Waiting for Sunrise (28 page)

But that was another story . . .

“I believe I do.”

“Go ahead.” He picked up a pen. “I’m ready.”

“It took some digging. I found a man named Liddle, William. Lived in Gainesville, Florida, at one time with an Ira Liddle, Bernice Liddle, and our deceased criminal, Harold Liddle.”

“That’s him.”

“Hold on now. Problem is . . . well, first let me tell you . . . when I called down there for his birth certificate records, a sweet little thing named Sheila answered, gave me all the information I could have asked for.”

“I thought you were a family man, Mr. Bonfield.”

“I am. But when a gal is sweet, I use all my
sweets
for the cause.”

Gil tapped the pen against the wide-lined paper. “All right. I guess I’m not here to be your conscience.”

“My conscience appreciates that. So, here’s the thing. According to the birth certificate records, this Billy Liddle is
not
the son of Ira Liddle.”

“Who
is
he the son of?”

“Well, he appears to be fatherless. Which, by the way, is why I’ve had a little trouble finding him. I was trying to trail a boy whose father was Ira Liddle. But, like I said, this particular call led me to Sheila.”

“Who was sweet.”

“Boy howdy.”

Gilbert scribbled a few notes. “So then . . . what about William Liddle, son of Ira Liddle?”

“Doesn’t seem to exist.”

Gil rubbed his forehead. “Do you think . . . maybe Billy—my wife’s brother—may have died? Maybe her mother had another son, named him the same thing?”

“Crazier things have happened. Hard to say.”

Gilbert wrote WHAT HAPPENED TO IRA LIDDLE before asking.

“Well, I did a little tracking before I called. The only Ira Liddle who fits your profile lives in Macon, Georgia. Unmarried. No kids to speak of. Office supply salesman.” He paused. “But he
does
fit the profile. Approximate age. Occupation. All that.”

Gilbert wasn’t sure what question to ask next. He had a million of them. “So what about the Billy Liddle you found?”

“He’s a married man. Lives in Cedar Key, Florida, with a wife, Veronica Sikes Liddle. Running a restaurant called Sikes’s Seafood. Now, to be completely honest, the age of
this
Billy is right on target with what you told me. From what I can put together, he’s your man, with the exception of the whole Ira Liddle connection. If you want, I can drive down there and look for myself. I hear Cedar Key is a right nice place. Wouldn’t mind seeing it.”

Gilbert wrote CEDAR KEY. FLORIDA KEYS? “Is that near Key West?”

“No. It’s in the panhandle.”

“Cedar Key . . . I’ve never heard of it.”

“Take a trip to your local library. Look it up. Fascinating place.”

Gilbert wrote a few more notes before asking, “Sikes, did you say?”

“Sikes, yeah. Sikes’s Seafood.”

“And the wife is Veronica Sikes Liddle?”

“Yessir.”

“Hmm . . . okay. Anything else?”

“That’s it for now. You going to head down there and see?”

Gilbert didn’t answer. He wasn’t sure. Certainly not now. School hadn’t been in session very long. The kids needed him at home. Of course, he could leave them with his parents. Or Patsy’s. Patsy sure wasn’t ready to leave for a trip of any kind.

And what if it turned out . . . this
wasn’t
her brother.

“Mr. Bonfield?”

“Yessir.”

“One more thing—what about Bernice Liddle?”

31

December 1963, Charleston, South Carolina

“Funny thing about feeling sad,” Patsy said to Gabrielle, “sometimes you don’t mind it so much.”

“I cannot imagine.” Gabrielle sat across from Patsy at one of the folding game tables in the holiday-decorated recreational room. She held a puzzle piece loosely between two slender fingers of her right hand, twirling it as though it were a baton. “I like being happy.”

“Maybe you don’t have anything to be sad about.” She looked across a room where sunlight poured through a wall of double-plated glass windows, across vinyl couches where patients either sat or slept. Hospital staff worked or sat idly by their assigned patients. The opening organ music for
Search for Tomorrow
blared from the lone television set. Today’s episode, the announcer informed, was being “brought to you by . . . Camay . . . keeping a soft complexion is as easy as washing your face . . . with . . .
Camay
!”

Patsy mouthed the words of the commercial; Gabby laughed at her. “I’d say someone around here has seen one too many episodes of
Search for Tomorrow.
That’s what I’d say.”

“I’ve always used Camay.” Patsy patted her cheeks with the fingertips of both hands. “Can’t you tell?”

“Have you now?”

“Well, since I moved in with Mam and Papa.” Patsy looked down to the puzzle. “Are you ever going to put that puzzle piece where it belongs or do I need to do it for you?”

Gabrielle handed her the thin piece of cardboard. “By all means. I can’t seem to find where it goes.”

Patsy snapped the piece into place within the Augie Doggie brightly colored puzzle. A juvenile game to play but something to do, she reckoned. Better than group, that was for sure. And, she knew, if she kept talking while “playing,” Gabby was all hers and not off with one of her other few patients.

“What did you use before you moved to Trinity?”

“Mother bought whatever was on sale.” Patsy reached for another piece, this one mostly brownish-orange. She waved it at Gabrielle. “Has to be part of Doggie Daddy’s body.”

“Or Augie’s.”

“No, we pretty much have Augie in place here.”

“Augie, my son, my son.” Gabrielle did her best impersonation of the adult cartoon dachshund who loved, doted on, and carefully led his rambunctious son, Augie.

“What, dear old Dad?” Patsy shot back before setting another piece of the puzzle into place.

“You were saying about the soap your mother bought, Augie, my son?”

Patsy frowned. As if she didn’t know the tactics of her nurse. As if they hadn’t been together long enough already. “Only that her husband, Ira Liddle, didn’t allow her much money for things like special soaps.” She shook her head. “Not that my mother didn’t have things.”
Like the cupid lipstick holder still waiting for you at Mam’s.

“Like?”

Patsy told her about the lipstick holder, about it being the unaccepted gift and the letter she refused to read on her wedding day.

“Does Mam still have it?”

“I guess so. In all these years, we’ve never really talked about it. One thing about Mam, she knows when to push and when to back away.” Patsy picked up another puzzle piece and handed it to Gabrielle. “Your turn.”

Gabrielle studied the piece before placing it where it belonged. “Tell me again about your brothers.”

“Harold and Billy . . .” Patsy’s gaze drifted to the outside. The sun was shining but the world still appeared cold. Trees and bushes had lost their leaves and blooms. To the east, thick low-lying gray clouds had begun to form. Was it going to snow?

“Mmmhmm.”

“Harold would be . . .” Patsy calculated for a moment, “twenty-two by now. Goodness. Twenty-two . . . no . . .” She shook her head. Could it have been that long ago? Could they be that old? Then again, her own oldest was nearly thirteen. “No, wait. Billy will be twenty-two next month and Harold is a year older.” Patsy felt tears forming. “I wonder if . . .”

“If?”

She shook her head again. “It’s nothing.”

“Now, don’t do that, Miz Milstrap.”

Patsy concentrated on the puzzle. There were only a few more pieces to fit together, but these were the most difficult. They were all of Daddy Doggie’s body—large and all one color—and difficult to place. She picked up another piece, rolled it between her fingers as Gabrielle had earlier. “I wonder if they even remember me.”

“They were how old?”

“Four and five.”

Gabrielle pointed to an empty place in the puzzle board. “Goes here.”

Patsy pushed it into place. “Thank you.”

“I’d say it depends. If your mother and Mr. Liddle talked about you—”

“They wouldn’t have.”

“You sure about that?”

“Very sure.” Patsy felt her stomach knot in places that were uncomfortable and familiar.

“Then I’d say probably not.”

Patsy closed her eyes, willing herself not to cry. Not one tear, not one tear. Once they started, she knew, they’d never cease. Besides, she had enough of all this for one day. Now, it was time to be done with the talking and the puzzle. Time for Gabby to go to another patient. She was fine.
Going
to be fine . . .

“Which, of course, may be a good thing,” Gabrielle continued, interrupting Patsy’s thoughts.

Patsy’s eyes flew open, meeting the almond-shaped chocolate eyes head-on. “How can you say that?”

“Because if they remembered you, they’d hurt at the loss of you. Would you want that for them?”

“No. Never. I loved them both dearly.” With a weak smile, she reached for another puzzle piece. It popped into place. From across the room, the closing commercial for
Search for Tomorrow
played; this one for Dash detergent. Less suds. Cleaner clothes.

“Still do, in my way of thinking.”

“Of course I do. I tried to find them once, did I ever tell you that?”

“No.”

“Before my wedding. Papa took me. But they were gone. No one knew where.”

“Your mama too?”

“The whole family. Mr. Liddle had packed Mama up and she’d just gone with him without so much as a ‘tell Patsy where I’ve gone’ to neighbor or friend.”

Gabrielle remained quiet.

“Nothing to say about that?”

“I think that’s just awful, but I don’t know your mama, so it’s impossible for me to say why she did what she did. Your brothers are innocents though.”

“They were then, at least. They’re all grown up now.”

“What do you think they’re like? Based on when they were young’uns.”

Patsy smiled. “Harold was always into something. Rambunctious.” Like her own Donna. “He was the one I’d have to pull down out of the trees before Mama or his daddy found out he’d been climbing when they’d clearly told him not to. He was the one who’d find a snake in the yard and bring it inside to scare Mama or me with.”

Gabrielle laughed lightly. “I had one just like that. Name is Norris.”

“Norris. I like that name.”

“What about the other one? Billy.”

Patsy felt one side of her mouth go up in a half smile. “Sweet Billy. He was always under my feet or Mama’s. He’d rather stay inside with us, but Mama always shooed him out to be with Harold. Or, maybe, to keep Harold straight, now that I think about it, being a mother myself.”

“We mamas have to stay one step ahead.”

“With Harold, you had to stay two or three steps ahead.”

Gabrielle looked at the puzzle. “You’ve only got three more pieces to go. I think you can do this on your own.”

Patsy picked up the first piece. She was feeling much better, just in having talked about her brothers. Even if she missed them, remembering them this way did her a world of good. Maybe there was something to this
talking
thing after all.

“My brother Norris . . . Mama always said she had to get up way earlier than him to stay ahead of him.”

“Yep. Sounds like Harold.” She shrugged. “He’s probably a preacher now.” And wouldn’t that just be something? “You know, how kids often grow up to be the opposite of what you think they’ll be. And Billy’s probably . . . my goodness, I guess Billy’s in school or something. He wasn’t reading when I left, but he seemed to me like he’d be pretty studious.”

“Well, Augie, my son, my son . . .”

“What, Daddy Doggie?” Patsy was down to two pieces of the puzzle. She picked up one in each hand, waved them at Gabrielle in triumph.

“If the good Lord wills it—and I’ll pray he does—you’ll find your brothers and your mother one day, and all will be understood. That’s the thing about the Father’s love—and I don’t mean Daddy Doggie’s. Our heavenly Father doesn’t always run things the way we think he should, but when we come to him as the adored children we are, he listens and he moves. In his timing, of course, but he
will
move. You mark my words. Before this life is over, you’ll know what happened to your kin.”

Patsy pushed the last two pieces down, listened as they snapped into place. “Done.”

———

Patsy had “taken on work” in the cafeteria. It was her job to keep supplies filled. Ketchup and other condiments. Soaps for washing dishes. Cleaners for wiping down tables and chairs in the dining hall, work areas in the kitchen. Paper products, of course. It wasn’t a difficult task, but it gave her something to keep her mind occupied and made her feel like she was doing something productive in the midst of feeling anything but. Plus, Gabby said it showed she was getting better all the way around.

As the year came to an end—and what an awful time the country had experienced just a month before—Patsy struggled between feelings of homesickness and fear that she would never, ever leave this place. There was a certain level of security in that, of course. She could hide away here. She could be a wife when Gilbert came, a mother when the children came, a daughter when Mam and Papa came. The rest of the time, she only had to worry about being Patsy.

She was no one’s daughter to keep busy—Patsy, I need you to do
this
; Patsy, I need you to do
that
, like she had been as a child with Mama. Or anyone’s big sister who had to keep up with the boys. She wasn’t a stepdaughter to be ogled and beaten and demeaned. She wasn’t the thrownaway child who suddenly took up residence—no matter how good the Buchwalds had been to her, she was still and always would be the rescued teenager who came into their family late in life. She wasn’t someone’s wife or someone’s mother. She didn’t have to try to keep up to make sure they loved her, adored her, wouldn’t leave her. Here, she knew they’d watch out for her. Over her.

Still, it was Christmas. She’d missed Thanksgiving sitting around Mam’s table. Missed it to the very core of her being. All those years of fretting about the children. Were they being too loud? Too active? Mam always said “let the children be children, Patsy,” but she’d worried nonetheless. This year, she wished she’d been less anxious and more appreciative during those past years. After all, it was
Thanks
giving.

Now, it was Christmas. More than anything, Patsy wanted to be home with her family. She wanted to inhale the scent of the evergreen tree. Vanilla poured into the cake batter. Peppermints jutting out from between the cherub lips of her children. She wanted to be a part of writing letters to Santa, shopping with Mam for whatever trinket or toy those letters requested, wrapping gifts with Gilbert on Christmas Eve after sipping nutmeg-sprinkled eggnog with Gilbert’s family. Standing around the piano while Janice played. Singing carols.

Always before, she’d wasted the moments. She’d not realized what she had. She’d only been focused on what she
could
lose. And now she’d lost it all. And she desperately wanted it back, she decided as she checked off her kitchen checklist sheet of necessary products. The question was, really, what did she need to do to get it? Group participation? Talk to the doctor about her feelings? She didn’t like the idea of either.

Patsy pulled an order form from a filing cabinet drawer full of such items and set about to filling it out. She took it to one of the dining room tables—this month covered in red and green plastic “tablecloths”—sat in a chair, and began writing in the rectangular boxes. She paused long enough to look at one of the many Christmas trees decorating the hospital. As she did, from the overhead sound system, Elvis sang “I’ll Be Home for Christmas.”

She knew then what she had to do. She’d just tell Gilbert she wanted to come home. Plain and simple. If he argued with her—or if the doctor argued—she’d tell them it would only be for the holidays. She’d come back.

And maybe she would. Maybe she wouldn’t.

She’d miss Gabrielle, but they could write letters or Patsy could come to Charleston with Gil every once in a while when he drove over for business. She’d shirk the social demands of the day and she’d visit with her Negro friend, and the rest of the world could scream and holler all they wanted! She didn’t care.

She would join forces with the others like her who’d embraced people of other colors. She’d join that man—what was his name, King?—and she’d make a difference. Her and Gabby.

Movement from across the dining hall caught her attention. Gilbert stood between Gabrielle and Dr. Jennings. All three wore somber faces. Gil’s most of all. Patsy’s eyes darted back and forth between the three of them, waiting for one of them to make the first step. To walk toward her. To say something.