The sisters hid in Hannah’s room while Bethie slipped on the extra-small T-shirt. She looked at her reflection and was as amazed as Hannah had been. So many sweet things could be seen. The soft curve of her shoulders. Even the rise and fall of her breath.
Let me keep it, Bethie wrote.
Hannah shook her head. “It’s too dangerous. Mother would kill us.”
Bethie shrugged her shoulders and wrote back, She already has.
Bethie kept the shirt. She’d lock herself in Hannah’s room so that someone else could see her, even if it was just her sister, and wear it all afternoon. She played with it sometimes. Rolled the sleeves up, even knotted the front, like the cheerleaders at school. Bethie had her shirt. And Hannah had her love letters.
But Sam had written a note, not a letter. It didn’t even take up a quarter of one page. Hannah didn’t think about this as she pulled out several pages of her best stationery. She congratulated him on the touchdown. Told him she wished she could have seen it. And then gave him the details of her past three weeks. About trimming her hair, just an inch. Seeing the dead cat on the road. About the cheating scandal at school. After two pages, she found courage again.
I wish I had introduced you to my father. He wasn’t raised in the church either. He wouldn’t hold that against you. I think if he saw us together, saw how we feel about each other, he’d understand. He might even help us with the plantation. He would help us get our start. Do you think you could come meet him? Maybe over Christmas.
Love always,
Hannah
He wrote back quickly.
Relax, Yank. Our summer was the best. I had more fun with you than any other girl ever. Next summer will be great too.
Did I tell you in my last letter that I’m nominated for Homecoming King? It’s because of that touchdown. It was the winning play against our biggest rival. Don’t know who I’m escorting yet. I’ll find that out tomorrow. But how’s that for a great start to senior year? Hope everything is as cool for you as it is for me! See you in Carolina… unless I’m drafted by the pros, ha ha.
Love,
Sam
Hannah thought about queens. She imagined beautiful girls who wore mascara to curl their eyelashes. Sexy girls who wore short skirts with tall boots. It was clear now that Sam had other happiness. He had football and homecoming queens. He probably went to dance parties and drank beer under the stadium bleachers, like the bad boys at Hannah’s school.
Hannah was different. She was locked behind the gates again. Stuck with her floor-dragging skirt and no bike to escape. And her nearly seventeen-year-old heart lied to her. Told her those weeks with Sam were the only time she had ever been happy. Told her he was the only hope.
She waited. A test to see if he would write without the prompting of her own letter. He did not. Maybe he loved her, but Sam loved lots of things. Lost somewhere up north, she was easily replaced.
VII
What began with a Steampot Motel T-shirt, turned into late nights at the high school typing lab. Hannah told her parents she was working on school reports. It occurred to Mother once that Bethie still took the bus home. That she never had reports to type. “If you would just try a bit harder, Bethie,” Mother said. “No one expects you to be as smart as Hannah, but it doesn’t look quite right to fail, either.”
Bethie knew, of course. Hannah tried to convince her that she was doing extra-credit reports for classes where she struggled. But Bethie had spent all her years sitting right behind Hannah. By the time she was in first grade, she had accepted defeat. Hannah would never struggle.
Hannah took a bus to the shopping center. Used what little money she had to buy Bethie two T-shirts, one red and one purple. It was a bribe, but it was love, too.
“His name is Sam. I’m going to go see him. And you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen, Bethie. You were born to wear bright colors.” Bethie twirled around the room in royal purple.
Hannah’s “reports” weren’t delivered to teachers. They were edited, scrutinized, even researched, for the benefit of Father. He looked over them, asked a few questions, and then signed the bottom of six pages that gave his permission for Hannah to attend a weeklong tour of the best colleges in the Northeast. Sponsored and chaperoned by her school, and reserved only for those students in serious contention for the honor of class valedictorian.
He drove her to the bus station, where a Greyhound was supposedly being warmed up for her and her classmates. He gave her two hundred dollars in cash. He told her he was proud of her. And to remember which colleges were her favorite, so that they could visit them together.
Just as Hannah had expected, he did not walk her inside the station. It wouldn’t have changed anything. But later, he would cry as he remembered the way she struggled to drag her suitcase inside. How strangers held the door open for her.
It was the strangers that made him unable to walk her into the station. His heart had always shrunk back from the spectacle his children made when they got on the school bus. All that hair slung over their shoulders and hanging almost to their knees. And braided, it was even worse. It reminded Mother of a halo, but he saw only a noose.
He knew what the inside of that station would be like. There’d be kids with earphones blasting rock music. Maybe swaying their hips from side to side as they listened. They were smart kids, so they’d talk about scholarships and classes. But they’d also talk about dances and dates and new blue jeans. And Hannah would stand by herself, maybe even on the other side of the room. He’d be proud, too, that she didn’t blend in. Even as he hurt for her.
There was a memory he hid. Of being sixteen years old and smarter than anybody in school. A favorite of the teachers, like Hannah, but cool, too. With his own prom stories. There was a girl at his school with hair swishing down around her knees and a straight skirt turned gray at the hem from floor dust. She ate lunch alone. Talked to no one in class. And when she passed him in the hall and his buddies yelled out a new Holy Roller joke, he laughed.
It was college that changed him forever. For most kids, college was an escape from rules and curfews. For him it was escape from his mother’s crying fits and his father’s drunken months. He realized, for the first time, that he could build his own life. That it was up to him to build his own life. And without the benefit of having a worthy example, he was unsure how.
One late night he took a sheet of blueprint paper and drew overlapping layers. He labeled them. Degrees, a job, a family. Each one supported the other, like sections in a bridge. But something bothered the engineer in him. He lacked a formula. There was no fundamental code upon which all things could stand.
He called his grandmother. The one his parents made fun of, with her prairie skirt and head covering, like she was straight out of a Little House book. But despite the way she looked, he had never seen her weep. He had never seen her drunk and broken. When she said, “Hello,” he asked her How? How can I be strong? How do I become something a storm can’t bend?
Grandmother’s code served him well for many years. Mother eventually framed that late-night blueprint, his plan for a safe and protected life, and placed it in the family room. And later, as he designed real bridges, it didn’t matter to him what his wife wore. But then there was the surprise of Hannah. His pretty baby girl. Set apart for ridicule.
The father in him could not ignore the suffering she would surely face. And so he bought her Bethie. He bought her a green bike. He bought her a bus ticket straight to Carolina.
The ticket was round trip and scheduled to return in one week. The bus was only half full, with just a small seniors group on their way for a tour of the southeastern seacoast. Hannah sat alone in the third row, staring out the window at miles and miles of interstate landscaping.
They stopped the next morning for rest and food. Hannah stood in a corner, drinking a vanilla milkshake.
“Hi, young lady,” a man from the seniors group said as he passed by.
“Good morning.
”
He looked her up and down, nodding his head with approval.
“You seen the pictures of other girls nowadays?” He motioned to a rack of tabloid magazines as he walked away. “Filth.”
Everybody else from the bus mingled around, stretching their legs and chatting. A group of women wandered near her, chatting about hairstyles and colors.
“I just want something easier,” one of them said. “I hate having to blow it dry every day and then curl it, too.”
“My heavens, look at her hair, Barbara,” one of them said, and pointed to Hannah.
Her hair had been braided and pinned up when she boarded the bus. But it hurt to rest her head against that thick rope for so long. So during the night she had unwrapped it and let her hair ripple down to her knees.
The women circled her.
“She’s like Rapunzel.”
“Or an angel.”
“How long does it take you to wash it?”
“Does it feel heavy? You ever get headaches?”
Beyond them, Hannah saw a boy about Sam’s age. He was with a girl that wore jeans and a high school T-shirt. Her hair was bobbed and swingy. And it made her look young, fun, and happy. Hannah wondered for a moment if she ever looked that way. Even when she was with Sam.
“Sometimes it hurts,” she answered.
“Your mother likes it long, doesn’t she? I was that way with my girl. I still have the braid we cut off when she was twelve. I cried worse over that than I did her going off to college. Well, one day when you’re on your own, you can do whatever you want with your hair.”
“She’s got a few years before that, though,” another woman said. “Can you imagine how long it will be by then?”
“No,” Hannah said, savoring her first bold lie. “I’m nineteen. On my way to meet my fiancé.” She held her hands up around her collar and smiled. “Mother made the dress. There’s light pearl beading around here. Four inches of lace on the hem. Mother’s an excellent seamstress.”
The women smiled, and they talked of flowers, reception food, and honeymoon trips. At the bus station in Columbia, Hannah found a pay phone and looked up Sam’s number. His father answered and told her Sam was getting ready for a game that night. She went to the women’s restroom and dressed for him. Her skin tingling with joy, as it felt the smooth cool cotton of her black CSM shirt once again. She washed her face and smoothed her hair. And when she noticed how her hands trembled, how unsteady her feet seemed, she found a vending machine and bought a bag of shortbread cookies.
She returned to the pay phone and called a cab. When the cab arrived, her voice shook as she told the driver to take her to Columbia High. And when she saw the word HOMECOMING painted on the entrance sign, her fist opened. Spilling her cab money across the floor.
In all her years of school, she had never been to a football game. Never heard the drums of the marching band thumping and clicking wildly. Never pushed her way through a revolving gate, or handed her ticket to a man wearing maroon face paint. She was smart enough to know that none of the commotion was about her. Yet she still couldn’t shake the fear that someone would ask her to leave. That everyone knew she did not belong. That she was not from Carolina. Did not go to Columbia High. And wasn’t really about to get married to Sam, their star football player.
She didn’t know where to sit. There were numbers and a letter on her ticket. But as she stared up into packed bleachers that stretched toward the stars, she had no idea where L42 was. So she stood apart, her shoulder leaning against the gate, her arms crossed in front of her.
She didn’t know Sam’s jersey number. And as boys with helmets and shoulder pads poured on and off the field, she could not find him. Soon the crowd was on its feet and the boys were running wildly and everybody was screaming and clapping. In the middle of all that noise, with the drums and the screams and the cheers, Hannah heard one thing: “Yay, Sam!”
She looked at the far end of the field and there was a boy holding a football. He was jumping and slapping high fives with his teammates. The cheer came again, from one of the girls down front: “Woo-hoo, Sammy!”
Number forty-seven. Now, with his number, the game had meaning. Hannah watched him run. Watched him catch the ball. She found herself whispering prayers for him. That he would score. That he would win. That somehow he would know that she was watching.
At halftime Sam marched out on the field, still in uniform but with his helmet off. His arm was around a girl in red. She won queen and he won king. And with their crowns teetering on their heads, they kissed quickly while the crowd went Awwwww.
Hannah turned away. Not because of the kiss. Or the crown. But because with his helmet off, she could see his face. And he was happy. He was satisfied. He was a teenage boy having the time of his life. She didn’t look in a mirror often, but she knew her face never looked like that.
After the game, she waited for him to leave the locker room. Most everyone else had already left. Only Hannah and a few cheerleaders remained. She heard them talking about a homecoming dance that was starting.
As the players came out, a few of them looked at her and nudged each other. Hannah wished that she had worn her hair smoothed and braided. She could feel it tangling and fuzzing from the night air.
“I’ll be darned, but would you look at the size of that bug,” one of them said.
“Where?”
“Over there.” He pointed at Hannah. “That bug caught in that big web of hair.”
“Awww. Let’s cut it free. ’Fore some spider gets it.”
“Stop it,” Sam said, stepping out from behind them.
“You seen anything like that before?” one of the boys asked.
“No,” he said, not looking at her. “But the dance has started. We’re already late.” He turned to one of the cheerleaders. Hannah recognized her as the girl with the red dress. “I forgot somethin’ back in the locker room. Catch a ride with Bo and I’ll see you there.”
“Awright,” she cooed. “Don’t be long, though. I don’t wanna dance with nobody but the King.”
He laughed and returned to the locker room while Hannah waited. When he was sure they were gone, he came back.
“What in the world?” he said, smiling. “What are you doin’ down here, Yank? I didn’t think your daddy would be bridgin’ again till next summer.”
“Thought I’d surprise you. Saw you play tonight. You were amazing.”
He hugged her. “Gosh, I missed you.”
She stayed there in his arms, her head against his shoulder, until he pulled away.
“Your folks know the game’s over? You need to call ’em or somethin’?”
She shook her head. “I was hoping we could go somewhere.”
“Wish I could. But I’ve gotta go to the homecomin’ dance. Wouldn’t be right for the King not to show up.”
“I could come with you.”
He laughed softly. “This ain’t your type of thing.”
“It might be.”
“Nah. You’re a boatin’ girl. A deep water Yank. You ain’t meant for silly high school dances.”
“You’re worried what those boys will think. The ones that were laughing at me.”
He held his palms out in surrender. “We ain’t on the island anymore, Hannah. This is high school we’re dealin’ with here. My senior year. My last homecomin’ dance, and I’m King. And I’m supposed to go with the Queen, that’s practically in all the rule books. I’ll hang out with you a bunch next summer. But if I show up with you instead of the Queen, they’ll eat us alive.”
Hannah backed away, shaking her head. She tried to take a deep breath, and when she couldn’t she closed her eyes so that she wouldn’t see him, standing there but wanting to leave. She remembered kneeling before him on the boat, working on the nets and believing that he was right. Believing that she was pretty. She tried desperately to feel that way again. To be his pretty Yank just once more. She grabbed fistfuls of hair and spread it across her shoul
ders. She prayed the moon would shine upon her and make her glow. “Like sweet corn,” she whispered.
She looked at him then, and remembered the feel of the old cotton field beneath her. The live oak twisting above her. She remembered Sam, like the ocean. Freeing her from polyester. Freeing her from everything she thought she was, everything she was supposed to be. “I’ll change for you,” she begged. “I’ll be a queen for you.” She blinked her eyes and saw the picture of Leah. So pretty and curvy in her black pants and red turtleneck. So very queenlike with her red apple lipstick.
He shook his head. “We’re different. No point pretendin’ we ain’t. We never went anywhere public together, even on the island. We went to the deep water. To the plantation. We went under them live oaks.”
“But I gave you everything.”
He nodded his head slowly. “It was a big deal for you. I should’ve thought ’bout that, before… But it ain’t such a big thing to the folks that I know. I’m sorry, I just got caught up in that night. With that house. Them oak trees. And you, lookin’ like some golden antique yourself, with your hair and your long skirt. Like you was somethin’ the Yanks left behind, too.”
“I gave you my whole life that night.”
Somewhere behind the stadium a car honked its horn.
“I ain’t growed up enough to give my life away.”
The car honked again.
“Look, I’ll write you,” he said. “I’m so late, I gotta go. Call your folks to pick you up. There’s a pay phone down by the bleachers. I’m glad you got to see me play. Always wanted you to.”
“I know I can,” she cried, as he kissed her on the cheek. “Let me show you. I can be a queen.”
He ran off toward the parking lot. Before he was out of sight, he turned around and waved with a friendly smile. He called out something that she couldn’t quite hear. It sounded a bit like I’m sorry. But by the way he shrugged his shoulders and smiled as he ran from her, it looked more like an easy Good-bye.
She paid a cabdriver one hundred dollars to take her to Folly Beach. It was after midnight by the time she arrived. But she remembered the path from before. That sandy public-access trail, with the sea oats nearly blocking the way. It was cold. The wind wrapped around her until she shivered. And it was dark. The moon was bright enough to show her the caps of waves, but not the crabs that were scooting around on the sand. She dragged her suitcase to a dune and sat on top of it.
The Memory Thief Page 6
