Waiting for Sunrise (11 page)

Patsy grinned. “Queen Victoria of England liked to watch Prince Albert shave, did you know that?”

Gilbert ran a finger over her brow. “Where’d you hear that?”

“History class.”

“Is that what they teach these days?”

Patsy shook her head. “More than that, silly. But it’s interesting, don’t you think?”

The finger trailed down her nose. “Does this mean you want to watch me shave?”

She grinned. “It’s fair play, I suppose. I won’t cut my hair and you’ll let me watch you shave.”

His hand fell to her shoulder. “Every morning? Promise?”

Patsy reached up and nibbled his chin, already in need of a razor. “For the rest of my life.”

12

Summer 1954, Miami, Florida

Thirteen was no age to be moving, not to mention clear up the state.

At least, that was what Billy heard Harold say. More than once too, and in more than just the usual words and phrases. Ever since they’d been told about Daddy taking a similar job with another company, Harold and Daddy had a number of arguments about it, the last one being the worst.

This time, Billy and Mama stayed in the kitchen sitting at the table. Mama’s hands wrapped around the coffee cup between them. The toes of Billy’s right foot bobbed up and down; the rubber of his sneaker gripped the linoleum. For the most part, Mama’s eyes stayed closed while Billy’s focused on the faucet over the deep, white porcelain sink in front of him.

“Boy, I’ve let you get away with a whole lot since we moved here, but you’re just about to cross the line with me.” Daddy’s voice boomed from the living room, just yards from where they sat.

Billy reminded himself to breathe.

Mama took another shaky sip of her coffee.

“Look, old man—”

“Don’t you ‘old man’ me, boy. I’ve been turning a blind eye to your hanging around riffraff and this is what it’s come to. I’m telling you now, I won’t put up with you running roughshod over me.”

“Oh yeah, Dad. You don’t mind my running roughshod over Mama, bringing you information on all the goings-on around here, but when it comes to me running roughshod over you . . .”

Billy looked over at Mama; her eyes were closed and her lips were moving as though in prayer. “Mama,” he whispered.

The sound of furniture being shoved across the floor came from the other room.

“Shhh.” The instruction was soundless.

The tick of his leg increased.

“What are you gonna do?” Harold’s voice cut through the air from the other room. “Huh? Hit me like you do her?”

“Boy!”

Billy folded his arms across the slick Formica of the table. His head fell atop them, sweaty flesh against sweaty flesh. He inhaled the pine-fresh cleaner his mother had used earlier. “No, no, no,” he whispered.

The first blow, followed by another, and another. Harold’s
whomp
against the wall. The apparent finding of his feet, followed by shuffled steps moving quickly across the floor. The sound of body against body.

“I’ll beat you within an inch of your life!” their father bellowed.

Mama jumped from the table. “No!”

Billy’s head shot up, his twelve-year-old hand quick to grab her thin arm. “Mama, don’t.”

Mama sat, blinked back tears. Her narrow fingers wrapped around the coffee cup again.

Billy heard the all-too-familiar sound of Daddy’s belt being pulled from pant loops. He looked from the door leading to the living room to his mother and then to the back door with only the worn screen keeping the neighbors from knowing what was going on. “Mama,” he said to her. “Let’s go. Let’s go.”

Leather slapped against his brother’s body. Words spewed. Words he’d never say, much less repeat. Words he couldn’t imagine saying to his father, even hating him sometimes as he did.

“Mama.” Billy’s right hand encircled her left wrist as he stood. “The back door. Let’s go.” Harold was putting up a fight now. A mighty struggle of rebellion against authority. Billy’s eyes traveled from the kitchen door to his mother’s face. Her own eyes were full of tears and fear. “Mama!”

She looked up at him. “Run, Billy. Run.”

His left hand reached for her right and upset the coffee cup in the process. He watched it rock then fall and roll to the floor where it shattered against the linoleum.

The scuffling in the other room stopped. His mother looked to the floor then back to her son. “Billy.” She pulled her hands free of him. “Go!” she hissed. “Do as I say!”

Billy took two tentative steps backward. “Come with me,” he whispered back.

Mama stood.

“What the—what the devil’s going on in there?”

Billy watched the blood drain from his mother’s face. “Now!” she hissed again.

Billy turned, pushed the screen door with the palms of both hands, and leapt over the threshold to the stoop. He whipped his head to the left then to the right, where the side yard led to the front and a long, newly poured sidewalk led out of the neighborhood. He sprinted for a few yards, then tore away, running as fast as he could, to . . . to . . . where he did not know. He only knew he was running for his life, for all the good it would do him.

Sooner or later, he’d have to go home again.

And face Ira Liddle.

———

It was nearly eleven before Billy returned to the concrete, flat-roofed house he’d called home for the last five years. Like most of the houses in the neighborhood, theirs was painted salmon pink, but in the shade of night, it came off looking like vomit yellow.

The air was thick with humidity and cicadas crying out against the dark.

He slipped between the moon-cast shadows of palm fronds along the front lawn.

To his left, a metal lawn swing creaked as it moved in the breeze. He whipped his head around. A little too quickly.

“Ow,” he groaned as his long slender fingers wrapped around his neck.

He took a few steps backward, turned toward the house again, made his way along the right-hand side—retracing the very steps he’d taken hours earlier.

The tiny room he shared with Harold waited for him on the back right corner. If the window was up, he was home free.

So to speak.

It was. And the screen was off, resting just below the window, against the house. Billy peered inside the room, illuminated only by the moonlight. Harold was lying on his bed, flat on his back, ankles locked, one arm cocked behind his head. Sensing Billy at the window, his head turned. “Hey, kid.” The greeting was etched in pain.

Billy blinked. “You okay?” He kept his voice low.

“Hoist yourself on in here and let’s get the screen back up before you wake the ole man.”

Billy did as he was told, careful not to make any loud thumping noises as his sneakers touched the tile floor. By the time he’d righted himself, Harold stood beside him, ready to lean out and retrieve the screen. Together they slid it into place then locked the metal rings around the knobs jutting up from the window’s ledge.

His brother, older only by a year in age but seemingly so much older in stature. Billy swallowed hard at seeing the cut that sliced diagonally across Harold’s lip, the dark blue shadows pooled under his left eye and cheekbone. “He did a number on you, didn’t he?”

Harold shrugged. “It don’t matter. Wasn’t the first time, probably won’t be the last.” He returned to his bed, sat gingerly upon it, then rested his elbows on his knees.

Billy pulled off his shoes, set them oh-so-quietly at the foot of his bed, then sat next to his brother. “Did he notice I was gone?”

Harold snickered. “Oh yeah.” His fingers laced.

“Mama?” Billy’s voice cracked, even in a whisper.

Harold didn’t answer.

“Harold? What about Mama? Did she get in trouble for making me run?”

Harold turned his head toward Billy, ran his tongue along the swell of his lip. “What do you think, Billy? You think Daddy’s gonna let her get away with anything like that?”

“What’d he do?”

Harold turned his gaze to his feet. “Gave her the same belt he gave me, only not so hard.”

Billy didn’t know whether to be grateful or not. “Why’s he have to be so mean, I wonder?” he asked over the lump in his throat.

“’Cause that’s just who he is.”

“Is she all right?”

“Isn’t she always?”

Billy didn’t answer right away. “Why do you think she puts up with his hitting her?”

Harold looked back to him. “’Cause that’s just who
she
is.”

Billy sat silent, counting his breathing in and out, in and out. Then, “Are we really moving?”

“Looks like it.”

“Did Daddy say to where?”

“Nope. Said we’d know when we got there.”

“I’m okay with that. I never cared for Miami that much.”

“That’s because you didn’t make friends like I did, Billy.”

Billy nodded. “But they’re not very good friends, Harold.”

Harold swung around until he was lying on his back again, ankles crossed once more. “Go to bed.”

Billy stood.

“And count yourself lucky that Mama took the belt for ya tonight.”

———

They moved on a Tuesday, two weeks later. Daddy rented a United Van Lines moving van. Billy stood hidden at the side of the house, holding his new Whee-Lo and watched fascinated as four muscled men loaded up all their worldly goods like they were nothing heavier than papier-mâché. Once they were done, he knew, his role and Harold’s would be to help carry the boxes—each marked with the black Magic Marker Mama had bought at the five-and-dime—from the house to the van.

All morning, Daddy stayed inside, bellowing out orders to the men while Mama continued to box up the “little things,” as she called them. Harold had made a final run to say good-bye to his friends. Billy had done that the night before. It took all of a half hour to mumble “so long” to the one person he felt close to in Miami. He and Johnny Carr had nodded at each other and given a loose hug before Billy had ambled back home.

“Billy!” Harold’s voice now came from behind him. “You’d best get out of la-la land and get inside. Daddy says the men are just about done here.”

The two brothers walked toward the rear of the house. “When’d you get back?”

“A minute or two ago. Came in the back way.”

“Did you say your good-byes?”

“Yeah. You?”

“Last night, after you went out.”

Harold opened the kitchen door for Billy and he walked in to find Mama sealing another box. “Good. There you two are. Your daddy says to start loading the boxes. He just walked out the front door to find you.” She glanced at her youngest son’s hand. “Billy, hand me your toy so it doesn’t get broken.”

Billy gave his mother the Whee-Lo, then hoisted the box on the floor at her feet into his arms. “Mama, how long’s it gonna take to get to where we’re going?”

“I have no idea, son. Harold, there are boxes in your room. You start there.”

Without a word, Harold shuffled toward their adjacent bedroom.

Billy left the kitchen, moving into the living room and out the front door, where Daddy stood talking to one of the United men. “Daddy? Where should I put this?”

“Start laying them upside the furniture in the back of the van,” his father said without so much as a glance.

On his way back inside the house, Billy asked the same question he’d asked of his mother.

“Well, son, if you quit talking and start packing, maybe we’ll be there by sometime tomorrow.”

Daddy wasn’t far off. They got to the new house somewhere after midnight the next day. Billy couldn’t tell much about it in the glow of the street lamps, but he liked what he saw.

This house made the one in Miami look like a matchbox. Even Mama was delighted. “Ira,” she breathed out as they stood at the base of the semicircular driveway, next to a newspaper receptacle with the numbers 1711 attached to it. “It’s like a mansion.”

“Well, you know, Bernie, I like to provide as best I can, and I believe good fortune will smile on me here in Gainesville.” Words spoken, Daddy did something Billy hadn’t seen much of; he wrapped an arm around Mama’s shoulder and kissed her at the temple.

The United truck was parked in the driveway, abandoned. “Daddy,” Billy asked as quiet as he knew how, “what are we gonna do about the big stuff? Are the men who drove the truck sleeping in the house?”

“No, son. They’ve gone on and gotten themselves a hotel room. But don’t you worry none.” Daddy’s broad chest bowed out. “Someone will be here in the morning. Meanwhile, boys, grab the overnight cases your mama had you pack and let’s go inside.” Daddy dipped into his front pants pocket and pulled out a silver key. It glimmered in the lamplight. “Come on in with me, Mama.” With his other hand, he tossed Harold the car keys before they disappeared into the shadows cast by tall trees in the expanse of the front yard.

Billy and Harold pulled marbled-green suitcases from the trunk. “Hey, Harold,” Billy said, easing the trunk down. “What do you think?”

“’Bout what?”

The brothers walked up the driveway, each carrying two pieces of the Samsonite luggage. “About this place? You think maybe it’s a new beginning?”

“I guess so.” Harold sounded doubtful.

“I mean, did you see the way Daddy kissed Mama?”

“What of it?”

“Well . . .” Billy stopped walking and Harold stopped with him. “Don’t you think that makes everything look kinda promising here? Maybe it’s like Daddy said. Maybe good fortune will smile down on us here in Gainesville. And maybe Daddy won’t fight with Mama no more and Mama will make some friends. Nice ladies, like herself.”

Harold blew air from his nose. “Yeah. Maybe.” He shuffled toward the door.

Billy held back.

“You coming?”

“Yeah. Give me a minute, okay?”

“Just hurry up, Billy. It’s late.”

Billy watched Harold walk inside the door. He tilted his chin upward and looked across the blue-black sky. The stars were numerous; he could see the Big Dipper. Ursa Major, he’d learned the year before in school. The Great Bear. “God,” he whispered into the warm, sticky air. “Thank you for bringing us here. And thank you for Daddy being nice to Mama.” He blinked. His neck was getting tired so he straightened it. From where he stood, it looked like every light in the house was now on. Through the large picture window he could see Mama and Daddy, walking through a wide doorway into another room. Probably the dining room, he thought.