The unspeakable name

Webster and Jimmie Elliott on their January 31, 1955, wedding day.

“Daddy.” For many years that word was never uttered in Jimmie’s home. Not by her and not by her children.

There were no neckties or leather belts hanging in the bedroom closet, no aftershave sitting on the bathroom sink, no dirty work boots resting by the back door.

For a long time her children did not even know the name of their father or what he looked like. And somehow they knew not to dare ask.

His name was Webster Elliott. He was born February 15, 1933, the middle baby of three to Avis and Webster Sr. from Tuscaloosa, Alabama. He was kind, had a mischievous charm, and was so tall that he would have to lower his head when entering a room.

As a child, he loved airplanes and would run across his small patch of yard waving his favorite blue-and-white pull-string plane while making engine noises with his mouth. During solemn family moments he was known to whisper a funny joke to make his sister burst out laughing.

Webster was a 17 year-old student at Parker High school when he and 16 year-old Jimmie went down to the Jefferson County Courthouse to get a marriage license. She was four months pregnant and they told the magistrate that they were 18 and 21.

They got married on January 31, 1951, in the front room of Jimmie’s family home and, months later, on July 31, became parents of their first child Marie Antoinette. (Yes, like the infamous queen. And she, too, became infamous. More about that later.)

They rented a shotgun house sitting near some railroad tracks. After baby Marie, Brenda Joyce was born, and then Webster’s namesake who they nicknamed June Bug. Webster would come home from work, scoop them up in his arms and shower them with kisses. Every now and then, he’d surprise them by whipping a piece of penny candy out of his pocket – usually a peanut butter brittle or chewy taffy.

Webster worked in the crane department for American Cast Iron Pipe Company. It was backbreaking work alongside men twice his age. He and Jimmie would try to find little breaks in the day to play Spades, dance to the radio, and try to forget the youth they lost to bills, babies, and responsibilities.

On March 2, 1955, she gave birth to their fourth child, Andre Renee. Webster went to the hospital after work to see his new boy but was told it was past visiting hours and turned away. He planned to try again the next day after squeezing in a few extra hours at work.

While navigating machines the size of dinosaurs, Webster spotted one of his coworkers about to be hit by a crane. He ran to push the man out of the way and was fatally struck in the head. At 22, just one month after his birthday, he was gone.

Back at the hospital Jimmie was lying in bed, waiting to introduce her son to Webster. The doctor gave her a valium to try to soften the blow before sharing the news. Even in a medical haze, however, she howled.

Widowed at 20, Jimmie was left to raise three toddlers and a newborn on her own. In the years that followed, she worked multiple jobs to feed and clothe them and never, ever spoke Webster’s name.

Many years later, my mother, Brenda, discovered a photo of Grandma Jimmie and Webster’s wedding day from his sister. It was a secret that she had it so whenever my Grandma Jimmie’s royal blue Toyota Corolla would pull into my mother’s driveway she would dart toward the hallway. There, she would quickly take down the silver-plated framed photograph of my grandparents and tuck it behind the winter linens on the top shelf of the hall closet.

“And you better not say anything,” she would caution my sister, brother and me.

Year after year we went through that dance until one I decided it had to stop.

On what would be a year before she died, I made plans to show my grandmother the picture and speak the unspeakable name. Dementia was slowly ravaging her brain, but she would have moments of clarity. She was 80 and now living with my mother.

She was sitting at the dining room table folding a worn paper towel into fours, then eights and sixteens. I sat down beside her and placed the wedding photo in front of her.

“Who are these people,” I gently asked.

Her eyes lit up, but she said nothing.

“Tell me about Webster,” I whispered.

When I mentioned his name, she began to look away from the photo and stare at the china cabinet in front of us, as if she was seeing it for the first time.

“The joy…of the Lord…is my strength,” she read, looking at a teacup with that scripture inscribed in gold on the front.

Then…

“He was easygoing,” she said, tracing the outline of his face on the picture.

I could see in my peripheral view that my mother was wiping down the kitchen counter in the next room within earshot of our conversation (a counter that was already clean).

“I’ve had a hard life baby,” she said while staring into the distance.

“Did you love him,” I asked.

“Yes,” she said almost breathless.

She dropped her head and mumbled, “I don’t want to get married again. I don’t want to be hurt anymore.

“He was too young,” she continued. “I hated that he had to die like that.”

Moments later, she raised her head, held the photo in her hand, stared at his face and smiled.

“Can I have a copy of this photo,” she asked.

“Yes, of course,” I said.

“Webster,” she sighed.