Blue Skies

by Anne Bustard

  Daddy’s never coming back on any train. Never ever.

  I shut my eyes. Tight.

  I knew “lost” could mean “dead.” I knew “missing” could mean “gone forever.” But why would I believe that about Daddy?

  I am a Bennett.

  I have audacious expectations.

  It was easier to hope that he was still alive than believe that he was dead.

  I pop my eyes open and look into Randall Horton’s. “Why didn’t they find him and send him home?”

  “I’m going to say this as carefully as I can, Glory Bea.” Randall Horton bows his head, then looks at me straight on. “A lot of soldiers are in graves marked ‘unknown,’ or may never be found. Believe me, they have not been forgotten.”

  “Why my daddy? Why not…”

  “I’ve wondered the same thing, Glory Bea.”

  “I thought if I hoped and prayed enough, he would come back. I miss him. I love him. It isn’t enough.” I’m still crying, tears and snot everywhere. Randall gives me his handkerchief.

  “Love is enough, Glory Bea. Always. Your daddy is right here, in your heart. He knew how much you loved him. He loved you and your mama that much back.”

  “I wanted a miracle,” I say.

  Randall Horton closes his eyes. “So did I.”

  We sit real quiet for a spell.

  “Glory Bea, your daddy was the one who got a miracle. You.”

  forty-three

  BEFORE I GO to bed, like always, I take off my charm bracelet and set it next to Daddy’s photo. I kept my New Year’s resolution, most days. His homecoming would have been the best. No matter what I did—learn French, dissuade Randall Horton, suggest “Blue Skies” for the parade, paint a picture, journey to Fort Worth, polish his shoes, save his shirts, buy bait, make confetti, and more—no matter how much I wished and hoped and dreamed and prayed, Daddy isn’t coming back.

  Grams says people choose to hear what they want to hear. Maybe Mama and Grandpa and Grams told me straight out. Or tried to tell me. I think the last is true for sure. I heard only what I wanted to hear.

  I fold my hands and close my eyes.

  “I know you’re in heaven, Daddy,” I say. “Which means, I think, that you can hear me. Maybe even see me. I will miss you forever. If you could have, you would have stayed alive. If you could have, you would have come back. You wouldn’t have left me. Thank you for being my daddy. I will never forget you. Merci, Daddy. Je t’aime. I love you.”

  I reach for the envelope from Ben that I plunked onto my desk and pull out a heart-shaped card. 2 Good 2 B 4-Gotten. I turn it over. The note on the back reads, I hope you like what I left under the dining room chair. From, Ben.

  I run downstairs. All the chairs are in place. I don’t see anything underneath any of them.

  I hold the back of my chair. I pull it from the table, tip it over, and look underneath. Nothing. I go around the table. Grandpa’s, Grams’s, company’s.

  Daddy’s.

  Carefully I tilt Daddy’s chair over so the top of the back touches the floor.

  Oh!

  Gold stars, the kind teachers use for their students’ best work, circle the rim, framing my words—Daddy was here.

  It looks like a movie marquee.

  * * *

  “I dreamed about your daddy last night,” says Grams as she places a tender bunch of red lettuce from our garden into my basket the next day. It’s brisk, sunny.

  I haven’t dreamed about my daddy ever. Not when I slept, anyway. I hardly ever remember my nighttime dreams.

  I tighten my grip on my basket and sink to my knees.

  “It’s been a while,” I say.

  “At least a year or more.”

  “How did he look?” A quiet cool seeps from the ground into my legs.

  Grams sits beside me and wraps her hands around mine on the basket handle.

  “Your daddy looked so fine,” she says. “He was wearing his blue-and-white aloha shirt.”

  “The one I helped you cut the other day,” I say. I move my hands and grasp her hands. Grams and I talked Mama into making a quilt top out of some of Daddy’s shirts. Someday soon, I’ll be wrapping myself up in it with a book.

  “The very one,” Grams says, and moves my hands to her heart. “It was nighttime and we were all asleep. He opened my bedroom door and looked in at your grandpa and me. Then he went to your mama’s room and yours and did the very same thing.”

  “He came home,” I whisper, and let go of her hands.

  “Yes, but not to stay.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Grams lifts my chin and looks into my eyes. “There was one more part, Glory Bea,” she says, her voice trembling. “The last thing I saw, your daddy was walking in the clouds toward the gates of heaven.”

  I close my eyes and picture it, open them, and look at Grams. Her eyes glisten.

  “The sign above the gates,” she says softly, “read ‘Home.’ ”

  forty-four

  “HAPPY BIRTHDAY!” Mama and Grams shout as Grandpa twirls me around the toasty-warm kitchen the next morning.

  I hold on. Hold on tight.

  “Is there such a thing as second chances?” I ask.

  “Every day,” he says. “No. Make that every second.”

  * * *

  Birthdays at our house are a family celebration with a few invited guests. The honoree gets to pick out the dinner menu and request their favorite dessert. Everything else is a secret.

  I have to stay in my room until the mystery guests arrive. The doorbell rings three times, and while I hear Grandpa say hello, the other person never says a word.

  “President Truman, what an honor,” Grandpa says.

  Of course it isn’t the president. It might be Ben or Randall Horton.

  “Right this way, sir,” says Grandpa. There are more than two sets of footsteps.

  “Bob Mathias, congratulations on your gold medal last summer.”

  These folks are ones Grandpa would love at his party. I know who he’ll say hello to next. Either Jack Benny, his favorite radio host, or the Andrews Sisters, his favorite singing group.

  “LaVerne, Maxene, Patty, thank you for taking time from your tour to stop by. Glory Bea can’t wait to see you.”

  No telling how many guests are really downstairs. For one of Grams’s birthdays Grandpa opened the front door more than ten times. He kept me ringing the doorbell and walking in the front door and out the back. Finally, on the last ring, Grams’s sister, all the way from California, entered. Grams said it was the best birthday she’d ever had.

  “Glory Bea.” Grandpa knocks on my bedroom door. “Your party awaits.”

  Arm in arm, Grandpa and I walk down the stairs. On the next-to-last step, we stop. Grandpa takes out his red bandana and wraps it over my eyes. It won’t come off until we reach the dining room.

  “Happy birthday!” everyone shouts.

  I pull off my blindfold and look at Ruby Jane, Ben, Delilah, Randall Horton, and my family.

  Ruby Jane and Ben! My first match. Together for one dance. And then not.

  It turns out Ruby Jane likes Toby the valentine sender better. His favorite board game is Parcheesi. “You’re a crummy matchmaker,” she tells me. “Open your eyes.”

  Maybe matchmaking doesn’t run in my family after all.

  “Thanks for coming, everyone,” I say.

  Grandpa pulls out my chair and I sit.

  “Ben,” I say, pointing to the chair next to me.

  He smiles real big and takes the seat.

  “As is our tradition,” says Grandpa, “we will begin with dessert.”

  On cue, Grams swoops in with a tray of Dr Pepper floats and sets it before me.

  Mama lights the twelve candles on the confections. I wish a special wish and blow them all out.

  Our table is full up. I look at the chair between Grams and Ben, Daddy’s chair, and catch Randall Horton’s eyes. He gives me two thumbs-up.

  �
�How did you know?” I ask Ben as we eat, nodding toward my daddy’s chair.

  “X-ray vision.”

  “Ben.” I bump my shoulder against his. “No, really. How?”

  Ben looks right at me. The flecks of gold in his brown eyes match his shirt. “I saw the writing when I picked up the ice cube you put down my back.”

  “Ahhhh,” I say. “Good eyes.”

  “Told you.” He laughs and bumps his shoulder against mine.

  After the floats, we dive into spaghetti and meatballs.

  “Grams, this is the best meal ever,” I say.

  “I’m glad you’ve enjoyed it, Glory Bea. I’m not the one to thank.”

  “Mama?”

  “Afraid not,” she says. “Randall deserves all the credit.”

  I don’t understand.

  “Ben’s dad has been giving me lessons,” says Randall Horton. “I thought they might come in handy.”

  “Thank you from all of us,” I say.

  Everyone, including Mama, laughs.

  * * *

  “Shall we move to the parlor so the birthday girl can open her gifts?” asks Mama.

  Ben picks up his plate and heads toward the kitchen.

  “Arthur Benjamin Truman,” says Grams. “You leave that be.”

  “Who?” I ask.

  Ben puts down his plate.

  “You?” I ask. “You are Arthur Benjamin?”

  That is the name I saw on Grams’s notepad by the phone. The one she takes notes on for her clients.

  Ben shrugs. “My mama thought it sounded distinguished.”

  Since when does Grams give advice about crushes? Wait. Folks come to her, not vice versa. Which means Ben asked.

  I open my cards and presents. I get lipstick from Ruby Jane, which makes Mama sigh and say something about not being able to wear lipstick before she was sixteen. Ben gives me a fancy pen.

  “I notice you like to write things down,” he says.

  “I do,” I say. “Thank you.”

  Ruby Jane places fingers on either side of her eyes and opens them extra wide. “Ben likes you,” she mouths.

  He does. And I’m just now seeing it. I turn to Grams and she winks.

  Delilah gives me hair ribbons. Mama, Grams, and Grandpa give me a radio of my very own.

  There is one more gift. Only, it has no tag or card. I tear into the wrapping and open the book.

  “The Secret Garden,” I say, and hug it to my chest.

  “Do you like it?” asks Mama.

  “Yes,” I say. “Now I won’t need to check it out again from the library. Thank you.”

  “I’m not the one to thank,” she says.

  I open the cover. The inscription in block letters reads: Happy Birthday, Glory Bea! From, Randall.

  “Thank you… Randall.”

  * * *

  Ruby Jane is the last to leave.

  “I really did like him,” she says as we stand in the parlor and ponder the Wall of Fame.

  “I know. I’m sorry it didn’t work out with Ben.” I touch Ruby Jane’s arm. “I promise, I didn’t realize he liked me.”

  She rubs her forehead. “Glory Bea, you’re fired. Again.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and we burst into laughter. “I’ve decided to retire. You are—I mean, you were—my only client. In spite of my valentine cards advertising, no one else has requested my help.”

  My friend points to the NEVER GIVE UP pillow. “What about your motto?”

  “Sometimes you need to change the plan.”

  Ruby Jane helps me tote my gifts upstairs.

  I reach under my bed and pull out my painting for Daddy. “Would you help me hang this on my wall?” I hold it out to her.

  “All that blue,” says Ruby Jane.

  “I made this for my daddy’s homecoming. I’m one hundred and ten percent sure now, Ruby Jane.”

  “He would have loved it,” she says.

  forty-five

  February 21, 1949

  Dear Texas Gratitude Train Committee,

  My name is Glory Bea Bennett. My daddy was Second Lieutenant George Bennett from Gladiola, Texas. He served in the US Army Rangers during WWII. He died on Omaha Beach. I am writing to request that my mama wear the wedding dress from the Texas Merci boxcar on her wedding day. I read about all the dresses from France in the Gladiola Gazette earlier this year. Last week I saw a picture of the Texas dress in the newspaper. It will look beautiful on her.

  Any day now Randall Horton, my daddy’s best friend in the service, who hails from Brooklyn and is now a proud resident and pharmacist in Gladiola, will ask Mama to marry him. She will say yes.

  My mama is the best mama in the whole world and she married the best man in the world, my daddy. Unfortunately, he left unexpectedly.

  Now Mama has a second chance. So do I. I am very happy for her. For us.

  Please consider Lila June Bennett for this gift. I have the support of your esteemed committee member Mrs. Geraldine Crowley, from my hometown.

  I have enclosed a photo of Mama and me and Randall Horton. The original is on my dresser next to a picture of my daddy. This one was taken on Valentine’s Day. Yes, Randall Horton dressed up as Romeo. Look at how happy Mama is. This is not a movie kind of love. It is true.

  Sincerely yours,

  Glory Bea Bennett

  forty-six

  I OPEN the front door, and the sun pours in. A whole month has passed since my birthday. It feels like spring.

  “Mrs. Crowley,” I say. “Please come in.”

  “Thank you. I’m here to see you and your mama.”

  “I’m right here,” Mama says, setting on the front table a vase overflowing with sweet-smelling lilies that Randall just brought over.

  Mrs. Crowley wears a lime-colored hat, white gloves, and a smile. She carries a big straw bag.

  Is this Mama’s lucky day?

  “As you are aware, Lila June,” says Mrs. Crowley, settling in on the sofa in the parlor, “I am on the governor’s Texas Gratitude Train Committee.”

  Mama takes a seat in Daddy’s leather chair, and I perch on the needlepoint footstool beside it. A small breeze moves the sheer curtains beside me.

  Hurry up, Mrs. Crowley. Tell her the good news. Tell her now.

  “What you may not know, Lila June, is that your daughter wrote a letter to the train committee requesting that you wear the bride’s dress from the boxcar.”

  “I had no idea,” says Mama. She leans over me, wraps her arms around my shoulders, and rocks me side to side.

  I reach for her arms.

  Mrs. Crowley twists her wedding ring. “I am ever so sorry to tell you that the committee has declined the request.”

  “What?” I say. I throw off Mama’s arms and stand. “That can’t be. My mama should wear that dress. She deserves to wear that dress. Mrs. Crowley, please, make them change their minds.”

  The mayor’s wife clears her throat. “As you may be aware, Lila June,” she says, looking Mama in the eyes, “all the gifts are for display in a museum. Though, a few items may be auctioned. Not, of course, the wedding dress. I’d hoped we could make an exception to the rule, at least for one day. However, at the time of our decision, you were not engaged. No matter how persuasive Glory Bea’s letter was, I was not able to sway the other members on your behalf.”

  “But—” I say.

  “It was certainly an honor to be considered,” says Mama, and she clasps my hand. “Thank you for coming this afternoon to tell us this news in person.”

  “It is a shame,” says Mrs. Crowley, “since I understand you and Randall Horton made it official yesterday. Please let Mr. Crowley and me be the first to say how happy we are for you. Let’s set a date for that party.”

  “Thank you. I will pass your kind words on to Randall. He’s out back fixing a window screen with Mr. Bennett and Ben Truman.”

  “However,” says Mrs. Crowley, sitting up straighter, “the committee was so moved by Glory Bea’s letter that we
have decided to make an exception and give her one of the gifts instead.”

  “A gift for me? It should be Mama’s.”

  “I must abide by the committee’s wishes,” says Mrs. Crowley. “Of course you may share it with whomever you wish.”

  I squeeze Mama’s hand.

  Mrs. Crowley continues, “Mr. James from the Gladiola Gazette is on your front porch and would like to take a picture of this momentous occasion.”

  “I’ll let him in,” says Mama, rising.

  “Everyone,” I call, as if they can hear me outside. “Come quick.”

  “Why don’t you sit beside me, Glory Bea?” Mrs. Crowley pats the space next to her on the sofa.

  A gift? From France?

  It seems like it takes them forever. Finally Mama, Grams, Grandpa, Randall, Ben, and Mr. James gather around.

  Mrs. Crowley reaches into her giant straw bag to pull out the gift. Mr. James says, “Say cheese, Glory Bea,” and the camera flashes.

  I blink away the stars and look at Mrs. Crowley’s hands.

  In them is a wooden box about the size of Grams’s bread loaf pan. The tag attached to the top features three flowers the colors of the French flag blooming in front of a steam engine on a blue-sky day.

  “On behalf of the Texas Gratitude Train Committee, it is my honor to present to you, Glory Bea Bennett, this thank-you gift from the people of France.”

  Mrs. Crowley places the box in my hands. It is heavy. I set it in my lap.

  “Read the tag,” says Grams.

  “From Jean-Claude Pugeat,” I say, “Bayeux, France.”

  “Imagine that, all the way from France,” says Grandpa. “You going to open it?”

  I unlatch the small clasp at the front and open the lid.

  “Oh,” I say. I reach my hand inside. “Sand.” It is soft and warm. I swim my fingers through the fine grains of light brown.

  “Well, I’ll be,” says Grams.

  A thin blue envelope is tucked into the bottom of the lid.

  “Hope it’s in English,” says Grams.