June

by Miranda Beverly-Whittemore

  Tate’s eyes widened at the bald truth. Then she nodded, once.

  “Well, stop bullying people for five seconds and actually sit with your father’s papers. Not Hank. Not Nick. Not Me. You.”

  Nick cleared his throat. “What about me?” he asked.

  “Go to the library,” she boomed, not because she actually had a plan, but because they were all blinking at her as if she did, and she figured that there had to be something useful at the library, and also that maybe she could go along and they could kiss some more in the stacks or something. Nick nodded nervously, and she wanted to smile to reassure him, but then she’d lose her edge.

  “Well?” she thundered. “Get to work.”

  Lindie was awoken by the screen door yawning ajar. It was rare for Eben’s friends to come by on a Sunday night. As her eyes fluttered open, she listened for the usual back claps and handshakes and the heavy wallop of bourbon on the table, waited for the sharp tang of cigars rising through the vent at the foot of her bed. There was none of that, though; just her father’s gentle voice welcoming in a guest, and a quiet male voice returning the niceties.

  Lindie clambered to the bottom of her bed, where she flattened herself and listened.

  The other man said something as he came into the room, something that made Eben laugh. She heard two dining chairs graze the floorboards. Whoever this man was, her father did not offer him a drink.

  “Well, Eben, you can imagine I’m curious,” the other voice said. It was closer now, more distinct, and Lindie knew at once that it belonged to Clyde Danvers. “Thought you might be throwing me a surprise party.” He sounded amused at the thought.

  “I wanted to discuss a private matter,” Eben said. Lindie could imagine her father’s hands waving Clyde’s concern away. It was the same gesture he employed whenever Lindie objected to the prospect of moving out of St. Jude, or when she awoke from a bad dream about her mother coming back to steal her away. “Just a little something that needs clearing up.”

  “Do tell.” But before Eben could begin to answer, Clyde spoke again. “Did you know Lindie came out to that movie party on Friday night?”

  “Far as I know, she was asleep in her bed.”

  That made Clyde laugh. “I admire you, Eben, I really do, bringing her up on your own. I can’t imagine it’s easy. We both know she’s got a bit of her mother in her.”

  Eben grunted. The air grew thinner. Lindie ached for Clyde to elaborate; she hadn’t been sad to see her mother go—Lorraine was not the type to kiss a wounded knee—but that didn’t mean Lindie didn’t want to know everything about her.

  But instead Clyde returned to the subject of Friday night’s festivities. “The party was very grown-up, if you catch my drift, Eben. Men. The crew.” He laughed again. “Lord knows I count myself lucky to have dodged daughters and wives. So take my advice with a grain of salt. But while I’m at it—would it hurt you to put her in a dress? She’s a growing girl, Eben. She can’t be wandering all over creation in overalls anymore.”

  “I’d like to see you try.” Eben’s voice sounded tamed, as though he was holding it back with reins, when what it wanted to do was run wild. He sighed. “But you’re right. She shouldn’t have been out at the development, especially not after dark, especially not with grown strangers. I’ll speak with her.”

  “Don’t get her in trouble on my account,” Clyde protested. “I just want her safe. You know I love her like she was my own.”

  Something skittered through the air—something invisible and razor sharp. The night stayed quiet for a bit after that.

  “Funny, though, you should bring up the development,” Eben said, after a while.

  “Why’s that?”

  “What are you calling it these days?”

  “Thinking it might be Two Oaks, actually.”

  “You can’t call it Two Oaks, Clyde.” Lindie liked how normal her father’s voice sounded again, just perturbed.

  “That old bastard might own half the town, but he doesn’t own the name. Show me anywhere he’s got a copyright on it.”

  “It’s a matter of respect.”

  “Three Oaks, then. You like that better?”

  Eben was silent. When he spoke again, he had made his voice tranquil. “I’ve been going over Mr. Neely’s papers, just like every year. To make sure everything’s in place. And, well, I discovered an irregularity.”

  “Fancy word.”

  “It seems”—Eben pressed as though he hadn’t heard—“that a good eight acres of Three Oaks is actually built on Mr. Neely’s land.”

  “I own that land.” Quick as that.

  “You own some of that land. You own the land to the east and north, but you don’t actually own”—Lindie could hear the scuttle of paper upon the table—“this land.” She imagined her father’s finger jabbing at a map.

  Clyde started laughing. “What a regular Sherlock Holmes you are!”

  “Didn’t take much sleuthing,” Eben said evenly. “Just common sense.”

  There was a quiet patch then, in which Lindie imagined Clyde was leaning over the map to get to the bottom of the misunderstanding. After a while, he mused, “What an oversight! Can’t believe I could have done something so dumb.”

  “You know what, Clyde? I don’t think it was an oversight,” Eben said coolly. “Three years ago, you tried to get me to sell you that land and I said no. You thought I forgot, didn’t you? The only reason it took me this long to say anything was I couldn’t believe you’d actually build houses on land you don’t own. I didn’t think you were that stupid.”

  “Now see here,” Clyde replied, quick as a snake, “I made an honest mistake, Eben. I’ll be the first to call myself a dang fool. But it’s water under the bridge now. The houses are built! I’m happy to consider cutting your old pal Lemon in on the profits of the home sales; that seems fair. But you know how I see it? My honest mistake does him a favor. Before I got to it, it was all just empty land out there, waiting to be turned into something worthwhile. Now that land is making us money! Changing our town for the better!”

  Eben didn’t reply.

  “Anyway,” Clyde continued, “it doesn’t really matter what you think. That’ll be my brother’s property soon. Good old Artie will put that ring on June’s finger, Mr. Neely—God bless him—will pass on to the next life, and all his worldly possessions, and his money, and his land”—he enunciated that final word—“will go to June.”

  An icy, untamed feeling crept up Lindie’s spine: a combination of fear, fury, and righteous indignation. Her stomach soured. Had Uncle Clyde just admitted he wanted June to marry Artie because of what he assumed would be her inheritance?

  But Eben kept his head. “Don’t count your chickens, Clyde. Even I don’t know who Mr. Neely’s heir is. The only person who knows is Mr. Neely’s lawyer down in Columbus, and you don’t hold any sway there. You’re a big fish in a small pond, Clyde. A big fish in a small pond.”

  “I don’t see the point of this,” Clyde said, sounding annoyed. “Why bring me over here to rub my face in a mistake? I said I’m sorry.”

  “You haven’t, in fact.”

  “You want something, Eben?” He sounded plain angry now. “Spit it out.”

  “What I want,” Eben replied, voice just as fierce, “is for you to take those buildings down.”

  “Take them down?” Clyde cracked up, but it was a dark laugh, not a bit of friendliness about it. “You want I should tear down the hard labor of men? Oh, Eben, you got me good! You must be a damn fool to think this town wants to see progress demolished. You’re missing the big picture, old man. The future. This is our chance to get a piece of it. Ripvogle’s this close to getting the bid. This close, Eben. You know as well as I do that that interstate will change this town and make it great. I’m giving you a chance to be a part of that greatness. To make something of yourself, something that doesn’t belong to some highfalutin old pansy who still treats you like the trash you were born into.”


  “Time for you to leave,” Eben said, sliding his chair back from the table.

  “Sure, sure,” Clyde replied, sounding wounded. “I’ll leave, if that’s what you want, just like I came when called. But I’m my own man, Eben. I do what I want. Don’t screw this up for me.”

  Next came their footsteps, followed by the squeal of the screen door. Lindie crept up to the small, cracked window that looked out over the front porch. The night was cloudy, the light from the moon dissipated over the whole world. Lindie could make out the glint of Clyde’s pistol at his belt as he shoved his hands in his pockets and stalked off into the night. After that came the sound of the front door closing, and the bolt being laid across it. Then Lindie heard a great, terrible crash from downstairs—glass against wall—but nothing of note after that.

  Lindie woke before the sun and crept downstairs, half expecting to find all the dishware smashed to smithereens. But no trace of unpleasantness lingered from the night before, not even shards in the trash can. The moon had already set. In the safe shadow of the kitchen, she wolfed down a bowl of rice with milk and sugar and chugged a cup of Maxwell House. She left her dirty dishes in the sink, fearing washing them would wake her father.

  On her Schwinn, Center Square and Main Street sailed by. She’d been told she’d find the set easily beyond the northern outskirts of town, along the canal, but the world was still dark, and, as buildings gave way to country, an anxious knot formed at her center. Clyde would likely be on set. Lindie didn’t know how to be around him today, which was a strange thing, since she’d always known before. Nor did she know if she could trust him, or if it was fair anymore to blame June’s engagement on Cheryl Ann alone. She pedaled harder as an unfamiliar glumness overtook her. The set was nowhere in sight.

  She saw them eventually—trucks, ladders, trailers pulling into place—at the edge of a cornfield divided by the canal. The sun had started to rise; in the cool light she could make out a few men mowing the edges of the water. The rest of the crew was gathered around Crafty, sipping coffee from their army green thermoses. Lindie nodded a hello to Ricky, and noticed Thomas dressed in a suit, leaning against the front of Clyde’s Oldsmobile, smoking. Lindie waved a perfunctory hello; Thomas tipped his hat and offered an equally careful smile. She supposed he’d been hired to drive Diane to set every day. She thought of Jack folding into Diane on his front walk, and felt a wave of hot shame, first on June’s behalf, then on her own, for having had the audacity to think a movie star might treat June with the tenderness she deserved. She resolved to punish him by ignoring him completely, although she was sure he wouldn’t notice.

  But a bit before lunch, when the temperature had rocketed and Lindie had been holding a shade umbrella over the script girl for so long that she couldn’t feel her sunburnt arms anymore, Jack walked by and obviously tried to catch her eye. Lindie lifted her nose into the air until she felt his gaze fall away.

  At lunch, Clyde found Lindie at Crafty, which was set up down the canal a few yards, out of sight of the film set. The P.A.’s were supposed to eat last, which translated to grabbing the scraps the rest of the crew didn’t want, but Clyde handed her a picnic basket packed with a ham and cheese sandwich, an apple, a bag of potato chips, and a cold Coca-Cola. Underneath the lunch, wrapped in a linen napkin, was a whole coffee cake. They both knew it was Eben’s favorite.

  “I asked Casey if it was okay,” he said, pitching his thumb toward her boss, who offered them a truculent nod. Clyde elbowed her and chuckled. “He doesn’t look too thrilled, does he? Eat up, kiddo. You’ve been working hard.”

  Lindie’s stomach growled. She’d been surviving mostly on pieces of Wonder bread. She settled down on the edge of the canal, feet dangling. After a few bites, Clyde said, “Take that cake home to your pops. I had my girl make it.”

  Lindie looked up at his familiar face. His mouth didn’t quite know how to say what it needed to.

  “I’ll tell him you’re sorry,” she offered.

  He took his hat off and hit his knee with it, smiling. “You do just that, kid. You do just that.” And off he strode, and Lindie warmed with relief.

  —

  Jack became persistent as the day blazed on. If he wasn’t on camera, he was lurking nearby, just at the edge of whatever task Lindie had at hand. It was a strange thing, to have the most wanted man in town so desperate for her audience. But Lindie wasn’t going to be stupid; it hadn’t escaped her notice that Diane was on set too. Dressed in a brown calico costume, with a drab braid weaving her platinum hair—to lend her the illusion of having just barely survived the Civil War—Diane was keeping tabs on Jack. Lindie’s loyalty lay with June; of course it did. But there was something beguiling about Diane’s devotion to the movie star. Her glance flitted to him again and again, like a butterfly to a colorful bloom. Could Lindie blame her for wanting to have him to herself?

  “Lindie.”

  It was long past noon. After a few more hours on set, Lindie was back at Crafty, where Ricky and a few others from the costume department had set up a makeshift area for quick patches and hems. She was perfecting her whipstitch on a petticoat when she heard her name and turned in to the sharp afternoon sun to find Thomas standing there. He was tall up close, and thin. His eyes darted around the whole world.

  “He says it’s important.” Thomas leaned his weight back on his rear foot; he wanted less to do with this business than she did. Over his shoulder, Lindie made out Jack leaning against an old shade tree even farther down the canal. She checked to make sure Diane was occupied; she was twenty yards in the other direction, quoting the same overwrought speech she’d said six times already. Given how clumsily it tumbled from her tongue, she was likely to be saying it many more times before they broke for the day. Lindie put down her mending.

  —

  Jack removed his old-fashioned hat and placed it over his heart, as if Lindie was a lady. “Please forgive my rude behavior. I don’t like how that shindig ended.”

  The gentle way he formed his words, the careful dance of his unusual eyes, and his use of the word shindig almost made Lindie smile. But she wasn’t letting him off that easy. “So Diane’s your girl?” She liked calling Diane a “girl,” although she’d never have had the guts to say that to Diane’s face.

  Jack’s breath sawed out. “It’s complicated.”

  Lindie pulled a cherry lollipop out of her pocket, one she’d been saving for a special occasion. She licked it, then held it to the sky, reveling in its blood red transparency. “Enlighten me.” It was rare she felt any power over anyone, let alone a man, let alone a famous one.

  He glanced around set, eyes squinting into two straight lines. The sun was still strong, the clouds a pale fairy floss blowing across that big, midwestern sky. “It’s the studio.” His voice was a growl as he lit a Lucky Strike. “They’ve sunk too much money into this movie”—he waved toward set—“and it’s going to be a goddamn flop.” Lindie opened her mouth to protest, but he cut her off. “They whored me and Diane out to each other to try to save their investment.” If he minded saying that word in front of her, he didn’t show it. His voice had grown passionate; gone was the sparkling Hollywood charm. “They do this when they’re worried. They sell the glossies on a fairy tale. If the public smells romance, that just might fill the theaters, no matter how terrible the film is.”

  He took a drag and, distracted, offered a cigarette to Lindie, who took the opportunity to swipe two. He raised an eyebrow, pocketed the pack, and went on, furrowing his brow. “Diane’s new to this whole thing. In case you haven’t noticed, she isn’t very good.”

  Lindie stifled a giggle. It was hard not to notice how many times it took Diane to say even a basic line correctly. The woman missed her cues and marks, even after spending a whole month on set in Los Angeles.

  “Poor thing has started to believe the fairy tale,” Jack said, his shoulders softening as he took another drag. “I guess she thinks making an honest man out of me would be a better job t
han Hollywood star.” He shook his head. “Well, good luck.” Then he sucked on the cigarette hard. “She’s stubborn, I’ll give her that much. She refuses to believe that pretending I love her is just another acting job.”

  Lindie felt hope for June, then pity for Diane. And pity for Jack too, for that matter. But then she forced herself to think sensibly; he wanted her to feel sorry for him? He had more money than anyone she knew, his name adorned movie posters, and he was being forced to date the most beautiful woman Lindie’d ever seen. She stuck her lollipop into her cheek and crossed her arms. “A gentleman never speaks ill of a lady.”

  “She’s not a lady, that’s what I’m trying to tell you.” He threw the cigarette to the ground and stomped it out. “She’s mean. She’s manipulative. I had to ignore you girls the other night or she would have made your lives miserable.”

  Lindie sniffed and looked beyond him, as she imagined a wounded lover might. “Doesn’t sound like an apology to me.”

  Jack nodded, ducking his head like a kid. “It’s nothing to do with you or June, and I’m sorry. I had no idea Diane was coming early. Please let me make it up to you.”

  Lindie kicked at a tree root sticking out of the ground. Her saliva pooled around the bright, red taste. She weighed her options. The land was flat as if it had been rolled out by Apatha’s wooden rolling pin, the sky an endless arc of blue.

  “I’d like to see her again.” Jack’s voice trembled. Lindie had to look at him to make sure it was real.

  “But how can I know you won’t do that to her again?” She was really asking; all at once, he seemed old and wise, like a father should be, and she wanted him to have a simple answer, the kind Eben had when she needed to feel safe.

  “June is a real good person, Rabbit Legs,” Jack answered. “That day I met her? She was defending you to some horrible girl who said the meanest things. And June wasn’t mean back, she was just, you know, herself.” Lindie did know. She thought no one else ever saw that about June. “I don’t meet many good people.”