Trueluck Summer

by Susan Gabriel

  “We don’t have five hundred dollars,” I say. “If you haven’t noticed, we’re just kids. Besides, that’s blackmail.”

  “Exactly,” he says, looking pleased with himself.

  He motions for us to put any money we have in his hand. Paris pulls out a couple of quarters from his shorts pocket, and Vel digs seventeen cents out of the bottom of her pink purse. I have a dollar bill in my back pocket that I got for babysitting Teddy three nights ago, but I am not about to hand that over to Hoot Macklehaney. At any rate, this isn’t adding up to anything close to five hundred dollars.

  “Where’s your money?” Hoot asks me.

  “I’m broke,” I say, pulling my empty front pockets inside out.

  Hoot taps his head like he is trying to knock some sense into it.

  “If you don’t have money, then I want you to be my girlfriend.”

  I don’t know whether to laugh, cry or barf. Instead, I toss the dollar bill from my back pocket at Hoot.

  “There’s your stupid money,” I say.

  He tosses the bill back at me.

  “That’s not enough. I want you to be my girlfriend,” Hoot repeats.

  “Vel can be your girlfriend. She is much more girly than I am,” I say.

  Vel shoots me a look like I have thrown her into an alligator infested swamp.

  “I don’t like Vel,” Hoot says. “I like you. You’re funny.” He flashes his yellow corn kernel teeth at me, and Vel gives me a wicked smile, like this is what I get for suggesting he choose her.

  “You must be blind as a bat if you didn’t see that one coming, Trudy,” Vel says. “Hoot’s been sweet on you for years.”

  His face turns red like Vel has just spilled the one secret he wants to keep.

  “Are bats blind?” Paris asks, as if this—like freckles—is news to him.

  Despite my rising panic, I tell myself to stay calm. The last thing I want to be is somebody’s girlfriend, especially if that somebody is Hoot—middle name Moron—Macklehaney. Not to mention that I resent being called a blind bat by my best friend.

  Hoot waves the newspaper as if to remind me of his threat.

  “I would consider being your girlfriend, Hoot, but my parents won’t allow me to have a boyfriend yet.” My words sound sweet, like he is a Thanksgiving turkey, and I am buttering him up.

  “We can just pretend for one day,” Hoot says, his voice cracking in earnest. “If you could just come by the Esso station, then maybe my oldest brother, Hank, will quit kidding me. He says no girl will ever like me because I’m ugly as sin.”

  “His brother has a point,” Vel says to me.

  I shush Vel, and for a split second I actually feel sorry for Hoot Macklehaney. This is something I never thought possible until the freezing over of hell and the flying of pigs.

  “If I pretend to be your girlfriend for one day, will you keep our secret?” I ask.

  “I swear,” he says, as though the winner of the better deal.

  “Trudy Trueluck, don’t you dare agree to this,” Vel says. “Once you do, he’ll just want something else.”

  I wonder how Vel got so versed in blackmail.

  “How do we know you’ll keep your promise?” I ask Hoot.

  He puts his hand over a mustard stain on his shirt. “Cross my heart, hope to die.”

  I ask Hoot to give us a minute so we can talk things over, and he climbs out of the bushes.

  “Do you really want to do this?” Paris asks me.

  “Not in a million years,” I say, “but do I have a choice?”

  Not only do I not want Paris and Vel and me to get in trouble, but I have Nana Trueluck to think about, too. The newspaper said she was the ringleader. I can’t imagine Nana Trueluck the ringleader of anything, except maybe Doris Day songs, and I surely can’t imagine her in jail.

  “You don’t have to be Hoot’s girlfriend,” Paris says. “If the news comes out, it comes out. I’m not ashamed of anything we did.”

  “But if my parents find out, I’ll be in huge trouble,” Vel says.

  “I agree that we’ve got to keep Hoot quiet somehow,” I say.

  “Let’s knock him out and put him on an Amtrak train to Alaska.” Vel’s eyes glimmer.

  “Don’t you think someone would miss him?” I ask.

  “Probably not,” Paris says.

  We pause to come up with a more viable plan. I peek out of the azaleas. Hoot waits under a magnolia tree reading the comics.

  “How much harm could it be to act like his girlfriend for one day?” I ask.

  “What if he wants to kiss you?” Vel grimaces as though this is the most disgusting thought imaginable.

  The oatmeal I ate that morning rises with the thought, and I glance over at Hoot again, who is now picking his nose and flinging his findings like they are darts. Does he think no one sees him? Does he think at all?

  “It would definitely be the longest day of my life,” I say. “But it’s only one day.”

  Hoot Macklehaney needs to keep his mouth shut. If he doesn’t, Nana Trueluck could be arrested for being a ringleader, and Paris could get in big trouble for running with that flag. Plus, who knows what happens to girls who pull fire alarms when there isn’t even a fire. I could be in more trouble than anybody. After yesterday I was actually looking forward to being bored for the rest of the summer. But no such luck. Our adventure is still going strong.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Ida

  I take my coffee to the front porch along with the Sunday newspaper. I haven’t slept in on a Sunday for years. But after the trip to Columbia yesterday, I needed my rest. Ted Junior and Abigail left a note in the kitchen that after church they are taking Teddy to the beach and that Trudy is meeting with some friends at Hampton Park. It is strange to have the house to myself. But not at all a bad strange.

  Positioning myself on the porch swing, I rest my coffee cup on the small table nearby and give myself a slight swing. Two of the cats Trudy rescued rub against my bare ankles. In a way, I think Trudy rescued me, too. Not that she was the one to give me a home, but she has certainly made me feel welcome, as well as relevant. It is nice to be needed and involved in projects that don’t only involve bake sales or knitting.

  The lyrics of “Que Sera, Sera” go through my mind again. I can’t believe that at my age I managed to surprise myself. Who knew I could sing in public at the top of my lungs and carry a flag out the door in protest? Certainly not me. If Ted Senior were still alive, I doubt he would have believed it, either.

  Most of my life I have never put up a fuss about anything. Even about things I knew were morally wrong. It is easy to go through life without rocking any boats. But last night when I couldn’t sleep, I realized the events of yesterday were something I felt gratified by. Keep in mind, the list of things I have felt proud of in my life isn’t a long list. I was a good wife and mother; I suppose that counts for something. And I took care of my parents at the end. But other than that, I have a hard time thinking of things.

  But now, as I anticipate my final breaths on this earth, I imagine I will look back on yesterday as a time when I took part in something grand. I take a sip of coffee and remember Paris running through the rotunda with that flag flying behind him. Such a statement. It is moments like these that define a life.

  No harm done, I say to myself. The children got a lesson in civic responsibility, and I got a lesson in . . . What? How to be bold?

  Enough of this, I think, unrolling the newspaper. Time for life to get back to normal.

  When I see the headlines, I release a half-gasp, half-shriek. A grainy photograph is at the top of the fold. With my back to the camera you can’t tell it is me, but there I am with the flag over my shoulders going out the door.

  My coffee cup falls onto the porch, the cup breaking into a dozen pieces. My proud moment did not involve being a fugitive from the law or having my photograph plastered on the front page of the Charleston newspaper.

  Two cats come to lap
up the cream in my coffee. A figure approaches from down the street. Vel’s father waves at the front gate, newspaper in hand. I wish now I had put my hair up. I look practically unkempt. A criminal in the making. Or perhaps I am already made.

  Does he know it is me on the front page? Is he going to accuse me of endangering his daughter? He would have a right to be angry. While at no time was Vel in real danger, she was on the scene, and she did witness the scary parts of Paris being held by the FBI. My argument would be that it was good for her to widen her horizons, like it was good for me. But does someone at twelve years of age need her horizons widened? I suppose you could think of it as a history lesson that got a little out of hand. I flash back to the sheriff at the Woolworths reaching for his handcuffs.

  “Did you see any of this happening while you were at the State House yesterday?” he asks, walking up to the porch.

  I hesitate and wonder how much to say. “There was a flurry of activity when the fire alarm went off,” I say, “but we were already on the grounds by then.” I exhale, pleased with my selective truth-telling.

  “What were those nut cases trying to accomplish?” he asks with a roll of his eyes that reminds me of Vel.

  “I wouldn’t call them nut cases,” I say. “They believed in a cause and thought something needed to be done about it.”

  “Like I said, nut cases.” He laughs a short laugh.

  My hackles rise, but I caution myself not to react. It would be hard for anyone to understand if they weren’t there. This was more than about a flag. This was about the principles this country was founded on. Liberty. Freedom for all. But this is too much to discuss on a Sunday morning with a banker who thinks anyone is crazy if they question the powers that be.

  “It was a lovely trip, regardless,” I say. “I’m so glad Vel went with us.” I think again of her asking Les Lester all those questions and then seeing her name written in a thousand different ways. “Would you like a cup of coffee? I was just about to go inside to get another cup.”

  He thanks me and says something about needing to get back to his wife.

  Alone again, it occurs to me that at least Vel’s father didn’t recognize me from the photo, but that doesn’t mean someone else won’t. I look back at the headline and carefully read the article. A $500 reward is offered for information on where to find the “ringleader.” Five hundred dollars is enough for some people to turn in their own mother.

  “Me, a ringleader?” I laugh a short laugh and turn serious again. Ted Junior would have a conniption. Not to mention, Abigail.

  I wonder briefly if the children could help me confiscate all the newspapers in Charleston. The thing about newspapers is that the story is alive for a day, at most, before the next story grabs our attention. If I am lucky, maybe everybody will go to the beach today and not get around to reading the paper.

  However, I know that Ted Junior always reads it from front to back. It is part of his job to know what is going on in the city. Abigail will be reading, too, while her pies bake. The newspaper always sits on the kitchen table until put in the trash the following morning.

  Should I start packing my bags?

  Trudy runs down the sidewalk calling my name. She holds another copy of the newspaper, her eyes wild with What are we going to do? When she reaches the porch, Ted Junior, Abigail and Teddy pull the car up in front of the house.

  “Uh oh,” I say. Like yesterday, trouble surrounds us on all fronts. It is time to confess and show Ted Junior and Abigail the article. Trudy joins me on the porch, and we clasp hands to await our fate.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Trudy

  Things at my house aren’t good. Daddy even yelled at Nana Trueluck in the kitchen. Then he went up to the attic to think, and he hasn’t typed a word on his novel. He didn’t even put on his lucky shorts. If I had known she would get in this much trouble, I never would have asked her to take us to Columbia. But now we have even bigger problems. If anybody recognizes her in the photograph and turns her in, she could be blamed for everything.

  Later that night, Vel and Paris and I got to the cemetery again for an emergency meeting, along with Nana Trueluck. I can barely stand to see how guilty she looks. But the mood lightens when Paris attempts to give me a few acting lessons in order to pull off being Hoot’s girlfriend. He stands on the grave of the unknown girl and shows me how to flutter my eye lashes and flip my hair with one hand. Every now and again, Vel looks up from her book to laugh. The truth is, Paris is much better at being a girl than I am.

  Something rustles in the far corner of the cemetery, and the four of us duck behind a large gravestone. Even Nana Trueluck’s eyes are wide.

  “Why do we meet out here anyway?” Vel whispers. “It’s creepy.”

  “Because it’s private,” I whisper back.

  “It doesn’t seem all that private if we’re always ducking behind tombstones,” she says.

  “Do you want to go home?” I ask her.

  Nana Trueluck shushes us. Seconds later, a raccoon waddles out of the shadows. We all exhale.

  “Are you ready, Trudy?” Paris asks.

  “Ready for what?” I say, wanting to forget why we’re here.

  “Ready to play the role of a lifetime?”

  “Being Hoot’s girlfriend for one day is the role of a lifetime?” Vel smirks.

  Paris ignores her. “Don’t worry, you’ll bring the house down,” he says to me.

  “One day, one performance,” I repeat, matching his seriousness. “Then the whole thing will be over, and our secret will be safe.” I flip my hair and give a quick flutter of my eyelashes. Everyone laughs except Nana Trueluck who looks worried again.

  “Unless someone recognizes me from the newspaper,” she says.

  “It’s good you dressed the way you did that day,” I say. “If you’d been wearing your high-tops and one of your wild skirts you would have been much more recognizable.”

  “That’s true,” Nana Trueluck says. “Sometimes it’s good to try to blend in.”

  I wonder what I should wear when I pretend to be Hoot’s girlfriend and then shudder with the thought.

  As Vel, Nana Trueluck, and I walk home, silence stretches between us. Vel follows a few steps behind and lingers whenever we walk under a lamppost so she can read. It is quiet this time of night, especially on a Sunday.

  “You are brave to do this,” Nana Trueluck says to me, breaking the silence.

  “It feels more stupid than brave,” I say.

  “You wanted a summer adventure, and here it is,” she says. But she doesn’t sound convinced that this is a good thing.

  Today was the first time I ever heard Daddy raise his voice to her. I hope this doesn’t mean she won’t live with us anymore. Before Nana Trueluck came to Queen Street, life wasn’t exciting at all. Now it is almost too exciting. We are hiding from the FBI, dealing with blackmail threats, and having emergency meetings.

  We settle into a rhythm as we walk, and I take Nana Trueluck’s hand. She squeezes it like she always does to tell me she loves me. We walk Vel to her house and say our goodbyes. When we get to our house we go into the living room where Mama, Daddy, and Teddy sit on the couch ready to watch Bonanza. We join them as the opening music plays and the Cartwrights ride across the screen on horses. Any hard feelings left over after our confession are pushed aside for the latest drama taking place at the Ponderosa.

  Later that night it takes me forever to fall asleep. When I do, my dreams are full of old white guards hitting me over the head with rebel flags, me shielding myself with Miss Josie’s red umbrella. I wake up tired the next morning. Too tired to be anyone’s real girlfriend, much less a fake one.

  When I go into the kitchen Nana Trueluck sits at the table alone reading the newspaper.

  “Anything about Columbia?” I ask.

  “Lots of things, but nothing about you-know-what.” She folds it to the crossword and puts it to the side to save for later.

  “You look nice,” sh
e says, looking over at me.

  I wear a sleeveless dress and sandals, the only thing I could think of that might be considered “girlfriend” clothes.

  “Nana Trueluck, why did I ever agree to do this? My palms are already sweaty.”

  “Maybe you could pretend that you’re Doris Day and he’s Rock Hudson.”

  I make a face that causes her to laugh.

  “Yes, well, maybe that’s stretching it a bit,” she says.

  After I finish breakfast, she wishes me luck. I leave the house to meet Hoot at the corner of Meeting and Mary Streets as we arranged the day before. Then we will walk to the Esso station together where I will pretend to be Hoot’s girlfriend in front of his brother Hank.

  The things a granddaughter will do to keep her grandmother out of jail, I say to myself.

  When I reach the corner, I almost don’t recognize Hoot. Instead of his usual ratty shorts and tattered T-shirt, he wears slacks and a short sleeve shirt with a brown tie hanging around his neck that looks like a burnt piece of bacon. He is clean, and his hair is combed. If I didn’t know better, I’d think he was going to a wedding. Except from where I stand, it is more like a funeral.

  Forcing a cheerful look onto my face, I pretend I am Doris Day like Nana Trueluck suggested. But Hoot Macklehaney is the farthest thing from Rock Hudson that I can imagine.

  “Hello, Miss Trudy,” Hoot says, all polite.

  The theme song to The Twilight Zone plays in my head. It seems I have entered an alternative universe where Hoot Macklehaney is nice.

  “Shall we go?” Hoot offers me his arm. He must have Clearasil on his face because his pimples look tamer than usual.

  I refuse his arm, but walk a little closer to him so he won’t get mad. I think of Captain Hook forcing Peter Pan to walk the plank, except there aren’t any pirates or lost boys or planks, only the sidewalk and the gas station up ahead. In contrast to my feelings of doom, Hoot whistles like it is the happiest day of his life.