Letter From Home (24 page)

A huge bolt of lightning illuminated her room, bathing the world beyond her window with milky luminescence for a wavering instant. As the bluish light faded, rain whooshed over the house, slapping on the roof, pelting the window. Gretchen undressed, put on her gown, and fell on her bed.

 
 
GRETCHEN GLANCED AT the tiger-striped cat sitting atop the big garbage pail near the back door of the
Gazette
. The cat held one paw near its face, rough pink tongue extended, and watched Gretchen, hoping for food.

She leaned forward, searched, found the back door key. The cat jumped down, twined around her ankles. She let him come inside with her, pad across the backshop to the newsroom. There was an old icebox in a little closet off the newsroom. Gretchen found a bottle of cream—Mr. Dennis liked his chicory-laden coffee a soft tan—and poured a little into a saucer, placed the dish on a folded newspaper.

As she settled at her desk, the early morning sun spilling pink and gold through the front windows, the cat's purr, the hard feel of the slight depression on the round metal buttons of the typewriter keys, the familiar smells of cigarette and pipe smoke and lead and ink combined to reassure her. She would not think of those moments in the woods. Not now. Not ever. She unfolded her notes from the city council meeting and began to write, one word after another, and each one was like a brick sealing away fear and worry and uncertainty.

She was almost finished when Mr. Dennis arrived. His seersucker suit, the same one he'd worn last night, was wrinkled. His eyes were doleful in his seamed face, but he tried to sound jolly. “Hey, Gretchen, long john?” He held up the white cardboard box from Lyon's Bakery.

“Yes, sir. Thank you.”

He brought the long john on a cracked yellow saucer. The long john was still warm. Gretchen took a bite, swiped sticky fingers on a piece of copy paper.

In a moment, the editor placed a white pottery mug on her desk. “Watch out. It's hot.” The smell of strong coffee and chicory wafted toward her.

She typed
-30-
at the bottom of the page, pasted the sheets together, handed him the story.

He stood beside her. Mr. Dennis scanned copy faster than anyone she'd ever known. He nodded, said “Good,” and turned away, carrying her story.

That was all he said, but Gretchen cupped the word in her mind, smooth and shiny as the buckeye that sat on the nightstand by her bed. Jimmy had given it to her before he left on the bus to go to the induction center. Buckeyes were good luck. Sometimes, she'd hold the big nut tight and wish Jimmy had it with him. It was Jimmy who needed luck.

If only buckeyes really brought luck. Then Grandmother would be safe. The sheriff must never find out that Grandmother had helped Clyde Tatum. Gretchen took the last bite of the long john but the still warm cake and delectable brown sugar icing had no taste. She pushed back her chair, looked toward the editor's desk. He wore his green eyeshade now. Cherry sweet smoke rose from the pipe balanced in his ashtray. His stubby fingers flew over the keys, the staccato rattle certain and sure.

Gretchen hesitated, then moved determinedly to his desk. She waited until he paused, glanced at her, his eyes blank in concentration. His gaze slowly sharpened. “You're done, Gretchen. Go home and enjoy your mama. Give her my best.”

“I will, Mr. Dennis. But”—she needed to be careful what she said—“I wondered what it meant last night when the sheriff said somebody must have been helping Mr. Tatum. What did he mean?”

Mr. Dennis's light green eyes seemed to look through her, all the way into her mind and heart. She shouldn't have asked. She stood, scarcely breathing.

“He means somebody's going to be in big trouble.” Mr. Dennis picked up his pipe, poked it in his mouth. He drew deeply, gave a puff. His tone was thoughtful. “Sheriff Moore's nobody's fool. Clyde's been missing since Tuesday night. Now it's Saturday. Where's Clyde been staying? How has he got food? Oh, it's pretty clear Clyde's had help.” His bristly gray eyebrows bunched. “Listen, girl, if you know anybody—like Barb, maybe—who knows where Clyde is, for God's sake, tell them to warn him. People are scared. They've got their guns out. Clyde better turn himself in pronto.” He pointed his pipe at the typewriter. “I'm writing an editorial and I'm going to put it on the front page. This is no time for a bunch of vigilantes to shoot first and ask questions later. Clyde Tatum deserves his day in court.”

Gretchen backed away, shaking her head. “Barb doesn't know where her dad is. I just wanted to be able to tell her what happened last night and I didn't understand what the sheriff meant.”

The editor's lips turned down in a sour grin. “Just what he said, girl. Somebody's going to rot in jail, right along with Clyde.”

 
THE TATUM HOUSE had a look of abandonment. Gone-to-seed grass wavered in the breeze. Yellowing newspapers, soggy from last night's brief storm, were strewn near the worn front steps. The windows were closed, the shades drawn. Gretchen stopped by the mailbox. The broken cover still hung askew. Rain had smeared the ink on one envelope. There was no sign that Barb had returned to the house after her mother's funeral. Gretchen hadn't seen Barb since yesterday afternoon when she bolted from the cemetery, running away from her anger and hurt with that young soldier, the strident voice of Reverend Byars following them. Where had they gone? Last night Gretchen had looked for Barb at the town square. Gretchen wondered if Barb knew what had happened, what had been said. Mr. Dennis was afraid for Barb's father. Barb needed to know. . . .

Gretchen started up the cracked sidewalk. A flash of brightness startled her. She looked to her left, squinting against the glitter of sunlight on metal near the overgrown honeysuckle bush at the end of the Tatum driveway. She crossed the yard, gnats rising in a cloud, and walked up the rutted drive. A battered coupe, missing the right front fender, was parked behind the sweet-scented shrub. Gretchen didn't recognize the car. It was quite well hidden from the street and the bush, grown wild and tall and out of control, hid the car from Mrs. Crane's watchful gaze.

Gretchen swung toward the Tatum house. The screen door of the back porch banged open. Barb stood on the top step, her pink halter and blue shorts perfect for the thick heat promised by the burnished sheen of the morning sky, strangely shocking in contrast with the dark dress she'd worn at the cemetery.

Gretchen walked slowly toward the porch, not wanting to talk to Barb, certain that she should, wondering about the car and the house and where Barb had been since yesterday afternoon.

Barb waited, standing stiff and still. Her long auburn hair shone in the summer sun, the kind of hair that should have framed beauty, not an old-young face with misery-filled eyes. When Gretchen was a few feet away, Barb plucked at a strap of the halter. “I saw you coming from town.” She paused, swallowed. “Have they found my dad?”

Gretchen shook her head. “No.”

Barb let go a little breath. “Daddy . . .” She wasn't speaking to Gretchen, didn't look at her. Barb's voice was high, like a little girl calling out in the night.

Gretchen wrapped her arms tight across her front, as much to keep herself there, facing Barb, as to hold back the words she wished she could speak. Barb wanted her father and Gretchen knew where he was.

Gretchen burst out, talking fast, “Were you at the town square last night? I didn't see you.”

“No.” Barb looked at Gretchen sharply. “Why?”

“They had a meeting of the town council. About your dad.” Gretchen took a deep breath. “Everybody's pretty upset.”

Barb's dark, despairing eyes demanded more.

Reluctantly, her voice uneven, Gretchen said, “People are talking about getting out their guns. The police chief and the sheriff and county attorney are mad at each other, and the whole town's mad at them since nobody's found your dad. The sheriff said somebody's going to jail for helping your dad hide out. And Mr. Dennis is afraid—” She stopped.

Barb limped down the steps, grabbed Gretchen's arm, dug sharp nails into her skin. “Afraid of what?”

“That somebody's going to shoot your dad. Mr. Dennis says if anybody knows where he is, they need to tell him to give himself up. Quick.” Each word hurt deep inside Gretchen. She knew where Clyde Tatum was. She knew and she had to do something about it.

“Why should they shoot Daddy? He wouldn't hurt anyone. That's crazy! He'd never hurt—” Barb broke off, as if hearing her own words. Her fingers loosened their grip. Her hand fell away. She stood in the steely heat, the sun already blazing even though it wasn't nine o'clock in the morning yet, the bright hot weight of summer pressing down against the dusty yard, and seemed to grow smaller in front of Gretchen's eyes. Barb's head sagged, her shoulders slumped, her hands hung limp. “Oh, Daddy.” Her voice quivered. “Oh, God, he loved Mama. He loved her.”

And he killed her. Barb didn't say it, but the realization was there in her pain and sorrow. Barb turned, stumbled blindly toward the steps.

The back door banged open. “Barb, honey, don't cry.” The stocky young soldier jumped to the ground, took her in his arms. Barb clung to him, sobbing. He bent his blunt head to hers, murmured softly, then looked defiantly at Gretchen. He had a kind face, freckled and open, and his big hand was gentle as he stroked her long reddish brown hair.

Gretchen backed away. When she reached the side of the house, not looking back, the screen door banged again, and she knew Barb and the soldier were once again in the house. That's why Barb had been able to stay there. She wasn't alone with death and despair. Gretchen knew what people would say if they found out, but she would never tell. Barb needed him. She didn't have anyone else.

Gretchen hurried toward the street. She would go to the cabin now, calling out in the bright sunlight to let Mr. Tatum know who she was, and warn him of his danger. And she would tell him how important it was never to let anyone know that Grandmother had helped him.

She paused in the street. Grandmother mustn't see her. Gretchen retraced her steps, not even glancing toward the Tatum house. She hurried to the alley, moving fast. The Crane house was closed, too, the windows down, the shades drawn. A note was pinned to the back screen door. Gretchen hesitated, ran up the neat graveled path. The note read:

 
A bumblebee in the wisteria looped near Gretchen's head. She jumped off the steps, backed away. Mrs. Crane had left town. Gretchen knew as surely as if Mrs. Crane were there, obstinate eyes in a determined face, that she'd gone to see her daughter to avoid telling the chief about the man she'd seen coming late at night to the Tatum house. But maybe the chief had found out some other way. Gretchen shook her head impatiently. It didn't really matter. What mattered was getting to the Purdy cabin and warning Clyde Tatum.

It didn't seem to take nearly as long in the bright morning sunlight to reach the path into the woods. Gretchen was fine until she stepped onto the path, the dim, snaking path. She went five feet, ten, pushing through the thickets of honey locust and gooseberry and wild blackberry.

The fear caught at her with a suddenness that left her breathless. She stood rock still and listened. Birds chittered and cawed and trilled. The wind rustled the leaves in the pin oaks and river birch and black walnuts. She tried to take another step, then whirled, clawing and scrambling up the path and out into the road. She broke into a frantic run. She didn't slow until she was in sight of home. She stopped in the shade of a sycamore, leaned against the scaly trunk, struggled for breath.

She felt a hot curl of shame. What was wrong with her? Bright daylight and nobody around and she ran away. There was nothing to be scared of. It wasn't like she'd seen a rattlesnake. All she had to do was walk through the woods and reach the clearing and call out Mr. Tatum's name. He would be nice to her. She was Barb's friend. She could tell him how upset Barb was and how he needed to come home.

But she couldn't tell him that Barb knew he'd killed her mother.

Gretchen walked slowly to her front yard. The door was open. Grandmother would be in the kitchen, making sure everything was ready for their wonderful lunch. She'd tell Grandmother what Mr. Dennis said and then admit she'd followed Grandmother to the cabin. When Grandmother understood that Clyde Tatum might be in danger, they could go to the cabin together. That was all Gretchen needed, someone to walk through the woods with her. Already she felt silly that she'd started down the path, then turned and run away. Maybe they could persuade Mr. Tatum to come back with them. That would keep him safe. They could bring him home and call Chief Fraser.

She hurried up the steps. She stepped into the hall and smelled the sweet musky scent of roses. On the letter stand, Grandmother's best cut-glass bowl overflowed with roses from the backyard, pink and red, cream and white. Lying in front of the bowl, arranged in the order they'd arrived, were the latest letters from Jimmy. The living room was neat as a pin and the dining room table was already set with china and crystal and silver. A dozen long-stem red roses, so deep a color they were almost maroon, gleamed in a tall cut-glass vase.

Peace washed over Gretchen. Grandmother would know what to do. “Grandmother?”

“Gretchen.” It was Grandmother's voice, the cadence sweetly familiar but the sound so slight it might have been a dream.

Gretchen plunged toward the kitchen.

Grandmother sat slumped in a wooden chair, her face pale, tiny beads of sweat glistening on her forehead, making a shiny trail above her mouth. Her blue eyes were huge and staring. Her buttercup yellow apron was bunched against her blue silk dress.