by Carolyn Hart
She reached Archer Street. Her street. The street she’d grown up on, every inch of it familiar. Always before, she’d felt a quiet serenity when she reached Archer Street. But now . . . She stopped to stare at the Tatum house. Gretchen knew the house was empty. Not a glimmer of light shone. In the silver of the moonlight, the house looked shrunken, drawn in upon itself, like a body with the soul departed. No wonder Barb wasn’t there tonight. How could she bear ever to return?
The Crane house was dark, too, but it wore the darkness like a well-dressed woman with a soft shawl, proud and confident.
Light spilled from the living room of her house. Gretchen walked slowly toward the steps. Would Grandmother notice she was home early? She paused just inside the door, heard Grandmother’s voice.
“ . . . oh, so happy I am for you. If only Gretchen were here . . .”
Gretchen ran across the living room.
Grandmother stood by the telephone. Her blue eyes, softened by tears, widened as Gretchen burst into the kitchen. Her lips curved in a happy smile. “Lorraine, Lorraine, here she is. Our Gretchen has come home just in time to speak with you. Oh, it is a gift from God that we have.” And she held out the receiver.
Gretchen scarcely took in the words, her mother’s voice almost lost in the crackle of the line and the roar of sounds behind her, voices and whistles and the rumble of train wheels. “. . . don’t have much time . . . off the train at Albuquerque . . . on our way to California . . . Sam and I . . . His leave was up . . . Oh, Gretchen, we got married last night. . . .”
Gretchen gripped the receiver with all her strength, holding on. “Married?” Her lips felt stiff.
“Oh, baby, I love him so. And I love you. I’ll call when we get there. . . . Baby, I’ve got to go. . . .”
GRETCHEN STARED AT the shifting pattern on the wall, the moonlight shining through the wind-stirred branches of the elm tree. The tangled streaks of darkness kept changing. Even if the wind stopped, the moon would rise higher in the sky and the lines of darkness would thicken, thin, curve, merge, change.
California . . . She’d seen movies and read lots of movie magazines. Black-and-white images rose in her mind. Palm trees, tall and slender. Orange groves. Hollywood. Movie stars’ footprints in cement. The ocean. Against these sterile images was the sharp, bright picture of her mother and Sam Hoyt in the amber light beneath the float, their bodies melding together.
Gretchen lifted the edge of the sheet to wipe away her tears.
THE FEATHER—MAYBE from a peacock, it was so long and blue—on Mrs. Taylor’s hat swooped perilously near Mr. Dennis’s pipe as the society editor made a sweeping bow. “Your Highness,” she proclaimed, slapping copy paper on his desk, “as a lowly serf with no rights or privileges, indeed as an abject figure accustomed to remaining mute in the face of slurs and slanders, I present myself as a sacrifice to the good name of the Gazette.”
Mr. Dennis rescued his pipe. “So what’s the problem, Jewell?” His gaze was wary.
The diminutive society editor perched on the edge of Mr. Dennis’s desk, the upright feather quivering slightly in the downdraft from the overhead fan. “Actually, I did not remain mute. During the coffee hour at church yesterday, I talked until I was blue”—she patted pink cheeks—“in the face, so to speak. I proclaimed”—her voice rose and fell in a lilting falsetto—“I insisted loudly, I swore on the memory of my departed father, God rest his soul, the old blackguard, that the Gazette does not condone unfaithfulness on the part of wives . . .”
Gretchen rose from her desk, walked slowly toward Mr. Dennis and Mrs. Taylor.
Ralph Cooley clapped his hands together. “Everybody in favor of adultery, get in line for your scarlet letter.”
Mrs. Taylor glanced at Gretchen then quickly away. “. . . that the Gazette upholds the sanctity of the family, that the Gazette—”
Mr. Dennis held up his hand. “I got it, Jewell. Did anybody listen to you?”
The society editor slowly shook her head, the feather dipping. She reached out, took Gretchen’s hand. “Gretchen, it was a wonderful story. I told them that, too. So I may be joining you in purdah.” She loosed her hold, pushed up from the desk. “Back to the trenches.”
Gretchen remained by the editor’s desk.
Mr. Dennis looked up at her, his eyes questioning, his face sober. “You getting a lot of flak?”
She had to tell him the truth. “Some.”
He was silent for a moment. He pulled the tobacco canister near, carefully began to fill the bowl of his pipe. “Are you sorry you wrote about Faye?” There was no inflection in his voice.
“No.” Her story. Out on the wire.
He squinted at her and slowly smiled. “You’ll be all right.”
On the way back to her typewriter, Gretchen stopped by the society editor’s desk. “Thank you, Mrs. Taylor.”
Mrs. Taylor had a Dresden china pretty face, but her eyes were sharp and bright. She wrinkled her nose. “Don’t let the bastards get you down, kid. Not now. Not ever.”
Gretchen sat in her hard chair, smoothed her fingers across the typewriter keys. She lifted her hands, and began to write about Billy Forrester who wanted to be a vet. She was almost finished when Mrs. Taylor slapped down her phone, flung out her hands, and exclaimed, “Marry in haste. Repent at leisure.”
Ralph Cooley rested his elbows on his typewriter. “Sounds like soc’s getting racy!”
Gretchen frowned. Marry in haste—that’s what her mother had done. She’d run away to California with a man she’d only known for a week. She was on a train somewhere far away. It had been hard enough when she lived in Tulsa, sharing the apartment with other war workers, but now Gretchen didn’t even know where her mother was. It was like her mother had disappeared.
“. . . Rodney just disappeared without a word and then she got a call.” Mrs. Taylor picked up her notebook and pushed back her chair. “Walt, I don’t know how to handle this.” She paced to the editor’s desk. “Jane Wilson’s a fine woman and I’ll tell you she was crying so hard I could barely understand her, but she wants the wedding story to be in the paper. But what will people think—Barb’s parents dead—and the awful way they died—and then her running off and marrying Rodney Wilson . . . Do you think I should just write it the way I would any wedding story? I guess it would be Barbara Kay Tatum, daughter of the late—oh, I don’t know how . . .”
Gretchen pulled the last sheet of paper from her typewriter, wrote -30-. So Barb had married her soldier.
“. . . a justice of the peace. And certainly anyone would take Barb Tatum for a woman . . .”
Gretchen put her story in the incoming copy tray.
Mr. Dennis puffed on his pipe. “Go home, Gretchen. You deserve some time off.” His telephone shrilled. He reached out, scooped up the receiver. “Gazette.”
“. . . and who won’t marry a soldier these days?” Mrs. Taylor’s feather quivered as she typed fast. “On their way to California . . .”
Gretchen was turning away when she saw the editor wince. He looked at her and there was all the sadness in the world in his eyes. “Heart attack? She’s gone?”
Gretchen felt frozen. Her mouth curved into a soundless O. She wanted to cry or run, twist and turn, cover her ears, somehow escape the words that she knew were coming. Instead, she stood still, so still.
Mr. Dennis pushed up from his chair. He reached out, took her arm. “Gretchen, your grandmother . . .”
HER DARK DRESS was hot. The straw hat chafed her forehead. Sweat slid down her back and legs. Her hands clenched and the gloves felt tight against her fingers. Beside her, Cousin Hilda sobbed. Cousin Ernst stood with his gray head bowed, heavy face solemn, hat clasped in his hands.
“Unto God’s gracious mercy and protection we commit you. The Lord bless you and keep you. The Lord make his face to shine upon you, and be gracious unto you. The Lord lift up his countenance upon you, and give you peace, both now and evermore. Amen.”
As the mourners walke
d slowly toward the cars that lined the gravel road, Gretchen shook free of Cousin Hilda. She twisted for one last stricken look at the casket with its blanket of white flowers and the gaping grave site. Grandmother . . .
The cars filled Archer Street and their drive and the lawn. Gretchen and Cousin Hilda and Cousin Ernst stood by the dining room table greeting Grandmother’s friends. Gretchen shook hands and endured embraces and all the while she braced herself for what she knew would come.
There were only a few members of Grandmother’s Sunday school class still working in the kitchen, pots clanging, water swishing, the hot water kettle keening, when Cousin Hilda brushed back a dank gray curl that had slipped loose from her tight bun. “Have you packed, Gretchen?”
Gretchen straightened the lace cloth on the walnut end table by Grandmother’s chair. She’d never sit there again. Never, never . . . “I can’t come out to the farm yet, Cousin Hilda. I have to stay here until Mother calls.”
Cousin Hilda pressed her fingers against her temples. “Oh. Oh, yes. But if she didn’t get an answer . . .” She trailed off, sighed. “Don’t you have any idea where they are? Or how to get in touch with them?” Her lips thinned into a harsh line. Resentment boiled over. “I’ll have to say, your mother certainly has acted irresponsibly, going off into the blue. I don’t believe Lotte ever mentioned this man that Lorraine’s married. The family doesn’t know a thing about him.”
“His leave was up.” Gretchen glared at Cousin Hilda. “That’s why they got married now. It’s the war. She’s gone to California with him. Sam’s stationed there. She’ll call soon. I know she will. Anyway, I’ve got to stay here. She doesn’t know about Grandmother. I have to stay.” And she wasn’t going to go and live on the farm with Cousin Hilda and her taciturn husband, Ernst. Not now. Not ever.
Cousin Hilda patted her crumpled handkerchief against her face. Usually decisive and brusque, she simply shook her head back and forth. “Lorraine has to know. But I don’t feel good about leaving you alone.”
“I’ll be all right.” Abruptly, Gretchen reached out, gripped thin, muscular arms. “Thank you, Cousin Hilda.”
The older woman’s face crumpled. She stifled a sob with her handkerchief, whirled, walked toward the door.
GRETCHEN SAGGED AGAINST the cushions of the sofa. She’d slipped off her sandals, punched a cushion behind her head. There was no one now to tell her not to put her shoes on the sofa. Still, she remembered. Tired, so tired . . . The past few days she’d worked all day at the Gazette, gone to Victory Café early and late. Cousin Hilda had taken over the kitchen. Mrs. Perkins was threatening to quit. There was a For Sale sign in the corner of the plate glass window. Cousin Hilda said Mr. Whitby had been in to see her, explained that Cousin Hilda needed to get a power of attorney from Gretchen’s mother and he’d talked about selling Grandmother’s house or maybe renting it for the duration.
Gretchen fished an ice cube from her tea glass, crunched. She picked out another cube, wiped it on her face. She was so hot. Maybe she’d sleep outside tonight, set up a cot . . . No. She had to stay inside, where she’d hear the telephone.
Barb had slept on a cot in the woods, waiting for her father to come home. He hadn’t come. Gretchen had known where he was. If she’d told Barb . . . what good would that have done? Nothing had done any good. She felt a bitter surge of anger at Clyde Tatum. If he hadn’t hidden, if he’d given himself up as he should have, Grandmother might still be alive. Her heart had suffered from the strain of moving through darkness on the rough trail to the cabin and her heart had failed because she blamed herself for helping him hide, making it possible for him to shoot himself.
Gretchen pushed up, sat stiff and straight on the sofa. She stared at the rocking chair. “Grandmother”—her voice was harsh—“it was his fault. Not yours.” She buried her face in her hands. She should have helped Grandmother. . . .
The phone rang.
For an instant, she didn’t hear as demons flailed her mind, blame and fault and misery poking and tearing and rending.
Ring.
Gretchen’s head jerked up. She bolted across the living room to the kitchen, grabbed the receiver. “Hello.”
The operator’s voice was high and thin. “I have a collect call from—”
“I accept. Mother? Oh, Mother, Grandmother . . .” She choked with sobs.
“Gretchen, oh, God, honey, tell me.” Her mother’s voice faded in and out.
“. . . and the funeral was yesterday and Cousin Hilda wants me to come to the farm—”
“Oh, no. You’ll come here. To me and Sam.” Lorraine’s voice was firm. “We’re bunking with some of Sam’s friends. Everybody’s looking for a place to live. But it doesn’t matter, baby, we’ll manage if we have to sleep on the beach.”
THE THUNDEROUS CLATTER of steel on steel, a hiss of steam, an acrid smell of burning fuel, and the train roared into the station.
Cousin Hilda thrust a sack at Gretchen. “There’s fried chicken and potato chips and a piece of pie. Then you can eat on the diner. . . .”
Gretchen gripped the sack, lifted her cosmetic case. Her heart thudded. She started toward the steps to the car. People jostled her, women with children, soldiers, sailors. California, California . . . She was almost to the steps. A porter with grizzled hair helped the elderly woman in front of Gretchen. “All aboard. All aboard.”
“Gretchen, Gretchen!” The brusque bark sounded to her left.
A suitcase banged into her hip. “Hurry, kid.”
Gretchen slipped to one side, passengers streaming past, tall, thin, short, fat, everyone in a hurry. She looked up at Mr. Dennis, his face flushed from exertion. He thrust an envelope toward her. “Almost didn’t make it . . . just found out . . .” He paused, panting. “. . . old friend on the Long Beach Press-Telegram . . . 604 Pine Avenue . . . take this to him . . .”
She grabbed the envelope and was caught up in the flow of travelers. She looked back from the vestibule and caught one last glimpse of Mr. Dennis, hat tilted to the back of his head, resting on the fringe of gray curls. His round face was creased like a bloodhound’s. He looked envious, sad, admiring. His lips parted, but there was too much noise to hear. The train whistle shrieked. She stepped into the car. Clutching the envelope, she found a seat.
As the train pulled out of the station, Gretchen put her sack in the webbed pocket on the seat back in front of her, propped her feet on her overnight case. A child cried behind her. Beside her a sailor shuffled cards, began to lay out solitaire on the lowered tray. Cigarette smoke made a bluish haze the length of the car. The iron wheels clacked beneath her.
On the envelope, Mr. Dennis had scrawled in thick black pencil: Harry. The envelope wasn’t sealed. She tipped out folded sheets. On three pages were the clips of her story on Faye Tatum. The cover letter read:
Harry—Read this. Hire her. Walt
. . . Do you know how many times I wanted to tell the truth? A thousand times a thousand. I never could. You see, there was Rod. You probably don’t know about him. No reason you should. I’m so proud. He’s a great artist. I don’t say it because I’m his mother. Everybody in the Southwest knows him. He has a mural in the Gilcrease Museum and the Getty out in California commissioned him to do an acrylic painting and it’s famous. Rod called it Left Behind and it’s a railroad track on the prairie. Buddy’s folks raised Rod. They hardly ever let me see him. I understand why. I guess I felt so bad about everything, I never fought them. They’re both gone now. I couldn’t have said anything while they were alive. Or while Rod was alive. . . .
CHAPTER 10
I TURNED AWAY from Grandmother’s grave. My last memory was of her flower-covered casket next to the open grave. I still felt that quick flare of anger, though now, old myself, I wondered whether I should blame Clyde Tatum for her death. Hearts can only pump for so long. The day comes when life must end. I knew that Grandmother had entered the gates of larger life with joy and in peace, more so perhaps than anyone I’d ever known
.
A faraway peal of church bells marked the noon hour. I’d driven about the town when I arrived that morning. So much was the same and so little. The Gazette offices were gone. Even had they stood, I would not have entered. A tattered present can diminish a treasured past. I would remember always, for so long as I lived and breathed, the creak of the ceiling fans, the smell of ink and cigarette smoke and hot lead, Mr. Dennis’s wrinkled, tired, hopeful face. The churches, the Methodist, the Baptist, the Church of Christ, the Catholic, were all on State Street. They’d added on to the Baptist Church but I could see where the old melded into the new. The same buildings still stood on Main Street, though there were no familiar names and some of the store-fronts were boarded up. The Victory Café was an insurance agency. The movie marquees still jutted over the sidewalks, but the Bijou was a beauty shop, the Ritz an antique store. I’d been shocked at how small the courthouse seemed. Long ago I thought the building huge and I remembered running up the steps that hot June day, filled with excitement and energy. I was a reporter. . . .
The gazebo, which also seemed much smaller and rather shabby now, still stood on the slope of lawn to the south. The war memorials were new to me, World War II, Korea, Vietnam, lines of names carved in granite. I didn’t remember the rosebushes on either side of the front steps. But I would never forget the antiseptic smell downstairs in the sheriff’s office with the jail cells stretched behind. I knew my memories were erratic, perhaps not to be trusted. I remembered in patches and pieces, some bits of it clear and hard and bright as etched crystal, some murky and dim and impenetrable as lake water.
The letter—I reached in my pocket, touched the envelope—the letter from home had brought so many memories, bright, dark, happy, sad, sharp, blurred. I had not been able to resist the plea in the final paragraph:
