by Carolyn Hart
“She’s with your grandmother.” He placed the plate on the table. “Did you find the girl?”
“Yes.” Gretchen almost turned to go down the hall to Grandmother’s room, but what good would it do? Mother was getting ready to leave, going away with this stranger. Gretchen slipped into the chair. Fried chicken and mashed potatoes and cream gravy and peas, her favorite dinner. She picked up a chicken leg, began to eat, ignored Sam.
He looked toward the front door. “I thought you were bringing her here. I’ve got another plate ready. Is she all right?”
“No.” Her tone was scornful. Barb all right? Her mother dead and now her father. What kind of fool was he? “She didn’t want to come now.” Was Barb still standing on the porch with Buddy, standing there but not there, her mind and soul far away? “She’ll be here at two when the police chief comes.” Maybe Barb would feel about her daddy’s note the way she felt about the spoiled painting. What difference did it make now?
Sam returned to the kitchen, came back with a tall glass of tea. “Would you like sugar?”
Grandmother always sweetened the tea as she made it. He didn’t know. “No, thank you.” The food had no taste, but she ate, one mouthful after another.
He stood just a foot or so away. Gretchen could see him from the corner of her eye.
He cleared his throat. “Gretchen . . .”
She didn’t answer, but she watched him without turning her head. He looked tired and sad and his eyes had a faraway gaze as if he was looking at something she couldn’t see.
“Gretchen, the war has changed everything. It used to be we had time to get to know people. But now, first thing you know, people are here or there and we can’t count on tomorrow coming.” He spoke quietly.
Gretchen put down her fork, twisted to face him.
“I just want you to know that I think your mother is . . .” His eyes were soft. “Well . . .” It was almost a laugh. “I don’t have to tell you how special your mother is.”
“Sam?” High heels clattered on the wooden floor. Lorraine burst into the dining room. “Oh, baby, did Sam take care of you? I knew he would.” She looked around. “Is Barb here?”
“Not yet.” Sam took off the apron, folded it. “She’s coming in a little while.”
“Oh.” Lorraine sighed. “I wish we could stay.” She took a deep breath. “But we can’t.”
Gretchen pushed back her plate, the drumstick half eaten, the potatoes and peas untouched.
Lorraine came close. Her hand touched stiff shoulders. “I love you, baby.”
Gretchen managed a whisper. “Love you, too.”
Lorraine lifted her hand. Her fingers smoothed a dark curl at the side of Gretchen’s face.
Gretchen looked up.
Lorraine’s smile was tremulous. “You’re going to do all right, honey. Today. Tomorrow. Whatever happens, you can handle it. Even something as awful as Faye and Clyde. Gretchen, as dreadful as it is—Clyde killing himself—it may be better for Barb this way . . .”
Gretchen pushed away the memory of Clyde Tatum slumped over the table.
“. . . because even though it’s terrible for her that Clyde killed Faye and then himself, it would have been worse if they arrested him and Barb had to hear the dreadful things they would have said in court. Clyde would have been convicted and gone to prison—or worse, they might have sent him to the electric chair. The chief said Clyde left a note?”
Gretchen nodded.
“You know, I’ve been thinking and thinking.” Lorraine clasped her hands together, almost like saying a prayer. “Clyde loved Faye. I know that. Now, that may sound strange since he killed her. But I don’t think he ever in a million years meant to hurt her. He cared too much and he was angry and hurt. That’s why he ran away. He couldn’t live with what he’d done. He never even thought of trying to brazen it out, pretend he was innocent . . .”
Gretchen wanted to say that he had told Grandmother, sworn to her, that he didn’t kill Faye. Gretchen heard him. But she couldn’t tell her mother. Or anyone. And neither could Grandmother.
“. . . and he hid out and then he knew what he’d done and he knew what it would do to Barb if they caught him. I think he thought it all out. And maybe he couldn’t go on living without Faye. But it’s better for Barb though she may never be able to think that’s true. Poor Barb, poor Barb.” Lorraine bent down, pressed her cheek against the top of Gretchen’s head. And then she moved away.
The loss of her touch was like a cold draft when the door opened in the winter. Gretchen pushed up from the table, followed them to the front door. Lorraine looked very pretty, once again in her polka-dot blouse with the soft tie and her short pink pleated skirt that swirled when she walked. Her high heels wobbled on the graveled drive. Her hair, still damp from the swim, was brushed in a mass of ringlets, shiny as polished wood. The saucer-style hat pitched forward, gay as a sailboat on the lake, the feather rippling like a sail in the wind. Her makeup was perfect, her eyebrows arched thin and dark.
Sam held open the car door, touched her arm as he helped her in, a lingering, gentle, holding-on kind of touch.
Her mother leaned out of the open window, waving. “Take care of Mother. Good-bye, honey, good-bye.”
Sam got behind the wheel. The motor coughed, rumbled.
Gretchen stood on the front steps and watched the blue Buick back into Archer Street, head for downtown. She waved until the car reached the end of the block, turned, and was gone.
GRETCHEN PUT THE cup with hot tea on the bedside table. Grandmother lay unmoving in the big double bed, her head turned toward the door, her golden braids resting on the pillow. She slept, one hand tucked beneath her chin. Her face, moist with perspiration, looked old and heavy, pale and worn.
Gretchen tiptoed out of the room. Did Grandmother sleep because she was sick? Or was sleep a way to escape the morning’s sad news? Whichever, the rest would be good for her. Gretchen eased the bedroom door closed.
She wandered into the living room, pausing to straighten a crocheted arm cover on the sofa. Despite the fan, the room was heavy with heat. And so quiet. It didn’t seem real that her mother had been there for awhile. Her mother and Sam Hoyt.
Gretchen sank onto the sofa. She almost turned on the radio. But the sound might wake Grandmother. She fingered the lace arm cover. The grandfather clock chimed twice. A car turned into the drive.
Gretchen went to the front door. Heat poured down from the sun like syrup spreading over pancakes, thick and heavy. She shaded her eyes.
The motor sputtered as Chief Fraser’s old green Packard rocked to a stop. He opened the door, got out, then ducked his head to reach inside for his hat and a manila envelope. As he walked across the yard, dust scuffing beneath his cowboy boots, he craned his head. “Miss Barb here?”
Gretchen held open the door. “She’s coming. She said she would.”
In the living room, he settled in the biggest chair, planted his boots on the floor, placed his hat and the envelope on a side table, next to the lamp.
“Would you like some iced tea, Chief?” Gretchen spoke softly.
“Sure would.” Chief Fraser looked around. “Nobody here?”
“Grandmother’s resting. She doesn’t feel very well. And Mother had to leave.” But she didn’t have to go.
He rubbed at his tired red face. “Hope your grandma’s all right.”
“It’s probably the hot weather.” Gretchen forced a smile. “I’ll get—”
The screen door opened. Barb had changed from the halter and shorts. Her white blouse was crisp and ironed and she wore a peasant skirt with a scalloped hem and green embroidery, and sandals with thick crepe soles, but her hair still looked unkempt and her face was the dull white of a soft winter snow.
She stood just inside the door. “My dad . . .” One hand plucked at the trim on a big patch pocket.
The chief pushed up from the chair, moved heavily across the room. He stood, looking down at Barb, his big head poked fo
rward, his chin almost to his chest, like an oversize, too ripe tomato sagging against the vine. His massive shoulders slumped. “Barb, your daddy shot himself sometime last night. At the Purdy cabin. Looks like he’d been staying there since the night your mama died. We traced the gun. It’s his. One bullet gone. His fingerprints on the stock. He left a note.” The words came steadily like a bugler hitting one note. Then he heaved a sigh, turned away. He walked to the end table, picked up the manila envelope, faced Barb. The chief stared down at the envelope, his lips pressed tight.
“A note to me?” Barb’s voice was dry and stiff like a burned-up stalk of corn in a neglected garden.
Chief Fraser lifted his big head. He looked like an old bulldog, massive forehead, bulging cheeks, sagging pouches beneath rheumy eyes set in deep sockets. “This here’s evidence, I guess. That’s what the county attorney said. He told me I didn’t ought to take it with me. I should put it at the courthouse in some vault. But I told him we didn’t have a murder investigation any longer. All we got is heartbreak, a man who couldn’t bear it when his wife cheated on him—”
“Mama never did!” Barb’s cry was high and shrill.
The chief held up a callused hand. “Hear me out, Miss Barb. It don’t help now to say it was any way other than what happened. Your mama was lonely. Lots of people are lonely now, their menfolks gone. People do the best they can. Your mama did her best, but I want you to understand that your daddy did his best, too. In my heart I know nobody grieved for your mama more than Clyde. That’s why he wrote this note.” The chief rattled the envelope. “He wanted everybody to know and he ’specially wanted you to know.” A gnarled finger poked open the envelope. He slowly pulled out an irregular piece of heavy brown paper.
Gretchen recognized the paper, torn from a grocery sack just like the pieces she’d seen on the table in the cabin. Would the chief say anything about those other pieces? Gretchen wished she’d taken the time to look at those pieces of paper. Probably they contained the list of people Clyde hoped could tell him the name of the man who came in the darkness to his house to see Faye. But the chief would no longer search for that visitor. Faye’s late-night visitor was safe.
A trembling hand outstretched, Barb slowly walked toward the chief, took the scrap of paper from him. She held it in both hands. She looked down. Her lips moved soundlessly. “Oh, God . . .” The cry came from deep within Barb. Her head jerked up, she stared wildly from the chief to Gretchen and began to shake, her entire body rippling like a flag in a high wind. “Oh, Daddy . . . Daddy.” She gasped for breath then swung around and ran blindly across the room, bumping into the door, yanking it open, plunging out into the hot afternoon.
The chief took a step toward the door, then stopped. “Guess she’s got to face it her own way.” He pulled a handkerchief from his hip pocket, wiped his face. “But she had a right to see that note.” His cheeks puffed out. “I don’t care what anybody says. There’s no case to build, no matter how much Donny Durwood complains. It’s all finished and done with. Durwood be damned. Barb can keep that scrap of paper. It’s all she’s got left from her daddy, hard as it is, little as it is.”
Gretchen hurried to the door, looked out. The graveled street lay quiet and empty. To be out of sight so quickly, Barb must have run all the way home, flung herself inside the Tatum house. If Buddy was there, he would hold her tight, make it better. Or no, not better. It would never be better. . . .
“. . . have to see to things.”
Gretchen turned. “What did you say?”
“I was wondering if you know what family might be left. I don’t feel like I can leave it this way.” He folded his handkerchief, stuck it back in his pocket. “I mean, Miss Barb’s just a girl. Somebody’s got to take charge, decide on the funeral. All of that. Well, I’ll call around. Thanks, Miss Gretchen.”
It wasn’t until the green Packard had pulled into the street that Gretchen realized she’d never asked Chief Fraser what the note said.
THERE WASN’T A parking place on all of Main Street. Everybody came to town on Saturday, to shop or see a movie or eat at Victory Café. Gretchen knew she should go to the café, help Cousin Hilda. Gretchen ducked her head and pedaled faster, turned the corner and swung into the alley. She propped her bike next to the trash cans.
Despite the steady whirr of overhead fans, the backshop sweltered. Gretchen shouted hello over the clatter of the Linotypes. It was almost time for the press run. Soon the Sunday papers would be stacked, ready for the paperboys to deliver in the morning.
Gretchen pushed through the door to the newsroom. Mrs. Taylor’s desk was immaculate; a dark hood covered her typewriter. She always turned her weekend copy in early and never came to the office on Saturdays. Ralph Cooley leaned back in his chair, crossed feet up on his desk. His hat was tilted to the back of his head. Smoke drifted lazily from the cigarette dangling from a corner of his mouth. Mr. Dennis, pencil gripped in his fingers, hunched over yellow copy paper. His pipe smouldered in a big brass ashtray.
The reporter took a final drag, stubbed out his cigarette, slouched to his feet. “Look who’s here! Maybe Gretchen knows.” He ambled toward her, fingers tucked behind red suspenders. “You’d think I was trying to interview Charles de Gaulle.” His raspy voice curled in disgust. “I mean, what’s the big deal? Fraser better watch himself or he’s going to come a cropper.”
Gretchen kept her face blank, but she couldn’t forget how tired Chief Fraser looked when he got out of the car at her house. She didn’t answer Ralph. She turned away from him, walked toward Mr. Dennis’s desk.
The editor tapped the sheets of yellow copy paper. “We got the story, Gretchen. Thanks to you.”
Ralph sauntered after her, stood on the opposite side of the editor’s desk. “Not all the story.” He lit another cigarette, smothered a cough. “According to Durwood, the chief took the prime piece of evidence with him, like he’d picked some cherries at the side of the road. Sergeant Petty admitted the chief was going to Gretchen’s house this afternoon, then she clammed up. What I want to know is this—where’s the note Clyde Tatum wrote? I want to see it. How do we know he wrote it?”
“He wrote it.” Gretchen laced her fingers together. “The chief gave it to Barb.” Gretchen swallowed. “Barb cried.”
Ralph rocked back on his heels. “Oh. She recognized his handwriting.” He heaved a dissatisfied sigh. “I guess that wraps it up. The show’s over.”
“I told you to drop it, Ralph.” Mr. Dennis’s voice was sharp. “Chief Fraser’s no fool. And the sheriff told us what Clyde’s note said.”
Gretchen stepped past the reporter, looked at the editor. “What did the note say?”
Mr. Dennis picked up his pipe, poked at the embers. “Not a lot, Gretchen. Enough.” His face wrinkled and he said carefully, repeating what he’d heard,“‘I didn’t mean to kill Faye. Tell Barbie I love her—’”
Tell Barbie I love her—
Gretchen felt the sting of tears. No wonder Barb cried and ran away.
THE SWEET REFRAIN of “Do, Lord” hung in the evening sky like the settling cry of birds. Youthful voices rose in the dusk, competing with the twilight rasp of the cicadas. They sat on folding chairs on a grassy lawn beside the church, holding hands, the circle unbroken. The girls all wore pretty summer dresses, the pinks and yellows and creams indistinct in the deepening evening. Gretchen tried to ignore the flat sound of Tommy Krueger’s voice. He was always off key. She’d taken her accustomed place in the circle—it was funny how everyone always sat in the same chair—but she felt as if she were all alone. It was as if she were invisible. The girls spoke past her or over her or around her. Yet it was so much the same, the girls taking eager sidelong glances at the boys—Tommy and Joe and Carl and Hal—and laughing in that special self-conscious way girls do when they want boys to notice them. Gretchen had always been a part of this group and now, though she still sat among them, she was not. She wondered if this was how gawky Al and shy Melissa and dull Howard
felt at the Sunday evening youth group. And there were the others her friends casually ignored, Judith and Roger and Harry.
As the last refrain sounded, the youth director said, “Let’s close with a prayer.” Everyone stood, still holding hands. The director, Mr. Haskell, had a drowsy voice that rose and fell like little waves lapping at the edge of the lake. He prayed for them and their parents and for brave servicemen and -women around the world, fighting to keep them free and—
“. . . please hold in your hearts a special prayer for Barbara Tatum and her parents, Faye and Clyde . . .”
Wilma’s hand jerked in Gretchen’s. All around the circle, there was movement. It was as though someone had poked them with a sharp stick.
“. . . and help all of us to support Barbara in her hour of need. Thank you, God, for hearing our prayer. Amen.” Mr. Haskell wiped his perspiring face. “Good night, everyone, good night.”
Gretchen hung behind, watched her friends leave. They were on their way to the town square. Tonight a barbershop quartet was going to perform at the gazebo.
At the edge of the field, Cynthia Reeves looked back. She lagged behind the others for a moment, her eyes locked with Gretchen’s. Then she looked away, turned, and hurried to catch up.
Gretchen felt hot and cold as she walked home. It was still close to a hundred even though it was dark now, the far-apart street lamps spots of gold against the night sky. But deep inside, she was cold. She didn’t have any friends. Not now. Not since she’d written the story about Faye Tatum. Would people—would Wilma and her dad and Tommy and the others—forget as time went on? Maybe. But Gretchen knew she’d never forget. Of course, if she stopped working at the Gazette, told them she’d only written the story because Mr. Dennis asked her to, they might be her friends again.
“I’d rather die.” Gretchen said it aloud. She wouldn’t quit. She would write the best stories she could write. No matter what. Deeper than the sense of loss and loneliness was pride. Her story was good. Mr. Dennis sent it out on the wire. In other cities, places she would never be, people she would never know had read that story and for a moment they pictured Faye Tatum and she became a part of them. Faye lived and breathed and moved in other minds because of Gretchen.