Waiting for Sunrise (2 page)

Mama’s answer came in sobs. “But . . . if you knew . . . how hard today . . . has been for me . . .”

“Stop your nagging.” He swore—using the “unpardonable sin” expletive, according to Patsy’s best friend, Mitzy. He said it again and a third time. “I don’t want the girl in my bedroom. And if I have to beat that into you, then so be it.”

Patsy heard the sound of his belt buckle coming undone, the swish of it leaving the loops, the first smack of it against her mother. She fled up the remainder of the stairs, pushed opened the nearly closed bedroom door, and screamed, “Stop it! Stop it! If you’re going to hit someone, hit me! I left the stupid book on the bed!”

———

She reasoned later that it had been the shock of seeing her standing there and of hearing her shouting like a madwoman that stopped Mr. Liddle from hitting her mother that night. That it had been the sight of her nearly nude body silhouetted by the night’s bright moonlight bursting through the gauzy drapes and open windows that caused him to stop seeing her as “the girl” and start seeing her as she soon was to be. A woman, fully budded. No longer did the gray of his eyes hold steel ready to rip her to shreds. Instead, they held something more monstrous than that. Something she’d never witnessed before but knew to stay away from.

And—she knew—no longer did his hands itch to hit her, but to embrace her. To stroke her. To touch her in a way that would leave her permanently scarred.

2

Patsy loved riding the school bus. And why shouldn’t she? It was there, squeezed together on the last seat to the right, that she and her best friends Mitzy Powell and Jane Cartwell shared the secrets and laughter that came from being thirteen. School had been in session only a week, and already it was unfolding to be a banner eighth grade year.

On that first Friday afternoon, the girls sat huddled together.

“How’d you do on the spelling test?” Jane asked Mitzy.

“I made a ninety.”

Patsy looked at Mitzy. “Me too. What word did you miss?”

“Ominous.”

Patsy smiled. “Me too. I forgot the last
o
.”

The three friends giggled. “It’s still
unbearably
hot,” Mitzy said. She threw the back of her hand against her forehead, a dramatic flare she’d learned from hours spent at the picture show. Her dark curls danced about her face as the bus bounded down the rutted road outside Casselton. “I say we meet tomorrow afternoon at the creek for a swim.” She looked from Patsy to Jane and her dimples deepened. “In?”

“I’ll say,” Jane said. Slender fingers raked blonde hair up from her swanlike neck. “If it weren’t for having to babysit my little sister this afternoon, I’d be there today.”

For the last half hour, Patsy, who sat closest to the window, had felt sweat roll from her armpits down her sides. Her handmade cotton shirt became damp in places. She peered out the half-opened glass, watched the scenery go by in a blur of green. She held back the mousy brown hair her mother had trimmed just the night before—had insisted on it, in fact—with her left hand, keeping it away from her face and eyes. Turning to her friends with a shake of her head, she said, “I wanna go. Honest I do. But . . . Mr. Liddle returns tomorrow night and it will all depend on what Mama has for me to do.” Her upper lip curled as she said, “I’ve got field peas to shell this afternoon too. Mountains of them. I declare, sometimes I think my fingers are going to fall off from all the shelling, and I’m sure she’s going to have me picking more tomorrow besides.”

Mitzy, who sat on the aisle side, leaned over Jane and rested her forearm on the seat back in front of them. “Sneak away, then.”

Jane’s eyes grew as large as Patsy’s felt. “Why, she can’t do that, Mitzy.”

Mitzy’s expression grew stern. “Why not? All she has to do is say she’s picking the peas, which is pretty much all she ever does. We can meet up at the creek, swim, then go to the lower lot and help her gather a bushel.” Her dark eyes darted up at Patsy. “We won’t stay long, Patsy.” She held up three fingers. “On my honor as a Girl Scout.”

Tempting as it sounded . . . “I can’t unless Mama says it’s okay,” Patsy said. “I want to. I do. But if Mr. Liddle found out I’d done anything without Mama’s okay . . .” The memory of weeks earlier still seared her memory.

Jane crossed her arms over the schoolbooks resting in her lap. “I don’t know how you stand living in the same house with that man.”

“That makes two of us, Patsy,” Mitzy added.

Patsy shrugged. “He’s all right, I guess. He has his occasional outbursts, but he’s been a good provider, and like Mama says, he took the two of us in when nobody else would have.”

Patsy returned her attention to the world outside, drawing near the road where Mitzy and Jane would be dropped off to walk the rest of the way to their homes. Another mile or so down the road and it was Patsy’s turn.

She hadn’t told either of her friends about what had happened. Hadn’t shared with them that she was doing everything in her power to avoid Ira Liddle. He’d almost cornered her once, since that night. The previous Saturday she’d been in the storage pantry, putting up mason jars full of green beans and fresh peaches she and Mama had canned that day. When she heard footsteps over the tune she hummed, she peered over her shoulder expecting to find her mother there. “I got it, Mama,” she said. Then, “Oh. I didn’t . . . I thought you’d gone to town, Mr. Liddle.” If she hurried, she could be done with the chore and get out. Patsy reached toward the deep oval-shaped basket beside her feet where a few more jars stood at attention. “I’m just helping Mama . . . putting up these cans of beans and peaches.”

Her hands shook; she could barely grip the jar’s mouthpiece.

“You’re a good helper for your mama, aren’t you, girl.” It wasn’t a question. It wasn’t even meant to be a compliment.

Patsy’s insides churned. “I try, Mr. Liddle.” She gripped the handle of the basket and then wrapped it in her arms, pressing it against her middle.

Her stepfather took another step into the room, his frame all but blocking the light from the kitchen. “Why don’t you call me Ira, Patsy? I am, after all, your stepfather. Or, you can call me Daddy.”

The churning stopped, replaced by a lack of any ability whatsoever to feel. She could only stare at the man. His face was shadow, his scent of pipe tobacco and some kind of pungent aftershave. Patsy tried to think of something to say, even as plans of escape tried to form. “I . . . I . . .”

Another step. He leaned against a shelf’s frame to his right. Light broke from around his left shoulder. Now she could see the dingy white of his teeth, the hint of a smile.

The steel in his eyes.

“You know, Patsy . . . you and I . . . could be friends. Good friends.” Beefy arms slid across his barrel chest. “It would make me happy and it would make your life a whole lot nicer.” Another smile. “If you get what I’m saying.”

Patsy took a step back, realizing with it that she had trapped herself. She had nowhere to go. If she screamed for help, her stepfather would only claim she was lying. Her mother would suspect her of causing trouble, perhaps. Her brothers—so precious to her—would see her as the source of problems in the household.

“Mr. Liddle, I . . .”

“Ira, Patsy. Call me Ira.” Another step forward. “I think we should begin again, you and I. Shall we?” His arms stretched toward her. “Maybe start with a hug.”

“I . . .” The basket toppled to the floor and rolled atop her feet.

“Patsy?” Her mother’s voice rang from beyond the monster at the door. “Patsy!”

Patsy’s eyes darted toward the light. “Mama, I’m in here!” She gathered the basket and straightened as her mother stepped into the pantry.

“Oh, Ira,” she said, coming up short. “I thought you’d gone to town.”

Patsy’s stepfather turned. “I was going to . . .” He nodded toward Patsy. “But your daughter needed some help first.”

Patsy’s mother looked first from her husband, then to her daughter, and back to her husband again. She smiled. Weak, but it was a smile nonetheless. “Oh, I see. How kind of you, Ira.” Then to Patsy: “Child, the boys need their baths. See to it, will you?”

“Yes, ma’am.” Patsy turned her eyes to the floor and willed her feet to leave the room as fast as they could. Passing Mr. Liddle, she heard him say to her mother, “Such a good little helper you’ve got there, Bernie. I don’t know what we’d do without her.”

The school bus screeched to a stop, jarring Patsy from her memory. Mitzy and Jane pulled books to their chests before standing and peering down at her. “So, are you in or out?”

Patsy nodded. “In. Meet me at one o’clock. That’s when the boys go down for their naps.”

Both friends smiled. Nodded. They ambled up the aisle, toward the front of the bus. Jane looked over her shoulder, mouthed “See you tomorrow,” and then continued forward.

“See you,” Patsy said to no one. She sighed, nervous at the thought of swimming before working. Wondering if Mama would allow it or if she’d have to sneak to the creek after lunch.

At least, she thought, Mr. Liddle wasn’t home until tomorrow night.

———

When Patsy arrived home it was to find her mother standing on the front porch. She was dressed as if she were going to town. Her dark-brown felt suit hat—the one with the single feather and a pearl flair on the front side—was cocked perfectly atop her head. She wore her matching dark brown gloves, a purse was draped across her forearm, and she wore a hint of lipstick from one of the tubes from the little cupid holder.

Patsy felt elation. If her mother had to go to town . . . and she needed her to help with her little brothers . . . maybe she’d be more apt to allow for swimming on Saturday. “Going to town, Mama? Do you need me to watch the boys?”

Mama came down all three of the concrete steps that led to the landing. “The boys have gone over to Mrs. Dabbs’s house. She’s watching them for me this afternoon.”

Patsy blinked. She clutched her books tighter to where they rested low on her belly. “Are you okay, Mama? Are you sick?”

“No, Patsy, I’m not sick. But I want you to get in the car with me now.” She took a breath, exhaled slowly. “We have to go somewhere.”

Patsy looked from her mother to the car and back again. “Where?”

Mama inhaled deeply. “Just do as I say,” she answered, walking past her daughter.

Patsy had never defied her mother, never argued with her about anything; she wasn’t about to start now. Not today. She walked up onto the porch, placed her schoolbooks on one of the wicker rockers, and then skipped back down the steps and to the car, an embroidered purse swinging at her side.

They were halfway to town when Mama cleared her throat. Patsy thought she sounded like a little girl. “Patsy,” she said. Her hands flexed on the steering wheel, then rolled—pinky to index finger—like little drumsticks. Another deep sigh slipped from her red-painted lips. “Patsy, do you remember . . .” Her mother swallowed.

Patsy tucked her left ankle under her right knee and swung around so that she could better see her mother. “Remember?”

“When you were a little girl . . . a very little girl. Do you remember your father? Your real father?”

Patsy nodded. “A little. Not a lot. I remember . . .” She peered out the windshield. “I remember the smell of him mostly.” She smiled. “And sometimes I dream about him. I dream of him walking through a doorway and I run to him and he picks me up and swings me around and around.” Patsy blinked. “And he sings . . .”

“Come, Josephine, in my flying machine . . .”

Patsy looked again to her mother, who looked at her child. Together they sang, “Going up she goes, up she goes . . .”

The older smiled at the younger before adding, “That was no mere dream, Patsy. That was a memory.” Her gloved fingers drummed along the steering wheel again. “I’m glad you have it. It will keep you warm on cold nights as you grow older.” She smiled weakly before continuing. “Do you remember anything else, Patsy? Anything about our lives together?”

“Sometimes I think . . . I think about a house. With a narrow staircase beside a paneled wall.”

“That was our home. Anything else?”

Patsy shook her head. “Not really. There’re little things, but I don’t always know if they’re real or imaginary.”

Her mother stole a glance at her watch ticking silently at the hem of her glove. “We’ve time,” she said, mostly to herself.

“Time?”

“Patsy,” her mother continued. “Do you remember anything—anything at all—about me in those days?”

“Of course, Mama. I remember you being in the kitchen. I remember your laughter. I remember . . . Daddy coming home and the kiss he always gave you.” Patsy squeezed her hands together in her lap, where they rested atop her purse. “You don’t do that with Mr. Liddle, Mama. Why?”

Mama shrugged. “Ours is not a marriage born out of . . . passion.” She looked at her daughter. “Ordinarily, these are not the kinds of things I would discuss with you, but . . . there are things I want you to know.”

“Like?”

“Like about love. And marriage. And motherhood.”

“Does this have anything to do with where we’re going?” Patsy licked her lips as she looked out the windshield. “And can it possibly be to Slim’s? I’m simply parched and absolutely dying for a Nehi.”

Slim’s Service Station served three functions. It was a place to buy gas and get your car fixed, a place to buy ice-cold sodas and snacks, and a place to stop along the new Trailways bus route.

Mama cleared her throat again. “Actually, that’s exactly where we’re going.”

Patsy sat up a little straighter on the seat. “Really? Then can I? Can I have a Nehi Peach?”

“Yes, you may.” Her mother smiled toward her. “But Patsy, I must talk with you first. And you must listen. Listen carefully.”

“Okay, Mama. I’m listening.”

Patsy noticed her mother’s hands gripping the wheel tighter now, the outline of her knuckles nearly visible through the cotton. “Patsy, when your daddy died on that awful day . . . I was . . . expecting.”

Patsy frowned. The forbidden topic. “You mean the baby.”

“Yes. Your oldest brother.”

Patsy stared beyond the hood of the car to the road before them. Stretched out like an old clothesline bobbing in the wind, dipping here, curving there. “My brother,” she whispered. “But . . .” The
t
was stuck on the back of her front teeth. “I thought you never wanted to talk about him, Mama. So, I haven’t.”

“I couldn’t take care of him, Patsy. My son. Not without your father. And both our families were struggling through the Depression, you know. No one could afford another mouth to feed.”