by Lyn Cote
“Oh, oh,” Dory said. Her little sister, whom she’d walked home from her school as usual, stood just beside Leigh.
Bette looked at Dory and gave her a tight, tiny smile. “Your after-school snack is on the coffee table.”
Obviously recognizing another storm about to hit, Dory gave Leigh a questioning, worried look and then hurried away, vanishing into the living room.
Leigh pushed her way past her mother and laid down her books on the kitchen table. “You’re home early,” she commented, unwilling to give in to apprehension. Bette was always upset about something.
“I wasn’t feeling well today and came home before lunch.” Her mother followed Leigh to the refrigerator, where Leigh pulled out the glass jug of milk. The jug was cold and heavy in her hand as she turned to carry it to the counter. She felt tension radiating from Bette. But she refused to ask what was wrong. She wouldn’t give her mother the satisfaction.
“I brought in the mail.” Bette folded her arms in front of herself and stared into Leigh’s face.
A sinking feeling started in the pit of Leigh’s stomach. But she didn’t let it show. “Oh?”
Bette waved a letter from her pocket in front of Leigh. “How long have you been writing to Frank Dawson?”
Leigh refused to react, but hot acid singed her stomach. She poured herself a tall glass of milk and went to the kitchen table and sat down. She shrugged as if this were nothing of importance. “A few months.”
“So you admit it?”
Leigh looked up, keeping her expression nonchalant. But she felt the buzz of adrenaline start inside. “Of course. Why should I deny it? Frank is an old family friend, isn’t he?” Leigh was proud of the way she was handling this. Just play it cool.
“That’s not the point and you know it.” Bette reached over to the counter and then tossed all of Leigh’s letters from Frank onto the table.
Jolted, Leigh felt anger flame through her. “You went through my things!”
“Yes, I knew something was going on. You’ve been acting strange… different. And then when I found that letter from Frank today, I decided I’d better find out how serious this was.”
Leigh surged to her feet, her pulse pounding at her temples. “You had no right to go through my things—read my letters! No right—”
“Yes, I did.” Bette propped her hands on her hips. “You’re a minor, my daughter, and I’m supposed to protect you—”
“You don’t have to protect me from Frank.” Leigh clutched the cold glass in her hand. “What kind of person do you think he is?”
“I think he’s the kind of person who helps you defy your parents and go to a march against their wishes. That’s the kind of person I think he is.”
Containing her rage nearly made Leigh weak in her knees. “Frank felt bad about deceiving his grandparents that day. But he wouldn’t let me miss the march. You had no right keeping me from experiencing an historic occasion.”
“Frank is only twenty-two and he isn’t my judge, young lady. Now, I will write Frank and tell him not to write to you anymore. And I want you—”
Shaking with outrage, Leigh set down the milk glass, sloshing some on the tabletop. “I will go on writing to Frank if I want to. This is none of your business.”
Bette slapped her.
Her cheek stinging, Leigh gasped. Bette had never struck her before.
“You are too young to know what this can lead to. But I know, and it scares me to death. I won’t have you beginning a relationship that could end in tragedy—for both of you.”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” Leigh rubbed her tingling cheek with the back of her hand.
“No, I’m not. I know just how impressionable a young girl can be and how making the wrong decision about a man can ruin her life. Your father…” Bette stopped and pressed her lips so tightly together that they turned white.
“What about my father?” Leigh asked, taking a step forward. Bette never spoke about Leigh’s father if she could help it. Almost everything she knew about her father, she’d learned from Grandma Sinclair and Grandma Chloe. “Why don’t you ever want to talk about my father? What did he do that was so wrong that you never—”
Bette turned away. “Go to your room.”
Leigh said, “No, I—”
“Now.”
Leigh burned. She wanted to break something, to slap her mother back, to scream. Instead, she shoved the chair out of her way and stalked from the room. Her only hope was her stepfather. He knew how to get around her mother’s unreasonable, stubborn streak. But an inner voice whispered, “You knew she’d react like this. You knew what you were doing when you wrote to Frank.”
Early the next morning, Leigh dressed in black Capri pants and a thick heather-blue cardigan and packed a small, gray, zippered bag. Just after dawn, she slipped out of the house and hurried to the nearest bus stop. After arguing most of the evening with her mother, Leigh felt bruised and battered. Her eyes were swollen from weeping and gritty from lack of sleep, and Ivy Manor summoned her with an irresistible call. Her stepfather had tried to intervene, but for once, he’d been unable to sway Bette to see sense. Bette had been implacable, immovable. Leigh would not be allowed to write Frank again.
The city bus pulled up and Leigh got on. Grandma Chloe would understand. Somehow she would make her mother see she was overreacting. Not for the first time, Leigh wished she could live at Ivy Manor. Her mom hovered over her like Nemesis. She was never satisfied. No matter what Leigh did it was never perfect enough, good enough, to suit her. And yet, she seemed to want to keep Leigh a little girl on a level with Dory. Why do I even try?
Late that afternoon, Leigh finally trudged up the quiet lane to Ivy Manor. Sparrows twittered overhead and crows cawed in a raucous chorus. She’d missed the last morning express and had to take the local train from Washington that stopped at every little town. And then, after arriving in Croftown, the streets were unusually deserted. And the bank was unaccountably closed. She’d not seen anyone she knew. So she’d had to walk all the way to Ivy Manor.
She finally went up the lane and around to the backdoor. Feeling victorious, rebellious, and fearful, she stepped inside and set down her bag in the back hallway. “Grandma? Grandpa? Rose?” she called out the names. Rose was a grand-niece of Aunt Jerusha’s and the present housekeeper of Ivy Manor.
No reply. Leigh walked through the quiet house. It was empty. She’d never suspected that when she got there, no one would be at Ivy Manor. Where had everyone gone? She wasn’t surprised that the doors had been left unlocked. They always were.
Leigh wandered outside to the deserted summer house where all the outdoor furniture was covered with dark green tarps. The sound of a TV reminded Leigh of Aunt Jerusha in the little cottage. She hurried there. The sound of the TV increased as she approached the little house. She knocked on the back door and then let herself in. Aunt Jerusha was unsteady on her feet and expected everyone just to come on in.
Leigh found Aunt Jerusha in the small front room filled with knickknacks in front of the TV with rabbit ears. “Aunt Jerusha?”
“ Child.”The old woman looked up, startled. “What are you doin’ here? I know nobody’s spectin’ you.”
Leigh came over and leaned down to kiss the old woman’s forehead. “I needed to see Grandma Chloe. Where is everyone?”
“Child, your grandparents gone to your house. Miss Chloe said she had to be with you all in Virginia. She wants to go and view the president’s body when it lies in state.”
“The president’s body?” Leigh’s mouth stayed open.
“Don’t you know, child?” With a man’s white handkerchief, Aunt Jerusha mopped tears from her wrinkled mahogany cheeks. “They gone and shot our president—that good man.”
A wave of emotion weakened Leigh. She sat down in the nearest chair. “I didn’t know.” She remembered now. People had been talking, but she had been too wrapped up in her own misery and hadn’t tried to understand what
they were talking about. “I’ve been on the train and then I walked here. I haven’t been near a radio or TV.” She glanced at the screen. David Brinkley was questioning someone about the whereabouts of Lyndon Johnson, the vice president.
“Around noon, Mr. Kennedy was ridin’ in a open car in Dallas and someone shot him. They’re huntin’ for the murderer—the FBI. Maybe your stepfather gone there, too.”
Leigh closed her eyes. She couldn’t ever remember feeling what she was experiencing now. It was as if someone had hit her head with a heavy object and at the same time punched the air out of her. The president… dead. Impossible.
“You’re lookin’ white. Bend down your head, child. Right now,” Aunt Jerusha ordered, reaching over and pushing Leigh’s face down to her knees. “Take a deep breath. You gone to faint if you don’t.”
Squeezing her eyes tight against the vertigo, Leigh obeyed and drew in air deeply. Her head cleared but then tears welled up. “I can’t believe it. How?”
“I remember when that bad man shot McKinley.” Lean ing on her cane, Aunt Jerusha rose, hobbled to the TV, and turned down the volume knob. “I was already a mother then. But that isn’t like this. This time I cared about the president. He was for us. Things are changin’. I was thinkin’ of registering so I could vote for him. That would have been my first time. I wouldn’t put it past the Klan to gone and done this. They hated him.”
Leigh couldn’t speak. The wind still felt knocked out of her. She glanced at the muted TV. They were playing a newsreel of the president’s cavalcade in Dallas earlier. She looked away.
“He’s got two little children—those poor babies.” The older woman shook her white head and looked grim as she inched back to her chair. “And their mama, that sweet woman.”
Leigh struggled to hold back surging emotions. How could it affect her so? She’d only seen the president a few times in his motorcade in D.C., but this felt so personal—as if she’d known him.
“What are you doin’ here without your family?” Aunt Jerusha eased her arthritic joints back down into her chair.
Leigh looked up. “I needed to talk to Grandma Chloe. My mother…” Leigh felt her face flushing with recalled anger. “My mother is being unreasonable and I wanted Grandma Chloe to talk to her.”
Aunt Jerusha frowned and shook her head. “You should have stayed at home and went to school. Your grandma isn’t gone to argue with your mother over you. That’s not right.”
“It’s about Frank, about your great-grandson.” Leigh plunged on, wanting Jerusha’s approval, her understanding. “He’s been writing to me from the army and I’ve been writing him back. My mom says she won’t let me write him any more.” Leigh made a face. “It’s not her business who I have as a friend.”
“A friend?” Aunt Jerusha said in a mocking tone. “You’re a young white girl and Frank Three’s a young Negro man. The two don’t become friends.”
Her tone startled Leigh. “That’s old-fashioned, Auntie.”
“No, it isn’t.” Jerusha shook her head decidedly and let a frown drag all her wrinkles down. “What is Frank thinkin’? He should know what kind of trouble he can get into messin’ with a white girl.”
“He’s not messing with me.” Leigh moved forward on her chair. “He’s just writing me letters.”
The older woman snorted in reply.
In the house in Arlington, Chloe watched Bette go to the kitchen to start supper and then followed her. Everyone was in an odd mood. The news of the assassination had kept Bette restless and she’d paced so long she looked worn out. Even now, she switched on the kitchen radio and listened to the low murmur of voices discussing when LBJ would take the oath of office.
As if that hadn’t been enough to contend with, Bette had explained how she’d found a note left by Leigh, announcing she’d gone to Ivy Manor on her own. But the girl hadn’t called to say she’d arrived there and when Chloe had called, no one had answered. Rose must have gone to her own place. Chloe didn’t blame her. She’d felt the same need to be with family during this national tragedy.
But why had Leigh gone to Ivy Manor? Chloe had waited to ask this touchy question. Until now.
“Do you think Leigh has finally gotten to Ivy Manor?”
Bette turned and stared at her mother. “I’ll call Rose and ask.” She dialed the familiar number, but soon she hung up. “No answer.”
Chloe suppressed the fear that something could have happened to Leigh between there and Ivy Manor.
“Why don’t you call Rose’s home? She can check on Jerusha and find out if Leigh has arrived,” Bette suggested in a wary voice, washing her hands at the sink.
Chloe made the call but got no answer. She faced her daughter. “We’ve been so caught up in the assassination that I haven’t had time to ask you why Leigh has run away. Don’t you think it’s time you told me?”
Donning a floral apron, Bette passed the back of her hand over her forehead. “Mother, I don’t understand Linda Leigh. She does crazy things that I would never have thought of doing. Running off with Frank that day and going to the march when I’d forbidden it. Now I find out she’s been writing Frank secretly over the past three months. It’s as if she hasn’t any common sense.”
Chloe gazed at her daughter, considering this revelation. “She was writing him secretly?” I’m not surprised, Bette. Why are you?
“Yes, and both you and I know that nothing good can come of a friendship between them. Leigh’s so young and idealistic she doesn’t understand what she’d be getting herself into. Look what happened to Frank’s parents’ marriage.” Bette unwrapped a cut chicken from white butcher’s paper.
“Were these love letters?”
“No, but writing Frank secretly,”Bette said, getting out flour and oil. “You know how impressionable young girls are. Frank’s good-looking, older—”
“And forbidden,” Chloe cut in. “Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.” How could you be so foolish, Bette?
Bette continued, heedless, “I was never like that when I was in my teens. It’s just one thing after another with Leigh. Ted and I have given her every advantage—”
Chloe stepped closer. “Bette, times are different now.” “What has that got to do with anything?” Bette added salt and pepper to the flour, then stirred everything with a fork. “You can’t mean that you approve of Leigh and Frank becoming involved?”
CHAPTER FIVE
I’m more worried about you and Leigh than Frank and Leigh,” Chloe declared.
“What does that mean?” Bette put down her fork with a snap.
“Leigh is living in different times than you did. The Depression and then the war coming on—you had to knuckle under, put aside your private feelings, private wants. But Leigh is living in a time of fast change and prosperity like I did. My life in 1917 was like night and day compared to my life in 1921. Women got to vote. We cut our hair. We shortened our skirts and went dancing at speakeasy nightclubs.”
The radio announcer fielded discussions of possible funeral arrangements for the president.
“What has this got to do with Leigh?” Bette clattered the skillet onto the burner.
“Leigh’s time is going to be like mine, not like yours. It’s another boom time, and now the Negroes are going to get the vote back for the first time since the Reconstruction. It seems like in America, we have these times that come through like gangbusters, ripping things apart, and what’s been accepted for decades and decades changes overnight. Leigh suits her time.”
Bette stared at her for a moment and then deposited a large scoop of Crisco into the pan. “I can’t disagree with you about prosperity and things changing, but life is the same generation to generation. You fell in love and got married—”
“And you fell in love with Curt, who hurt you dreadfully. That’s what drives you to be so overprotective with Leigh, isn’t it? That’s why you sent her to that strict girl’s school.” Chloe had wanted to say this for a long time. She’d held her pe
ace, but no more. Leigh was in danger. “You thought you’d control what boys she came into contact with and that they’d be very few. You’re afraid she’ll fall in love with someone who will end up hurting her.”
“Why shouldn’t I be concerned?” Bette countered. “She’s much too young to be writing to a young man six years older than she is.”
“I’ll have to agree with you there. But what other young men has she met? You’ve shut her off from the natural way of things.”
Bette swirled the pan, making sure the melting shortening coated in the skillet. “She will have plenty of time for boys after she finishes high school.”
Chloe went on as if Bette hadn’t spoken. “I agree Frank is much too old for her. But you can’t stop young men from coming into your daughter’s life. Leigh is lovely, and she will be stunning in just a few more years. Frank would have to be made out of stone not to find her attractive.”
Bette tapped the spoon on the side of the skillet. “So you agree that he’s trying to fix his interest with Leigh?”
“I don’t think he has any intention of marrying or even dating Leigh.”
Bette frowned at her. “You can’t mean that.”
*
“I thought you’d understand,” Leigh said.
“I understand a lot,” Aunt Jerusha replied. “I’m almost ninety years old. I didn’t go through those years with my eyes shut tight. I know that many a Negro man has gotten lynched for doin’ less than writin’ a white girl a letter.”
The TV screen beckoned to Leigh. They were replaying Robert Frost reading a poem at JFK’s inauguration. She turned back to Aunt Jerusha. “But lynching is a thing of the past.
“Only nine years past.” Jerusha pointed her cane at Leigh. “1954—that poor Chicago boy got lynched for just sassin’ a white woman in Mississippi.”
“Why does everyone try to make this something it isn’t?” Leigh extended her hands, palms up, pleading her case. “I’m not in love with Frank. We’re just writing letters.”