Miss Dimple Disappears (27 page)

Well, he got downright huffy about it. Said Mrs. Spragg was cooking for her son and his family and wouldn’t be able to stay long. It was like trying to argue with a stump on fire so Bessie just gave up the effort to understand. After all her baking, that ungrateful Ollie had hardly eaten a thing, and she’d even borrowed Jo Carr’s silver candlesticks to go on her grandmama’s best tablecloth.

Bessie knew that behind her back people made fun of her relationship with Ollie Thigpen, and there had been times—such as this—when she wondered if he was worth her time, but then he’d come through and say or do something to make her feel special. Take Thanksgiving, for instance. Hadn’t he said she was pretty as a picture in that blue suit? And he’d helped her with the dishes, too. He almost never did that. She’d been as mad as a wet hen at that man for rushing through dinner like he had, and he knew it, too. Bessie made sure of that. While they were finishing up in the kitchen she’d hardly said a word, and neither had he until he started to leave. And what was all this about her not going in to work at the munitions plant next week? He had a bad feeling about it, he said, and besides, he added, she looked tired. It was time she quit working so hard and took some time off. “Promise me!” he demanded, and she did, just to appease him of course. Then Ollie Thigpen had lifted her chin, kissed her gently on the lips, and told her things would be different soon. Now, what in the world had he meant by that?

For Christmas the year before, Ollie had given her a brooch with three tiny pearls in the center that had belonged to his mother. He wanted her to have it, he said, and she wore it often and proudly, but she didn’t wear it today. Bessie usually felt at home with Ollie and looked forward to the evenings they spent together, but it was time to take their relationship to the next step if they were ever going to do it, she thought. She was tired of living alone, but several things had happened lately that made her feel uncomfortable. Take that odd conversation with Virginia Balliew, for instance. “How did you like
Murder in Three Acts
?” Virginia had asked her at church last Sunday. Had the woman gone crazy? Bessie had no idea what she was talking about and told her so.

“The book,
Murder in Three Acts.
” Virginia looked at her strangely. “It’s a mystery. Ollie checked it out for you the other day. Said he thought you’d enjoy it.”

“Well then, I guess he must have forgotten to give it to me,” Bessie had told her. Ollie knew very well she never read mysteries. There was enough killing going on in the world without making up stories about it.

Marjorie Mote was deadheading the chrysanthemums by her front walk as Bessie passed her house, and of course she wanted to know how her Thanksgiving had been. Bessie didn’t want to discuss her disheartening Thanksgiving, but how could one be abrupt with Marjorie after she’d lost her dear boy in the war? That hateful banner with the gold star was a constant reminder in the front window.

“I’m afraid it was ‘eat and run’ at my house,” she said, pausing. “Ollie couldn’t stay long because Aileen Spragg—”

“Oh, are the Spraggs back in town? I ran into Aileen at the ten cent store—I believe it was the day before Thanksgiving—and she said they were on their way to Macon to spend the holiday with some of their family.”

How could that be?
Surely Marjorie must be mistaken, but Bessie wasn’t going to argue the point. Her feet were about to give out on her and the thought of a good soaking in a pan of hot water was uppermost on her mind. As she hurried home she noticed Jesse Dean Greeson in his beat-up old Plymouth turning the corner behind her. He drove Harris Cooper’s truck while making deliveries during the week, so what was he doing hanging around here on a Saturday? Bessie squelched a shiver and walked a little faster. She knew he couldn’t help being different, but the man made her feel uneasy.

It wasn’t until she was almost home that she saw all the cars parked in her neighbor’s driveway. It wasn’t unusual for Jo’s sister, Lou, to be there, but unless she was mistaken one of the others belonged to the Methodist minister.

*   *   *

“No! We never talked about that and I don’t want to have anything to do with it!”

The speaker was clearly that of her jailer, “Mr. Smith,” but Miss Dimple couldn’t make out the other, only that it was a low rumble of a voice and the two were in the kitchen above her. The sound woke her from a restless sleep and the low blue flame of the gas heater cast a scanty light. Sitting up in bed, she shoved aside the heavy quilt and realized her gown was damp with perspiration, and for the first time in days, her throat didn’t hurt. Her fever must have broken sometime during the night, and although her legs were a little wobbly, Dimple Kilpatrick felt some of her strength returning.

Switching on the lamp beside her bed, she groped for her glasses. There had been a time when she could see her watch plainly without them, but she could scarcely remember when. Why, it was morning already—almost six o’clock! In normal times, she would have been up by now and dressed for her walk about town. Miss Dimple missed her daily excursions, missed observing the shadows lighten and lift as the town waked in its own time to greet the day. Lately, because of her illness, she even had to forgo her repetitious circuits of the room.

In the frigid bathroom she made hasty ablutions in the small lavatory and dressed once again in her own clothing she had washed days before. It felt good to be wearing her belongings instead of those other strange garments that made her feel as if she were incased in someone else’s skin. Quietly, Miss Dimple made her way to the foot of the stairs and stood stock-still just as she had seen animals do when they sensed danger was near. After a lull in the discussion—or more likely, an argument—the two upstairs spoke again.

“I would never have given you the layout of that plant or told you anything else about it, if I’d known what they meant to do. I was told they’d be taking care of that on a Sunday when the place is empty,” her jailer insisted once more. “There are those work night shifts during the week. Why, there might be people in there!”

Miss Dimple could scarcely hear all the reply but the threatening nuance chilled her through and through. As cold and calm as a blanket of snow the words drifted down to her: “A little late for an attack of conscience now, don’t you think? And need I remind you that there’s nothing you can do about it, my friend?”

She recognized the voice!

Was he going to kill her today? She knew there had been some kind of agreement about a December first deadline and time was running out. Today must be Monday—the Monday after Thanksgiving when everyone would be returning to school after the holiday. Miss Dimple thought fondly of her school, of her classroom, and the children who greeted her each day—even tattletale Joanie Lee Dixon, who bullied the other girls during recess. Would she ever see them again?

Somewhere upstairs a door closed firmly and she heard a car starting up, then the scatter of gravel as it drove away, and Dimple Kilpatrick began to plan in earnest. Today would be the last day of the month. It had to be now or never.

*   *   *

Charlie didn’t think she would be able to bear the silent hugs, the sad smiles, the handshakes that squeezed and lingered. How could she face a roomful of boisterous third graders with any kind of enthusiasm when her brother might be dead or dying on some remote battlefield or captured by Hitler’s horrible Nazi Army?

“You’re not planning to go to the plant tomorrow?” Aunt Lou had asked her sister the day before. And Jo Carr lifted her chin, tucked away her lace-trimmed hankie, and said she most certainly was and had volunteered to fill in at the front desk a few hours after her day shift ended for a young mother who worked in their office. “Her little boy is sick,” she explained, “and she doesn’t want to leave him. Besides, I want—
need
—to keep busy. Bessie’s working late tomorrow, too. They’re trying to step up production at the plant and she said she’d rather do that than just sit around the house.” Fain’s being missing had only bolstered her incentive to do her part to win this war, Jo announced. And Charlie had no choice but to follow suit and go to school as usual. Now she was glad as it kept her from dwelling on all the “what-ifs” that might have happened to her brother.

They had telephoned Delia in Texas who, of course, cried at the news as they all had. Because of her sister’s condition, Charlie hadn’t wanted to tell her until they learned more, but her mother insisted that Delia had a right to know. As a child she had trailed after Fain adoringly no matter how much he teased her. The phone conversation was brief, and both Charlie and her mother promised to write often and to call as soon as they knew more, but there were too many questions unanswered and it was frustrating to have nowhere to turn. Was Fain still alive? Had he lost a limb? An eye? Or worse? Maybe he was a prisoner of war. Would they ever see him again?

Her class was so quiet and well behaved that day Charlie found herself wishing for at least a
small
ruckus, and as soon as the children filed in from their morning recess, she told them about Fain, how they had played together as children acting out the adventures of Tarzan and Jane in the apple tree behind their house, and how poor Delia complained because she always had to be Cheetah. It made the children relax and smile, and the day seemed to progress more normally once Charlie had shared memories of her brother.

Charlie had dreaded the midday meal at Miss Phoebe’s, but found to her surprise that her fellow diners, other than offering their concerns, seemed committed to an upbeat conversation at the table.

Geneva Odom told a funny story about her first Thanksgiving dinner as a new bride when she had added so much rice to the pot it boiled over onto the stove and ended up on the floor. “Almost like that fairy tale about the porridge that flowed into the street!” she added, laughing.

Velma, who had spent the holiday with relatives, made everyone laugh with a description of what was supposed to be cornbread stuffing her niece had made and declared she was glad to be enjoying Odessa’s good cooking once again.

“It was lovely to meet your brother and his friend,” Lily told Annie over a dessert of bread pudding topped with tart quince jelly and meringue. She darted a look at Charlie and smiled. “It looked like the four of you were enjoying your time together.” And Charlie, avoiding Annie’s eyes, agreed that they had.

“What about you, Mr. Vickery?” Annie asked, nudging Charlie under the table. “Did you have a nice Thanksgiving?”

Elwin Vickery looked up from his coffee. “Very nice, thank you, however busy.” It was obvious he didn’t intend to enlarge upon that, but Cornelia Emerson, who had been quiet as usual during the meal, fixed him with her piercing gaze. “Oh? And how is that? Something interesting, I hope.”

“I found it so,” Elwin said, and setting down his cup, excused himself from the table.

“Well, that was strange,” Annie said as she and Charlie walked back to school together. “Cornelia usually acts as if she couldn’t care less about any of us. Wonder why she said that to Elwin. Did you see the look he gave her? If looks could kill …”

“It upset him, all right, and I noticed he didn’t give her an answer,” Charlie said. “But remember when we passed Cornelia coming from that house Elwin owns in the country? I imagine it has something to do with that.”

Annie frowned. “Do you think she knows something about Elwin’s love life? Maybe he thought she was teasing him.”

“Somehow she doesn’t appear to be the teasing type. I can’t imagine her taking an interest in Elwin’s personal life.”

“I wouldn’t want anybody prying into mine—such as it is,” Annie said with a laugh.

The two had reached the edge of the school grounds and Charlie hesitated at the stone wall that marked the entrance. “Annie …”

The concern on her friend’s face made it even harder to continue. “Are you all right?” Annie asked, her hand resting on Charlie’s shoulder.

“It’s not about me. Annie, I’m so sorry.” Charlie turned away. How could she say this? “It’s about you.”

“About me? Oh, you mean my lack of romance? Heck, I’m no worse off than anybody else, and, Charlie! I’ve heard from him
already—
a letter came Saturday, and we have plans to meet in Atlanta when he gets leave before they ship out.”

Charlie felt her legs turn to wood. “Does Will already know when they’ll be shipped out? Don’t they have a lot more training to—”

Annie laughed. “Will? I’m not talking about Will, silly. I meant Frazier—Frazier Duncan. Besides,” she added, smiling. “I’m pretty sure Will’s heart belongs to somebody else.”

“Really?” Charlie felt her face was going to crack. “Who?”

“Why you, of course!” Annie threw her arms around her. “Do you think I’m blind?”

“But Frazier … isn’t he that good-looking lieutenant you danced with so much at the party we gave for the troops? Annie, you only met him once. You hardly know him.”

Annie hooked her arm in Charlie’s as they walked across the playground. “And how long have you known Will? Sometimes, Charlie Carr, you just
know,
and when you do, you’d better grab the brass ring because you might never have that chance again.”

C
HAPTER
T
WENTY-FIVE

“Miss Charlie, I don’t feel so good,” Junior Henderson complained as the class lined up at the back steps after their return from dinner.

Charlie felt his forehead, and although the child was flushed, he didn’t seem feverish. “Why don’t you go wash your face with cool water and rest your head on your desk and see if that doesn’t make you feel better?”

“I told him not to eat all that candy!” Willie said. “He won a nickel’s worth of BB Bats from me playing marbles and Harry Taylor lost a whole bunch of jawbreakers to him, too.”

“And he ate every one of the cookies Mama packed in my lunchbox,” Marshall Dodd chimed in. “Serves him right if it makes him sick!”

Charlie reminded the boys that nobody made them gamble away their sweets at marbles, and they were walking down the hall to their classroom when Junior, whose face had turned the color of skim milk, threw up on the floor next to the water fountain.