Waiting for Sunrise
Read Waiting for Sunrise Online
Authors: Eva Marie Everson
Tags: #FIC042040, #FIC027020, #Cedar Key (Fla.)—Fiction
© 2012 by Eva Marie Everson
Published by Revell
a division of Baker Publishing Group
P.O. Box 6287, Grand Rapids, MI 49516-6287
Ebook edition created 2012
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means—for example, electronic, photocopy, recording—without the prior written permission of the publisher. The only exception is brief quotations in printed reviews.
ISBN 978-1-4412-3757-6
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is on file at the Library of Congress, Washington, DC.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is coincidental.
The internet addresses, email addresses, and phone numbers in this book are accurate at the time of publication. They are provided as a resource. Baker Publishing Group does not endorse them or vouch for their content or permanence.
Dedicated to
Sally E. Stuart
(our pal, Sal)
in honor of the years of tireless efforts she has given
for Christian writers
and the world that affects them.
Thank you, Sally! We love you!
Spring 1964
Patsy Milstrap sat on the passenger’s side of the jet-black ’63 Ford Falcon Futura. Her husband, Gilbert—whose face seemed transfixed on the road before them—rested an arm over the steering wheel as though they’d not a care in the world.
Earlier in the drive from their South Carolina home to Cedar Key, Florida, and as the sun grew warmer, Gilbert had lowered the convertible top. It was now midafternoon. In spite of the scarf tied around her head and secured under her chin, Patsy’s long hair had been whipped to a frenzy. Her face felt sunburned. She would ask Gilbert to raise the roof, but she couldn’t find the energy to do so.
Besides, she liked knowing her body could still feel . . . something. Lately, she’d only wanted to slip between the sheet and the coverlet of their bed—the one she’d shared with Gilbert for nearly fourteen years now—cover her head, and sleep. Not her devotion to her husband nor her love for their children—five, ranging from four years of age to thirteen—could penetrate the pain she’d been living with since the first had been born.
Or had it been forever?
Clearly she was dying, she thought. Clearly no one could hurt this much and survive.
And the pain . . . so deep . . . maybe even Jesus couldn’t reach it.
So deep . . . like the blue-green water on both sides of the road leading into Cedar Key, where Gilbert had rented a cottage for them. They would stay a week, he’d said. Just the two of them. The children could stay with his sister Janice and her husband. And their children. It would be like going off to church camp, he’d said, while Patsy and he would come for the arts festival he had heard about.
She liked art, didn’t she? he’d asked.
And they would go boating. Take bike rides. Relax in the sunshine. It had rained so much in Trinity lately. It would do them
both
good.
Okay, she’d said. Okay.
“And maybe,” he’d hinted with a wink, “we can snuggle like we used to.”
Patsy closed her eyes at the thought. If she came up pregnant again . . . it would be worse than the other times. Every time, a little worse. Every time . . .
“We’re nearly there,” Gilbert chimed from beside her.
She opened her eyes, turned her head slowly toward him, and forced her lips to curl upward into a smile. She could do that much, right?
“Was that a smile I just saw?” he said. The deep dimple of his cheek came into view. “See there? One minute in Cedar Key and you’re getting better.” He squared his shoulders. “I knew this was a good idea.”
Patsy looked back to the front of the car. A town—a little harbor town—was coming into view. Fishermen on a dock. Weathered hands pulling crab baskets from the water and into a boat. The scent of the marsh washed over her.
In spite of its pungency, she liked it.
“Are you hungry, Patsy? I’m ravenous.”
She looked at him again, nodded. “Yes. A little.”
The dimple returned. “See there?” he repeated. “Another good sign.” The car slowed as they entered the city limits. “Let’s get to the cottage, settle in, clean up, and find this place Walter told me about.”
“Sikes?”
“Sikes’s Seafood. I’ll bet the food is about as fresh as anything you can get on the coastline.”
Patsy inhaled deeply. She liked a good fried shrimp. And deviled crab. She hadn’t had that in ages. That with a baked potato . . .
———
The cottage was everything it had been touted to be. The cottony-white walls, the dark, rich furniture, the white eyelet curtains and bed linens, and the polished hardwood floors helped Patsy begin to relax. To feel that maybe her life was going to be okay. Even if only for a week.
A week in Cedar Key.
Patsy unpacked their luggage while Gilbert showered. When he was done, she took a quick bath, worked the tangles out of her hair, then brushed it until it shone. She worked it into a long braid that snaked over her shoulder before dressing in a knee-length mint-green A-line skirt with matching sleeveless blouse. She wore no jewelry, no makeup. Only coral-colored lipstick.
The way Gilbert liked it.
“Will you put the top up on the car?” she asked as they stepped from the front porch of the cottage. “It took forever to get the rats out of my hair.”
Her husband slipped an arm around her waist. “Anything for my lady.”
She sighed as he opened the car door for her. Allowed her to get in gracefully. Closed it. She watched him sprint around the front to his side.
He is trying so hard.
A few minutes later they arrived at the seafood restaurant near the harbor they’d heard about from Walter, one of Gilbert’s business associates. Walter had also told them about the tropical healing balm of the island.
Already a line was forming at the front door of the establishment. Patsy glanced at her watch. It was only five o’clock. She thought they would have been early enough. Maybe the food really was that good.
She waited at the end of the line while Gilbert gave the restaurant’s hostess their name. He returned a minute later. “Fifteen minutes. That’s not bad.”
Over the fifteen minutes, she found herself drinking in the sights and sounds of Cedar Key. Already she liked it here. It called to her, like an old friend, and made her feel as though she’d been here before.
Seagulls soared overhead. Patsy craned her neck to watch them, then lowered her chin to view them through the glass walls of the restaurant as they dove into the rhythmic waves below.
They inched closer to the inside of the restaurant. Gilbert slapped his flat stomach, drawing Patsy’s attention from the white birds to the pressed white of his button-down shirt. “I smell good ole fried seafood. I think I’ll have shrimp. What about you?”
She strained to make the decision. “Deviled crab.”
He wrapped his arm around her waist again and squeezed. “Somehow I knew you’d say that.”
“You know me well.”
“Since you were no more than a pup.”
“Milstrap, party of two?” the hostess called over the heads of the few hopeful patrons left standing in front of them.
Gilbert raised his hand. “That’s us.”
They entered the restaurant, Patsy behind the hostess, Gilbert behind her. Sikes’s Seafood was all wood and glass. The walls sported lifesavers and nets with shells caught between the yarn. Large mounted fish. Stuffed replicas of tropical birds perched on beachwood. It was typical tropical, and to add to the setting, the Beach Boys sang “Surfin’ USA” from a jukebox
.
The hostess stopped short before turning toward a man in dress casual attire. “Oh, I’m sorry,” she said to Patsy and Gilbert. “Just a minute, please, while I ask my boss a question.” She returned her attention to the man. “Mr. Liddle?”
At the sound of the name, Patsy felt the air suck into her lungs before she heard the intake of breath. Gilbert’s hands gripped her forearms.
The man stopped. Turned toward them. Smiled briefly at them. “Yes, Brenda . . .”
How could it be, Patsy wondered. How was it that here, in Cedar Key, she stared into a face she hardly recognized.
And into eyes she would never forget.
1Summer 1946
With the war a lasting memory and the manufacturing of appliances back in full swing, thirteen-year-old Patsy Sweeny and her thirty-year-old mother went to town to splurge on a new Maytag wringer washing machine. Not so much for herself, Bernice Liddle told her husband Ira—a man as tight with a penny as he was firm on her role as wife and mother—but to enable her to bring in other people’s wash. It was for a good cause too, she’d told him, what with so many women still working outside of their homes.
“And goodness knows,” she told Patsy as they drove to Gibson’s Department Store—a place Patsy always thought smelled of new tires and cleaner—on the day of purchasing, “we could use the extra money.” She cut a sharp eye toward her daughter. “You tell Mr. Liddle I said that and I’ll deny it, you hear me?”
“Yes, ma’am,” Patsy replied. She was smart enough to know the rules of the house. No one demeaned her stepfather. At least, not to his face.
“You’re a good daughter,” Mama said after several minutes.
Patsy knew her mother had been thinking. Thinking about what she’d just let slip. Thinking about what would surely happen if Mr. Liddle found out she’d said it, even to her own child. Her words of praise were no more than a line of insurance, but Patsy felt pleased to hear them anyway.
Patsy looked out the open passenger window of the oversized black 1936 Chevy coupe Mr. Liddle had purchased for his wife the year before. “To use when you have to do your shopping or if the kids get sick,” he told her when he brought it home. “Not for any running around to visit with your friends.”
As if Mama had many friends for visiting.
“Sure is hot out there.” Patsy tilted her face toward the June sun then drew her head back into the car. “The beans are already near about drying up before I can pick ’em, and it’s not even July yet.”
“You just have to get out there earlier, is all.”
Patsy’s eyes scanned lazily from the side of the long dirt road they traveled to the woman behind the steering wheel. Mama was only seventeen years her senior, yet she looked and seemed so much older. Like a grandmother instead of a mother.
“Yes, ma’am.”
They purchased the washer for $54.95 plus tax. As her mother counted out the last of the loose change, Patsy ran her fingertips along the wringers of the floor model. She listened when Mr. Gibson said someone would deliver it to the house within the next few days. Then her mother gave their address and phone number—931—and asked that someone call before they arrived. “To make sure we’re home,” she said, as though they had a busy social schedule.
Patsy looked up, wondering where else they’d be when the washer came. She heard her mother whisper, “Will you let others know, Mr. Gibson, that I’m taking in wash now?”
Patsy walked away from the embarrassment of the moment. Not that she was ashamed of taking in wash; she merely felt the sting of her mother’s humiliation.
But a week later, that machine became her own cross to bear. While her friends from school met at Cassel Creek on hot summer afternoons, Patsy stayed busy washing clothes for her family while her mother took care of what felt like the rest of Casselton, Georgia. Her days became endless hours of caring for her little brothers, five-year-old Harold and four-year-old Billy, picking and putting up vegetables from the dusty fields behind their two-story bungalow, and washing clothes.
The washing was one thing. The ironing and the folding and the putting them away was another.
They kept the machine next to the back door on the wide, screened back porch. Twice a week Patsy pulled the washer from the outside wall, ran the electric wire to a kitchen plug, added water and Duz detergent to the tub, allowed it to agitate for a few minutes, and added the clothes. While they washed, she ran clean water into a wooden rinse tub, which she then dragged to the back side of the washer. After flipping the chrome switch of the machine to the “off” position, she pulled the soapy clothes into the rinse tub, added another load to the wash, and began the backbreaking task of wringing the individual pieces.
When it was all done, she hung the clothes on the line before setting everything to rights on the back porch, including returning the Duz powder to its place under the skirted kitchen sink.
Oh, how her mother loved Duz. Their kitchen had been furnished by the goblets, dishes, dishrags, and drying cloths that came inside each new box, which meant she didn’t have to spend any extra of the allowance Mr. Liddle gave but could still have nice things.
On the days she wasn’t washing the laundry, Patsy ironed it. And on the days she didn’t iron the laundry, she dusted the house and broom-swept the carpets. Living on a dirt road, in a house that sat on a plot of land without a blade of grass, meant the house always stayed dusty and the rugs sometimes felt like a sandbox to bare feet. To keep from stirring the dust, she used the sprinkling bottle from laundry days and cast droplets of water on top of the worn wool before sweeping. She thought it a good idea and her mother had even praised her for it. Life was too hot and too busy. And her body ached at night from the stress of her labor, but in the morning she felt all right.
Then came a day in August.
Her mother had been overwhelmed with other people’s laundry and two little boys who’d eaten too much of the taffy they’d pulled the day before. “Patsy,” she called out the back door as Patsy walked up from the vegetable garden; a bushel of freshly picked field peas rocked against her hip.
Patsy shielded her eyes against the late morning sunlight and squinted to the back of the house. “I got enough peas to shell for a month of Sundays,” she called back.
“Never mind that now,” her mother hollered.
Patsy made her way to the unpainted wooden steps leading up to the porch before she set the bushel basket at her feet. “What do you need, Mama?”
“I need you to help me out here, clearly I do. I’m running back and forth with a chamber pot for your brothers and trying to stay on task with this wash here. Mr. Liddle will be home tonight from his sales route, and if he sees the dust that’s built up in the house . . . well, you know how he gets. Go put on one of my aprons and get to work in the house, now.”
Patsy ascended the steps and got right to it. Sometime later she went to the kitchen in search of her mother, finding her there stooped over the sink, wearing her old housedress and a pair of Red Goose shoes in need of resoling, washing the peas from the earlier picking. “Mama, I dusted the whole house except for your room.”
Her mother glanced over her shoulder. Her eyes went first to the kitchen wall clock and then to Patsy. She raised her hand to press against the brush rollers that held her hair in tight curls. “Lord-a-mercy, I gotta do my hair, so go ahead and dust in there too.”
Patsy did as she was told before her mother could change her mind. Oh, how she longed to be in that room . . . to touch the dainty items that rested atop her mother’s vanity. She walked into the room as though entering a church—reverently, taking it all in. Every bit of furniture, every framed picture, every needlepoint pillow from her mother’s hand.
She moved to the bedside tables, ever so careful to pick up the lamps, dust under them, and return them to the exact spot she’d found them. Patsy swallowed hard when she came to Mr. Liddle’s chest of drawers. If he thought for a moment that Patsy—rather than his wife—had been the one to touch his things . . .
She drew in a deep breath, picked up each item one at a time—the brush and comb set, the matching lint roller, the small jewelry box placed perfectly in the middle. A library book—
Listen, Germany
by Thomas Mann—rested along one edge. Patsy picked it up to run the oily cloth over the wood. Thinking herself quite wise, she laid the book on the white crocheted bedspread her mother had made from a Star Book pattern so as not to get oil stains on the back cover of the book.
Her mother’s vanity was neatly arranged. Her lotions, perfume, and dusting powder were to the left of the oval mirror. To the right, a faux gold filigree lipstick holder, with Cupid playing a guitar in the outside center, held four tubes of lipstick with the matching vanity set angled to the left in the center. Patsy glanced toward the opened door. With a captured breath, she removed each item and placed it on the padded stool at her knees. She oiled the wood until the patina reflected her image. Before replacing her mother’s pretties, she pulled a dry cloth from the pocket of the apron and wiped each one as though she were drying a freshly bathed infant.
Before finishing the vanity, she inhaled from both the perfume bottle and the dusting powder tin and imagined herself getting ready for a fancy party, the likes she’d probably never see. When everything was as it had been before she entered the room, she straightened and smiled. She’d done a good job. Maybe good enough that Mama would let her do it again.
“Patsy?” The voice came from behind her; it was neither harsh nor gentle.
“Oh, Mama,” she said turning. “You startled me.”
“Hurry, child, before Mr. Liddle comes home.”
Patsy crossed the room to where her mother stood framed by the doorway. “I did a good job for you, Mama,” she said.
“I know you did, now come on. The boys need a bath and the dining room needs preparing and then I want you to comb out my hair.”
———
The ritual was always the same. As soon as Mr. Liddle returned from his sales trips, her mother put away his traveling things. For a while, he played with his sons, then smoked a pipe and read the paper in wait for supper.
He never said a word to Patsy other than, “Girl, you been helping your mama?”
“Yes, sir.” She tried not to look him in the eyes—they were steel gray and sharp as a shark’s tooth. She just replied and then went on her way.
It had always been like that between them. He only spoke to her—really spoke to her—when he was giving her a whipping. On those occasions—not as frequent since her twelfth birthday—his words came in staccato beats. “What. Did. I. Tell. You. About . . .” Then he’d finish with whatever he’d told her about that she’d done or hadn’t done to his liking. It made no never-mind. One time he hit her across the back so hard she lost her breath. That night Mama tucked her into bed, asked if she was all right, then said, “Just don’t make him mad, Patsy, and you’ll be fine.”
He never hit the boys. For that, at least, Patsy was grateful. But he’d hit Mama a few times—most often a slap across her face. Those times he called her names like “stupid” and “worthless,” said she was lucky he came along when he did to rescue her sorry self from “that pit five-and-dime and Mr. Harvey Jenkins.”
Patsy didn’t know what that meant exactly, but she knew better than to ask.
After supper—the night of the bedroom dusting and Mr. Liddle’s return—Patsy said good night to her mother, who sat knitting in her overstuffed chair in the living room, the one Patsy had polished to a shine earlier in the day. She added a quick “Glad you’re home safe, Mr. Liddle” to the man whose oversized frame filled the chair sitting catty-corner on the other side of the room, listening to
Abbott Mysteries
on the Philco console radio between him and his wife.
“Good night, Patsy,” her mother said.
“See to it that you check on the boys before turning in,” Mr. Liddle answered as he shifted his pipe from one side of his mouth to the other. Even from where she stood, Patsy could hear the black Bakelite bit as it raked across his teeth, and it made her shudder.
She did as she was told—the boys were both sleeping in their upstairs bedroom, the one right across the hall from their parents’—and then returned downstairs to her own simple but comfortable room. She stripped out of the clothes she’d changed into for supper—they weren’t fancy but they weren’t ripe with the smell of field peas and lemon oil either—out of her underthings and into the pretty, thin pink cotton gown Mama had made for her.
Sometime later—she couldn’t be sure how long since she’d slipped between the cool sheets of her bed—she heard the racket coming from upstairs. Her mother’s voice pleading. Mr. Liddle’s voice demanding. She bounded out of bed and into her mother’s cast-off slippers. Patsy was out the door and halfway up the stairs before she had time to think better of it.
“I’ve told you and told you,” Mr. Liddle shouted. “Haven’t I?” Patsy heard the slap of flesh against flesh. “Haven’t I?”
“Please, Ira,” her mother whimpered. “The boys . . .”
Patsy took a few more steps up the stairs and stopped. She hardly breathed, but her eyes blinked rapidly. She’d never interfered in her mother’s fights with Mr. Liddle before, but this time sounded . . . different.
“A man has to know,” Patsy heard him say as though spoken through clenched teeth, “that he can leave his home in proper order and come home to it the same way.”
“And you have.” Her mother’s voice shook.
Patsy heard something—someone—stumbling across the room followed by the sound of something else dropping to the floor.
The book! She’d left it on the bed, had failed to return it to the chest of drawers.
“I expect that when I leave this house, you and you alone come into this room. Haven’t I made myself clear on that issue?”