by Anne Bustard
Adieu (farewell)
Armoire (wardrobe)
Ballet (dance)
Brunette (brown-haired woman)
Bureau (office, desk)
Chauffeur (driver)
Chic (stylish)
Extraordinaire (extraordinary)
Fiancé (betrothed)
Silhouette (figure, outline of a person)
Souvenir (a keepsake)
Unique (one of a kind)
So now you know, dear Gladies, now you know,
Penny Pfluger
twenty-one
I WAS RIGHT to throw away Randall Horton’s letters. Mama doesn’t miss them. Almost two weeks have passed and she hasn’t said a thing.
Mama’s not even opened the box. I would know. I moved it to a different shelf and tied the yellow ribbon in a new way.
Even though I’ve about memorized all the letters Daddy wrote to me, I’m rereading one every night until he comes.
This morning, Mama thanked me three times for the Saturday breakfast I made just for her. I delivered cereal and milk, buttered toast with marmalade, orange juice, coffee with extra sugar, and the newspaper on a big tray.
“What’s the special occasion?” she asked as I fluffed the bed pillows behind her.
“You’re special every day,” I said. “And sometimes I forget to tell you.”
I don’t say that even though I’m glad I got rid of your letters, I feel guilty, and this is how I’m making amends.
* * *
How to handle a resistant client? With firmness and sweetness.
“Think of this as an investment in your future,” I say to Ruby Jane as we enter the public library later that morning.
“I already know lots of things Ben likes,” she says, and tucks her hair behind her ears. “What good has that done?”
Not much.
Their relationship has stalled. Ruby Jane’s attempts to ask questions the past week and a half have failed. She hasn’t gotten beyond hollering, “HI, HOW ARE YOU?” even though we practiced.
Maybe questions are too hard. Maybe current events is the answer.
“The more you have to talk about, the better. So today you’re going to read some Drew Pearson columns.”
“Why can’t I just listen to him on the radio?”
“You can. You should. His show is only once a week. As in tomorrow. And we’re going to see Ben at the soda fountain after the movie today.”
“This sounds too much like homework. I like it better when you just tell me stuff.”
“Come on,” I say, and steer her to an empty table.
I grab the last few editions of the Austin paper, take off my coat, and sit beside my friend. The library is toasty, yet Ruby Jane still wears her coat buttoned up to her chin.
“Start reading,” I say, and pull the chain on the table light.
Ruby Jane sighs, props her elbows on the table, and peers over the pages. Her hair falls forward and covers her cheeks. “I hope this doesn’t take too long.”
Before we leave, I check out a book on how to play chess. Why not get a jump start on lessons with Daddy?
* * *
It’s my turn to pick, but the entire back row at the theater is taken. So Ruby Jane and I take her favorite seats in the front row. Center. The chairs on either side of us are empty. I put my soda cup on the floor beside me, and Ruby Jane holds the popcorn perched on the armrest between us. She shouldn’t eat it because of her braces, though that hasn’t ever stopped her. As the red velvet curtains part, I sink into my seat and count down the numbers that flicker before me.
Images of a harbor fill the screen as a crane lifts a boxcar onto the deck of a gigantic ship. The words THANK YOU, AMERICA, flash in the center.
I sit up with a start, knocking over the popcorn, and tilt forward.
“Le Havre, France,” the voice-over begins, and I grab Ruby Jane’s arm.
My eyes dart over the images, trying to take them all in. It is too much, too fast. I want the camera to slow down, slow down so that I can see everything. The voice explains that the ship is named Magellan. A crowd on the dock watches the boxcar swing from the crane, and the camera zooms in. Men and women in overcoats stand nearby. One wears a US Army coat. His image blips by for just a second. I know—I know that smile.
I squeeze Ruby Jane’s arm and she squeezes back.
“It’s him,” I say.
“Maybe,” says Ruby Jane.
I knew she’d believe.
I rewind the image in my head. He is the right height. He is the right age. Most importantly, he has the right smile.
I let go of Ruby Jane’s arm and fall back in my chair.
He will board that ship. He will travel with the train. He will keep his promise. Now I am one hundred and ten percent sure.
* * *
“We’re not leaving,” Ruby Jane and I tell the usherette, also known as Irma, after the movie. We stick to our seats like chewing gum.
“We want to see the newsreel again,” says Ruby Jane.
“You know the rules,” says Irma. “You have to leave.”
“This is an extra-special emergency,” says Ruby Jane.
“Talk to the boss,” says Irma.
“Where is he?” she asks.
“Front office.”
Mr. Pfluger sits behind an enormous wooden desk covered with papers. Autographed photos of Bob Hope, Bing Crosby, and Ingrid Bergman smile over his shoulders.
“We need a favor, Mr. Pfluger,” I say.
He barely looks up. “Ruby Jane, you may not have an extension on your allowance. I’ve already given you three.”
“Daddy, you haven’t even let us ask yet.”
Ruby Jane puts her hands behind her back and crosses her fingers. I grasp my charm bracelet.
“We’d like a private screening of the newsreel,” she says.
Why didn’t I think of that?
“That’s not possible,” says Mr. Pfluger, meeting our eyes. “We are on a very tight schedule.”
“In that case, we’d like to see it again at the four o’clock showing,” pushes Ruby Jane.
“That you can do,” says Mr. Pfluger. “If you pay.”
“Daddy. Then we won’t have enough money for our float.”
“Is that so?” he says. “Now, please, I have paperwork to finish.” And as if to make his point, he waves a stack of paper at us.
“Glory Bea, I think we should spend our money on more movie tickets instead of at the soda fountain,” Ruby Jane says as we leave.
“What about Ben?”
“I’ll see him at school on Monday.”
This is why Ruby Jane is my best friend.
We watch the newsreel from the first row center, again. In twenty-three days, I will see that smile and his twinkly eyes in person.
twenty-two
RUBY JANE was wrong about seeing Ben on Monday. Or Tuesday. Or any other day this past week. He was out with the flu.
I flop onto my bed Sunday afternoon. My empty Wall of Fame is in the shadows. What else can I do? Grams says everyone appreciates extra effort. The Pearson facts qualify.
Then I know. It’s so obvious, I can’t believe I didn’t think of it before.
* * *
A few minutes later, Ruby Jane is in my kitchen. “Love is about taking risks,” I say.
“Why do I think this is going to be bad?” Ruby Jane twists a strand of her straight copper-colored bangs.
“Ben likes curly hair, remember?”
“Are you sure you can do this?”
“Positive. I’ve helped Grams with lots of her perms.” Then I pull out a chair and tell her, “Sit right here.” I put two towels around her shoulders, comb out her two short braids, and get to work.
It is simple, really. I take small sections of Ruby Jane’s hair, cover the end of each with white tissue paper, and wind them around and around and around a plastic roller. She only says “ouch” a few times. I ignore her headache.
The
n I shake the bottle of solution from Grams’s stash. “Hold the towel to your forehead and close your eyes and nose. Here comes the stink.”
“You think Ben will notice?”
“One hundred percent guaranteed.”
I turn the bottle of milky white liquid upside down and soak each roller.
“It’s cold,” she says as a stray line of liquid runs down her neck.
“Sorry,” I say.
My eyes smart from the ammonia. I breathe through my nose, and when I can’t abide the smell any longer, I open the back door and let in the freezing air.
“Now,” I say, setting the timer. “We wait.”
* * *
Grandpa wanders in for pie. He must be hungry, because he stays in spite of the aroma. “I’ve got additional information on the Merci boxcar,” he says as he plates a slice of delectable buttermilk pie. “The Texas committee has finalized its arrival date.”
I exchange looks with Ruby Jane. “I thought it was Valentine’s Day.”
“Almost,” says Grandpa. “February sixteenth.”
I catch my frown in the middle and reverse it. “Close enough,” I say.
Two extra days. I can wait two extra days.
Because two days after that, Daddy will sing “Happy Birthday” to me!
He might even bring me a gift from France, though of course Daddy will be enough of a gift.
“Good luck, girls,” says Grandpa, and leaves.
* * *
“Oh, Ruby Jane, you look adorable,” says Grams, handing her a mirror when we’re finished.
Ben will notice, all right. Tight ringlets boing around her face. “Gladiola’s very own Shirley Temple,” says Grams.
“When she was four,” says Ruby Jane, scowling at her image.
“Think Shirley Temple and Cary Grant last year,” I say. They were in a romantic comedy that Ruby Jane loved. I point to my chin. Cary Grant has a chin dimple like Ben.
My friend smiles just enough to show some of her top braces.
“This is the most perfect setup,” I say. I put a hand behind my neck, poof one side of my hair, and strike a Hollywood pose. “Do this.”
Ruby Jane obeys.
“Look at you,” I say.
“I am,” she says, glowering. She holds the mirror out to Grams. “How am I going to go out in public like this?”
“With a smile?” asks Grams.
“I’m leaving,” says Ruby Jane, standing.
She grabs her coat and puts it over her head.
“Remember to listen to Drew Pearson tonight,” I say as she rushes out the door.
“Change takes getting used to,” adds Grams.
The back door flings open and Ruby Jane whips her head around the doorframe. “You’re fired, Glory Bea.” And she slams it shut.
I wince.
“What was that all about?” asks Grams.
“Nothing.” Everything.
“I’ll help you tidy up,” says Grams. “Then I’ve got a phone call to make.”
* * *
The stinky-burn-your-eyes ammonia smell still lingers, even when we’re done cleaning, reminding me that I hurt my best friend. I can’t seem to warm up. Even with an extra sweater.
I sit on the staircase just out of Grams’s view while she picks up the receiver. Only, she doesn’t make a call. Not really.
“How do you feel about a pet pig?” she asks Miss Connie.
Of course I can’t hear her answer. “He’s a stamp collector too,” says Grams. “Blueberry pie is his favorite.”
Afterward, I ask Miss Connie to make a call.
I touch the pushpin that Grandpa moved on the map of the world beside me. It is almost to the middle of the Atlantic Ocean. Hurry up, Daddy.
“Woof, woof.”
“Hi, Homer. May I speak to Ruby Jane?”
“She stinks.”
I take a deep breath. “Will you tell her it’s me?”
The phone clunks down and I hear steps walk away.
“Poodlehead,” he yells. “Telephone.”
A door bangs and footsteps race back to the phone. “She doesn’t want to talk to you. But I do. What did the caboose say to the first car?”
“Hmmmm.”
“Don’t leave me behind.”
Miss Connie giggles.
I don’t.
How I hope Ruby Jane will feel different soon.
Later, as I try to fall asleep, I realize I forgot to keep my New Year’s resolution today—to do one thing every day to make Daddy’s homecoming the best ever. I must redouble my efforts tomorrow.
twenty-three
FORGIVENESS. That’s what I want.
I seek out Ruby Jane before school the next morning. A pink-and-white scarf covers her head. Tight curls of orangish-brown boing below the scarf line as she and Delilah move swiftly down the hall.
“I’m sorry, Ruby Jane,” I say as I catch up to my friend. “Very, very sorry.”
“She isn’t talking to you,” says Delilah, and she shakes her silver baton at me. Ruby Jane stares straight ahead. No sign of her braces.
This is worse than I imagined. Not only is my best friend still mad at me; she likes my least favorite person better.
“I tried to call.”
“She couldn’t come to the phone,” says Delilah as we zip past the office. “She was too busy washing her hair trying to undo the damage. More than seven times, she told me. In fact, I think it was ten.”
“Oh, Ruby Jane.”
“I asked her if you’d tested a strand of her hair first,” says Delilah.
We all know the answer to that—no.
Delilah rattles on about the perm directions that come inside every box.
Directions I’ve never read.
“Everyone’s looking at me,” whisper-yells Ruby Jane, turning toward me. “For the wrong reason. Now I can’t bring myself to see you-know-who.”
“Will you forgive me? Please. I thought it would work. I’ll do anything to make it up to you.”
Ruby Jane stops. Her eyes brighten and she points to the red-and-white banner hanging above the trophy case.
“I want to go to the Valentine’s Day Dance with Ben.” She smiles bigger than big and taps the middle of her chin.
What?
And Delilah looks pleased?
A Dr Pepper float, a movie ticket, a magazine, something like that. Something possible.
Instead, Ruby Jane has asked for the impossible.
Valentine’s Day is two weeks from today.
“Delilah’s going with Harry Ackerman,” says Ruby Jane.
Delilah bobs her head. “We could double-date,” she squeals.
“Oh! And whoa!” I say.
“And your answer is…?” asks Delilah as she twirls her baton.
“I’ll try. I promise.”
Delilah stops midtwirl. “Not good enough,” she says, and tosses her hair.
“I mean, what a great idea.”
Satisfied, they speed away.
* * *
That afternoon, the mayor’s wife is in the parlor with Mama while Grams and I listen in from the foyer.
“… because your George served in France, Mr. Crowley and I insist that you and Glory Bea have a special place in the parade. We’d like the two of you to ride in a car.”
Say yes, Mama.
“We’d love to, Mrs. Crowley. Thank you very much.”
Grams folds her hands together and I bounce in place.
As we move into the study, I say, “Since his dad’s return from the hospital, Ben hasn’t been at dinner. We should ask him over tomorrow night. I’ll invite Ruby Jane and we’ll add a leaf to the table.”
“Brilliant,” says Grams. “Just brilliant.”
That is a high compliment. “Thanks. There’s no need to ask Randall Horton, is there?”
Grams studies me. “I will check with your mama. Now, would you like to extend the invitations, or shall I?”
“Be my guest.”
Ben accepts.
Ruby Jane calls me three minutes later. “I don’t know how you did it, Glory Bea. You are the best.”
I’ve been forgiven. At least for now.
“Remember Drew Pearson.”
“Okay. Sure.”
I pray the third invitee will turn down Grams.
I borrow Grandpa’s shoe polish, sneak into Mama’s closet, and shine Daddy’s shoes. The insides are a touch moldy. I’m sure there’s a fix for that.
Then I zoom down to Grandpa’s studio and knock.
Grandpa opens the door with a smile. “What can I do you for, Glory Bea?” The stacks of newspapers have grown up to the windowsills and beyond.
“I’d like to paint, please.”
“Take your pick,” says Grandpa, motioning to the half-dozen prepped white canvases on the plywood table. An assortment of paintbrushes protrudes from an old glass jar nearby.
“Merci beaucoup,” I say, and set up my easel and tubes of paints.
I’m new to oils. Crayons and watercolors have been my mediums until last month. Mama’s collected her favorites in an album in the study.
I squeeze the color onto my wooden palette, add oil to thin it, and dip my brush into the now muted blue.
Unlike Grandpa, I will not paint a scene of bluebonnets.
It doesn’t take me long to cover the spiral-size canvas with a light undercoat. Tomorrow it’ll be dry enough to add thick swaths of vibrant blues.
As I wipe the paint from my hand, Grandpa asks, “Do you already have a name for it?” He likes to title his paintings. Sometimes I help.
“Blue Skies,” I say.
It’s a painting for my daddy about his favorite kind of day.
