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Did You Know?

  Gladiola Gazette

  December 22, 1948

  Are we lucky ducks, or what?

  I have it on good authority that our town was designated the one and only official stop of the Texas Merci boxcar between its drop-off in Fort Worth and final destination in Austin. Our spectacular and long-standing state reputation for hosting the “Best Small-Town Fourth of July Parade” makes this possible.

  Thank you, Mayor John Crowley, and your wife, the ever-lovely Mrs. Geraldine Crowley, for all of your efforts on our behalf.

  First, this potpourri of facts about the Merci Train. It totals 49 forty-and-eight boxcars, built to hold 40 men or 8 horses. They were used in both world wars. Each state will receive one, and the Territory of Hawaii and the District of Columbia will share one. The boxcars have been refurbished and are filled to the brim with gifts such as children’s toys, needlework, and books. Each one contains a wedding dress from seamstresses in Leon, and from French president Vincent Auriol, a rare Sèvres vase.

  I for one can’t wait to travel to Austin to see the gifts firsthand.

  Second, plans are under way to welcome our state’s boxcar in fine fashion. Please lend a hand. Committees have already been formed, and help is needed in all areas. Contact the following persons by phone to volunteer:

  Transportation: Miss Connie Partridge, just pick up the phone and she’ll answer

  Main Street Decorations: Mr. Mark Ambrose, #68

  Parade Floats & Bands, Etc.: Mr. William Bennett, #35

  Potluck Bar-B-Que: Mrs. Helen Andrews, #18

  Call now.

  So now you know, dear Gladies, now you know,

  Penny Pfluger

  PS: Glory Bea, “bienvenue” means “welcome” in French.

  eight

  THE FIRST CHRISTMAS after Daddy left was the worst. Grandpa did not dress up as Santa at the hospital. Grams did not gift her famous pecan pies. Mama did not craft star ornaments out of wax. The Christmas tree in the parlor turned brown and dropped needles way before the twenty-fifth because I forgot to water it.

  This Christmas might be the second worst.

  Randall Horton did not get on that bus to Florida.

  Instead, he is squished next to Grandpa, Mama, and me in the fifth row of Main Street Baptist, the biggest church in town, for the Gladiola Glee Club holiday concert.

  I should be grateful. Randall Horton won’t be at our Christmas dinner the day after tomorrow. He accepted an offer from the Crowleys instead.

  Mama squashes me from the left, into the hard pew arm on my right. Any more pressure and I might burst.

  She points to “Douce Nuit” in the program. “This must be why your grandmother has been humming ‘Silent Night.’ Same tune, different words.”

  “I don’t know it,” I say. “It’s…”

  “French,” says Mama. “I took a year of it in high school.”

  I twist around. “Do you still remember how to speak it?”

  “I bet if I had someone to practice with,” she says, and taps me on the nose, “I’d do just fine.”

  I’d tell her who, only I don’t want to ruin Daddy’s surprise. Plus, I need a little more proof that he’s really coming this time.

  Folks form a line to shake Randall Horton’s hand. More than one says, “For a second, I thought you could have been George.”

  My daddy is taller. I’m sure Daddy can run faster, seeing as he was a track star, and sing better too. He would wake me up every morning with a song.

  “It’s too crowded,” I say to Mama.

  “Take off your coat, sweetie.”

  “I want to sit somewhere else.”

  Mama entwines her arm in mine as the organ prelude begins. “Please, stay.” She’s wearing perfume again. It smells like the gardenia corsage Grandpa gave Grams on their anniversary this year.

  I wriggle, and Mama tightens her grip. “The First Noel” fills me with warmth and I give in.

  Halfway through the concert, Grams walks to the podium. As the piano plays a lively intro, Grams puts on pipe cleaner antlers and begins to sing about Rudolph.

  Someone in the first row starts swaying, and pretty soon the whole church is rocking side to side. We join in on the last line, “… You’ll go down in his-toe-reee.”

  Grams bows as we whistle and clap. She points right at Grandpa and winks.

  Grandpa touches his hand to his heart and returns the gesture, pointing right back at her. Randall Horton leans over and says something in Mama’s ear. She nods and her shoulders shake just a little.

  Daddy always says it is rude to tell secrets in public because it makes people feel left out.

  Randall Horton laughs too loud and too long.

  “Thank you for your enthusiasm,” says Mr. McGrath, aka the glee club director, as we settle down. He tips his head back and closes his eyes before he continues. “Since 1943, when this next song was recorded by Bing Crosby, the Gladiola Glee Club, in honor of those who served in the war, has sung it at this concert. We send our thoughts to the families of those loved ones who will never return to us.” He pauses and looks right at me. Some people do not have enough faith. “And now, ‘I’ll Be Home for Christmas.’ ”

  Folks from the row behind us lay their hands on Mama’s and my shoulders. Mama kisses the top of my head and sighs. Not a heavy sigh, more like a wish-upon-a-star sigh.

  She is thinking about Daddy too, isn’t she?

  nine

  I GRIP THE SMALL ball-shaped finial at the top of our banister with both hands, swing my left leg over the railing, lean forward, and let go. For a second. With my arms extended over my head, I cup my hands around the smooth, slick wood and inch my way downstairs. It isn’t pretty, but I make it.

  Grams chats nearby on the hall phone.

  “More than a week?” she says to the caller. “Not to worry. Everyone’s on a different schedule over the holidays and it’s only two days after Christmas.” Grams takes a sip of coffee and continues, “Sometimes absence makes the heart grow fonder.”

  My thoughts exactly. I am counting on this for Ben and Ruby Jane. Every Pfluger except Mr. Pfluger is still out of town visiting relatives.

  I surmise that before Ruby Jane sees Ben again, she needs to know more about him in order to spark engaging conversation. It’s time for his official interview.

  First, I poke my head into the study, where I’d last seen Mama. She stands before the Wall of Fame. Her hand touches the photograph in the center: the one of her and Daddy. Seated in the back seat of a car in their wedding finery, she and Daddy pose for the photographer. They look so happy.

  Mama’s lips start to move, and I inch closer.

  “You’ve been gone such a long, long time, George. I will always miss you.”

  No, Mama. You will not miss him forever. He is coming back. In less than two months.

  Believe, Mama. Believe.

  There’s a reason Grams needlepointed the pillow on the wing chair after Daddy left that reads: NEVER GIVE UP. NEVER EVER, EVER GIVE UP.

  I tiptoe back, take a few loud steps into the room, and tell Mama my plans.

  “Don’t spoil your dinner, honey. Your grandmother’s cooking. And if you’d like, we could talk in French when you come back. Oui?”

  “Oui,” I say, and kiss her on both cheeks like I hear they do in France.

  * * *

  I take the last empty red stool next to the window at the soda fountain, set my spiral notebook on the counter, and nod to Delilah Wallingham beside me. She wiggles her fingers hi. As she inches her silver baton closer to her strawberry malt, she tells the stranger on her left, “I was queen, and Ben here was king.”

  Delilah was also voted most beautiful and most likely to succeed in Hollywood, though she’s never been onstage. Maybe twirling in a parade counts.

  “The usual, Glory Bea?” asks Ben.

  “Just a regular DP, please,” I say. “By the way, do you like girls with straight hair or curly hair the best?”r />
  “Curly.”

  Delilah fluffs her wavy blond hair. I write down curly.

  “Where do you like to sit when you watch a movie?”

  “Right in the middle.”

  “Your favorite radio show besides Drew Pearson Comments?”

  “What’s up with the twenty questions?”

  “Homework,” I say. “I’m guessing Abbott and Costello?”

  I’ve heard Ben toss lines with Grandpa from the comedians’ baseball routine about who’s on first.

  “Negative,” says Ben. “Captain Midnight.” He points his thumb toward the other end of the counter and hurries away.

  That was my daddy’s favorite. Sometimes I wonder if the reason he hasn’t come back yet is because he’s a secret agent for real, not like on the radio. And until his job is done, he isn’t allowed any contact with us. Until February.

  Frank Sinatra croons on the jukebox about never smiling again. Delilah stirs her malt. “Homework over the holidays?”

  “Extra credit,” I say.

  Delilah readjusts the baby-blue sweater on her shoulders. The rhinestone sweater guard catches a ray of sunlight, and sparkles bounce across the ceiling.

  I hunker over my spiral and doodle train boxcars, while Delilah describes her twirling lessons to the visitor, complete with an unauthorized demonstration. Ever since Delilah knocked over bottles of Pepto-Bismol, Mr. McGrath posted a sign in the window: NO BATON TWIRLING ALLOWED. I guess Delilah doesn’t think it means her.

  “I predict you’ll like this, Glory Bea,” says Ben as he serves me my soda. He leaves before I can ask another question.

  “Word is,” says Delilah, leaning closer as I take a long sip of my extra cold drink, “there’s a certain Mr. Randall Horton that’s been visiting your house. As in every day that ends with y. Keeping late hours too. Why, when he took your mama all the way to Austin for dinner, I heard they didn’t get back until after midnight.”

  As if it were any of her business, Mama and Randall Horton had a meal with Mama’s college roommate. Austin’s under an hour’s drive away and they were gone only a total of five. Delilah makes it sounds like they were on a date or something.

  I swallow my mouthful of DP all at once. Icy jabs shoot up my head and stab each temple.

  “My aunt in San Antonio remarried a year after her husband died in the war,” says Delilah, and she taps a finger on her baton. “I was a junior bridesmaid and we stayed in a motel with a swimming pool. I guess your mama is a little slow.”

  I turn and glare. “You do not know everything there is to know, Delilah Wallingham.”

  Sure, we had a service for Daddy. Except he wasn’t there.

  Delilah laughs. “Whatever you say, Glory Bea Bennett.”

  There’s a reason they call it “MIA, Missing in Action.” It means Daddy can be found. Only, now I think he’s going to find us.

  “I’ve got to go.” I count out the money for my soda plus tip in my shaky hands and place it on the counter.

  “What about your extra credit?” asks Delilah. “And your soda?”

  I try to smile.

  Delilah is a know-it-all. So Ruby Jane and I don’t hang out with her all the time. But I do need to be friendly on account of Mama. Delilah’s daddy is her boss.

  But she is not mine.

  I do not want to talk about Randall Horton. That man has overstayed his welcome. Grams always says fish and company stink after three days. It is time for Randall Horton to see his sister in Florida and make his way back to New York.

  We have to get ready for Daddy, and Randall Horton is starting to stink.

  I trudge home, keeping my eyes on the sidewalk so I won’t step on any cracks. I clutch my spiral across my chest. Someone has to do something.

  Randall Horton isn’t my only worry. I need more answers from Ben. Ruby Jane will expect a progress report upon her return. I’m not about to let her down.

  At the corner of Azalea and Main, it comes to me.

  I take off, and within seconds, I pound on Ben’s front door. There’s no car in the driveway. If his mama or dad is home, I can finish my questions.

  Ben’s dad answers, scowling.

  “Sorry I knocked so hard.”

  Mr. Truman wears a long brown plaid bathrobe over his pajamas, and a heavy heart. I don’t think he shaved this morning.

  “Ben’s not here,” he says, and shuts the door.

  I will not give up. No, not me.

  The air cools, and I button up my coat.

  According to Grams, before the war, Mr. Truman coached the high school baseball team in his free time and made the best Bar-B-Que sauce and brisket in Gladiola. He served as a cook on a battleship stationed in Pearl Harbor. Then the bombs fell. Ships sank. Sailors died.

  Loud noises startle him.

  I wish I hadn’t banged the door.

  Important French Words and Phrases (According to Mama)

  Bienvenue (Be en va nu) Welcome

  Merci beaucoup (Mare see boe coo) Thank you very much

  Comment allez-vous? (Comahn tally vu) How are you?

  Très bien, merci! (Tray be en, mare see) Very good, thank you!

  S’il vous plaît (See voo play) Please

  Moi (Mwa) Me

  Au revoir (O rev wah) Good-bye

  Bon voyage (Bohn voy ahj) Good-bye

  Fantastique (Fawn tas teek) Fantastic

  C’est bon (Say bohn) It’s good

  Did You Know?

  Gladiola Gazette

  December 29, 1948

  Gladies, I am not the only one thinking ahead, oui?

  As this is my final column for the year, let me be the first to wish you Happy New Year, Bonne année!

  In honor of a New Year’s Eve tradition in France, I will plant myself under mistletoe for a kiss. Needless to say, my family and I will still partake of black-eyed peas on the first. Why not receive double luck?

  With a nod to the journalist Mr. Drew Pearson, I submit this sampling of our fair citizens’ and esteemed visitors’ predictions for 1949:

  Mrs. Geraldine Crowley: The Merci boxcar will bring an unexpected blessing.

  Mr. Steven McGrath: I will retire.

  Mr. Randall Horton: The Brooklyn Dodgers will win the World Series.

  Mrs. George Bennett: Someone we all know and love will marry.

  Ben Truman: My brother will come home on leave.

  Delilah Wallingham: I’ll lead the Fourth of July parade.

  Moi: A Gladiola citizen will audition for Arthur Godfrey’s Talent Scouts.

  So now you know, dear Gladies, now you know,

  Penny Pfluger

  PS: COMING SOON: Watch for an occasional French lesson or two via this column starting next week.

  ten

  RANDALL HORTON is at our house. Again.

  Mama freshened the arrangement on the piano with new sprigs of fir. The silver and gold ball ornaments nestled among them catch the light of the candles on either side.

  “It is a pleasure to be here, Mrs. Bennett,” says Randall Horton as Grandpa shuffles and deals the deck of cards.

  In the background, “Comin’ in on a Wing and a Prayer” plays on the radio.

  My prayer is that Randall Horton says good-bye to our town tonight. It’s December 29 and he’s still here.

  Grams says prayers are answered in three ways—yes, no, and not now. This one needs to be yes.

  “Everyone has made me feel so welcome here,” Randall Horton says as he picks up his cards. “Especially all of you.”

  “Everybody wants to hear your story,” says Mama.

  “Main Street Baptist last night,” says Grams, “the fish fry at the fire station tomorrow…”

  “… invites to lunches and dinners all week,” adds Grandpa.

  I throw down a card. He’s staying that long?

  “It’s a privilege to have someone from the special operational forces in our midst,” says Grandpa.

  “Thank you, sir,” says Randall H
orton. “You are the reason I came. You, Mrs. Bennett, Glory Bea, and Lila June.”

  Mama’s face turns the palest pink.

  I scowl at my cards. Delilah was right. In the past few days, when Randall Horton wasn’t with others, he’s been here. He and Mama sat on the front porch swing in the cold and talked. I didn’t know she had that many words in her. Mama and I missed our “hair rolling and playing Hearts” date last Saturday night. He better take off before it happens again.

  “The Five & Dime had kites displayed in the window today,” continues Randall Horton. “I took a chance and bought one for each of us. What do you say we fly them tomorrow afternoon?”

  “Splendid!” says Grams.

  “Perfect weather,” says Grandpa.

  “I have the day off,” says Mama, and she looks at me. Hard.

  I don’t have an excuse and she knows it.

  I say, “Yes,” but inside I say, No.

  At least Randall Horton only plays a few hands and leaves. Maybe to start packing his bag. Surely he’s overstayed his welcome at the McGraths’.

  We stand on the porch as he walks away. He stops at the picket fence and turns.

  Grams, Grandpa, Mama, and I wave our two-handed Bennett good-bye. With our hands close to our faces, we swish them back and forth like windshield wipers, only faster. Apparently, I started this tradition when I was itty-bitty, and everyone in my family adopted it.

  Do not, do not wave like us, Randall Horton.

  “Thanks again,” he calls.

  Randall Horton returns our wave with two hands, our family wave, while I think, Go away, go away, go away.

  Grams and Grandpa wander inside while Mama and I settle on the swing.

  “Put your head on my lap,” she says, and covers me with the afghan.

  I lie on my side and rest my head on her dress. It is soft and warm.

  “When is Randall Horton leaving, Mama?”

  “Glory Bea, that kind of talk is not neighborly, especially since Mr. McGrath just offered him a job at the pharmacy.”

  I bolt straight up and focus on her face. Mama’s eyes show disappointment. In me. I glare back.