Letter From Home (29 page)

She stood just inside the door. “My dad . . .” One hand plucked at the trim on a big patch pocket.

The chief pushed up from the chair, moved heavily across the room. He stood, looking down at Barb, his big head poked forward, his chin almost to his chest, like an oversize, too ripe tomato sagging against the vine. His massive shoulders slumped. “Barb, your daddy shot himself sometime last night. At the Purdy cabin. Looks like he'd been staying there since the night your mama died. We traced the gun. It's his. One bullet gone. His fingerprints on the stock. He left a note.” The words came steadily like a bugler hitting one note. Then he heaved a sigh, turned away. He walked to the end table, picked up the manila envelope, faced Barb. The chief stared down at the envelope, his lips pressed tight.

“A note to me?” Barb's voice was dry and stiff like a burned-up stalk of corn in a neglected garden.

Chief Fraser lifted his big head. He looked like an old bulldog, massive forehead, bulging cheeks, sagging pouches beneath rheumy eyes set in deep sockets. “This here's evidence, I guess. That's what the county attorney said. He told me I didn't ought to take it with me. I should put it at the courthouse in some vault. But I told him we didn't have a murder investigation any longer. All we got is heartbreak, a man who couldn't bear it when his wife cheated on him—”

“Mama never did!” Barb's cry was high and shrill.

The chief held up a callused hand. “Hear me out, Miss Barb. It don't help now to say it was any way other than what happened. Your mama was lonely. Lots of people are lonely now, their menfolks gone. People do the best they can. Your mama did her best, but I want you to understand that your daddy did his best, too. In my heart I know nobody grieved for your mama more than Clyde. That's why he wrote this note.” The chief rattled the envelope. “He wanted everybody to know and he 'specially wanted you to know.” A gnarled finger poked open the envelope. He slowly pulled out an irregular piece of heavy brown paper.

Gretchen recognized the paper, torn from a grocery sack just like the pieces she'd seen on the table in the cabin. Would the chief say anything about those other pieces? Gretchen wished she'd taken the time to look at those pieces of paper. Probably they contained the list of people Clyde hoped could tell him the name of the man who came in the darkness to his house to see Faye. But the chief would no longer search for that visitor. Faye's late-night visitor was safe.

A trembling hand outstretched, Barb slowly walked toward the chief, took the scrap of paper from him. She held it in both hands. She looked down. Her lips moved soundlessly. “Oh, God . . .” The cry came from deep within Barb. Her head jerked up, she stared wildly from the chief to Gretchen and began to shake, her entire body rippling like a flag in a high wind. “Oh, Daddy . . . Daddy.” She gasped for breath then swung around and ran blindly across the room, bumping into the door, yanking it open, plunging out into the hot afternoon.

The chief took a step toward the door, then stopped. “Guess she's got to face it her own way.” He pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket, wiped his face. “But she had a right to see that note.” His cheeks puffed out. “I don't care what anybody says. There's no case to build, no matter how much Donny Durwood complains. It's all finished and done with. Durwood be damned. Barb can keep that scrap of paper. It's all she's got left from her daddy, hard as it is, little as it is.”

Gretchen hurried to the door, looked out. The graveled street lay quiet and empty. To be out of sight so quickly, Barb must have run all the way home, flung herself inside the Tatum house. If Buddy was there, he would hold her tight, make it better. Or no, not better. It would never be better. . . .

“. . . have to see to things.”

Gretchen turned. “What did you say?”

“I was wondering if you know what family might be left. I don't feel like I can leave it this way.” He folded his handkerchief, stuck it back in his pocket. “I mean, Miss Barb's just a girl. Somebody's got to take charge, decide on the funeral. All of that. Well, I'll call around. Thanks, Miss Gretchen.”

It wasn't until the green Packard had pulled into the street that Gretchen realized she'd never asked Chief Fraser what the note said.

 
THERE WASN'T A parking place on all of Main Street. Everybody came to town on Saturday, to shop or see a movie or eat at Victory Café. Gretchen knew she should go to the café, help Cousin Hilda. Gretchen ducked her head and pedaled faster, turned the corner and swung into the alley. She propped her bike next to the trash cans.

Despite the steady whirr of overhead fans, the backshop sweltered. Gretchen shouted hello over the clatter of the Linotypes. It was almost time for the press run. Soon the Sunday papers would be stacked, ready for the paperboys to deliver in the morning.

Gretchen pushed through the door to the newsroom. Mrs. Taylor's desk was immaculate; a dark hood covered her typewriter. She always turned her weekend copy in early and never came to the office on Saturdays. Ralph Cooley leaned back in his chair, crossed feet up on his desk. His hat was tilted to the back of his head. Smoke drifted lazily from the cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth. Mr. Dennis, pencil gripped in his fingers, hunched over yellow copy paper. His pipe smouldered in a big brass ashtray.

The reporter took a final drag, stubbed out his cigarette, slouched to his feet. “Look who's here! Maybe Gretchen knows.” He ambled toward her, fingers tucked behind red suspenders. “You'd think I was trying to interview Charles de Gaulle.” His raspy voice curled in disgust. “I mean, what's the big deal? Fraser better watch himself or he's going to come a cropper.”

Gretchen kept her face blank, but she couldn't forget how tired Chief Fraser looked when he got out of the car at her house. She didn't answer Ralph. She turned away from him, walked toward Mr. Dennis's desk.

The editor tapped the sheets of yellow copy paper. “We got the story, Gretchen. Thanks to you.”

Ralph sauntered after her, stood on the opposite side of the editor's desk. “Not all the story.” He lit another cigarette, smothered a cough. “According to Durwood, the chief took the prime piece of evidence with him, like he'd picked some cherries at the side of the road. Sergeant Petty admitted the chief was going to Gretchen's house this afternoon, then she clammed up. What I want to know is this—where's the note Clyde Tatum wrote? I want to see it. How do we know he wrote it?”

“He wrote it.” Gretchen laced her fingers together. “The chief gave it to Barb.” Gretchen swallowed. “Barb cried.”

Ralph rocked back on his heels. “Oh. She recognized his handwriting.” He heaved a dissatisfied sigh. “I guess that wraps it up. The show's over.”

“I told you to drop it, Ralph.” Mr. Dennis's voice was sharp. “Chief Fraser's no fool. And the sheriff told us what Clyde's note said.”

Gretchen stepped past the reporter, looked at the editor. “What did the note say?”

Mr. Dennis picked up his pipe, poked at the embers. “Not a lot, Gretchen. Enough.” His face wrinkled and he said carefully, repeating what he'd heard,“‘I didn't mean to kill Faye. Tell Barbie I love her—'”

Gretchen felt the sting of tears. No wonder Barb cried and ran away.

THE SWEET REFRAIN of “Do, Lord” hung in the evening sky like the settling cry of birds. Youthful voices rose in the dusk, competing with the twilight rasp of the cicadas. They sat on folding chairs on a grassy lawn beside the church, holding hands, the circle unbroken. The girls all wore pretty summer dresses, the pinks and yellows and creams indistinct in the deepening evening. Gretchen tried to ignore the flat sound of Tommy Krueger's voice. He was always off key. She'd taken her accustomed place in the circle—it was funny how everyone always sat in the same chair—but she felt as if she were all alone. It was as if she were invisible. The girls spoke past her or over her or around her. Yet it was so much the same, the girls taking eager sidelong glances at the boys—Tommy and Joe and Carl and Hal—and laughing in that special self-conscious way girls do when they want boys to notice them. Gretchen had always been a part of this group and now, though she still sat among them, she was not. She wondered if this was how gawky Al and shy Melissa and dull Howard felt at the Sunday evening youth group. And there were the others her friends casually ignored, Judith and Roger and Harry.

As the last refrain sounded, the youth director said, “Let's close with a prayer.” Everyone stood, still holding hands. The director, Mr. Haskell, had a drowsy voice that rose and fell like little waves lapping at the edge of the lake. He prayed for them and their parents and for brave servicemen and -women around the world, fighting to keep them free and—

“. . . please hold in your hearts a special prayer for Barbara Tatum and her parents, Faye and Clyde . . .”

Wilma's hand jerked in Gretchen's. All around the circle, there was movement. It was as though someone had poked them with a sharp stick.

“. . . and help all of us to support Barbara in her hour of need. Thank you, God, for hearing our prayer. Amen.” Mr. Haskell wiped his perspiring face. “Good night, everyone, good night.”

Gretchen hung behind, watched her friends leave. They were on their way to the town square. Tonight a barbershop quartet was going to perform at the gazebo.

At the edge of the field, Cynthia Reeves looked back. She lagged behind the others for a moment, her eyes locked with Gretchen's. Then she looked away, turned, and hurried to catch up.

Gretchen felt hot and cold as she walked home. It was still close to a hundred even though it was dark now, the far-apart street lamps spots of gold against the night sky. But deep inside, she was cold. She didn't have any friends. Not now. Not since she'd written the story about Faye Tatum. Would people—would Wilma and her dad and Tommy and the others—forget as time went on? Maybe. But Gretchen knew she'd never forget. Of course, if she stopped working at the
Gazette
, told them she'd only written the story because Mr. Dennis asked her to, they might be her friends again.

“I'd rather die.” Gretchen said it aloud. She wouldn't quit. She would write the best stories she could write. No matter what. Deeper than the sense of loss and loneliness was pride. Her story was good. Mr. Dennis sent it out on the wire. In other cities, places she would never be, people she would never know had read that story and for a moment they pictured Faye Tatum and she became a part of them. Faye lived and breathed and moved in other minds because of Gretchen.

She reached Archer Street. Her street. The street she'd grown up on, every inch of it familiar. Always before, she'd felt a quiet serenity when she reached Archer Street. But now . . . She stopped to stare at the Tatum house. Gretchen knew the house was empty. Not a glimmer of light shone. In the silver of the moonlight, the house looked shrunken, drawn in upon itself, like a body with the soul departed. No wonder Barb wasn't there tonight. How could she bear ever to return?

The Crane house was dark, too, but it wore the darkness like a well-dressed woman with a soft shawl, proud and confident.

Light spilled from the living room of her house. Gretchen walked slowly toward the steps. Would Grandmother notice she was home early? She paused just inside the door, heard Grandmother's voice.

“ . . . oh, so happy I am for you. If only Gretchen were here . . .”

Gretchen ran across the living room.

Grandmother stood by the telephone. Her blue eyes, softened by tears, widened as Gretchen burst into the kitchen. Her lips curved in a happy smile. “Lorraine, Lorraine, here she is. Our Gretchen has come home just in time to speak with you. Oh, it is a gift from God that we have.” And she held out the receiver.

Gretchen scarcely took in the words, her mother's voice almost lost in the crackle of the line and the roar of sounds behind her, voices and whistles and the rumble of train wheels. “. . . don't have much time . . . off the train at Albuquerque . . . on our way to California . . . Sam and I . . . His leave was up . . . Oh, Gretchen, we got married last night. . . .”

Gretchen gripped the receiver with all her strength, holding on. “Married?” Her lips felt stiff.

“Oh, baby, I love him so. And I love you. I'll call when we get there. . . . Baby, I've got to go. . . .”

 
GRETCHEN STARED AT the shifting pattern on the wall, the moonlight shining through the wind-stirred branches of the elm tree. The tangled streaks of darkness kept changing. Even if the wind stopped, the moon would rise higher in the sky and the lines of darkness would thicken, thin, curve, merge, change.

California . . . She'd seen movies and read lots of movie magazines. Black-and-white images rose in her mind. Palm trees, tall and slender. Orange groves. Hollywood. Movie stars' footprints in cement. The ocean. Against these sterile images was the sharp, bright picture of her mother and Sam Hoyt in the amber light beneath the float, their bodies melding together.

Gretchen lifted the edge of the sheet to wipe away her tears.

 
THE FEATHER—MAYBE from a peacock, it was so long and blue—on Mrs. Taylor's hat swooped perilously near Mr. Dennis's pipe as the society editor made a sweeping bow. “Your Highness,” she proclaimed, slapping copy paper on his desk, “as a lowly serf with no rights or privileges, indeed as an abject figure accustomed to remaining mute in the face of slurs and slanders, I present myself as a sacrifice to the good name of the
Gazette
.”

Mr. Dennis rescued his pipe. “So what's the problem, Jewell?” His gaze was wary.

The diminutive society editor perched on the edge of Mr. Dennis's desk, the upright feather quivering slightly in the downdraft from the overhead fan. “Actually, I did not remain mute. During the coffee hour at church yesterday, I talked until I was blue”—she patted pink cheeks—“in the face, so to speak. I proclaimed”—her voice rose and fell in a lilting falsetto—“I insisted loudly, I swore on the memory of my departed father, God rest his soul, the old blackguard, that the
Gazette
does not condone unfaithfulness on the part of wives . . .”