Sweet Everlasting

by Patricia Gaffney

  But tonight she’d let Eppy browbeat her into coming, and the reason wasn’t because she was too shy to stand up to her. The reason, silly and exciting and all but unmentionable, was the secret hope that if she came, she might see Dr. Wilkes again.

  Eppy caught her eye just then—she was dancing with Mr. Odell, in a green Mother Hubbard that didn’t hide from anybody the fact that she was in the family way—and Carrie waved and sent her a big smile back. She put a lot into the smile, to set Eppy at ease; otherwise she was just as likely to leave Frank where he stood, march over, and demand to know why Carrie wasn’t having fun. Sometimes, as much as Carrie loved her, Eppy was a trial.

  “Well, hi, Carrie.”

  Spring Mueller smiled at her, even gave her a friendly pat on the arm. She had her friend Sarah Staples with her, who nodded to Carrie and then went back to scanning the dance floor. “I’m surprised to see you here,” said Spring. “I don’t believe I’ve ever seen you at one of these dances before.”

  Carrie smiled, shrugged, nodded. She found her notebook and wrote, My first time.

  “Mm.” Spring barely glanced at the note; her attention had already wandered. The two girls reminded Carrie of kingfishers hovering over a fast-moving stream, trolling for prey. Spring had on a pink and white flowered dress Carrie knew she’d ordered out of a catalogue. She was the lawyer’s daughter—too rich to ever have to make her own clothes. She had yellow-white hair she wore in ringlets, with little curls on her forehead that were always neat, round, and perfect. If Carrie lived to be a hundred, she could never get her hair to look like that.

  “I mean to do something with my life,” she was saying to her friend Sarah, continuing a conversation they must’ve started earlier. “Not just marry the first boy who asks me and then settle down in—Wayne’s Crossing.” She turned slightly. “I was just telling Sarah that I’ve been accepted at the Whitson Teachers’ College, Carrie. I’ll be leaving in July, to stay with my aunt in Harrisburg until the fall term. I’m terribly excited about it. Educating young minds is my calling, I truly do believe.”

  Carrie smiled, trying to communicate congratulations. Spring smiled back, even as she flicked a glance at her that Carrie had seen before: an up-and-down once-over that pitied and dismissed her at the same time. Just then Walter Baugh tapped Spring on the shoulder and asked her if she cared to dance. Walter’s father owned Baugh’s Pharmacy. Spring excused herself prettily and went off with Walter, and a few seconds later Sarah wandered off, too. “Bye, Carrie,” she remembered from twelve feet away, calling over her shoulder. Carrie lifted her hand, but Sarah didn’t see, she’d already turned away.

  Why was being alone in a crowd so much worse than being alone by yourself? Nobody was looking at her—why should they?—but if they did they’d see she was alone, and then they’d either think, Well, what else? or they’d feel sorry for her. Either way, she didn’t think she could stand this much longer.

  If she forgot about the people and just concentrated on the music, she could almost enjoy herself. Through the bobbing heads of the dancers she could see the band, the “Blue Ridge Shufflers.” It consisted of Mr. Dattilio, the barber, sawing on a fiddle; Max Hummer playing the banjo; Chester Yeakle, the shoe, boot, and harness repairman, dancing by himself while he squeezed an accordion; and—most wonderful of all—Miss Essis, the Sunday school teacher, sitting in a chair and stroking the most beautiful music out of a great big harp between her knees. Carrie’s toes began tapping; she closed her eyes and let the lively melody come right into her, the same way she could let birdsong or the sound of wind in the trees flow into her whole body. How pretty it was—how lucky Mr. Dattilio and Miss Essis and the others were to be able to make music whenever they liked. She thought of the time when she could sing, when she and her father had sung “Nellie, Don’t Let Me Down” at the top of their lungs, while he drove the wagon to the next town they were going to live in. Her mother would say, “If you two don’t stop that screeching, you’ll paralyze the horse.” But before long she’d join in, too, and in the end they’d all be laughing and singing as loud as you please.

  The music stopped, and Mr. Dattilio called out that the Shufflers were going to take a little break. Couples started drifting off the floor. Carrie saw Eugene Starkey with Teenie Yingling; they were holding hands. And here came Eppy, heading straight for her and looking put out about something. Carrie put on another bright smile, anticipating what the something was.

  “Carrie Wiggins, you haven’t moved from that spot since you got here! How do you expect to have any fun if you don’t mingle? Now’s a good time, now that the band’s taking a rest.”

  Eppy only meant to be kind, but oh Lord, this was awful. With her arm held tight so she couldn’t slip away, Carrie let Eppy drag her around two sides of the empty dance floor. They had to stop every few feet so Eppy could greet friends and chat for a minute. She did her best with each group to include Carrie in the conversation, but of course it didn’t work; It didn’t seem like such a hard notion to grasp, not to Carrie—why couldn’t Eppy see that a person who couldn’t talk could never “mingle”? She wanted to disappear, fall through the floor and get swallowed up and never be seen again, she hated, hated, hated this …

  She heard the warm, rumbling sound of a man’s laugh, and the skin on her arms got tight and began to tingle. He was here.

  She had to give Eppy’s hand a little jerk to get her to let go, so she could turn around and look for him. There he was—beside the punch table in the corner. He wore a dark brown coat over tan trousers, and a yellow shirt with a white collar. Ordinary clothes, but they looked anything but ordinary on him. They were richer-looking than other people’s clothes, that was one thing. But mostly it was the way he stood, strong and tall and graceful, and the easy, confident way he moved that set him above all the other men she’d ever seen. He had one hand in his trouser pocket, and he was using the other to gesture with. Whatever he was saying was making the half-dozen men gathered around him laugh and grin and slap each other on the shoulders.

  “Why, there’s Dr. Wilkes,” Eppy noticed, hearing all the hilarity. She caught Carrie’s arm again and started toward the men. Carrie wanted to hang back, but Eppy squeezed her way right into the middle of the knot and said how do you do to everybody.

  It was clear to Carrie that they were interrupting a purely masculine conference of some kind. She recognized most of the men; they said hi to Eppy and nodded to her. But when Dr. Wilkes smiled, looked her straight in the eye, and said, “Hello, Carrie,” a jolt of excitement streaked through her like an electric shock.

  “So anyway,” Hoyle Taber said, sounding impatient. “Tell what it was like charging up that hill, Doc. Bet you pinked plenty of them Spaniards. Come on, tell it again.”

  “Oh hell, Hoyle,” Dr. Wilkes laughed, “you could tell it yourself by now.”

  “Well, Ed here hasn’t heard it, or Taylor either. Come on, Doc. You’re runnin’ up San Juan Hill, minus your horse because it drowned swimming ashore, while the ship’s band was playin ‘There’ll Be a Hot Time in the Old Town Tonight.’ ”

  “That’s right—”

  “And Roosevelt wouldn’t ride his horse because he wanted to walk with his men, sweatin’ like a pig in his yellow mackintosh.”

  “He walked with us from Daiquiri to Siboney, that’s right. And—”

  “And you slept on your ponchos in the hundred-degree heat, beatin’ off red ants and mosquitoes, eatin’ fried mangoes, and drinkin’ fire-boiled coffee and black market rum.”

  “Who’s telling this story, Hoyle?”

  “You are, Doc. So, go on. You routed ’em at La whatever it was, and then—”

  “Las Guásimas. We didn’t rout them, we survived an ambush and outlasted them.” Carrie thought his wide, handsome mouth got a fixed look to it, and his eyes, which had been laughing before, turned somber. “Hamilton Fish was the first man to die. A fellow named Capron was the second. Six more fell after that, all hit by high-speed M
auser bullets. Thirty-four troopers were wounded before it was over. We buried our dead the next day in a common grave.”

  Nobody said anything for a minute.

  “Okay, but get to the part about the charge,” Hoyle urged. “Teddy’s on his horse, even though the bullets are rainin’ down like—like—”

  “Rain,” Dr. Wilkes continued obligingly. He folded his arms. “Thousands of them, ripping down in sheets through the grass and the reeds. We couldn’t see the Spanish snipers up in the palm trees because their uniforms were green and their powder was smokeless. There wasn’t any cover except the mosquito bogs. We kept waiting for the order to charge, men taking hits everywhere around us.” He got that odd expression in his eyes again and looked straight at Hoyle. “Bucky O’Neill took one in the mouth, about a minute after he bragged to his mate, ‘The Spanish bullet ain’t made that’ll kill me.’ It blew the back of his head off.”

  Even Hoyle got pale for a second. “Okay, but then Roosevelt says charge, and that’s when you gave ’em hell.”

  Carrie thought Dr. Wilkes looked exhausted all of a sudden. He dredged up a half smile for Hoyle, though, and said, “That’s when we gave ’em hell. We just kept coming, crawling up the grass slopes, pounding and pounding, until they could see we weren’t going to go away. When we saw them jumping out of the trees and running, we knew it was over.”

  “And you took a shot in the leg, but you kept on running.”

  “I what?”

  “Didn’t you? And when you got to the top, the trenches were filled with Spanish corpses, and the rest of ’em were runnin’ away like ants. And our guys—”

  “When I got hit, Hoyle, I didn’t do any more running. It was a glorious victory, but it got celebrated without me.”

  “Oh, yeah. Okay, but you heard what happened afterward.”

  “Yes, I heard. Eighty-nine Rough Riders died that day. We lost more men than any other regiment in the cavalry. “

  “And then Santiago surrendered without a fight,” Hoyle insisted. “Right? Come on, Doc. Finish it.”

  But Dr. Wilkes pushed away from the table where he’d been leaning and stood up straight. “You finish it, Hoyle,” he said shortly, but still smiling. “You tell it better than I do anyway. “He gave Hoyle a slap on his scrawny shoulder. “Besides, I’m parched from all this bragging. I need some punch—that is, if Stoneman hasn’t already spiked it.”

  That brought a relieved-sounding laugh, and the group of men started to break up.

  The Blue Ridge Shufflers had returned and were tuning up their instruments—a pretty kind of music all by itself, thought Carrie. Eppy let go of her arm and went straight over to Dr. Wilkes, who was standing by himself now, drinking a glass of punch. Go over with her, Carrie ordered herself; maybe he’ll talk to you. But she couldn’t make her feet move. Carrie Wiggins, you are the backwardest, bird-heartedest mouse brain in this whole town! The story he’d told had moved her, at the same time it had made her feel silly, for until now she’d been as guilty as Hoyle Taber of wanting to believe that the war had been nothing but glorious, thrilling, and splendid. So she was a ninny as well as a mouse brain.

  Maybe she could write him a letter. Except for her spelling, she was good at letters. She could thank him for his bravery and for the sacrifices he’d made for his country. She might even confess that she hadn’t realized before how little “glory” there might be in a brutal, bloody battle, even if in the end your side won.

  Well. She’d seen him, even heard him talk; the evening was a success. She could go home now, and tomorrow she really might write him a letter. She clasped her hands under her chin and stared hard at Dr. Wilkes one last time; this memory would have to last and last, for she might not see him again for weeks, maybe months.

  Her fervent gaze wavered; her cheeks started to burn. Was he looking at her? No—behind her, surely; she stayed motionless and resisted the urge to turn around and see who he was smiling at. He and Eppy said last words to each other, and then he started walking toward her. She didn’t move a muscle; she felt like a rock with moss growing on it. He seemed to have her in his gaze, but if she was mistaken, standing motionless as a stone was the best defense against humiliation she could think of.

  “Hello.”

  He didn’t say it in passing; he came to a full stop in front of her and didn’t look around at anybody else. Her throat dried up; she felt herself blushing like a child. He was so tall, as tall as Broom; but unlike Broom he was strong and vigorous and athletic. Elegant, that was the word. His dark hair curled a little at the ends, and it was longer than the last time she’d seen him. She bet he thought he needed a haircut, and just hadn’t had time for it. But she didn’t think so; she liked that friendly shagginess, because it made him look young and carefree. And handsome. But he was already the handsomest man she’d ever known.

  “It’s good to see you. I didn’t know you came to these things. Are you enjoying yourself?”

  She nodded automatically. She was enjoying herself now.

  “I’ve still got that puppy. Couldn’t get anybody else to take him. He hasn’t got a name yet. I’ve been calling him T.B.D., thanks to Mrs. Quick. B.D. for short.”

  She looked quizzical.

  “ ‘That Blasted Dog.’ ”

  She grinned, and covered her mouth with the knuckles of one hand, then fumbled in her pocket for her notebook. You could name him Lou, she wrote.

  “Lou?”

  Because of how you got him.

  Now it was his turn to look puzzled.

  Pressing down a smile, she scrawled, In lou of payment, and then blushed to the roots of her hair when he threw back his head and laughed, long and loud.

  “Lou it is. I like it. Here, Lou!” he called experimentally. “It works. Thanks, Carrie.”

  She mouthed, You’re welcome. Her delighted heart felt light as a feather.

  He looked past her shoulder. She stood straighter, girding herself for good-bye. “Would you like to dance?”

  She couldn’t believe her ears. Her blood beat faster—it was celebrating. Unable to stop smiling, she shook her head.

  “No?” He looked surprised.

  She wrote in her notebook, Thank you. I wish I could but I can’t.

  “Why can’t you? Your new shoes pinch your toes?”

  She looked down at her tattered old brogans, then back up with a grin. No, she mouthed.

  “You’re tired because you were out all last night dancing?” he teased.

  She wanted to laugh at that. She mimed No again.

  “You don’t like me?” His eyes twinkled; he tried to make his lips droop in a pout, but they just wouldn’t go that way.

  That was the silliest guess of all. Carrie flushed, and bent her head over her notebook to hide her face. I can’t dance, she wrote.

  He scowled down at the message. Then he took the pencil out of her hand, closed it inside the notebook, and slipped them both back into her skirt pocket. “I’ll teach you.”

  She stepped back, startled, heart pounding. While she was shaking her head, he reached out and took her hand.

  “It won’t hurt,” he said in his low, thrilling voice. They were the same words he’d said that day he’d touched her throat and made her fall in love with him. “I’ll show you right here. Nobody will look at us.” He took her left hand and put it on top of his shoulder, still holding her right. When he slid his other hand around her waist and rested it on the small of her back, she had to quit breathing.

  “This is a waltz,” he told her. “This is the easiest dance of all. Nice and slow.” She was only dimly aware of the soft, sad song the band was playing now. “Move back when I move toward you, Carrie. That’s it, your right and my left. Now over here. Up again, that’s it, and now over here, back where we started. Perfect. I think you’re a natural at this. Shall we do it again?”

  She beamed at him briefly, then frowned down at her feet, concentrating. They were making a little box, she saw. She didn’t step on h
is toes, but she was stiff, too conscious of herself, and of every inch of herself that was touching him. But gradually she started to relax, beguiled by the music, and his jokes, and his constant encouragement.

  “Don’t look at your feet anymore. Look at me.”

  She did—and immediately stumbled. He caught her and pulled her closer, until she could feel the whole front of his body against the whole front of hers. After that she never missed a step, which was strange because she completely lost track of what her feet were doing.

  “This isn’t so bad, is it?”

  It’s wonderful, she wished she could say. She never wanted it to end. His blue-violet eyes were dark now, and in them she saw the deep down kindness she was used to, and something else, too—an attentiveness that was new, a special concentration on her alone.

  His lips curved in a smile, and all at once she realized she was staring at him like a dreamy-eyed fool. But she couldn’t look away. She smiled back, giving her heart away. She didn’t know a thing about flirting or hiding her real feelings. What did he think of her? She’d have given anything to know. Her impossible love welled up, like a creek flooding its banks—and finally she did have to look away, to save herself from drowning.

  You are a melon-headed fool, Carrie Wiggins. He doesn’t think of you at all. He asked you to dance because he’s a nice man and you were standing right next to him. When this is over he’ll forget about it, he won’t lie awake all night remembering it, second by second, and tomorrow he won’t think of every detail all over again.

  He stopped moving. She came to an awkward halt in his arms, perplexed because the music was still playing. “What’s wrong?” he asked, not letting go of her.