Catching Moondrops

by Jennifer Erin Valent

  “And I can see it pains you to tell it to me.”

  Mrs. Packard either ignored the sarcasm in Miss Cleta’s voice or didn’t make the effort to even notice. Her face took on a forced sort of sympathy. “Oh yes, of course. But I feel it only right you should know.”

  “Well then, spit it out, Imogene. We ain’t got all day.”

  “Well, I’ll tell you. There’s talk goin’ about that . . . now, I know this is pure rubbish . . . but the talk is that you had that colored doc tend to you. Now, I know you well enough to know better. When I heard Thelma Polk talkin’ about it, I laughed my head off. ‘Why, Cleta Terhune would no sooner let a colored man tend to her than she would take tea with a badger,’ I told them. ‘You ladies ought not to go around sayin’ such poppycock.’”

  Miss Cleta’s old bones were most times shaky, and I usually did the best I could to stay nearby in case she started to lose her balance, but she didn’t need me anywhere near her at that moment. It was as though she’d stored up bits of energy over the years for such a moment as this. She stood up as tall as her little frame would allow, pulled her muscles taut, and with pride lifting her chin in the air, she said, “Well then, Imogene, I guess I may as well invite you to my place for tea so you can meet that badger.”

  Question marks danced across Mrs. Packard’s face for a good twenty seconds before Miss Cleta’s response found a home in her brain, and a look of horror began to fill her expression. “Cleta, what are you sayin’? You sayin’ you let that colored boy . . . touch you?”

  “I’m sayin’ I let a fine, educated man treat my ailin’ like I always let fine, educated men treat my ailin’.”

  “But he’s a . . . a Negro!”

  “And you’re a buffoon, but what does that have to do with the price of tea in China?” Miss Cleta’s posture never faltered; her voice never rose. “Now, if you’ll excuse us, we got us some shoppin’ to finish.”

  “But you can’t be serious.”

  “Oh, I ain’t never been more serious. I choose to be cared for by only the finest of people, no matter if they be white, black, red, or chartreuse. Now I’ll beg your pardon so’s me and Miss Jessilyn can finish shoppin’ for her birthday.”

  For the first time in the many years I’d known her, Mrs. Imogene Packard was dumbstruck. Miss Cleta gave me a push to get me changed back into my own things, and I reluctantly left for the dressing room. Mrs. Packard had the appearance of someone who had been cow-kicked, and when I came out of the dressing room, she was still in the same spot with the same expression on her face. I would have laughed had the subject matter been less serious.

  Miss Cleta took the dress from my hand and laid it on the table. “We’d like to look at that fine white hat right there.” She pointed to a stand where a faceless head sat holding a pert little hat with two feathers pointing off to the side.

  “Miss Cleta, I can’t get away with wearin’ feathers,” I whispered.

  “All right then.” She answered quickly like she’d already figured it would be ridiculous. “How about that plain little thing right next to it? Least it’s made of fine fabric. And it only has just that little bit of netting for decoration.”

  “I really don’t think it’s necessary. . . .”

  “’Course it ain’t necessary, child. It don’t have to be necessary.”

  The salesgirl walked over to the hat but paused with her hands in midair as though the hat would send electric shocks into her if she touched it.

  “I can pay for it,” Miss Cleta said sharply, opening her coin purse to display a small cache of bills. “If that’s what you’re worryin’ about.”

  Apparently it was, and the salesgirl’s face relaxed so much, it made her appear ten years younger. “Let’s put this on you.” Her smile fairly lit the room now that she knew she had a viable customer, and she oozed all over me. “Look at that. You look the perfect lady.”

  “She ain’t no lady; she’s a farm girl. And where in tarnation is a farm girl goin’ to wear a confection like that?”

  Mrs. Packard had finally found her tongue, and Miss Cleta’s eyes narrowed at the sound of it. She whipped around and shook her handbag at Mrs. Packard. “What makes a woman a lady is what’s inside, not where she comes from. You’re the perfect example of that. Born and bred in the best part of town, but what comes out of that mouth of yours is nothin’ close to ladylike.”

  For the first time, that salesgirl and I had something in common. We both stood there like wide-mouthed frogs, watching the two women square off.

  Mrs. Packard’s face turned red, and a vein in her temple stood out like a big blue log. “Cleta Terhune, you are a hag.”

  “Better a hag than a two-faced, lyin’ gossip.”

  Mrs. Packard lifted her handbag suddenly like she had every intention of whacking Miss Cleta over the head with it but thought better of damaging the beadwork. Instead, she came back with a verbal assault that reached out to pull me into the argument. She eyed my reflection in the mirror and smirked. “Do what you will, Cleta, but you can’t take the farm out of the farm girl. That hat looks ridiculous on her. Like lipstick on a pig.”

  Miss Cleta stood on her toes and opened her mouth to retort, but I put my hand on her arm in warning. “Don’t even bother, Miss Cleta. She ain’t worth it.”

  Poor Miss Cleta sputtered and choked on every word that must have been sitting on that tongue of hers, but she held herself back and considered my words for a full half minute before settling down on her heels. “You’re right, Jessilyn. She ain’t worth it.”

  But I knew Miss Cleta well enough to know this battle wasn’t over until she planted her flag in the dirt, and I watched as she whipped that hat off my head and handed it to the salesgirl. “We’ll take it.”

  “For all the good it’ll do the girl,” Mrs. Packard muttered. “You’re throwin’ your money away.”

  “And I’ll take that bottle of fine rosewater, too.”

  “Miss Cleta!” I whispered sharply.

  “Hush, girl!”

  “But I don’t need no rosewater.”

  “’Course not, Cleta.” Mrs. Packard came up beside me and turned her nose up. “She’ll always smell of horse no matter what you put on her.”

  Miss Cleta’s face looked ready to explode, but I touched her arm again and shook my head. “Don’t give her the satisfaction.”

  She nodded slowly with all the determination she had left in her body, but if she wasn’t going to talk back, she was bound to do something. “Give me a pair of nice white gloves.” She waved the salesgirl about with her hand like it was a magic wand. “And a pair of nylons, too.”

  I had never seen the likes of it before. Right before my very eyes, Miss Cleta was engaged in fiscal warfare, buying another item for every bullet she wanted to unload on Mrs. Packard. I gripped her arm hard as I dared. “Miss Cleta, we best get goin’. I got me things to do at home.”

  The salesgirl was wrapping up purchases rapid-fire, short of breath and agitated, though who could blame her, what with the battle of the Southern belles playing out in front of her. Meanwhile, Mrs. Packard and Miss Cleta were locked in a stare-down, so I wrenched Miss Cleta’s change purse from her angry grasp and paid for the purchases before she had the chance to wave her magic wand again.

  The salesgirl’s hand was shaky when she set the boxes in my arms, and I had to steady them myself, then grab Miss Cleta’s arm to steer her toward the front. All I wanted to do was get out of there, but it took Miss Cleta a full minute to shuffle through the jingly door, what with all the staring she was doing.

  “Can’t you take your eyes off her now?” I whispered on our way out. “You’re nearly walkin’ backward.”

  “Can’t. It’s like takin’ your eyes off a rattler. The second you look away, it might strike.”

  “Oh, for heaven’s sake. She ain’t no snake.”

  “You sure about that?”

  By the time we made it to the sidewalk, I was a bundle of nerves. My eyes dart
ed all over the roadway looking for Mr. Stokes’s taxicab. “There he is.” I hoisted the boxes up for a better grip and then locked my other arm around Miss Cleta’s. “Let’s get on out of here before we see any of the other town ladies and you end up buyin’ out every store from here to Richmond.”

  Miss Cleta dug her bony elbow into my side and gave one of her hoot-owl laughs. “You sure beat all, Jessilyn.”

  “Me? I ain’t the one lettin’ a harpy like Mrs. Packard whittle away my life savin’s.”

  Mr. Stokes hopped out of the car and opened the door for us. “Sakes alive, you sure done found some treasures.” Once Miss Cleta was inside, he took my packages and loaded them into the car for me. “I ain’t seen Miss Cleta come away with this kind of shoppin’ since Mr. Sully was with us.”

  I hopped in beside her and patted her knee. “That so, Miss Cleta?”

  Her eyes took on that distant, watery look they always did when she thought about her late husband. “Those were the good ol’ days, no doubt. My Sully, he liked to spoil me sometimes, and he’d take me into town on a whim and say, ‘Cleta, angel, this here day’s all about you.’ And when I’d protest, he’d hold up his hand and say, ‘I want to. It makes me happy to see you happy.’ And he’d up and buy me some of the silliest things just ’cause he liked it.” She pulled her hankie from her purse and wiped her nose twice; then she turned those shimmering eyes on me. “That’s what we done today, child. Today I get to be happy because you’re happy.”

  I smiled at her and took her free hand. “You sayin’ you still had a nice time even after that nastiness with Mrs. Packard?”

  Miss Cleta folded her hankie back up and replaced it in her purse, snapping it closed with one loud pop. She shielded her mouth with her hand and said softly, “Honey, I liked it all the more for it.” A smirk lit up her pale, wrinkled face, and she raised her eyes to the heavens. “May the good Lord forgive me for it.”

  “Miss Cleta—”

  “Don’t scold me, girl. Seems to me a woman like Imogene Packard needs taken down a peg or two, and I ain’t averse to bein’ the one to do it. Besides, it taught you good character, didn’t it?”

  “How’s that?”

  “By makin’ you be the bigger person. Ain’t you the one who advised me to keep my mouth shut? Way I see it, this whole thing made you realize you’re growin’ up and losin’ some of your impulsive ways.”

  I raised one eyebrow in a question that I didn’t mean to have answered, and she leaned in for another secret. “Least that’s what we’ll say happened, right?” She winked at me and let out another one of her high-pitched laughs.

  Mr. Stokes looked at us in his rearview mirror, flashed a grin, and shook his head wordlessly. I did the same. After all, Miss Cleta was a woman well set in her ways.

  And I loved her for it.

  Chapter 19

  I grabbed the last dish from Gemma and gave it a quick drying off, but she tugged it back from me. “You best get on home before dark,” she argued. “You’ve stayed long enough.”

  “I ain’t never stayed long enough, and you know it.”

  Gemma settled the plate on the stack on the countertop where all her dishes and pots sat. We’d spent the entire afternoon painting her kitchen cabinets green, and while they were drying, the kitchen looked like a general store.

  Gemma called to Tal and then slipped out of her apron. “Well, that may well be true,” she murmured, “but that don’t mean it ain’t gettin’ late. I’ll have Tal run you home in the truck.”

  “I don’t need a ride home.” I stuck my face up to the open window. “I want some fresh air. Been stuck inside with paint smells all day.”

  “It’s too late for you to walk home.”

  I closed my eyes and took one more long breath of the outdoor scent that floated in on a stiff breeze. “Gemma, I’ve walked the fields in pitch-blackness. It ain’t goin’ to hurt me none to walk home at sunset.” I stepped away from the window and waved Tal off as he walked into the kitchen with an expectant look on his face. “Never mind,” I said. “She didn’t need anythin’ after all.”

  He looked at Gemma. “You sure about that?”

  “I was just goin’ to say you could run Jessie home in the truck, but she says she wants to walk.”

  “Ain’t no trouble to do it, Jessie,” he said. “Take me just a few minutes to get my things together.”

  “Thank you, Tal, but no. I’ll be fine. I like to walk; you know that.” I kissed Gemma’s cheek and slipped my arm through hers so we could head out together. “Next time you need help paintin’, you just call.” I looked down at my green-spattered clothes and grimaced. “And I’ll call Luke and tell him to come by and do it for you.”

  Her elbow dug into my ribs at that familiar spot it had found its way to so many times. “Hard work’s good for you.”

  “That’s just what folks say to convince other folks to do work for them.” I stepped outside and lifted my face to the wind. “See? It’s a perfect night for a stroll.”

  “Perfect night for you to ring me up when you get home so I know you’re okay, too.”

  I ambled down the steps and then turned toward her. “You worry too much.”

  “And you don’t worry enough. We’re even.”

  I smiled and hopped over the ditch and into the road. I was tired and stiff, and the fresh evening air gave me a little life. “I’ll call you,” I hollered over the wind. I waved to her and then sauntered across the street into the woods. The area where Gemma lived was fine, but following the road all the way home would take me through some parts a girl didn’t want to travel alone in the daytime, much less at night. I rounded the corner and slipped onto the now-familiar path through the trees that would eventually lead to the meadow I would cross to get home.

  Pink light filtered through the leaves, taking the edge off the dimness that had settled there, and my mind flitted to thoughts of Luke, as it so often did without my even prompting it to. Three days after Gemma’s wedding, Luke had announced he was leaving town for deliveries. It was no surprise—he’d done enough traveling in the past two years for me to be used to it—but this was the first time he’d left since we’d come to an understanding. It already seemed like he’d been gone for a year, and every time I got that ache inside that longed for his presence, I clung to memories of him holding my hand or smiling at me or kissing my lips.

  I closed my eyes at the thought of him close to me and blindly made my way down the path. The leaves on the trees were stirred into a frenzy by the wind, rustling in unison so that the air was filled with a sound like waves crashing to shore, softening as the breeze relented and then reaching a crescendo as it rose again. Every now and then, as the trees quieted, I could hear a forest creature bounding through the brush. With every few steps, I would peek out between my eyelashes to make sure I was still on the path, and then I would seal my eyes shut, letting my surroundings sink into my soul.

  And then I drew to a sudden stop.

  The crackling of underbrush is a curse to some and a savior to others. For a follower, it steals away anonymity and alerts their prey. For the followed, it warns of danger, but that warning is the sort that breeds terror. As I stood silently, listening, I felt that sort of terror well up inside me. I gave in to it for all of ten seconds before I chastised myself for letting Gemma get me worked up, then stepped ahead again, closing my eyes, seeking out the comfort the dim, windswept woods had lent me only moments before.

  But it was useless. The sensations around me now seemed ominous, and I flicked my eyelids open and glanced around, over my shoulders, behind trees and shrubs.

  Something wasn’t right.

  I continued to walk, but now every crackle and crunch within the darkened stand of trees filled me with foreboding, making each footfall heavy with fear. Every time the wind would wane, I listened, straining my ears to pick through the woodland noises to the ones that didn’t belong. And each time the wind grew strong, blocking out the sounds aroun
d me, I knew with even more certainty that I had been right.

  I was not alone.

  I had come to the shallow creek that wound its way through the woods, and though I struggled against the force of the wind and the grip of fear, I scurried across without taking time to seek out a dry path. Despite the water that dampened my shoes, my steps grew more urgent, picking up speed in a desperate attempt to reach the clearing. My eyes darted about like a hummingbird, never staying in one place for long but whipping to and fro with jagged, anxious movements. About a hundred yards ahead, I could make out the opening to the meadow, a place that in no way offered rescue but would at least steal away the anonymity of my stalker.

  But as my eyes darted sideways, a sudden flash of white crossed between two trees so quickly I wondered if I’d imagined it. I slowed my steps and furtively glanced around me.

  And there it was again.

  A flash of white and then gone, like a ghostly apparition playing a game of hide-and-seek. I had come to a full stop without noticing and was studying the trees behind me when a twig snapped in front of me with just enough warning to make my blood turn ice-cold. I whipped around to see someone standing there, bathed in the glow of the fading pink sky. His ghostly robe fluttered, but his eyes never wavered, and somewhere in the darkness within that hood, I could see his eyes watching, waiting for any move I would make.

  A gust of wind blew strands of hair across my face, but I couldn’t move to swat them away. I was frozen in place, in time, transfixed by the gaze of the man before me.

  And overwhelmed by the deepest sense of hatred I had ever known.

  I stood my ground and let my eyes lock with his, focusing all my concentration on those moments as though my revulsion could travel the space between us and burrow into his skull. In an instant I felt no fear, only rage. I was face-to-face with the very symbol of all that had haunted me for years, and I challenged him boldly, daring him with my very countenance. For some time we stood there, a wordless battle being fought between us.

  And then his eyes changed.