Blue Skies Page 7

  twenty-four

  I FINISH Daddy’s painting the next afternoon. Cerulean, turquoise, and cobalt blues, with touches of white, stain my hands, but I leave them be. To remember.

  Grams stands next to the stove and ladles the juice from the pan over the platter of pot roast. Usually it’s a Sunday meal, except tonight we’ve got company.

  “Are you going to the Valentine’s Day Dance?” Ben asks me as he picks up a bowl of peas.

  “Uh-huh,” I say, and head for the swinging door with the mashed potatoes. And you, Ben Truman, are going with Ruby Jane.

  I push the door with my elbow and stop. Only, Ben doesn’t. Something hard jabs me in the side. “Oh no!” I say.

  “Sorr—” says Ben.

  In the dining room, everyone stands behind their chairs. Randall Horton is behind my daddy’s. The chair with a message I wrote in crayon on its underside after he left. No one has sat in that chair except Daddy. No one.

  Randall Horton’s hands clutch the top of the sculpted wooden frame.

  Ruby Jane’s mouth is open and no words come out.

  “Everything’s a-okay, Glory Bea,” says Grandpa, and waves me in.

  I glower at Mama. Only, she doesn’t look at me. We added an extra leaf to the table, and she set it. Eight chairs. Seven people. Seven settings. Her head is bowed as she tosses the salad. Why didn’t someone else say something? Why doesn’t someone tell him to move?

  “You all are blocking traffic,” says Grams from behind.

  “I’ll keep the door open,” I say, and let Ben and Grams pass by.

  “Mercy,” Grams says, and stops. Everyone turns toward her. “Randall,” she says softly, “it’s been a long time since anyone sat in that chair beside me.”

  Randall Horton looks at the vacant place setting to his right, where Mama should have sat him. He pinches the top of his nose and takes a deep breath. Then he taps the chair with his fist. “George is—George is irreplaceable.”

  “You can say that again,” I say, glaring at Randall Horton.

  “Glory Bea!” says Mama. Or did she say, “Glory be”?

  The look on her face makes it clear she said my name. All eyes glance at me and then to the table Mama set.

  When my daddy comes back, Randall Horton will vanish.

  Grandpa clears his throat. “We’re happy to have you, Randall,” he says. “Happy to have all of y’all.” He pulls out Grams’s chair, and everyone begins to sit.

  “Join us, won’t you, Glory Bea?” asks Grandpa.

  “Please,” says Mama.

  My paint-splashed hands are on fire. The handles on the serving dish are too hot and I can’t hold on any longer. I rush to the empty space between Randall Horton and me and set it down.

  “Here you go,” says Ben, and pulls out my chair.

  Grandpa says grace and we pass the food around the table.

  This dinner is supposed to be about Ruby Jane and Ben. Randall Horton is not about to ruin it.

  “Ruby Jane’s starting her junior first-aid certificate this Saturday,” I say, and pick up the peas. “Her instructor said, ‘Ruby Jane will be a lifesaver.’ ”

  My friend adjusts her neck scarf. She smiles too; only, her upper lip snags on her braces. She quickly recovers. I don’t think anyone—and by “anyone,” I mean Ben—noticed.

  “Are you thinking of a career in medicine?” asks Randall Horton.

  “Maybe,” says Ruby Jane, and she takes the bowl of potatoes from Ben. No eye contact.

  She said a word! And she didn’t shout. I’ll take victories, no matter how small.

  “Ruby Jane is very interested in Drew Pearson these days,” I say. Ben hands her the platter of pot roast. Ruby Jane holds one end and he holds the other. Their eyes meet.

  I cover my smile with my hand as my soon-to-be Wall of Famers grin at each other.

  “He thinks the government may have to buy up a lot of grain from the farmers this year,” says Ben.

  “Yes,” says Ruby Jane as she forks a piece of pot roast onto her plate. “Up to eight hundred million bushels, and I predict that number will increase.”

  I am so proud of Ruby Jane that I actually clap.

  “Hear, hear,” says Grandpa, and joins in.

  * * *

  After everyone has left, Ben and I stack the dishes on the sideboard. “What’s your favorite movie, Glory Bea? What board game do you like to play the most? Where do you sit in the movies?”

  Before I can answer, Grams sweeps into the kitchen.

  “Love is in the air,” she says. “Oui?”

  Did You Know?

  Gladiola Gazette

  February 2, 1948

  If you haven’t heard about the Merci Train, you’ve been living under a rock. Or are not a regular reader of my column. Any who, today, dear readers, the boxcars will dock in Weehawken, New Jersey, just across from New York City! Which means the Texas boxcar will pay us a visit before we know it! I have it on good authority that the floats for the parade are coming along splendidly, the decoration committee is ready to paint our town red, white, and blue—or should I say blue, white, and red, the colors of the French flag—and the Gladiola Glee Club is in fine form, as are the bands and marchers.

  Mayor Crowley has confirmed the Texas boxcar’s arrival date.

  Consider this your official invitation!

  WHO: Everyone

  WHAT: The Texas Merci boxcar’s stop in Gladiola, Texas

  WHERE: Parade downtown, speeches at the train station, and a Bar-B-Que potluck immediately following at Gladiola Primary and Intermediate

  WHEN: 9:00 a.m., February 16, 1949, and beyond

  I am not at liberty to reveal the special surprise, but be advised, there will be one, or perhaps I should say—someone!

  Jusque-là, which means, “until then.”

  À bientôt! See you soon!

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

  Penny Pfluger

  twenty-five

  “HELLO, KING. Hello, Queen. Hello, Bishops, Knights, Rooks, and Pawns.”

  I touch each piece on the chessboard late Saturday morning. Ruby Jane is still at her first-aid class, so it’s me and The Game of Chess book.

  Only, it isn’t for beginners, and I’m at a loss.

  Wilson barks at the front door and I happily say good-bye to the occupants of the chessboard.

  Ben’s come looking for my grandpa, so I follow them to the studio.

  I’m after one thing.

  The windows are covered with newspaper—which Grandpa does in the winter to keep out the cold. Only a few days ago, it unexpectedly warmed again.

  I spot a sign on the door: NO ADMITTANCE.

  “Sorry,” says Ben. “Entrance denied.”

  “Excuse me?”

  Grandpa opens the door just enough for a whiff of our painting supplies to escape.

  Ben and Wilson slip inside.

  I do an about-face, march into the kitchen, grab a bottle from under the sink and the binoculars, and get to work.

  A few minutes later, I pound on the studio door.

  Ben cracks it open. “Yes?”

  “You know that raccoon you saw in the live oak when you did the bird report a while back? He’s returned.”

  I hand Ben the binoculars. He steps outside and quickly closes the door, but not before Wilson scampers out. I point at the tree in the far corner. “Look halfway up.”

  Ben fixes the glasses to his eyes and moves his head up and down and all around. “I don’t see him,” he says, and lowers the binoculars.

  “Funny,” I say. “I’m looking right at him.”

  Wilson barks and wags his shaggy white-tipped tail.

  Black rings Ben’s eyes.

  Ben touches his face, smearing the shoe polish. He rubs his fingers together and laughs. Long and loud. “Permission to copy.”

  “Only if you stop tricking me,” I say. “The straw episode, flashlight, purse…”

  Grandpa emerges
from the studio.

  “Bravo, Glory Bea,” he says. “However, if you think this is going to get you inside our workshop, you’re going to be sorely disappointed. The float is top secret.”

  I cross my arms.

  “You could paint en plein air.”

  “Outside? No, thanks.” It’s not that warm today. Besides, I came for another reason. “May I have my painting, please?” It’ll be good and dry by now.

  Grandpa returns in a blink.

  “Thanks.”

  Ben catches a flash of blue as I flip it over. “Top secret,” I say.

  I hug Wilson and then march off.

  “See you later, Glory Bea,” calls Ben.

  I wave behind me and keep going.

  twenty-six

  GRAMS BELIEVES in practice.

  So I stand next to her at the piano and turn pages while she plays and memorizes the words to her music for the parade. And receives love calls. In the middle of “La Marseillaise,” the French national anthem, comes the familiar Riiiiing. Ring. Riiiiing.

  “Salut, Glory Bea,” says Miss Connie when I answer. “I just checked my numbers, and if your grandmother gets two more callers today, she’ll break the all-time weekend record a day early.”

  One ring comes during “The Yankee Doodle Boy,” and the record breaker while Grams sings “God Bless America.”

  “Well, now,” says Grams, sitting back down on the piano bench and playing the first few bars of “Here Comes the Bride.” “I do believe my fortieth match may be just around the corner.”

  Eavesdropping on her matchmaking conversations, while beneficial, has gotten me only so far. There’s an expert in my house and I need help. Ruby Jane had a breakthrough at dinner this week. I must build on the momentum.

  “Grams, what are your favorite matchmaker tips?”

  “I tell all my clients three things: be you, have fun, be positive.”

  That explains my challenge.

  * * *

  Since the February weather has improved, when Ruby Jane finally pops over after her class, we sit on the front porch swing. A shrub behind us doesn’t know winter isn’t finished, so its delicate yellow blossoms perfume the air, like honeysuckle.

  We review the dinner with Ben. Twice. We’ve done so every day since Wednesday. And then how she felt about it. And whether or not she should have said anything different. Or worn anything different. Neither of us mentions her hair, though I really like her now-soft waves.

  “In your professional opinion,” asks Ruby Jane, perched on the edge of the swing with her feet grounded on the porch, “do you think Ben likes me?”

  I join her on the edge of the swing, and we back it up as high as our tiptoes allow. “How could he not like you?” I say. “You’re adorable.”

  “I think Ben likes you more.”

  “Don’t be silly. We’re like brother and sister.”

  “If you say so.”

  “That’s exactly what I say. Look, I consulted Grams today and—”

  “You mean you haven’t before? I thought I’d hired a professional.”

  I ignore that question and pass on Grams’s advice. “Let’s work on number three, Ruby Jane—be positive.”

  “Double date, here I come!” she squeals.

  “Right,” I say. I need to stay positive too.

  We hop back on, lift our shoes in the air, and let the swing propel us forward.

  “Now about the Merci boxcar,” I say. “In case you were wondering, I wanted you to know that I’m okay with the change in its arrival date.”

  Ruby Jane tilts her head as we rock back and forth. “I am too. It means two party days in a week.”

  “I still would have preferred Valentine’s Day,” I say. “Though, any day my daddy comes home is fine by me.”

  Ruby Jane’s shoes brush the porch, and the swing jerks back and forth.

  I grab the armrest so I won’t topple off.

  “He’s halfway here now. I imagine that he’s remembering his last days in France—going to museums in Paris, taking pictures of the Eiffel Tower, and eating escargot, because he certainly won’t be getting any around here. And of course, he’s thinking about Gladiola. I made a ‘Welcome Home’ poster just for him before you came over,” I say.

  Ruby Jane stops the swing and pats my shoulder.

  “What do you think?” I ask.

  “Your story is better than a movie.”

  Yep, I am on the right track.

  twenty-seven

  MAMA IS LATE for breakfast. Two hours late. For the second day in a row.

  I’m keeping count, and last night makes twice that she’s missed our Saturday hair rolling and Hearts game.

  I jiggle my leg under the red-and-white-checkered kitchen tablecloth, with my eyes on the clock. My lucky charm sways back and forth.

  We’ve eaten without her. I’ve read the Sunday Austin newspaper, and Grams helped me finish my homework. I even made more confetti for us to shower Daddy with when he arrives. Now the bag is fuller than full.

  “Good morning, everyone,” Mama says as she prances into the kitchen and gives me a kiss on my head.

  Her pink dress swishes and her hair is swept into a fancy French twist.

  I raise my eyebrows. Grandpa eyes the clock. Grams beams.

  “Sleep well?” asks Grams.

  “Eight whole hours,” says Mama.

  “Were you up late studying French?” I ask.

  “No, Randall and I just can’t seem to stop talking.”

  Grandpa winks at Grams.

  “A one a.m. bedtime isn’t healthy,” I say.

  The clock ticks extra loud and Grams clears her throat. “How about some French toast, darling?”

  “Have I told you how much I love you today, sugar?” says Mama, opening her arms wide.

  “I have to get ready for church,” I say, and leave.

  I stop in front of the world map in the hall. According to the pushpins, the Merci Train boxcars on the Southern route are on the move first thing tomorrow. The New England and the Western routes will follow. I tap the tips of all the pins and bolt up the stairs.

  * * *

  On our way home from Grams’s extra glee club practice that afternoon, I tell her, “All y’all sounded especially good today.”

  “It’s all about blending in, Glory Bea. Unless it’s a solo, we should sing as one voice.”

  Winter has returned, and I wrap and tuck the ends of my wool scarf around my neck. I forgot my gloves. “Some of Mr. McGrath’s song choices for the parade…” I shake my head.

  “I know you’re disappointed he didn’t honor your request.”

  I skip my hand across the top of a picket fence, turn, and stop. A small sliver is wedged into my pointer finger. “He is not one of my favorite people right now.”

  “No matter how much you don’t like someone,” says Grams, “you can always discover one thing about them to appreciate.”

  “Like what?” I say, ignoring the pain in my finger.

  “His voice, his earnestness, his dedication to this community.”

  “I guess.” I try to extract the splinter.

  “Nobody’s perfect, Glory Bea. Even you.”

  My daddy is perfect. His own mama should know.

  “Give Randall Horton a chance,” says Grams.

  I look straight into her eyes. “We were talking about Mr. McGrath.”

  “Were we, now?”

  I clasp the splinter between my fingernails and tug. It breaks under my skin.

  I shove my hands into my pockets and fall two steps behind her in silence.

  twenty-eight

  VALENTINE’S DAY is one week away.

  “Sorry I’m late,” I say as I scoot in across the table from Ruby Jane and Delilah at lunch. Delilah pushes her baton that was saving me the space toward their side. Above us, red and pink paper hearts spin on the ends of strings from the cafeteria ceiling.

  Ruby Jane surveys the sugar feast before her: an éc
lair, a vanilla frosted cupcake, a bag of penny candies, and a giant piece of fudge. I haven’t seen Ruby Jane with that many sweets since last July, when Homer came home from a two-week stay with their grandparents; Freddy Sinclair, her then heartthrob, moved to Oklahoma City; and her swim party was rained out—all on the same day.

  Specs of chocolate are embedded in her front braces.

  “What’s wrong?” I ask.

  “Ruby Jane can’t take it anymore,” says Delilah, and she rolls her baton back and forth with her fingertips.

  “Take what?”

  Delilah’s lifts her baton and points one end at me. “Is she going to the dance with Ben? Yes or no?”

  “There’s always hope. Be positive, remember?”

  Ruby Jane picks up the vanilla cupcake. “Sometimes dreams don’t come true,” she says, and she nods to the next table.

  Ben sits next to Claire Armstrong. She laughs at something he says.

  Ruby Jane takes a bite through half her cupcake.

  “She’s new,” I say. “He’s friendly.”

  “He played softball with Claire and her brother all afternoon yesterday,” says Delilah, clutching her baton. “Then had dinner at their house.”

  “I’m sure there’s a logical explanation,” I say. “Do not be discouraged, Ruby Jane.”

  “I agree,” says Delilah.

  In another bite, Ruby Jane’s cupcake disappears. For the rest of lunch, my friend can’t seem to get enough sugar.

  “I appreciate all you’ve done, Glory Bea. Really, I do. And your encouragement too, Delilah,” she says as we leave the cafeteria. “It’s time for me to quit.”

  “No, you can’t,” I say.

  Delilah turns her palms up and makes a don’t-ask-me face.

  Ruby Jane doesn’t smile or say “okay.”

  I know she’ll change her mind.

  * * *

  Mrs. Crowley’s car is parked outside our house. Again. Two visits in three weeks? She is becoming a downright regular. Especially because I can’t remember the last time either she or Mr. Crowley came over.