A Thin Bright Line

by Lucy Jane Bledsoe

  “You going to be here later tonight?”

  “Where the hell would I go in this godawful backwater?”

  Lucybelle went home and typed up a new draft of the press release, making the changes he wanted, and a few more of her own. She drove the fresh copy back to the motel, and after reading it, Bader smiled. “Nicely done. Good girl.” He took a pencil to several sentences and handed it back to her. By midnight she’d made four round trips between her apartment and his motel, but the press release was finished.

  He poured Jack Daniels into a motel bathroom glass and handed it to her. She sat on the edge of his bed.

  “How are you?” he asked, and then before she had a chance to answer, he said, “I keep meaning to congratulate you.”

  “Congratulate me?”

  “She’s formidable.”

  She wished she couldn’t guess his meaning.

  “I thought it might work,” he said.

  “What might?”

  “Don’t play coy with me. You forget: I know all your secrets.”

  “No, you don’t.”

  “So it’s good?”

  She remembered how he’d insisted that she and Vera work together, how he’d told Vera that she was single, and Vera’s comments about him being meddlesome. “You set us up, didn’t you?”

  He roared with laughter, looking more like a wolf-man than ever before. Then, “I thought it was a good idea.”

  “But—”

  “Who’d’ve thunk I’d have a new calling as a matchmaker?” He sounded truly pleased with himself.

  “But—”

  “I’m listening, sugar.” He kept chuckling, downright voyeuristic now.

  “You made it a condition of my employment that I have no intimate relationships.”

  “Only ones with women,” he corrected, still grinning. “But I never expected you to take me literally.” He paused. “And you didn’t, did you?” More roaring at the sight of her face. “Thank god. I’d feel so guilty if I thought I’d somehow sentenced you to a sexless life.”

  Lucybelle pitched to her feet, the whiskey sloshing in her glass. This man who lived so loudly, so publicly, so vehemently, who knew the properties of every rock and ice crystal, had no idea about the insidious and deadly properties of secrets. Taken him literally? Of course she had. She considered slapping him, but her small hand would only bounce off that bony, whiskery face.

  Bader reared back, mockingly. “Easy now, sugar.”

  “You pretty much blackmailed me to get me to come to New Hampshire.”

  He appeared to give that some thought. Then he asked, “Remember when we had dinner at the Drake Hotel?”

  “Of course. What about it?”

  “You told me then that you can’t blackmail a person who isn’t afraid or ashamed.” Bader’s face softened in a way that maybe only Adele ever saw. Affection graveled his voice. “You’re neither. Not anymore.”

  That was true.

  “You came to New Hampshire for your own reasons.”

  “I’ll grant you that. But are you still getting reports from the goons?”

  “No. Not since the move to New Hampshire.”

  “So how did you know?”

  He raised his eyebrows, suppressed a smile, played dumb, pleased to have a path back to the sporting approach. “About what?”

  “About me and Vera.”

  “Amanda Woo told Emily Hauser who told Adele. I don’t know how Amanda knew.”

  So plain old gossip. That was refreshing. Lucybelle was strangely pleased that Russell had cared enough to tell his wife.

  “Not that I was surprised in the least, since I’m the one who put the thing together. I refuse to fail at my efforts. Once I have a good idea, I know it’ll bear fruit, sooner or later. Sorry for the pun.”

  “You can’t take credit for Vera.”

  He tipped his head back and forth. “I think I can. It wasn’t easy getting the two of you to agree to work together. But sure, after I accomplished that, you—or she?—did the footwork.” He raised his eyebrows, formulating a joke.

  “Don’t.”

  He laughed and softened again. “Okay. In any case, I’m happy for you.” He looked genuinely moved. “I truly am, sugar.”

  His sincerity dissolved what remained of her pique. Lucybelle touched her palm to his cheek. “Thank you.”

  Friday, August 12, 1966

  The colonel refused to sanction the party, so they started the celebration at five o’clock. The old guard was in high spirits, and even the more recently hired staff showed up for the baseball, beer, and food. Everyone except for Vera, who said she had too much work to do. Lucybelle was disappointed but hadn’t pressed.

  It was a hot summery day, the sun heavy in the west, the air muggy. Bader had loaded a keg of beer in the bed of a pickup and backed the truck right up to the edge of the baseball diamond that, earlier in the summer, the fellows had mowed and scraped out of the vacant lot across the street from CRREL. Even Bader gave himself over to what he considered a frivolous and time-wasting game on this celebratory afternoon. He flipped down the tailgate and positioned the keg for easy dispensing.

  Lucybelle wore her White Sox baseball cap as she warmed up her arm with Peter Hauser. She was terrible at the game, could barely throw the distance between the pitcher’s mound and home plate, and struck out nine times out of ten, but she’d joined a few games that summer. It was fun, and the dusty lightheartedness of the play distracted her during Vera’s absences. The fellows humored her and gave her credit for being a good sport.

  “Right here,” Peter said smacking his fist into his mitt. “Aim here.”

  “I am aiming there.”

  He jumped to catch another ball flying three feet above his head. “Someone bring Lucy a beer,” he shouted. “She plays better when she’s fortified.”

  Bader ran over with a cup of beer and held it to her lips as if she were a child. Laughing along with everyone, Lucybelle shoved him away.

  Peter’s next toss came straight at her chest, but faster than usual, and so she jumped out of the way rather than trying to catch it. By the time she’d chased it down, Peter had made his way over to the keg, so she joined him, pouring herself a cupful. The cold bitter brew tasted wonderful on that hot and humid late afternoon. Bader was shouting out names, drawing up teams, and that’s when she saw Dorothy—who hadn’t shown up for anything not specifically required by her job for a very long time—organizing plates of food on the folding table.

  She felt sorry for her. Despite her claim of contentment with her church and status as “Aunt Dot,” and despite her sinister confessions and horrific acts of betrayal, Dorothy was a woman in the clutches of her own loneliness and shame. As she watched her fussing with the food, trying to not make eye contact, Lucybelle’s sympathies won out.

  “Dorothy!” she called out. “Be on my team! I don’t want to be the only female playing.”

  “That puts two girls on the same team,” Russell Woo objected. “We should separate them.”

  “Ha! You can handle us.” She turned to Dorothy. “Right? They can handle us.”

  The look on Dorothy’s face was a strange mix of longing and anger. She wanted to be on Lucybelle’s team and she resented the suggestion that she might be on Lucybelle’s team. “I’m not playing,” she said, tenting the front of her paisley shift between her thumb and forefinger and kicking out a foot clad in a white sandal, showing she wasn’t dressed for baseball.

  “I’ll trade you,” Amanda Woo said. “I’ll wear your sandals and you can wear my sneakers.”

  “No. But thank you.” Dorothy forced a big smile and continued arranging the bowls of chips and plates of fried chicken.

  Lucybelle’s sympathy withered. It irked her the way Dorothy insisted on unhappiness.

  “Sunlight!” Lucybelle heard herself announce. The declaration was both factual and corrective, if ridiculous.

  “What about it?” Dorothy asked.

  “Sunligh
t is . . . beautiful. It’s a lovely day.”

  Dorothy kept looking at her, understandably confused, but somehow expectant.

  Unable to make sense of her own observation, Lucybelle put out her cigarette and ran to take up her position in right field.

  Bader threw the first pitch, and everyone cheered when it crossed the plate as a strike. Peter Hauser hit the next pitch at Lucybelle, who stood in right field enjoying the late sunshine, wondering why in the world she’d tried to get Dorothy to feel the life-giving, revelatory power of that star. She ran to meet the lackadaisical grounder, scooped it up to the sounds of cheering from everyone on both teams, and tried to decide where to toss it. Peter was already rounding second base, and she couldn’t throw anywhere near as far as third base, and so she ran the ball to the infield. As Peter headed for home, she threw the baseball, as hard as she could, toward home plate.

  Except that the ball flew out of her hand before she meant to release it. Everyone watched it sail in a high arc toward the women gathered around the food tables. At the exact moment Lucybelle saw that Vera had come to the party after all and was standing talking to Amanda Woo, the baseball hit her lover on the shoulder. Stunned, Vera dropped her plate of food.

  “I’m so sorry! I’m so sorry!” Lucybelle cried running off the field, but Vera hadn’t been hurt by the slow-moving baseball and she was the first to burst out laughing. Lucybelle hugged her, right there in front of everyone, and they bent at the waists, holding onto one another, laughing so hard the tears were streaming.

  The moment was cathartic. So much had been freed. Bedrock! Vera! But it wasn’t just her, all the scientists and support staff held their knees as they laughed, gulping air, the incident somehow releasing years of humor, irony, and love. Amanda and Emily gripped the food table, hiccuping their laughter. Even Beverly and Ruthie allowed themselves a bit of mirth.

  After everyone recovered, they all drank down more cups of cold beer, and the game resumed. On her first at bat, Lucybelle hit the ball! Russell Woo, at shortstop, made a big show of getting under the pop-up fly, positioning himself to catch it, and then letting it drop a few feet over his head. Raucous cheering accompanied her run to first base. Foot securely on the white bag, Lucybelle grinned over at Vera, who was enjoying spectating.

  Sunlight! Lucybelle thought. Golden sunlight.

  When the next batter hit a drive down the line, the third baseman threw her out at second, which meant she could go stand with Vera, who fixed her a heaping plate of food. As Lucybelle took the plate, her hands covered Vera’s for several long moments, and they smiled at one another. She sat in one of the folding chairs, suddenly ravenous, as she seemed to be whenever Vera prepared her food. She requested a sub for the next inning, which the fellows gladly provided. As they’d become sweatier, and a little drunker, their competitiveness had kicked in and her team was happy to replace their weak link. Lucybelle and Vera sat on the sidelines and joked with the other women.

  She saw Dorothy leave, even turned for a second to watch her walk alone toward the highway, and entertained a fleeting thought that she ought to call her back, at least shout good-bye. But she didn’t. Someone cracked another joke and she forgot all about Dorothy.

  By dusk everyone was stuffed with food and beer and gritty from the clouds of baseball dust. The keg was empty. Bader was organzing plans to head over to Lander’s Restaurant to continue drinking, and the women began stacking the dirty plates, bowls, and paper cups.

  “I’m going home,” Vera said. “You want to come?”

  She spoke neither quietly nor loudly. Lucybelle refrained from looking about to see who was within earshot. She nodded yes. The men all left while Amanda, Emily, Beverly, Ruthie, Vera, and Lucybelle stayed with a handful of other women to finish the cleanup. The air was spongy with the last of the sunshine, warm beer, and August heat. Lucybelle let the pleasure of her friends’ voices fall on her ears without listening to the meanings. Bedrock. Vera. She was so happy.

  Dorothy’s white Rambler barreled onto the field. She slammed the brakes, threw the transmission into reverse, turned the car around, and then backed the fender right up to the card tables, scattering the women who were covering the remaining leftovers with waxed paper.

  “What in the world?” Beverly said.

  “Whoa!” Amanda shouted.

  Dorothy popped out of the driver’s seat and stood behind the car door as if it were a shield. “Cleanup crew has arrived,” she said too loudly, the background of the field making her big eyes look cowlike. “It’s my specialty!”

  “Dorothy, honey,” Emily Hauser said, speaking calmly as you would to someone with a gun. Dorothy swiped at Emily’s outstretched hand.

  “Isn’t that right, Lucy? Make a mess and I’ll take care of it. Have a free night? I’ll fill in. Need a babysitter? Same call.”

  “Do something,” Beverly said under her breath to Lucybelle.

  Emily reached again for Dorothy’s elbow. “Let me have your keys, honey. I’ll drive you home.”

  “How much has she had to drink?” Amanda asked. “She’s upset.”

  “I’ll say.”

  “Second that.”

  Dorothy huffed in outrage at being spoken about in the third person to her face. She wrenched her elbow free from Emily’s grip and charged the card tables. She grabbed two Pyrex casseroles, one gummy with residual macaroni and cheese and the other glistening with the last bits of lime Jell-O, and tossed these into the trunk of her car, the second one cracking and breaking against the first one. She followed this up with Tupperware lids and containers, scraps of food flying.

  The other women backed up, beginning to be frightened.

  “What in the world triggered this?” Emily asked.

  “She’s having a nervous breakdown,” Amanda diagnosed.

  Dorothy kicked down the legs of a card table and shoved this into her trunk too. When she tried to slam the lid shut, it bounced back.

  Lucybelle couldn’t look at Vera. She knew this was her mess, whether she deserved it or not, and she probably did deserve it. She’d made so many mistakes.

  Dorothy shoved and jimmied the card table until it cleared the trunk latch and then thunked the lid shut. She spun around and faced Lucybelle. “I know everything. I could ruin you.”

  “What’s she talking about?” Amanda asked.

  “Get her out of here,” Beverly spoke in a low, hot voice.

  “I’ll talk to her,” Lucybelle said. “The rest of you should go.”

  “Damn tootin’,” Beverly said. She and Ruthie began hoofing back to the highway, where their cars—they still drove to work separately—were parked.

  Emily directed the other women to fill their arms with what remained of the picnic debris, and then she cast an apologetic look at Lucybelle, who nodded, meaning to communicate, it’s okay, please do leave. The small crowd of women hustled away.

  Lucybelle now forced herself to look at Vera, who stood with her arms firmly crossed on her chest, a look of disbelief in her eyes. Lucybelle glanced back at Dorothy, a fiery comet hurtling toward the planet of her life. There was no point in asking Vera to leave too.

  “I could ruin you,” Dorothy said again, but quietly this time. She looked only at Lucybelle, as if she were afraid of Vera.

  “Why would you want to do that?”

  “Because you’re a liar and you disgust me.” She held onto the fin of her Rambler as if she were dizzy. “Rusty told me about the photographs. She said she could get me copies.”

  “What’s she talking about?” Vera asked.

  “Maybe Dr. Prescott would like to see the pictures,” Dorothy said.

  Lucybelle felt a sudden pressure behind her eyeballs, as if someone were inflating a balloon in her head.

  “What’s this about, Lucy?” Vera spoke in her authoritative PhD voice, the one that demanded exact answers. Lucybelle thought she had about three seconds to provide them or Vera would never again ask her another question.

 
“It’s about Stella and . . . those pictures.” Weak, way too weak.

  “Why does the librarian know about those pictures?”

  “The librarian,” Dorothy said. “That’s a good one. I’m a lot more than the librarian, Dr. Prescott.”

  “Maybe you should go home,” Lucybelle told Vera. “I’ll explain everything later.”

  “Or I could explain everything now,” Dorothy said.

  “I’m leaving,” Vera said and the words sounded more final than any she’d ever spoken.

  Lucybelle and Dorothy both watched Vera walk the fifty yards to the highway, her figure a diminishing dark weariness in the weakening light. They heard her shut her car door and start the engine. Lucybelle stood in the weedy field, encapsulated by the still hot evening air, watching the red taillights of Vera’s car fade in the twilight.

  “Why are you doing this?” she asked when every last vestige of Vera was gone.

  “I trusted you,” Dorothy said. “You didn’t tell me about you and that hideous woman.”

  A hatchet of anger jerked up in her chest. “It’s none of your business.”

  Dorothy forced out a strangled laugh. “None of my business? You took me home to your mother. You seduced me on New Year’s Eve.”

  “That was five years ago.”

  “Yeah, well, and you kissed me just a few months ago. I told you I’m not interested and still you—”

  “No,” Lucybelle said. Clarifying that she had not initiated, had in fact aborted, the kiss would only unleash more of the shame, fuel the firestorm.

  “Oh, I know what you tell yourself. You got up and left. But you kissed me. You were right there. I felt everything.”

  “I’m in love with Vera.”

  Dorothy exhaled as if she’d been literally socked in the stomach. “My mother is dead,” she said. “I never even loved Geneviève. Or Mary. I loved you. I’ve loved you for years.”

  Lucybelle wanted to believe the tears were fake, but they weren’t. They were real, salty streams flowing down Dorothy’s cheeks. She couldn’t afford sympathy, though. “I’m just convenient. You haven’t really loved me. You don’t even know me.”