Waiting for Sunrise (3 page)

Patsy could feel herself growing angry. Unsure. She turned her face toward her mother, whose face was streaked by silent tears.

“You can’t begin to understand, Patsy. But I . . . I did what I thought best.” She swallowed. “My parents had been against my marriage to your father, as you know. They’d given me a lovely wedding, but they’d made it clear we were on our own. I had too much pride to . . .” Mama’s eyes batted back tears. “To go back and beg.” She shook her head. “And, like I said, they were no better off than we, really. How could I ask them to take us back? Me, with a toddler and a baby besides.”

“But they were your mama and daddy.”

“You don’t know them like I know them. As far as they are concerned, I have done the right thing. I found myself another husband, a man who provides well enough. A good man when you get right down to it. I’ve had more children. I run a good home.”

Patsy frowned.
A good man.
Ira Liddle provided well, yes. But he wasn’t
good
. At least not from what she’d seen over the years. But that wasn’t the point Patsy wanted to focus on. “You are a good mama, Mama. You do run a good home.”

Mama gave her a weak smile. “Let me finish, Patsy. I need to tell you now about your brother.”

“Okay, Mama.”

Another deep breath. Then, “The reverend—our pastor—knew of a couple in a place called Trinity. Trinity, South Carolina. Buchwald is their last name, and they couldn’t have children of their own. He made all the arrangements—”

At hearing their name, Patsy felt nausea wash over her. She’d imagined, at the very least, that the adoptive parents of her little brother had been friends. But strangers? “I knew you’d had him adopted, but I didn’t know who to.”

“Patsy.” Her mother extended a hand toward hers, but Patsy slipped it away. Something was wrong. Bad wrong. She could see it in her mother’s face.

She crossed her arms; her voice took a tone she’d never before taken with her mother. “What’s this really about, Mama?”

“I don’t have time for tantrums, Patsy Sweeny. You must listen to me now.” Her chest expanded beneath her best go-to-town dress. “Yes, I gave my son to a nice couple to raise. I didn’t know them personally, but the reverend did and he said . . . he said they were good people. Christian people. If that makes me a horrible mother, then so be it. God forbid you ever have to know . . .”

The car slowed as they neared town, and Mama continued. “Before you go judging me, you should know I married Ira Liddle because I needed to put food in your stomach. We were hungry, and I can only pray that this is one thing you do not remember. We were hungry and I was working seven days a week for hardly enough money to put a roof over our heads. Making sure you were safe and sound was my number one priority.” Patsy watched in earnest as her mother’s chest heaved several times. “We’re near the bus station.”

“Slim’s.” The name came out like a prayer.

This time, it was Mama who licked her lips, a tiny pink tongue sliding over thin red. “Today I make another sacrifice, Patsy. Today, I’m putting you on a bus to go to the Buchwalds, to live with them and your little brother.”

Tingling began at the top of her head, poured down her face, over her shoulders, and made its way along her spine. The whirring inside her ears kept her from hearing anything else her mother said, though Patsy could see her lips moving. “What?” she finally said. The car rolled to a stop in front of the small white brick building. SINCLAIR GASOLINE was stretched across the front—white over burgundy between two square columns—and, for some reason, Patsy’s eyes moved upward until they fixed on the letters, tracing each one. S-I-N . . .

Her mother continued. “Mr. Liddle is—”

Patsy’s head spun to face her mother. “An ogre!”

“Patsy!”

A knot formed in Patsy’s throat as tears pushed their way from the corners of her eyes. She glared at her mother. “He is and you know it!” She clapped a hand over her mouth, if only to show Mama that even she was shocked at the way she was speaking. But Mama didn’t seem upset with her. For a moment, Patsy felt they were no longer mother and daughter, but friends. If she were going to bare her soul, the time was now. “The way he treats you, Mama. The way he . . . the way he looks at me.” Patsy pounded her palm against her chest in tiny staccato beats. “Don’t you even see, Mama?”

Mama pulled her firstborn toward her, drawing her closer until they met in the middle of the front seat. “Hush now, child. Yes. Yes, I know. Yes, I see. Why do you think . . .” She kissed Patsy’s hair, just behind her ear. “Why do you think I’m letting you go?”

Patsy was crying too. Her mother’s hands held the sides of her head, pushed it back until their eyes—wet with tears—stared into each other’s. “What do you mean, Mama?”

“The bus will be here soon, Patsy. Everything is set. I’ve called Mrs. Buchwald and I have a bag packed for you.”

Something inside Patsy shook. This couldn’t be happening. Mamas didn’t send their thirteen-year-old daughters away.

Did they?

“Mama, don’t do this.”

“Patsy . . .”

“No.” She felt her eyes go wide. “I know! Go with me.” She grabbed her mother’s shoulders, then jerked her head toward the backseat. “Harold and Billy. Where are they? Why aren’t they here?”

“I told you, Patsy. They’re with Mrs. Dabbs.”

“Go get them. We’ll all go . . . to Trinity, did you say? We’ll be together, Mama. What will it matter that we’ve left home? I can get a job.” Desperation rose within her. “I can help.”

But her mother shook her head. Patsy took in the blue of her mother’s eyes, eyes drowning in tears. “Don’t make this difficult, Patsy. I cannot leave Mr. Liddle. Don’t you understand? He will find me. He will come after me . . . for the boys. Besides, he’s my husband. By God’s law, I should stay.”

“By God’s law—” Patsy swallowed past the lump. “But if you send me away . . . what will he do to you, Mama?”

Mama looked down. “Whatever it is, I can bear it. As long as I know you’re all right.”

“Nooooo . . .” Patsy clung to her mother again, buried her face into the gentle curve of her neck, inhaled the scent of Coty perfume. “Mama,” she whispered. “Don’t . . . please don’t. I’ll do anything. I’ll stay away from him.”

“Patsy, don’t make this more difficult than it already is.”

Patsy opened her mouth, hoping for one more plea, one more argument. But before the words could tumble out, they were drowned out by the sound of the bus screeching to a stop.

3

“So many things,” her mother had said she wanted to say. To tell her about love. Marriage. Children. In the end, there’d only been a half hour at best. From the descent of the first passenger alighting the oily pavement around Slim’s to the moment Patsy became the last passenger aboard for departure. One half hour. Casselton was not an important enough stop, she wagered, to be more than that.

Patsy made her way toward the back of the red and white bus. The last seat on the right was empty, as though it knew this was where she liked to sit. But with her friends. Not alone. She faltered halfway, caught herself on the shoulder of another passenger—an airman who’d already closed his eyes for a nap. His face registered startled annoyance even as he gently grabbed her arm to steady her.

“I’m so sorry,” she whispered.

“You all right there?” he asked simultaneously.

“Sit down, young lady,” the bus driver called. “We’ve got a schedule to keep.”

Patsy straightened. Looked behind her. “Sorry,” she said. Then down to the soldier. “Sorry,” she repeated.

“Don’t make no never-mind,” he said, adding a wink for good measure.

No one else sat in the backseat, and for that Patsy was grateful. She slid in, all the way to the window, straightened her school skirt over her knees, then looked to her feet. Her brown penny loafers were still dusty from her walk from the bus stop to home. She pulled a pink and lavender handkerchief from the small embroidered purse. She wiped the tops of her shoes, shook out the handkerchief, and returned it to join the few items resting among satin lining.

Patsy peered inside the handmade gift from Mitzy, who she wondered if she’d ever see again. Mitzy, who’d be waiting for her tomorrow down by the creek.

She peered out the window. Her mother stood not twenty feet away. Stood by the car, one gloved hand up in some lame attempt to say good-bye. Patsy was angry, but she wasn’t hateful. She pressed a hand against the window and mouthed “Good-bye, Mama,” as though Bernice Liddle would be able to see her.

And perhaps she could. In that instance, just as the bus began its roll away from Slim’s, Mama blew a kiss and waved once more, now with gusto. As though Patsy were going off the camp. Or to see a fond relative.

Patsy rested her forehead against the window, and this time cried silent tears that wracked her body. When there was nothing left but a few dry heaves, she shifted her weight until she had snuggled into the back corner, closed her eyes, and slept.

———

Someone shook her shoulder.

“Sleepyhead . . . hey, you.”

She blinked. Wiped her fingertips across still-moist eyelashes. “Where . . .”

“Hey there.”

She looked to the seat beside her. The airman—the one she’d bumped into earlier—sat next to her, grinning. “Hi.” Her voice sounded like a frog’s, so she cleared her throat. “Hi,” she said again.

“Hungry?”

The bus was no longer moving. Outside her window the world was dark. Only streetlights cast spotlights here and there. “Where are we?”

“Darien, Georgia. Pit stop. If you’re hungry, now’s the time to get something. We’ve got an hour.”

Patsy held her purse tight against her stomach. She wasn’t hungry, but she reckoned she might be later on. “Maybe a little something.”

The airman slid out of the seat to stand in the aisle. “After you,” he said, extending a hand toward the front of the bus.

They exited the bus together, clearly the only two left. “I must have been sleeping pretty hard,” she said, looking toward the bus stop, which reminded Patsy of Slim’s, the only difference being she could smell fried chicken coming from inside.

Her stomach rumbled. Maybe she was hungry after all.

She watched as the airman, dressed in a pressed blue uniform, methodically placed his cap atop his head, then adjusted it low on his brow. “Where you heading off to?” he asked as they started to walk together.

“A place called Trinity.”

“You don’t say. Well, how about that? Me too.”

Patsy kept her gaze on her feet and where they were stepping. “Do you know the Buchwald family?”

He chuckled. “Everyone knows everyone in Trinity.”

“Are they nice people?”

“Wesley and Phyllis Buchwald are the very fiber of nice. Good people.” When they came to the door, he opened it for her. “Restroom will be behind the building,” he said as they entered. As easily as he’d earlier placed the cap on his head, he removed it and tucked it under his arm. “Unless it’s an outhouse.”

Patsy peered up at him with a frown. He was much taller than she, handsome in a boyish sort of way. He reminded her a little of Henry Fonda, the way he’d looked in
Immortal Sergeant.
Cleaned up, standing opposite Maureen O’Hara. Of course, Patsy was a far cry from Maureen O’Hara. Her hair wasn’t that glorious shade of auburn Miss O’Hara sported; it was plain ole mousy brown. She twisted the knitted handle of her purse. “Do you think it is? An outhouse, I mean?”

“Probably not. With the new bus line, the stops along the way are trying to class up.” His chin jutted toward a counter. “Bet we have to get the keys over there.” He even sounded like Henry Fonda. So sure of himself . . .

They walked to the counter as if they’d done it together all their lives.

“Keys are with the other passengers,” a short, balding man said to them from near the cash register. Stretched to the right was a counter full of people wolfing down fried chicken, mashed potatoes, and green beans. Patsy licked her lips. Yep, she was hungry.

The airman strained his neck to look over the room. “I see an empty table over by the window,” he said. “If you don’t mind sitting with a stranger, I’ll hold it while you go freshen up.”

Patsy found the restrooms. She stood fourth in line and tried to get her bearings. Foliage and dusk surrounded her. The airman said they were in Darien, Georgia. Before today, she’d not even heard of the place. Now she was standing behind one of its buildings, waiting for her turn at the bathroom, listening to crickets chirp and frogs croak. Must be a swamp around here somewhere, she figured. She shivered, hoping none of the nightlife was inside the bathroom.

Patsy crisscrossed her arms to rub them and wondered about the time. She touched the shoulder of the woman standing in front of her. “Excuse me, can you tell me what time it is?”

The woman gave her a cursory glance, peered at her wristwatch, and said, “Near about eight.”

No wonder her stomach kept rumbling. “Thank you, ma’am.”

When it was her turn in the restroom, she hurried, thinking the airman needed to do the same. He was holding a table for them, he’d said. She figured she’d be obliged to do the same for him while he came out back.

Inside the bus stop, Patsy found the young man sitting at the table he’d indicated before. His cap rested comfortably next to the wall and under the opened window. Two plates of steaming food had been served.

He saw her then, stood, and motioned for her to come. “Have a seat. I’ll be right back.” He reached for the cap. “Don’t wait on me. Go ahead and eat,” he said, “before it gets cold.”

Patsy blinked as she sat. “Do you know how much this is going to cost? My mama only gave me two dollars.”

He smiled at her; a deep dimple sliced into his right cheek. “Then you’re in luck, little sister. It’s a buck twenty-five.”

———

Back in the bus, they took their original seats. Night had completely closed in; it was now after nine o’clock. Patsy shivered as she hunkered down, folded her hands together, and formed a makeshift pillow.

Mama . . .
She’d be home now, sitting alone after putting the boys to bed. Had her brothers asked about her? If so, how had her mother answered? She shuddered thinking about tomorrow when Mr. Liddle arrived home, glad in an odd sort of way she wouldn’t be there to witness it. Or to be any part of his homecoming.

Mama was right; even one more weekend would have been dangerous for Patsy.

Still, her tears resumed until sleep, once again, took charge.

———

Patsy woke with each new stop and start, but she didn’t move from her seat. The young airman had been nice enough to come back and check on her a few times, even called her “little sister” again, but she didn’t feel like talking much.

Her stomach turned as she wondered—really for the first time—about the family and the life she was heading toward. Ominous, she thought, arriving in the pitch black of night. A nice family, the airman had told her. Well, people thought Ira Liddle was the head of a nice family. Maybe the family was nice, but Ira Liddle sure wasn’t.

Her mother hadn’t given her any instructions beyond getting on the bus. Would someone be in Trinity to meet her? And, if so, how would they know her? Or her, them?

It was a little after midnight when she heard the bus driver call out, “Trinity, South Carolina.”

“That’s me,” she said to no one.

No one responded.

She gathered her purse and shuffled up the aisle. A few people in front of her were also getting off, including the airman, but most of the passengers continued to sleep.

Patsy grabbed the chrome railing along the three steps. She took each of them deliberately, keeping focus on her feet and her still-dusty loafers. Only when she’d reached the concrete did she look up.

This stop was like all the others, except the one in Savannah, which had been an honest-to-goodness Trailways station. This was a Standard Oil station, painted white with wide windows across the front. All the lights except the ones under the covering for the pumps had been turned out. Over the door, in large red-painted letters, were the words “Milstrap’s; Est. 1933.”

Patsy tilted her head at the name; her gaze drifted to where the airman shook hands with an older man who then grabbed the younger for a tight hug. Another passenger—a young woman—was slipping into the gentle embrace of a man. An elderly woman stepped into a nearby automobile.

“Little lady, you wanna come get your bag?” she heard the driver say.

She nodded and fought back familiar tears before following him to the side of the bus and the opened luggage compartment. She pointed to her modest suitcase. “It’s that one right there.”

Patsy clutched the handle of her purse, took steady deep breaths, and waited for her luggage to be yanked from beneath two others. Just as the driver handed it to her, she heard a baritone voice say, “You must be Patsy.”

She turned. Standing in the glow of the street lamps was a man head and shoulders taller than she. His square face was balanced by round specs and a gentle smile. He was neither fat nor slim and his hair was mostly white. He smelled like Mitzy’s father. Like Barbasol.

“Are you Mr. Buchwald?”

He nodded as he reached for her suitcase, which she gladly turned over to him.

“Mama told me to make sure Mrs. Buchwald got my luggage before I unpacked anything,” Patsy told him.

Wesley Buchwald’s smile grew wider. “Then we’ll make sure she does.” He extended a hand toward a vehicle parked just beyond the gas pumps. Even in near-darkness, Patsy could see it was big. Well kept and clean, albeit a little dated. Painted on the side of the back window panel were the words “Buchwald Flowers.”

“You own a flower shop?” Patsy didn’t move.

“I do,” the man answered. “Miz B handles the majority of the arranging and I take care of the business side of everything.” He nodded just so. “Even during the war, we managed all right. Not rich, but not poor. The Lord is good.”

“Oh,” Patsy replied, then mumbled, “Yes, he is.” She jumped when the bus coughed into gear and prepared to roll away from where they stood. This was her cue to walk to the car. The very thing that had brought her here was saying good-bye. Now was the time . . . time to shuck off the old and begin anew.