Letter From Home

by Carolyn Hart

  Gretchen finished the watermelon. She took another gulp of tea, carefully placed the glass on the tray. It wouldn’t do to set it on the table and make a ring on the wood. “I don’t know, Mrs. Crane. I’ll ask Mr. Dennis.” Ralph Cooley had missed this. Gretchen felt confused. Faye Tatum threatened Clyde? “Are you sure it was Mrs. Tatum who—”

  The gray curls bounced as she nodded vigorously. “I know what I heard. Just like I know what I saw late at night at that house.” She sat up very straight and her cheeks flamed. “No one can call me a liar. That’s what I told Faye when she called—” She gave a tiny gasp and her eyes widened.

  Gretchen frowned. “Mrs. Tatum called you?”

  Mrs. Crane’s face congealed like day-old Jell-O.

  “From the Blue Light?” Gretchen’s voice was eager. “The chief wants to know who she called that night.”

  “Oh, Gretchen.” Mrs. Crane’s voice trembled. “It was awful and she made me so mad. She’d been drinking and she was all upset. She’d talked to Ed Newton and he told her what I’d said to Penelope.” Tears trickled down the worn cheeks. “Oh, how I wish I hadn’t done that. I made up my mind I wouldn’t ever tell anybody about what I’d seen, not ever again. I didn’t tell Chief Fraser. I told him how Faye said she was going to shoot Clyde. That’s the only reason I phoned the police Tuesday afternoon. I didn’t tell him Faye called me from the Blue Light. I don’t want to be mixed up in anything. But when she asked me why I lied about her, I told her it wouldn’t do any good to pretend with me because I saw what I saw and I told her chapter and verse. She got real quiet. I guess she knew it wasn’t any use calling me a liar. She held on to the phone without saying a word. I heard music and voices and somebody singing. Finally she hung up. But none of that matters now. She made mistakes. I don’t know anybody in this lifetime who hasn’t.” Mrs. Crane looked toward the starched curtains at the window, her face drooping in sadness.

  Gretchen frowned. “Chief Fraser said it could be real important to know who she talked to.” But if it was just Mrs. Crane, it didn’t make any difference at all.

  Mrs. Crane folded her plump arms across the starched front of her blue housedress. “Least said, soonest mended.” Her lips folded into a tight line, resistance in every line in her face, in the stiffness of her body. “Don’t you go and tell anybody what I said. You hear now? I’m not going to say anything bad about Faye. She’s dead and gone. Let her rest in peace. She was a good mother and a good neighbor.”

  “Chief Fraser’s scared something might happen to the man.” Something? Gretchen knew better than that but she didn’t want to say it aloud in this calm, clean, homey room, didn’t want to picture Clyde Tatum, unshaven, weary, heart-broken, knowing in her heart what the chief feared: Clyde Tatum killing the man who had made love to his wife. She willed away the image of Clyde, hunkered by the scarred wooden table in the hot, dirty cabin. “You need to tell the chief. He’s trying everything to find out who was coming to see Mrs. Tatum and—”

  “Oh, no.” Mrs. Crane’s eyes were huge. She held up her hands in protest. “No. I won’t talk to him. No, I won’t.” She took a deep breath and the words tumbled faster than starlings skittering in the night sky. “It won’t do Chief Fraser a bit of good to come see me. I know there was a man. I saw him plenty of times, but”—she took a deep breath, clasped her hands tightly together, her eyes big with fear—“who it was is God’s business, not mine. I don’t recall now who it was. And I’ve said all I ever intend to say.” She folded her lips tight as a closed coin purse.

  The silence between them was heavy with fierce decision and puzzled disbelief. Gretchen knew Mrs. Crane had recognized that stealthy visitor, but she’d made up her mind never to tell.

  Mrs. Crane reached for the pitcher of tea, refilled the glasses. “Anyway, nobody needs to hear any more about that. Faye was such a good mother. . . .” Her voice fell away.

  Gretchen placed her napkin beside her plate. “The Gazette ’s going to do a story about people’s memories of Mrs. Tatum. Would you . . .”

  THE SMELL OF apple pie scented the house with cinnamon and nutmeg. Gretchen smiled as she hurried toward the kitchen. “Grandmother?”

  Grandmother turned, her face lighting with love, “Mein Schatz. Oh, you should not have called Cousin Hilda, but I am glad you did. I have rested and cleaned and cooked and everything is ready for your mama to come home on Saturday. I have cut roses and put them in my cut-glass vase to be so pretty for her. I wish they could stay longer but we will have a beautiful day. And for dinner we will have fried chicken and mashed potatoes and gravy and peas and”—she pointed at the pie cooling on the drainboard—“your mama’s favorite.”

  And Gretchen’s favorite. But the prospect of pie and seeing her mother couldn’t erase the hard lump in her stomach. Mama’s friend. Why did she have to bring someone home with her? They always had so little time and now that time wouldn’t be theirs to enjoy.

  Grandmother’s smile slipped away. “Gretchen, what is it? What have I said? What is wrong?”

  Gretchen felt the burn of tears prompted by fatigue and worry and uncertainty. And jealousy. She didn’t want to admit the cold core of her unhappiness. Especially not to Grandmother. But why would Mother bring a man here? Gretchen blinked, forced a smile. Instead of answering, she tossed the Gazette on the table and moved past her grandmother to the sink. Over the rush of water, she washed her hands, bent over, tossed water on her face, spoke fast, “Grandmother, I stopped by the café and helped clean up and get everything ready for tomorrow. I told Cousin Hilda Mother was coming and Cousin Hilda said she would take care of the café Saturday too. She said Cousin Ernst will help. When I left, she was already planning the menu.” Because of the shortages, they offered only two lunch choices. “She’s already decided to fix liver and onions with stewed tomatoes and okra and ham patties with macaroni and cheese.” Gretchen smiled. “She enjoyed herself today.” Cousin Hilda liked being in charge. The only person who didn’t have fun was Mrs. Perkins.

  “Oh,” Grandmother’s blue eyes widened, “I can’t let Hilda do that.”

  Gretchen’s grin was quick. “Grandmother, not even General Patton could order Cousin Hilda around.”

  Grandmother smiled. “Oh, to have the whole day with Lorraine. What a gift from God. We will do something very special for Cousin Hilda. I will have to think. . . .” She walked to the stove, lifted the lid. “Hmm, do you smell the bratwurst, Gretchen? Supper is almost ready.”

  Gretchen hurried to her room and changed into a white cotton blouse and seersucker shorts. When she came back, she set the table, thinking, as she always did, how bare the table looked with only two plates. There used to be her mom and Jimmy and often they’d have friends over, too. But now . . .

  “Mein Gott.” Grandmother’s voice was low and strained.

  Gretchen jerked around. Grandmother was bent over the counter, looking at the front page of the Gazette. Gretchen dropped the silverware, moved to stand close. She touched her Grandmother’s rigid arm.

  Grandmother turned away, walked slowly to her chair, slumped into it.

  “Grandmother . . .” Gretchen didn’t know what to say. She couldn’t let Grandmother know that she’d followed her to the cabin where Clyde Tatum was hiding.

  “Our supper . . .” Grandmother’s voice was vague. Her face crinkled with worry.

  Gretchen served the bratwurst and sauerkraut along with rye bread and spicy mustard. It was one of her favorite meals, but they never served this food at the café anymore.

  Grandmother forced a smile. “What did you do today?”

  “Oh, I was here and there.” The bratwurst was delicious. Gretchen ate fast. “Mostly I talked to people about Mrs. Tatum.” Her face furrowed. “I hope I can write a good story. I learned a lot about her. Nice things, Grandmother.”

  Grandmother put down her fork. “There are wonderful things to remember about Faye. I’m glad you are going to tell people about her. They should remember somethin
g besides the sadness.”

  But even as she told Grandmother bits and pieces about Faye Tatum, Gretchen worried. It was up to her to make people see a woman’s life and not her death. Could she do it?

  GRETCHEN STARED AT the bar of moonlight flaring across her room. She felt hot and uncomfortable lying in bed wearing her blouse and shorts. But she knew Grandmother would go to the cabin tonight to ask Clyde Tatum about the gun. Gretchen’s eyes ached with tiredness. She listened for Grandmother’s step in the hall. Maybe she should tell Grandmother she knew about the cabin. Was it dangerous for Grandmother to go there, to ask about the gun? Gretchen had a sharp, clear memory of Clyde Tatum bent forward, his big hands against his face, the light shining on his muscular arms. He’d sworn he hadn’t killed his wife, but why had he come back to his house for a gun? Did he know who Faye had been seeing? Did he get the gun to go after somebody? That’s what Grandmother would ask him. Surely he wouldn’t hurt Grandmother. Not if he was innocent. . . .

  Gretchen fought to remain awake. What was it Grandmother sometimes said? Bone tired. Now Gretchen understood how it felt to have the night press against her, closing her mind, weighting her bones and muscles, pushing her down, down, down into darkness.

  Gretchen woke. Grandmother . . . where was she? Fear swept Gretchen. She pushed out of her bed, not bothering to be quiet. Gretchen knew she was alone. The house had that unmistakable feel of emptiness. Was this how it felt to be stranded on an island? She was certain no one was near. There was no one to call to, no one to reach out and hold.

  Gretchen slipped on her loafers. She knelt, reached under her bed, and pulled out Jimmy’s .22 pistol and a flashlight that she’d hidden there earlier. She ran to the window. How long ago had Grandmother left? Gretchen dropped to the ground, ran through the night, the pistol in her hand, the flashlight tucked under her arm. The bright moonlight coated the trees and road with cream. She didn’t need the flashlight until she reached the overgrown path to the cabin. In the thick darkness of the woods, she flicked the light on and off, in short quick bursts, and all the while she listened. How could she have fallen asleep? What if he had the gun? God, please don’t let him hurt Grandmother.

  At the clearing, she hesitated, trying to catch her breath in deep, heaving gulps. The moonlight silvered the old wood. No light shone from the front window. But there had been a blanket tacked there. Gretchen eased up the steps, crept across the floor, stopped once as a board creaked. She tiptoed the remaining steps, reached out, felt the roughness of wool and heard the low murmur of voices, almost lost in the rasp of the cicadas.

  The relief was so sharp and sudden, it almost made Gretchen dizzy. Grandmother’s voice! She was all right. Gretchen knelt, bent close to the window, cautiously pulled the edge of the blanket away from the frame, saw the flickering golden glow, smelled the rankness of kerosene. She stiffened. Clyde Tatum and Grandmother stood by the front door, only a few feet from her, so near Gretchen saw the thick black bristles on Tatum’s unshaven face and the soiled patches and stains on his khaki uniform and the taut muscles in his powerful arms, his hands clenched into bulging fists. Gretchen’s fingers tightened on the butt of Jimmy’s gun. Her eyes scoured Clyde. The gun . . . But his hands, the fingers tight against the palms, held nothing. His uniform crumpled against his body, the pockets empty. Gretchen’s gaze swept the counter and the stove and the rickety wooden table, two pans, the remnants of a meal, the lantern, Grandmother’s picnic basket, a child’s Big Chief tablet with ruled pages, a couple of pencils, a beer bottle, a rusted pie tin overflowing with cigarette butts, a package of Lucky Strikes, a copy of the Gazette. No gun. No gun anywhere. Her tight muscles relaxed.

  “. . . when I find out who killed her . . .” His voice grated.

  “Oh, Clyde.” Grandmother reached up, touched his grimy cheek. “I beg of you. Give this up. Come with me. We shall tell the police—”

  “Tell the police!” The words exploded like shotgun pellets. “Yeah, I tell them somebody else killed Faye and they’ll throw me in jail. No, I’ve got to find out more. There’s some guys I know who were at the Blue Light. I called ’em today and they didn’t want to talk to me, but I was asking if they saw anybody paying special attention to Faye Tuesday night.” He took a deep breath. His face glistened with sweat. It was hot on the porch but Gretchen knew the cabin sweltered, the windows swathed for darkness, no air to stir the fug of the lamp, no breeze to lessen the oppressive weight of the heat. He lifted his clenched hands, looked at them, slowly let go, his shoulders sagging, his hands falling limp to his sides. “I’ve made a start”—he gestured toward the open tablet on the scarred table—“I only need a little more time. I was out last night. I tried to catch Ed Newton, but”—he heaved a tired sigh—“there was always somebody around. I kept watching his house and I’ve got it figured out. I’m going to talk to him—just him and me—and he’s going to tell me where he heard this stuff about Faye. Maybe some guy had been bothering her and she told him to get lost and he came after her.” His voice trailed away, words he didn’t believe, wanted to believe. “Anyway, I’ve got to find out more.”

  A June bug buzzed near Gretchen. She flicked away the beetle. How odd that she was almost close enough to Clyde Tatum to reach out and touch him and she held within her the knowledge he sought, knowledge he was willing to risk arrest to discover. What good would it do if he spoke to Ed Newton? Even if Clyde learned about Mrs. Crane, Gretchen knew she would never tell him the name of the man she had seen entering the Tatum house. She wouldn’t tell the police and she wouldn’t tell Clyde. She was grieved and sorrowful that she’d ever told anybody.

  “. . . I can talk to whoever it was. And if he hurt Faye . . .”

  “Then it will be time to go to the police.” Grandmother clasped her hands together. “Chief Fraser is a good man, Clyde. He will listen.”

  Clyde rubbed at his face. “As soon as I find out, I’ll tell him. Now, you better get home. I didn’t want you to come here again.”

  Grandmother’s hand plucked at the collar of her dress. “I had to come. That gun . . . who could have taken it, Clyde?”

  He rubbed his cheek, frowned. “I don’t know. It doesn’t make any sense. Faye ran to the closet and got it. God, she was mad at me.” He put his hands together, stared at them, cracked his knuckles. “She said she was going to shoot me and then she threw the gun across the room. It banged on the sofa and fell on the floor. That’s when she screamed at me to get out. And I went. I was mad, too, so mad everything was in a red haze and I was shaking. It said in the paper that Mrs. Crane called the police. Maybe somebody was on the party line and heard about the gun. But I promise, it wasn’t me who got it. Maybe a kid broke in, just for the hell of it. Maybe Faye left the gun on the floor and whoever broke in found it there.”

  “They think you have the gun. That story in the paper”—Grandmother shook her head—“it makes you sound as if you would hurt people. The police and the men hunting for you will have guns. Clyde, we should go now and tell them it wasn’t you.” Grandmother clasped his strong, tanned arm.

  “Not yet.” His face hardened. “I got to talk to Ed Newton. But I can do that tomorrow. Or tomorrow night at the latest. Then I’ll go to the police. I promise.” He gave her a quick, gentle hug. “You go home now. It will be all right.”

  Grandmother turned toward the door.

  Gretchen ran to the edge of the porch, jumped. She reached the fringe of the woods and plunged into darkness.

  . . . That’s when I started drinking at night—I took a bottle of bourbon from the house and hid it in the woods. I chewed Sen-Sen the day Mama was buried. God, what an awful day. Aunt Darla was a bitch, telling me she’d always known Mama would come to a bad end, that the family warned Mama not to be an artist. That very morning I started thinking about having a drink so I could forget. That’s what I tried to do—forget. But I never, ever could. Whisky and men, starting that summer . . .

  CHAPTER 7

  . . . IN MOTHE
R’S EYES and the way she’d hugged me, held me so tight. I remembered the scent of her perfume and the feel of her thin arms and the sweet sweep of her breath against my cheek. I smiled and felt warm despite the cold eddy of the March wind, rustling the bare limbs of the cottonwoods, swirling leaves across the graves. We shared so much laughter, Mother and I, and she was always so proud of me. Through my life, I wore that pride like a shield, deflecting envy, jealousy, uncharitableness, indifference, hatred. Her grave wasn’t in this winter-browned cemetery, but she was here with me now, her gamine face radiating delight, her peal of laughter ringing in my heart. Perhaps it is only the old who know that the unseen is as real as the seen. I knew that. I knew, too, that nothing could alter the past, but it was important to know truth. I was still seeking truth. . . .

  “IT ’ S GOING TO be a hell of a dog and pony show.” Ralph Cooley snickered, his thin lips drawn back, his nicotine-stained teeth dingy yellow like the bared fangs of the stray dogs slinking away from the butcher shop when Mr. Heinrich yelled at them. “Everybody’s mad as hell, the mayor, the chief, the sheriff, the county attorney, the blue-noses who think anybody who’d go inside the Blue Light’s tainted by hell. . . .”

  Gretchen rolled in a fresh sheet of copy paper, tried to ignore Cooley’s cough-punctuated chatter as he typed, smoked, relished the coming city council meeting. In her wastebasket, wadded-up sheets puffed like cheerleaders’ pom-poms. She tried another beginning:

  Five friends remembered Faye Tatum . . .

  She ripped out the sheet, squeezed it, added another crumpled ball. Mrs. Hopper couldn’t be called a friend. There had been no warmth in her rough voice. Her observations were unemotional, brusque, her tone remote.

  “. . . going to bring back the dogs, see if they can pick up a trail from the Tatum house. Everybody seems pretty clear that Clyde ran into the woods after he got the gun. Durwood says the chief’s a day late and a dollar short, he should’ve . . .”