by C. Ruth Daly
Nine forty-five rolled around and I signaled LBJ that the hour was approaching. She laid down her cue and finally spoke. “We have to go. My grandpa’s picking us up.
“Okay. See ya at school.” Stew said not looking up from his corner pocket position. Up the stairs and back outside we could see the brother and his three friends by the barn drinking from a flask and still smoking what I thought were cigarettes but had a sweet smelling odor.
“Marijuana.” I whispered as LBJ and I quickly made our way down the drive before the brother and friends could spot us.
We sprinted down the road and the night seemed even blacker with people retiring to bed as the specks of lights on the horizon faded. We waited at the end of the lane of “Katie’s house,” and soon saw the lights of Grandpa Todd’s Studebaker sneak over the waves in the road.
THREE
Christmas Eve had come and gone with the usual traditional festivities. My sisters Eva and Toni were home from college and my older sister Rene had come from Indianapolis. My brother Rick was stationed overseas while Terry, my second oldest brother, had fled to Canada to avoid the draft. My oldest sister Margaret rarely returned home from L.A., but I waited in anticipation for her phone call on Christmas day to give me a glimpse into the life outside of the tedium of Burgenton.
Colorful paper tossed to the side as we each unwrapped gifts one at a time and then prepared for Midnight Mass. Voices intermingled with the crinkling of paper and excitement filled the air and we girls ran up the staircase to our bedroom to dress for Midnight Mass and to model the new clothes that had been under the tree.
Anna, Irish, Eva, Toni and I decided to walk the three blocks to church. Mom, Dad, and Tim hopped in the four door sedan and we were all on our way. The midnight air hung cold and still as we silently made our way past the Baptist Church, sleeping until morning, and turned right by the Wilsons’ big brick house on the corner. They were still up at this hour with a soft glow of light seeping through the tempered glass of the front door.
Burgenton was pretty in its peacefulness and it seemed so innocuous at this time and all of the time. Nothing could ever happen here, I thought. I can’t wait to hear from Margaret. I wonder what’s going on in L.A. I looked over at Irish, who was not engaged in conversation with the other three girls. Her eyes looked toward the clear sky and frozen stars then she tilted her head, gave me a disillusioned smile, and turned her head toward the sidewalk before us.
Dad, Mom and Tim were already at church when we arrived and were seated in our place. My eyes gazed upon the scenery of the church where large red ribbons hung from the sills of stained glass windows. Evergreen garland ran along the walls supported by the Stations of the Cross which were methodically positioned two between each long window. The stained glass was a work of art and as old as the little church that was built by German immigrants over one hundred years earlier. The pageant began just as quickly as it ended and applause rang loudly throughout the church. I glanced back at the congregation sitting safe and sound in their seats. Faces bore smiles and eyes were shining as they enjoyed the brightness and newness of the hour. Then Sister stood and motioned for the choir to begin with our rueful rendition of Silent Night. And that was the last of the silent nights Burgenton would have for awhile.
FOUR
“McNallys,” I answered the phone as it rang for the fourth time.
It was December 30th and my sisters were still asleep at 9:00 o’clock in the morning. It was Saturday and Anna and Irish had been out the night before. Anna at a girlfriend’s house and Irish with one of her male friends from school who sought solace in the advice she offered and the mysterious beauty she possessed. Eva and Toni were still sleeping off the rigors of college. Tim was glued to the TV, and Mom was across the alley gossiping with Mrs. Randall. Dad was back at work having only been off on Christmas day while Rene had hopped in her two door hatchback on Christmas night and headed back down I-65 to Indianapolis.
I had been awake for half an hour sitting at the dining room table, looking out the bay window, and feeling the after Christmas letdown while the sky turned gray. I realized the harsh days of winter were just beginning.
“Hello?” I recognized the voice on the other end of the line.
“Hi there Donna. It’s me, Glynda.”
“Hi, Glynda. Did you have a good Christmas?” I was surprised. Glynda rarely called because she lived around the corner.
“It was okay. I ate a lot. What about you?
“Yeah, I had a good Christmas, too.
“How did the date with Stewart go?” asked Glynda.
“Oh it was an adventure, and Stewart is a stuck-up wuss like we’d thought.” I answered, wondering where the conversation was going.
“Ya know, I was wantin’ to know if you could spend the night on New Year’s Eve. It would be me, you, and Lori Bell. My grandma gave me permission to spend it at her house. She has that little apartment upstairs that no one’s rentin’ right now and we can stay there as long as we’re careful and clean it up before we leave.”
Glynda’s grandmother lived two blocks from the Myer family. Her house was situated on Vine Street around the corner from my house. The thought of being on our own for a night sounded promising.
“I bet I can spend the night. I’ll have to ask my mom and call you back!” I hung up the phone, moved to the window and looked out to see if Mom was done talking to Mrs. Randall. My mother always remained standing in Mrs. Randall’s kitchen doorway despite the woman’s cordial attempts to seat her at the table for coffee. I could see her silhouette behind the screen door. The door opened. Mom descended the steps, made her way across the alley and I heard the back door slam shut.
Soon she was in the kitchen humming a tune when I entered the room.
“Mom, Glynda Myer was wondering if I could spend the night on New Year’s?”
“Hmm...hmm...” she hummed. “I guess it’s okay. Oh Mrs. Randall said that a nice young man from Florida of all places bought the house on the corner across from Ethel Becker’s house.”
Ethel Becker was Glynda’s grandma and I wondered how a nice young man from Florida could afford the house with its grand wraparound porch, Victorian turrets and its marble entry.
“How old is this man, Mom? How could he afford to buy that house? Why would he leave Florida and move to Burgenton?”
“Apparently he came into some money. I guess he’s a photographer or something like that or maybe he’s a stenographer. I don’t know, but Mrs. Randall says he has money and that he’s a clean-cut young man, quiet and keeps to himself, but he does have some friends over, which is fine. Mrs. Randall said he came to the Eastern Star meeting the week before last and introduced himself to the women and showed some nice slides of the Florida Everglades.”
“Well, I think it’s weird he’d choose to live in Burgenton and not someplace more exciting like Indianapolis.”
“Now, Donna, there’s nothing wrong with a young man moving into town. Burgenton is a nice place and maybe he’s looking for a gal to marry and to raise children here.”
“I don’t know. Maybe.” I shrugged my shoulders and grabbed an orange from the bag on the counter, bit into the skin and sipped the juice from its center.
“Oh that’s it!” said Mom. “He is a nephew or cousin or something to Thelma Carson. So, he does have family here. That only makes sense for him to move here. Maybe he doesn’t have nearer kin of his own. I’ll have to ask Mrs. Randall.” And Mom picked up the crossword puzzle from the newspaper and began humming.
Thelma Carson? The school bus driver? The relationship seemed weird to me. I didn’t even know Thelma had relatives. She just seemed like some sort of entity that belonged to the Burgenton School District. She was like the teachers who appeared occasionally in town and seemed so separate from the rest of the Burgenton citizens. Of course, Mr. Roberts the science teacher and his wife lived in the small rental behind the green alcove house on the corner across the street from our house. But
Mr. Roberts was a friendlier and more likeable entity of the school district.
Climbing back up the stairs to our bedroom, I made my way across the creaking floor to my side of the room. Anna was sleeping soundly and wearing the soft foam curlers I gave her for Christmas. Irish was awaking in the bed on the other side of the room.
“What time is it, Donna?” Irish asked throwing off the covers and putting her feet on the floor.
“Ten, Irish. What did you do last night?”
I was curious to know what high school life would be like. Irish was eighteen and I also knew she would soon be leaving the house just like Margaret, Rick, Terry, Rene, Eva and Toni had done during the past seven years.
“Not much, Donna. You wouldn’t want to know anyway.” Irish said flippantly and walked out of the room.
“Well, yeah, I do want to know. That’s why I ASKED.” I shook my head with disgust. “She never tells me anything.” I mumbled.
I trotted back down the stairs and Mom yelled for me. “Donna, Donnaaa!”
“What is it, Mom?”
“I forgot to tell you Mrs. Randall needs your help today. Go over there now and see what she wants.”
I had my orders so I left the house and crossed the alley.
Knock, knock, and knock. I rapped three times on the front door of Mrs. Randall’s house, and turned my back to the door to look at the wicker chairs still on winter’s front porch.
“Hello, Donna.”
Mrs. Randall opened the door and motioned for me to come in. I sat down in the green wing-backed chair by the piano while Mrs. Randall stepped slowly to the kitchen and brought back a decorative box of morsels. Mrs. Randall always engaged me in conversation or fed me some kind of treat before giving me a task.
“Here, Donna. You may have one. They’re called marzipan,” she said opening the lid and showing me the decorative candy fruits. “Only take one. I just got them.”
Politely I commented on their daintiness and pretended to enjoy the sugary confection as I quickly chewed, swallowed and ran my tongue against the roof of my mouth to get rid of the sickening sweet taste.
“I could use some help cleaning underneath my refrigerator and on top of my armoire. Then if you wouldn’t mind, would you run uptown and pick up a quart of buttermilk and some stockings for me? Then after that I need for you to run some errands and deliver some things to a few people. I would like the beige stockings. Here’s the box so you’ll know what to get.” Mrs. Randall handed me the empty package for the two single stockings.
“Okay.” I answered. And I got the cleaning supplies from the kitchen closet. Quickly finishing the cleaning, I grabbed the empty hosiery package and ran the three blocks up town to Hoeneker’s Market for the buttermilk, and then to Smith’s Drug Store on Madison Street.
Smith’s store was a long corridor with a row of magazines and books to the right and a new cashier’s stand to the left. There was a glass display which held cameras and watches where the soda fountain counter stood only a few years earlier. In the back of the store was the pharmacist’s counter and in front of that sat two round tables where a few steady local customers stopped for coffee and conversation. Two men in coveralls and heavy work boots were sitting and talking to Mr. Smith the pharmacist and owner. The men looked like they had put in a full day’s work already but it was just eleven-thirty.
I stood and rotated the hosiery display looking desperately for the stockings old ladies wear and hoping no one from school would see me. I couldn’t help but hear parts of the conversation at the tables to my right.
Then bending over I found the stockings at the bottom of the rack. Another voice popped in the conversation, and I looked up. There stood a tall stranger in a brown tweed overcoat. He wore shiny wingtip shoes and his bleach blonde hair was combed straight back over his head. His features were chiseled with a square jaw, high cheekbones and a Roman nose. The man definitely did not look like someone from Burgenton.
“Hello Mr. Smith. Is my prescription ready?”
“How are you Mr. Hollis?”
“I do have your prescription ready. How are you feeling?” Mr. Smith handed the man an amber bottle.
“Very well, thank you. How are you gentlemen?” and he looked at the two men with scruffy denim coveralls and five o’clock shadows even though it was not quite noon.
“Why we’re purty good.” One said as he pushed the bill of his cap off of his forehead. He seemed flattered by the attention this dashing stranger was giving him. The stranger, who a few more people including me now knew of as “Mr. Hollis” smiled, turned, and walked erectly to the front counter. With my stockings in hand, I followed and stood behind him, waiting my turn at the long glass counter.
Mr. Hollis had big hands and very nice fingernails. I couldn’t help but notice them as I endured his flirtatious banter with Linda the counter girl. Linda was soaking up the attention and smiling a crooked smile as she tried to hide the chipped incisor on her right side. As I leaned forward I noticed Mr. Hollis’s prescription and strained my eyes to get a good look. I made out a V and an A but his hooked thumb covered the rest.
Suddenly Mr. Hollis turned toward me and gave me a wry smile. He quickly covered the prescription label with his right thumb and tossed the pills into the pocket of his overcoat. Cordially thanking Linda, he turned and was out the door. Linda’s eyes followed him as the heavy glass door closed and Mr. Hollis was gone.
“One dollar and twenty-nine cents.” Linda said. She was not even willing to share her chipped tooth smile with me.
“Can you put it on Mildred Randall’s bill?”
And in one breath Linda said, “Oh all right thank you and come again.”
Outside I took a look around to see if I might see someone I knew—or at least someone I might like to see, but maybe not be seen by. Suddenly Evan Miles walked by me and headed into the drug store. He marched to the counter and handed Linda a brown paper bag then he came back out again.
“Hey McNally.”
“Hey Miles.”
“Hey Evan, how do you know Linda?”
“Linda? Linda is my dumb slut of a sister.”
“Oh.” I said. So much for this conversation.
“My uncle drove me into town to bring her lunch. Now I’m stuck with my dumbass uncle all afternoon. See ya McNally.
Then Evan walked down the street and crossed to the courthouse square where his dumbass uncle waited in a half-ton panel truck.
“I didn’t even know Linda was Evan’s sister.” I mumbled to myself. “The uncle does look like a dumbass.” The truck backed up and the two of them drove by with the uncle picking his nose as talk radio floated from the truck’s open window.
I scanned the courthouse square and saw Mr. Hollis come out of the building’s granite foyer with a big manila envelope in his hand. He glanced around as if he was looking for someone.
The courthouse clock struck twelve times and I knew I needed to head back with Mrs. Randall’s stockings and buttermilk. I hurried down the alley toward home and made it to Mrs. Randall’s door to find Mom again talking to Mrs. Randall through her screen door.
Out of breath, I handed Mrs. Randall her stockings and milk.
“Mom,” I interrupted the conversation, but at this point I felt that the interruption was owed due to the fact that I had been Mrs. Randall’s servant for the morning.
“Mom what is the drug people take if they’ve had a nervous breakdown?”
“Why do you need to know?”
“I was just wondering, Mom. I saw it on someone’s bottle at the drugstore.”
“Well, I can’t quite remember. My cousin Regina was on something for awhile ... you know she had electric shock treatment. You know you shouldn’t be nosing around and looking at people’s prescription bottles. ” And she turned back to Mrs. Randall and their gossip.
Back in the house I grabbed a jar of peanut butter, jelly, and two slices of day-old white bread that Dad brought home for free from the store.
I could hear Irish and Anna talking in the living room. The phone rang and I answered it. A masculine voice on the other end said, “I want to speak with Irish.”
“Irish!” I yelled. “It’s for you.”
“Who is it?” she asked.
“Some guy,” I always said, “Some guy,” because that’s who called her. Once in awhile I’d recognize the steady ones. There was the one I called “The Paycheck” because whenever I answered the phone he thought I was Irish and he’d say “Hey, Irish. I got paid. Do you want to know how much my check was?”
Then there was the wimpy guy whose name I didn’t know, but he would call and ask, “Can Irish come to the phone? Pleeease?”
I would always repeat my English teacher’s line, “I don’t know, CAN she?” And the wimpy guy would say. “I don’t know. Do you think she can?” with that hesitant shaking in his voice.
“Hello” I heard Irish say. Then she paused. “New Year’s Eve night?” And there was another pause. “Okay. Where?”
I wondered who she was talking to and listened intently.
Irish giggled. “Oh sure. That would be nice.” Then there was a longer pause.
“Who else will be there?” Irish waited for an answer and the pause was brief.
“Okay. I’ll be ready by 7:00. Bye.” Irish hung up the receiver and glared at me.
“Do you always have to listen to my conversations?”
“Yup. I sure do—especially since the phone is in the kitchen and I was eating lunch first.” I replied with a mouthful of sandwich.
“Snot,” Irish said to me through gritting teeth. Then she retreated to the living room to share her miserable disposition with Anna’s irritability.
Suddenly I remembered I hadn’t completed my chores for Mrs. Randall. I wolfed down my sandwich, grabbed my coat and ran back to Mrs. Randall’s house where Mom was just leaving.