Letter From Home

by Carolyn Hart

  “I’ll come in early. I know where the key is. I’ll get the story done before Mother and—before she comes.” Before Mother and the man arrived. Maybe she didn’t even care if she got home before her mother arrived.

  The porch light was on. Mr. Dennis didn’t drive away until she opened the front door and turned and waved. She stepped inside, closed the door, carefully placed her notes on the stand below the mirror. The notes would be there in the morning.

  Tomorrow. It seemed far away. Because tonight there was much she must do. She tiptoed down the hall, trying to be quiet, but the wooden floor creaked. Grandmother’s bedside light flashed on.

  Gretchen stopped at her bedroom door. “I’m home,” she called softly.

  Grandmother struggled to sit up.

  Gretchen hurried across the floor. “It’s all right. Go back to sleep.”

  “The meeting . . .” Grandmother’s voice was dull and very faint.

  “I’ll tell you about it tomorrow. Nothing really happened” ( . . . rot in jail . . . rot in jail . . . rot in jail . . . ) “But people are frightened.” Gretchen looked at Grandmother’s lined face, so gray, so quiet on the pillow. “Don’t worry. Everything will be all right.” She patted a heavily veined hand, reached up, clicked off the lamp. “Good night.”

  As she stepped into the hall, Gretchen drew Grandmother’s door almost shut. Once in her room, alert for any sound from the hall, Gretchen changed into shorts and a top and loafers, grabbed Jimmy’s gun and the flashlight from their hiding place beneath a stack of underwear in her top dresser drawer, quietly eased open the screen of her window, and dropped softly to the ground.

  Heavy clouds obscured the moon. The night was hot and still. Faraway lightning crackled. In the brief flicker of gold, the sky looked like ridges of black lava tinged with pearl. Gretchen walked fast to Maguire Road. She kept to the edge of the narrow road, but there wasn’t any traffic. The Turner dogs yelped as she passed by. Gretchen reached the faint path that angled into the woods. The woods loomed ahead of her, dark and forbidding. When she edged onto the trail, darkness pressed against her like a black blanket. Tucking Jimmy’s .22 under one arm, she cupped her hand over the flashlight lens, using just enough light to find her way. Occasionally, she stopped, her breath shallow, and listened to the crackle of leaves, the movement of branches, the shriek of cicadas. Gnats and mosquitos swarmed around her and she wished she’d worn a long-sleeve blouse and jeans despite the heat. Once she jerked the full beam of the flash to her right, stared into a mass of shrubbery and vines and ferns. She knew coyotes and bobcats moved soft-footed through the night. She glimpsed—or did she?—a patch of tawny fur. She pointed the pistol, waited, her heart thudding. The woods were alive with sound, the shadows with movement. Finally, she forced her leaden legs to move. She crept through the night, burdened by fear. She’d not felt this way before when she’d come to the cabin. Maybe she was tired. Maybe it was the terrible worry that Grandmother might be found out. If the sheriff knocked on their door, his rock-hard face in a glower, Grandmother would be frightened to death.

  Death . . . Gretchen pushed away her memory of Faye Tatum, sprawled on the floor of a room where she’d laughed and cried, a room where she’d lived and died.

  Gretchen was shaking when she reached the overgrown clearing and the dark cabin. She flicked off the flashlight and stared, seeking even the barest hint of light from the gloom-shrouded shanty.

  Nothing. No light. No sense of life or occupancy, simply darkness and an overwhelming sense of danger. She wanted to turn and run. Slowly, every step an effort of will, she walked across the humpy ground, flicking aside the tendrils of waist-high grass, hating the buzz of insects, the pricks against her skin, and the darkness, the terrible, heavy, inimical darkness. The steps creaked as she climbed. She froze, head bent forward. Behind her grasses rustled.

  Gretchen whirled. The circle of woods was darker than the overgrown clearing. Anything might be hidden in the trees. She had a feeling of a watchful presence, malevolent, hurtful, malignant. She couldn’t bear it. She snapped on the flashlight, swung it back and forth, the beam sliding across the trees and wild grasses and tangled ferns. Nothing moved and now there were only sounds of the night, the whirr and rasp of insects, the chitter of disturbed squirrels, the eerie moan of owls.

  She yanked the flash toward the cabin. The spear of light swept past the closed door—the unmoving door—and illuminated the open window, the sash raised halfway. The door remained shut. Her quick breaths slowed. Clyde Tatum surely would have seen her light if he were here. She walked across the porch. She held the flashlight in her left hand, the .22 in her right.

  “Mr. Tatum? It’s Gretchen Gilman.” Her words fell into silence. Awkwardly, gripping the flashlight in her thumb and forefinger, she curved the rest of her hand around the door handle, turned it. She pushed and the door swung in. She stepped slowly into the cabin, the tongue of light flicking in every direction, picking out the gilt of the discarded harp, the stacked boxes and broken furniture, the scarred wooden table, the dingy green of the lantern. Her nose wrinkled. The smell of kerosene cloyed the air. An old wooden crate, the splintered top agape, served as a garbage pail. Ants crawled in a thin dark line over a sodden lump of newspaper.

  She didn’t close the door behind her. She glanced toward the window. The blanket used to hide light from outside lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. She wondered if he rigged up the blanket only when he used the lantern. That made sense. The window was open, ready if a breeze came.

  Thunder rumbled in the distance. It might storm or it might not, but the thunder urged her to hurry. She was half glad Clyde Tatum was gone, half sorry. She’d intended to tell him what the sheriff said and beg him to protect Grandmother. He’d promised Grandmother he wouldn’t tell anyone she’d helped him, but he needed to know how much his silence mattered. She didn’t have any paper with her, but it didn’t matter. She didn’t dare leave a note behind. What if the police chief or sheriff came here? No, she couldn’t leave a note. She had to hope Clyde would keep his promise.

  Lightning flashed, pouring blue light across the jumbled mass of junk. Gretchen turned her light to the kitchen counter, the top of the range, across the uneven, worn wooden tabletop. She moved the beam slowly and stopped. There’s where the picnic basket—Grandmother’s picnic basket with her fingerprints on it and her name, Pfizer, burned in clear black letters into the wooden handle—had sat when Gretchen last saw it. Clyde Tatum’s big hand had flipped open the lid. He’d grabbed a chicken leg and eaten and talked. Now there was only the tabletop with scraps of brown paper on it.

  She came closer. The paper was torn from crumpled old grocery sacks. Had Clyde Tatum found the sacks in someone’s garbage, brought them here to record his search for his wife’s murderer? A big, thick leaded pencil lay near the pieces of paper. There were names printed, five or six, on one piece. Gretchen scarcely glanced at the scraps. She had to find the picnic basket.

  The room was stifling, not a breath of breeze through the open window. No wonder he’d let the blanket drop. Sweat beaded her face, slid down her back and legs, sucked her clothes against her skin. She forced herself to move slowly. She stood on tiptoe, bent low, looked up and down and around, on the counters, behind boxes, beneath tables. She was on her hands and knees, poking at a lopsided bucket, when she found the basket, wedged beneath a rickety table. Gretchen grabbed the wooden handles, tugged it free. She opened the basket. Yes, there was the plate and napkin, cutlery, everything. She felt relief so overwhelming, she was almost dizzy. She dropped the gun inside and closed the lid. Would he notice that the basket was gone? It didn’t matter. Nothing mattered but protecting Grandmother. She hurried through the door, pulled it shut behind her. Lightning flickered over the trees to the south.

  She was at the steps, the light from the flash dancing across the grass-choked clearing, when fear washed over her again. She held tight to the basket, looked out at the dark mass of trees. Was he coming
? There was someone near. There was danger—evil—close to her.

  Panic swept her. She flicked off the flashlight and jumped from the porch. She ran lightly to a big shrub, waited, darted from one shadow to another. When she reached the woods, she slipped onto the path, trusting to her night vision, quiet as a fox. She eased open the picnic basket, dropped the flashlight inside. She yanked out the gun, held it tightly in her hand.

  One stealthy step, another and another, she crept on and on through the sultry hot night with the occasional burst of lightning high in the sky, the gun hard in her hand, fear searing her soul. Once beyond the woods, she clung to the dark edge of the road, walked fast, glancing behind, startled by every crackle and rustle. She reached Archer Street. She was almost home. She began to run, pounding as if hounds yipped at her heels. She made no effort to be quiet but the midnight street lay empty and no one heard her feet crunch against the gravel.

  At the house, she leaned against the wall and struggled for breath, staring back the way she had come. Chief Fraser . . . she had to call . . . something bad . . . something awful . . . a sense of incipient doom pressed against her. But first, the basket. She gulped air into her burning lungs and darted toward the back steps. On her flight away from the dark cabin, she’d held so tight to the wooden handles that her hand ached. She put the basket on the steps. She took out the flashlight. Grandmother would find the basket in the morning. She would be puzzled, but she would believe Clyde Tatum had left it. Whatever happened, Grandmother was safe now. There was nothing to link her to the cabin, that dreadful, silent place.

  Thunder crashed nearby. Gretchen ran to her bedroom window. She eased open the screen, held the pistol carefully, and climbed inside. For the first moment since she’d fled the clearing, she felt safe. She walked to the dresser, placed the gun and flashlight in the top drawer. She didn’t want to think about the fear that had blazed within her on the uneven, worn porch of the cabin, hot and destructive and terrifying as flames leaping out of control in a tinder-dry forest. No matter how hard she tried, the memory clung to her even though nothing scary had occurred at the cabin or on the path. Nonetheless, deep inside, the fear remained. In Sunday school several years ago, Mrs. Burris, who was thin and diffident and easily confused, spoke very firmly, telling them that you didn’t have to prove God existed, that there were truths your soul knew without question or doubt if only you listened. Was evil as clear? Gretchen knew she’d come close to something unutterably dark and dangerous. She couldn’t prove this, but she knew. She should call Chief Fraser. . . . Could she tell him about the cabin without endangering Grandmother?

  Gretchen sat on the edge of her bed, her hands clasped tightly together. Slowly the peace of her room eased her tight muscles and the dreadful fear began to seep away. Her eyes ached with fatigue. Her legs felt heavy as logs. What had frightened her? That’s what she needed to know. She hadn’t seen anyone, but she had felt that someone watched her. Who? Clyde Tatum? Who else? No one knew Clyde was hiding in the cabin except Gretchen and Grandmother—oh, wait—the woman who called to tell Grandmother that he was at the Purdy cabin. She could have told someone else Clyde was there. Maybe somebody had come looking for him and then Gretchen arrived. Maybe the watcher was scared. Maybe that fear triggered her fear. Or the silent observer could have been Clyde Tatum. He surely would be frightened if anyone approached the cabin. The more she thought about it, the more certain she was that Clyde had heard her coming and fled to the woods. She’d been silly, thinking she was in danger. Nothing bad had happened. Maybe a fox had watched her, cold yellow eyes alert and inimical. Relief buoyed Gretchen like a fluffy, soft cloud.

  A huge bolt of lightning illuminated her room, bathing the world beyond her window with milky luminescence for a wavering instant. As the bluish light faded, rain whooshed over the house, slapping on the roof, pelting the window. Gretchen undressed, put on her gown, and fell on her bed.

  GRETCHEN GLANCED AT the tiger-striped cat sitting atop the big garbage pail near the back door of the Gazette. The cat held one paw near its face, rough pink tongue extended, and watched Gretchen, hoping for food.

  She leaned forward, searched, found the back door key. The cat jumped down, twined around her ankles. She let him come inside with her, pad across the backshop to the newsroom. There was an old icebox in a little closet off the newsroom. Gretchen found a bottle of cream—Mr. Dennis liked his chicory-laden coffee a soft tan—and poured a little into a saucer, placed the dish on a folded newspaper.

  As she settled at her desk, the early morning sun spilling pink and gold through the front windows, the cat’s purr, the hard feel of the slight depression on the round metal buttons of the typewriter keys, the familiar smells of cigarette and pipe smoke and lead and ink combined to reassure her. She would not think of those moments in the woods. Not now. Not ever. She unfolded her notes from the city council meeting and began to write, one word after another, and each one was like a brick sealing away fear and worry and uncertainty.

  She was almost finished when Mr. Dennis arrived. His seersucker suit, the same one he’d worn last night, was wrinkled. His eyes were doleful in his seamed face, but he tried to sound jolly. “Hey, Gretchen, long john?” He held up the white cardboard box from Lyon’s Bakery.

  “Yes, sir. Thank you.”

  He brought the long john on a cracked yellow saucer. The long john was still warm. Gretchen took a bite, swiped sticky fingers on a piece of copy paper.

  In a moment, the editor placed a white pottery mug on her desk. “Watch out. It’s hot.” The smell of strong coffee and chicory wafted toward her.

  She typed -30- at the bottom of the page, pasted the sheets together, handed him the story.

  He stood beside her. Mr. Dennis scanned copy faster than anyone she’d ever known. He nodded, said “Good,” and turned away, carrying her story.

  That was all he said, but Gretchen cupped the word in her mind, smooth and shiny as the buckeye that sat on the nightstand by her bed. Jimmy had given it to her before he left on the bus to go to the induction center. Buckeyes were good luck. Sometimes, she’d hold the big nut tight and wish Jimmy had it with him. It was Jimmy who needed luck.

  If only buckeyes really brought luck. Then Grandmother would be safe. The sheriff must never find out that Grandmother had helped Clyde Tatum. Gretchen took the last bite of the long john but the still warm cake and delectable brown sugar icing had no taste. She pushed back her chair, looked toward the editor’s desk. He wore his green eyeshade now. Cherry sweet smoke rose from the pipe balanced in his ashtray. His stubby fingers flew over the keys, the staccato rattle certain and sure.

  Gretchen hesitated, then moved determinedly to his desk. She waited until he paused, glanced at her, his eyes blank in concentration. His gaze slowly sharpened. “You’re done, Gretchen. Go home and enjoy your mama. Give her my best.”

  “I will, Mr. Dennis. But”—she needed to be careful what she said—“I wondered what it meant last night when the sheriff said somebody must have been helping Mr. Tatum. What did he mean?”

  Mr. Dennis’s light green eyes seemed to look through her, all the way into her mind and heart. She shouldn’t have asked. She stood, scarcely breathing.

  “He means somebody’s going to be in big trouble.” Mr. Dennis picked up his pipe, poked it in his mouth. He drew deeply, gave a puff. His tone was thoughtful. “Sheriff Moore’s nobody’s fool. Clyde’s been missing since Tuesday night. Now it’s Saturday. Where’s Clyde been staying? How has he got food? Oh, it’s pretty clear Clyde’s had help.” His bristly gray eyebrows bunched. “Listen, girl, if you know anybody—like Barb, maybe—who knows where Clyde is, for God’s sake, tell them to warn him. People are scared. They’ve got their guns out. Clyde better turn himself in pronto.” He pointed his pipe at the typewriter. “I’m writing an editorial and I’m going to put it on the front page. This is no time for a bunch of vigilantes to shoot first and ask questions later. Clyde Tatum deserves his day in court.”

>   Gretchen backed away, shaking her head. “Barb doesn’t know where her dad is. I just wanted to be able to tell her what happened last night and I didn’t understand what the sheriff meant.”

  The editor’s lips turned down in a sour grin. “Just what he said, girl. Somebody’s going to rot in jail, right along with Clyde.”

  THE TATUM HOUSE had a look of abandonment. Gone-to-seed grass wavered in the breeze. Yellowing newspapers, soggy from last night’s brief storm, were strewn near the worn front steps. The windows were closed, the shades drawn. Gretchen stopped by the mailbox. The broken cover still hung askew. Rain had smeared the ink on one envelope. There was no sign that Barb had returned to the house after her mother’s funeral. Gretchen hadn’t seen Barb since yesterday afternoon when she bolted from the cemetery, running away from her anger and hurt with that young soldier, the strident voice of Reverend Byars following them. Where had they gone? Last night Gretchen had looked for Barb at the town square. Gretchen wondered if Barb knew what had happened, what had been said. Mr. Dennis was afraid for Barb’s father. Barb needed to know. . . .

  Gretchen started up the cracked sidewalk. A flash of brightness startled her. She looked to her left, squinting against the glitter of sunlight on metal near the overgrown honeysuckle bush at the end of the Tatum driveway. She crossed the yard, gnats rising in a cloud, and walked up the rutted drive. A battered coupe, missing the right front fender, was parked behind the sweet-scented shrub. Gretchen didn’t recognize the car. It was quite well hidden from the street and the bush, grown wild and tall and out of control, hid the car from Mrs. Crane’s watchful gaze.

  Gretchen swung toward the Tatum house. The screen door of the back porch banged open. Barb stood on the top step, her pink halter and blue shorts perfect for the thick heat promised by the burnished sheen of the morning sky, strangely shocking in contrast with the dark dress she’d worn at the cemetery.