Waiting for Sunrise (25 page)

28

Summer 1963, Cedar Key, Florida

To soften the blow of what he was about to ask her, Billy went out and bought his wife a brand-new Volkswagen Ragtop Beetle. A red one. Ruby red.

As he hoped, she went crazy over it. When he drove it into their short driveway, he peered over at the cottage and waited for her face to appear at the window as it always did. Sure enough, within moments, the sheer curtains parted. Her face was quizzical. Billy had the ragtop pushed back; he stood on the red and white vinyl seat and popped through the opening for a wave.

Her mouth fell open; the curtain dropped. Seconds later, he heard the front door open along with her sandaled footsteps on the narrow planking of the porch. “Billy Liddle,” she squealed.

He dropped back into the car and opened the driver’s door. “Whaddaya think? Huh?” he asked, arms spread wide as he unfolded himself from the interior.

“Ohmygoodness! Ohmygoodness!”

Ronni wore her dark hair in a flip near her shoulders. It bounced, catching the light from the early afternoon sunlight. She wore a pair of white baggie shorts and a blue and white checked top that exposed the skin between the waist of the shorts and the hem of the shirt. She looked like a schoolgirl, not a grown woman. As always, one glance at her made him crazy.

But, at least for now, he had to stay focused.

“You like?”

“Did you . . . ? Is it . . . ?” She clapped her hands together as though he’d already given her the answers she wanted to hear.

“Did I buy it?” he teased.

She stopped jumping up and down, placed her hands directly on his shoulders, and stared without a word.

“Yes, I did.”

He laughed at her gasp.

“Is it ours?” She didn’t wait for an answer; she squealed, threw her arms around his neck, and bent one leg at the knee as she squeezed him.

He laughed and said, “You’re killing me.”

Ronni released him. “I cannot believe you did this . . . can we afford it? Of course we can afford it. You’d never do anything like this unless we could, and goodness knows we could use a second car now.” She darted around the car. “It’s red.
Red.
”

“The restaurant is doing all right,” he said by way of short explanation. Billy held up the keys and jiggled them. “Wanna take her out for a test-drive?”

Without words, she answered him. In a blur, she ran past him, up the cottage steps, over the porch, and through the door. Moments later, she returned exactly as she’d left, this time with her purse dangling from the crook of her arm. “Let’s go!”

She immediately slid into the driver’s seat.

“Hey, I know,” Billy said. “
You
drive.” He handed her the keys with a chuckle before getting into the passenger’s side. After he’d shut the door and Ronni hers, she threw herself toward him. Billy wrapped his arms around her waist, allowed her to kiss him, to tell him how much she loved him, that he was the best husband a girl could ever ask for.

“You better believe I am,” he said with a final peck to her lips. “Now are you going to back this thing out of the driveway or am I going to take you inside?” He wiggled his eyebrows for the fun of it.

Ronni returned to her side of the car. “First we drive . . .” She cut her eyes toward him playfully. “Then you take me inside.”

They took the car for a spin, driving up and over every street Cedar Key had to offer. Along 2nd Street, Ronni drove ever so slowly, making sure to stay within the speed limit. But along the more uninhabited roads where dark green foliage and colorful oleander grew thick among the rising palms, she pressed her foot against the pedal and drove like she was Steve McQueen in the
The Great St. Louis Bank Robbery
.

“Don’t try to stop me,” she shouted above the warm air pushing its way through the windows and the ragtop. “I just want to do this one time.”

“Just don’t kill me,” Billy called back, holding his arms up in mock surrender to her wiles.

Ronni threw her head back and laughed.

Let her have her fun, he thought. As soon as they got home . . . as soon as he’d made love to her . . . he’d ask her to listen to his idea. To pray about it. Pray about it with him.

But for now, let her have her fun.

Trinity, South Carolina

“No!” Patsy shrieked. “No! No! No!”

She was on her knees in the bedroom she shared with her husband, bare knees against grass-green carpet that chafed and burned. It felt as though a hole were being rubbed through the bones.

Not that she cared.

Her hands were raised. Her fists shook at the man who stood over her.

Gilbert had her by her wrists, holding her up against her will. She tried to pull away from him, but his grip was firm. “Stop it,” he hissed between his teeth. “The children.”

Hot tears streaked down her face. Her hair, unbrushed and loose, played with the delicate skin at the small of her back.

She was dressed only in a pair of pajama bottoms and a bra. Even in her state of discontent, she knew she must look a sight. No doubt eyes red and swollen. Mascara leaving its telltale signs from her red-rimmed eyes to her jawbone.

Not that she cared. She didn’t care. Couldn’t. What mattered—the only thing that mattered—was that Gilbert was leaving her. Abandoning her like the others in her life had. First her father, then her mother . . . now Gil.

Gil, who dropped to his knees in front of her, wrapped her in his arms, drew her to him. “Listen to me right now,” he breathed into her left ear. “Are you listening?”

“I won’t . . . I won’t listen. I cannot bear this, Gil.” Her voice was strained. She choked on nearly every word. “You cannot do this to me . . .” She folded into his arms, but he wouldn’t let her slide to the floor as she wished. To lie there, to curl into a ball, to roll under the bed and never come out again.

“I am not doing
anything
to you, Pats. I’m simply going to open another Gilly’s. You’ve got to trust me on this. It’s for us. For the kids. For our family.”

She jerked in his arms, reminding herself of the way Donna acted when she didn’t get her way. If it worked for their youngest, surely acting like a toddler in the throes of a tantrum would work for her.

“Stop it.” He squeezed harder.

“Let me go, you monster. Let me go so I can lay right here and die and then you can be rid of me!” Patsy knew she was out of control; she just didn’t care.

“Pats! The children . . .”

As though on cue, twelve-year-old Greg stuck his head around the door that had been previously closed but not locked. “Daddy . . .”

Patsy could hear the fear in her son’s voice. She knew it well, this sound of fear. It had been with her nearly her whole life. She’d kept it stifled. Pushed down. She’d done everything she could to live above it. To be the good daughter, the good foster child, the good wife and mother.

But now fear had won.

“Not now, son.” Gil tightened his hold around her.

“But, Daddy,” their oldest whispered. “Georgy and Donna are crying . . . what do I do?”

Patsy jerked her face toward her son’s.

Yes, there it was. There was the fear. Etched all over his face. Mouth gaping. Eyes wide.

“Get out!” she bellowed. “Do you want to see your mother like this? Does that make you happy too?” Her stomach rolled. Her heart hurt. Why was she doing this? Why was she saying these things to her firstborn?

Gilbert’s hold on her became almost suffocating.

“You’re killing me,” she said. “You’re killing me and I know that’s what you want. Then you can do whatever you want. Have
whomever
 . . .”

“Greg,” she heard her husband say. “Call Dr. Haven. Tell him I need him to make a house call quick.”

“Yes sir, Daddy.”

Patsy heard the door close, felt herself being lifted up. Her feet dangled at the floor until she stood flat upon them. Gilbert dipped, his arm slid under her knees, and he scooped her up, laid her on the unmade bed.

“Daddy?”

Pammie. First one, then another.

“Pammie, get Daddy a blouse from Mommy’s closet.”

“Daddy?”

“Pammie, be a big girl now and do like Daddy tells you. Then I want you to go sit with Greg.”

So that was the way it was to be? Greg calling the doctor. Pammie getting her dressed. And what would Gilbert do between now and when the doctor came? Sit on her? And once Dr. Haven arrived? Then what? What would he tell his old friend? That his wife had gone mad? Would they put her away? Give her shock therapy? Lock her away for the rest of her life?

Patsy thrashed about, trying to free herself. Even as Pam helped Gil dress her—first in a shirt for the sake of decency, and then in house slippers—she fought them until there was nothing left to fight with. “I’m okay,” she finally whispered, though it didn’t seem to matter. “I’m okay,” she said again.

Gil, sitting next to her, fell over her prone body. Arms wrapped her in a warm embrace. Sobs racked his body. “I love you,” he told her. “I love you so much. I just don’t know what to do to make you better . . . to make you believe me . . .”

She arched her back. “What’s wrong with me, Gil?” she whispered. “I don’t know what’s wrong with me . . .”

He shook his head. “I don’t know, baby. But I’m not leaving you, I promise. I’m right here with you.” Then he spoke prayers into her ears, pleadings to God, until Dr. Haven sauntered in, black bag in hand.

Cedar Key, Florida

“You want to do
what
?” The words were nearly lost in the hum of the oscillating fan atop the chest of drawers.

Billy lay on his side, next to Ronni, who lay on her back beside him. Most of her body was under the crisp white sheet of their bed; both arms rested outside the cover. Her dark hair fanned against the pillowcase and the green in her eyes appeared intense in the afternoon sunlight that snuck between the slats of the venetian blinds at the window. Occasionally enough of a breeze forced them to billow inward then clank against the sill.

Billy ran his fingertips up and down his wife’s bare arm. Between their lovemaking and this gentle display of his ardor—not to mention the new car—he hoped . . .

“Ronni . . . my mother is getting worse by the day. I haven’t said anything because I haven’t wanted to burden you with it. Especially not since Harold’s . . . funeral . . . and the shame that whole thing has brought back to her and to me.”

Her left hand reached for his stroking one. “Stop . . .” Then, as if to soften the word, she said, “It’s starting to tickle.”

Billy brought her hand to his lips and kissed each knuckle. “Thing is, baby, I got to come back here. To Cedar Key. No one here knows about anything that happened all the way over in Bradford County or even my connection to a man named Ira Liddle. And even if they did, the folks here aren’t the kind to care.”

“That’s true.”

“But Mama’s had to stay in it.” He looked beyond her, to the milk glass lamp on the bedside table and the white leather Bible beneath it. “Ronni . . .” He brought his eyes back to hers. “Mrs. Stone called the other day. She told me Mama is hardly coming out of the house. She’s cut her hours at the hospital in half and has declined all social invitations. She didn’t even attend Easter services or go to the Fourth of July picnic at the park.”

Her hair made a crunching sound against the linen pillowcase as she turned to look at him more fully. “My goodness, Billy. Not even?”

“Mmm-mmm.” Billy rested his forehead against her shoulder, tanned from living on the island but still silky soft. He caught a whiff of Arpège and, on instinct, kissed the skin beneath her lips. “I’m worried about her, Ron. I’m all she has.”

Veronica remained quiet beside him; he knew better than to disturb her. She liked to mull things over. Pray about them before she spoke. He had never minded her doing that and he wasn’t going to start minding it now.

Finally, she shifted beside him, brought a hand to his face, drawing him to look at her. “Billy.” She closed her eyes. Thick black liner arching at her lash line seemed to wink at him. When her eyes opened, green eyes shimmered beneath tears. “You’re not all she has.”

He started to say something. To argue. To say that yes, he knew she had her friends, and her faith. But that Mama’s faith wasn’t as strong as theirs. She’d managed to hang on during the years of abuse. She had lived through losing two children to hardship and decision, and the shame caused by Ira Liddle, and by Harold, who—no matter what—had still been her son. But Mama wasn’t strong like them, and Mrs. Stone’s concern had him more than worried.

Before he could speak, his wife pressed a finger to his lips. “She has me too. I’m her daughter-in-law and I love her.”

“And she has friends and her faith, I know—”

“More than that, Billy Liddle.” Veronica turned on her side to face him. Her hand rested on his hip as naturally as butter melted on warm toast. “I wanted to wait to tell you. I’d planned a romantic dinner the next time you had the night shift off.”

“Tell me what?”

“That she’s going to have a grandchild too.”

“Veronica Jean Liddle.”

She only nodded.

“Are you sure?”

She nodded again. “I’m nearly three months.”