Blue Skies

by Anne Bustard

  I collect the dessert plates and forks on the kitchen table and scurry back.

  “So you’ve got kin spread from coast to coast,” says Grandpa to Randall Horton as I set the plates down.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “How wonderful you can see your sister in Florida for the holidays,” says Grams while she cuts her pie.

  “Yes, indeed. I’m just passing through.”

  That’s the first good news I’ve heard since he walked in.

  I shuttle dessert and coffee for Grams and finally sit back down.

  “Mrs. Bennett, this is the best pecan pie I’ve ever had.”

  Grams beams. It’s her blue-ribbon special, made with pecans from our very own trees.

  “Hear, hear,” says Grandpa, and raises his coffee cup in a toast.

  “We pronounce it ‘pea-con,’ ” I say, and shove a forkful of the gooey, nutty goodness into my mouth. “Pea-can” sounds like fingernails on a chalkboard.

  “I appreciate the intel,” says Randall Horton.

  Mama raises her eyebrows.

  I fake smile back.

  After a few more bites, Grandpa sets his fork on his empty plate. “We’re on our way to a holiday open house, and we’d be pleased to have you join us, Randall. Folks will be happy to make your acquaintance, and we can continue this conversation down the street.”

  Say yes, Randall Horton; it’s time for Mama and me to roll our hair and play Hearts. I can always count on Grandpa to come up with a good idea.

  “You’ll be our special guest,” says Grams.

  “I’d like that,” he says.

  “Lila June,” says Grams, “we’ll wait for you to change.”

  Mama never goes to parties. She says, No, thank you, no matter who it is or how many times she’s asked. Mama never gives a reason and I know what it is. She’s waiting on Daddy.

  Mama wiggles her fingers on top of her knees. “Oh, I don’t know.”

  I twist my mouth.

  Her fingers still and she gives her knees a quick pat. “Maybe I will.”

  “But…,” I start. Only, no one hears me.

  Mama pops up and gives me a kiss on the top of my head. “I won’t be long,” she says, and hurries away.

  I stomp to the kitchen, turn on the hot water at the sink full blast, and stuff in the plunger. I pour in gobs of detergent and stir up suds until my hands hurt from the heat.

  Mama isn’t being Mama. What is she thinking?

  I scrub away the question I don’t have an answer for and think about my daddy.

  He’s easy to remember. We talk about him a bunch, and all of his belongings are still in the house. Like his overcoat in the downstairs closet, chessboard in the study, clothes in the bedroom, shaving brush in the medicine chest, and pocket change on the bureau. It’s all right here, keeping us company and waiting for his return.

  The swinging door to the kitchen opens. “We’re off,” says Mama. She’s wearing a poofy emerald-green dress, and she’s put her hair in an updo. I catch a whiff of perfume. Usually she smells like Ivory soap. “I’ll ask Ben to come back over so you won’t be alone.”

  “Don’t bother,” I holler as the door swings closed.

  five

  I DON’T DALLY with the dishes. In minutes I have on my winter coat and am out the front door, headed toward town. Right into the wind. I turn up my collar and march ahead. Big red bows, gold ornaments, and candy canes decorate Christmas wreaths on the doors of almost every house on either side of our street.

  The mayor’s house on the corner of Azalea and Main is all lit up, both inside and out. The drapes over the windows are open, and grown-ups stand around in clumps in the living room.

  I can’t see Mama.

  In my rush, I forgot my gloves. I stuff my hands deeper into my pockets, hoping to claim warmth, and creep around to the side yard. Prickly holly bushes snag at my coat; I pay them no mind as I peek in a window.

  Mama and Randall Horton stand side by side near the piano. Talking. Smiling.

  My stomach flip-flops.

  “Good e-ven-ing,” says a deep voice behind me.

  I scream. Kind of sort of loud.

  I whip around while my heart ticks extra beats.

  Two twisted mouths and noses, all lit up, float before me. One is Ben’s. The other is his friend Harry Ackerman’s.

  “Y’all scared me,” I say.

  I suck in a big old lungful of air just as the window behind me flies open. “Everything okay out there?”

  Click. Thud. The faces vanish. Running footsteps and muted laughter heads into the darkness. I turn to see the mayor and Mr. McGrath leaning out of the window.

  “It’s just me, Glory Bea,” I say, slowing my heart. “Wilson got out and I chased him into this yard and I… I tripped.”

  It could have been true. Last year Ben’s dog snuck in through the kitchen door before this very party, nabbed the ham, and hightailed it back home with his feast. His escapade was written up in the newspaper and made him famous and infamous.

  “Be careful now,” says Mr. Crowley. “It’s chilly out there. And don’t forget your flashlight.”

  “Thanks,” I say, and look around. A tiny spot of light shines on the edge of the lawn and I stomp over to pick it up.

  One of these days, Ben Truman. One of these days…

  Before I land in the leather chair in the parlor, I toss the flashlight onto Ben’s front doormat as I fly home. Then I pull the soft holiday throw Grams quilted around my body to warm up. Peppermint candy canes and pine scent the room.

  Daddy made the wooden star on top of our Christmas tree when he was in seventh-grade shop. The yellow paint isn’t as bright as it used to be and some of it has flaked off. As Grams says, it has character.

  When I was two, Mama, Daddy, and me moved in with Grams and Grandpa. Ever since, after the strings of lights were wrapped around and around, and all of our ornaments were in place, Daddy and I would waltz and jitterbug and cha-cha-cha to Christmas carols. I remember, because Grandpa has kept up the tradition.

  Then we’d eat Grams’s fresh-from-the-oven gingerbread cookies.

  Ding dong.

  Mama wouldn’t ring the bell before walking in.

  I waltz to the door. It’s Ben. “I don’t need you,” I say, and slam the door.

  I plop back into the leather chair in the parlor and resettle under the quilt.

  I close my eyes and play the decorating-the-tree-with-Daddy movie over and over.

  I must have fallen asleep because the next thing I know the front door is opening. The clock on the mantel says ten. They’ve been gone more than three whole hours.

  “What a day!” says Grams. “A day of many blessings.”

  She starts to hum “Silent Night.”

  I jump up and peek around the wall. Good. No Randall Horton.

  “I expect she’ll be right in,” Grams says, reading the question about Mama in my eyes.

  “Where is he staying?” I ask aloud.

  “The McGraths insisted Randall sleep in their spare bedroom rather than at the motel by the highway,” Grams says.

  I make an ugly face.

  “He’s a fine man,” counters Grandpa.

  I rub my arms to take off the chill that just entered.

  “It’s easy to see why Randall and our George were such good friends,” Grandpa continues, and holds up his elbow. Grams slips her arm into his and gives it a pat. “I especially miss him this time of year,” she says.

  “Me too,” says Grandpa.

  I reach my arms around my grandparents. They smell like gingerbread, all vanilla and spice, and I hug even tighter.

  “Looky here,” says Grams, gently tugging at the end of my ponytail. “A leaf.”

  “Sure enough,” says Grandpa.

  “I had to go out for just a minute,” I say.

  “So we heard,” says Grams, and starts humming again.

  “Off to bed, sugar,” Mama says as she walks in. “It’s late,
even for holiday bedtimes. I thanked Ben for coming over, though it looks to me like he was bundled up good on the porch the whole time.”

  Ben stayed? “That was his choice,” I say.

  I scoot up to my room. Daddy’s photo stands front and center on the top of my dresser. He’s wearing his US Army Ranger uniform and a big smile. I like his twinkly eyes the best.

  Three shiny buttons march down the front of his jacket, and his cap fits snug over his short dark hair. He stands tall beside the pecan tree in our front yard on a blue-sky day, his smile just for me.

  Daddy and me spent that entire afternoon walking around Gladiola. I snapped pictures of him at all our favorite spots. I used up the whole roll of film, all twelve shots. This was the one that turned out best.

  “See you soon,” I say, I hope, I pray. “Real soon.” And I blow him a good night kiss.

  Then I move to my front window and look up. The sky is cloudy and I can’t see any stars.

  Across the street, the McGraths’ living room curtains are open, and Randall Horton sits in an easy chair next to the fireplace.

  I yank my curtains closed and go to bed.

  six

  ONE LONG RING, a short ring, and another long one. That’s our phone line. We all know it’s for Grams. It is love call time. Even on a Sunday morning. The days leading up to New Year’s and Valentine’s are high season.

  “Tell them I’ll be right there, Glory Bea,” says Grams as she pours herself a cup of coffee.

  I run to the hallway and lift the receiver from the wall phone.

  A National Geographic map of the world is thumbtacked next to the phone. A red pencil line runs across the Atlantic Ocean from France to New Jersey, with three other lines that move up and down and across our country. Fort Worth, Gladiola, and Austin are starred. I’d bet money that in the coming days, the map will be dotted with pushpins, noting the location of the Merci Train travels.

  “Bennett residence,” I say.

  “Bonjour, Glory Bea,” says Miss Connie, our telephone operator. Ever since the news of the boxcar, she’s been flavoring her language with French.

  Grandpa has already tapped her as his transportation coordinator for the parade. She’ll make sure there are enough fancy cars for the mayor, town council, and special guests to ride in. And if they don’t want a car, she’ll round them up a nice horse.

  “This call’s for you, chérie,” says Miss Connie.

  There’s a brief pause. “Did Ben say anything about me at dinner last night?” asks Ruby Jane.

  “No, but that doesn’t mean a thing.” At least I think it doesn’t. Ben didn’t mention Delilah, either.

  We replay each and every word of yesterday’s soda fountain visit before Miss Connie interrupts us. “There’s a call for your grandmother.”

  “One moment, please,” I say, trying to sound official, and tell Ruby Jane good-bye.

  I return with Grams, hand her the receiver, and walk away as slow as possible.

  Maybe I’ll learn some matchmaking tips.

  “How old is he?” says Grams as she opens up her journal.

  Grams only matches old people. If they haven’t found someone on their own by the time they are thirty, or are starting over, she is happy to provide a little extra help.

  “Any children?” she asks, and writes something down. “Has a pig as a pet. That’s one I haven’t heard before. What else?”

  People call Grams when someone single moves to these parts or is widowed. She reads the obituaries every week. She’s even had offers to go commercial, though Grams always says no thanks. She considers her calling a community service.

  The best match she ever made? Mama and Daddy.

  As the story goes, Grams and Grandpa were at the How-Dee-Do Drive-In one Saturday afternoon in Gerbera, a few towns over, when Mama skated up and took their order. It was her junior year in high school and she’d just moved to town. Grams thought she was cuter than a speckled pup and flat out asked if she had a beau. Next thing you know, my daddy went calling. They said it was love at first sight.

  To my knowledge it was the only time Grams made an exception to her old-people rule.

  Grams returns to the kitchen, and the phone rings again. I remove her half-eaten breakfast and fork and follow her to the hallway. She’ll need her strength for back-to-back calls.

  Between long pauses and bites of egg she says, “Oh. Uh-huh,” and “I see.”

  I’m barely back in the kitchen when Grams brings her empty plate to the sideboard. Her eyes are extra big. “I’m off to a quick visit before church,” she says. “Someone is on her third piece of chocolate cake. For breakfast.”

  “Sounds like a love emergency,” Grandpa says as Grams leaves the room. He rubs his hands together and reaches for the plate of bacon.

  Mama raises her eyebrows and I smile.

  “It was good to see you out last night, Lila June,” says Grandpa.

  Quick as a hiccup, my milk curdles in my stomach.

  I excuse myself and go upstairs to get ready for church. But first I sit at my desk. Miss Connie has given me an idea. With Grandpa’s motto in mind, I plan as if something good will happen.

  I locate a fresh sheet of paper, pick up my pen, and in my best cursive, write a letter to the editor of the Gladiola Gazette.

  December 19, 1948

  Dear Mr. Wyatt,

  You run a very fine weekly newspaper. I have a proposal for making it even better—feature French words or phrases in each edition until the Texas Merci boxcar arrives.

  Let’s celebrate with flair.

  Your faithful reader,

  Glory Bea Bennett

  P.S. I would like to suggest that the first word be “welcome.”

  What I didn’t write was how welcoming it will be for Daddy to hear folks speak French.

  seven

  NOT EVERYTHING can be planned, especially where love is concerned. That’s why Grams says, “Be open to the possibilities.”

  Let’s hope Ruby Jane agrees.

  “Come now,” I tell her, on the phone later that afternoon. “Take the shortcut.”

  That’s our code.

  Grandpa timed us once. If we take the streets, we can make it door to door in two and a half minutes. Cutting through yards shaves fifty-nine seconds.

  In ninety-one seconds I open the back door. It’s still nippy, yet the sun streams in. “Ben’s in his front yard,” I say.

  Ruby Jane squeals.

  “Smile, wave, and say three words. Think of yourself as an actress.”

  “All right,” Ruby Jane says, and pinches her cheeks for color like she saw Judy Garland do on the silver screen, as we head through my house to the front yard.

  As we close the front door, Ben attacks the leaves beside our shared picket fence with his rake. He looks a little out of sorts. He’s wearing his older brother’s high school letter sweater.

  Ben, Gary, and their dad always made clearing leaves a game. Gary is still stationed overseas so Ben is on his own now.

  He leans on his rake and surveys the leaves piled in a line as straight as the soda fountain counter.

  Ruby Jane and I tiptoe down the steps.

  The wind kicks up, scattering some of Ben’s work. His shoulders slump.

  Wham! slams a door, and Randall Horton rushes across the street, waves at Ben, and dashes up the walkway. Before he can knock, Mr. Truman flings the door open.

  Ben’s dad is back? He must have returned today.

  Mr. Truman wears his sailor uniform. He steps outside and yells, “ALL HANDS ON DECK.” Randall Horton takes Mr. Truman’s arm and ushers him back into his house.

  Ruby Jane and I turn to each other and wince.

  Ben stiffens and shakes his head.

  Maybe Ruby Jane and I will be a welcome distraction. We stop when we reach the edge of his yard. I wrap my wool scarf around my neck and stand behind my friend. I remind her to breathe. When Ben finally turns, I wave, as Texas friendly as I can. He salut
es us back.

  “HOW ARE YOU?” Ruby Jane hollers louder than loud.

  Nerves can do that.

  Wilson bounds up to Ben with a tennis ball, scattering even more leaves. Ben throws the ball, waves at us, and follows his collie.

  “He noticed me. Again,” says Ruby Jane as she whirls around. One of her pigtails catches on her braces as she smiles, and she brushes it away.

  “He most certainly did.” Ruby Jane will live on this for a week. “Good job.”

  Matchmaking is easy once you know what to do. I wish helping Ben’s dad was too.

  * * *

  After a quick detour to the newspaper office to drop my letter through their mail slot, Ruby Jane and I arrive at her house in time for supper. Her younger brother, Homer, is already in his railroad pajamas. A matching blue-and-white striped cap tops his head.

  Ruby Jane’s mama felt guilty because Ruby Jane had to babysit Homer most of the afternoon, and no matter what she did, she couldn’t make him stop telling the same joke: “What does a train say when it has a cold?” he asked. “Ah-choo-choo-choo-choo-choo.”

  So Mrs. Pfluger made Ruby Jane’s favorite dessert, apple brown Betty. It smells delicious and looks like it could have come out of a page in the Ladies’ Home Journal. Like Grams, Mrs. Pfluger makes cooking look easy. She says the recipe is foolproof. Maybe she could share it with Mama.

  Homer tells me his joke only three times. I would have listened to it three thousand, because all Mr. and Mrs. Pfluger talk about is Randall Horton.

  “He fit right in, didn’t he?” asks Mrs. Pfluger. Only it isn’t a question. “Why, when he sat down at that piano and played, it seemed like we’d been singing Christmas carols with him forever. Did you hear his voice? He’d make a five-star addition to the Gladiola Glee Club.”

  “I’ve got to give the man a lot of credit, Penny,” says Mr. Pfluger. “Re-upping for another tour of duty after all he’d seen. That took courage.”

  “Imagine,” says Mrs. Pfluger. “Coming all this way to see Lila June.”

  Thank goodness Randall Horton is leaving tomorrow.