Son of a Preacher Man

by Karen M Cox

  That was how I ended up at the public library on a sunny afternoon about a week after Dad left Orchard Hill.

  The building was one of those old, white-brick Carnegie libraries built all over the country in the last century—complete with uneven wood floors, crowded with endless stacks of books, and enough historical and Western fiction to keep me occupied all summer. When I walked in, Mrs. Martinson, the librarian, was speaking in low tones with a volunteer. She looked the librarian part for sure—hair rolled up in a twist, wire-rimmed glasses, and sturdy shoes. Dr. Miller told me she was nice, so I went right up to the front desk and stood there, patiently waiting for her to finish.

  She looked over at me, and I smiled to let her know I wanted help. She stood there a second and blinked at me. I saw an opening to interrupt her, so I took it.

  “Excuse me, ma’am? I’d like to get a library card. I don’t live here all the time, but I’m staying here for the summer, helping out in Dr. Miller’s office. My name is Billy Ray Davenport and—”

  “I know who you are, Mr. Davenport. Your father officiated at my wedding and christened my baby,” she said, dismissing the volunteer with a wave of her hand and coming over to help me herself. She plucked a pencil and a yellow sheet of paper out of a drawer. “You can fill out this form here, and I’ll see you get a card.”

  I stood at the desk and filled in the boxes, and Mrs. Martinson said I could pick up my card when I came back to check out my books. I high-tailed it over to the fiction shelf to look for Louis L’Amour, one of my favorite authors. Before I knew it, I had an armful of books, too many to check out at once, and found myself wondering which ones to choose. Well on my way toward quenching my thirst for a good Western, I paused when I felt a charge in the air, almost like the crackle of electricity. I glanced at the back door, and sure enough, there was Lizzie Quinlan, breezing through the center aisle with three or four books under her arm.

  She strode in like she owned the place—a woman on a mission. Without a thought, I took a step toward her but stopped when I saw the ice form in Mrs. Martinson’s eyes. Oh, she was polite enough, saying, “Hello, Lizzie, how are you today?” But her expression conveyed it all: suspicion, envy, distrust. A trio of young women at one of the tables whispered and snickered behind their hands.

  Lizzie ignored them, gave Mrs. Martinson a bright, brittle smile, and pulled a note out of her jeans pocket. After reading it, the librarian pointed her down the aisle next to mine, and that cold interchange made me duck back behind the shelf instead of speaking to her as I’d originally planned.

  I could hear her whisper Dewey Decimal numbers and could almost see her trailing a finger across the book spines. “Forty-seven, sixty-one, eighty-six…”

  “Hey, Lizzie.” The male voice startled me out of the trance she put me under with her low, sonorous muttering.

  “Oh, hey, Johnny Lee.”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Checking out a book, ya’ dope. What’s it look like?”

  I stifled a grin.

  “Well, excuse me. Didn’t know you liked to read or nothin’.”

  “Well, I do.” I could see her when I peeked through the shelves, hands on her hips, chin up. “I know you don’t like to read, so what are you doing here?”

  “Me and my brother come over and read the Sports Cars Illustrated mags and stuff.”

  “Oh.”

  I heard Lizzie’s voice move farther down the row and saw a larger shadow pass by me as this Johnny Lee person followed her. My spine stiffened as I moved with them, close enough to listen, but careful to keep myself hidden.

  “We got some beer and sodas in the truck, and we’re going fishin’ later. You wanna come?”

  “Who all’s gonna be there?”

  “Me, and Hank, and maybe Jerry Wayne, some of the other guys.”

  “Where?”

  “Down by Lock Six.”

  I was appalled. Did this goon actually just ask a young woman to go alone with a bunch of guys who were drinking, out in the middle of nowhere?

  “I gotta get home early tonight. Got chores.”

  I relaxed, glad to know that Lizzie Quinlan had some sense after all.

  “Aww, come on, Lizzie. You can have a little fun with us. You’re a fun girl.”

  How would he know that? Had she been down there with him before? She was kind of quick to take off her clothes and go swimming that day we went to the lake.

  “I am a fun girl but sitting down with a bunch of you yahoos getting drunk and slinging fishing line doesn’t sound all that fun to me.”

  “Maybe you’d rather us be alone?” I heard him move closer and saw him put a hand up on the bookshelf above her head, so he could lean over her.

  “I told you, I got chores.” She stood her ground. “Now, back up. I gotta find this other book…for Jeannie.”

  “Your loss, baby doll.”

  “Mm-hmm.”

  “Me and Hank, we can wait for you. Give you a ride home if you want.”

  “I’m not going home yet.”

  “I thought you had chores—”

  “Oh, good Lord Almighty, Johnny Lee! I told you I wasn’t going with you. Go on and git. Your buddies are waiting for you. And I got stuff to do.”

  “You’re missing out.” He sing-songed: “Lizzie, Lizzie, you make-a me dizzy!”

  She laughed. “Yeah, right. I’ll make you dizzy when I clunk-a you on the head with Atlas Shrugged.”

  “Who?”

  “Never mind.”

  “But Lizzie”—he clutched his chest—“you’re breakin’ my heart.”

  “I bet. So that wasn’t you at the drive-in with Nancy Jo Moffett last Saturday?”

  “Guy’s gotta keep his options open.”

  “Hmmph. You’re a mess. I’ll see you later.”

  He left then, softly singing, “Dizzy Lizzie, Dizzy Lizzie.” I thought Lizzie would leave too, but she stayed right there in the stacks.

  Now, if that Johnny Lee hadn’t backed off, I’d have set him straight; I know I would have. Wouldn’t I? That’s what I wanted to tell myself. But if that were the case, why didn’t I speak to Lizzie and let her know I was there if she needed me? I was going to say “hello”—honest I was—but something in that librarian’s expression made me hesitate. And while I was hesitating, I began to notice just how many people would see me talking with Lizzie, and I wondered what they would think of me. Or what they might tell my father.

  My father. His image behind the pulpit flashed in my mind. I could almost hear his booming voice. “Let he who is without sin cast the first stone.” It was a principle he preached often enough, and he tried to live it—both he and my mother did. Kindness virtually radiated from her. She would have spoken to Lizzie, if she’d been there, and that made me feel ashamed of myself. Because, if I thought about it, Mama was there. She lived on in me.

  Just when I was about to step around the end of the aisle and say she was right to tell that local redneck “no thank you,” I heard her exhale in a whoosh that sounded suspiciously like relief.

  “Oh, good, it’s you.”

  I stopped. Had she seen me hiding behind the shelf and eavesdropping?

  I could just barely hear Jeannie Quinlan’s soft, gentle voice. “Why? What happened?”

  “Oh nothing. Just that stupid Johnny Lee wanting me to go down to the river with him and a bunch of those hoods he hangs around. I told him I had to get home, and then he wanted to drive me home in his truck with his two-headed brother in tow. Are they gone yet?”

  “I think they just left. You about ready?”

  “Yes, I believe I am. You want any books while we’re here?”

  Jeannie laughed. “You know better than to ask me that. I don’t have time for reading anymore.”

  “Oh, that’s right. You got a boyfriend now.”

  “Stop it, you. Come on. I want to look in Mrs. Holloway’s Dress Shop on the way home.”

  I went to the end of the aisle and w
atched the Quinlan sisters walk toward the front desk to check out. On the way over there, a couple of little girls, giggling and not watching where they were going, ran straight into Lizzie, dropping their books on the floor. She squatted down to pick them up, talking with the girls while they showed her the books they picked out. She laid a hand on one of the curly heads and told how she liked that book when she was their age too. The mother came over and took their hands, frowning as she led them away without so much as a by-your-leave. One of the girls turned back and gave Lizzie a little wave, but the mother didn’t stop until they were out the door.

  Lizzie watched after them a second then squared her shoulders and resumed her walk to the desk, head held high.

  I, on the other hand, felt like slinking out the door in shame. I had been taught better; my mother had shown me better. So, I made myself a promise that day I hid like a coward in the book stacks. If I had another chance to come between Lizzie and other people’s unkindness, I vowed to do it, because, well, it was just plain right.

  Chapter 6

  One evening, about ten days after Dad left, I walked down to Lucas’s Pharmacy to grab a root beer float. I had a hankering for one, and it gave me something to do after dinner besides hide out in my room or suffer through Marlene’s Review of Orchard Hill Gossip. Mr. Lucas had a soda fountain in the drugstore, and on Wednesday and Saturday evenings, he stayed open until eight o’clock. I was walking back along Elm Street when I heard the squeal of brakes and turned to see a pick-up truck halt in the middle of the street. There were some excited female voices, and then the door opened, and Lizzie Quinlan popped out of the passenger side. She was laughing as she ran behind the truck and hoisted a large canvas bag off the asphalt and over the tailgate. She looked up, saw me on the other side of the street, and gave me a big wave and friendly smile.

  “Hey, Billy Ray!”

  I jogged across the street. “Hey, Lizzie. You girls got some problem with your truck?”

  “Nah. Nothing we do could hurt old Harriet here.”

  “Harriet?”

  “That’s what Lily named Daddy’s truck.” She grinned. “She names everything.”

  “Oh.”

  “We just lost one of the laundry bags.”

  Jeannie called out from behind the wheel. “Come on! We gotta get to the laundromat so we can get all the clothes done before it closes.”

  “Hold your ponies. I’m coming.” She turned back to me. “I’ll see you around, Billy Ray Davenport!” She hopped in, and the truck rumbled down the street, leaving a dull quiet in its wake. Lizzie Quinlan always seemed to electrify the air wherever she went. I watched until the truck turned the corner, and then I kept walking up to where Elm intersected with Cavanaugh Street.

  When I got back to my room, I tried to read, but I couldn’t concentrate. I thought about writing Dad a letter but found I had nothing to say. My mind kept turning back to Lizzie and laundry, which led me to realize I had a bit of a dilemma myself. I was almost out of clean clothes, and Dad told me not to ask Mrs. Miller to do my wash—not that I would have anyway. He left me some money for the laundromat, but I wasn’t sure exactly where the place was or how much money I’d need, so I walked over to the house to ask Charlie.

  “It’s on Hanover, next to the railroad tracks.”

  A voice piped up from behind me. “What is?”

  I cringed. Nosy Marlene was always in my business. I was anxious to get over to the laundromat right away, and I wanted to get over there alone.

  “The laundromat,” Charlie answered.

  “Why do you need the laundromat, Billy Ray? Mama will wash your clothes for you.”

  “I’m not going to ask her to do my wash. She has enough to do already.”

  “Then I’ll do your laundry.” She sidled up to me. “I do the wash very well.”

  The thought of Marlene handling my underwear made my skin crawl. “No thanks, I always do my own.”

  Charlie laughed. “You hate doing wash, Marlie.”

  “I’d do Billy Ray’s though.”

  “I’ll bet you would.” Charlie chuckled and shook his head.

  I picked up my laundry bag and walked toward the door. “I’ll see you all at breakfast.”

  “Aren’t you gonna come sit on the porch swing with us?” Marlene asked with a flirtatious flip of her long, blonde hair. “It’s a nice evening.”

  “I won’t be back in time. Goodnight.” I hurried off, before she could offer to go with me.

  The door to the laundromat was propped open with a cement block. The dank, soap-perfumed heat of clothes dryers poured out into the evening air.

  A heavyset woman sat at the counter reading a magazine.

  “Need some change, honey?”

  “Yes, ma’am. Enough for two loads.” I handed her some bills. “And I need some soap too.” I took a quick look around, but there was no sign of Lizzie. I hoped I hadn’t missed her after all. I wanted to make up for not speaking to her at the library the other day—even though she had no idea I was there. I wanted to prove something to myself.

  “Here you go.” The laundry attendant pushed the coins toward me, followed by a small box. I put my clothes in two side-by-side washers, read the directions on the lid, added soap and coins, pushed the button—and just about jumped out of my skin when I heard a blood-curdling shriek behind me. A blur of brown curls and a faded cotton dress raced from the back room toward the front door.

  The attendant looked up from her magazine and frowned, grumpy but not irate. “Get that hellion out of here! She’s a menace.”

  “Sorry, Miz Turner.”

  I knew that voice. It set my stomach to flipping about like a trout on a fishing line. Lizzie Quinlan seemed unsurprised to see me, though.

  “Oh hey, Billy Ray. I thought I heard you talking. Fancy meeting you here. Hold on a second.”

  She blew by me and rounded the row of washers near the door. “All right, Lily, you little imp! I counted to fifty, and I found you fair and square.”

  “Only if you catch me before I get back to base!” A little voice emerged from behind the washers on the next row. Lizzie pointed to the other end near the doorway to the next room and silently mouthed at me, “Head her off down there.”

  I walked to the end of the row and stood in the door frame, arms folded, my best scowl in place. Lily came barreling down the aisle, squealing and laughing, looking behind her so she couldn’t see where she was going—and ran right into me.

  “Hey you!” I tried to frown, but the shock on her face was so funny, I couldn’t keep it up. She looked up at me with big, brown eyes, her face drained of all color.

  Lizzie swept in from behind, put her arms around her sister, and twirled her about, laughing. “I got you! I got you! Now you’re It, Lily Lou!”

  “No fair!” But now Lily was laughing too.

  “Go back and check on our clothes, squirt,” Lizzie said.

  Lily ran into the back room, and Lizzie turned to me. “So, Mr. Davenport does his own laundry. Couldn’t get Marlene to wash your undies for ya?” She grinned.

  “She offered. I refused—as you see.”

  Lizzie looked at me with a thoughtful expression. “Hey, c’mere a sec.” She started walking back to the room where her sister and their clothes were. “You been to college. I wanna ask you something.”

  I followed her, my eyes dropping to her blue jean-clad bottom, bouncing up to her ponytail and then down again. She had a man’s shirt tied around her waist, and I wondered how a girl wearing men’s clothes could be so appealing. She stopped beside a couple of brassieres hanging over the side of a basket, feeling of them to see if they were dry.

  “I, ah…” Swallowing nervously, I gazed up, down, anywhere but at her underthings.

  “Your prissiness tickles me.” Her lighthearted laugh rang out. “No, I didn’t want to ask you about my underwear, College Man.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  She picked up an old, thick textboo
k, and flipped back a couple of pages. “There.” She pointed. “How do you say that one?”

  “Tanacetum parthenium. It’s feverfew—see here?” I pointed to the next line. “There’s the common name.”

  “Then why don’t they just call it ‘feverfew’?” she asked with a touch of exasperation.

  I tried to hide my smile. “It’s Latin. All the plants are organized into categories. The first name is called the genus, the group name. The second is the species, the group within the group. Like with animals—all cats belong to one genus, but bobcats are a specific type.”

  She was watching me with wide-eyed interest, and it was strangely gratifying to have her hang on my every word.

  “I didn’t know you were interested in botany.”

  “Oh yes! I like to learn about plants. Mrs. Gardener got me started, but now I read on my own too.”

  “Don’t they teach botany at the high school here?”

  She shook her head. “Just chemistry and Earth science—not enough teachers.”

  “Did you get the book from Mrs. Gardener?” I picked up the thick volume and turned it over in my hands, looking at the spine.

  “Nope—the library. It’s an old book, but you gotta start somewhere, right?”