, but neither Gideon nor our majordomo acknowledged me. How could Gideon even see me with the crush of people slapping the hero come home on the back? A determined patron yanked the oysters away from me.

Gideon was six years older than I was, but we had spent plenty of time together growing up. His home was one farm over, and he liked to take advantage of my parents' prodigious book collection. Besides, he enjoyed playing chess, and I was the only kid for miles who knew how to play. Unless it was the weekend and a grownup was free, he was stuck with me. He didn't complain too much. I was good, even beat him on occasion.

I longed to welcome him home and hear about the places he had been. As soon as I was able, I intended to leave Wicomico Corners, our impossibly boring, backward village, just as Gideon had done. He had been to Vietnam, a place I looked up on our atlas. I had a time finding it because people in the Corners called it "Veetnomb rhymes with bomb."

"Missy, we sure could use some more of them oysters." I turned to the stranger tugging at my apron. He was as round as a rain barrel with a neck the diameter of a basketball.

"Be right back, sir." Walking toward the kitchen, I stole a glance at Gideon over my shoulder. He rose to shake another hand, his napkin balled in his left fist. My throat caught and my cheeks great warm. I was conscious of my ill-fitting hand-me-down black skirt and frayed white blouse, a drab contrast with the festive clothing of the diners.

"Watch out, clumsy!"

I turned and was nose to chin number three of Miss Thelma Bridges' abundant prow.

"Sorry, Miss Thelma." I danced around her, brushing the large handbag dangling from her arm. Everybody knew she shoveled ham into her purse. Such behavior was strictly forbidden by the all-you-can-eat rules of Southern church supper protocol, but Reverend Harrison never stopped her. I guess he figured, the good Lord would put a halt to it soon enough, her being eighty-eight and all.

Sarah Jane Jarboe and I arrived at the pass-through counter at the same time.

"He sent me a postcard from Saigon." I blushed the minute I said it.

"What?" Sarah Jane pushed golden bangs away from her perspiring forehead. "Oh, you mean Gideon."

"It’s the capital of South Vietnam. That's where they sent him."

"Good thing, since he's a Southerner." Sarah Jane turned and wedged her way through a crush of waitresses muscling toward the counter.

Sarah Jane did not care a hoot for geography; if it wasn't on a 45-rpm record, my friend didn't pay it much mind. I grasped two plates, edged out of the way and swung toward the dining area. After depositing the food, I popped out the screen door onto the landing for a little fresh air.

On the crest of the rise, I spotted Uncle Hayden directing cars into wavy columns on the parish hall lawn with the assurance of a catapult officer on a carrier deck. Hayden Kent was not my uncle but rather my double first cousin, what you get when a sister and brother marry a brother and sister. Since he was my father's age and possessed the same heredity as an uncle, it was easier to call him that.

The lot was almost full, tour buses blocked my view of the rectory, but I could see the line of waiting diners snaking along the shady side of the hall. In reaction to the unseasonable warmth of this October day, the men shed their jackets, and someone had brought fans from our ample supply donated by local funeral homes and distributed them to the ladies. I hoped Dad's tea-brewing apparatus was holding up, because the iced beverage was going to be much in demand. We had our work cut out for us.

I returned to the interior and peeped through the back entrance to the kitchen. Cleo, the Maddox's Negro housekeeper, sat under a ceiling fan patting oysters, her bosom undulating as she tossed the encrusted bivalves from palm to expert palm. My mother, auburn hair pulled back in a net, hovered behind her, waiting for Cleo to place one more oyster on her wax-papered pan before returning to the deep fryer.

Farther down the table Aunt Olivia, Uncle Hayden's war bride from London, arranged thin slices of the rich, salty smoke-cured ham known locally as old ham. The natives were impressed at how quickly Olivia had mastered the traditional Maryland recipes. She was a bastion of the parish kitchen, the Sunday school and the Altar Guild. I thought, not for the first time, what a letdown it must have been to come here for a magical place like London, but despite my urgings, she rarely spoke of her home.

I scanned my tables to see what was needed. The nearest was being cleared by my pimply cousin Lawrence. Beyond Lawrence's Icabod frame, I saw Gideon stand and squeeze his way toward the exit. I gasped a bucket of air. I wanted to sprint to his side, but I knew I could not reach him before he gained the stairs, and I could not leave my post. Shoulders drooping, I loaded a tray of glasses and silverware from the idle table.

Balancing the teetering stack, I waltzed toward the dishwashing alcove. As I deposited my burden, I glanced out the window to the parking area. Gideon was advancing up the slope toward Uncle Hayden in a determined fashion.

My uncle held another man by the arm, a stern expression marring his usually cheerful countenance. One look at the Camels rolled in the T-shirt sleeve, and I knew it was Farley Dalton. Farley was a classmate of Gideon's but had dropped out in tenth grade. He and Gideon had been friends from childhood, but something happened to Farley when he entered his teens. My mother said Farley had a difficult home life. His father worked at odd jobs in construction, and his mother took in laundry. We saw Mrs. Dalton at Wathen's General Store from time to time and, when I was younger, I used to wonder how a woman could get so many bruises from washing clothes.

Farley turned, staggered, and responded to my uncle. I could not hear his words, but his sneer and burning eyes told the story. Gideon reached the two men and took Farley's other arm. As he removed the beer bottle from his friend's hand, he spoke to my uncle. Hayden nodded, relinquished Farley, and Gideon led his inebriated companion away. Everybody knew liquor was not allowed, but rules of any kind angered Farley, as did most things society threw at him. I could just barely picture the gentle boy whom this surly, glaring apparition had replaced, the boy who loved fishing and marbles.

"I cleared your front table again," Lawrence said as he passed me juggling an overloaded tray.

I looked at Mr. Maxwell's station. The pressing crowd of impatient diners was as dense as ever. Our parish would do well this year, but my hope of talking to Gideon today was as dashed as an egg yolk in a bowl of biscuit batter.

Chapter 3

Swinging my new French heels to ease the boredom, I stole a glance across the aisle at Cousin Lawrence. Because the sermon had turned into a long siege, he had pulled out the creased spiral notebook he was never without and was engrossed in one of his detailed sketches. Lawrence was gawky, with an Adam's apple the size of a knuckle ball, but his long-fingered hands produced delicate, realistic art.

His freckles glistening with perspiration, Reverend Harrison grasped the polished oak sides of the pulpit. "Now part of John 4 deals with whether people should worship in their own town—and the folks in the story lived in a nice mountain village with a very reliable well—or in Jerusalem, the big city far down the road. Here in Wicomico Corners, we're a lot like the people in that town. We'd like to keep on worshiping, farming, and raising our children and let those city folk, in our case, up in Washington, worship and work and go to school where they want and leave us to our business. There is a lot of wisdom in that sentiment. Because the people of Wicomico Corners have stuck to their business, they have endured. Some of your families have prospered in this community for three hundred years. "

Several 'deed so's could be heard bubbling from the congregation. One pew over, Miss Thelma sighed and shifted her fan to her other hand, causing a momentary disturbance in the airflow.

Revered Harrison smiled and nodded. "But remember, down here, when we say 'deed so, what we mean is we recognize the truth. In John, Jesus says, 'the hour is coming when the true worshipers will worship the Father in spirit and truth.' I know parishioners at All Saints want to be among those worshipers.

"Yes, that's why you're here. Now, what truths were evident to Jesus? This woman, first of all, was a Samarian, whom the Jews considered unclean. And that's not all; this particular woman was, er, her marital state wasn't what it should have been. Why else was she coming to get water at the well at noon instead of in the morning with the rest of the women?"

I tugged on my mother's skirt. "Psst, what was her marital state? I don't get it."

"Hush. Later." Mom pushed my hand away, never taking her eyes off Reverend Harrison.

"What did our Lord do? He treated her as an equal, that's what. He took water from her, a person everybody else thought was unclean. And he complimented her when she told the truth about the man she was living with. Jesus saw that woman as a child of God, as worthy of salvation as anybody.

"My friends, we must treat people the way Jesus did. If he could treat this fallen woman as an equal, how much more so should we treat hardworking upright people in our own community?" The rector paused and lifted his eyes to the balcony where the choir and the Negroes sat.

I turned and stared up as well. Cleo was sitting in the front pew on the right side of the balcony. Sitting stiffly under her burgundy cloche hat, her brown face ashen as if she had seen a ghost, she looked straight ahead at the stained-glass window. I dropped my eyes to my own seating level. Mr. Maxwell frowned at me from the pew behind. Removing my hand from the seat back as if it were a stove burner, I swiveled back into place.

"Jesus told the Samarian woman that it didn't matter where you worshiped. Neither the town nor the big city mattered a diddly. Only truth mattered. Truth is truth everywhere. Everywhere the same." Our minister paused, turned and fixed his gaze on the stained-glass window in the apse, a depiction of Mary, the baby Jesus and the wise men. The glass artisan had chosen a deep beige for the skin of the kneeling king.

After a painful, long silence, during which my lungs almost burst because I was afraid to breathe out, he resumed. "If our community is to continue to endure, continue to be the place we love, we must worship as Christ taught us. The alternative is to live a lie, to walk away from the grace we are promised into a world that is a delusion, a brittle, shrunken thing that will turn to dust in the blink of an eye. Our only real home, and it is a home for all men and women, is in the bosom of God's truth. Amen."

The line to shake Reverend Harrison's hand was shorter than usual, and I was able to catch up with Gideon.

"Hey, Haddie," he said, "how's your chess game?" Squeezing my shoulder, Gideon cuffed me on the chin.

"Nobody to play with since you joined the army. What's it like? Is Saigon beautiful?"

"Hot, dusty and sticky like the Corners in August, but the girls are very beautiful."

I frowned. Somehow, I never imagined there would be girls.

"What's this about beautiful girls?" Victoria Maddox, Gideon's girlfriend, twirling his class ring hanging from the gold chain at her throat, slipped her arm through his. She made me sick, she was so clingy.

"Like the rector says, Vic, I have to tell the truth." Gideon directed a smirk of mock innocence at Victoria. Pouting, she cradled his arm against her breast.

I fought down a shiver of annoyance. "I want to hear about your mission. Is it dangerous? Have you seen the enemy yet? What are you flying?"

"Haddie, give the guy a break. Let him answer one question before you ask twenty more." Vicky aimed a moist, freshly lipsticked smile at him.

"It's okay, Vic. When Haddie and I weren't playing chess, we built model airplanes."

"Yeah, you flew that Cessna model into the side of Dad's chicken coop, and the hens wouldn't lay for days." I was thrilled Gideon spoke of events he and I shared, joys Vicky could never fathom.

"I remember. Now I've switched to helicopters. I'm in what's called a utility tactical transportation company. We have H-21 Shawnees everybody calls flying bananas and smaller copters called Hueys. The bananas transport troops and the Hueys protect them." His voice deepened, its timber sending chills across my belly.

Victoria still clung to Gideon, batting mascara-laced eyes, but I could tell her baby blues were glazing over from the military talk, as if I cared.

Perhaps I could gross her out. "Have you shot anybody yet?"

"Our mission is not about assault. Our unit is part of the Military Assistance Command. MAC's job is to help the Vietnamese protect their country from communists. We advise them about strategy and tactics, and provide training and provisions."

"What are the Vietnamians like?"

"Vietnamese." The sunlight detailed a platoon of whiskers along Gid's tawny jaw I had not remembered.

"Come on, Gideon, I want to change before the matinee." Victoria pulled him toward the parking lot.

"Gotta go, kid. We'll have a game of chess one day soon."

"You bet. I've got a new strategy that's gonna wipe you off the board." I sounded more confident than I felt.

I watched Gideon turn, place a proprietary hand on Victoria's hip, and guide her through the wrought-iron gate of the churchyard. As the click of her high heels faded into the white noise of the morning, I glared down at my new shoes with their puny one-inch elevation. If I wanted to hear about his adventures, I would have to find a way to see Gid without his ditzy girlfriend.

It was so unfair, because I was much more able to talk to him than she was. What did Vicky know about Sikorskies, for Pete's sake? Sikorskies were a part of the outside world, the one where I longed to be. Vicky was part of the world I wished to abandon, the one that was fixated on marriage, family and a commercial diploma. That Gideon, who had seen the world beyond the Corners, didn't brush her off was a mystery to me more shrouded than the Trinity. Why didn't he realize I was part of the big picture and she was not? I clinched my fists as I shuffled down the walk.

Just beyond the retreating lovebirds was Charlotte Maddox's station wagon. Cleo was trying to herd the two Maddox children into the rear. She was getting no assistance from Charlotte, who, sitting behind the wheel, was putting on rouge with the aid of the visor mirror. Charlotte was Victoria's much older sister and not nearly as pretty, although she had managed to marry well. Cleo looked more natural chasing the unruly children than she had sitting primly in the balcony. Cleo was what my dad called a doer, and she did for the Maddox family from dawn until dusk.

As Cleo settled Theresa into one side of the wagon, Edwin popped out the other door. I jogged down the path to Cleo's aid. She was a big woman, and strong, but her bulk kept her from being fast. Of course, Ed and Terry did not mind her or anyone else. Mom explained to me long ago that they were autistic. view abbreviated excerpt only...

Discussion Questions

From the author:

1. In the opening chapter of Deed So, Haddie talks about Eden. How does the story of Eden relate to the events in Wicomico Corners? How does Haddie's view of Eden relate to her own loss of innocence?
2. What does the mute swan symbolize?
3. How do the two young men in Haddie's world, Gideon and Farley, compare? What are their aspirations? How are their dreams or beliefs thwarted? Why is this fatal in both cases? How do their fates relate?
4. What is at the core of the argument between the two adult men in Haddie's life, her father Tom Bashford and his cousin, Hayden Kent?
5. What female role models are available to Haddie in her community? Her mother, Aliceanna? Cleo" Her aunt, Olivia? Mrs. Dalton?
6. To Kill A Mockingbird, relates the story of Maycomb, Alabama in 1935, through the eyes of nine-year-old Scout. Here we see the village of Wicomico Corners and the county seat of Benedict in 1962. How have race relations changed?
7. What does Cleo value most and why?
8. The Battle of Ap Bac was a real battle that occurred early in the Vietnam conflict, yet in that battle were all the elements that made that war so divisive for Americans. What experiences and beliefs of the WWII veterans make it hard for them to understand what Gideon is saying at the Men's Breakfast?
9. How does the renovation of Haddie's home, Scarlett Hall, relate to the story?
10. The church and the parish community play a significant role in Haddie's life. Moreover, the church calendar and the festivals of the church provide much of the structure for Deed So. Is the centrality of the church necessary to the story? Is it a barrier to readers from other traditions?



11. How do the characters Sarah Jane and Elise contribute to Haddie's journey? How are their personalities reflected in the main character?
12. The consequences of sexual encounters for two generations of women are presented in Deed So. Are the stakes for Eliza Maddox and Sissy Nelson any different?
13. How does the community treat Elmer Slater, who is developmentally challenged, and Ed and Terry Petrusian who are autistic?
14. The author is describing the world of the Baby Boomers as they left childhood and began their journey to adulthood. What attributes of Boomers, who now are entering their sixties, can be traced to this period in their lives?
15. In his sermon, Reverend Harrison gives a definition of the expression, 'deed so.' After reading this book, what do you think it means?
16. Haddie's community is in denial about its racial status quo. While the locals don't much like outsiders telling them their business, certain local institutions are making changes. Which organizations are taking action? Which organizations have taken no action? Why?
17. What does the renovation of Scarlett Hall symbolize?

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