Home Front Lines

by Brenda Sparks Prescott

  The house had been in our family for years, and we Sisters Montero and Tomasito enjoyed busy, gay childhoods in it. After we started families of our own, our parents moved into a smaller but still stylish home and gave the main house to Diego and me. Before the Revolution, the wags at the tobacco shops debated whether Tomasito deserved the house more than I did since he was the only male heir, or whether perhaps Rosita did as the oldest of the Montero offspring. Papi hadn’t given her husband the tannery, just the job of running it. Was a job as a factory manager for that useless Ramón the equal of a fancy house near the river?

  I heard that Rosita laughed when confronted with such impudence. Despite myself, I admired her reported aplomb in sidestepping the intrusive curiosity. Even though the busybodies reported she implied she could’ve had the house if she wanted it, I wouldn’t give those meddling gossips the satisfaction of a public feud. Then, post-Revolution, with Ramón’s appointment as a deputy in the local CDR, no one broached the subject, even in jest, for fear that their own house deeds would be scrutinized.

  The La Luz name was well respected, but everyone, even Diego and me, continued to refer to our home as the Montero House. It perched on a slight rise in the middle of the block, guarded by a black, scrolled, wrought-ironed fence with a wooden gate guarding the end of the driveway and giving privacy to the side yard. The house stood out as a popular neighborhood landmark—east or west of the Montero House, one would say. No one in the family thought anything of speaking in such a manner. “Seven blocks west of our house,” Lola said when pinpointing the location of her precious café. She never meant the house that peasant of a husband bought for her.

  I sat alone in the courtyard until Diego arrived home with his immaculate hands.

  “Where are my boys?” he asked, standing in the doorway. I sat at the wrought-iron table drinking a papaya milkshake. The light shade of early evening had already overtaken the yard.

  “In their room.”

  I could barely see Diego through the striving branches of the mamey sapote. It had become uncivilized and needed pruning. I often dreamed of this tree laden with fruit, which he and I had planted together when the house had become ours to run. That was before the furrow between his eyes had become permanent.

  He slipped past the tree and came to me for a kiss. After taking a sip of my drink, he leaned toward the kitchen window. “Lupe,” he called.

  Our maid appeared in the window, her dark face blank above the yellow blossoms in the window box. “Please,” Diego said, raising my glass. He put it down in front of me and Lupe disappeared.

  “But their set’s out here,” he said. He moved the box filled with chessmen from a seat and sat down.

  Miguelito and Beto had three chess sets, one carved in ivory, but the blocky wooden warriors in this box were their favorites. Miguelito, at twelve years, reigned as the best junior at the Matanzas Chess Club. His brother, although two years younger and more easily distracted by baseball and girls, ranked close behind at the fourth spot. If they maintained their standings, they would be part of the Club’s junior team to compete in the national tournament at the Capablanca Club in Havana in late October. Diego, a junior champion himself in his day, gave instruction to the boys and harangued them to practice for two hours each day before dinner. At that moment, they should have been hunched over the set that Diego had just put aside.

  “They left such a stew of books and dirty clothes and stale food in their room,” I said. “They’re old enough to know better.” Lupe had been grumbling about the duty of the domestic worker to resist the slothfulness of the upper classes. We were not of the top class, but we could afford her, so her resistance was well-placed, I guess. I shifted in my seat and brushed a foot across Diego’s. “So they’re cleaning up their own mess.”

  He pulled his foot out of my reach and raised a hand to smooth back his thinning hair. He needed a haircut. “Chita, the tourney is only a month away.” Plenty of time for them to finish tidying up, I thought, but I said nothing.

  Lupe sauntered into the courtyard, pushed aside the tree branches, and banged Diego’s glass on the table. Dealing with her had been such an ordeal since the start of the Revolution, but by that fall, she had gotten openly hostile, even to my husband.

  “Many thanks,” Diego said with his best smile. He wasn’t a classically handsome man, but women found his confident ways attractive. When he raised an eyebrow, he charmed the proletarian righteousness out of our maid. She nodded once and returned to the doorway.

  “Señora Peña,” Diego said. Lupe stopped and stood taller in her small frame. She loved the formal address. “Tell the boys to come out here, please. And to bring the board.” He flipped his hand toward the chess set.

  “But they’re not finished with their room yet,” I said.

  Diego turned his back on Lupe, as if she were already gone. “Señora Peña can finish for them.”

  Lupe hissed something and slammed the screen shut behind her. I’d told Diego about Lupe’s knowledge of Santeria, and how I’d seen her pocket clumps of his hair from the tub drain, but he remained unconcerned. I can’t believe the bad luck that visited our family was Lupe’s doing. She wouldn’t have wanted to put the children in danger, but then, you never know. In any case, misfortune first splattered Lola and soon drenched the rest of us.

  Appointment with Mrs. H. 3

  BETTY ANN WORRIED as she planned for the afternoon’s VIP visit. Word of a White House dress would fill her appointment book for months to come, but then, no dice if Mrs. H. acted up. Betty Ann had to think of something, but she couldn’t sit idle. She picked up her tablet and ran through her list. Dust. The studio was spotless, tabletops and cabinets clear, but she tied a blue scarf over her French-curl hairdo, got a feather duster from the closet, and began the rounds.

  A picture painted by Lucy Saunders, another NCO’s wife, hung above the hi-fi set Ray had bought secondhand. Betty Ann flicked the duster over the frame of the oil painting, which captured the romanticism of a real Parisian atelier. Warm light refracted across half-sewn dresses and played in a spill of royal blue velvet. Betty Ann liked to think that her studio was as genteel as this imaginary room, but she might have a real cat fight in it if the general’s wife turned nasty. Mrs. H. could call her out in front of everyone and threaten Ray’s livelihood, or even force her to do the dress for free! She needed reinforcements, someone who could stand with her against the clout of Mrs. H., if she was going to go through with this meeting. She tapped the handle of the duster against her chin.

  Betty Ann had few true women friends, since she preferred the company of men, but Lucy was quiet, didn’t ask too many questions, and she listened when you wanted her to. Lucy was about as good a friend a military wife could have. They lived on the same block and their husbands worked together, but they hadn’t really gotten to know each other until they had both been volunteered by their husbands for the Air Force Fifteenth Anniversary Committee. Betty Ann felt comfortable with Lucy to the point that she had almost told her about Martin as they made flag place card holders for the anniversary gala on Armed Forces Day. Yes, Lucy was the right choice.

  Betty Ann propped the feather duster on a straight chair and went to her work table. She took a deep breath. She knew Lucy’s number by heart.

  A young voice answered. “Master Sergeant Saunder’s residence, Erica speaking.”

  In the background Betty Ann heard, “Erica, give me that phone and get ready for school.” A moment passed before Lucy’s voice came in more clearly.

  “What are you doing around three this afternoon?” Betty Ann said.

  “God, I thought you were Sonny.”

  “Come on, what are you doing?”

  “Minding my own business—I said NOW, little miss—if I know what’s good for me.”

  “I need you down at the studio. Mrs. Hepplewhite’s dressmaker can’t finish the gown for her White House invitation, so she called me.”

  “No, sir!”


  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “You’re kidding me. How’d that happen?”

  “Fill you in later. Bring your portfolio—this will be great for you too.”

  “You don’t need me there,” Lucy said.

  “Yes, I do. I’ve had a little run-in with Mrs. H. before and . . . it’ll just be easier if you’re here.”

  “What happened?”

  This was not a story to tell over the phone while her friend was urging her daughter to get ready for school. And Betty Ann’s assistants could arrive at any moment. This was certainly not a tale she wanted them to overhear.

  “I’ll tell you when you get here. About two thirty. And Lucy?”

  “What?”

  The resigned tone of that one word told Betty Ann that her friend would show. Her dimples deepened. “Wear something nice, hear?” Lucy was an artist. Nothing wrong with that, but sometimes she forgot she was going out into polite society and showed up in an old, paint-smudged man’s shirt half-tucked into her dungarees.

  The studio’s door swung open, and Terry and Mimi clipped in with waxed brown bags from the plaza’s coffee shop. Betty Ann felt hopeful again about the appointment with Mrs. H. and greeted her assistants with a smile.

  “Morning, Miz Johnson,” they replied in unison. They both wore regulation black skirts. Above these, Mimi’s flat front was covered by a conservative button-down white blouse, while Terry’s curves rounded out a yellow angora sweater. The girls knew each other from junior college. Betty Ann had hired tall spare Mimi first, but soon after, the quiet girl’s more vivacious friend had talked her way into the shop.

  “Hurry up with your coffee,” Betty Ann said. “We have a lot of gowns to do and Mrs. Hepplewhite’s coming today.”

  “Here? Mrs. H.?” Mimi said.

  Neither of the girls were Air Force, but they lived within Betty Ann’s world and knew all about General Hepplewhite and his Southern belle wife.

  Betty Ann recounted the early morning phone call. When she paused, Terry said, “Lord have mercy.” She twirled and snapped her fingers.

  Mimi shook out the doughnuts and arranged them on a plate. She claimed to love them but usually ate only half of one each day. She had potential but starved herself like that in so many ways. Betty Ann decided to take her on as a serious project once this Hepplewhite affair was over.

  The two young women complained about Betty Ann’s strict dress code and fussy neatness, but it was idle chat. They both adored their boss and the worlds they glimpsed through her. She also taught them things that none of their gal pals were learning. Things like how to make all the yardage of a full five-foot diameter circle skirt lie flat at a twenty-three-inch waist, or how to shake their hips under a demure, black wool skirt until men came crawling on their elbows. Useful things.

  “Come on, girls, we have work to do and customers coming,” Betty Ann said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” They moved off toward their workstations.

  Mimi settled behind her sewing machine. “Why didn’t Miss Sonia take Mrs. Hepplewhite to one of her white friends?”

  “You mean to one of her competitors?” Betty Ann asked.

  “But why here?” Terry asked. She hung a pink satin number on a rack and turned on the steamer.

  Betty Ann perched on a stool at the cutting table. She picked up a microscopic piece of thread with the pad of her ring finger. “She owes me. I told you about the white major’s wife that blew in from North Carolina a while ago. The one I decided not to work with and sent along to Miss Sonia.”

  “The one you said had a ridiculous bouffant and called the studio filthy?” Mimi asked.

  “Um hmm.” Betty Ann deposited the speck of thread in the wastebasket. “I found out later she left the major for a Congressman from her home state and wanted an entirely new wardrobe. Miss Sonia made enough money to take a Caribbean cruise.”

  Mimi slid a length of pinned chiffon under the presser foot of her sewing machine. “Guess that major’s ex-wife was lucky for you. Even if she was mean.”

  Indeed, thought Betty Ann. She blessed Sonia for returning the favor.

  “The Loco-Motion” played on the radio while Betty Ann spread out a champagne satin and overlaid it with the pattern for the skirt of Mrs. Neville’s gown. She concentrated on aligning the pattern for the optimum drape of the slippery fabric but couldn’t keep her mind away from her first non-meeting with Mrs. Hepplewhite. She pinned the paper and fabric along one seam but soon pricked her finger. She needed to move more than just her hands. The janitor did an adequate job of sweeping the stairs, but it wasn’t good enough for Betty Ann. Mimi usually swept after he did, but today’s agitation sent Betty Ann into the closet for the broom and dust pan.

  She opened the glass door to the stairway and squinted into the sunlight. She swept with strong, swift strokes. Near the bottom of the stairs her broom stuttered over a curled edge of the rubber mat. No one else would notice it until it had lifted far enough to slip a finger under, but Betty Ann believed in catching trouble early. She made a note to bring it to Mr. Paul’s attention.

  She returned upstairs and put away the broom. Despite the interlude, her mind again flashed to that moment when she stood barefoot beside the captain. She had been stupid to think good could result from that relationship. She slid the ring out of her pocket and wondered if she should hock it. It had been her talisman during the base buildup, but she had treated it casually on purpose. No sense in getting attached to a thing if you weren’t really attached to the man that gave it to you. She angled her body so the girls couldn’t see what she was doing as she unearthed the magnifying glass she used when sewing on sequins. She checked the ring’s gold stamp. Eighteen karats. Not bad. It would bring in more than enough for a new steamer, maybe a down payment for a serger. She noticed another inscription. To BA with love. What?

  That poor fool. He hadn’t been practical like Betty Ann. There were rules, even when you played out-of-bounds. Love had never entered into the equation. It couldn’t. Betty Ann hadn’t allowed it to. She couldn’t afford it. Now she definitely would have to get rid of the ring. What if someone else saw the inscription? They might get the wrong idea. She was not in love with him. Not really. She dropped the ring back into her pocket and settled down to work on the satin gown as she waited for her first clients to arrive.

  Appointment with Mrs. H. 4

  THE LAST REGULAR customer cleared out of the BA Johnson Studio at two fifteen. As soon as the door closed, Betty Ann went into overdrive. Everything had to be perfect for Mrs. H. Betty Ann dusted again. She went to the plaza’s bakery and personally chose every one of two dozen assorted cookies. She sent Terry out for the latest edition of Look. She sent her back for Life. She ordered Mimi to sweep the stairs and their part of the sidewalk. She fretted through the pile of phonograph records until she settled on Mozart. She threw out the coffee and made another pot. She told Mimi to sweep the stairs again after the postman came in with the day’s packages. She caught Terry rolling her eyes at this request to clean an area that was already spotless.

  “Any attitude can walk out the door right this minute. Do you hear me?” Betty Ann said.

  “Yes, ma’am.” Terry ducked down over her work.

  Betty Ann decided against bringing out the feather duster again just as Lucy arrived. Her friend laid her portfolio on the cutting table and hugged Betty Ann. She opened her arms for inspection. She, too, wore a black skirt and white blouse but had added a black cardigan and had tied a red and black scarf around her neck. Very smart. Betty Ann nodded her approval.

  “Where do you want me to stand?” Lucy said. “What do you want me to say?”

  Terry giggled and Mimi smiled at the pieces of plaid cloth she was matching.

  “Can I help it if I want everything to be perfect?” Betty Ann moved the portfolio a smidgen to line it up with the edge of the table.

  “Of course you do. What do want to say about me being here?” Lucy asked.

  “You ca
n wait down in the coffee shop, and about ten minutes after they get here you can come up and say you just dropped by . . .”

  “Whoa, slow down,” Lucy said. “I know you like drama, but I thought about this on the way over just in case you came up with something like that.” Betty Ann reached over and fussed with her scarf. Lucy pulled out of her reach. “Oleg Cassini sketches Mrs. Kennedy in his studio. You’d like to extend the same service to Mrs. H. How about that?”

  “Brilliant.” Betty Ann patted herself on the chest. “I’m glad you’re here.”

  Lucy took out a large sketch pad and arranged her pencils on the table. “So?”

  Time for the truth. “Come sit on the couch,” Betty Ann said. “You girls go on with your sewing until Mrs. Hepplewhite arrives.”

  Mimi and Terry scrambled back to work as Betty Ann put three Mozart records on the hi-fi and Lucy sank into one of the love seats. Look, Life, and Vogue formed a precise arc beside the picture-perfect plate of cookies on the coffee table.

  Lucy pulled an Ebony off the table’s bottom shelf and leafed through it. “What’s the big secret?”

  Betty Ann sat and pitched her voice low so the girls couldn’t hear her over the music. “This isn’t the first time I’ve met Mrs. H., but I don’t think she knows it.” She glanced over at the girls and scooched closer to her friend. “Remember the renovation of the Grayson House? How angry she was because she had to wait for new construction for her officers’ wives club?”

  “I thought some captain had done that.” Lucy stopped turning pages.

  Betty Ann again made sure that the girls were intent on their humming machines. She pulled the onyx ring from her pocket and held it out on her palm. Lucy was intelligent, an artist. She would figure it out.