Letter From Home (28 page)

Gretchen stared at him. Lorry, that was the special name Grandmother had for Lorraine.

Sam's voice was reassuring. “Your mom's going to be all right. She's had a shock. Nobody expects something like this to happen to neighbors.”

“More than neighbors.” Tears rolled down Lorraine's cheeks. “I grew up playing with Clyde. He spent a lot of time at our house. His mom died when he was eight and Mother always made him a part of our family.”

Sam bent, spoke softly. “We need to get your mom to eat, then lie down. And, Lorry, I can call my folks, tell them we can't come this afternoon.”

Lorraine straightened, used her hands to wipe her cheeks. “No. We're going to your folks.”

There was a determination in her voice that Gretchen didn't understand.

Lorraine held out her hands toward Gretchen. “You'll take care of Mother, won't you?” She reached up, touched Gretchen's cheek. “Oh, baby, I know it's hard. But everything's hard now.” Her voice was bleak. “I'm afraid every time someone knocks on the door that Jimmy's dead. People come to work and you know what's happened, their eyes are red and they walk like they don't care where they're going or if they ever get there. And now Faye and Clyde and poor little Barb. And here you are in the middle of something you don't even understand and there's nobody here to help you. Gretchen, if I could make it better, I would. But there's nothing I can do. And Sam and I have to leave right after lunch. Please, will you understand if I don't stay?”

Gretchen would have understood if Mother had to get back for her shift. Like Grandmother said, everybody had to do their part and they talked about it on the radio, how important it was for plant workers not to miss work. But that wasn't why Mother was going to leave after lunch. It was more important to her to go to Tahlequah to see Sam Hoyt's family than to stay here with Gretchen and Grandmother, even though Grandmother was sick and upset. “Sure.” Gretchen ducked her head, squeezed past them.

Sam called out, “Gretchen, if you'll tell me where the girl is, I'll find her, talk to her.”

Gretchen didn't want any help from Sam, no matter what. “I have to find Barb. I promised the chief.”

 
GRETCHEN WENT STRAIGHT to the back door of the Tatum house. She knocked on the screen door. The door to the kitchen was open. Gretchen rattled the door, lifted her voice. “Barb. Barb!”

The soldier came to the kitchen doorway. “Barb doesn't want to see anybody.”

Gretchen pulled open the screen. “I have to talk to her.” Gretchen wasn't thinking now of what she had to say, only that she had to say it. “I've got bad news.”

“Bad news . . .” He clenched his big hands into fists, turned away. He stood, head bent for an instant, then walked stolidly into the house.

Gretchen stepped onto the porch. Faye's painting—the one she'd been working on—was close enough to touch. The canvas was spotted. Gretchen took a step, reached out. Her fingers came away damp. The rain had blown through the porch. A tarp lay in a crumpled heap near her foot. No one had bothered to cover the painting before the storm. Once the porch had seemed exotic, jumbles of canvases, the palette with brilliant smudges of color, a wicker table next to the easel with a bottle of beer and an overflowing brass ashtray shaped like an elephant, a matchbox tucked in the curve of its trunk. Now the little screened-in enclosure was simply frowsy, like a catchall room in an old house. On impulse, Gretchen bent, grabbed the tarp, draped it over the painting.

“What difference does it make now?” Barb's voice was dull.

Gretchen whirled toward the kitchen.

Barb walked heavily onto the porch. Her sunken eyes were red rimmed. Her chalk white face was bare of makeup. Her reddish brown hair hung in tangles. Her body sagged as if every muscle and bone ached. “I kept hoping we'd have a tornado and blow the house away. And me with it. But it just rained. Do you think rain is like God crying?” She caught a tendril of hair, curled it around one finger.

“Barb, honey.” The soldier grabbed her arm. “I'm here. I'll take care of you.”

Barb looked at him, her eyes empty. Her lips quivered. “Buddy . . . Buddy, I don't deserve you.”

His hand slid down her arm, caught her hand. His face lighted. “All I want is to make you happy.”

“Happy.” Barb repeated the word as if she'd never heard it. “Happy.”

His big face drooped. “I'm sorry. God, Barb, I'll do everything I can for you. You know that, don't you?”

“Yes.” She lifted her head, stared at Gretchen. “You didn't come about Mama's painting. It's Daddy, isn't it?”

“I'm sorry.” Gretchen felt a bond with the young soldier. He wanted to help Barb, but nobody could, not he, not she. “Your dad's dead.”

Barb didn't move, her face was still as the stone angel on my daddy's grave.

Gretchen spoke fast. “He shot himself last night. At the Purdy cabin. They found him a little while ago. I promised Chief Fraser I'd come and get you.”

“Get me?” Brooding eyes focused on Gretchen.

Gretchen felt as if Barb was as distant as a faint star in the night sky, leaving Gretchen and the soldier behind on the hot, still porch. Gretchen lifted her voice. “I told the chief I'd bring you to my house. He's coming at two o'clock. Your dad left a note.”

 
THE DOOR BANGED as Gretchen came inside. The hot living room was empty and dim, the shades drawn, a fan whirring in one corner. Gretchen looked into the dining room. They always ate at the dining room table on Sundays and special days. The lace tablecloth was draped in a diamond shape. Two place settings remained.

Steps sounded in the kitchen. Sam Hoyt, holding a dish towel in one hand and a filled china plate in the other, walked toward the table. “We saved your lunch, Gretchen.” He was once again in his crisp white uniform, military as could be except for the bright yellow apron tied around his middle.

She stood in the archway. “Where's Mother?” Who was he to take over their kitchen, offer her food, use Grandmother's apron?

“She's with your grandmother.” He placed the plate on the table. “Did you find the girl?”

“Yes.” Gretchen almost turned to go down the hall to Grandmother's room, but what good would it do? Mother was getting ready to leave, going away with this stranger. Gretchen slipped into the chair. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes and cream gravy and peas, her favorite dinner. She picked up a chicken leg, began to eat, ignored Sam.

He looked toward the front door. “I thought you were bringing her here. I've got another plate ready. Is she all right?”

“No.” Her tone was scornful. Barb all right? Her mother dead and now her father. What kind of fool was he? “She didn't want to come now.” Was Barb still standing on the porch with Buddy, standing there but not there, her mind and soul far away? “She'll be here at two when the police chief comes.” Maybe Barb would feel about her daddy's note the way she felt about the spoiled painting. What difference did it make now?

Sam returned to the kitchen, came back with a tall glass of tea. “Would you like sugar?”

Grandmother always sweetened the tea as she made it. He didn't know. “No, thank you.” The food had no taste, but she ate, one mouthful after another.

He stood just a foot or so away. Gretchen could see him from the corner of her eye.

He cleared his throat. “Gretchen . . .”

She didn't answer, but she watched him without turning her head. He looked tired and sad and his eyes had a faraway gaze as if he was looking at something she couldn't see.

“Gretchen, the war has changed everything. It used to be we had time to get to know people. But now, first thing you know, people are here or there and we can't count on tomorrow coming.” He spoke quietly.

Gretchen put down her fork, twisted to face him.

“I just want you to know that I think your mother is . . .” His eyes were soft. “Well . . .” It was almost a laugh. “I don't have to tell you how special your mother is.”

“Sam?” High heels clattered on the wooden floor. Lorraine burst into the dining room. “Oh, baby, did Sam take care of you? I knew he would.” She looked around. “Is Barb here?”

“Not yet.” Sam took off the apron, folded it. “She's coming in a little while.”

“Oh.” Lorraine sighed. “I wish we could stay.” She took a deep breath. “But we can't.”

Gretchen pushed back her plate, the drumstick half eaten, the potatoes and peas untouched.

Lorraine came close. Her hand touched stiff shoulders. “I love you, baby.”

Gretchen managed a whisper. “Love you, too.”

Lorraine lifted her hand. Her fingers smoothed a dark curl at the side of Gretchen's face.

Gretchen looked up.

Lorraine's smile was tremulous. “You're going to do all right, honey. Today. Tomorrow. Whatever happens, you can handle it. Even something as awful as Faye and Clyde. Gretchen, as dreadful as it is—Clyde killing himself—it may be better for Barb this way . . .”

Gretchen pushed away the memory of Clyde Tatum slumped over the table.

“. . . because even though it's terrible for her that Clyde killed Faye and then himself, it would have been worse if they arrested him and Barb had to hear the dreadful things they would have said in court. Clyde would have been convicted and gone to prison—or worse, they might have sent him to the electric chair. The chief said Clyde left a note?”

Gretchen nodded.

“You know, I've been thinking and thinking.” Lorraine clasped her hands together, almost like saying a prayer. “Clyde loved Faye. I know that. Now, that may sound strange since he killed her. But I don't think he ever in a million years meant to hurt her. He cared too much and he was angry and hurt. That's why he ran away. He couldn't live with what he'd done. He never even thought of trying to brazen it out, pretend he was innocent . . .”

Gretchen wanted to say that he had told Grandmother, sworn to her, that he didn't kill Faye. Gretchen heard him. But she couldn't tell her mother. Or anyone. And neither could Grandmother.

“. . . and he hid out and then he knew what he'd done and he knew what it would do to Barb if they caught him. I think he thought it all out. And maybe he couldn't go on living without Faye. But it's better for Barb though she may never be able to think that's true. Poor Barb, poor Barb.” Lorraine bent down, pressed her cheek against the top of Gretchen's head. And then she moved away.

The loss of her touch was like a cold draft when the door opened in the winter. Gretchen pushed up from the table, followed them to the front door. Lorraine looked very pretty, once again in her polka-dot blouse with the soft tie and her short pink pleated skirt that swirled when she walked. Her high heels wobbled on the graveled drive. Her hair, still damp from the swim, was brushed in a mass of ringlets, shiny as polished wood. The saucer-style hat pitched forward, gay as a sailboat on the lake, the feather rippling like a sail in the wind. Her makeup was perfect, her eyebrows arched thin and dark.

Sam held open the car door, touched her arm as he helped her in, a lingering, gentle, holding-on kind of touch.

Her mother leaned out of the open window, waving. “Take care of Mother. Good-bye, honey, good-bye.”

Sam got behind the wheel. The motor coughed, rumbled.

Gretchen stood on the front steps and watched the blue Buick back into Archer Street, head for downtown. She waved until the car reached the end of the block, turned, and was gone.

 
GRETCHEN PUT THE cup with hot tea on the bedside table. Grandmother lay unmoving in the big double bed, her head turned toward the door, her golden braids resting on the pillow. She slept, one hand tucked beneath her chin. Her face, moist with perspiration, looked old and heavy, pale and worn.

Gretchen tiptoed out of the room. Did Grandmother sleep because she was sick? Or was sleep a way to escape the morning's sad news? Whichever, the rest would be good for her. Gretchen eased the bedroom door closed.

She wandered into the living room, pausing to straighten a crocheted arm cover on the sofa. Despite the fan, the room was heavy with heat. And so quiet. It didn't seem real that her mother had been there for awhile. Her mother and Sam Hoyt.

Gretchen sank onto the sofa. She almost turned on the radio. But the sound might wake Grandmother. She fingered the lace arm cover. The grandfather clock chimed twice. A car turned into the drive.

Gretchen went to the front door. Heat poured down from the sun like syrup spreading over pancakes, thick and heavy. She shaded her eyes.

The motor sputtered as Chief Fraser's old green Packard rocked to a stop. He opened the door, got out, then ducked his head to reach inside for his hat and a manila envelope. As he walked across the yard, dust scuffing beneath his cowboy boots, he craned his head. “Miss Barb here?”

Gretchen held open the door. “She's coming. She said she would.”

In the living room, he settled in the biggest chair, planted his boots on the floor, placed his hat and the envelope on a side table, next to the lamp.

“Would you like some iced tea, Chief?” Gretchen spoke softly.

“Sure would.” Chief Fraser looked around. “Nobody here?”

“Grandmother's resting. She doesn't feel very well. And Mother had to leave.” But she didn't have to go.

He rubbed at his tired red face. “Hope your grandma's all right.”

“It's probably the hot weather.” Gretchen forced a smile. “I'll get—”

The screen door opened. Barb had changed from the halter and shorts. Her white blouse was crisp and ironed and she wore a peasant skirt with a scalloped hem and green embroidery, and sandals with thick crepe soles, but her hair still looked unkempt and her face was the dull white of a soft winter snow.