by Anne Bustard
To Lane,
my miracle
one
MIRACLES HAPPEN in Gladiola, Texas, population 3,421.
And since Grams is responsible for thirty-nine so far, I’m counting on her gift to run in the family. After all, she always says, “Have audacious expectations.”
Why not?
I want a miracle of my very own.
You see, my grams is the best matchmaker in the county. Her Wall of Fame proves it. Thirty-nine gold-framed photos of couples on their wedding days, including Mama and Daddy, fill our study wall. That averages out to one per year since she and Grandpa walked down the aisle. Some folks say it’s a hobby. Grams says it’s a calling.
Even though I’m only in fifth grade, and I don’t know much about boys, and I’ve never made a match, I am positive that my best friend, Ruby Jane Pfluger, needs my help.
After all, she asked.
Call it destiny. Call it crazy. I answered the call.
Glory Bea Bennett, matchmaker extraordinaire, was born.
* * *
“Happily ever after,” says Ruby Jane as we amble up the red carpet at the end of the Saturday picture show. She twists a lock of her cinnamon-colored hair around her finger. “That’s how Ben Truman and I will live. Right?”
Once Daddy comes home, my family will too.
Ruby Jane’s seen more movies than anyone else I know, and her favorites always end that way. Which is why today’s feature didn’t make her top ten. Ruby Jane’s big dream makes sense. Can I guarantee it? I don’t think Grams dares to make that whopper of a promise. “Wouldn’t that be great?” I reply.
My answer must be good enough, because I swear I can see all of the braces in my best friend’s mouth.
I can imagine Ruby Jane and Ben, my next-door neighbor, together, with their photograph displayed on my own Wall of Fame in my bedroom. Except her request is not without its challenges.
“Shy” doesn’t begin to explain my naive friend.
Ben was king of his sixth-grade back-to-school dance this fall and Delilah Wallingham was the queen. Now Ruby Jane aims to take Delilah’s place.
“Let me ask you something,” I say as I catch a whiff of fruity bubble gum while we pass the next row of seats. “Have you talked to Ben? I mean, had a real conversation with him?”
“Of course. Every time… almost every time I see him.”
“ ‘Hi, Ben’ is not a conversation, Ruby Jane.”
“I know,” she says, her forehead all wrinkly. “Now it’s our first day of Christmas break, and I won’t have a chance for more than two weeks.”
“Don’t worry. I believe in you and your sixth-grade heartthrob. I already have a plan. It starts right now. Today is Ben’s first day at the soda fountain.”
“I knew I could count on you, Glory Bea,” says my closest friend, and she sprints ahead.
Miracle number forty, here we come.
And, I hope, a top-secret forty-first miracle too.
I stop halfway up the red carpet and clutch the charm bracelet Daddy handed me at the train station before he left.
I rub its shamrock for luck, close my eyes, and picture Daddy’s big smile.
I refuse to believe what they say about him.
When you love someone, you never give up hope.
Not ever.
“Hurry up, Glory Bea,” hollers Ruby Jane, and I open my eyes. My friend is only two steps away from the lobby. The smell of warm buttery popcorn fills the theater from the concession stand out front.
“On my way,” I say.
But not before I pray for the umpteenth time for my family’s happily ever after.
All the men in our town who went to the war came back.
Save one.
They say my daddy was lost in France on a beach called Omaha.
I am still waiting for him to be found.
two
MY DADDY’S SMILE is on my mind when Ruby Jane and I hop into McGrath’s Pharmacy. This is one of Daddy’s favorite places.
The counter at the soda fountain is jumping. Cherry, vanilla, and chocolate sugarcoat the air. High above the conversations, “Love Somebody” soars out of the jukebox. We take the last seats and I refocus.
“Welcome,” says Ben as he zips by with an armload of dishes. “Good to see you, Ruby Jane. Glory Bea. I’ll take your order ASAP.”
“He’s glad I’m here,” whispers Ruby Jane. “He said my name.”
I don’t explain it’s Ben’s job to be extra friendly.
Ruby Jane stares at Ben as if she’s never seen him before. Grams always says that’s a sure sign someone is love-struck.
Which is why he doesn’t look any different to me. Same short brown hair. Same dimpled chin. Same tallness. Though the white shirt, skinny black tie, and white hat are new.
Ben returns in a jiffy. “Let me guess,” he says as he puts a paper napkin in front of each of us. “One Dr Pepper float?”
This is what it’s like to live in a small town. People know you and your favorite foods, thanks to potlucks, picnics, and parties.
“You got it,” I say. “Right, Ruby Jane?”
As Ben takes his receipt book out of his back pocket and his pencil from behind his ear, my first client clutches the counter with both hands. Finally, she nods. I understand the no-smile. Sometimes she’s self-conscious about her braces.
Ben writes down our order and then leans toward us. “This just in,” he says in a low voice while tapping his pencil on the counter like he is sending news over a teletype machine. “I predict the announcement I just heard about the Merci Train will be life changing.” He salutes us. “Back on the double.”
That’s quite a forecast. Ben loves to imitate radio commentator Mr. Drew Pearson, who specializes in bold predictions. Plus, the man has connections to the Merci Train.
The Gratitude Train. The Thank You Train. It has lots of names. They all mean one thing: the people of France want to say thanks to the people of the United States for all our help, like my daddy’s during the war. And for all our help afterward too.
Although the war ended more than three years ago, it’ll take more money and more time for France to rebuild everything the Nazis destroyed. It doesn’t help that their winters are extra cold. Some people haven’t had enough food this whole time!
Last year, Mr. Pearson broadcast a solution called the Friendship Train. He asked Americans to fill up trainloads of food and ship them over to France and Italy. So we did.
Folks around here organized a canned milk drive. Grandpa was the captain of our block, and Ben and I were his assistants. All told, our town collected dozens of cases. The Gladiola Gazette took a picture of me standing on my tiptoes, trying to reach the top of the stacks loaded up on the train platform while Ben and Grandpa hoisted the first case.
Now, in return, a trainload of gifts from France is headed to the US, one boxcar for each state, plus one. Grandpa says he doesn’t know what is being sent. They have to be special, because he calls them “gifts of love.”
Just like that, Ben sets a float with two cherries on top between Ruby Jane and me. “The Texas boxcar is going to make a stop right here,” he says, and hands us each a spoon.
“In Gladiola?” I say.
“Really?” asks Ruby Jane, and she takes a long sip of our float.
“Affirmative,” says Ben.
Grandpa posted a map above our telephone that shows the route. Early next year the Texas boxcar will travel by ship from France to New Jersey, by rail to Fort Worth, and then down the tracks to Austin.
There must be an extra-special reason why it’s not rushing right by us.
“Oh!” I say as a shiver starts at the top of my head and zings through me.
What if?
“You okay
, Glory Bea?” my friends ask.
“Never better,” I say, and wave my spoon.
It could happen.
I mean, why not this time?
I’ve always known that the day Daddy returns won’t be ordinary. It would be on my birthday or Easter or the Fourth of July or his birthday or Mama’s or Christmas. Or the day the Merci Train boxcar arrives from France!
Why else would it stop in Gladiola?
“Now, wait,” I say, and point my spoon at Ben. “This better not be a joke. Today is December eighteenth, not April first.”
“It’s a fact, Glory Bea. Relayed by the top brass: the mayor and your grandpa.”
A fact. I can live with this fact.
And that Ruby Jane spoke to Ben.
If I were in a movie musical, I’d jump on the counter and tap-dance right now. Only, I’m not in a musical. And I can’t tap.
I know there’s a chance I could be wrong about Daddy returning with the Merci boxcar. But Daddy will come home. I know I’m not mistaken about that.
“Plan as if something good is going to happen.” That’s Grandpa’s motto. Coupled with “You can always change the plan.”
So this time I’ll pray even harder. I’ll look for even more proof before I’m one hundred and ten percent sure. I won’t tell Ruby Jane until I know. I can be patient. Besides, it’s not like I’ve ever told anyone else. It’s Daddy’s and my secret secret.
I won’t stop celebrating the possibility. I slip my spoon through the thick whipped topping, into the frosty vanilla ice cream floating in caramel-colored goodness, and up into my mouth. It is sweet mixed with sweet and sweeter—my definition of “divine.” I go back to tap-dancing on the soda fountain counter.
three
“IT’S AN HONOR for us to be honored,” Grandpa says at the dinner table as he takes a serving of the pale green beans Mama fixed. “It’s not every day something comes to us all the way from France.”
Or somebody.
I look at the empty chair between Grams and me. The chair no one sits in, even when we have company. Daddy’s chair.
“What can I do to help, sir?” asks Ben. He’s still in his soda fountain uniform, minus the hat.
I catch Mama’s eye, and she winks. Ben and Grandpa have been good buddies since forever. “Like white on rice,” says Grams. You might think that would’ve changed when Ben’s dad came back from the war. What changed instead was Ben’s dad, so Ben and Grandpa are still close. “Can I count on your assistance with the parade?” asks Grandpa.
“Ready and able, sir,” says Ben, and shovels a forkful of meat loaf into his mouth.
He chews, takes in some tea, chews a bunch more, and finally swallows.
All that chomping tells me everything I need to know. It doesn’t smell burnt, but I reach for the ketchup and smother my meat loaf with it anyway. I top the crusty brown mac and cheese with some too, just in case. Thank goodness Grams only lets Mama cook dinner once a week. Otherwise, we might starve.
Ben has already eaten at our house twice this week. Grams started inviting him over last month after his daddy lost another security guard job and went to the hospital. Every year, the weeks leading up to December 7 and beyond are sorrowful for Mr. Truman. Come early January, he always improves. This go-round he stopped talking. Now Ben’s mama works extra shifts, and Ben’s been eating here.
I’d wager Ben’s job money isn’t for his own spending, even though ever since his brother enlisted, he sends part of his paycheck home.
I lean over and take a sip from my straw. Air. I pucker up and try again. The straw squeaks and squeals. Suddenly, sticky sweet tea spurts from side holes near the top.
“Would you look at that,” says Grams.
“Ben Truman!” I holler, dabbing up the tea with my napkin. I pull the straw out of the glass and fling it across the table at him. “You are in so much trouble.”
Grandpa leans over with a smile. “Return fire,” he says real low.
I push back my chair. “Anyone need anything while I’m up?” I ask as casually as possible.
Everyone bows their heads, although I know they aren’t praying. They’re trying to hide their smiles.
I crumple my napkin over my glass with one hand, grab an ice cube with the other, and stroll around the table.
“Touché,” I say, and slip the cube down Ben’s collar.
“Truce!” he shouts, and shakes the back of his shirt. The ice falls to the floor and slides away.
“Promise?” I ask.
“Scout’s honor,” he says, and holds up two fingers.
I put my hands on my waist. “Since when did you become a Scout?”
Ben shrugs. “Since now.”
I get another straw and sit back down. My plate of food is downright pitiful. At least there is dessert. Grams has made her famous pecan pie.
Everyone talks about the likelihood of snow for the holidays. It has never, not once, snowed in Gladiola, Texas, on Christmas Day.
“Miracles happen,” says Grams.
That I believe.
Last month an article in the Gladiola Gazette reported that a man from Tula, Texas, showed up after disappearing twelve years ago. He’d been hurt in an out-of-town accident in Chicago and got amnesia. When his memory came back, he found his way home. Grams called it “a feel-good story if there ever was one.”
My daddy’s story will be even better.
Maybe he got amnesia too and has been living in France for the past four and a half years as someone else. And is finding his way back right now.
“When did you say the Merci boxcar is coming?” I ask.
“We don’t know the exact date,” says Grandpa. “Its ETA is the middle of February.”
“Valentine’s Day?” My hands reach for my heart.
“Possibly.”
“Oh, Grandpa, that would be perfect.”
As in, I couldn’t have planned it any better myself.
“Well, now that we’ve got that settled,” says Grams, placing her napkin on the table. “Let’s move to the parlor for dessert, before William and I go to the Christmas party in…”
Grandpa takes his gold watch out of his pocket. “Twenty-three minutes.” Grandpa likes to be precise. He is a retired railroad man and thinks it’s best when everything runs on schedule.
Ding dong.
“I’ll get it,” I say. We aren’t expecting more company. Only, if I have to guess, it’s the McGraths, Grams and Grandpa’s best friends and our across-the-street neighbors. The couples are double-dating to the party.
“Merry Christmas, almost,” I sing as I swing open the door.
Colder-than-cold air rushes in. At dinner Grandpa said it’d dropped thirty degrees since this afternoon.
“Oh.” I stumble back a step and grab the doorknob with both hands so I won’t fall.
I squint into the bright light on the porch. A tall man with short dark hair stands before me. He holds his hat in one hand and a bouquet of flowers in the other—lilies: Mama’s favorite.
My heart thumps hard. I blink until my eyes adjust and stare into his face.
“Glory Bea?” he asks.
I squeeze my eyes closed and press my lips together, the cold air spreading goose bumps across my arms and down my legs.
The accent tells me that this man is from up north.
“Who is it?” asks Mama, appearing beside me.
“Randall Horton,” says the man, holding out the sweet-smelling flowers.
Mama’s hands fly to her mouth and her eyes soften. She puts an arm around me and hugs me close. It’s not enough to warm me up.
“Glory Bea,” she says, her voice quivering, “I’d like you to meet your daddy’s best friend in the service.”
“It’s taken me too long,” says Randall Horton in a rush. “George and I made a promise to visit one another’s families if…” Randall Horton takes a gulp of air. “Well,” he says, looking into Mama’s eyes, “I finally made it.”
Gran
dpa lets out a big sigh behind me. I wiggle away from Mama and back up. I’m freezing. Grams and Mama hug Randall Horton on either side and sway back and forth. He puts his arms around their shoulders and squeezes tight.
“Welcome,” says Grams. “Welcome home.”
four
I KNOW WHO Randall Horton is. Mama keeps his letters in a big wooden box right next to Daddy’s. There are five from Randall Horton. He’s written her each Thanksgiving since my daddy landed on that beach. Mama read every one to me.
Sometimes at night when I can’t sleep, I tiptoe downstairs for milk and one of Grams’s cookies, and Mama will be sitting in Daddy’s leather chair in the parlor, reading a letter from him or one of Randall Horton’s November letters. The first came from France; last month’s from New York.
At school we learned how to write a business letter, a formal letter, an informal letter, a letter to the editor, and a thank-you letter. The words are different each time; Randall Horton always writes the same kind. He says how grateful he is to have known my daddy. He says that every day, not just Thanksgiving, he is thankful for his friendship. At the end of each letter he asks Mama to send his greetings to Grams, Grandpa, and me.
Now everyone takes a seat in the parlor, where Grandpa’s paintings of bluebonnets hang on every wall. Except me. Two of the paintings are crooked, and I even them up.
Mama and Grams sit on the sofa. Randall Horton and Grandpa sit on the blue wing chairs on either side. I claim the leather chair across the room.
“All the way from Brooklyn, New York,” says Mama to Randall Horton. “You must be exhausted.”
“Nothing like a warm welcome to solve that,” he says.
I roll my eyes.
“Glory Bea,” says Grams as she reaches for one of the cups on the coffee table, “will you bring us what we need for dessert?”
Any excuse to leave is fine by me—though I don’t want to miss a word, so I dash to the kitchen. The dirty dishes are scraped and stacked by the sink. A note on the top plate reads—Thanks for dinner. –Ben.
I forgot all about him.
