Letter From Home (4 page)

“Anyway”—Grandmother spoke with finality—“it would never have worked out for your mama and Clyde. I'm glad it didn't because your mama loved your daddy. And once Clyde met Faye, he seemed happy as could be. She came to town when she was in high school. They got married soon after your mama and daddy. But sometimes I wonder if Clyde is jealous of Faye's painting. A man doesn't want to be second best in his home.” Grandmother finished her watermelon. “Now it comes to the police being called. That's a bad way to send a man off to war. But Faye Tatum . . .” She gave a little head shake and sighed. “Well, we'd best be doing the dishes.”

Gretchen popped up. She was suddenly tired to the bone, but she made her smile bright. “I'll do them, Grandmother. You go relax, listen to the radio.” The six-thirty news would be on soon with Edward V. Kaltenborn. If Gretchen hurried, she'd hear most of it. And then they'd call Mother.

 
 
GRANDMOTHER BENT CLOSE to Gretchen, trying to hear. She always had Gretchen do the talking. Grandmother didn't like to talk on the telephone. She always spoke too loud and very fast and her accent weighted her words.

Gretchen frowned as she tried to catch the words on the other end. “. . . not home . . . take a message?”

The voice was unfamiliar, but her mother shared rooms with other war workers and people seemed to come and go. “This is Gretchen, Lorraine Gilman's daughter. Please tell her we called.” So her mother would not know for awhile about G. G. Gilman. “Tell her we are fine.”

A spurt of cheery laughter. “Will do. She's fine, too. Out on a date with a navy man. Lucky gal.”

 
 
GRETCHEN TOSSED RESTLESSLY on the bed. The small bedroom was hot. Not even a breath of breeze filtered through the screen of the open window. The electric fan's whir was cheerful but the air didn't seem cooler at all. Disjointed words and indistinct images moved in the corridors of her sleep-drenched mind: . . . lucky gal . . . Mrs. Tatum's eyes . . . the shrill of the siren . . . G. G. Gilman . . . the smell of hot lead from the Linotypes . . . wooden swords . . . her fingers punching slowly but ever faster on the shiny keys of the tall Remington typewriter . . .

The rattle of the window screen overrode the clacking keys in Gretchen's dream.

“Gretchen, wake up!” The shrill cry rose into a nightmarish wail. “Oh, help me, Gretchen, help me!”

CHAPTER 2

A LINE OF bricks, some broken, edged the plot. There were—I counted and realized I'd never done that before—seven graves. The oldest was that of Grandpa Pfizer. I didn't recognize my father's grave at first glance. The angel that had knelt on the granite stone was headless now. I'd always reached out to stroke the angel's wings. How many years had it been since anyone brought flowers for him? I was sharply glad that I could pull memories out of my past. The dead live only so long as someone remembers. When I died, no living person could—or would—picture his young face. The photos in a dark brown album in my library held only faint interest for my children, the laughing eyes of the grandfather they'd never known. The pictures were black-and-white. They'd never know—not unless I told them—that his eyes were the blue of a northern sea and his hair black and shiny as sealskin; my eyes, my hair before streaks of silver marked the passing years; my daughter's eyes, the glossy black of her hair. When I entered the cemetery, I'd looked for the family plot though I'd not come here today to visit these graves. But I had time enough to see them all. There had been no headstone on my grandmother's grave when I left town. I took a step, leaned against my cane, and bent down to touch the graven letters:

 
Oh, Grandmother, I loved you so. . . .

 
GRETCHEN SCRAMBLED OUT of bed, reached the window. Barb Tatum, her stricken face chalk white in the milky radiance of the moon, pounded on the window screen. “Gretchen, come quick. Mama's in trouble. Oh, Gretchen, help me.” Barb's pink cotton nightgown had thin white straps over her shoulders and ended above her knees.

“Barb, what's wrong?” Gretchen yanked the hook free, pushed against the screen.

Barb stumbled back. She wrapped her arms across her front. Her chest heaved as she struggled to breathe. “I ran. I ran all the way. Oh, my foot.” She sank to the ground, clutched at her leg.

Gretchen darted to the wall by the bedroom door, flipped the light switch. She ran back to the window, looked out at Barb, pinioned in a square of brightness. Barb's head was bent. Her lustrous sorrel hair masked her face, tumbled over her bare shoulders. She held tight to her ankle. Blood spurted from a gash on the bottom of her right foot. “I must have run across some broken glass. I didn't even feel it.” Blood puddled in the grass.

Gretchen drew her breath in sharply. “Don't move. I'll get Grandmother—”

“No!” Barb's voice was stricken. “We have to hurry. Mama needs help. Oh, Gretchen, I have to get back. I shouldn't have run away. Bring me something to bandage my foot.” She pointed at the blood.

Gretchen had always wished she looked like Barb even though some of the girls didn't think Barb was really pretty. Her features were chiseled, her nose thin, her chin pointed, but her lips curved into a funny half smile whenever the boys were near, the kind of smile that promised a kiss when nobody was around to see. Her laughter, a peal of delight, made everybody crowd around her. Her blue eyes glowed as if she saw things other people didn't see. Now those eyes were glazed and staring.

“You're hurt. I'll get Grandmother.” Gretchen started to turn away.

“No!” Barb's cry was desperate. “I don't want anybody to know. If you won't help me, I'll go back by myself.” Barb was crying, swiping at her eyes, struggling to get up.

“Wait, I'm coming.” Gretchen pulled on a tee shirt and shorts, slipped barefoot into her loafers. Her glance swept the room, then she reached for the pillow, shook the case free, rolled it into a long strip two inches wide. She carried it in one hand as she pushed the screen out, swung over the sill, and dropped softly to the ground. She hurried to Barb, knelt, and peered at her foot. “You've got dirt in it. We need to wash it up. I can get some water, but we need to call Dr. Jamison.”

“We can't take the time.” Barb yanked the strip of cloth out of Gretchen's hand. She slung the rolled pillowcase under her foot, crossed the ends over her instep, tied them tight. “Help me up.”

They stood close together. Barb's fingers gouged Gretchen's arm. “Come on. I heard Mama scream.” She pulled on Gretchen's arm, leaned against her for support, and limped across the lawn.

The moon rode high in the sky. Gretchen knew it was very late. Archer Street lay quiet as a ghost town. All the houses were dark. All of them.

“Barb, what happened? Why did your mom scream?” Were Faye and Clyde Tatum fighting again?

“I heard somebody knock. Mama spoke and her voice was real loud and then the front door slammed against the wall. That's when Mama screamed.” Tears streamed down Barb's face. She clung to Gretchen, tried to walk even faster. They kept to the grassy verge of the street, avoiding the gravel.

When they reached the front porch of the Tatum house, bright moonlight showed the front door open, open to darkness within and without.

“Mama? Mama?” Barb's voice was shrill in the silence.

Gretchen pointed at the dark doorway. “Were the lights off when you left?”

Barb pressed her fingers against her cheeks. “When I got out of my window, I ran toward the front of the house. Light was coming around the shades in the living room. Then the light went out. I was scared. I turned and ran and all of a sudden I was at your house. I came to your window. Like we used to do a long time ago.” One summer when they were eight or nine, they'd played a game, slipping out of their rooms late at night, going to the other house, whispering, then coming home again in the darkness and no one ever knew they'd been up and out. “Remember? Anyway, I came to your house.” Barb stepped toward the screen door. “Mama? Mama?”

No answer.

Barb reached out, yanked open the screen. She stepped into the dark living room, her hand brushing to her right. When the light came on, she clamped her hand over her mouth, but the sound of her scream pulsed against the dreadful silence in the room.

After one look, Gretchen grabbed Barb's arm, pulled her outside to the porch and down the steps. The screen door banged shut. “Your dad—where's your dad?” Gretchen turned away from the house, wishing she could run and scream and cry.

Barb lifted one hand, clawed at her throat. She made a bubbling noise. She struggled to break free of Gretchen.

Gretchen held tight to Barb's arm. Gretchen's throat ached, too. No matter how hard she tried, she couldn't rid her mind of that terrible glimpse of Faye Tatum, slumped on her back near the sofa, her blond hair splayed against the braided rug, eyes wide and staring, tongue protruding from blanched lips, throat mottled with purplish bruises. Most hideous of all were the pansy purple splotches on the gray white of her throat.

Barb wavered unsteadily. “Mama.”

“We have to find your dad.” Even as she spoke, Gretchen realized Mr. Tatum wasn't there. If he were in the house, he'd have heard Barb's scream and their high frightened voices. And the slam of the door. It was the middle of the night. Where was he? Why hadn't he hurried to help Mrs. Tatum? “Who was in the living room with your mom?”

Barb whirled away. She ran a few steps, dropped. “My foot.” She buried her face in her hands, rocked back and forth, her shoulders shaking.

Gretchen hesitated, looking toward the house, light now spilling out onto the porch. They had to get help. But she wasn't going back inside the Tatum house. She couldn't do that. She looked across the Tatums' scraggly, moonlight-silvered yard at the well-kept house next door. Mrs. Crane was a widow and Grandmother said she was lonely. She had a long sad face and sharp blue eyes. She'd called the police yesterday afternoon about the Tatums. She talked fast, her thoughts skittering in every direction. Every year her apple pie won a blue ribbon at the county fair. She could call the police. But so could Grandmother.

 
DR. JAMISON KNELT in front of the sofa. His graying hair was uncombed and his shaggy beard tousled. He'd only buttoned one cuff of his crumpled white shirt and his black trousers sagged without a belt. He wound a final strip of tape around Barb's right foot, then pushed himself stiffly to his feet, giving a little groan. He patted Barb's knee, gave Gretchen a swift look, his tired eyes kind and sad.

Grandmother bustled out of the kitchen. She wore a blue cotton housedress and her everyday sturdy white shoes. Only her hair, hanging to her shoulders, indicated the oddness of the hour and the moment. “Here, Doctor, I have made coffee for you.”

He took a cup. “Thank you, Lotte. Bad business. I told the chief I'd come back after I saw to Barb.” He sighed. “I need this.”

Grandmother held out the lacquered tray with a china sugar bowl and a silver spoon. The tray was one of her most prized possessions. Two silver dragons faced each other, their snouts bright with flame.

Dr. Jamison took a spoonful of sugar. “I've tried to give up sugar. I only use one spoonful now instead of three. My contribution to the war effort.”

“You do your part.” Grandmother's blue eyes were admiring, her tone firm.

He sipped, smiled. “Thank you, Lotte. So do you. Best food in the county, rationing or no. Now”—he gave a weary sigh—“will you see to Barb?”

Grandmother nodded, her hair swinging. “Oh, yes, she can stay here.”

Barb pushed to the edge of the couch, the sheet that Grandmother had brought her slipping to her waist. “But Daddy will wonder where I am.”

Her face heavy, her mouth drooping, Grandmother looked at Dr. Jamison. Neither said a word.

“Daddy didn't come home for supper.” Barb looked puzzled and frightened. “I don't know where he is.”

Dr. Jamison rubbed his tired eyes and made no answer. He drank some of the coffee, put the cup on a side table. He bent over his open satchel, lifted out two small packets. He handed them to Grandmother. “One each for the girls tonight. It will help them sleep.” He snapped the satchel shut, reached for his coffee.

A heavy knock thudded at the door.

Grandmother bustled across the room. “Come in, please to come in.”

Chief Fraser stepped inside, ducking his head beneath the lintel. He pulled off his cowboy hat. Wiry gray hair was cut short and tight to his big head. His face bulged all over, massive forehead, distended cheeks, rounded chin. Tonight a stubble of beard emphasized the dewlaps beneath deep-set brown eyes. Gretchen had often seen him at the café, but she'd only glimpsed him at his office a few times since she started with the
Gazette
. He didn't drive a police car. Everybody in town knew his old dark green Packard, the running boards usually stained with dirt. Mrs. Morrison said he liked to be out talking to people. Since gas rationing, he mostly walked around town, sweat beading his red face, staining his shirt. “Lotte, Doc, girls.” He jerked his head toward the door. “If you can get down there, Doc, take care of things? We got what we need.”