Letter From Home (11 page)

The chief's face furrowed with disbelief. “Miss Barb, I got to tell you I got plenty of witnesses at the barbershop yesterday afternoon who heard your daddy explode. Seems he was lathered up getting a shave and Ed Newton came in for a shoe shine. He made a crack to somebody about Faye Tatum's mystery boyfriend and Clyde came out of his chair like a stung bronco. He pinned Ed up against the wall and had him by the throat. Took two men to get him off. Ed got mad too and told Clyde it was all over town that some man was visiting his house late at night and Clyde sure wasn't in town and maybe Clyde should ask Faye what's what. Clyde wanted to know who was saying this. Ed wouldn't ante, said it didn't matter and surely Clyde was man enough to find out the truth himself. Clyde stormed out of the barbershop, half his face still lathered. Now this is gospel truth, Miss Barb. I got to know, who was coming to see your mama?”

Barb turned away. She sank blindly into the chair, hid her face in her hands.

Grandmother drew her breath in sharply. She leaned forward. “Chief Fraser, please, she is just a child. Why do you have to ask her things like this?” Her voice quavered. “This is so awful, her mama dead, her daddy gone, and now for you to treat her so.” Grandmother clutched the folds of her apron, her blue eyes anxious.

“Lotte, I got to ask.” His voice was harsh. “I've hunted to hell and gone out at the Blue Light. I thought maybe somebody followed Faye home. She'd had a lot of beer. Things can happen. I've checked out every man who was out there. If anybody came out after Faye, nobody saw it. Somebody would have, just like somebody saw a man sneaking into Clyde's house while Clyde was gone. I'll tell you, Miss Barb”—he swung back toward Barb, who looked up at him in sick horror—“I got to know who that man is. He may be in danger.” His face looked older than time and full of sorrow. “I didn't want to believe your daddy killed your mama. Maybe a police officer shouldn't look at crime like that, but I've known your daddy since he was a boy. He was in my Scout troop. But I got to deal with what's happened. Clyde knew about the man and Clyde's run away. If he's innocent, he's got to come home and tell us where he was last night. If he's guilty—well, the man your mama was seeing has to be warned. So you've got to tell me, Miss Barb, who he is.”

Tears spilled down Barb's face. “Daddy thought Mama . . . Oh, I didn't know. Oh, God.” She huddled, her body folding in on itself. “Somebody told him . . . and he thought . . .” She spoke in wrenching spurts, then moaned, a writhing cry of heartbreak.

Worst of all was the moment that Barb recognized what the chief's words meant. Her dazed look changed to fear, hopeless, aching, unbearable fear.

Gretchen knew that Barb was stricken by horror, clearly aware that her father might be guilty.

The chief's big shoulders slumped. “God almighty, Miss Barb, I'm sorry. But you see, I got to know. Who was the man?”

“It isn't true.” Barb swallowed jerkily. A sob shook her shoulders. “I tell you it isn't true. Nobody came to see Mama. Mama wouldn't do that. It's a lie.” She dissolved into hiccoughing cries.

Grandmother rose. She was heavy, but she flew across the room, knelt by the chair to pull Barb onto her shoulder. She twisted to look up at the chief. “Of course this child doesn't know. No woman would let her daughter see that kind of thing.”

Barb pulled away. Her face was blotchy and red. “I tell you, it isn't true.” But her voice was faint. Fear flattened her features, made her body shake.

The chief heaved an irritated sigh. “I guess that's right. I guess a woman letting a man steal into her husband's bed would sure keep it quiet. But I'm going to keep looking.” He swung around. In two steps he was at the door and scooping up his big hat. He pulled open the screen. He gave Barb one last look, shook his head, and slammed out.

 
“TRY TO EAT a little soup, my dear.” Grandmother spoke as if to someone who had been very ill for a long time.

Barb touched the spoon, left it lying on the table. “I can't. I keep thinking about Daddy.”

Gretchen picked up half a tuna fish sandwich. The crusty bread was sweet and fresh, the filling zesty with pickle juice and chopped green onions. “Look, Barb, you told the chief it wasn't true. So it will be all right. They'll find out what happened.” Gretchen was suddenly voraciously hungry.

Barb pressed trembling fingers against one cheek. She spoke almost in a whisper. “It wasn't true. But if Daddy thought it was . . .”

Grandmother pushed the platter of sandwiches closer to Barb. “We can't change what's happened. None of us made this happen. So you must not worry. You must trust in God. Please try the soup. It will be strengthening for you.”

Barb picked up the spoon, slowly began to eat. She finished half the bowl, ate part of a sandwich, then pushed back the plate.

“That is such a good girl. Now I will see to the dishes and you and Gretchen listen to the radio.” Grandmother started to rise from the table, then hesitated, one hand pressed against her chest. She wavered on her feet.

“Grandmother!” Gretchen stood so quickly, her chair tumbled to the floor. She reached the older woman, now breathing quickly. “Are you sick? I'll call Dr. Jamison.”

Grandmother sank back into her chair, reached for her glass of iced tea, drank deeply. “No, no. I am fine. Just a little catch in my chest. It will go away.” She put down the glass, took another deep breath.

“You're tired, Grandmother. I'll help you to your room.” Gretchen took a tight grip on her grandmother's soft arm. “You've had too hard a day. You can lie down. Barb and I will do the dishes.”

Grandmother slowly stood. “Yes, I will rest for awhile. Thank you, Gretchen.”

Gretchen helped her grandmother walk slowly down the hall to the bedroom at the back. She settled her in the big green rocker next to her table covered with pictures in heavy brass frames and the leather-bound family Bible. “I'll bring you some tea, Grandmother.”

The old woman sagged against the cushions of the rocker, closed her eyes. One hand still pressed against her chest. “No,
mein Schatz.
I will just be quiet for a few minutes.”

By the time Gretchen reached the kitchen, Barb had cleared the table and stacked the dishes. Gretchen got the dishpan out from beneath the sink, put on a kettle of water to boil. Gretchen washed, then scalded the dishes with the boiling water. Barb dried, stacking the dishes and cutlery near the breadbox.

When she was done, Barb flung the dish towel on the counter. “Gretchen, can I use your phone?”

The phone was on the wall near the door to the living room. Gretchen pointed to it. “Sure. I'm going to see about Grandmother.” The kettle still held hot water. Gretchen poured the water into a cup with a Lipton tea bag. When it was steeped dark as pine tar, she discarded the tea bag. She added two heaping teaspoons of sugar. They were almost out and the grocery hadn't had a sugar shipment for almost a month. At the phone, Barb gave a number to the operator. As Gretchen stepped into the hall, she heard Barb ask quickly, “Is Amelia there?”

In Grandmother's room, Gretchen placed the cup and saucer on the table. “Grandmother?”

Her eyes fluttered open. Her face was pasty white. “Oh, Gretchen.” She tried to smile.

Gretchen felt her stomach twist. Grandmother looked so sick. “Grandmother, I'm going to call Dr. Jamison—”

Alarm flaring in her face, Grandmother lifted both hands. “No, no, you must not. I need only to rest. The tea will help.” She took a deep breath, placed her hands on the chair arms.

The front doorbell rang.

Grandmother struggled to get up. Her breath came in short, quick gasps.

“I'll see.” Gretchen stepped closer, put her hand firmly on the older woman's shoulder. “Stay here, Grandmother. Drink your tea. I'll take care of it.”

“Yes, please.” Grandmother closed her eyes. Her arms rested on the chair, limp and heavy.

Gretchen hurried into the living room. Barb waited in the kitchen doorway. She stared toward the front door, her eyes empty, her face rigid. Gretchen thought of the newsreel pictures of bombed-out children, lost, alone, hopeless.

The doorbell jangled again. The Reverend Byars peered through the screen. “Miss Gretchen, I've come to see Miss Barb. I know you and your grandmother have opened your hearts to her. I've come to offer her our house as her new home.”

Gretchen ran to the door. “Grandmother's resting. Please come in.” She stood aside for him to enter. The fiery evening sun bathed the dusty yard in a brilliant orange light. Birds cawed as they wheeled around the elm trees, ready to roost for the night. The hot air shimmered though it was almost eight. Cicadas rasped, their summer song so loud it masked the squeak of the screen door hinges.

“Thank you, Miss Gretchen. We won't disturb your grandmother. True to my word, I've come to offer sanctuary to Miss Barb.” He looked at the stone still figure. “Miss Barb.” The preacher's voice was as thick and slow and sweet as molasses. Each word hung in the air like a dancer in a spotlight, eager for applause. Blond hair swooped in a high pompadour above an unctuous face. He lifted plump hands, palms up. “Let us pray.” His head sank and his voice soared. “Dear Lord, we gather here in thy name always reverencing thee and knowing that thou does hear thy children's call. Lo, we can be sure that in times of trouble and sorrow thou art near. Be with us now as we grieve for a lost soul and pray that your child Faye shall be gathered up by angels and lifted out of sorrow and sin. We know that the sins of the world do mock your goodness and we must be ever vigilant against the vices that the devil casts among us, leading us away from the path of righteousness. Evil surrounds us . . .”

Gretchen felt buffeted by the sonorous flow of words. Was he saying that Barb's mother was bad?

Barb pressed her hands against her cheeks.

The deep, rich voice rolled on: “. . . dance and drink and lust have ever paved the way to hell. I tried to counsel our sister Faye and alas she didn't heed my voice or that of her Savior. She went her own way and we see the fruits of that decision. As it says in First Samuel, fifteenth chapter, twenty-third verse: For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, he hath also rejected thee from being king.” He paused, clasped his hands together. “But with your help, Good Lord, we shall surround her dear child, Barbara, with your loving care and safeguard her from the temptations of the world and the devil. Amen.” He lifted his head, his face wreathed in a forgiving smile. He walked toward Barb, his hands outstretched. “Miss Barb, I've come to take you home.”

Barb took a step back. “My daddy will come. I know he will. I'm going to stay at a friend's house tonight. I've talked to Amelia Brady and I'm going there right now.” She turned away from him, walked determinedly to the sofa, and picked up the cloth bag.

“Miss Barb.” His deep voice swooped low. His face held a look of forbearance, though his eyes were cold. “We cannot refuse to accept what life brings to us. We cannot shut our eyes to facts. There's no question that last night's brutal act sprang from disorder between a man and wife, disorder that . . .”

Barb clutched the valise against her, wrapped her arms around it as if it could shield her from Reverend Byars's words, his relentless, smooth-toned, crushing words. “It wasn't Daddy.” Her voice shook. “I tell you, it wasn't Daddy. I would have known.” But her eyes were full of fear. “It was someone else.”

“. . . can be predicted when a woman forgets her marriage vows. As we are told in the sixth chapter of Romans, verse twenty-three: The wages of sin is death.”

“Mama wasn't . . . she didn't . . .” Barb pulled up the valise, hid her face.

“We won't say more.” His resonant voice filled the little living room. “It isn't for girls to know about these things. And now”—he cleared his throat, frowned as the old grandfather clock chimed the hour—“I must get back to the church. I've left the assistant pastor with the young people, but I must be there for our closing prayers. Perhaps, Miss Barb”—and he spoke as if bestowing a great gift—“you will be happier to stay with your friend tonight, but we stand ready to welcome you. At any time.” He bowed his head, clasped his hands. “Dear Lord, give us strength to go forward and face down the forces of evil which beset us. Remind us ever that only thy goodness and mercy will save wretched sinners from lives of torment and everlasting perdition. Gird us for battle. In Jesus' name we pray, amen.” He nodded in satisfaction and moved briskly toward the door, pompous and confident, impervious to Barb's pain. He stopped for an instant in the doorway. The last red rays of the evening sun flooded around him, glistened on his hair, turned his skin pink as a pig's. “Give my best wishes to your grandmother, Miss Gretchen. Good night, young ladies.”

Gretchen didn't watch him go. Instead, she took a tentative step, then another, toward Barb.

Barb still stood with the valise hiding her face, her fingers arched like claws against the flowered fabric. She didn't move until the sound of his car backfired its way into the street. Abruptly, she flung the bag onto the floor. Her eyes glittered with tears of rage. Her face twisted. “Mama laughed at him. She said he was a silly little man who spent his life trying to scare everybody into heaven, saying nobody should drink or smoke or dance, and that women in shorts were asking for trouble and deserved what they got. He told Mama she shouldn't paint the kind of pictures she painted because they made people think about things they shouldn't do. Mama said his problem was he wanted every woman he saw. She told me that Lucille, one of her friends at work, sings in the choir and one day Lucille was in the choir room early and he came in and pressed himself up against her and she could feel him, hard as a rock. Mama told me never to get in a room with him by myself, that she'd heard about others he'd touched and nobody could say anything because who would believe it about the preacher? Now he's acting like Mama got killed because she went to the Blue Light to dance.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “And worse. He's saying Mama . . . he's saying Mama was a bad woman. And there isn't anything I can do.” She doubled her hands into fists.