“Well, the house she’s picked out is nice.”
“There’s nothing wrong with our own house. It was good enough for her when I built it. I don’t know what your mother is doing. She needs a good slap.”
Danner turned to look at him. He’d combed his gray hair back with water; under the band of his hat it had dried in the teeth marks of the comb. The hat was a summer baseball hat with a green bill. In the shadow of the bill, his face was profiled. “Don’t you ever hit her,” Danner said evenly.
Mitch tilted the hat back on his head and raised his voice. “I said a slap. I didn’t mean I was going to break her jaw.”
“It doesn’t matter what you break. A man shouldn’t hit a woman.” Danner smoothed her skirt nervously, then asked, less assured, “Don’t you think I’m right?”
“Hell,” Mitch said quietly.
“Think how you’d feel if Riley hit me.”
Mitch stubbed the cigarette out. The smell of ash mingled with the odor of mechanical air. “Riley shouldn’t be having anything to hit you about. If he could get that mad at you, you’re way too involved.”
“We aren’t too involved.” Danner drew a deep breath, and she could taste a tinge of tobacco. “Why don’t you ever say these things to Billy? He goes out on dates.”
“Your brother is just a kid, and that girl is his age. Riley is going off to college. I wasn’t born yesterday. If you’re going to go out, you should go out with someone in your own class.”
Danner sat back in the seat and said nothing. Now he’d have words with Jean, a cold tense scene, while Gladys Curry sat at the kitchen table pretending not to listen. Danner knew the look on her mother’s face exactly: she would keep her expression impassive, her lips set hard. Danner felt the expression stealing over her own face, and she focused only on the road. The concrete glistened in the noon heat, a bright white band bending away toward Bellington.
There was silence between them.
Finally she said to her father, “You don’t have to worry about Riley, and that’s the truth.”
He didn’t reply, but they drove along and the atmosphere gradually lightened. Danner dreaded working another ministers’ banquet, and the voyage to work became an interlude of privacy. Her father’s cars were always big and luxurious, not quite new, impeccably clean and cared for. The motor of the Chevrolet hummed evenly; they rode so smoothly that Danner felt lulled, almost sleepy. She leaned her head back on the seat. “Dad,” she said, “do you remember your dreams?”
“Well, yes, don’t you?”
“What do you dream about?”
He looked out the window to his left, considering, then said slowly, “Haven’t remembered any in a long time.”
Danner touched the air-conditioning vent and turned it toward her knees, then left her hand in the stream of cold. The heat outside was thick and fluid like clear paint. Bellington’s wooden frame houses flowed by, their big porches shaded and still with heat. “What’s the last dream you remember?” Danner asked.
He tipped his hat back and ran his fingers along the curve of the bill. “Dreamed I was in a snowstorm,” he said.
“Alone?”
He was hesitant, or maybe responding to the pull of silence that punctuated most of his remarks in conversation. He looked over at Danner, half-frowning, half-smiling, as though she should already have known the answer. “I was driving in a snowstorm along a road,” he said, “and snow was flying at the windshield so fast you couldn’t see where you was going.”
“Were you in this car?”
“I don’t know. I was only watching the road.” He laughed. “Couldn’t see a damn thing.”
“What happened next?”
“Nothing, Hon. That’s all there was to it.”
They had turned down Sedgwick Street to the back campus of the college. Mitch pulled over while Danner gazed at the dining hall. Red brick, with a concrete porch and white columns, the hall matched all the other buildings on the densely green lawns. The small campus ended here; behind the dining hall stretched the railroad tracks and the athletic field.
“You should see the ministers running,” Danner said. “It’s so hot, you’d think they’d drop dead. Afternoons while we’re cleaning, we see them running circles around the field.”
Mitch chuckled. “Damn right. Ministers should run, that’s about all they’re good for.”
The banquet hall was full of smooth clatter and murmuring talk while the ministers ate. They didn’t raise their voices and weren’t boistrous, but their combined noises were like those of a flock of serious, famished birds. They were all in their forties or older; Danner imagined them to be veterans of some sort—veterans of no less than six southern churches, for instance, or of thirty years’ service with merit. They ate with studious attention and talked intently. Immediately, they made the room hotter. The air conditioning in the hall didn’t work well, and the ministers sat moistly at long tables in their dark suits, eating roasted meat and mashed potatoes. The noon meal was the large one; for supper, the ministers ate hamburgers and french fries with ketchup. Danner thought them a sad lot and could almost be sad herself as she stood by the silverware cart, watching them chew. Automatically, she read the placard again.
Each day there was a placard with the title of the afternoon colloquium, and the titles were always questions about current events. The big card was displayed on a music stand at the back of the room. Today it said: RIOT IN WATTS, IS GOD THERE? The TV news had run pictures of Watts all week. Danner made remarks about the placards to the other waitresses. Today in particular, the question struck her as horrible and pathetic and funny, and she had to walk past the hand-lettered words every time she went into the kitchen. Now she stole a glance at the clock above the entrance doors, then gazed around the hall.
Waitresses stood at various points in the room, camouflaged in their uniforms. Most of them were pretty, and they signaled each other flirtatiously. Everyone was bored at the prospect of cleaning stainless-steel counters and milk machines and floors all afternoon, while the ministers talked about Watts. Finally the men would arrive for their hamburgers or grilled sandwiches. Later the waitresses would clear again, replenish condiments, and do an abridged version of the cleaning they’d just finished. Danner looked at the windows behind the ministers; sunlight assaulted the glass. She wanted to be at Rafferty’s Public Pool where girls with no summer jobs tanned themselves all day. Lee Ann Casto, Danner’s best friend, worked beside her in the banquet hall. She’d given Danner a gift-certificate admission to Rafferty’s Pool. The certificate was worth one dollar, it admitted them both for one afternoon, and it was dated several years in the future.
Lee Ann caught Danner’s eye now and gave her characteristic half-shrug. During meals, she often stared at one minister after another, directing Danner’s gaze to especially strange specimens. Danner had cracked her up in the kitchen by explaining exactly where God was during the Watts riot: gleaming, black and taut as a leopard, he glided along carrying a huge silver radio. Price tags still flew from the radio and God was all in gold, blasting James Brown amidst sirens and fire. Danner sighed. The ministers ate for a full hour. To pass the time, she dropped ice cubes from the Styrofoam bucket into her water pitcher, one by one, with tongs. She wondered how many of the ministers had even been to California. None of the waitresses had; Danner had asked.
Riley wasn’t interested in California. This summer he’d gone to Florida with the guys. For honeymoons, he said, it was a toss-up between Florida and Acapulco. Jean had heard him joking and told him he shouldn’t be thinking about honeymoons until he got himself through college. Riley had saluted, and grinned at Danner. He wasn’t very excited about college; mostly, he wanted to have a good time, avoid the draft, and stay close to Bellington. He wanted to pick Danner up from school on Fridays this fall, take her to school on Monday mornings, then drive back to Lynchburg and participate in panty raids all week. Riley spoke of Lynchburg as a draft dodger’s last resort. T
hen, seriously, he’d say he wouldn’t mind serving his country and planned to enroll in ROTC at Lynchburg. He would have gone to school in Bellington if his grades had been good enough. Danner wasn’t sure he’d stick to it.
She touched the sides of the globular metal pitcher. The metal was ice-cold and sweating; Danner concentrated on the feel of it. Sometimes she sat on the back patio of her house alone and looked at the fields, wondering how far she’d travel from this exact place. She didn’t talk about such feelings to Riley. His mind just wasn’t like hers. He acted so sure of himself, yet he was capable of crying in front of a girl, and begging. Once he’d gone out with someone else, and Danner had refused to see him again. Riley had talked her into going for a drive, then he pulled off the road in a deserted spot and wept as though beside himself with grief. The scene went on nearly an hour. She should forgive him, he said; no one would ever love her again as much as he did. Thinking of the episode always made Danner uneasy. If she ever told Riley she wanted to stop seeing him, he wouldn’t accept it. He’d say she was wrong, he didn’t believe her, that they belonged together. More and more, Danner felt protective toward him, and guilty. Just a year ago, he’d seemed so powerful. Dressed well, in soft V-neck sweaters and madras shirts that smelled of clean cotton, he was a smooth dancer. A basketball player, popular with girls. With his friends he was cocky, a good-natured braggart. But he wasn’t like that with Danner. Sometimes he was considerate in the extreme, as though she were special or different from other people. Twice they’d gone to formal dances. Riley had actually covered a path through the garage, and the floor of his shining Mustang, with white sheets so Danner wouldn’t dirty the hem of her gown. Mitch had watched, shaking his head in pleased amusement. Danner blinked, remembering her father’s expression in the car. Nothing, Hon. When Danner was a little kid, Mitch had called her Princess.
“Excuse me, Miss?” The head minister beckoned Danner.
She walked close to him and bent over to hear. He smelled strongly of Old Spice, the same scent her father and brother wore.
“Right after the dishes are cleared,” he said, “before dessert, we’re going to present a little performance.”
“A performance?”
“Yes, it’ll just take a few minutes. You might tell the other girls.” He smiled into her eyes and touched the edge of his plate. “It’s an entertainment, a sort of farewell.”
“Oh.” A farewell to whom? Danner nodded as though she understood, and took his plate. He smiled again, as if he’d confided a secret. Behind his slightly spotty glasses, his eyes were light blue and long-lashed. He was energetic and broad-shouldered, probably one of the men Danner had watched running, but she could never tell one minister from another if they weren’t dressed in their suits.
The other girls, seeing Danner clear the head table, began to gather plates. Some of the ministers weren’t finished eating; they lowered their heads discreetly and ate faster as the waitresses worked their way closer. Danner looked around for the manager; luckily, he was in the kitchen. She tried to signal Lee Ann to go more slowly but it was no use; well, best to keep going. When the manager came out, the tables would already be cleared and the ministers waiting quietly for dessert. A good thing about ministers was that they seldom complained.
Danner had taken all the plates and was stacking them when the head minister stood, tapping his glass with his spoon.
“Attention, troops,” he said, and glanced in Danner’s direction. “Since this is our last big meal together and the conference ends tomorrow, we’d like to take this opportunity to thank the kitchen crew and the waitresses for their excellent service.”
Danner looked down, embarrassed, and hurried to finish loading the tray. It all had to be loaded carefully or the dishes would topple when she tried to stand. The other girls kept working as well, and the minister held up both hands. “Stay where you are, girls, please. Since we’re told financial compensation isn’t in order, we’d like to thank you for your hard work by offering a bit of entertainment.” The four men nearest him stood. There was a hush in the room and the waitresses looked at each other confusedly. One of the men sounded a note on a pitch pipe. Then, in the silence, they began to sing. Their voices were strong and perfect. Behind them the air conditioner whirred, its steady laboring their only accompaniment.
The men stood in a semicircle behind their table, their bodies attentive, watching each other’s lips.
Amazing grace, they sang slowly, how sweet the sound.
The waitresses stood still, surprised. The song filled the hall and was somehow reminiscent of childhood; the same plaintive melody was sung at countless day camps and night sings, at reunions and revivals, at funerals and YWCA and Rainbow Girls. But the ministers didn’t sound plaintive; their voices were stalwart and definite. They were breaking bad news and offering comfort, and the words seemed ancient, confessional, inarguable. I once was lost. But now. I’m found. Their powerful voices made Danner a little afraid. Were they really found, and what did it mean? Lost. She imagined her father sealed into his dream like a figure in a fluid-filled paperweight, the ones in which snow flew when the globe was shaken. Snow was flying at the windshield so fast you couldn’t see where you was going. Men sat listening. Row after row, the long, nearly empty tables were covered with white cloths. The old fabrics were worn to a pearly sheen. Suppose they were cold, inches deep. Every winter, the old picnic table her father had been given by the State Road Commission sat out back, covered with even snow that froze unbroken like a thick, cold cloth. I was blind but now I see. Danner had a sudden wintry vision of the house from above, the roof a snowy butterfly shape, the yard and fences and surrounding fields all white, deep, silent with snow. Her father had built that house. How could someone else ever live there?
She heard applause. The other girls were smiling and clapping; belatedly, Danner joined in. The ministers held their places a moment as though spellbound by their last clear note, then took their seats. The men all began applauding their compatriots as the waitresses stooped to shoulder trays. Danner stood under the heavy weight, glad the day was half over. She turned toward the kitchen. As she steadied her tray, she saw the minister who had spoken to her. He was sitting, his hands folded, watching her. Quickly, she averted her eyes. He must have seen her face during the singing; always, her face betrayed her.
They stood at the metal counter with trays of ketchup bottles, while the other girls filled salt and pepper shakers or wrapped silverware.
“I thought for sure they’d sing again at supper,” Lee Ann said.
“Not over hamburgers, not somber enough.” Danner wiped her forehead with a napkin. “Jesus, wasn’t it hot this afternoon? And from now on we have to keep the air conditioner on ‘low’ unless there are guests eating.”
Ketchups were the worst cleanup; the emptiest bottles had to be poured into fuller ones and the empties replaced. The refilled bottles were greasy and their streaked labels had to be wiped clean with a hot rag.
“Let’s do this fast,” Lee Ann whispered.
“Throw the caps in here.” Danner pushed forward a bowl of hot water. “It’s easier than wiping the gunk off.”
“Riley picking you up tonight?”
“At eight. I guess we’re going to the drive-in.”
“I saw Rhonda Thompson at the intramural basketball games last night. She’s dating some guy from the University, and he drives a Corvette.” Lee Ann smirked for emphasis.
“You’re kidding.” Lee Ann had to report any fact about Rhonda. Rhonda and Riley had been a hot item their first two years of high school; everyone knew they’d slept together. Riley had practically lived with her; her parents had let him stay overnight several times in Rhonda’s bed. “I don’t want to hear about Rhonda.” Danner paused. “Was Riley around?”
“You sure you want me to tell you?” Lee Ann looked up from the ketchups, smiling. “He was there with some senior boys. He spoke to her, but in a snide way. He’s probably still tell
ing them stories about her.”
Danner untwisted bottle caps, throwing them one by one into cloudy red water. “He shouldn’t tell those stories. I’ve told him that myself.”
“Oh, come on. Rhonda is ahead of her time. Everyone tells stories about Rhonda.”
“Well, Riley shouldn’t. Here, this is clean.” She wrung out a hot dishrag and handed it to Lee Ann, who began wiping the wet bottle caps. Danner watched her. “Riley will never tell stories about me, I’ll tell you that.”
“Why not, Danner? Riley could make you famous, too.” She laughed. “Can I finish these while you start pouring? Your aim is better. Listen, suppose he tells stories on you anyway, for things you never even got to do.”
“He won’t,” Danner said, “he wouldn’t dare.”
“I think you’re right,” Lee Ann said seriously. “He’s really crazy about you. You don’t know how crazy.” Lee Ann was well informed. Riley phoned her regularly to talk about Danner.
“He was probably crazy about Rhonda as well.”
“Yeah, but it’s not the same.”
Danner poured ketchup and said nothing. Watching ketchup drip was the most pointless activity in the world. Last week they’d rushed through cleanup and cracked the lip of a bottle; the manager had insisted they strain the entire contents for glass shards. As disciplinary action, Danner and Lee Ann had to do ketchups for the next two weeks of conferences. “Who’s coming next week?”
“Methodist women’s clubs from North Carolina.”
“They ought to stay in North Carolina,” Danner said. She watched Lee Ann’s face. Lee Ann was sweating in the warm kitchen, and her glasses had slid halfway down her nose. They’d been friends since elementary school. Lee Ann had dated an older boy last year, a friend of Riley’s, but now she was going steady with someone her age. He was a quiet boy who hadn’t been one of their crowd; he’d moved to Bellington from out of state and didn’t play sports because he had a regular after-school job. “How are you and Mike doing?” Danner asked.
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