Waiting for Sunrise (16 page)

“We
are
best friends.”

“But I want more than that, Ronni. We’re not twelve anymore. We’re sixteen and—”

She pulled her head away from his. Their eyes met. “I feel the same way too,” she whispered. “But Daddy really doesn’t want—”

Billy laughed. Felt the first flight of hope rise up inside. “Your daddy knows, Ronni. He’s reading me like a book.” He squeezed her hands again. “But I’m more than happy to speak with him. To tell him my intentions. To promise him to respect you and not do anything that would make him ashamed.”

“Or God.”

“Or God.”

She took in a breath through her nostrils then back out before giggling just enough to set his heart to flight. “So what are you asking me, Billy Liddle?”

He peered over her shoulder, past the multicolored and striped curtains and awnings of carnival booths, to the field now covered in the gray of late evening. Brother Ralph had spotted them and was walking to where he’d hoped to hide. His time was more than precious now. “Be my girl?”

Ronni rose slightly on her toes, kissed him gently on the cheek, and whispered, “I’ve always been your girl, Billy Liddle. I suspect I always will be.”

18

Trinity, South Carolina

Patsy wiped down the kitchen counter in her new home for the third time since washing, drying, and putting away the breakfast dishes. Behind her, at the kitchen table, Mam folded a load of towels she’d just hauled in from the indoor laundry room.

“How in the world one family can dirty this many towels is beyond me,” she said in her best “I do declare” voice.

Patsy pretended to be amused as she laughed and said, “You
do
know how many children I have, don’t you?” Sponge clutched firmly in her rubber-gloved hand, she leaned against the countertop to face her mother. The scent of Pine-Sol wafted around her.

Mam plopped another tri-folded towel on top of a short stack. “Four and counting.”

“Not on your life. Four and
stopping.
”

Mam reached for a hand towel, one of the new ones Patsy had just ordered from the Sears catalog. Suez Tan, the color was called. One of their newest colors. To Patsy it looked like another form of pink just with a prettier name. “I can’t help but say I’m glad to hear it, Patsy.”

“I told Gilbert, ‘Enough is enough.’” She turned to the sink, dipped her hand and the sponge into the scalding water, brought it up, and squeezed. It splattered against her cotton shirt and denim pedal pushers as she went back to wiping down the counter.

The fourth time.

“Aren’t you afraid you’ll take the color off the kitchen tiles that husband of yours paid so much for?”

“I’m not sure how to take color off of cream-colored tiles, Mam.”

“I’m talking about the pink ones.”

Patsy turned again to her mother. Mam was placing the folded laundry into the wicker basket perched at the end of the old farm table Gilbert had purchased for one of his station cafés but had decided to bring home instead. Together they’d sanded it before he’d headed back out again for another stretch of time on the road, managing Milstrap’s now five locations.

The original plus one for each child, he’d joked.

Not funny, she’d said.

And then he was off again, leaving her to be both father and mother and table painter. Nurse and teacher and housekeeper.

Part-time housekeeper. He had employed a woman who came in twice a week to help with the heavy work.

Like ironing, he’d said.

“Thanks, Mam, for coming over to help me today. Having the ladies from the church coming this evening is just more than I can deal with by myself. And with Ella Mae not coming until tomorrow . . .”

Mam hoisted the basket onto her ample hip. “What time should I come back for the young’uns?”

“Five-thirty?” Patsy threw the sponge into the water and reached for the basket as she walked across the wide kitchen. “Want me to take that?”

But Mam was already heading toward the rest of the house. “I’ve got it, Patsy. I know how to carry a load of clothes and put them in the linen closet.”

While Patsy waited for her mother to return from the far side of the house, she emptied the cleaning water, then scrubbed the sink down. That done, she peeled away the rubber gloves, which kept her hands soft but made her feel hot all over.

You should wear gloves, Gilbert had told her once as they lay in bed. Your hands are getting red and chapped.

She didn’t mind so much, she told him, although she really did.

He kissed her fingertips, drawing each one into his mouth as he so often did to tease her, then turned her palms up and kissed them too.

But he minded, he said. He didn’t want his wife to have the hands of a scullery maid.

A scullery maid, she now thought. If she
were
such, would she be as miserable as she was now? Would she have to pretend as hard that she wasn’t?

“That’s done,” Mam said as she reentered the kitchen, startling her. “What can I do for you next?”

Patsy shook her head. Her hair was tightly bound by brush rollers and felt heavy. Other than a trim, she’d not cut it since before her wedding day. When Gilbert was on the road, she wore it in a ponytail or twisted behind her head. When Gilbert was home or she was attending special events or socials, she wore it down. Just the way he liked it. “Nothing,” she said. “I’ll finish up the house, bake the cake, and prepare the little finger sandwiches.”

“Did you decide if you were going to have stuffed celery sticks?”

“I did.” She walked over to the fat pink refrigerator and jerked the door open to reveal a covered platter full of them. “Ta-da.”

Mam peered in. “Cream cheese and pineapple or pimento cheese?”

“Both.”

Mam threw up her hands in mock praise. “You are a wonderful hostess, my dear. The ladies at the church will be talking about this for a month, I’m sure.” She walked to a corner chair where her purse rested. “It’s hard to believe she’s only twenty-five, they’ll say.”

“An old twenty-five.”

“That’s because you rushed life, not that I’m going to drag that up again.” But she grimaced anyway. “Silver polished, crystal gleaming, and china so clean I can see myself in it and all laid out in the dining room?”

“I did that yesterday. I’m surprised you haven’t already looked to see.” Patsy walked behind Mam, who ambled toward the living room and the foyer.

Mam’s shoulders visibly squared. “I have never been nosy, you know that.”

“I have to agree, you have not.” She pressed her hand to a section of rollers. “Have you heard from Lloyd? How are things in Germany?”

“Got a letter yesterday. He’s doing well. Who knew he’d take to army life like he has.”

“Well, I, for one, miss him.”

“No more than Holly Franklin. My land, that girl is counting down the days. Literally.” Once at the foyer, Mam took a brief detour to sneak a peek into the dining room. “Yes, I’d say you’re all set.” She opened her purse and retrieved her car keys. “When will Gilbert be home?”

“Tomorrow.”

“Will he stay long this time?”

Patsy blinked at her mother. “He said he will.” She tried to smile. “So maybe so.”

Gainesville, Florida

Maybe it would have been better if Harold had just stayed in jail that night, Billy figured.

The preacher had come to the house before Billy got home. Before he could even get Ronni back to her father’s house. Before he had time to tell her parents what had occurred. Not that they hadn’t already heard. News traveled fast. Bad news even faster.

Asking her father for permission to date his daughter would have to wait until another evening. Until then, he and Ronni decided on the way back, they’d keep everything as it was.

He didn’t even ask to kiss her, though his heart burst with desire to do so. That would come later too. Oh, Father in heaven and shout hallelujah; that would come later.

When he arrived home that night after ten, the mood in the house was as dark as the interior. Mama sat at the kitchen table, hands clutching each other, illuminated only by the dim lighting over the stove. A sight he’d seen one too many times in his life already.

“Mama,” he spoke from the darkened interior of the dining room.

“You should go on to bed now.” She didn’t bother to look at him.

But Billy took a seat near her instead. “Where’s Daddy?”

“He went with Brother Ralph to the jailhouse.” She cut her eyes toward him—he could see the whites of her eyes—but her head didn’t move. “You all right?”

“Yeah. I’m okay.” He looked around the room. “You want me to turn on a light?”

“No, thank you, son.”

Billy reached across the table, touched his mother’s hand. “Did he . . . ?”

“No. But I’m sure it’s coming, sooner or later. He’ll make this all my fault.” Billy saw her lips break apart in a half smile. “It’s been a long time since he’s lost his temper. I guess we have that much to be grateful for.”

“Mama . . . we can leave. You and me.” He squeezed her hand. “We can find a place nearby and . . .”

“How do you suggest we live, Billy?” She sighed. “I suppose I could take in more laundry, like I used to back in Casselton.”

Billy didn’t say anything at first. “I don’t remember that.”

“You were just a baby back then. Four years old, I think. Harold was five.”

Billy thought for a moment before asking, “And Patsy?”

His mother’s breath visibly caught in her chest. “Patsy was thirteen.” She smiled again. “She went with me to get that old washing machine. We kept it on the back porch. Lands, your father didn’t hardly make anything in those days. I guess the move to Miami did us some good after all.”

Billy didn’t want his mother to force the conversation away from the subject of his sister. There were things he wanted to know. Needed to know. “I remember that. And I remember Patsy helping you with the laundry you took in.”

Mama continued to look straight ahead. “It wouldn’t do to let people know around here that I used to wash other people’s clothes. Your daddy would be so mad.”

“Mama, can’t we talk about Patsy?”

She looked at him fully now. “I’d prefer not to, Billy.”

“But why?” When his mother didn’t answer, he added, “Why did she go away?”

Mama looked down at her hands. “Some things in life don’t need to be discussed.”

“But Mama, she was my sister.” His felt his eyes narrow. “She
is
my sister.”

“Always and forever. As she will always be my daughter.” Billy heard Mama swallow hard. “I wonder sometimes . . . I think about calling . . . but that wouldn’t be right.”

“You know where she is?”

Mama raised her chin. “Our pastor—mine and Patsy’s daddy’s—he knew of this family. I only met them once . . . before I called. They lived in South Carolina. Good people. I . . . I’ve talked to them a few times.”

“About Patsy?”

“About Patsy going there. About . . . other things. And I know if anything bad had ever happened to her, they’d call me.”

“But Mama, how would they know where to find—”

Billy’s words were halted when Mama suddenly grabbed his hand, still lying near hers on the table. “Tell me about your evening, Billy.” She shook her head. “Not that whole debacle with your brother. Tell me about you and Veronica. Did you tell her how you feel, like you told me you’d tell her?”

In spite of the angst, Billy smiled. “Yes, ma’am. I did.”

“And?”

“She feels the same way too. Mama, are you sure you don’t want me to turn on a light?”

“No.” Her lips pursed. “Just keep a listen out for your daddy and the reverend coming back. And when you do, go right on to bed.”

“Not unless you do, Mama. Not unless you go on to bed too.”

“That won’t be necessary.”

As if on cue, a tap came to the back door. Billy stood so quickly his chair almost toppled over. Mama rose from her chair too, but more slowly. “It’s okay, son,” she said. “That’ll be Mrs. Stone. She’s coming over to sit with me.”

Billy watched as his mother opened the door to both Mr. and Mrs. Stone.

“Hey, Billy,” Mr. Stone greeted him as he stepped in. “If that’s Billy. I can barely make him out over there.”

“Land sakes, Bernice,” Nadine Stone said almost simultaneously. “What in the world are you doing sitting in the dark?” And with that, a switch was flipped up and light filled the room. Before Billy had time to respond, Mrs. Stone had made her way past him, into the dining room, then the living room, turning on lights as she went along. “I’ve never seen anything like this in my life,” she declared. “You’d think someone had died.”

Herbert Stone had reached Billy, shook his hand, and said, “You all right there, son?”

“Yes, sir.”

“We heard about what happened from Brother Ralph.”

Billy frowned. “I thought I saw you at the spring fling. Over by the ringtoss.”

“You did. We didn’t stay long.” Mr. Stone then looked at Mama, who stood motionless near the back door. “Bernice, are
you
all right?”

Mama closed the door. “Yes. I didn’t realize the house was so dark.” She shot her son a look that read, “Say nothing.”

Mrs. Stone rejoined the group. “I’ll make coffee while we wait.”

Billy watched her moving about in the Liddle kitchen as though she knew it better than her own. He looked to his mother, who seemed to jerk to life. “Here, Nadine, I’ll do it. You get the cups and the spoons.”

“I’m . . . I’m going to head on to bed, I think,” Billy said.

Mama returned to where he stood, gave him a light hug, and said, “I’ll talk with you later. Sleep well.”

Billy nodded at Mr. Stone, said “good night” to Mrs. Stone, and then ambled down the hallway toward his room, grateful for their presence and confused by his mother’s behavior. More now than he’d ever been. Seemed to him that a woman whose oldest son had almost killed her youngest would have more of a reaction. That a woman who’d had her oldest child’s name brought up for the first time in years wouldn’t let all talk of her fall away without another word. And that a woman whose brutal husband was on his way home from jail with their son would be too upset to calmly prepare coffee for the neighbors.

The scent of it brewing reached his bedroom door before he had time to close it.

Nearly an hour later, he heard the front door open, close. Harold’s voice saying their mother’s name. Billy strained to hear his father’s footsteps, but instead heard the family car’s engine turn over and hum for a minute, followed by the crunching of tires rolling out of the driveway.