But Flannery’s last night at the soda fountain had been anything but. She’d been out of sorts when she arrived to work her sister’s shift. Late. Yet, Flannery felt smug leaving Patsy in the dirt like that, having swiped her pearls without her twin seeing. Patsy deserved it, her sister in the lemon layers of princess tulle, while there Flannery was, stuck in the ugly uniform Chubby made them all wear. The ruined nylons in the dirt. Their jeers. That just flew all over her. Twenty years later it still did.
* * *
That spring night in ’52, Flannery hotfooted it most of the way to Chubby Ray’s, not slowing till she reached the screen door around back of the old red-rose brick building. Breathless, she’d squeezed past Chubby’s son, Junior, standing in the back grill room, looking over the kitchen.
She grabbed a ticket book and pen to take orders from the crowd beginning to pour through the front door.
“What are you doing here, Junior?” Flannery asked, smoothing down her skirts, pulling out her soda-jerk cap and bobby pins. Remembering the pearls, she patted her left pocket. She blew a sigh and quickly pinned the hat onto her head.
“It’s prom. Pop thought you weren’t showing,” Chubby’s twenty-four-year-old son said, dipping his curly red hair toward the big clock hanging on the wall. “Called me in.”
“Oh, that late, huh?” Flannery grimaced, looking down at her own wristwatch. “Real sorry, Junior. I have it now; you can get on back home to Tonya and the baby.”
Flannery knew Junior worked the day shift, coming in every day in the long, fat hours of morning darkness. He hated having to work during the evenings, fussed about being away from his new baby. Chubby Ray always took extra pains to make sure his son wouldn’t have to.
“If I’d known it was the fair and faithful Flan, I would’ve stayed put,” Junior teased, a spray of freckles playing on his face.
She smiled some. She’d become friends with the young family, babysitting their littlest whenever they called on her. “Well, I’m working Patsy’s shift. Guess Chubby got mixed up.”
Junior raised a bushy brow. “If I recall, you worked the Cupid’s dance for her—”
“I need the extra money, is all,” she said hurriedly. “Where’s Chubby?”
“Stepped next door to the hardware. And, Flan, extra jack ain’t gonna get it.” Junior thumped the old wooden worktable with a fist, looked down at her legs. “Gonna need a lot more than pay if Pop catches you working naked-leg like that,” he warned kindly.
Behind them, Chute chuckled over the grill, his ink-black face glowing from the heat of the flames, his arms laddered with pinkish-white scars from spitting grease and stove burns.
“You see that?” Junior smiled. “Even ol’ Chute knows—knows to wear his bow tie.”
“Better listen, Flan,” Chute said. “Bossman’ll go off like one of them atomic bombs they have in that new uranium plant over there in McCraken County. Boom boom,” Chute murmured over the rows of cooking burgers, piles of onions, stopping long enough to turn up the volume on the radio perched on the shelf above him. Quietly, he hummed along to the Andrew Sisters’ “Rum and Cola-Cola.”
Junior adjusted his own tie.
Chubby Ray had a strict dress code for soda jerks, all his employees. The boys’ pants had to be creased; shirts, a crisp white, collared, with a red bow tie. A girl’s uniform, no shorter than one finger above the knee with a long stretch of hosiery covering the legs.
Flannery peeked out the kitchen door, looking to see if Patsy had shown up. Music streamed from the jukebox as Frankie Laine rolled out a snappy “Mule Train” into the ribbony clouds of cigarette smoke and Emeraude perfume.
Girls in long showy dresses hung on to the arms of spiffy-looking country boys doused in Mennen and Old Spice; the fellers wore white and dark jackets, sported colorful pocket kerchiefs and lapel boutonnieres. Full of that once-a-year fever, a hark to a lifetime remembrance they piled around the jukebox and over at the polished chrome-plated counter with its five swivel stools, chatting, smoking, eyeing one another and everyone else’s fancy duds.
Two of the four red vinyl booths had already filled with the revelers. Again, Flannery looked around for Patsy, but didn’t see her or the Henry boys. For a second, concern set in, but just as quick, relief. Relief at not having to wait on her, and draw knowing eyes to her own pathetic, dateless predicament. She hoped they wouldn’t stop for sodas, instead would go straight to the dance.
Picking up a tray of water glasses, she told Junior, “It’s getting packed out there. First break, I’ll go grab a box of hosiery in the drugstore. Promise. Right now I better get those booths.”
“Flan, you grab ’em; I’ll stab them.” Chute pierced a pickle with a fork, dropped it onto a plate beside a greasy burger, chuckling.
Flannery stopped at the first booth and gave the couples each a glass of water, then took their order of malts and sodas.
At the second booth, Violet Perry and another girl, Bess, sat pretty and poised with their dates. They quieted when Flannery delivered their glasses.
“What would you like?” Flannery handed out the water, lifted the pen and Guest Check booklet out of her apron pocket.
“Oh, it’s you, Flannery,” Violet said, pulling up her gaze, flicking at the satin sleeves of her powdery-pink prom dress, inspecting her wristlet of tiny rosebuds.
Flannery braved a cautious smile at the pastor’s daughter.
Violet picked up her cigarette from the ashtray, and with her other hand tapped the table with a long, painted nail. “It’s a shame you’re working tonight. Shame.” She poked the pity to her friends, who batted it around the table. “Shame, Patsy hung you out to dry again.” She pursed her pouty pink lips, took a drag off her cigarette, and stubbed it out in the little four-welled glass ashtray, wagging her head, stamping out a string of “tsk-tsks” with it.
Flannery felt her cheeks burn. She pressed the serving tray to her chest, wishing she could cover her face with it and disappear. “Um, shake, or soda, or . . . ?” she mumbled.
The boys called out for lime rickeys and a banana boat and fries. Bess ordered a Cherry Crush cola.
“What about you?” Flannery poked her chin Violet’s way.
“Hmm, lemme see.” Violet pressed a finger to her rouge-colored cheek. “I suppose I’ll have a strawberry sundae.”
“One or two scoops?” Flannery asked.
“Well, two . . . Who wouldn’t want two scoops of fun?” She lifted her answer to the table.
The boys bobbed their heads stupidly. Choked laughter rumbled under their clenched bow ties.
Bess grinned slyly and said, “Why, if Patsy was working, she’d know it was two.”
Violet pulled a glass to her mouth, sniggering between sips. She set it down, smacked her lips, and said, “Looks like her sister is having two delicious scoops this evening. Where’s your twin and those Henry boys, that devilish duo?”
From behind, Chubby Ray called, “Flannery, grab another bucket of vanilla from the freezer.”
Flannery stabbed Violet with a glare and turned, bumping into the shy, but cute Wendell Black, the soda jerk she’d hoped to get Miss Little to approve.
“Flannery,” Violet and her gang sang out laughingly, “you forgot to empty our ashtray.”
Flannery tried to sidestep around Wendell. Awkward, the soda jerk danced in front of her a second, reaching out for her arms. “I’ll get it, Flan,” he finally said, slipping past her.
“Flat-tire-Flan couldn’t catch a beau even if he landed on her,” Violet cackled, loud enough for everyone to hear.
Bess chimed, “Can you believe Miss Able Grable got two—two dates to escort her? She got—” Secret giggles fell into the boys’ horsey laughter.
Shaking with anger, Flannery pinned the tickets onto the order wheel and hurried back to the walk-in freezer for the ice cream, slipping inside. On the floor lay a broken milk bottle. She kicked at the mess someone had left, slamming the door behind her, the light lost w
ith its click.
Darkness took hold, and she closed her eyes and locked fingers against her eyelids. A tiny catch of tears rubbed at her throat. “Don’t cry, don’t cry,” she begged, pressing her palms down, squeezing. “Don’t,” she commanded. “Not on prom night. Not here. Not now.”
A trickle of disobedience slipped out onto her cheek. Another and two more, until her burning eyes were soaked in them, cheeks stinging from the raw, frigid air of the fan.
For a minute or so she let her sorrow empty into the coldness until a bump on the steel panel jolted her.
Chubby Ray swung open the door.
Blinded, Flannery squinted and fumbled for her apron to dab her eyes.
“Where’s my ice cream—” Chubby Ray pulled Flannery from the freezer. “What’s this? Look at this broken glass.” He pointed to the floor, then jabbed a finger toward her legs. “Where are your stockings, Flannery Butler?”
Over by the grill, Chute turned up the radio even louder.
“Where are they?” Chubby pressed.
“Someone dropped a milk bottle, and I was—”
“Get your stockings on now,” Chubby Ray snapped.
“I can’t. They tore on my way to work.”
“You know the rules.”
“Yes, sir. But I ripped them—”
Chubby Ray held up a shushing hand. “I’ve tried. Tried for the sake of my old pal Honey Bee and tried to help out your poor ma. But I can’t keep letting you girls off the hook, can I?”
After Honey Bee died, Chubby Ray hired the twins to help the Butler women get on their feet to pay the bills. Honey Bee’d left them a small savings, and Mama got a nice check from the sale of the distillery. But things broke, stuff needed fixing, and the sheriff’s property tax bills got higher, eating away at Mama’s pocketbook.
Mama went to work as a seamstress. The three of them working like that put food on the table, bought coal for the old furnace, and kept up the fine house Honey Bee’d left them.
“Chubby, I can get a pair if—”
“You can’t,” he said sternly. “Your sister missed two days last week and didn’t work her shift the weekend before that. You didn’t show up for her then, and now you’ve shown up late and not in full uniform. And on one of our busiest nights. It’s a bad example for the others.”
“I’ll go get new nylons right now.” Flannery pointed to the far wall, indicating where the outside archway led into the drugstore. “I promise it won’t take but a minute. Promise, Chubby.”
“You’re costing me more time than you’re worth.”
“I can work an extra shift to make up for it—you won’t have to pay me.”
“You can go home, Flannery.”
“Oh.” She wrung her hands. “Uh, I’ll just clean this mess up.”
Chubby Ray sighed. “Junior will see to it.”
“Sorry about the time. It won’t happen again, sir. I, I just . . .” The broken plea got lost in a whimper.
“Leave.” He turned away.
What would she tell Mama? “Y-you mean—”
Wendell pushed open the kitchen door, saw the disturbance, and then thought better and turned to leave.
“You, Wendell,” Chubby Ray called him back. “Get a hot water bucket to the spill in there, and hurry. It’s freezing up fast.” Chubby jerked his head to the freezer.
Wendell grabbed the mop and bucket in the corner near Flannery, sneaking worried glances her way.
Flannery locked eyes with him long enough to see her disgrace in his, a pitiable concern rising.
For one blazing second she prayed to God to light a match to the world, ending her Hell.
“Go home, Flannery,” Chubby Ray said quietly.
“Home,” she whispered, unbelieving, not wanting to accept she was being fired. She’d gotten Patsy fired too.
“Home.” Chubby Ray stabbed the finality with a tight nod toward the back door.
Wendell pushed the mop around, ducking low as he swished it past her.
A tear sprang from her eye, dropped toward her shoe, missed, and puddled on the floor. Flannery wanted to beg Chubby. To push, to ask, “For good? Forever?” but she didn’t dare. Didn’t dare risk calling out the damning disgrace that would have her leaving a bigger mess for Wendell to mop up.
CHAPTER 12
Patsy
June, 1952
Danny finally stirred, then slipped in and out of his drowsy state, startling Patsy each time with curses and loud moans. Patsy wasn’t sure whether it was the liquor or the wound causing his outbursts.
“You’ll be fine,” she tried again to quiet him, “but I’m going to be in a mess of trouble when Mama sees me.”
Danny didn’t respond.
Patsy chanced a glance to the backseat. “Did you hear me? Big trouble, losing those pearls.” It scared her a little. Usually Patsy escaped blame and found a way to pin it on Flannery. She didn’t see how that was possible tonight. “Danny?”
“Trouble,” he whispered, “if-if you and Hollis—”
“Please hush about him. As soon as they patch you, we’ll leave here and be together.”
“God”—he stirred loudly—“this d-damn shoulder. Hurts like hell, gawdammit.”
Patsy took one hand off the wheel to rub her sweaty brow. “They’ll fix your arm just fine, Danny.” She had to get him well so they could get away and get hitched.
“Hurry, Patsy. The pain’s getting worse.”
“Hospital Curve’s just up ahead,” she said, tilting further into the steering column, the night coming fast now. The Mercury’s headlights were weak, and Patsy squinted and squirmed, struggling to see through the shadowy canopy of trees and rocks hugging the uphill side of the road.
Danny whimpered some.
“Soon as we take it, we’ll be out of the Palisades and then—” It was more like a prayer than a declaration. “They’ll fix you up.” Patsy pressed down on the gas pedal, goosed it a bit more. She had to get him there faster, now.
CHAPTER 13
Flannery
1972
“Lord, please don’t let it be my sister. Don’t let my hope become a lie,” Flannery prayed again, pressing down on the gas. She tipped her head toward the car window, letting the breeze cool her brow, gulping the fresh air into her panicky lungs.
Guiding the car toward the others parked in the grassy lot beside the boat dock, Flannery tucked in the Chevy’s wheels and her amen between an old pickup and a Blue-Bess Ice Cream truck.
She sat there a minute and watched the group of officials and bystanders gathered on the boat dock. Beyond, she saw the swirling bubblegum light of a large tow truck poking up from the crowd.
Once again, Flannery prayed for the car to be empty, even someone else down there in that murky water. Let her sister and Danny be alive far away from Glass Ferry, the two runaway lovers living a secret and better life with their kids. Living a good fairy tale like the ones in the books she read to her young students.
She knew Danny and Patsy wouldn’t be the first teenagers to run off and never return. After all, that’s what Hollis had convinced Flannery of long ago, and what most townsfolk reckoned and nearly believed.
As if summoned by her thoughts, Sheriff Hollis Henry appeared, parting the crowd, strolling toward her car, his wide-brim, Smokey-the-Bear uniform hat shielding his face from the early afternoon son.
Flannery cringed, remembering that awful evening with him in 1952.
* * *
Flannery had left through the kitchen door of Chubby Ray’s, slinking out into the night air, the stain of blame and greasy onions trailing her. The mess she’d made, crowding her.
She stood there in the back of the business, looking up at the nearly full moon, wondering how to tell Mama and Patsy, what to tell them. The laughter of merry prom-goers floated out from inside, whirled around her.
Ol’ Chute slipped out behind her carrying a bag of rotting trash, and stuffed it into the can beside her. He looked at her
a little sadly, then pulled out the homemade cigarette he’d rolled and had tucked behind his ear, lit it, and offered her a puff.
Flannery had smoked cigarettes once in a while, in the school parking lot where the principal allowed it, even snuck a puff in the bathrooms, and shared a drag behind football bleachers and a few other places kids smoked to be daring, but she’d never done it with an adult.
She needed Honey Bee’s strong whiskey. Still she accepted Chute’s cigarette.
As if reading her thoughts, Chute pulled out a pint of whiskey tucked in his britches next to his hip.
He took a big swill and offered the bottle to her. “Here now, Flannery. I can’t have Honey Bee’s girl all teary. Have yourself a nip of your daddy’s fine batch I done saved for these creaky ol’ bones.”
Honey Bee had been crazy about Chute’s steak sandwiches. Chute would make the tasty treat only for her daddy whenever Honey Bee had the hankering. Chute cooked the peppered steak in his cast iron skillet with a glaze of mashed cherries and whiskey and sautéed onions. Then he’d top off the juicy meat with a thick mixture he’d concocted out of garlic, bourbon, and fresh cheese from a neighbor’s goat. Sometimes adding a pinch of wild onion and pressed dandelion leaves to the finish, if the season called.
Mama could always tell when Chute fed Honey Bee. He’d pick lightly at his supper, feign a lost appetite, then toss his serving when Mama wasn’t looking.
Honey Bee never forgot the treat. He always thanked Chute with a wild turkey he’d shoot for Chute’s family at Thanksgiving, and a bottle or two of Kentucky River Witch every Christmas.
Flannery looked longingly at the bourbon a second, thinking.
Chute took another drink, and she pushed his smoke back to him.
He waved it away and lightly patted her shoulder before stealing back into the kitchen, leaving his condolence with her.
She took one more drag, stamped it out with her dirty shoe, and headed toward home, wallowing, worrying how to explain she’d gotten fired.
Following the mile-long row of old plank-board fencing in Paintlick Field, Flannery made her way under a moonlit sky onto Ebenezer Road.
The Sisters of Glass Ferry Page 10