Letter From Home (12 page)

Gretchen reached out, gripped a thin arm rigid as a metal pole. “Yes, there is, Barb. Yes, there is.”

 
“BARB DIDN' T GO with Reverend Byars?” Grandmother held the cup of tea with both hands, looked worriedly at Gretchen.

“She won't ever go there.” Gretchen knew the words were true as she spoke them. Barb would never, never, never go to that house. “She's gone to spend the night with Amelia Brady. Reverend Byars said . . .” Gretchen frowned. “He prayed for Mrs. Tatum, but he made her sound bad.”

“Oh. I see.” Grandmother's face looked old and worn and infinitely sad. “Poor Barb. To have to listen to such as that. And truth to tell, he didn't like Faye. He scolded her for her painting and she defied him. She didn't go back to church again. And in his anger he doesn't think how Barb must feel. Of course she will not want to go there. We will tell her she can stay with us as long as she wants.”

“Barb says her daddy would never hurt her mother. Barb says he will come home.” Gretchen heard her words curl up into a question.

Grandmother finished the tea, set the cup on the saucer. She didn't look at Gretchen. “Poor Clyde. Poor Faye.” The words were heavy with sorrow. She rested her head back against the chair, her eyes mournful.

“Let me help you get ready for bed, Grandmother.” Gretchen went to the closet, found Grandmother's pink cotton nightgown. It smelled sweet and fresh, from the wind that fluttered the wash as it dried on the clothesline. “I'll brush your hair. And bring you a glass of warm milk.”

Grandmother lay heavy and still against the plumped cushions of the rocking chair, her muscles inert, her breathing slow. She looked small. She'd never looked small to Gretchen before. A smile curved her lips. “You're a good girl, Gretchen.” Her voice was just above a whisper, light as the faraway whoo of an owl. “Please put my gown on the bed. I will rest a while longer. You have had such a long day, a hard day. And to have seen what you have seen.” Her voice was filled with pain.

Gretchen's hands clenched for an instant, then she willed away the image of Faye Tatum sprawled in death. Gretchen stepped to the bed, spread the gown out, tried to smooth the wrinkles where she'd clutched the thin fabric.

“Oh, dear child, I would have spared you if I could. Gretchen . . .” Grandmother pushed back a wisp of hair from her face. “Don't remember the way Faye died. Remember the way she lived. She is in heaven now, splashing paints on canvas, brighter paints on a bigger canvas than she ever had here on earth, and there is no more sorrow or fear or unhappiness.” Grandmother nodded solemnly. “The Bible tells us: God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying; neither shall there be any more pain. . . .”

“Grandmother”—Gretchen's voice trembled—“I wish Barb was here. Reverend Byars talked about God, but it didn't help. And you help.” Gretchen rushed to the rocking chair. She knelt, buried her face against warmth. She cried.

With tears came release. Or was it Grandmother's faith? Her sweet voice opened a vision of eternity, a glimpse beyond sorrow and evil and horror. The words glowed in Gretchen's mind:
neither shall there be any more pain.
Gretchen felt her Grandmother's hand gently stroking her hair. And heard the faint peal of the telephone in the kitchen.

Gretchen lifted her head.

Grandmother gasped. She stared toward the hall, gripped the arms of the rocking chair.

Gretchen wiped her face, jumped to her feet. “Grandmother, it's all right. Don't be scared. I'll go.” She hesitated in the hallway, knew she was right: Grandmother was frightened. Why should the telephone upset her?

The ring was louder in the hall.

Gretchen skidded into the kitchen, lifted the receiver. “Hello.”

The operator's voice was thin against the scratchy background noises. “A collect call from Lorraine Gilman. Will you accept charges?”

Gretchen felt a surge of happiness. “Yes, oh, yes.”

“Gretchen, honey, oh, my God, I just saw the paper. I was late getting home from my shift. I can't believe—”

Gretchen clung to the telephone. Her mother's quick, light voice raced, as it always did, words tumbling over the wire fast as the click of castanets. “Mother, oh, Mother. Can you come home? It's been so long. You haven't been home since May.” Gretchen pictured her mother that last visit, her shiny blond hair in a new French twist, her blue eyes sparkling as she watched Gretchen's delight in the sack of new books she'd brought all the way from Oliver's Bookstore in Tulsa. Her mother had worn a new blue dress to church that Sunday with three-quarter-length sleeves and a batiste collar. Her white and blue spectator pumps and fabric handbag were new, too. She'd laughed and said she'd used up all her ration points for the year but it was worth it to have a new outfit, her first since the war began. Gretchen had gone over and over that weekend in her mind until it glowed like a special rock polished by time. They'd laughed and eaten a big Sunday dinner with fried chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans. The pineapple upside down cake was light and airy and the brown sugar topping perfect. It had been almost like old times.

“Baby, I am coming home. On Saturday. I've got the day off. I've been planning—” She broke off. “But first, tell me what happened. About Faye. It's awful to read. The paper says she was strangled and they're looking for Clyde. But there was a story written by you. G. G. Gilman.” She spoke the name almost in awe. “I couldn't believe it. When I read it, I knew it was you. All about Barb running to get you and the two of you finding Faye. It made me feel like I'd been there and the police chief coming to talk to Barb. How did your story . . .”

Grandmother walked slowly into the kitchen, her face anxious.

Gretchen pointed at the phone and smiled. “Mother,” she whispered.

“. . . get in our paper?”

Gretchen held tight to the receiver. “You saw my story? Mr. Dennis must have sent it out over the wire. Oh, Mother! I didn't know he would. He's supposed to give the wire service any story he thinks they might use.”

“I've been half crazy ever since I read it.” Her mother's voice wobbled. “You shouldn't have gone with Barb. Not when she said her mother screamed. Oh, Gretchen, I'm frightened for you and Mother. I wish I could come home right now. Is Mother all right?”

“Grandmother's fine.” Even as Gretchen spoke, she knew that wasn't true. Grandmother looked old and ill. But it wouldn't do any good to worry Mother. “We're all right.”

“You and Barb didn't see anybody?” Mother's voice was sharp.

“Nobody. Barb had cut her foot and I had to wrap it . . .”

“Thank God.” Her mother was grim.

“. . . so by the time we got to their house, no one was there.”

“So the police really think Clyde killed Faye. Oh, my God, I can't believe it.” She half covered the receiver and her voice was muffled, but Gretchen heard her tell someone, “Gretchen's all right. She didn't see anybody.” Another huge sigh of relief. Her voice came back loud and strong over the crackling on the line. “I don't believe Clyde hurt Faye. And Faye—well, she might thumb her nose at bluestockings, but she wasn't a tramp. She wouldn't . . .” Her voice trailed off. Suddenly, the vigor fled and her tone was uncertain. “But who can say now, with the world the way it is. Who can say?”

“Mother, the story in the
Gazette
tells how she danced away her last hours at the Blue Light. It makes her sound cheap. But Mr. Dennis said I could write a story”—Gretchen felt like she was standing on a little boat in a big lake during a storm and she wasn't sure she could make it to shore—“about what she really was like, how she loved art and what a great mom she was to Barb and how she laughed a lot.” Could she do it, could she, could she?

The silence on the line grew until it swirled around Gretchen, dark as the night that pressed against the windows of the kitchen. “Mother . . .”

A quick indrawn breath, a muffled sob. “Oh, baby, I'm sorry. You made me think about Faye and the night she and Clyde got married. Your daddy and I went to the wedding and Faye and Clyde danced the Anniversary Waltz. Every time I hear that song, I think of them. I remember when Faye threw her bouquet. She threw it straight to Nita Mc-Kay and when the flowers came up against Nita she looked so startled and joyous and her smile was like a sweet, sweet baby's, so open and trusting and loving. Nobody ever thought Nita would be able to get married. She's been blind since she was a little girl. She cried out, ‘For me? For me?' and Peter Thompson was standing by the door and he looked at Nita. They got married six months later. And you know, I don't think it would ever have happened if Faye had thrown those flowers to someone else. Your daddy always said I was silly—” She broke off, gave a little laugh, murmured to someone, “. . . like to be silly . . .” and came back to the line. “Anyway, I believe life is like that.” Her voice was suddenly serious. “You walk down a certain street one day or you go out to a dance and nothing will ever be the same again. Gretchen, life changes. I—” A quick breath. “Listen, honey, I've got to get off the phone. People are waiting. You know how it is. But I'll be home Saturday morning. Gretchen”—a pause and then a rush of words—“I'm bringing a friend. I know you'll like him a lot. See you, sweetie.” The line went dead.

Slowly Gretchen hung up the receiver.

“Gretchen, what is wrong?” Grandmother reached her, gripped her arm. Her voice rose. “Is something wrong with your mother?”

“No. She's coming home Saturday.”
I know you'll like him a lot. . . .

Grandmother's eyes lighted. “But that is good. She is coming home.”

“She's bringing someone with her.” Gretchen tried hard to keep her voice even. “Mother said we will like him a lot.”

CHAPTER 5

COULD HAVE, WOULD have, should have. Does everyone look back over life with aching regret? Oh, yes. If you live long enough, there will be sadness and hopeless longing for the mistakes, large and small, some well meant, some malicious. If you are lucky there will not be so much pain that your spirit creaks and breaks beneath the burden. If only I had . . . But what could I have done? Grandmother did her best. I did my best. We didn't know a life hung in the balance. What would have happened if I had talked to Grandmother? I understand now that Grandmother had great courage. I see her as she was then, a woman of late middle age, her heart already weakening, daring to reach out with love from that great, good, and generous heart. Oh, yes, she displayed enormous courage because she was a woman with many fears, intimidated by authority, anxious to fill out paperwork correctly, trying always to please. In the timeless silence of the cemetery, I remembered her . . .

 
GRETCHEN LAY RIGID as a board. Night pressed against the window, dark as a highwayman's cloak. Why did Mother have to bring someone home with her? It wouldn't be the same. Why did she say that things change? Hadn't everything changed enough with her mother gone to Tulsa to work in the war plant and Millard dead and Grandmother painting
Victory Café
on the plate glass because people didn't like German names?

Gretchen felt the hot prick of tears. Millard, so sweet and funny and nice to her, her best friend in all the whole world. What good did it do to talk about him being a hero? He didn't want to be a hero. He'd wanted to go to college and learn about the stars. When they were little kids, he'd point up at the Big Dipper and explain in his patient, kind way, “That's in the constellation Ursa Major, Gretchen. That means the Greater Bear. Over there . . .”

It was too hot for covers, so hot the bed felt damp beneath her. She'd tossed the top sheet to one side. She grabbed the edge of the sheet, pressed it against her eyes. She barely heard the click of the door. The drone of the cicadas rose and fell, rose and fell. As the rasp diminished, she heard the floor creak. She lay still, the sheet gripped in her fingers, and peeked through half-closed eyes at the open door and the shaft of light spilling in from the hallway. Grandmother stood just outside Gretchen's room, head bent as if listening.

Gretchen frowned. Grandmother wore a dark housedress and her sturdy, low-heeled work shoes. She held a wicker basket in one hand. Slowly, she stepped back into the hall and softly shut the door. The room was dark again.

Gretchen rolled over on her elbow, peered at the closed door. Why was Grandmother dressed? Gretchen slipped out of bed, hurried to the door. As she eased it open, she heard the unmistakable click of the front door lock. That was almost as startling as Grandmother slipping quietly out into the night. They never locked the doors to the house. Why would they? And where was Grandmother going?

Gretchen ran down the hall and looked out a living room window. Grandmother walked slowly down the front walk. Occasionally, like the flicker of fireflies, a light shone for an instant, then was gone. She was using a flashlight to find her way.

Gretchen raced back to her room, flung off her gown, pulled on a blouse and pedal pushers. She stepped barefoot into her loafers, not taking the time for anklets. She moved swiftly to her window, unlatched the screen, dropped to the ground. Last night a milky radiance had poured over Barb. Tonight the moon was hidden behind thick clouds and shadows bunched dark as crow feathers.