Waiting for Sunrise (7 page)

“Why not?” he asked her.

“Because . . .”

“Do you sit with your family or . . .”

“Or. I sit with Sandra and Rayette and a couple of the other girls from school. You’d stick out like a sore thumb.”

He nodded. They reached the top of the steps. After walking across the landing, he opened the front door for her, then held it for the others coming behind them. Patsy didn’t wait for his chivalry to be over; she kept her path straight, walking through the swinging doors into the sanctuary and down the aisle to slip into the pew where her friends waited.

“What in the world?” Sandra whispered.

Patsy shook her head. “Shh . . . don’t say another word.” She stared straight ahead, painfully aware that her friends were looking behind them and that Gilbert’s footsteps were shuffling up the aisle. “Oh, my goodness,” she whispered.

The steps stopped short. A rustling in the pew behind her and the giggles of her friends told her that Gilbert was sitting there. For the remainder of the service, that knowledge was never far from her eardrum. She heard him as he sang the three hymns, the rich baritone of his voice. He sang as though he were projecting from the choir, drowning out everyone on the right side of the church. When the pastor prayed and had said his “Amen,” Gilbert repeated the word. He recited the Apostles’ Creed with boldness of conviction. When Brother Michael acknowledged his presence, Gilbert said, “Appreciate it, sir.” And when the pastor gave his sermon, Patsy heard the rhythm of Gilbert breathing.

It was the most marvelously uncomfortable hour of her life.

When the service was over, Patsy stood, turned ever so slowly to say something to him, but he was gone. He’d walked halfway down the aisle and was shaking hands with her father. There was an exchange of words that left Mam looking positively grief-stricken. Lloyd’s eyes were round and full of mischief behind her.

“What do you think he’s saying?” Rayette asked.

“I have no idea,” she answered, “but I’m sure I’ll find out soon enough.”

———

And she did. Gilbert asked Papa if they could speak outside for a few moments. Once outside, he asked if he could come by the house later that afternoon. When Papa asked what his visit was about, he valiantly said, “I’d like to spend more time with Patsy.”

According to Gilbert’s version, which Patsy heard sometime later, Papa expressed that he could see no possible reason for a twentysomething man just back from the Air Force to want to spend time with a fifteen-year-old child.

A child.

It was the last thing Patsy felt like, but everything she was.

Patsy spent that afternoon with her parents and brother, riding the dusty roads in the traditional Sunday ride. Along the way, Papa stopped at the same bus stop where she’d first encountered his kind face. He bought a banana popsicle for Lloyd and an ice cream sandwich for her. Patsy wasn’t hungry for it, but she ate it to keep it from melting all over herself. All she wanted to do was go home, lie on her bed, and think this whole Gilbert thing through. To daydream her way into the fairy tale or to nap her way through the nightmare. Instead, she sat in the backseat of the car and watched as the Southern landscape passed by her window in a blur. By the time they’d gotten home, she’d pretty much figured that, considering Papa’s firm countenance earlier, Gilbert would give up on seeing her again. After all, there were plenty of young women of a more suitable age who’d give their right arm to date Gilbert Milstrap.

That night, Gilbert showed up for Sunday night services.

8

If Gilbert was nothing else, he was persistent. Over the course of the next few weeks and months, whenever Patsy went to Saturday matinees with her friends (a favorite weekend pastime), Gilbert was there. During impromptu Sunday afternoon football games with the gang, Gilbert showed up. He naturally played quarterback (after all, if he could fight in a war, he could surely throw a football) and always for the team Patsy was on. During school events to which the public was invited, there he was. And in all this, he made no effort to hide the intent of his presence.

The more time that went by, the more comfortable Patsy became with each arrival. She found herself, by that fall, looking over her shoulder for him at football games. He didn’t come to Sunday morning services after the first time, but he was there for evening services and Wednesday night suppers. Patsy saved him a seat each week. By the time Christmas of ’48 rolled around, it was understood that if you saw one of them, you saw the other.

Except, that is, during school and working hours. Then, Patsy was evermore the proverbial student and Gilbert was hard at work, mostly figuring out a way to make his father’s business more successful than it already was.

“Remember,” he said to her as they came out of a Saturday matinee showing of
Every Girl Should Be Married
, which finally made it to Trinity in January of ’49, “when you and I rode the bus together. That first night when you came to Trinity?”

She nodded, squinting as her eyes adapted to the graying sunlight as the afternoon eased toward four o’clock. “I remember.”

“And of course you know the station where the bus let us out is Pop’s.” He slipped his hands into his loose-fitting pants as he shuffled alongside her. The rest of the gang ambled together in small giggling clusters ahead of them. Patsy suspected Gilbert held back deliberately, for the sake of his much-sought-after alone time with her.

She clasped her hands behind her back. “Yes. From the looks of things, seems like y’all have been doing all right too.” It was a natural reaction—whether in the school bus, with her friends, or riding along with Papa and Mam—Patsy’s head turned toward Milstrap’s. There were always cars waiting to be serviced, parked in the three bays to be worked on, and clusters of teens hanging around the soda chest outside the front door.

“We’ve been doing just fine,” Gilbert said. “But, I’ve been talking to Pops about adding on to the station, you know. Adding a café like the one in Darien.”

Patsy gave him a sideways glance.

“But the café wouldn’t just be for the Trailways patrons. Oh no . . . Think about it, Patsy—if the soda in the chest outside draws some of the older kids to the station, what will the café do? I’ll tell you,” he said before she had a chance to react. “People get off the bus and they’re hungry. But people in town are also hungry. If the food is good enough, it’ll draw patrons from right here in Trinity.”

They came to a cross street and stopped for traffic. A winter’s breeze skipped around the corner of an Allied store. From down the block, the tantalizing aroma of burgers and fries found its way to Patsy; she naturally inhaled and smiled. “But there’s already a café in Trinity,” she said as she brought the collar of her cashmere coat toward her ears to ward off the cold. “Just smell.”

The two stepped off the curb together as Gilbert continued. “Yeah, I know. But I’ve got a plan for more home-cooked types of meals.”

“And doesn’t the bus stop here near midnight? Who wants to eat then?” They stepped up and on to the next curb. Peripherally Patsy watched their reflections pass in the high display windows of Mullican’s Jewelry Store.

“Oh, sure . . . on the way up, it does. But on the reverse route it stops at four in the afternoon.”

“I forgot about on the way back.”

“That’s because by four in the afternoon, sweet thing, you’re sitting at Mam’s kitchen table doing your homework and eating oatmeal raisin cookies.”

Patsy frowned. How could he possibly know that?

“I know,” Gilbert said, as though reading her mind, “because that’s what Janice is doing about that same time.”

Patsy stopped in front of Dayton’s Barbershop, just under the red, white, and blue spinning barber pole. She jumped as the bell jingled, the door opened, and Mr. Dayton stepped out carrying a broom and the strong scent of talcum mixed with aftershave. “Mr. Milstrap,” he said to Gilbert. “Looks like you could use my services.”

“Mr. Dayton,” Gilbert responded as they shook hands. He cut his eyes toward the mop of curls falling over his forehead. “Yessir, I know I do. Been busy lately.”

Mr. Dayton, an ironically mostly bald man with thick arched brows, turned to Patsy. “Miss Buchwald, how are you this afternoon?”

Patsy beamed. “Fine, Mr. Dayton. You’re here late for a Saturday.” She looked toward the way they’d come. “We were just leaving the movies.”

“I work late one Saturday a month,” he said by way of explanation. He held his broom a little higher. “Now I’ve got to get my portion of the sidewalk swept before I can go home to Mrs. Dayton and supper.”

“We’ll move along,” Gilbert said knowingly. “Good to see you again, Mr. Dayton.” He took Patsy by the elbow to guide her forward.

Patsy’s heart sank and soared at the same time. Gilbert rarely touched her, but when he did . . . something magical happened inside her. At the same time, she hoped her simple explanation of having been at the movies would be enough for Mr. Dayton, who was known for two things: a good haircut and good gossip. Betty’s Beauty Boutique had nothing on Dayton’s Barbershop when it came to idle chitchat.

Gilbert’s hand slipped from her elbow as he continued, “So, my thought is . . . hey now . . .” Gilbert stopped, pointed to the burger joint, and said, “I noticed some of your friends went inside while we were talking to Mr. Dayton. Want something to eat? Ice cream soda?”

Patsy wasn’t hungry, really. The popcorn and cola in the movie had taken care of that. But she wanted to spend more time with Gilbert, even if it meant having to do so with everyone else hanging around. “Sure.”

Add-a-Scoop Malt Shoppe buzzed with conversation running high above the jukebox against the far wall. Notes and lyrics from Glenn Miller’s “Don’t Sit under the Apple Tree” bounced between the parlor tables and sweetheart chairs and over the thickly padded dining booths. Rayette, Sandra, and the rest of their gang were sitting in the last booth on the right side of the L-shaped room. Rayette waved at them as though guiding them through the fog of a storm. Patsy took a step forward, but Gilbert stopped her by grabbing her elbow again.

“Can we sit somewhere else? Just the two of us? I’d really like to tell you what I’ve been thinking about.”

Patsy’s eyes searched his. They were usually so full of mischief, but right now they were intense, pleading. She took a risk if she sat with him. True, she was almost sixteen, but she had a feeling that even after her birthday, her parents wouldn’t allow her to date Gilbert unchaperoned. But, what was the big deal? They were in a roomful of people, any one who could call Papa or Mam at a moment’s notice. And if someone did, she was sure to be on restriction from the movies for a month of Saturdays.

Still . . . there were those eyes.

She nodded.

Gilbert’s neck craned to look around. There were two bar stools free at the counter, but he seemed to ignore them. Just when Patsy despaired that he’d have no choice, a man and woman stood from one of the parlor tables in the center of the room. Gilbert quickly guided Patsy toward it, even as the busboy cleared it of thick white plates and tall soda glasses.

As Gilbert held her chair for her, Patsy caught a glance at Rayette. Her mouth hung open like it was catching flies but snapped shut when Patsy pressed her own lips together to keep from laughing.

After they’d ordered (Gilbert insisted on something more than just an ice cream soda), Patsy said, “Okay. So tell me what you’re dying to tell me.”

Gilbert leaned over, resting his forearms on the white wrought iron table. “I’ve been talking to Pops. We’re thinking about—if I can convince him of the logic in all this—we’re thinking about adding on to the station.”

“A café?”

He grinned his toothy grin. “Yes.”

“For the patrons of the bus company
and
for the people here in Trinity.”

His shoulders squared. “Yes!”

“And it will be different from this place . . .” she asked, looking around, “how?”

“I told you before, Pats. What do you have here? Burgers. Sandwiches. Ice cream sodas. Right?”

“Right. And don’t forget the fries and onion rings.” She’d no sooner said the words than their sodas were brought to the table.

Gilbert shifted in his seat like an anxious boy. “I know this woman named Martha. A Negro woman.”

Patsy cocked her head. “How is it that you know her?” Rarely did whites and Negros know each other, especially in towns like Trinity, unless, of course, Martha was the Milstraps’ maid.

“Her son and I were in service together.”

Patsy was truly stunned now. How was it that all she’d heard about was the hero Gilbert Milstrap since she’d moved to town, but not one word about Martha’s son? “Is he . . . Did he . . . ?”

“Die?”

Patsy nodded.

“No.” He raised a hand as the clatter of someone dropping dishes in the kitchen startled the entire soda shop. From the jukebox, Hank Williams sang “A Mansion on the Hill
.
” When things returned to normal, he continued, “I’m not here to talk about Buddy, Pats, nor the injustices in the world.”

Patsy felt like she’d been slapped. “I didn’t mean . . .”

“I’m sorry,” he said before she had a chance to finish and just as their plates of sandwiches, fries, and quartered dill pickles were served. After the waitress walked away, they stared at each other as if not knowing what to do. Finally, Gilbert said, “It’s just . . . you’re right. You hear all about the white boy being a hero but nothing about Buddy.” He shook his head as though to free it of the notion. “Do you mind if I pray?”

Patsy sighed in relief. “Yes, please.”

Gilbert blessed the Giver of their good fortune and food loud enough for her to hear, but quietly enough that no one else could. When he was done, he said, “Eat up. I’ll talk.” But he popped a hot fry into his mouth anyway.

While she munched on a greasy grilled cheese sandwich, he told her, “I’ve already talked to Martha. She’s willing to be the head cook. Meanwhile, Pops is looking into building on to the back of the station as well as the side where the café will be.”

Patsy gulped a tangy swallow of cola. “Whatever for? The back of the station, I mean.”

“I’ll live back there.”

Patsy’s glass came down onto the table with such force she was surprised it didn’t break. “Whatever for?” she repeated.

He laughed then. “I want my own place, Patsy. It won’t be much, but it’ll be a start. And that way I can oversee everything happening, both in the bays, the office, and the café.”

“Won’t that be a lot for you?” Patsy felt the sandwich settling heavy in her belly. If—and that was a big “if”—Papa and Mam said she could date Gilbert after she turned sixteen, she wasn’t sure he’d even have the time. Then again, she figured, perhaps Gilbert Milstrap had grown tired of waiting for her to grow up. Maybe his interest in her had only been that of “big brother” all along.

But just as quickly, she thought, definitely not. Not the way he looked at her, followed after her. He’d even given her a pretty handkerchief with a
P
embroidered on it for Christmas; it had come as a complete surprise to her. She’d not bought him a thing.

“A lot for me?” He shook his head. “No. I’ve got plans, Pats. Big plans. I’m going to get this station up and going and then I’m going to franchise. Do you know what that means?”

Patsy gripped the paper napkin in her lap and twisted it. “Open another station?”

Gilbert leaned over the table again. “It’s like you read my mind.”

It was her turn to laugh. “Do you have a timetable?” She brought her hands back to the tabletop.

“I do. I figure by the start of summer we’ll have the café up and going. I’ll be moved in, out of my parents’ place. Then . . . next summer . . .” His voice faded as his smile broadened.

“Then next summer, what?”

He unexpectedly slid his hands across the table and slipped them over hers. She thought to move but didn’t. “I’m a patient man, Patsy Buchwald. I’m also a man who knows what he wants. And I want you . . .”

“Me?”

“To be my wife.”

Miami, Florida

Seven-year-old Billy Liddle hated Miami. It was hot—even in winter—and Christmas among palm trees didn’t seem like Christmas to him, in spite of the Scrabble board game Santa had brought.

His brother Harold loved it though. But that was just like Harold; he always managed to settle right in, no matter where they landed. He made friends easily. Before they’d even unloaded the moving boxes from the back of the truck their daddy had rented, Harold was surrounded by a bunch of neighborhood boys his age and was soon off and playing.

Not Billy; he stayed and helped their mama.