Letter From Home Read online

  “Grandmother!” Gretchen stood so quickly, her chair tumbled to the floor. She reached the older woman, now breathing quickly. “Are you sick? I’ll call Dr. Jamison.”

  Grandmother sank back into her chair, reached for her glass of iced tea, drank deeply. “No, no. I am fine. Just a little catch in my chest. It will go away.” She put down the glass, took another deep breath.

  “You’re tired, Grandmother. I’ll help you to your room.” Gretchen took a tight grip on her grandmother’s soft arm. “You’ve had too hard a day. You can lie down. Barb and I will do the dishes.”

  Grandmother slowly stood. “Yes, I will rest for awhile. Thank you, Gretchen.”

  Gretchen helped her grandmother walk slowly down the hall to the bedroom at the back. She settled her in the big green rocker next to her table covered with pictures in heavy brass frames and the leather-bound family Bible. “I’ll bring you some tea, Grandmother.”

  The old woman sagged against the cushions of the rocker, closed her eyes. One hand still pressed against her chest. “No, mein Schatz. I will just be quiet for a few minutes.”

  By the time Gretchen reached the kitchen, Barb had cleared the table and stacked the dishes. Gretchen got the dishpan out from beneath the sink, put on a kettle of water to boil. Gretchen washed, then scalded the dishes with the boiling water. Barb dried, stacking the dishes and cutlery near the breadbox.

  When she was done, Barb flung the dish towel on the counter. “Gretchen, can I use your phone?”

  The phone was on the wall near the door to the living room. Gretchen pointed to it. “Sure. I’m going to see about Grandmother.” The kettle still held hot water. Gretchen poured the water into a cup with a Lipton tea bag. When it was steeped dark as pine tar, she discarded the tea bag. She added two heaping teaspoons of sugar. They were almost out and the grocery hadn’t had a sugar shipment for almost a month. At the phone, Barb gave a number to the operator. As Gretchen stepped into the hall, she heard Barb ask quickly, “Is Amelia there?”

  In Grandmother’s room, Gretchen placed the cup and saucer on the table. “Grandmother?”

  Her eyes fluttered open. Her face was pasty white. “Oh, Gretchen.” She tried to smile.

  Gretchen felt her stomach twist. Grandmother looked so sick. “Grandmother, I’m going to call Dr. Jamison—”

  Alarm flaring in her face, Grandmother lifted both hands. “No, no, you must not. I need only to rest. The tea will help.” She took a deep breath, placed her hands on the chair arms.

  The front doorbell rang.

  Grandmother struggled to get up. Her breath came in short, quick gasps.

  “I’ll see.” Gretchen stepped closer, put her hand firmly on the older woman’s shoulder. “Stay here, Grandmother. Drink your tea. I’ll take care of it.”

  “Yes, please.” Grandmother closed her eyes. Her arms rested on the chair, limp and heavy.

  Gretchen hurried into the living room. Barb waited in the kitchen doorway. She stared toward the front door, her eyes empty, her face rigid. Gretchen thought of the newsreel pictures of bombed-out children, lost, alone, hopeless.

  The doorbell jangled again. The Reverend Byars peered through the screen. “Miss Gretchen, I’ve come to see Miss Barb. I know you and your grandmother have opened your hearts to her. I’ve come to offer her our house as her new home.”

  Gretchen ran to the door. “Grandmother’s resting. Please come in.” She stood aside for him to enter. The fiery evening sun bathed the dusty yard in a brilliant orange light. Birds cawed as they wheeled around the elm trees, ready to roost for the night. The hot air shimmered though it was almost eight. Cicadas rasped, their summer song so loud it masked the squeak of the screen door hinges.

  “Thank you, Miss Gretchen. We won’t disturb your grandmother. True to my word, I’ve come to offer sanctuary to Miss Barb.” He looked at the stone still figure. “Miss Barb.” The preacher’s voice was as thick and slow and sweet as molasses. Each word hung in the air like a dancer in a spotlight, eager for applause. Blond hair swooped in a high pompadour above an unctuous face. He lifted plump hands, palms up. “Let us pray.” His head sank and his voice soared. “Dear Lord, we gather here in thy name always reverencing thee and knowing that thou does hear thy children’s call. Lo, we can be sure that in times of trouble and sorrow thou art near. Be with us now as we grieve for a lost soul and pray that your child Faye shall be gathered up by angels and lifted out of sorrow and sin. We know that the sins of the world do mock your goodness and we must be ever vigilant against the vices that the devil casts among us, leading us away from the path of righteousness. Evil surrounds us . . .”

  Gretchen felt buffeted by the sonorous flow of words. Was he saying that Barb’s mother was bad?

  Barb pressed her hands against her cheeks.

  The deep, rich voice rolled on: “. . . dance and drink and lust have ever paved the way to hell. I tried to counsel our sister Faye and alas she didn’t heed my voice or that of her Savior. She went her own way and we see the fruits of that decision. As it says in First Samuel, fifteenth chapter, twenty-third verse: For rebellion is as the sin of witchcraft, and stubbornness is as iniquity and idolatry. Because thou hast rejected the word of the Lord, he hath also rejected thee from being king.” He paused, clasped his hands together. “But with your help, Good Lord, we shall surround her dear child, Barbara, with your loving care and safeguard her from the temptations of the world and the devil. Amen.” He lifted his head, his face wreathed in a forgiving smile. He walked toward Barb, his hands outstretched. “Miss Barb, I’ve come to take you home.”

  Barb took a step back. “My daddy will come. I know he will. I’m going to stay at a friend’s house tonight. I’ve talked to Amelia Brady and I’m going there right now.” She turned away from him, walked determinedly to the sofa, and picked up the cloth bag.

  “Miss Barb.” His deep voice swooped low. His face held a look of forbearance, though his eyes were cold. “We cannot refuse to accept what life brings to us. We cannot shut our eyes to facts. There’s no question that last night’s brutal act sprang from disorder between a man and wife, disorder that . . .”

  Barb clutched the valise against her, wrapped her arms around it as if it could shield her from Reverend Byars’s words, his relentless, smooth-toned, crushing words. “It wasn’t Daddy.” Her voice shook. “I tell you, it wasn’t Daddy. I would have known.” But her eyes were full of fear. “It was someone else.”

  “. . . can be predicted when a woman forgets her marriage vows. As we are told in the sixth chapter of Romans, verse twenty-three: The wages of sin is death.”

  “Mama wasn’t . . . she didn’t . . .” Barb pulled up the valise, hid her face.

  “We won’t say more.” His resonant voice filled the little living room. “It isn’t for girls to know about these things. And now”—he cleared his throat, frowned as the old grandfather clock chimed the hour—“I must get back to the church. I’ve left the assistant pastor with the young people, but I must be there for our closing prayers. Perhaps, Miss Barb”—and he spoke as if bestowing a great gift—“you will be happier to stay with your friend tonight, but we stand ready to welcome you. At any time.” He bowed his head, clasped his hands. “Dear Lord, give us strength to go forward and face down the forces of evil which beset us. Remind us ever that only thy goodness and mercy will save wretched sinners from lives of torment and everlasting perdition. Gird us for battle. In Jesus’ name we pray, amen.” He nodded in satisfaction and moved briskly toward the door, pompous and confident, impervious to Barb’s pain. He stopped for an instant in the doorway. The last red rays of the evening sun flooded around him, glistened on his hair, turned his skin pink as a pig’s. “Give my best wishes to your grandmother, Miss Gretchen. Good night, young ladies.”

  Gretchen didn’t watch him go. Instead, she took a tentative step, then another, toward Barb.

  Barb still stood with the valise hiding her face, her fingers arched like claws against the flowere
d fabric. She didn’t move until the sound of his car backfired its way into the street. Abruptly, she flung the bag onto the floor. Her eyes glittered with tears of rage. Her face twisted. “Mama laughed at him. She said he was a silly little man who spent his life trying to scare everybody into heaven, saying nobody should drink or smoke or dance, and that women in shorts were asking for trouble and deserved what they got. He told Mama she shouldn’t paint the kind of pictures she painted because they made people think about things they shouldn’t do. Mama said his problem was he wanted every woman he saw. She told me that Lucille, one of her friends at work, sings in the choir and one day Lucille was in the choir room early and he came in and pressed himself up against her and she could feel him, hard as a rock. Mama told me never to get in a room with him by myself, that she’d heard about others he’d touched and nobody could say anything because who would believe it about the preacher? Now he’s acting like Mama got killed because she went to the Blue Light to dance.” She took a deep, shaky breath. “And worse. He’s saying Mama . . . he’s saying Mama was a bad woman. And there isn’t anything I can do.” She doubled her hands into fists.

  Gretchen reached out, gripped a thin arm rigid as a metal pole. “Yes, there is, Barb. Yes, there is.”

  “BARB DIDN’ T GO with Reverend Byars?” Grandmother held the cup of tea with both hands, looked worriedly at Gretchen.

  “She won’t ever go there.” Gretchen knew the words were true as she spoke them. Barb would never, never, never go to that house. “She’s gone to spend the night with Amelia Brady. Reverend Byars said . . .” Gretchen frowned. “He prayed for Mrs. Tatum, but he made her sound bad.”

  “Oh. I see.” Grandmother’s face looked old and worn and infinitely sad. “Poor Barb. To have to listen to such as that. And truth to tell, he didn’t like Faye. He scolded her for her painting and she defied him. She didn’t go back to church again. And in his anger he doesn’t think how Barb must feel. Of course she will not want to go there. We will tell her she can stay with us as long as she wants.”

  “Barb says her daddy would never hurt her mother. Barb says he will come home.” Gretchen heard her words curl up into a question.

  Grandmother finished the tea, set the cup on the saucer. She didn’t look at Gretchen. “Poor Clyde. Poor Faye.” The words were heavy with sorrow. She rested her head back against the chair, her eyes mournful.

  “Let me help you get ready for bed, Grandmother.” Gretchen went to the closet, found Grandmother’s pink cotton nightgown. It smelled sweet and fresh, from the wind that fluttered the wash as it dried on the clothesline. “I’ll brush your hair. And bring you a glass of warm milk.”

  Grandmother lay heavy and still against the plumped cushions of the rocking chair, her muscles inert, her breathing slow. She looked small. She’d never looked small to Gretchen before. A smile curved her lips. “You’re a good girl, Gretchen.” Her voice was just above a whisper, light as the faraway whoo of an owl. “Please put my gown on the bed. I will rest a while longer. You have had such a long day, a hard day. And to have seen what you have seen.” Her voice was filled with pain.

  Gretchen’s hands clenched for an instant, then she willed away the image of Faye Tatum sprawled in death. Gretchen stepped to the bed, spread the gown out, tried to smooth the wrinkles where she’d clutched the thin fabric.

  “Oh, dear child, I would have spared you if I could. Gretchen . . .” Grandmother pushed back a wisp of hair from her face. “Don’t remember the way Faye died. Remember the way she lived. She is in heaven now, splashing paints on canvas, brighter paints on a bigger canvas than she ever had here on earth, and there is no more sorrow or fear or unhappiness.” Grandmother nodded solemnly. “The Bible tells us: God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow, nor crying; neither shall there be any more pain. . . .”

  “Grandmother”—Gretchen’s voice trembled—“I wish Barb was here. Reverend Byars talked about God, but it didn’t help. And you help.” Gretchen rushed to the rocking chair. She knelt, buried her face against warmth. She cried.

  “Mein Schatz, mein Schazt . . .”

  With tears came release. Or was it Grandmother’s faith? Her sweet voice opened a vision of eternity, a glimpse beyond sorrow and evil and horror. The words glowed in Gretchen’s mind: neither shall there be any more pain. Gretchen felt her Grandmother’s hand gently stroking her hair. And heard the faint peal of the telephone in the kitchen.

  Gretchen lifted her head.

  Grandmother gasped. She stared toward the hall, gripped the arms of the rocking chair.

  Gretchen wiped her face, jumped to her feet. “Grandmother, it’s all right. Don’t be scared. I’ll go.” She hesitated in the hallway, knew she was right: Grandmother was frightened. Why should the telephone upset her?

  The ring was louder in the hall.

  Gretchen skidded into the kitchen, lifted the receiver. “Hello.”

  The operator’s voice was thin against the scratchy background noises. “A collect call from Lorraine Gilman. Will you accept charges?”

  Gretchen felt a surge of happiness. “Yes, oh, yes.”

  “Gretchen, honey, oh, my God, I just saw the paper. I was late getting home from my shift. I can’t believe—”

  Gretchen clung to the telephone. Her mother’s quick, light voice raced, as it always did, words tumbling over the wire fast as the click of castanets. “Mother, oh, Mother. Can you come home? It’s been so long. You haven’t been home since May.” Gretchen pictured her mother that last visit, her shiny blond hair in a new French twist, her blue eyes sparkling as she watched Gretchen’s delight in the sack of new books she’d brought all the way from Oliver’s Bookstore in Tulsa. Her mother had worn a new blue dress to church that Sunday with three-quarter-length sleeves and a batiste collar. Her white and blue spectator pumps and fabric handbag were new, too. She’d laughed and said she’d used up all her ration points for the year but it was worth it to have a new outfit, her first since the war began. Gretchen had gone over and over that weekend in her mind until it glowed like a special rock polished by time. They’d laughed and eaten a big Sunday dinner with fried chicken and mashed potatoes and green beans. The pineapple upside down cake was light and airy and the brown sugar topping perfect. It had been almost like old times.

  “Baby, I am coming home. On Saturday. I’ve got the day off. I’ve been planning—” She broke off. “But first, tell me what happened. About Faye. It’s awful to read. The paper says she was strangled and they’re looking for Clyde. But there was a story written by you. G. G. Gilman.” She spoke the name almost in awe. “I couldn’t believe it. When I read it, I knew it was you. All about Barb running to get you and the two of you finding Faye. It made me feel like I’d been there and the police chief coming to talk to Barb. How did your story . . .”

  Grandmother walked slowly into the kitchen, her face anxious.

  Gretchen pointed at the phone and smiled. “Mother,” she whispered.

  “. . . get in our paper?”

  Gretchen held tight to the receiver. “You saw my story? Mr. Dennis must have sent it out over the wire. Oh, Mother! I didn’t know he would. He’s supposed to give the wire service any story he thinks they might use.”

  “I’ve been half crazy ever since I read it.” Her mother’s voice wobbled. “You shouldn’t have gone with Barb. Not when she said her mother screamed. Oh, Gretchen, I’m frightened for you and Mother. I wish I could come home right now. Is Mother all right?”

  “Grandmother’s fine.” Even as Gretchen spoke, she knew that wasn’t true. Grandmother looked old and ill. But it wouldn’t do any good to worry Mother. “We’re all right.”

  “You and Barb didn’t see anybody?” Mother’s voice was sharp.

  “Nobody. Barb had cut her foot and I had to wrap it . . .”

  “Thank God.” Her mother was grim.

  “. . . so by the time we got to their house, no one was there.”

&n
bsp; “So the police really think Clyde killed Faye. Oh, my God, I can’t believe it.” She half covered the receiver and her voice was muffled, but Gretchen heard her tell someone, “Gretchen’s all right. She didn’t see anybody.” Another huge sigh of relief. Her voice came back loud and strong over the crackling on the line. “I don’t believe Clyde hurt Faye. And Faye—well, she might thumb her nose at bluestockings, but she wasn’t a tramp. She wouldn’t . . .” Her voice trailed off. Suddenly, the vigor fled and her tone was uncertain. “But who can say now, with the world the way it is. Who can say?”

  “Mother, the story in the Gazette tells how she danced away her last hours at the Blue Light. It makes her sound cheap. But Mr. Dennis said I could write a story”—Gretchen felt like she was standing on a little boat in a big lake during a storm and she wasn’t sure she could make it to shore—“about what she really was like, how she loved art and what a great mom she was to Barb and how she laughed a lot.” Could she do it, could she, could she?

  The silence on the line grew until it swirled around Gretchen, dark as the night that pressed against the windows of the kitchen. “Mother . . .”

  A quick indrawn breath, a muffled sob. “Oh, baby, I’m sorry. You made me think about Faye and the night she and Clyde got married. Your daddy and I went to the wedding and Faye and Clyde danced the Anniversary Waltz. Every time I hear that song, I think of them. I remember when Faye threw her bouquet. She threw it straight to Nita Mc-Kay and when the flowers came up against Nita she looked so startled and joyous and her smile was like a sweet, sweet baby’s, so open and trusting and loving. Nobody ever thought Nita would be able to get married. She’s been blind since she was a little girl. She cried out, ‘For me? For me?’ and Peter Thompson was standing by the door and he looked at Nita. They got married six months later. And you know, I don’t think it would ever have happened if Faye had thrown those flowers to someone else. Your daddy always said I was silly—” She broke off, gave a little laugh, murmured to someone, “. . . like to be silly . . .” and came back to the line. “Anyway, I believe life is like that.” Her voice was suddenly serious. “You walk down a certain street one day or you go out to a dance and nothing will ever be the same again. Gretchen, life changes. I—” A quick breath. “Listen, honey, I’ve got to get off the phone. People are waiting. You know how it is. But I’ll be home Saturday morning. Gretchen”—a pause and then a rush of words—“I’m bringing a friend. I know you’ll like him a lot. See you, sweetie.” The line went dead.