Letter From Home (3 page)

Gretchen nudged the sour ball with her tongue. She wrote down:
Tatum house. Screams. Yells.
She glanced toward the wall clock—twelve minutes to five—guessed at the time she'd heard the siren:
Car #2 dispatched 4:40
P.M. “Who was screaming?”

Mrs. Morrison settled behind her desk. “Oh, likely Faye was tellin' Clyde off. You know, he ought never to have married her but some men got no sense about women, that's for sure. Some women are just damn fools about men and they don't get no better with age. Well, that Barb seems like a nice enough girl though she was wearing her sweaters so tight the principal sent home a note to Faye and that was another big fight. I swear, Faye's got a tongue that could strip bark off a gum tree. Well, Sergeant Petty will settle things down. And Clyde will be on his way soon enough.”

Out in the heat, Gretchen shaded her eyes from the sun. She'd have to hurry to finish up at the courthouse before it closed. She walked fast, felt her cotton blouse sticking to her back. The main hallway was empty. At the court clerk's office, she noted that Mr. Edward Petree, 103 Cherry Street, had filed suit against his next-door neighbor, Mr. Coy Hendricks, 105 Cherry Street, for dumping out an old barrel of oil that had leaked into Mr. Petree's yard, ruining his vegetable garden. The county commissioner's office was already closed. She'd have to wait until tomorrow to check and see when they'd take the bids for that new bridge on Kershaw Road. In the basement, the door to the sheriff's office was shut and locked.

She reached the
Gazette
office a few minutes after five. Nobody was there. Mr. Dennis was probably in the press room, seeing that the papers got folded for the newsboys. She took a minute to straighten her desk, made some quick notes about tomorrow's stories—missing scarecrow, bid date for the bridge—but she needed to get over to the café. She kept her pedal pushers there. She'd change clothes and get to work. Grandmother had protested at first, saying Gretchen worked all day at the
Gazette
and that was enough, but Gretchen knew how tired Grandmother got. Gretchen started off the day at the café and ended the day there. She and Grandmother were at the café by five to get ready to open at six. Gretchen didn't go to the
Gazette
until eight so there was plenty of time to slap bacon into the huge skillets and flip eggs on the grill. Truckers coming through on Highway 66 would stop for the best breakfast on the road: bacon and eggs when they had them, hash browns, pancakes, and grits all the time. They made their own bread and rolls and corn bread. Gretchen still did most of the cleanup after she got off from the
Gazette
. Grandmother would close up and go home early if the kitchen ran out of food but in any case the door was always shut by five. There was lots to do. Mrs. Perkins might be finished up with the dishes, but Gretchen scrubbed the tables and mopped the floor and saw to the trash. There might be deliveries to unload. The meat plant in Tulsa delivered—when there was any meat—twice a week. If everything went well, maybe she'd get home by six. Grandmother would have rested for awhile and then fixed supper. Macaroni and cheese and watermelon was Gretchen's favorite.

When Gretchen finished burning the trash in the incinerator at the edge of the lot behind the café, the sun was a hot red ball in the west. Even the scrawny bois d'arc trees cast a big shadow now. She poked the ashes to make sure there were no more sparks. Though it was still June, the county was tinder dry. Cars and trucks rumbled past on the highway. Despite gas rationing, there was more traffic than ever, most of it military trucks.

Every so often, she looked down Archer Street. The graveled street curved up and down, following the gentle contours of the hilly countryside. The windows in all the boxy frame houses were up, the front doors open, welcoming any hint of breeze. But the houses were hot, all of them, even with fans. Grandmother said people got mad easier when it was hot; mad in the summer, blue in the winter.

Gretchen gave the ashes a final poke and swung up on her bike. She rode slowly because it was hot, but she didn't care that sweat beaded her face, slipped down her back. The refrain sang in her mind:
G. G. Gilman.
She was almost past the Tatum house when she braked to a sudden stop.

The cover hung askew from the silver mailbox on its post next to the end of the rutted drive. Paint had flaked from the second T: TA UM. Dandelions poked fluffy heads from grass that needed mowing and had gone to seed. The Tatum house had a front porch. Grandmother's house had three concrete steps to the front door. Grandmother's steps were swept every day and hosed off once a week. Rambling roses bloomed on either side. The wooden steps to the Tatum porch were rickety and one plank had a broken edge. The house had a frowsy air, some asphalt shingles missing, the white paint weathered and peeling.

Gretchen swung off her bike, leaned it on the kickstand. She shaded her eyes from the crimson sun. The house looked as it always had, no different at all. Mrs. Morrison was probably right. Mr. Dennis wouldn't put anything in the paper about the call to the police this afternoon. But it wouldn't hurt to knock on the door, see if Barb was home. Gretchen walked briskly to the porch. She looked through the screen door—the front door was wide open—into the dim living room. Magazines spilled across the slipcovered sofa. An open box of graham crackers sat on the low coffee table next to an empty Coke bottle. A filled ashtray sat near a half dozen nail polish bottles and wadded tissues. There was an oval braided rug and two easy chairs, both slipcovered in shiny yellow chintz. Despite the disorder, the room glowed with color and life from the matted but unframed paintings hanging on the walls.

Gretchen knocked. The rattle disappeared into the silence quick as a frog slipping into a pond.

A quick clatter of steps sounded. Faye Tatum hurried across the living room. Faye always moved fast. She stopped midway when she saw Gretchen. Her narrow face looked hard as marble. Her blond hair fell forward, a golden strand loose across one cheek. Her green eyes smouldered like a banked fire. Crimson lips twisted downward. She carried a saucepan in one hand, a lid in the other. She wore an apron over a cotton top and shorts. The apron wasn't tied and the strings dangled on either side. There was something about the way the apron fell and the bareness of her legs that shocked Gretchen. Nobody would come outside dressed like that. It didn't look right somehow. Most women her age wouldn't wear shorts around the house, only if they were going to a picnic on a hot summer day. But Mrs. Tatum was an artist and everybody knew artists were different. Last summer Gretchen remembered coming to see Barb and finding Mrs. Tatum and Barb sitting on the living room sofa in panties and bras and how they'd laughed at her expression. It was the middle of the morning but they said it was just too hot to get dressed and after all what difference did it make because the human body was beautiful. Gretchen knew Grandmother's blue eyes would snap if she told about that visit so she'd never mentioned it. Today was hot, too.

“Hello, Gretchen.” Mrs. Tatum slapped the lid on the pan. “Barb's not here.” She sounded mad. And disappointed. Her lips trembled, then closed into a tight line.

Gretchen began to back away. “Please tell her I came by.”

Mrs. Tatum turned without answering. She walked across the floor, pushed into the kitchen. The door swung shut behind her.

As Gretchen hurried toward her bike, she felt a rush of gladness that she was leaving. She loved the pictures in the Tatum living room, but now she remembered how often there weren't regular meals, how Barb snacked at night on peanut butter and jelly, how she liked to come to Gretchen's house to eat.

Gretchen used the rubber grips on her bike, avoided the hot handlebars. The rest of the way home, she wondered about Mrs. Tatum. Had she shouted at her husband this afternoon? Or screamed? She was still mad when Gretchen came. But a scream was different from a shout. Gretchen glanced at the Crane house. Like Grandmother said, everything was always neat as a pin at the Crane house. The lawn freshly trimmed, though it had to be a losing battle against the blown puffs of dandelions from the ragged yard next door. Bright blue shutters framed the front windows. Begonias flourished in the flower beds. Mrs. Crane would be proud to open her front door to company any time of day or night. There would never be magazines strewn about or unemptied ashtrays or dishes in the sink.

Gretchen parked her bike behind her grandmother's house and hurried up the wooden steps into the kitchen.

Grandmother turned from the stove with a big smile. “So here you are. Just in time for supper so fine. We have salmon croquettes and fresh peas and Jell-O.” Grandmother's German accent was still strong, her
w
s often sounding like
v
s. That was why she didn't like to be in the front of the café anymore and let Mrs. Perkins handle the cash register. Once last year she forgot and said,
“Danke schön,”
to a man from out of town and he threw down his money and asked how come the café had hired a Kraut instead of a good American.

Gretchen washed her hands at the sink. They sat across from each other at the white wooden table. Two more chairs were pushed against the wall on either side of the door to the living room. They pulled one to the table when her mother came on the bus from Tulsa. Jimmy's chair had been against the wall since he went overseas. His letters didn't come so often now and when they did, he didn't write much, just how he wished he could be home and when he came home the first thing he wanted to do was have one of Grandmother's big hamburgers with mustard and mayonnaise and homemade chowchow and lettuce and tomato. He said he hadn't eaten a tomato in months. And he asked after Mike Thompson. They hadn't written him that Mike was killed in the fighting in Italy, just three months before Millard's ship went down. There were two stars in the window of Thompson's Drugs. Mr. Thompson hardly ever came over to the café for lunch anymore and Mrs. Thompson's clothes sagged against her wraith-thin body.

Grandmother passed the bowl of peas. “I put your story by the cash register. Mrs. Perkins said everybody thought it was good. She said Mrs. Jacobs had some company with her and when they paid the check, Mrs. Jacobs pointed at the story and told everyone you were one of the best students she'd ever had and you were going to be famous someday.”

Gretchen's spoon stopped midway to her mouth. “Mrs. Jacobs said that?”

Grandmother nodded. “
Ja.
When Mrs. Perkins told me, I wished I'd been there to hear. But we call your mother tonight.”

Calling long distance was always exciting. Of course, they might not be able to get through. Sometimes there were long waits. They didn't make long-distance calls very often. When they did or when her mother called them, they talked loud and fast against a buzzing, scratchy background. The phone company asked everyone to keep their calls to five minutes because so many people needed to make calls.

Gretchen scarcely tasted the rest of her supper though she loved salmon croquettes. She told Grandmother about her day, finishing with her last rounds. “When I got to the courthouse just before five, there was a siren so I went over to the police station. Sergeant Petty was on her way to the Tatum house. Mrs. Crane had called and said there were shouts and screams. Mrs. Morrison said that Barb's dad was home and getting ready to go overseas and maybe he and Barb's mom got mad about something.” Gretchen didn't want to tell Grandmother about Mrs. Tatum being out at night since Mr. Tatum had been gone. It might not be true and that was the kind of thing that would make Grandmother say that Gretchen shouldn't go see Barb. “I stopped by on my way home. Mrs. Tatum looked like she was mad about something. So I guess she and Mr. Tatum had a big fight and Mrs. Crane called the police.”

Grandmother put down her fork. “You won't put that in the paper?”

“I don't think so.” Gretchen knew it wasn't up to her. “But I have to tell Mr. Dennis.”

Grandmother pushed the platter with croquettes closer to Gretchen. “I know. You have your job. You must do what Mr. Dennis says. But you see, I remember Clyde when he was a little boy. He was such a friend to your mama.”

Gretchen's eyes widened. “I didn't know that, Grandmother.”

“Oh, they played together all through school. Clyde was a nice boy though he liked to have his own way. And he didn't like to share your mama. They'd fight about that sometimes and she'd say she wanted to be friends with everybody, not just Clyde. They were best friends until she got in the pep club. She was so busy then. Everybody was her friend.” Grandmother's tone was proud.

Grandmother pushed back her chair, went to the drainboard. She cut two generous slices of watermelon, set a serving at each place.

Gretchen carefully poked out the big shiny black seeds, cut her watermelon into dripping chunks.

Grandmother settled back in her chair. “I always thought perhaps someday . . . but your mama fell in love with your daddy in high school. She didn't see so much of Clyde then.”

Gretchen had only a dim memory of her father, thick dark hair and bright blue eyes and a smiling face. She couldn't quite remember her father's face, not really, but there were pictures in an album and she looked at them so often, she knew them by heart. She remembered laughter and being swung high in the air and nursery rhymes read in the glow of a flickering fire. And she remembered the gray, dark days after the accident and the fresh grave in the cemetery. They took flowers every month and put them there. Every time Mama came home from Tulsa they went to the cemetery. Her mother loved to tell stories about her dad, like the time he saw that Douglas Fairbanks movie and he made two wooden swords in shop and he and Clyde pretended they were French noblemen and everybody laughed when they staged a duel in assembly. . . . The words came back to Gretchen. She'd never thought about the Clyde in her mother's story being the man who was Barb's father.