Letter From Home

by Carolyn Hart

  “You can’t take that—”

  “I’m going to take it. I am.” She moved across the floor, her face set and hard, stopped by Gretchen. “You and your grandmother will sit with us, won’t you? And come in the car? There’s room. There’s so much room.” Her voice was uneven. “There’s only me and Aunt Darla. Please, Gretchen, say you’ll come.”

  MRS. PECK TAUGHT music at her house. When a student played, she turned on the metronome. Gretchen remembered trying hard to keep up and always falling behind, the heavy tick sounding louder and louder. When Mrs. Peck played hymns for funerals, she wore a black hat and black dress and her thick arms moved like pistons, mechanical and lifeless. Now she pounded out “Onward, Christian Soldiers.”

  They sat—the four of them, Barb’s aunt and Barb and Grandmother and Gretchen—in the family room that overlooked the pews. The heat was suffocating, thick and heavy as the dusty purple velvet curtains at each end of the opening into the chapel. In the chapel, only a handful of mourners sat in wooden pews, their faces waxy in the dim gloom beneath yellowish lights. Of those, only two were young, Jim Dan Pulliam and a soldier. Gretchen was puzzled. Where were Barb’s friends? Barb was popular though a lot of the girls were jealous of the way the boys flocked around her. She’d always had plenty of friends. But murder changed everything.

  Gretchen’s gaze moved from face to face, in part to avoid looking at the white casket. The casket was closed. Gretchen was glad. She’d not attended many funerals, but she remembered the slow, shuffling lines that inched past and the awful empty grayness of a dead face. She didn’t understand looking at a dead person. Why remember anyone that way? She sat in the hot, fetid room and was glad she didn’t remember her father’s funeral, not really. She remembered the smell of flowers and her Mother’s icy stillness, but not the casket or a dead man. She remembered her father striding toward her, picking her up, swinging her in the air, his face alight with love. And with life. Maybe someday she would blot out the ugliness of Faye sprawled broken on her living room floor and remember Faye’s laughter on a summer evening as she played jacks with Barb and Gretchen, her narrow face alive and eager, her artist’s eyes seeing more than anyone ever realized.

  Reverend Byars, his face flushed, was waving a manicured hand and shouting, “. . . our sister, if her heart is repentant, will find forgiveness and peace. And someday, brothers and sisters, we too . . .” Gretchen blocked out his words, refused to listen. She was intensely aware of Grandmother’s soft sobs, a handkerchief pressed to her face, and the rigidity of Mrs. Murray, her bulky body still as stone, though tears slipped down her hard face, and, most of all, Barb, who trembled like a brown leaf swept by a November wind.

  Gretchen refused to hear even though Reverend Byars’s voice rose higher and higher. She stared through into the chapel, her gaze moving from person to person among those whom she knew. . . .

  Martha Crane plucked at the strand of pearls at her throat. She stared at the casket, her expression forlorn.

  Lucille Winters opened and shut the clasp of her purse. She looked older in her Sunday dress than she had at Jessop’s Five and Dime. She kept shaking her head and frowning.

  Betty Steele’s head was bent, perhaps in thought, perhaps in prayer. She held a rosary in one hand.

  Mr. Dennis’s suit coat was bunched up around his thick neck. His arms were folded across his front. His wrinkled skin was more pronounced when he frowned. He looked irritable and impatient, his grizzled eyebrows a thick straight line, his lips pursed. As clearly as if he’d shouted, Gretchen knew his thoughts. If he’d had a copy pencil, he would have marked through Reverend Byars.

  A strand of chestnut hair fell across Jim Dan Pulliam’s face. His worn white shirt was mended but he wore a tie. Occasionally, he lifted a graceful hand to smooth back his hair and then his expression for an instant was clearly visible. His eyes were lifted to the sunlight streaming in a cascade of color through a stained-glass window. The brilliant shaft poured over one end of the wooden casket, making the white paint glisten bright as dime-store pearls.

  A chunky young soldier, his khaki uniform crisp, sat next to Jim Dan. The soldier’s brown hair was cut short, his freckled face sunburned. Every so often, his eyes slipped toward the family room. He held his uniform cap in big-knuckled hands, nervously turned the cap over and over.

  Behind them, Ralph Cooley sprawled in a pew, arms widespread, legs outthrust. He wore his hat on the back of his head. His flaccid face, worn by years of too little sleep, wrinkled in a sardonic sneer as Reverend Byars concluded, smacking his Bible on the podium, “. . . know that hell awaits us if we pursue the path of damnation.”

  The last rumble of his voice still hung in the air when Mrs. Peck began to hammer out the first stanza of “The Old Rugged Cross.”

  In the last pew, Chief Fraser lifted a big hand to rub his rough-skinned cheeks. His imposing bulk made the bench look small, the space confined. He looked like an old crow waiting to scavenge, bright cold eyes darting about the room.

  At the other end of the last row, as far from the chief as possible, sat Sheriff Moore and County Attorney Donny Durwood. Moore’s watchful face, the bones jutting at odd angles, turned toward Durwood as he bent his head to whisper. The county attorney looked tired, his cheeks sagging with fatigue. But he blinked his eyes and listened intently, finally nodding.

  The door to the family room opened and the funeral home director, pink face solemn, natty blue suit tight across his chest, stepped inside. “Mrs. Murray, Barb, if you wish to go by the casket now . . .”

  Barb reached out, grabbed Gretchen’s arm, clung so tight it hurt. “I can’t. . . .” It was a thick deep whisper.

  Mrs. Murray stood, started forward.

  Barb still sat in the cushiony chair, her fingers digging into Gretchen’s skin.

  Grandmother held out her hands. “Come, girls.” She made a soft sighing sound. “I will be with you both. And please to remember that our lovely Faye is not here. She is in heaven with Jesus. ‘And God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying; neither shall there be any more pain.’” She took Barb’s hand.

  Mrs. Murray waited in the hallway. “Come on. Let’s get this over.”

  Barb clutched Grandmother’s arm and ignored her aunt as they walked slowly through the door into the chapel and toward her mother’s casket. It wasn’t until they stopped beside the casket with its single spray of white flowers that Gretchen saw the paintbrush in Barb’s hand. She reached out, pressed the brush against the wood, held it there for an instant. “Mama . . .”

  COTTON WOOD LEAVES RUSTLED. Splotches of shade from an oak splashed across the graves. Squirrels fled the mourners and blue jays quarreled. Dirt clods mounded beside the new grave site. The dank smell of disturbed earth mingled with the summer scent of new-mown grass. The rasp of cicadas rose and fell.

  The small circle of listeners, sweltering in the heat, was held captive by the red-faced minister. Barb’s aunt glanced furtively at her wristwatch. Mrs. Crane’s worn violet dress sagged against her, making her appear small and defeated. Lucille Winters tugged at an earring as if it were too tight, moved restively on her high heels. Mrs. Steele patted at her face with a lace handkerchief but her expression was as serene as if she were in her class kitchen, watching the girls mix and measure and cook. Jim Dan Pulliam and the young soldier stood a little separate. The sun burnished Jim Dan’s hair. He wasn’t like the others. Not to Gretchen. Was it because he was young? Or was it the way he stood, so easy and graceful, his beautiful hands hanging loose in the summer sun? Did she think he was different because he was an artist? Or because she found him attractive, wished she knew him better? The soldier was young, too, but there was nothing remarkable about him. He hunched his stocky shoulders, his cap tight in his hand, and watched Barb, his eyes squinting against the sunlight, his lips folded tight. Donny Durwood’s face glistened with sweat. He mopped his cheek with a crumpled handkerchief. His
wrist poked from the sleeve of his navy blue suit coat and sunlight danced on a gold cuff link. Sheriff Moore stood unmoving beside the county attorney. The sheriff’s khaki shirt was short-sleeve but he, too, looked hot. His dark-skinned drooping face was unreadable, but his eyes darted from person to person, probed the thick grove of trees. Of the officials, only Chief Fraser stared at the casket poised above the grave. Deep lines scored the chief’s heavy face. He looked exhausted. And sad. Ralph Cooley’s wrinkled hat was tilted down onto his face. He scrawled rapidly on a handful of copy paper. Mr. Dennis’s suit coat hung open. He fingered his heavy watch chain impatiently.

  Not even the shrill bursts of the cicadas could overcome the impassioned rhetoric of Reverend Byars. Gretchen tried to block away his words but they battered against her, harsh and discordant as a dropped pot lid bouncing on the kitchen floor.

  “. . . hellfire awaits sinners. We have to thrust away from us the desire that wrecks lives. And can lead to death.” He clapped his hands together.

  Gretchen wished she knew what Mr. Dennis was thinking. He stood almost opposite her, across the yawning darkness of the grave, his bristly eyebrows in a tight line, his cheeks puffed, his lips pursed. Was he thinking, as she was, that the clap of Reverend Byars’s hands wasn’t scary or impressive or imposing as the preacher probably believed? No, the plop, scarcely heard above the volume of the cicadas, was squishy, like a dishcloth slapped on a tabletop.

  “. . . this poor sinner must now regret the path that led to her destruction. Had she fulfilled her solemn promises made before God and man, she would be here today, a wife and mother. But she chose to flout the laws of God—”

  “No, no, no!” Barb’s deep cry exploded.

  Reverend Byars’s thick lips hung apart, like the flaccid mouth of a gaffed fish. For an instant, no one moved or spoke. The cicadas’ rasp burred into Gretchen’s mind, like steel shrieking against concrete.

  Wild-eyed, trembling, Barb backed away from the grave. “Mama didn’t. I tell you, it’s a lie. I won’t stand here and listen. I won’t.”

  “Barb, shut your mouth.” Darla Murray’s face twisted in fury. “Get yourself over here. Don’t disgrace us even more. Faye’s done that already.”

  Barb hunched her thin shoulders, clenched her hands tight. Suddenly, she whirled and ran unevenly toward the woods, favoring her hurt foot.

  “Barb, come back.” Darla Murray’s shout was sharp and ugly.

  The young soldier bolted after Barb, caught her at the edge of the woods. He pointed to the road where a half dozen cars were parked.

  “The wrath of God follows those who defy him!” Reverend Byars shouted. “There is a place in hell for those who will not hear. Let us bow our heads in prayer. Dear Lord, forgive those who . . .”

  The sound of a car motor drowned out the words. Dust roiled on the cemetery road.

  THE FUNERAL HOME car pulled onto the rough Tatum drive.

  As Gretchen reached for the door handle, Darla Murray snapped, “The car can take you home.” She stared at the house. “No sign of Barb.” She sniffed. “Well, it’s her look-out. If the girl won’t behave, there’s nothing I can do. The preacher said he’d take her in. Well, he’s welcome. Not that I wouldn’t have her if I could. But I can’t. Ted and I are squeezed in a tiny apartment near the base and I don’t have any room at all. And it looks like he’s going to be shipping out soon. I’ll stay there ’cause I’ve got a good job on the base. So tell her—” A heavy sigh. “I’m afraid it’s too late to tell her anything.” She clambered awkwardly out of the backseat.

  Grandmother leaned forward. “Barb can stay with us.”

  Mrs. Murray lifted her shoulders in a shrug. “She has to stay somewhere. And the preacher may not take her now.” She closed the door. As the car began to move, she brushed back a tangle of damp hair. “Tell her I’ll write.”

  The black car backed out, turned, took them to their house. Gretchen settled her grandmother in her bedroom, insisted she rest. “I’ll fix supper.” She was standing at the kitchen sink when the dusty green coupe backed out of the Tatum drive. Gretchen made tuna fish salad with plenty of pickles and onion and celery and Miracle Whip. She sliced tomatoes, washed lettuce, spread the tuna fish on thick white crusty bread, dished up the fruit salad, poured fresh iced tea.

  They sat at the white kitchen table. Gretchen was suddenly ravenous. Grandmother sipped her tea and ate slowly, her face weary and abstracted.

  Gretchen speared a dill pickle, put potato chips on her plate. “I don’t blame Barb for running away. I would have, too.” If somebody talked about her mother that way . . . Gretchen had a sudden sick feeling. Her mother was alive and eager and coming home tomorrow. Faye Tatum would never come home and Clyde was hiding. Oh, poor Barb. “Reverend Byars was saying awful things. I talked to Lucille Winters for my story. She said it couldn’t be true about Mrs. Tatum, that she was seeing another man.”

  Grandmother’s face lightened. “And that is in your story?”

  “Yes, it’s in tonight’s paper.” How could she have forgotten to tell Grandmother? “I’ll go get it.” She dashed outside, found the paper next to the steps, opened it, and there was her story across the bottom of the page, a 36-point head:

  FRIENDS REMEMBER FAYE TATUM,

  WIFE, ARTIST, FRIEND, TEACHER

  Grandmother pushed aside her plate. She held the page close to her eyes. When she put the paper down, her face glowed. Her lips curved into a wondering smile. “Oh, Gretchen, this whole long day I have struggled to remember Faye the way she was. You have made her live again. God will bless you.” She picked up the Gazette, touched the story with her fingertips. After supper she took the newspaper with her to her old cane rocker and sat beside the radio listening to the news with Edward Kaltenborn.

  Gretchen was almost finished with the dishes when the phone rang. “I’ll get it.” She hurried, wiping her hands on a tea towel. “Hello.” Surely Mother wasn’t calling to say they weren’t coming. . . .

  “Gretchen. Hi. Listen, I had to call you.” A saxophone wailed in the background.

  Gretchen frowned. “Wilma?” It sounded like Wilma, but not quite. Her voice was stiff, like she was talking to the principal. Wilma Fuller was the most popular girl in their class. The third floor of the Fullers’ huge old Victorian house had once been a ballroom. Sometimes as many as fifteen girls spread out their sleeping bags on a Friday night after the movies. They had a record player and they’d stay up most of the night and drink Cokes and talk about boys and practice different hairdos.

  “Yeah. Anyway, I’ve got to rush. There’s not going to be a slumber party tonight. I just wanted you to know so you wouldn’t come over.” She spoke fast, still in that odd, stiff manner. “Sorry, Gretchen, I have to go. See you.”

  Gretchen slowly replaced the receiver.

  The radio switched off. “Gretchen?”

  Gretchen walked to the living room. She made her voice brisk. “It’s okay, Grandmother.” But that wasn’t true. “It was Wilma Fuller.”

  Grandmother relaxed against the cushions. “Oh, yes. It’s Friday night.” She tried to smile. “And you will go to Thompson’s and—”

  Gretchen interrupted before she would have to tell Grandmother what Wilma said. “Not tonight. Mr. Dennis wants me to come to the city council meeting. Mr. Cooley will write the news story but Mr. Dennis wants me to write about the crowd and what people are saying. I’ll go in early tomorrow and write the story and I’ll get home before Mother comes.” There was no paper on Saturdays but they usually worked until two on Saturday afternoons for the Sunday paper.

  Grandmother’s face furrowed. “The council is meeting at city hall tonight?” She fingered a gold tassel on the fringe of the cushion. “Why?”

  “Because . . .” Gretchen paused. Ralph Cooley said there would be fireworks for sure, the mayor wanting to know why Clyde Tatum wasn’t in jail, and the police chief butting heads with the sheriff and the county attorney. Grandmother must not reali
ze that people were frightened, especially after the story saying Clyde Tatum was considered to be armed and dangerous. “The mayor wants to know why they haven’t arrested Mr. Tatum.”

  “Oh.” Grandmother sighed. “I wish . . .” She didn’t finish.

  Gretchen wondered if she wished for tomorrow. Clyde Tatum had promised he would finish his search by tonight. That meant he would turn himself in tomorrow. If he didn’t, what would Grandmother do? She’d been frightened after the gun was taken, frightened that Clyde had the gun and worried what he might do with it. He’d promised her he didn’t have the gun. But if he didn’t have it, who did? Maybe Chief Fraser would make an announcement at the council meeting.

  Gretchen stopped beside the rocker. “Will you go to bed early? I’ll lock up when I get back from the meeting.”

  Grandmother sagged back against the cushions, her face drained, her hands limp in her lap. “Yes. I will do that. But tomorrow”—her voice was soft—“we will celebrate to have your mother home.”

  Gretchen bent down, kissed Grandmother’s cheek. She moved fast, finishing her last check of the kitchen, hurrying to her room to change from pedal pushers to a skirt, grabbing a pencil and copy paper. She heard the rush of water, the rattle of the pipes. Grandmother was taking a bath. Gretchen stopped at the telephone, picked up the receiver. She gave the operator Tonya Harris’s number. Tonya’s mother answered. Gretchen said quickly, “Is Tonya there? It’s about the slumber party at the Fuller house.” She stood by the phone, already hot even though her blouse and skirt were fresh. As she waited, she heard the chirps of birds settling in the trees and the rasp of cicadas.

  “Hello?” Tonya’s voice was high and sweet.

  “Tonya, this is Gretchen. About the slumber party—”

  A gasp. “Oh. Didn’t Wilma call you?”

  “Yes. But I just wanted to know. There is a slumber party, isn’t there?” She rolled the thick copy pencil in her fingers, around and around.