The Older Woman

by Cheryl Reavis

  once.

  “Someone dialed before they remembered,” Mrs. Bee said. “Lula Mae and the girls know not to call me today.”

  “Why is that, Mrs. Bee?” he asked, because he thought it was time.

  “He was a soldier—a paratrooper,” she said instead of answering. “Like you, Calvin.”

  “I didn’t know Mr. Bee was a paratrooper,” Meehan said.

  “No. Not Mr. Bee.”

  The old lady gave a quiet sigh and looked past him toward the empty chair. “He was so good-looking.” She suddenly smiled. “But so was I—that boy didn’t stand a chance.”

  “You’re still good-looking, Mrs. Bee,” Doyle said, and she laughed out loud.

  “And soldiers never change, do they, Katie?”

  “Never,” Meehan assured her.

  “His name was William Gaffney,” Mrs. Bee said wistfully. “Everybody called him ‘Bud.’ I met him on a bus from Savannah to Fayetteville—my fiancé was stationed at Fort Bragg—that wasn’t Mr. Bee, either,” she added mischievously. “His name was Jeffrey McCall.”

  Any kin to Pitty-Pat? Doyle almost asked.

  “I was going to see him,” Mrs. Bee said. “His sister was supposed to chaperon, but she was in the back of the bus. She was kind of fast,” Mrs. Bee said, lowering her voice, as if she didn’t want just anybody to hear her.

  Kin to Pitty-Pat, he decided.

  “I think Bud might have thought I was fast, too—at first—since I was traveling with her. But I wasn’t. I was just young…and bewildered. Everything was happening so fast—the war, all the boys leaving. Boys I’d known all my life. All of us young girls knew there was a good chance we’d never see them again. Everybody was crazy to get married, and here I was engaged when I didn’t really know how in this world I had gotten to that point. I’d known Jeffrey for ages—since we were children—and then there he was in uniform, looking so handsome and not quite able to hide how scared he was, and he asked me. I must have said yes—but to this day, I don’t remember doing it. I don’t think I realized how serious it all was until my mother said I could go to Fort Bragg to see him without her.

  “I remember being on that bus, though. It stopped at nearly every wide place in the road. It was so hot, and the bus was packed. Every time it stopped, I’d think they couldn’t possibly get one more person on, but they always did somehow. The woman I was sitting next to was wearing Blue Waltz perfume—the kind you could buy at the dime store. It was so strong. I was sitting by a window, but I couldn’t get it open, and I was getting sicker and sicker. We finally stopped at this little service station in the middle of nowhere. It had a really steep roof.” She held up her hands to show them how steep.

  “And big shade trees with the trunks whitewashed—they don’t do that much nowadays—

  and some picnic tables. It was a kind of place where they’d let everybody get off and get something to drink and take the children to the rest room. I was feeling so bad, and he got me a bottle of cola. He’d been watching me, you see, and he knew I wasn’t feeling well. The drink was all icy. The best cola I ever had. I wanted to pay him for it, but he wouldn’t let me.

  “Well, it made me feel better, and we talked all the way to Fayetteville, both of us standing up because I’d lost my seat and there weren’t any more—and me in high heels, too. Brown-and-white spectator pumps. You didn’t go anywhere in public in those days unless you had on high heels. And you didn’t go bare-legged, either. I had on my mother’s last pair of silk stockings. They were too small because the toes had been darned so many times, and between the stockings and the heels and the heat—and being totally mortified by what Jeffrey’s sister was doing in the back of the bus—I’d never been so miserable in my whole life. Or so happy. I just knew in my heart something marvelous was happening.” She reached for the tea pitcher and refilled Meehan’s glass.

  “Well, I broke my engagement that weekend,” she continued. “It was a hard thing to do. Both our mothers cried for days. I wasn’t sure I’d ever see Bud again, but I was very sure I didn’t want to marry Jeffrey just because there was a war on and I felt sorry for him. I’d given Bud my name and address, and I watched for the mailman every day after that, as if it was a matter of life and death—and I guess maybe it was. He wrote me a letter—he was very good at writing letters. Some people have that knack, you know. When you read them, it’s as if they’re actually speaking to you. I’d been waiting for days and days, praying he would write to me—and then when the letter finally came, when I finally saw it there in the mailbox, I didn’t open it. Not at first. I just held it and looked at it. I wanted to make the feeling last, you see. That wonderful feeling of expectation that comes when you think something good is about to happen and your life is going to change forever.

  “He came to Savannah to see me—when he could only stay a couple of hours. After that, he hitchhiked down there every chance he got—he used to take me to this Irish pub down on the riverfront. I wasn’t old enough to be in there—my mother would have had a fit if she’d known—but most places didn’t bother too much about that kind of thing, because of the war and so many boys going overseas all the time. We went for the music, believe it or not. It was a lot like your uncle Patrick’s place, Katie—the customers could sing something for the crowd if they wanted to. The last time we went there, Bud went up to the microphone. I thought it would be something funny—because he was so funny—and maybe a little risqué, but it wasn’t. He sang this sad song about a soldier looking for the one he could love and finally finding her. There was a part in it about him praying for angels to always protect her—it was so beautiful and it was for me. There weren’t many dry eyes in the pub that night, I can tell you.”

  “Did you marry him, Mrs. Bee?” Meehan asked, handing Doyle the second piece of pie she’d cut for him.

  “He asked me. And I got all silly about it. I wanted him to be my husband more than I’d ever wanted anything in this world, but I told him no because I still regretted the brainless way I’d gotten engaged to Jeffrey. I said something about us not knowing if what we felt was real and that only time would tell.

  “He said time was something we might never have—and even if we did, there were no guarantees. Our chance had come along when the whole world was in a mess, he said, so we had to make do—because if we didn’t, maybe we’d would lose something really precious, something other people only dream about.

  “I’m happy to say I didn’t stay silly for long. We eloped,” she said with a slight smile. “I met him about halfway—in a little county seat in South Carolina. It was a real leap of faith for me. I kept thinking he wouldn’t come—he’d have a change of heart or maybe he’d get sent overseas and I’d never see him again and never know what happened to him. He was late, but we made it—just barely. He was sent to the West Coast right after that. I think the government did that to fool the German spies. They sent them west—when they were really going to Europe. Anyway, he went overseas. He was killed in the Normandy invasion—it was a very bad place for paratroopers. He’s buried in the cemetery there. The news about him came in the middle of Fibber McGee and Molly. That’s a radio program. I was at home with my mother and sisters, and we were all laughing. Somehow you just never think you could get such bad news in the middle of something like Fibber McGee and Molly—oh, now I’ve made you both uncomfortable. I didn’t want to do that. It’s just that I promised him I’d make him his favorite dinner when he came home again. He didn’t come home, but I still make the dinner sometimes—on our anniversary. It’s my way of remembering him. I haven’t done it in a long time—but this year I felt that I really wanted to. He would have liked the two of you so much. Mr. Bee and I had a good life together—but I haven’t forgotten Bud. Someone has to remember, you see. He didn’t have any family but me.”

  Mrs. Bee slowly slid back her chair. “You know, I’m much more tired than I thought. I missed my nap this afternoon, and I think I’ll just wish the two of you goodnight
and go on to bed now. Thank you both.”

  “Thank

  you, Mrs. Bee,” Doyle said. “I’ve never had a better meal anywhere.”

  “I’m glad, Calvin. Oh, the leftovers—”

  “We’ll put the leftovers away,” Meehan said.

  “All right. If you’re sure you don’t mind. I do hate to see food go to waste—but leave the dishes. I’ll see to those tomorrow.”

  Meehan got up with Mrs. Bee, making sure she had her hand there just when Mrs. Bee needed it and walking with her to the back of the house. Doyle sat looking at the table. It was still raining, but gently now, a steady pattering he could hear along the edge of the porch. After a moment, he got to his feet and extinguished the candles. He’d been sitting too long. He’d gotten lost in the good eating and in Mrs. Bee’s sad story of Bud Gaffney—or, more accurately, in Meehan’s reaction to it. It had affected her, just as it had him, maybe because it was Mrs. Bee who was telling it.

  Meehan came back. She immediately began to gather up bowls and take them into the kitchen. He carried what he could and followed along after her, neither of them talking as they began the cleanup.

  He ran hot water into the sink and squirted in some dish detergent while she scraped plates and brought them to him. At one point his arm brushed hers. He felt it deep, but if she even noticed, it didn’t show—except that she left the room immediately and headed back to the dining room. In a moment the big band music started again, an orchestra playing something with…

  What did they call it back then? Bounce? Jump?

  It didn’t really matter. This was Bud Gaffney’s party; whatever it was was altogether appropriate.

  Meehan returned carrying a few stray spoons and a glass. She put them on the counter next to the sink. Carefully. So she wouldn’t touch him again.

  “I’ll do that,” she said of the dish washing.

  “No, it’s okay. I can do it,” he said.

  “Will you sit down? You’re hurting. You can dry.”

  He was hurting, but he hesitated. Old habits died hard, regardless of what he’d said earlier about feeling free to give in to the pain in her presence.

  After a moment he dried his hands and moved one of the kitchen chairs closer and sat down. She handed him a dish towel to use, but they didn’t talk. They simply worked on getting the kitchen squared away. Mrs. Bee was one of those cooks who washed the pans as soon as she put the food into the bowls, so it wouldn’t take long.

  “How’s your other charity case?” he asked at one point, and he realized the minute he said it that her guard went up, he supposed because she thought that he was making some extremely obscure reference to her former boyfriend.

  “Coyote Jane,” he said. “White fur. Low to the ground.”

  “She’s fine. What did you mean ‘other’ charity case.”

  “I meant me—I thought maybe you had something to do with my getting a Chain of Concern person.”

  “I did,” she said, glancing at him. “You’ve got too much time on your hands.”

  “Well, you’ve got me there,” he said. He picked up another wet plate and began to dry it. “How mad do you think Mrs. Bee is going to be?” he asked to keep the conversation going. “Because you washed the dishes.”

  “She’s not going to be mad at me, ” Meehan said. “I’m going to tell her you did it.”

  He laughed. “Oh, thanks. She’ll believe you, too.”

  The

  conversation

  immediately lagged, and he never was one to leave well enough alone.

  “So, have you ever been married?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said without looking at him.

  Yes.

  He didn’t see how she couldn’t have been at some point—she was pretty and smart—but he still wasn’t all that happy to hear it.

  “What

  happened?”

  “He

  divorced

  me.”

  “What, is he crazy?” he said in all seriousness. He finished drying a dinner plate, and when he looked up, she had stopped washing dishes.

  “One of us was,” she said after a moment.

  “What

  happened?”

  “Nothing much,” she said, putting the silverware into the sink, and for once, he didn’t sense her internal struggle not to answer him. “I met him when I was in nursing school—he was a med student—a good one. We got married right after I graduated. We eloped—he said it would be better if his family heard about the marriage after the fact. It wasn’t better. His father was very upset and threatened all kinds of financial repercussions. But he said his family would get used to the idea, and he asked me to come back here and wait while he got it all straightened out. I didn’t have a job yet, so I did. While I was waiting, I was served with divorce papers—sued for divorce on the grounds of abandonment. And that, as they say, was that.”

  Doyle didn’t say anything, and she went back to washing spoons and forks. They finished the rest of the dishes in silence.

  He handed her the dish towel and got to his feet. “Meehan—”

  “I’m going to check the dining room,” she said, stepping around him.

  He thought that she’d already done that, but he didn’t say so. He followed her as far as the dim hallway and stood waiting for her to come back. She wasn’t gone long. The big band music changed to something slow and sad by the time she walked into the hallway again. She obviously didn’t expect to see him there.

  “So,” he said. “You want to dance?”

  “Sure.

  Who

  with?”

  “Me. Are you trying to hurt my feelings here or what?”

  “Oh, sorry. When I think of dancing, somehow you don’t automatically spring to mind.”

  “I can dance. This kind of dancing anyway. Let me show you…”

  He propped his cane against the wall, then took her by the hand and had her in dance position before she could protest. She wasn’t exactly relaxed, but she wasn’t exactly resisting. He was encouraged enough to go on with it.

  A cool, rain-driven breeze came in through the front screen door, making the hallway perfect for this kind of thing—whatever this kind of thing might be.

  The melancholy music swirled around them.

  “I’ll Be Seeing You.”

  The song sounded as if the recording had been done in a stairwell, and the echo quality made it seem even more lonely. He was getting the emotion behind it loud and clear. The guy was gone; the girl singer was miserable, in the same way Mrs. Bee must have been miserable.

  Meehan’s hand relaxed in his. He couldn’t believe she was putting up with this. He got a whiff of the perfume she wore. He couldn’t identify it exactly; maybe it was some kind of flowers, maybe not.

  But she smelled so good! Her hair, her skin. He didn’t dare bring her any closer, but, man, he wanted to. He wanted her head on his shoulder. He wanted to feel her body pressed against his. He swayed her gently to the music. Every now and then he even moved his feet. People passing on the street could probably see them. He wondered if Mrs. Bee and Bud Gaffney had ever danced like this. Incredible. After all this time she still missed the guy.

  “She’s so sad tonight,” Meehan said, as if she had been thinking of Mrs. Bee, too.

  “Yeah. But it’s not what you think. It’s just a scar.”

  “Just a scar. I don’t know what that means.”

  “It means scars can hurt sometimes—if you hit them hard enough—but they’re not the wound. That’s healed.”

  “Are we talking about your surgery or Rita?”

  “Both,” he said easily. “And maybe your ex-husband. I care about Rita. I always will. If she ever came to me for help, I’d help her. But she’s a scar, just like the scars on my legs. Scars don’t keep me from dancing—if I try hard enough—or you, either. See?”

  She didn’t answer him; she looked up at him. Even in the dim light he could see her beautiful eyes. The song e
nded, but he didn’t immediately let her go.

  She was still looking at him. He could kiss her now, he thought. He could kiss her, and she’d let him do it.

  He leaned down. His hand slid to the center of her back.

  Kate.

  “Kate?” someone said at the screen door, and she immediately stepped away. He looked around to see. It was the sister—Scottie’s mother.

  “Kate,” the sister said again. “I didn’t mean—I’m sorry.”

  “I have to go,” Meehan said, slipping past him. She walked quickly to the screen door, but she looked back at him once before she disappeared into the rainy summer night.

  Chapter Seven

  Now what?

  He didn’t sleep much. His legs hurt, and he kept thinking about Meehan. Kate.