Blue Skies

by Anne Bustard

“Don’t worry,” I say, putting a hand on her shoulder. “This just proves opposites attract.” At least that’s what I heard Grams say once.

  As soon as we walk into her house, Homer runs up to us. “Why did the cow cross the train tracks?” He looks at his sister. “Don’t tell.”

  Ruby Jane puts her fingers to her lips and pretends to zip her mouth.

  “That’s a hard one,” I say. “You might have to help me out.”

  “To moooooooove to the other side.”

  “Homer,” I say, removing his railroad cap and tousling his hair, “you should be on the radio.”

  * * *

  “Ruby Jane, can I tell you something?” I say in a low voice once we’ve tucked ourselves into the twin beds across from each other and turned out the lights.

  “Anything.”

  I flip over onto my side and prop my head up on my elbow to face her. She is lying on her back. I can’t see well enough to know whether her eyes are open or not.

  “You know how I’ve talked about my daddy coming back?”

  “Uh-huh.”

  “Like maybe he’ll show up on Christmas or the Fourth of July or my birthday?”

  “I like the birthday story the best.”

  “And remember when I told you about that man in Tula who had amnesia and came home and how I thought maybe that’s what happened to my daddy?”

  “I remember.”

  “Well, I think I’ve figured out when he’s coming.”

  Ruby Jane flings off her covers and leaps over to my bed. I sit up to make room.

  “When?” she asks.

  “I’m not one hundred and ten percent sure. Yet. Which is why I haven’t said anything.”

  “That’s okay. Tell me anyway.”

  “He’s returning with the Merci boxcar.”

  “Seriously?”

  “Yes. I think. I hope. And you know what else?”

  “What?”

  “I think it’s coming on Valentine’s Day.”

  “Oh, Glory Bea, you’re going to make me cry.” And she waves her hands in front of her face.

  “It gets even better.”

  “No.”

  “Yes. Valentine’s Day is my parents’ anniversary.”

  “It’s too good to be true,” says Ruby Jane, falling back on my bed and bouncing right up. “Your story makes perfect sense. Or… absolutely no sense.”

  “What do you mean, no sense?”

  Ruby Jane quiets. “What if he’s gone for good?”

  “Do NOT say that! I thought you were my best friend. I thought you believed in miracles.”

  “I want to believe, Glory Bea, I do. But…”

  “This is when he’s coming back. It has to be.”

  “Why?”

  “Because there’s a problem.”

  “What?”

  “Not what. Who. Randall Horton. He is spending way too much time at my house. He took me kite flying the other day. Now he’s going to live here.” I grab my pillow and hug it extra tight. “I think Mama is forgetting my daddy.”

  “Uh-oh.”

  Ruby Jane doesn’t say, Don’t worry about Randall Horton. She doesn’t say, When your daddy comes, your mama won’t even look at Randall Horton. Ruby Jane doesn’t say anything at all.

  Except, “I’m sorry, Glory Bea.” Then she moves back to her bed.

  It was a mistake to tell her.

  I pull my covers up to my chin, close my eyes, and try to brush away my doubts.

  I beg for a miracle.

  Something wakes me in the middle of the night. A sliver of moonlight shines into the room. Ruby Jane is still asleep. The murmuring rush of a train fills my ears. I listen until I can’t hear it anymore.

  sixteen

  “TIMING IS ESSENTIAL,” Grams says into the telephone as I hop down the stairs Friday afternoon, and then she hangs up.

  “Glory Bea, I need one more thing from the store. As well as some fresh air. Let’s take a trip to Mays Market.”

  In math, the shortest distance between two points is a straight line. Grams likes the longest.

  “If we want to be back by dinner, we’d better start now,” I say.

  “That’s my girl,” says Grams, and she pulls on my ponytail.

  We bundle up and make it to State Street in record time. We stay twenty minutes. Going there with Grams is like going to church. She has to howdy everybody before she can leave the premises.

  I think we are leaving, when Mr. McGrath walks in. “Melba,” he says, removing his hat, “just the person I wanted to see.”

  “At your service,” says Grams.

  “I found the sheet music to a song you suggested we sing during the parade.”

  “ ‘Blue Skies’?” I ask.

  Mr. McGrath taps his heel. “No, not that one. Besides, it will probably be a gray day like today.”

  I scrunch my face and barge into the cold. Only a few streaks of white interrupt the gray sky. I pull up my turtleneck sweater as high as it will go.

  I stomp next to Grams as she moseys all the way down to the Gladiola Recreation Center, circles around the whole block, and, I hope, is finally heading home. Where I can slather lotion on my itchy, chapped face.

  “Would you look at that,” says Grams as she saunters up Mountain Laurel Lane.

  A tan soft-sided bag rests a few feet away.

  “It needs its owner, Glory Bea.”

  “I wonder whose it is?”

  I bend down.

  The second I touch the purse, it jerks away.

  “Ah,” I say, flinging my arms up like I am under arrest, while Grams jumps back.

  “Hooyah!” shouts Ben as he springs from behind the bushes.

  “You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” I say. “Scaring me. Not to mention an old woman.”

  “How did you do that?” Grams asks.

  “Fishing line,” he answers, then grabs the purse and dangles it in the air to show her.

  Grams nods. “Had any other takers?”

  “You’re my first.”

  “Don’t change a thing,” she says. “This brings back such memories. Glory Bea’s daddy and your father pulled this same trick on me one time.”

  My daddy? Was once like Ben?

  * * *

  Before I fall asleep, I move to the window that faces town. On the roof of the train station, the light on top of the pole is green. The sky is cloudy, but the stars are surely still there. I leave the curtains open and turn to my daddy’s picture.

  I think about the upcoming blue-sky parade day. Mama and I will mill around the Gladiola Recreation Center with other folks until the starting time. Then someone with a high forehead, big smile, and twinkly eyes will come up behind me, put his hands over my eyes, and say, “Guess who?”

  seventeen

  MAMA IS in the kitchen when I get home from school. Blue flames dance below the teakettle on the cast-iron stove. Usually Mondays are busy at the insurance office; I guess Delilah’s daddy let her off early.

  Apron strings hang to her sides as she peels carrots and potatoes. She’s chewed off all her lipstick on her bottom lip, and above her top lip are dots of perspiration. It is steamy in here. I take off my coat and cardigan.

  Pots and pans and bowls cover the countertops. Pats of butter dot a chicken in the roasting pan on the kitchen table. Two stalks of broccoli from our garden stand in a pan of water.

  I pluck an apple from the glass baking dish and toss it into the air.

  Randall Horton is coming for dinner. Once he gets a taste of Mama’s cooking, he’ll never come back. I guarantee it.

  I take a bite of the apple.

  “Glory Bea, that’s for dessert.”

  “Sorry,” I say. “Want some help?”

  “Yes, you can cut the apples for the cobbler. Keep the skins on.”

  Grams always peels them first. Maybe Mama has a different recipe.

  “Sure,” I say. “Are we serving it à la mode?” It’s French for “served wi
th ice cream.” Thanks, Gladiola Gazette. Last week Ruby Jane’s mama taught us food vocabulary in her column. Words like “café au lait” (coffee with milk) and “soupe du jour” (soup of the day) and “éclair” (a pastry). If any of us ever get to France or a French restaurant, we’ll be able to eat.

  “Ice cream. I knew I’d forget something,” says Mama as she transfers the vegetables to the roasting pan and sets it in the oven.

  “Don’t worry,” I say. “This way the flavor won’t be hidden.”

  She organizes all the ingredients for the dessert on the counter: two kinds of sugar, flour, salt, cinnamon, nutmeg, baking powder, and an egg.

  “I’ll ready the table while you finish with the apples,” she says. She opens up the cabinet with the china we use only for holidays, takes a set of plates, and leaves through the swinging door.

  I snatch the container of salt and dump a big old gob of it into the sugar canister.

  Aha! and Hmm mix inside me.

  Mama sails in and out a few more times.

  “I’ll be your recipe reader,” I say when she returns for good. “First up, three quarters of a cup of white sugar.”

  Mama dips the measuring cup into the canister labeled FLOUR.

  “Oh, silly me,” she says, and corrects her error. “You’d think I’ve never cooked before.”

  “Next, two tablespoons brown sugar.”

  Mama follows all my instructions and, when she is done, crumples in a chair. “I think we’re all set. This can go in the oven when the chicken comes out.” She puts her hands on the table and pushes herself up. “Now I’m going to get ready.”

  I’m going to get ready too. For Daddy’s return. I search for the hole punch, today’s newspaper, and a grocery sack, and sprint upstairs. I will make enough confetti for my whole family to shower him with at the parade.

  * * *

  Eating dinner takes forever. Grandpa and Randall Horton have seconds. Grams gets a call, which we all overhear:

  “I see,” she says. “It was a New Year’s Eve crush.” Pause. “What do you say we pursue other possibilities?” Pause. “I can’t promise true love by Valentine’s Day. Love has its own timetable. We will, of course, hope for the best.”

  Finally, everyone picks up their dishes and takes them to the kitchen.

  “This dessert smells divine,” says Grams as Mama pulls the steamy cobbler from the oven and divides it into bowls.

  We sit back down and Mama picks up her spoon. Randall Horton is the first to taste the dessert.

  Mama watches as his eyes widen. He swallows.

  “Nice and hot,” he says, and picks up his coffee.

  Mama takes a bite. “Oh no,” she says, putting her napkin over her mouth. “It’s too salty. I must have…”

  She looks at me, lowers her napkin, and cocks her head.

  I tighten the grip on my spoon and stare at my cobbler. She knows.

  “… I must have switched containers,” she says, and my spoon clatters to the floor. “Please, don’t anyone eat it.”

  “Well, now,” Grams says after a bite. “I do believe you are right.”

  Mama closes her eyes. A giggle spurts out. And another.

  This is like a trick Ben would cook up. She always laughs at his pranks.

  “This meal will go down in his-toe-reee,” sings Grams.

  “Which is one of the reasons why I love this family,” says Randall Horton.

  I whip my head around.

  “There’s a lot not to love too,” I say. “Mama can’t cook, Grandpa hums off-key, Grams can talk your ear off, and, well, once I make up my mind, it’s hard to change it.”

  “None of us is perfect, are we?” says Randall Horton.

  eighteen

  I CAN’T SLEEP.

  I tiptoe downstairs and head for the canister of sugar. I take it to the trash can beside the back door and lift the canister lid. A note rests on top. I love you, sugar. xx, Mama.

  I tuck it into the pocket of my bathrobe.

  Back in the kitchen, I set the table for breakfast. I retrieve Mama’s note and add to it: I love you, too, Mama. xo, Glory Bea and slip it under her cereal bowl.

  A plate of brownies dusted with powdered sugar sits beside the refrigerator.

  With a glass of cold milk in one hand, I grab the biggest brownie with my other and skulk toward the parlor. Just enough moonlight peeks through the windows to guide me.

  Bong. Bong.

  “Hush,” I say to the grandfather clock.

  I put the milk on the end table and settle into Daddy’s leather chair. One bite of the brownie remains, and I nibble at it until it’s gone. I wipe my hands on my bathrobe, turn on the lamp beside me, and reach for Mama’s box of letters.

  I’ve put my own letters from Daddy in a scrapbook that I’ve read fifty thousand times, though I’ve never read the ones he wrote just to Mama. When they arrived, she would read parts aloud to us, the parts that she said weren’t mushy.

  I open the wooden box, and letters spill onto my lap and the chair and onto the floor. Letters that aren’t tied together with yellow ribbons like Daddy’s. Letters that have block writing. Like an architect, Grandpa used to say.

  Letters from Randall Horton. His Thanksgiving letters.

  I pull at the collar of my nightgown, which is suddenly too tight. My throat goes dry and I try to swallow. My eyes move to the two envelopes on my lap. One is right side up, the other upside down. I brush them toward the floor.

  I perch the wooden box on my lap and reach for the first bundle of letters. I untie the yellow ribbon, pick up the thin blue letter with its sharp creases, postmarked June 1, 1944, and read my daddy’s last letter.

  Dear Lila June,

  I love you. You know that, don’t you? I love you more than life itself. I love our beautiful daughter too.

  Things are really heating up over here. We will succeed. I already taste victory. I am proud to be a part of this—to make the world a better place for our family. Good will triumph over evil. Count on it.

  I can’t wait to come back home. I want to hold you in my arms and never let you go, treat Glory Bea to Dr Pepper floats, teach her how to beat my dad at chess, snag the biggest perch in the river, and awaken our daughter every morning with a song, even if she thinks she’s too old now.

  Lila June, you and Glory Bea are the best things that have ever happened to me. Know that I think about you every minute of every day.

  I will come home. I promise.

  Missing you.

  Your loving husband,

  George

  I knew it. I knew he’d come home. He promised.

  nineteen

  I TOSS Randall Horton’s letters into the trash.

  twenty

  “ACCORDING TO GRAMS,” I say as Ruby Jane and I peer through the windows of Mays Market the next day after school, “it’s important that one person doesn’t do all the talking.” I lay my hands on her shoulders. “You, my friend, earn an A-plus for that.”

  Ruby Jane’s mouth opens so wide, I think I see her tonsils in her reflection.

  “Everyone likes to be asked questions,” I say, moving to her side. “They show interest and will give you something to say. You’ve nailed ‘How are you?’ Let’s think up more.”

  Ruby Jane squints into the window. Delilah heads the line of kids at the cash register for candy, pop, or a pickle. She waves her baton at us. We wave back.

  “You don’t think Delilah and Ben—” begins Ruby Jane.

  “I think,” I say, nudging her side, “that we should concentrate on you. What is something you really want to ask him?”

  Ruby Jane brightens. “Do you like me?”

  I cover my ears. “You could say that. Only, you might want to build up to it instead. What about some not-so-serious questions first?”

  “Like?”

  “Like ‘What’s the best trick you’ve ever pulled?’ Or ‘Besides Drew Pearson, who would you invite to dinner and why?’ Or ‘Would you r
ather eat a barrel of jalapeños or a barrel of pickles?’ ”

  “I’ve never heard of a barrel of jalapeños.”

  I whistle the air out of my lungs. “Me either. Tell you what? Let’s practice. I’ll be Ben. Say hi.”

  She does. Megaphone loud.

  As Ben I say, “Hi. How’s it going?”

  “GOOD.”

  Silence.

  “It’s still your turn, Ruby Jane.”

  “I know,” she whispers.

  “Try a question I suggested.”

  “Tell me what some are again?”

  “Don’t worry. Go with ‘What’s new with you?’ instead.”

  Ruby Jane’s big voice returns and her body is as rigid as a railroad track.

  As Ben I say, “Mr. Bennett and I have teamed up to work on a float for the parade. What’s new with you?”

  “NOT MUCH.”

  “In future conversations, you could expand your answer.”

  “Okay.”

  Delilah flits out of the store with an open bag of M&M’s. She pops a yellow candy into her mouth and says, “I have news.”

  “Do tell,” I say. Of course I know she will whether we ask or not.

  “Ben and I are on the ballot for king and queen of the Valentine’s Dance.”

  Ruby Jane grabs my arm. “That’s fantastic,” I say. For Delilah.

  “Toodle-oo,” she says, and twirls her baton down the street.

  “Pretend that never happened,” I say to Ruby Jane, though I know she won’t.

  “Here are your two assignments: one, memorize and practice ‘What’s new with you?’; and two, add, ‘What’s your latest prediction?’ ”

  “All right.”

  “After you’ve actually asked them, I’ll give you more.”

  Baby steps. Not leaps. Not yet.

  Did You Know?

  Gladiola Gazette

  January 12, 1949

  It is my quest to continue to marinate us in all things French before the Texas Merci Train boxcar arrives. Well, dear readers, it will be here in approximately one month! Why, that’s only a few issues away. So, in order to accelerate our learning of French, like last week’s column, today’s column is devoted entirely to this Romance language. Never fear. Remember, you know more than you think you do. And to prove it, here are a dozen more French words you use all the time, or may use at least some of the time: