She went down the stairs, taking them two at a time, and set the table for her mother. Soon her father came in and washed his hands at the sink in the kitchen despite his wife’s protests. “We’ve got a bathroom for that!”
“If this sink is good enough,” Dent grinned, “for my grandpa to wash his hands in, it’s good enough for me.” He dried his hands, came over, kissed her soundly, and she pushed him away. “That’s the trouble with marrying a younger woman,” he said. “They’re hard to train up. I should have married an older woman.” He had married Violet when she was extremely young, and he was a bachelor in his early thirties, but he had aged well, and people often took them to be about the same age.
They all sat down around the old oak table, and Dent asked the blessing, ending by saying, “And let the Wildcats win that football game tonight. Amen.”
“Dent, you ought to be ashamed of yourself!” Violet said with exasperation. “God doesn’t care who wins that ball game.”
“Lots of folks do, though,” Dent said. “Don’t see any harm in prayin’ for a little edge. Louisville’s got a bigger, faster team than Cedarville. Mark and John will have their work cut out for them with all those big linemen crashin’ in.” Mark Stevens was the quarterback and John Tyler played tight end for the Cedarville Wildcats; they had already been visited by college scouts.
Prue smiled at her father, who winked at her, and filled her plate full of green beans, fried okra, new potatoes, and two pork chops. She ate all that was on her plate, listening to her parents talk mostly, and then she polished off an enormous slice of fresh peach pie.
She got up to clean the table as her mother said, “Don’t forget. I’ve got to go to the Missionary meeting tonight.”
“Well, I did forget,” Dent said. He reached over and grabbed Prue’s arm as she started by and said, “Let’s me and you go to that football game tonight.”
Prue said, “It’s too cold to go.”
“You can wear your momma’s fur coat.”
“She cannot wear my fur coat, but she’s got a perfectly good wool jacket. Do you want to go, Prue?”
“I guess so,” Prue said. She helped her mother wash the dishes, then went back upstairs to dress for the ball game. She got ready early and entered the storage room and removed her diary. Coming back, she wrote firmly on the first clean page:
November the 5th, 1962. Daddy wants me to go to the football game with him tonight. Momma’s going to a Missionary meeting, so I guess he doesn’t want to be alone.
She sat there for a moment staring at the page, then put down:
I’d like to see Mark and John win their game. Everyone says they’re going to get scholarships at the University of Arkansas. If they do, I’ll never see them again, I suppose. It’s been a long time, it seems, since Mark took me to that rally where John Kennedy spoke. A lot has happened since then—for one thing I’m two inches taller! Will I ever stop growing? I’m going to be a giant! I’m already taller than nearly every boy in the senior class, but I will say that it’s nice to have filled out a little bit. I was as skinny as a rail at that time, but now my figure’s growing, and I’ve got hopes that even if I am a giant, I’ll be a well-shaped giant.
The sound of the radio filled the room. It was Johnny Horton singing “Sink the Bismarck.” She hummed along with it for a while and thumbed through the pages of her current journal. Kennedy had been elected president, of course, but in April he had nearly lost his popularity when an invasion of Cuba called the Bay of Pigs had failed. She turned a few pages, noted that Gary Cooper, her favorite actor, had died and that Alan Shepard had gone into space. A few pages later she had made a note that Roger Maris had broken Babe Ruth’s home run record.
As she studied the pages, somehow she sensed that things were not quite right. John Glenn had orbited the earth, but the war in Vietnam had gotten worse. Just the previous month, in October, President Kennedy was in trouble again when the Russians were putting missiles into Cuba. She had sat up with her family during what was called the Cuban Missile Crisis, wondering, all of them, afraid that it might mean war. She turned away from that page quickly, not wanting to think about wars, and then read her entry stating that Marilyn Monroe had died. She remembered, for some reason, that the star’s death had made her cry. She was not a fan of Marilyn Monroe, but the actress had seemed so beautiful on the screen, and so full of life, and the thought of her lying cold and dead—a suicide—had struck some chord deep in Prudence Deforge’s heart. She shut the book abruptly, put it back in its hiding place, then went downstairs.
Her mother had left, and her father was shrugging into his red and green mackinaw and pulling a wool stocking cap over his ears. “Well, we better get going.” He stopped to look at this daughter of his critically. “You sure are gettin’ pretty, Prue,” he said, studying the oval face and generous lips of the young woman. “How old are you now? I forget.”
Accustomed to his teasing, she said, “I’m seventeen, and I’m six feet tall. I wish I was six inches shorter. You think I can have the doctor shorten my legs? Cut a part of them out?”
Coming over to stand beside her, Dent, who was six foot three, said, “You’re just right. A man likes a woman with some heft to her.”
“Thank you, Daddy. Now come on, and let’s go to the game.”
The game was much like other high school football games. Partisans for each side seemed to grow crazy when their favorites scored or performed some good feat on defense. Even Prue, who did not understand all the intricacies of football, could appreciate Mark Stevens’ play. He had a grace about him as he took the snap from the center, backed up, waited until the last minute, then fired a short pass right over the line, once in a while lifting one that carried fully fifty yards. Prue winced every time the bullish, opposing linemen knocked him down, but he always got up, and she could see a grin on his face.
It was a low scoring ball game, but the Wildcats won fourteen to ten. When it was over, Dent said, “You want to go down and congratulate Mark?”
“No. I’ll tell him tomorrow on the way to school.”
Leslie Stevens had just finished his pie at supper and was drinking his third cup of coffee, complements of his wife, Joy. He had come to appreciate this wife of his more with every passing year. Joy kept her figure, and better than that, she had turned out to be an excellent mother for Mark. Les himself had grown frustrated at times with Mark when he was very small, but Joy had never wavered. His glance slid around the table, and he felt a satisfaction and a sense of well-being at his family. His business had prospered too. He had gone into electronics, and now everyone in the county knew that if anything electric went bad, Les Stevens was the man to see.
“Did you hear who’s going to be in Fort Smith for a concert next Thursday?” Les asked.
“No. Who is it?”
“It’s Bobby Stuart.”
“Really? Prudence’s cousin?” Joy said with surprise. “I can’t believe he’s coming to a little place like Fort Smith, Arkansas.”
Bobby Stuart had become one of the rising rock-and-roll stars of America. He was the son of Jerry and Bonnie Stuart and the grandson of the late Amos Stuart. Bobby’s brother, Richard, was now a minister in Los Angeles, and his sister, Stephanie, had married a newspaperman named Jake Taylor in Chicago. But it was Bobby who got the headlines.
Les shook his head. “I don’t know whether the Stuarts should be proud of that boy or ashamed. Nice to see a young fella succeed, but this rock and roll—I just don’t like it. Something is wrong. Kids seem to go crazy.”
Mark had been eating his second piece of pie, and he swallowed a huge mouthful to say, “Well, like it or not it’s here to stay. What with Elvis and people going crazy over him. I don’t care much for it myself, but I have to admit it gives me a thrill to see one of Prue’s kinfolk who’s a star.”
“Maybe you’d like to go over and see the boy,” Les said. “I got two tickets.” He fished into his shirt pocket and said, “I traded O. M
. McCoy one of Henrietta’s litter for ’em. I think he got the best of the deal. That’s gonna be a fine coon dog!” He looked over and said, “Would you like these tickets, Mark?”
Mark nodded, his eyes brightening. “I sure would!”
“Wait a minute! You can’t walk to Fort Smith,” Les said.
“Well, maybe I could borrow your car, Dad.”
“You can on one condition.”
“Why, sure. What is it?”
“I think you ought to take Prudence with you. She hardly gets to go anywhere. Hearing her cousin would be a real treat for her.”
Mark hesitated and frowned. “But I’m going steady with Debbie. You know that.”
“I don’t know anything about it. I know if you want to take the car, you’ll take Prudence—and not with Debbie!”
The argument went on for some time, and Les leaned back, saucering his coffee and sipping it noisily, enjoying it. Finally Mark shrugged and said, “Well, all right, Dad, but Debbie’s going to kill me.”
Prue was painting the picture of the sketch she had made of Bandit when she heard her mother calling her. Quickly she moved into the storage room and locked the picture in the armoire. She did not know why she could not show her pictures, or sketches, or paintings to anyone. It had become a very private thing with her. She brought home report cards studded with mostly Cs and Ds, her good grades only in math, so when she had discovered at age eleven that she had a gift for drawing, it was something she kept secluded. She could not explain it to anyone. Perhaps she was afraid that she would fail at that as she did at everything else. At times she knew she was foolish and that she could get help from the art teachers in school, but somehow drawing had become a sanctuary for her. Many times she had gone into her room in tears over her failures in the classroom, but as she began to sketch, or to paint, somehow that all faded away and a sense of well-being and security would arise in her.
Now she went downstairs and found Mark standing in the kitchen talking to her mother. He grinned at her at once, saying, “Guess what you and me are going to do?”
Prue halted, and an alarm went off somewhere in her head. She had been nearly two years getting over what she thought would be her first date with Mark. It had left a tiny scar that was still sensitive, and now she said, “What do you mean? What are we going to do?”
Mark reached into his shirt pocket and pulled out two small pieces of cardboard. “Look at this. Two tickets to your cousin Bobby Stuart’s concert.”
Prue took the tickets, noted the date, then said, “This is in Fort Smith tomorrow.”
“That’s right. Dad says I can have the car, so I want us to go over and take it in. How about it?”
“What about Debbie? Is she going too?”
“Nope. This is just for you and me, Prue. I figure we could go give Bobby all the support we’ve got. Will you go?”
Prue turned and said, “Is it all right, Momma?”
“Why, of course. I think it would be fine, but I suppose you’ll be home late.”
“Probably will,” Mark said cheerfully. “But you know me. Old reliable Mark. I’ll take care of your little girl.” He went over and put his arm around Violet and grinned down at her. “You trust me, don’t you?”
Violet could not help but smile. “Yes I do, but you drive careful, you hear?”
After Mark had left, Violet said, “Isn’t that nice?”
“At least it won’t be like last time.” There was a tone to Prue’s voice that caught her mother’s attention. She knew that the girl had never gotten over her disappointment, and now she said, “Well, this time it’ll be just you and Mark, and you can have a good time.”
As Prue got ready to go to Fort Smith, she remembered the last time she had gone to the same town—to hear Kennedy. This time she had not bought a new dress; the one she had was nice enough. Her mother and father had gone to Little Rock to visit one of her father’s distant relatives. While they were there her mother had taken her to M. M. Cohen’s, which had a tall woman’s section, the first that Prue had ever seen. She had tried on dresses so often that simply did not fit, but here, for the first time in her life, she found that there were dresses made for tall women. The saleswoman had been very helpful, and finally her mother bought her three dresses; Prue had gasped at the price, saying, “Daddy will kill us!”
“You deserve them, Prudence. Now, just see how nice you look.”
Prue stared into the mirror at the dress she had chosen. It was a purple and blue checkered print with a rounded neck, long, narrow sleeves, and a low, hip-hugging waistline, and it fell to midthigh. Her legs were covered with dark blue tights, and she had on a pair of black, low-heeled shoes. She could not help but admit that she looked better than she had two years earlier, for though she was tall, her figure had blossomed, and as she left the room and went downstairs, she was hopeful that Mark would notice.
Mark came up to the door, and when he opened it his eyes brightened. “Hey! We look good, don’t we? Both of us.”
Prue laughed shyly, saying, “Yes, you certainly do.” He was wearing a dark blue sweater with long sleeves and a V-neck where a light blue knit shirt peeked out, a pair of khaki-colored slacks, and two-tone oxfords.
Mark opened the door for her when they were outside at the car, then got into the car beside her. “Here we come, Fort Smith! Hey,” he said, “you remember the last time we went? It was to hear Kennedy.”
“I remember.”
Something about the brevity and terseness of her reply caught Mark, and he suddenly remembered that she had not been happy. But now he said, “Just you and me this time, Prue. I got enough money saved that we can go to that fancy Italian restaurant after the concert.”
The drive to Fort Smith seemed to go by very quickly, and Mark, who could be highly entertaining, kept her laughing most of the way. When they arrived at the Municipal Auditorium it was packed, as they had expected. Shoving their way through the crowd, Mark muttered, “Not exactly what I expected. We look out of place here.”
Prue had already discovered that. She looked vainly for others wearing nice, sensible clothing, but several of the teens looked like what had come to be called “Hippies.” Most of them, boys and girls, wore T-shirts with various signs or symbols on them, some of them downright vulgar; blue jeans, either skin tight or sometimes exceptionally baggy; and penny loafers.
“Well, I guess this is the rock-and-roll crowd,” Mark said, shaking his head. “They look pretty bad to me. Some of them need to take a bath.”
Prue nodded, but before she could speak the program began. An emcee came out and introduced an act that proved to be loud: four men who could jump around the stage expertly while playing guitars. The lyrics were familiar, some of them, for most rock performers latched on to current hits. Prue settled down with Mark, aware that his arm was touching hers and of his pleasant cologne. It felt good that she didn’t have to slump as she did with most boys to try to be shorter, and despite her distaste for some of the music, she enjoyed herself.
Finally Bobby Stuart came on. Prue knew him, of course, for he came to the Stuart family reunions, but he had not been there for the past two years, and he had changed. His auburn hair was longer, his blue-green eyes seemed almost electric, and his handsome face was rougher. It was not his looks alone, but something about his presence that came across. He sometimes stood at the piano and played standing up, his left hand pounding a steady beat while the fingers of his right hand flew over the keyboard. His hair fell in his face, and he moved his shoulders to the rhythm as the house went wild.
Mark watched, with shock, as the crowd seemed to lose all semblance of sanity, mostly young women who screamed and threw their arms around wildly. It interested him, but he raised his voice, and putting his head close to Prue’s ear, said, “I hope you don’t go into a fit like that.”
Aware of his lips almost touching her face, Prue shook her head. “I don’t think there’s any danger. They all act like maniacs. Bobby can
sing and play, but they act like he’s a god of some kind.”
That was the impression that both of them got. There was idolatry in the wave of adulation that swept through the auditorium, and when the act was over, several young girls broke through the guards and came pulling at Bobby, trying to tear his clothing off apparently.
“Come on,” Mark said, standing up. “We’re going back to see your kinfolk.”
Staring at him, Prue shook her head. “They’d never let us in.”
“That’s what you think. Just stick with me, Prudence.”
Mark’s confidence was not unfounded, for after most of the fans had filtered away, he accosted a local policeman, saying, “Go tell Bobby his cousin is out here. Prudence Deforge.”
It worked, somehow, and they were permitted to go back to Bobby’s dressing room. He had taken off his coat and was removing his makeup when they came in. His eyes lit up when he saw Prudence, and he jumped up immediately. “Hey, this is great! Why didn’t you come earlier? We could’ve gone out together.”
“We didn’t want to bother you, Bobby,” Prue said. “This is Mark Stevens, and I guess you remember me.”
Bobby shook Mark’s hand, then turned to Prue. “No, I don’t remember you,” he said. When Prudence looked disappointed, he grinned and said, “I remember a skinny, little girl with some kind of weird bangs, but this is another story.” He put his arms around her and said, “You done growed up on me, Prudence.” He kissed her on the cheek and laughed. “Well, let’s go out and eat. I’m starved.”
Dawn of a New Day Page 3
