Blue Skies Page 4

  “It wouldn’t hurt you to be friendly, would it?”

  It might.

  “Randall’s rented a room from the Crowleys,” she says, “and will begin work next week.”

  “For how long?”

  Mama looks skyward. “He wants to make a new start.”

  “What’s wrong with New York?”

  “Glory Bea Bennett! Everyone deserves a second chance at life.”

  “Will he be a soda jerk?” Having Randall Horton serve Ruby Jane or Grandpa and me our Dr Pepper floats might turn them sour.

  Mama pinches her lips together. “Randall Horton is a pharmacist, like Mr. McGrath.”

  Good. At least he’ll stay in the back of the store.

  eleven

  A: BEN is an expert on Mr. Drew Pearson. Plus B: Ruby Jane needs more than three words to say to him. Equals C: My friend should know more about Mr. Pearson.

  So I’m off to the Gladiola library this morning because this afternoon I have to fly a kite. I’d take Ruby Jane but she’s still out of town.

  I skip to the front door, swing it open, and jump back. “Ben.”

  His hand is raised in a fist like he is just about to knock. “Uh… oh… hi,” he stammers. “I’ve come to see your grandpa about the float.”

  “He’s in his art studio.”

  Ever since Grandpa retired and started painting bluebonnets in the garage, he elevated the garage’s name.

  “Outstanding.” Ben covers a yawn with his hand. “Thanks,” he says, and takes off.

  Wait. Why did I send him away? Forget the library. I grab my spiral notebook and barge into the studio, shouting out a question. Big stacks of newspapers line the walls.

  Ben and Grandpa stop talking, and Ben turns over a piece of paper on the table real fast.

  The scent of turpentine and oil paint wafts through the air. To me, it smells like happiness. I’ve taken only a few painting lessons from Grandpa, and he says, “Keep showing up and you’ll improve.”

  “You want to know what?” Ben asks.

  “Your favorite movie.”

  “What’s your prediction?”

  “Abbott and Costello Meet Frankenstein.”

  “Close,” says Ben. “The greatest scene is where Costello gets hypnotized…”

  Grandpa pulls his watch from his pocket and swings it back and forth. Ben lifts his arms out straight and walks stiff-legged around the studio like he is in a trance.

  I snap my fingers in front of his face and he stops.

  “… and the doctor wants to put Costello’s brain into the Monster.”

  I can think of someone who needs a new brain.

  I’ve wondered if Daddy was captured and brainwashed, and that’s why it’s taking him so long to return.

  “My top choice,” says Ben, “is The Story of G.I. Joe.”

  He holds up his two index fingers. “Bup. Bup. Bup. Bup,” he says, waving his hands back and forth like he is firing ammunition. Tap. Tap. Tap. Tap. “Ernie Pyle reports from the front lines,” he says as his fingers rush over imaginary typewriter keys.

  Ben sounds like a newsreel they show before a movie, complete with sound effects.

  “Pyle was quite a guy,” says Grandpa. “It’s a shame we lost him.”

  I open my spiral and write down the titles.

  “That looks official,” says Ben, peering over my shoulder. He stifles another yawn.

  I drop the notebook to my side and turn to look right into Ben’s eyes. I am close enough to count all of his freckles. He flushes and looks at his shoes.

  “Your favorite board game?” I ask, taking a step back. Ruby Jane loves Parcheesi.

  Ben puts his hand under his dimpled chin.

  It is not a hard question. I think I know his answer. Still, I want confirmation.

  I poise my pencil over my notes and wait. The clock on the wall behind Grandpa’s easel ticks loudly. Ben cracks his knuckles.

  “Chess.”

  “Thank you,” I say, and close my spiral.

  Ben rubs his eyes.

  “Everything okay?” I ask.

  Ben exchanges a look with Grandpa. “My dad had a rough night.”

  Nightmares. Most times, Ben’s daddy doesn’t remember them. Except Ben and his mama do. Sometimes us neighbors do too. Mr. Truman’s screams travel, but not as much in the winter when windows are closed.

  I’m never sure what to say, so I say the only thing I can think of. “I’m sorry, Ben. Real sorry.”

  I don’t think Ben knows what to say either, so he taps his fist against his heart.

  “I’ll see if he’s up for a visit later today or tomorrow,” says Grandpa.

  “Thank you, sir,” says Ben.

  Grandpa thumps my spiral. “Looks like you are on a mission,” he says, changing the subject.

  “I am,” I say.

  Back in my room, I look toward the train station. I turn away, pick up Daddy’s photo, and perch on my bed. “I can’t wait for you to come home, Daddy. I know I need more proof that you’ll arrive on Valentine’s Day. But I have a feeling. A really good feeling. So I’ve decided to act like it’s true until proven otherwise. You’ll be the star of the parade. Afterward, we’ll celebrate your return every single day for the rest of your life. I’ve already figured out a few things for us to do: Sing ‘Happy Birthday’ to you five times with five different carrot cakes to make up for your lost birthdays. Find you a real four-leaf clover. And have Mr. Wyatt print up a special edition of the Gladiola Gazette that tells your story. Forty-six days, Daddy—just forty-six more days.”

  twelve

  MAMA MUST WORK at the insurance agency this afternoon on account of last-minute end-of-the-year business.

  Grams has an “it’s New Year’s Eve tomorrow and my date canceled” emergency.

  Grandpa is going to keep Ben’s dad company.

  I inquired about a snowstorm, rain, lightning, hurricane, flood, and tornado. Only Grandpa said, “It’s almost twenty degrees above freezing with nice winds, strong enough to stir the leaves on the ground. Near perfect winter weather conditions. Now skedaddle.”

  Which is why Randall Horton and I are standing at the edge of a nearby open field with two diamond-shaped paper kites for my first ever kite-flying experience while the wind whips my hair into my face. And the faintest smell of cow pies fills my nostrils.

  I hold my kite by the cross-sticks as Randall Horton explains and demonstrates the basics. “Keep your line short at first and your back to the wind…”

  His kite soars, leading us to the middle of the field, where he brings it back down.

  All I hear is the flap-flap-flapping of wind on paper.

  “Your turn,” says Randall Horton.

  I toss my kite into the air.

  It dives to the ground.

  “Great attempt,” he says. “Try again.”

  I’m ready to leave, but I know I’ll hear it from Mama if I do.

  The result is the same.

  The third time it flutters, like it wants to fly.

  Then it sputters. Crashes.

  Snap.

  I pick up the torn and splintered pieces and turn to Randall Horton. Before he sees me, his face registers regret.

  “I’m sorry,” I say.

  I didn’t ruin his kite on purpose.

  “Don’t worry, Glory Bea, accidents happen. You’ve been a good sport to come with me.”

  I cock my head.

  “Your daddy talked about you every day.”

  My eyes widen. “He did?”

  “Your first word was ‘da-da,’ your favorite game was hide-and-seek, and you loved to draw the sky. He was very proud of you.”

  I blink. Lots.

  Randall Horton holds up his kite. “How about we fly this one together?”

  I set my broken kite in the grass and take his.

  “Did you know that when you fly a kite, you are fishing for angels?” Randall Horton asks.

  In case he’s right, I tell them
what I want.

  The kite flies so high, we run out of string.

  thirteen

  WE ALWAYS EAT black-eyed peas for luck on New Year’s Day. At least that hasn’t changed. Grams has a pot simmering on the stove for tomorrow.

  “It is not the end of the world,” says Grams to someone on the other end of the phone before we sit down to supper.

  From the top stair, I see her draw a heart on the telephone pad.

  “That’s right,” she says, penciling an arrow through the heart. “It’s the beginning of a new one.”

  Grams writes something and ends the call. I am too far away to see so I take a peek on my way to the kitchen. There is a name under the heart, Arthur Benjamin.

  I don’t know who that man is; however, I do know one thing: his heart is in good hands.

  Unlike Ruby Jane’s.

  I look down at my small palms and fingers. I haven’t made any more progress.

  Ruby Jane and Ben aren’t any closer to a photo on my Wall of Fame.

  I traipse into the kitchen. The red-and-white-checkered oilcloth is set with four white dinner plates.

  Randall Horton is not here tonight.

  Yet he is. In the conversation.

  “We should call Randall at midnight to wish him Happy New Year,” Grams says.

  I swing around. “We never stay up that late.”

  “New Year, new ways,” says Grams.

  I scowl.

  “We’re moving forward, Glory Bea,” says Grams. “Not backward. Join us.”

  What about standing still? Waiting. Planning. Or, at least, slowing down. There’s plenty of time to move forward when Daddy returns.

  Grandpa reports that he talked to the secretary of the glee club, also known as his wife, today and put in a request for a song or two in French during the parade.

  “ ‘Blue Skies,’ ” I say. “S’il vous plaît.”

  It was the song Daddy woke me up with every morning. It will be the perfect song to welcome him back.

  “That’s one of my favorites too,” says Grams. “I’ll suggest it to Mr. McGrath.”

  “Will the Gerbera Daisies and Dudes perform?” asks Mama, who was a roller-skating Daisy when she was a senior in high school.

  “Wouldn’t be a parade without them,” says Grandpa.

  “Maybe I’ll participate this year,” she says.

  Mama still has her uniform but she hasn’t skated since Daddy left. “I don’t know if that’s a good idea,” I say. “You might fall.”

  “If I do,” says Mama, “I’ll get right back up.”

  “That’s the spirit,” says Grams.

  “We may not have as big a shindig as those folks in New York City or even Fort Worth,” says Grandpa. “However, it won’t be because we don’t try.”

  I shake off Mama’s idea. “It will be the best parade ever,” I say, and rub my shamrock charm.

  * * *

  We listen to Fred Astaire on the record player in the parlor and wait for midnight. Mama strokes my hair as I lay my head in her lap. Grandpa sings along with “Steppin’ Out with My Baby” and puffs smoke rings from his once-a-year cigar. Grams hums as she knits a light green baby blanket for the county hospital nursery.

  The McGraths play a spirited game of checkers in the study. Mr. and Mrs. play one game every day of the year and keep score. This is the tiebreaker.

  Riiiiing. Ring. Riiiiing.

  Mama pops up so fast, I tumble to the floor.

  She forgets to say sorry and rushes out of the room.

  No one ever phones after nine o’clock. Miss Connie will be fired up, and not in a good way.

  Grams clutches her heart and Grandpa smiles extra wide.

  I stand and brush myself off. “It’s probably a wrong number,” I say.

  “Probably not,” says Grandpa as Mama races up the stairs.

  Why doesn’t she take the call downstairs? It’s closer.

  “Be right back,” I say, and I tiptoe under the staircase.

  “I can’t believe you called,” says Mama. The second phone perches on a stand in the hall just outside my grandparents’ bedroom.

  No telling how many people’s ears, including Miss Connie’s, are tuned in to this conversation. One more won’t hurt.

  I put my finger on the receiver on the hall phone and lift it off the hook.

  “… had everything to live for. You, Glory Bea.” Randall Horton’s voice is soft. “George was the best guy on the planet.”

  He is right about that.

  “I’m not George. You know that, Lila June. Nevertheless, I’m hoping you will let me get to know you even better this next year.”

  A sharp intake of breath fills my ear and my phone falls.

  Who gasped? Mama? Me?

  The phone clunks against the wall, and my heart feels like it might up and burst.

  “Hello, Gladiola, Texas,” I hear Mama say, and Randall Horton chuckles.

  I grab the phone and put it back up to my ear.

  Click, goes a receiver. Click Click.

  “Guess we had company,” says Randall Horton.

  Mama laughs. “Randall, you make me feel like the luckiest person.”

  “Lila June, I am the luckiest.”

  I can’t listen anymore. I hang up and walk back to the parlor.

  The McGraths have joined Grams and Grandpa. All don paper hats and hold kazoos in their hands.

  Mrs. McGrath is beaming. She must have won the game.

  I plop onto the sofa between my grandparents, my arms tight across my chest.

  “Have you made a New Year’s resolution, Glory Bea?” asks Grandpa, and he sets a kazoo in my lap.

  “I forgot.”

  “It’s not too late.” Grandpa looks at the clock on the mantel, surrounded by photos of my daddy. “You’ve got four more minutes.”

  I rub my shamrock and think. “Got it,” I say, then blow my kazoo.

  fourteen

  I EAT TWO helpings of black-eyed peas today at noon.

  One for me, and one for my daddy.

  * * *

  “Need any help packing?” asks Mama as she scooches over the clothes on my bed and sets down her small tan suitcase. Ruby Jane returned a few hours ago, and I’m headed to her house for the night.

  “No thanks,” I say.

  A decal with GRAND CANYON in big letters is in the top left-hand corner of the suitcase. Mama and Daddy drove there on their honeymoon. To the right is a sticker of GALVESTON ISLAND written in cursive. I stand beside Mama and trace it with my hand.

  “You picked it because you loved the fancy letters,” she says, and taps my nose.

  I still do. Like a sunset, the orange background in the letters blurs up to blue.

  “Your daddy and I were going to travel the world together.” Mama kisses the top of my head. “We didn’t make it very far. But I bet you will.”

  I don’t want to go anywhere. I want to stay right here. Until he comes home.

  Mama smells like a rose garden in full bloom. Like the McGraths’ roses, which spill out onto the sidewalk every spring and make people stop and smile. “Bon voyage,” Mama says, and leaves.

  I click the lock on either side of her suitcase, the one we shared the last time we took a trip. I rub my hands across the smooth rusty-colored inside and into the pockets.

  Ouch.

  I pull out my hand, open it, and look at the jagged slivers of white, tan, and pink shell from an angel wing. It’s from the Galveston beach Mama and Daddy and I visited before he shipped out. The same beach where I tucked a brown-and-white-speckled cowrie with its hard shell into his pocket for good luck. The shell he took with him. The shell he said he’d bring back. This is a sign.

  He will come back. I am counting on it. More than ever.

  For some reason Daddy is hiding, just like he used to do when we’d play hide-and-seek. He’d tuck behind doors, under tables, and in closets. I’d always figure out where he was. These days, he could be anywhere.
Like in a sea of soldiers at a parade.

  I pack my clothes, grab my spiral notebook, and place it inside too. Then I head downstairs. My clothes shift from side to side, trying to fill up the empty spaces.

  The phone rings just as I am fixing to push open the kitchen door and say good-bye.

  “I’ll get it,” I yell, and put down my suitcase.

  It is Randall Horton.

  “Hello, Glory Bea. May I please speak to your mother?”

  “She can’t come to the phone right now. Bye.”

  Technically what I said is true. She can’t come if I don’t call her.

  I hang up and swing toward the kitchen.

  The phone rings. Again.

  “We must have gotten disconnected, Glory Bea. May I please leave a message?”

  “Sure.”

  “Please tell your mother I’m running late and it’ll be an hour before I pick her up.”

  “An hour,” I say.

  “Thank you very much.”

  “Bye.”

  Click.

  “On my way,” I tell Mama and Grams as I push open the kitchen door with my suitcase.

  They are at the table sipping coffee. Mama’s hair is now styled and sprayed.

  “Have fun,” says Grams. “Now come give me some sugar.”

  I kiss both of them good-bye.

  “Glory Bea,” says Mama. “Who was on the phone?”

  “A stranger,” I say.

  I wave and skip out the door, swinging my suitcase.

  fifteen

  “A WAR MOVIE?” says Ruby Jane as we roller-skate side by side around the empty church parking lot next to her house. “He likes to sit in the middle of the theater? We are not at all alike.”

  “You don’t need to agree with your boyfriend about everything. That would be boring.”

  Ruby Jane picks up speed. “Boyfriend? You said ‘boyfriend.’ ” She points her toes out, spreads her arms wide, and glides across the blacktop. Her straighter-than-straight hair rises behind her. “I love that word.”

  I tell her what else I know.

  Ruby Jane skates over with a frown. “Curly hair? Coca-Cola?”