by Carolyn Hart
Gretchen walked slowly toward the porch, not wanting to talk to Barb, certain that she should, wondering about the car and the house and where Barb had been since yesterday afternoon.
Barb waited, standing stiff and still. Her long auburn hair shone in the summer sun, the kind of hair that should have framed beauty, not an old-young face with misery-filled eyes. When Gretchen was a few feet away, Barb plucked at a strap of the halter. “I saw you coming from town.” She paused, swallowed. “Have they found my dad?”
Gretchen shook her head. “No.”
Barb let go a little breath. “Daddy . . .” She wasn’t speaking to Gretchen, didn’t look at her. Barb’s voice was high, like a little girl calling out in the night.
Gretchen wrapped her arms tight across her front, as much to keep herself there, facing Barb, as to hold back the words she wished she could speak. Barb wanted her father and Gretchen knew where he was.
. . . rot in jail . . . rot in jail . . .
Gretchen burst out, talking fast, “Were you at the town square last night? I didn’t see you.”
“No.” Barb looked at Gretchen sharply. “Why?”
“They had a meeting of the town council. About your dad.” Gretchen took a deep breath. “Everybody’s pretty upset.”
Barb’s dark, despairing eyes demanded more.
Reluctantly, her voice uneven, Gretchen said, “People are talking about getting out their guns. The police chief and the sheriff and county attorney are mad at each other, and the whole town’s mad at them since nobody’s found your dad. The sheriff said somebody’s going to jail for helping your dad hide out. And Mr. Dennis is afraid—” She stopped.
Barb limped down the steps, grabbed Gretchen’s arm, dug sharp nails into her skin. “Afraid of what?”
“That somebody’s going to shoot your dad. Mr. Dennis says if anybody knows where he is, they need to tell him to give himself up. Quick.” Each word hurt deep inside Gretchen. She knew where Clyde Tatum was. She knew and she had to do something about it.
“Why should they shoot Daddy? He wouldn’t hurt anyone. That’s crazy! He’d never hurt—” Barb broke off, as if hearing her own words. Her fingers loosened their grip. Her hand fell away. She stood in the steely heat, the sun already blazing even though it wasn’t nine o’clock in the morning yet, the bright hot weight of summer pressing down against the dusty yard, and seemed to grow smaller in front of Gretchen’s eyes. Barb’s head sagged, her shoulders slumped, her hands hung limp. “Oh, Daddy.” Her voice quivered. “Oh, God, he loved Mama. He loved her.”
And he killed her. Barb didn’t say it, but the realization was there in her pain and sorrow. Barb turned, stumbled blindly toward the steps.
The back door banged open. “Barb, honey, don’t cry.” The stocky young soldier jumped to the ground, took her in his arms. Barb clung to him, sobbing. He bent his blunt head to hers, murmured softly, then looked defiantly at Gretchen. He had a kind face, freckled and open, and his big hand was gentle as he stroked her long reddish brown hair.
Gretchen backed away. When she reached the side of the house, not looking back, the screen door banged again, and she knew Barb and the soldier were once again in the house. That’s why Barb had been able to stay there. She wasn’t alone with death and despair. Gretchen knew what people would say if they found out, but she would never tell. Barb needed him. She didn’t have anyone else.
Gretchen hurried toward the street. She would go to the cabin now, calling out in the bright sunlight to let Mr. Tatum know who she was, and warn him of his danger. And she would tell him how important it was never to let anyone know that Grandmother had helped him.
She paused in the street. Grandmother mustn’t see her. Gretchen retraced her steps, not even glancing toward the Tatum house. She hurried to the alley, moving fast. The Crane house was closed, too, the windows down, the shades drawn. A note was pinned to the back screen door. Gretchen hesitated, ran up the neat graveled path. The note read:
Willis—No milk until next week. Out of town. Martha
A bumblebee in the wisteria looped near Gretchen’s head. She jumped off the steps, backed away. Mrs. Crane had left town. Gretchen knew as surely as if Mrs. Crane were there, obstinate eyes in a determined face, that she’d gone to see her daughter to avoid telling the chief about the man she’d seen coming late at night to the Tatum house. But maybe the chief had found out some other way. Gretchen shook her head impatiently. It didn’t really matter. What mattered was getting to the Purdy cabin and warning Clyde Tatum.
It didn’t seem to take nearly as long in the bright morning sunlight to reach the path into the woods. Gretchen was fine until she stepped onto the path, the dim, snaking path. She went five feet, ten, pushing through the thickets of honey locust and gooseberry and wild blackberry.
The fear caught at her with a suddenness that left her breathless. She stood rock still and listened. Birds chittered and cawed and trilled. The wind rustled the leaves in the pin oaks and river birch and black walnuts. She tried to take another step, then whirled, clawing and scrambling up the path and out into the road. She broke into a frantic run. She didn’t slow until she was in sight of home. She stopped in the shade of a sycamore, leaned against the scaly trunk, struggled for breath.
She felt a hot curl of shame. What was wrong with her? Bright daylight and nobody around and she ran away. There was nothing to be scared of. It wasn’t like she’d seen a rattlesnake. All she had to do was walk through the woods and reach the clearing and call out Mr. Tatum’s name. He would be nice to her. She was Barb’s friend. She could tell him how upset Barb was and how he needed to come home.
But she couldn’t tell him that Barb knew he’d killed her mother.
Gretchen walked slowly to her front yard. The door was open. Grandmother would be in the kitchen, making sure everything was ready for their wonderful lunch. She’d tell Grandmother what Mr. Dennis said and then admit she’d followed Grandmother to the cabin. When Grandmother understood that Clyde Tatum might be in danger, they could go to the cabin together. That was all Gretchen needed, someone to walk through the woods with her. Already she felt silly that she’d started down the path, then turned and run away. Maybe they could persuade Mr. Tatum to come back with them. That would keep him safe. They could bring him home and call Chief Fraser.
She hurried up the steps. She stepped into the hall and smelled the sweet musky scent of roses. On the letter stand, Grandmother’s best cut-glass bowl overflowed with roses from the backyard, pink and red, cream and white. Lying in front of the bowl, arranged in the order they’d arrived, were the latest letters from Jimmy. The living room was neat as a pin and the dining room table was already set with china and crystal and silver. A dozen long-stem red roses, so deep a color they were almost maroon, gleamed in a tall cut-glass vase.
Peace washed over Gretchen. Grandmother would know what to do. “Grandmother?”
“Gretchen.” It was Grandmother’s voice, the cadence sweetly familiar but the sound so slight it might have been a dream.
Gretchen plunged toward the kitchen.
Grandmother sat slumped in a wooden chair, her face pale, tiny beads of sweat glistening on her forehead, making a shiny trail above her mouth. Her blue eyes were huge and staring. Her buttercup yellow apron was bunched against her blue silk dress.
“Grandmother!” Gretchen darted across the room, picked up limp hands that were cold and clammy to the touch.
“Ach, I will be fine. Please to get me some coffee.” Grandmother took a deep breath.
“Dr. Jamison.” Gretchen’s heart thudded as though she’d run a desperate race. “I’ll call him.” She let loose her grip, whirled toward the phone.
“Gretchen.” Grandmother’s tone was louder, sharp, imperative. “No. I will be fine.” She placed one hand on the kitchen table, pushed herself straighter in the chair. “It is the heat. I have worked too fast. But I want everything perfect for my Lorraine. Now, you must help me. I will sit here and you wi
ll see to everything. But please, bring me some coffee.”
Gretchen glanced over her shoulder as she moved to the stove. The percolator was on the back burner on low, the gas flame scarcely visible, just high enough to keep the coffee hot, hot and strong. Gretchen poured the pungent black brew into a thick white china cup, added two teaspoons of sugar and a quarter inch of cream.
Grandmother managed a smile as she took the cup. “You are such a good girl, Gretchen. And we shall have a perfect day.” She drank almost greedily and sighed and some color touched her plump cheeks. “Now, if you will please to check the potatoes. They should be done.”
Gretchen used a crocheted pink and white hot pad to lift the lid and a long-handled fork to spear the potatoes in the bubbling water. They were perfect. She set the big pan in the middle of the stove. The potatoes would still be hot when they were drained and mashed. She turned toward the table. Grandmother looked better, though she sat in the chair as if rooted there. She beckoned to Gretchen.
“Your mama will be here soon and I want you to ask her to go to the lake.” She paused, drew in a breath and another and another as though it was hard to find air for her words. She gave a little shake of her head. “It is so hot today. I shall urge her to go, too, say that I want her—and her friend—to have a real holiday and we shall have our visit later this afternoon. I will tell her”—Grandmother’s voice was growing fainter—“that I have worked too hard this week and I wish to stay here and rest and then when you come back from your swim, we shall have our special dinner. You will do this for me, mein Schatz?”
“Grandmother,” Gretchen begged, “please let me call Dr. Jamison. He will come—”
A car turned into their drive, the sound of the motor a loud rumble.
“They are here.” Grandmother tried to rise, fell back in the chair. She waved her hands at Gretchen. “Go see. Hurry. I shall come.”
Gretchen ran to the front door. The dark blue Buick was dusty, the windshield bug spattered. Sunlight reflected off the shiny chrome grille. Gretchen shielded her eyes. The driver’s door opened. Gretchen didn’t care about the man getting out of the car. The passenger door swung out. Wiry blond curls poked from beneath a saucer of a hat with a bright pink feather.
“Mother! Mother!” Gretchen jumped down the steps, ran. Her mother ran, too, despite her high heels and short tight skirt. They came together and Gretchen felt her mother’s thin firm body, her warmth, the loving pressure of her arms.
“Oh, baby, baby, it’s so good to see you.” Another hug, tight and warm, and Lorraine stood back, holding Gretchen at arm’s length. “You’re so grown up. G. G. Gilman.” There was a new tone in her voice, almost as if she and Gretchen were grown-ups together. She reached out, gently touched Gretchen’s cheek. “I feel like I haven’t seen you in a long time.” She shook her head, laughed. “Come on, G. G., I want you to meet Sam. I hope—” She broke off.
He was standing beside them. Gretchen didn’t want to look at him. His shadow fell between them. She stared at the elongated streak.
“Hi, Gretchen. Lorraine’s told me a lot about you.” He had an easy voice, warm and friendly. “You read faster than Clark Kent changes into Superman and you write better than Lois Lane.”
Gretchen slowly turned. He was a big man, taller than her daddy had been. Beneath his white cap, his blunt face was burned coppery red. Sandy eyebrows bunched over deep-set dark eyes and a beaked nose. He had deep grooves in his cheeks like he laughed a lot. His uniform was crisp, all white with dark shoulder boards.
She stared at him unsmiling.
Abruptly, his face looked older, heavier.
“Lorraine.” Grandmother stood on the top step. She’d taken off her apron. She looked as if she were on her way to church, her hair in regal coronet braids, her round face smiling, her best dress a vivid blue, honoring her guests. But she was so pale.
“Mother.” Lorraine whirled and in an instant she was up the steps, her arms around Grandmother. “Mother, here’s Sam.” Lorraine’s voice was eager, her gaze clinging to Sam’s face. “Sam Hoyt. He’s a petty officer and he’s been on leave and he’s going back to California next week. I met him last week at Crystal City. I went on Friday night with a bunch of the gals from the plant. I can’t believe I could be such a kid. I was riding the Ferris wheel and he was in the car behind ours. We got stopped at the top and Jenny rocked it and I was so scared. When we got down to the ground, Sam called out that I had a nice scream. I thought he wanted to know where to get ice cream and the first thing you know we were all on our way to Hawk’s—” She paused, breathless.
“Mrs. Pfizer,” he said solemnly though there was laughter in his deep voice, “I didn’t used to eat ice cream, but now it’s my favorite food. And Hawk’s is my favorite ice cream shop.”
“We have homemade ice cream for today. And apple pie so fine.” Grandmother beamed. “Come in now, out of the hot sun.”
They walked into the living room. Gretchen came last. Her mother took Sam by the hand. “I want you to see this picture of Jimmy.” Sam stood close to her, so close, as they looked at the framed photographs on the mantel.
Gretchen looked at the pictures: Grandmother and Grandpa on their thirtieth wedding anniversary, her mother and father on their wedding day, Jimmy in his cap and gown from his high school graduation, Gretchen on her eleventh birthday.
Sam picked up the picture of Jimmy, carried it with him. He and her mother sat on the sofa. Lorraine bent forward, her chin cupped in one hand, her gamine face eager and happy, talking a mile a minute about Jimmy.
Sam Hoyt’s dark eyes met Gretchen’s.
Gretchen looked away.
“I have saved for you our letters from Jimmy.” Grandmother sat in her easy chair. “We have so much pride now, Mr. Hoyt. Our brave Jimmy. And Gretchen works so hard. She helps me at the café every day and then she goes to the newspaper office and her stories are in the paper every night. Last night she had to work late and so I hope you and Lorraine will make this a special day for her. Lorraine, will you and Mr. Hoyt take Gretchen to the lake? It will be so much fun for all of you, a summer day like we used to have. I will find a suit of Jimmy’s for Mr. Hoyt to wear.” She smiled but her face was gray white like dirty ice and she braced herself on one elbow against the armrest of the chair.
Lorraine clapped her hands. “Oh, Sam, that does sound like fun. I haven’t been swimming in forever. And then, we’ll have Mother’s wonderful food.” She looked hesitantly at her mother. “We have to leave right after lunch. Sam promised his folks we’d come by this afternoon. They live in Tahlequah.”
“You’re leaving that soon?” Gretchen stared at her mother.
Lorraine reached out her hands.
Gretchen backed away. “I better get my suit,” she said and turned to hurry down the hall.
AS THE CAR backed into Archer Street, Gretchen sat gingerly on the edge of the seat, her swimsuit no protection against the hot leather. She reached down, picked up her shorts and blouse, tucked them under her on the seat.
“Oh, Gretchen”—Lorraine’s face shone with happiness—“isn’t this fun!” She adjusted the strap on her swimsuit, a pretty two piece Catalina with bright red hibiscus against a yellow background. “I haven’t been out to the lake in so long.” She turned toward the driver, eager and happy. “Hunter Lake’s beautiful, pine trees and real sand.”
Gretchen loved the lake, loved the sticky feel of the heat and the shock of plunging into cool water. But the lake seemed remote, unreal. She looked out at the road. They’d go right by the path to the Purdy cabin and she couldn’t do a thing about it. When they got home, it would be time for lunch and no way for her to slip away long enough to get to the cabin. Gretchen had a sense of time racing away from her, like coins spilling out of a purse.
Lorraine twisted to look out the rear window. “Look back, Sam.” She pointed. “That’s the Tatum house, where the grass is grown up and the papers piled by the front steps. Oh, poor Faye. Poor Clyd
e. Poor Barb.” She turned and hung over the seat, her face drooping. “Oh, baby, it’s awful that you had to see such a terrible thing. And they haven’t found Clyde yet, have they?”
“No. The sheriff thinks somebody’s helped him hide.” Gretchen wished she could snatch the words back. Mother had a way of knowing when words meant more than they seemed to.
Sure enough, a little frown creased Lorraine’s face. “Hide . . . He’d need food. I hadn’t thought about it.”
Gretchen reached up, held tight to the hand grip. “Anyway, Mr. Dennis . . .”
Lorraine murmured to Sam, “Walt Dennis owns the Gazette . His daughter June was one of my best friends. She got polio and died when we were in high school.”
“. . . is afraid someone will shoot Mr. Tatum.”
Lorraine gasped. “Shoot Clyde? Oh, Gretchen, why?”
“People are scared. There was a meeting last night at the town square.” As they drove, the dirt road twisting and turning, uphill and down, the trees pressing close, Gretchen described how the chief stood up for Clyde Tatum and the sharp mutters from the crowd and the county attorney’s sarcasm. Gretchen didn’t glance toward the almost hidden break in the trees that marked the path to the Purdy cabin.
When they came over a rise and saw the lake and cars and swimmers and picnickers, it seemed odd to her that the noise and excitement and summer fun wasn’t even a mile from the cabin in the overgrown clearing. Nobody here was scared about Clyde Tatum. The big dusty parking area was jammed with cars. Sam hunted for a parking place, finally squeezing the car in on a slant near a cedar.
Lorraine grabbed their towels. As they piled out, Lorraine called over her shoulder, “Last one in’s a monkey,” just as she always had with Jimmy and Gretchen, and she began to run.
When they reached the man-made beach, golden sand curving around an inlet, Lorraine tossed the towels on a log. Gretchen burst ahead and splashed into the cool murky water, shallow here and cleared of reeds. Lorraine was right behind her.
