Blue Skies

by Anne Bustard

  I blow a kiss, grab my sack of confetti, and walk out of my room backward, my eyes still on him.

  All of Gladiola will greet him. School’s canceled and most businesses are closed.

  “You look darling,” Mama says after I fly down the banister. She gives me a hug and hands me my red ribbon. “I found it in the kitchen.”

  “Thanks,” I say. “You look great too.”

  Like Mama, I am all decked out in red, white, and blue. Grams made us matching navy-blue dresses with white piping around the collar and cuffs. Red kerchiefs are tucked into our front pockets. Too bad we’ll have to cover up our outfits with winter coats.

  “Let’s go,” she says, handing me a small flag.

  The parade will start in an hour, and Mama and I need to be early. We are riding in the car after the mayor and before the men from the American Legion. First I want to check out Ben and Grandpa’s mystery float. And of course see if by any chance Daddy’s come early.

  Even though the sun is out, it’s chilly. Now gray clouds sit on the horizon. I double-triple wrap my scarf around my neck. I link my arm in Mama’s and huddle close as we make our way.

  “What do you have in the bag, sweetheart?” asks Mama.

  “A surprise for the VIP.”

  “Your daddy loved surprises,” she says, and kisses me on the top of my head.

  I want to tell Mama about Daddy’s return right now. I can—I will—keep our secret secret a little longer.

  In the parking lot of the Gladiola Recreation Center, Grandpa hollers into a megaphone, “First up, honor guard. Next, Uncle Sam and Lady Liberty, then…”

  It looks like a big old mess to me—kids with dogs in wagons all decorated in flags, men and women in military uniforms, four different marching bands, floats of all shapes and sizes, riders on horseback, not to mention the Gerbera Daisies and Dudes and the Gladiola Glee Club—and Grandpa always keeps his cool. I know he will get everyone lined up.

  I don’t spot Grams or any other glee club members. Chances are they’re still in the Rec Center warming up their voices.

  But I do see Delilah in a sparkly outfit and white boots surrounded by little girls. One hands her an autograph book to sign. Mama says Delilah has more followers than friends. I think that must be true.

  Ben said he’d station their float under a pecan tree at the far end of the lot. I look into the face of every man wearing a US Army uniform as I make my way. It would be just like Daddy to pop out of the crowd and say, “Surprise!” I’d love to surprise him first.

  I’ll recognize him, right? Maybe his hair is longer. Maybe I’ve grown so much, he’ll hardly recognize me. Maybe he’s hiding so he can make a big grand entrance in front of everyone.

  I don’t see my daddy. Instead, I see Ben.

  He and others gather around a flatbed truck. A tall, silvery papier-mâché replica of the Eiffel Tower and two big French poodles wearing tilted black berets stand on top of a platform.

  So that’s what all the newspaper in the studio was for. Cardboard boxes covered with white butcher paper edge the truck bed. The writing on the boxes, painted blue, white, and red, just like the French flag, says, VIVE LA FRANCE.

  “What do you say?” asks Ben as I walk up.

  “Magnifique!”

  Ben must be hot, because his face turns red.

  “Open this later,” he says, and hands me an envelope.

  “Okay.” I tuck it into my coat pocket.

  Ben pulls a long, skinny blue balloon out of his pocket and blows it up. It looks like a gigantic frankfurter. In a blur, he twists it this way and that. He’s a movie reel on fast-forward.

  “Voilà,” he says, and hands me a French poodle.

  “Thank you. I mean, merci.” I keep my head up, still looking for the most important face.

  “Hi,” says Ruby Jane, bouncing up. She grabs an inflated balloon from a box on the truck. “Guh-lore-ee-us day, isn’t it?” she says, waving it like a conductor’s baton.

  “Best ever,” I say.

  I wander with my bag of confetti through the maze of folks milling in front of the Rec Center and circle back to the beginning of the parade, at the corner of State Street and Pecan Avenue. Uncle Sam and Lady Liberty chat with the flag bearers.

  I weave down the lineup on Pecan Avenue. Past the Gladiola High School marching band, decked out in their red-and-white uniforms with gold tassels on their shoulders. Past the twirlers in gold sequined costumes, dancing around with little white puffs of air streaming out of their mouths. Past the six women in military uniform, who are having their pictures taken by Mr. James from the Gladiola Gazette. Just beyond is a group of men in military uniforms, some of whom have joined us from out of town.

  I can’t get close enough. “HELLO,” I holler. “I’m Glory Bea Bennett. Thank you for your service.”

  “You’re welcome,” a voice answers. It doesn’t belong to the one I know.

  Grandpa’s five-minute warning whistle blows. I run to find Mama.

  I never did see Grams.

  Mama and I settle in on the top of the back seat of a new red convertible with red seats, from Crowley Motors. I leave plenty of room between us. My paper bag is on the floorboard.

  I wave my flag in one hand and practice waving at the same time with the other.

  “Remember to smile,” Mama says, and inches closer.

  The monarchs in my stomach are doing loop-the-loops. I stand to get an even better look around.

  The sidewalks are empty. A few folks will be on State. Most will wait on Main.

  In front of us Mr. and Mrs. Crowley climb into a new blue convertible. Before them is Ben and Grandpa’s float and the Drum Rollers, four high school boys with four humongous bass drums. In back of us, three men older than Grandpa hold a maroon-and-gold-colored banner from the American Legion waist high. It almost stretches across the whole street. Behind them, men from the First World War line up. One man has a sleeve of his uniform pinned up to his shoulder. Another holds a crutch under one arm.

  Grandpa blows his whistle nine times, one for each hour. Mama tugs me to sit back down. The Gladiola High School band plays “America the Beautiful,” and everyone starts to sing.

  When our car finally turns on to Main Street, all I see is red, white, and blue bunting draped across the tops of all the buildings, and sidewalks with people four and five deep, waving flags and cheering. Some throw confetti and streamers.

  For France. For Mama and me.

  For my daddy.

  At the train station way down at the end of the street, I see the train. On the track to the left of the main building, a small gray boxcar sits atop a flatbed. It’s here! Now Daddy must be too!

  I wave my flag as hard as I can. I spot Miss Connie and a man with a potbellied pig on a leash standing outside the pharmacy. It’s Mr. Huckleberry from the Tula train station! Grams’s fortieth miracle? From their faces, I’d say yes. Miss Connie points to the lady and a boy and a girl on the other side of her. The Huffmans!

  “Mama, look,” I say. “My friends from Tula.”

  Meredith holds up a balloon poodle and grins.

  Ruby Jane stands in front of the Gladiola Theater with a bunch of kids from school. The marquee reads: BIENVENUE. WELCOME. She gives me a thumbs-up.

  As we pass by the Gladiola Gazette, Mr. Wyatt and Mrs. Pfluger stand out front and signal their hellos.

  Grams’s glee club is a few groups ahead. She helped all the women with long hair fix it into chignons, which is French for “hair buns.” The parade stops so the glee club can sing “My Country, ’Tis of Thee.” Mama sings along.

  I stand on the seat so I can see Daddy and he can see me. He’s got to be here somewhere. There’s only a couple of blocks to go.

  On the other side of the street, a man in uniform leans beside the barber pole in front of Sam’s Barber Shop holding a little girl in his arms. The woman next to him puts her arm around his waist. The man has red hair and a patch over one eye. He is not my
daddy.

  There’s Ben’s dad! He’s in front of the Five & Dime variety store. In uniform. Standing with Ben’s mom.

  Ben tosses his half-made balloon poodle onto the float, grabs a small flag, and rushes to his dad. He hands the flag to him and salutes.

  I must not be the only one who notices, because all around me, everyone turns to clap or salute too.

  forty-one

  THE PARADE ends at the train depot, where the gray Merci boxcar, with its painted sash of blue, white, and red emblazoned with the words GRATITUDE TRAIN across it, sits atop a flatbed car just beyond the station. Fancy hand-painted wooden plaques decorate its sides. There is one plaque for each of France’s provinces (which are like our states), plus a few extras for good measure.

  With my paper bag in one hand, I push through the crowd. I reach up to touch a plaque with a gold-and-red-striped shield, but a line of men from town encircles the boxcar and they ask everyone to move away.

  I hurry back to the station, climb onto a boulder next to the steps, and face the mass of people. Folks fill up every piece of ground and spill over onto Main Street. I shade my forehead with my hand and scan as many faces as I can.

  “Glory Bea,” Mama shouts. A group of hands reaches up a few feet away from me. Mama, Randall Horton, and Grams motion for me to join them.

  “Not yet,” I call. Not till I find Daddy.

  The high school band strikes up “The Liberty Bell” march as Mr. Crowley passes out certificates to his committee members. Each one, including Grandpa, says a bunch of kind words and then sits on a folding chair on top of the platform. The rolled top of my paper bag is squishy and damp in my hand.

  I don’t know why it’s taking so long. Come on, Daddy. It’s time. I switch my bag from left to right.

  Mr. Crowley makes a long speech and the Gladiola Glee Club sings “La Marseillaise.”

  “And now for our special guest,” says Mr. Crowley.

  Here he comes!

  “It is my great pleasure to welcome Governor Jester!”

  My paper bag falls to the ground. I don’t mean to, but I forget to clap as the governor makes his way to the podium.

  Daddy, where are you? You promised you’d come home. You’ve got to come home.

  The preacher from Gladiola Methodist says a blessing in English and French. I don’t bow my head or close my eyes. I keep looking for Daddy. He must be like the cherry on top of a float—saving the best for last.

  Suddenly it’s over. The boxcar is due in Austin shortly, so we must say au revoir.

  The whistle blows.

  I wave the best Bennett good-bye I can. Where is he?

  Then I locate Mama. The sky is now cloudy and gray, and instead of warming up, it’s getting colder.

  “What’s the rush, Glory Bea?” she asks as I hurry her along. “There’ll be plenty of food for everyone at the Bar-B-Que.”

  I’m not hurrying because I’m hungry. It’s because it’s suddenly clear: if Daddy wasn’t at the parade or in the boxcar, it’s because he’s waiting for us inside the school. Maybe he can’t walk so good, so he had to stay inside. Maybe he just wanted to make the surprise extra special.

  Smokey-sweet smells greet us. Brisket, sausage, chicken, potato salad, coleslaw, and a whole slew of tasty desserts line the long tables in the cafeteria. All the town cooks have made their signature recipes. Folks lean over the dishes and murmur their praises. I set my paper bag on the stage before we make our plates.

  “Have you found your VIP yet?” Mama asks.

  “So far he’s a no-show.”

  “Don’t give up hope.”

  “Thanks, Mama.” I’ll never give up.

  After fixing our plates, Mama, Grams, Grandpa, and I walk to the gym and join the table with the McGraths and Randall Horton. The bag of confetti sits under me.

  Grandpa digs into his slice of apple-cinnamon crumb pie. “If this isn’t Sadie Jean’s recipe, then my name isn’t William Conrad Bennett.”

  I scan all the nearby tables. One table over sits Miss Connie and her new gentleman friend, Mr. Huckleberry, with his pet pig, and the Huffmans from Tula.

  “Hello again,” I say, and wave the Bennett wave. I keep looking around the room for that one unforgettable face.

  Mrs. Huffman comes over. “We so enjoyed meeting your daughter last week,” she tells Mama. “We’ll have to get together once Lloyd returns. Glory Bea is interested in his amnesia.”

  “We all are,” says Mama. “We’re so happy that he found his way back home.”

  I’m looking everywhere except at Mrs. Huffman. There are so many people in here. But not the one I want to see the most.

  “Glory Bea, you are acting like a jack-in-the-box,” says Mama, putting her hand gently on my arm. “Sit still and eat.”

  “I’ll be right back. There’s someone I’ve got to find.”

  Mama shakes her head.

  I clutch my paper bag, hug it close, and racewalk back to the cafeteria. A few pieces of confetti land on my shoes. It’s okay. There’s plenty left. Folks are still fixing their plates or coming back for seconds. Out the windows, raindrops fall.

  “Glory Bea,” hollers Homer, waving his railroad cap. “What did the big train call the little train?”

  “Later,” I reply, and keep going.

  “No,” hollers Homer. “Toot. He called him Toot.”

  I zip up and down the rows of food tables, trailing confetti. The men have all taken off their hats, which makes it easier. Not everyone has a high forehead.

  Where is he?

  I rush back to the gym and walk from row to row.

  I turn and stare at the wall. The writing above the basketball hoop reads HOME OF THE GLADIOLA GIANTS. I let the words go blurry and sharp, blurry and sharp.

  “Any luck?” says Randall, coming up beside me. He carries a piece of apple-cinnamon crumb pie in each hand.

  “I’ve got to go home,” I say, and race to the double doors.

  Just before I reach the opening, Ruby Jane stops me.

  “Glory Bea!” she says, holding my arm. “I couldn’t sleep last night, I was so excited.”

  “Me too,” I say, shifting my weight from side to side. More confetti falls.

  Ruby Jane fans her face with both hands. “I’ve been thinking about someone all day.”

  “Ruby Jane, listen, I’ve got to go. My daddy’s not here yet, and I just figured out that he’s waiting for me at home.”

  Ruby Jane’s eyes widen and she gets real still.

  “Oh, Glory Bea,” she says, soft and wispy. “You don’t really…?”

  It doesn’t matter whether she believes or not.

  I believe.

  I turn and run. Run as fast as I can.

  forty-two

  HE IS NOT waiting for me on the front porch.

  I drop my paper bag and fling open the door.

  “Daddy. Daddy!” I call.

  No answer.

  I search everywhere. Downstairs. The musty attic, where Mama has stored his clothes. The bedrooms.

  “Daddy!” I call again and again.

  The kitchen, where his pecan pie awaits.

  Grandpa’s studio.

  Finally, I retrieve my bag of confetti. Only, when I pick it up, the bottom falls out. Clumps of wet newspaper splat onto the porch, followed by a flutter of dry confetti.

  I sit down on the bottom porch step, plunk my elbows onto my knees, and hang my head between my fists. Drops of leftover rain plop from the eaves onto my shoulders.

  When are you coming, Daddy? I thought today was the day. I’ve been waiting so long. I just knew you were coming. Where are you? You belong here. With Mama and me.

  I can’t live without you.

  I don’t want to live without you.

  I need you to come back.

  Footsteps sound on the walk, and my heart tap-dances.

  A man. Not in dress shoes. Not in tennis shoes. A man wearing boots. I close my eyes and I hold my breath as the shoes
come closer and closer. They stop in front of me.

  I open my eyes. Brown boots so shiny, I can see myself in them. The man is in uniform. A US Army Ranger uniform.

  I look up.

  “Glory Bea,” says Randall Horton. “You must be cold.” He takes off his jacket, with its striped bars on the chest and white armband with the red cross, and rests it over my shoulders.

  I look straight into his eyes. “People get amnesia, you know. Look at what happened to Mr. Huffman. One day he didn’t know his own name, where he lived, what job he had, or if he had a family. Then one day he did. He was reunited with his wife and children and is living happily ever after. Soldiers get captured. They get lost.”

  I am talking fast. So fast.

  “Maybe my daddy’s records got mixed up with someone else’s. Maybe he lost his dog tags or had on the wrong ones. Maybe he was injured real bad, so bad that they had to do surgery on his face, which changed his looks, and because he didn’t remember who he was, he didn’t recognize himself—”

  An ocean of tears flows down my cheeks and lands on Randall Horton’s jacket.

  “Glory Bea. I am so sorry.” Randall Horton sits beside me and takes my hands in his. “I’d like to tell you a story. A true story about your daddy.”

  I nod.

  “He was the bravest man I’ve ever known. He saved my life the day we landed on Omaha Beach. When we hit the shore, I tripped and swallowed half the English Channel. Your daddy picked me up and dragged me to safety. I wish I could have done the same for him.”

  “You should have.”

  “You’re right. I was a medic. The truth is, I couldn’t control what happened. Your daddy went back to help someone else. Enemy fire hit him. He was gone in an instant. He did not suffer.”

  Gone. Gone as in not coming home. Ever?

  That’s not possible.

  “No. You’re wrong.”

  “I wish I were.”

  I can’t live without my daddy. Mama may be able to. Grams and Grandpa may be able to. Not me.

  I don’t want to live without him.

  “No. No. No. NO!”

  Randall Horton squeezes my hands.

  Now I get it.

  The truth is, there is no hope. There never was.