CHAPTER 15
Saturday morning broke with a baby’s cry, loud and shrill. Alice-Ann sat up straight in the semidarkness, the sheet bunched around her waist, one hand clutching the hem.
Should she get out of bed? See if Irene and Nelson needed help? Or was this their issue to deal with?
The door across the hallway opened. Closed. Footsteps —Nelson’s —hurried down the stairs as the crying ceased. A minute later, the footsteps returned, this time coming up the stairs and toward the bedroom. The door opened. Closed.
Alice-Ann lay back down, grateful. And then . . .
Mack is dead.
She closed her eyes against any memory of him, then allowed them to wash over her. The way he’d teased her when she’d been a child. His easy smile. The laughter in his eyes. Birds outside her window welcomed the day in song, but she willed them to silence so she could hear his voice. Keep him as close to her heart and memory as though he spoke to her in that very room.
“Tell you what let’s do, Alice-Ann. You mean the world to me, you know that, right?”
Lying in her bed, Alice-Ann nodded in the same way she’d done that night. That last, wonderful night.
“I can’t promise you anything. Not now. Not with us at war and me leaving soon. . . . If it weren’t for the Japs and Hitler and all the rest, I’d be staying right here in Bynum and —if you’d told me how you felt, maybe . . . well, maybe we’d go out as friends and —”
The Japs and Hitler . . .
“My best friend was a Jew . . .” Adler’s voice interrupted. “I didn’t ask to —Hitler’s war is not my war.”
Alice-Ann shook her head, squeezing her eyes tighter still. No, no, no. Mack. Only Mack’s voice. Adler’s she could hear anytime she wanted. All she had to do was walk out into the fields. But Mack’s . . .
“You’re getting more comfortable.”
Her eyes opened and she blinked in the milky light of her room, the sun having filtered in around the curtains arranged across her window, billowing from the fan.
Carlton? Had Carlton been told of Mack’s death?
“I think you’re my healer, Dr. Doodlebug. . . . My good luck charm.”
Alice-Ann sat up again. She didn’t want to be his healer. She only wanted —
She drew her knees up, wrapped her arms around her bent legs, and pressed her eyes into the bones there. A kaleidoscope of colors swirled. Please, God . . . please, please, please. Let me hear his voice one more time. Her fingers instinctively reached for the comfort of the bracelet.
Crying from across the hall resumed, then subsided almost within the same breath. Alice-Ann took a deep breath, raised her head, and blinked away the black and gray that remained.
“Let me drive the tractor, okay?”
Claudette found her later that morning in the tobacco field, where she walked among the hip-high thick green leaves searching for predatory worms that might have decided to feast among them.
Her friend said nothing. She didn’t have to. She walked straight up the row, her bangles announcing her arrival, her eyes full of emotion. Alice-Ann stood, motionless, waiting. When Claudette reached her, their arms slid around each other naturally, and even in the blistering heat, they held on as though gasping for breath. For a moment, Alice-Ann wondered —ridiculously —if somehow the love and nuptial hope within Claudette could transfer, chest to chest.
But then Claudette squeezed. Let go. And Alice-Ann took a step back.
“I had to come,” she said.
Alice-Ann nodded as Claudette looked toward the house. “Daddy said Irene had the baby.”
“Yesterday. Sometime early evening.” She shook her head. “I’m not sure of the exact time.”
“He said one of the POWs helped.”
Alice-Ann wiped beads of sweat from her brow with her fingertips. “Adler. His name is Adler.” She started to say his full name, then realized she’d not learned it. How rude of her . . .
“Have y’all heard anything from Irene’s brother?”
“She gets a letter once a week.” Alice-Ann gave a shrug. “I think he’s doing okay, which is —at least —one blessing we can thank God for.”
Claudette looked up. “Horribly hot out here,” she said, gazing upward. “Not a cloud in the sky.”
“No,” Alice-Ann said, her own eyes searching for at least one. Finding none.
“Alice-Ann,” Claudette said, and their eyes met again. “I’m so, so sorry about Mack.” Her tiny fingers fiddled with a gold locket nestled in the hollow of her throat, and Alice-Ann wondered if perhaps it had been a gift from her fiancé. From Johnny.
“No one knows,” she said. “I mean, no one in my family. Well, Irene does, in a way, I guess. But I think she’s probably a little more than busy with other worries right now.” Alice-Ann shrugged. “I have no one, really. To talk to.”
Claudette grabbed her hand, something Alice-Ann nearly regretted, Claudette’s being so clean. So dainty and lovely. And her own being dusty and dry. Thick in the skin. She tried to break free, but Claudette hung on. “I’m here,” she said. “Anytime you need to talk.”
“Thank you, Claudette. Truly.”
A light chuckle came from inside her friend as she said, “You know, I just bet your aunt Bess has some cold lemonade in the icebox.”
Alice-Ann nodded. “She does. And it’s sweetened to perfection.”
“Good.” She smiled. “I’m parched, I tell you.”
“You know the way. I’ll be right behind you.”
Claudette stepped between two of the tobacco plants, wrapping her dress skirt against her. “Tell you what. How about we walk side by side.”
Alice-Ann nodded. “Come on, then.”
“Have you talked to Maeve?” Claudette asked when they’d taken several steps. “Since the news about Mack came out?”
“No.” Then, realizing she’d answered forcibly, she smiled and added, “I haven’t really had a chance. What with the baby . . .”
“I’m just wondering how Carlton took it. They were good friends —him and Mack and your brother.”
She knew that.
A moment later they reached the path leading to the house and turned toward the refreshment inside. “Maeve said you’ve been coming over and reading to Carlton.”
“I have. Yes.” But she couldn’t imagine continuing. Not now. Before yesterday, reading to Carlton had been something to pass the time. To check off the days until Mack returned. But now . . .
“You’ve always had such a wonderful way of doing that, Alice-Ann. I remember when you were called on in school to read out loud. Do you remember?”
“Yes. Of course.” Alice-Ann pulled her hair, which in the humidity had frizzed more than usual, into a ponytail at the nape of her neck and hoped for a breeze to blow across the wetness there. They were only a few yards from the house. The windows were open; a Count Basie tune drifted from beyond the screens. Outside, the cicadas attempted to keep rhythm but failed.
“Mrs. Sindersine called on you more than anyone else in the American lit class,” Claudette droned on. “She said you had the gift.”
Mercifully, before Alice-Ann felt compelled to respond, they reached the house and, as in years past, headed straight for the back door, where a half-dozen laying hens scratched in the dirt.
Tuesday afternoon, as they prepared to clock out, Nancy asked Alice-Ann the question she’d dreaded for days. “Will you continue to read to Carlton?”
Alice-Ann pushed her card into the machine and waited for the thunk. She shrugged. “I don’t have it in me right now.”
Nancy pushed her own card in, retrieved it, and slid it back into its holder. “You know,” she said with a laugh, “I can’t help but wonder, day in and day out, why in the world Mister Dooley has a time clock for three employees.”
Alice-Ann, hoping that Nancy had lost interest in her previous question, chuckled. “I think it makes him feel like one of those fancy bankers over in Savannah or up in Atlanta.”
“Oh.” Nancy giggled easily, then sobered. “Now, about Carlton?”
“Why should I?” Alice-Ann asked, then winced, hating her own words. Hating herself in the midst of them.
“Why shouldn’t you? Mack’s dying —no matter how awful —doesn’t erase the fact that you’ve deepened a friendship with a man who waits to hear your voice every afternoon after work and sometimes even on the weekend. A man who has —according to his sister —been working even harder with Doc Evans on his exercises, trying to get the use of his legs back.” Her brow rose. “From what I hear, he’s doing this because you challenged him.”
Alice-Ann smiled. “I told him I’d show him the house next to yours if he’d get better.”
“It’s a lovely little cottage, don’t you think?”
Nancy’s eyes widened. “If you like the scene of a murder.”
Alice-Ann shook her head. “That’s folklore.”
Nancy looked skeptical.
“Carlton told me and I believe him.”
“Murder or no, it could use some work. A lot of work, in my way of thinking. I wouldn’t want to be the poor soul who tackled it.”
“Maybe not, but when I look at it, I see it as it will be. Or at the very least, as it could be. Not as it is now, all wallpaper peeling and boards in need of nails.”
Nancy slipped a cupped hand under Alice-Ann’s elbow and squeezed. “Then answer me this, Miss Branch. How could a young woman with so much compassion for a house not have as much for a man who’s been injured in the war?”
Alice-Ann sighed. “Papa’s sure to be after me soon enough. He thinks I’m some sort of hometown hero, reading to Carlton for a half hour or so in the afternoons.”
Nancy reached into her purse and retrieved her gloves. “Then let’s hope you won’t let him down.”
Alice-Ann walked into the five-and-dime as though nothing had transpired in the days since her last visit. She greeted Mr. and Mrs. Hillis —both standing behind the cash register counter, deep in conversation. She caught sight of Maeve straightening a display of laundry detergent. Her friend turned at the sound of her footsteps, opened her mouth to speak, but quickly closed it.
“Is he up?” Alice-Ann asked, keeping her voice nonchalant.
Maeve nodded.
Alice-Ann took the steps lightly, her fingertips only grazing the round banister hung on brass hoops. When she reached the landing, she paused. Took a breath. Sighed.
“Co-Cola?” she called out.
Her question was met by silence. Then, “Over ice, please.”
She smiled as she went into the kitchen and prepared their drinks. When she entered his room, she found him as always. Sitting up. A sheet drawn up to his hips. He wore powder-blue pajamas, the top buttoned to his throat, which she thought looked horribly uncomfortable.
“I’m placing the glass on the table,” she said as she put it on the small plate near the corner.
“I know.”
Her chair —usually angled near the side of the bed —had been pushed against the wall. She set her glass next to his, then retrieved the chair, placed it where it belonged, and sat.
Alice-Ann raised her eyes slowly to his face, waiting for the obvious. But he said nothing. He only sat, staring toward her, his breath coming in an easy tempo. Finally he cleared his throat and said, “You left your glass on the table.”
She jumped. “Oh. Sorry.” She reached for it.
“Mama will have a fit if she sees a water ring.”
Alice-Ann gripped the glass. “Aunt Bess would too.”
“Sometimes I think mamas just like to throw a fit every so often.”
She nodded. Took a sip of the drink, the liquid burning her throat, which she hadn’t realized had gone so bone-dry. Then she smiled. “You look kind of like you were expecting the general or somebody.”
Carlton tilted his head. Blinked. “What do you mean?”
“You’ve got your shirt buttoned all the way to your Adam’s apple,” she said.
He reached up, unfastened the top button. “Doc was here earlier. I think I got carried away with the buttons while he was talking to Mama and me. Well, more Mama than me.” He shook his head. “Sometimes I suspect he thinks I’m still a boy.”
Alice-Ann peered around the room. “Do you still have the book I left last week?”
“Are we going to read or are we going to talk about it?”
“About what?”
“Don’t do that. Not with me.”
Not with him? Coming over to read to him a handful of times hardly qualified them as confidants.
“I can’t.”
“Why not?” He reached for the glass of cola with precision, the backs of his fingertips tapping the condensation-laced front, then sliding around so that his fingers wrapped around it. He took several swallows before returning his drink to the plate, then brought his eyes back in her direction.
They were clearer today, she realized. The swelling had gone down, the black and blue, the green and yellow giving way to the natural tan of his skin.
“Can you see me?” The words blurted out of her.
He shook his head. “Not quite. Not altogether clearly, I should say. But I know you’re wearing blue.”
She looked down at her belted dress, a simple frock that buttoned down the front and fell to just below her knees. “If you can’t see, then how’d you —?”
“The colors. I’m starting to see more of the colors.” Carlton turned his face toward the window. “I think it has to do with the sun coming in from the window because I tend to see them more this time of day.”
“When did this start?”
“The day we found out about Mack. Friday.”
Alice-Ann placed her glass on the floor next to the chair, then worked her thumbnails together. “Have you —have you heard anything more?”
“Daddy and Mama went over to the MacKays’ on Saturday. They’re going to have a memorial, but they don’t know when just yet.” He paused. “How’s Nelson doing with the news?”
“He’s —he’s been a little preoccupied since Friday.”
“I heard. A boy. Named him after Mack.”
She shook her head. “You can’t keep a secret in this town.”
“No, ma’am, you cannot.”
If he could see the blue of her dress, could he also see the red she knew blistered her face? “What do you mean?”
Carlton crooked a finger. “Scoot the chair closer.”
Alice-Ann inched it forward.
“All the way to the side of the bed.”
She dragged it until the armrest pushed against the mattress. When she’d settled again, he reached for her left hand. His fingertips ran along the silver of the charm bracelet. “He was special to you, no?”
“Did Maeve say —?”
“No. Betty Jo figured it. The night of your party.” He waited a beat, perhaps for her to say something. Perhaps to gather his own thoughts at the memories of that night. “Said she’d never seen anyone so taken.”
Alice-Ann bent at the middle until her face pressed into the mattress near his hip. If she’d been that transparent to Betty Jo, whom she hardly knew, then surely everyone there had been able to tell. “Oh no . . .” She breathed out, then inhaled the scent of washing powder and some sort of spice. Familiar, somehow . . .
His hand came to rest on the back of her head. “It’s okay.”
She shook her head. “Nooooooo,” she whispered.
Oh yes. Yes. The night of her party. Carlton had smelled of peppermint and spice. She remembered now.
His fingers wove through the mass of curls, massaging her scalp, and she broke. Bringing her hands under her face, she allowed her fingertips to catch the tears she’d held at bay for days. For months, perhaps. For years. “He’s not coming back,” she whimpered.
The rubbing continued, encouraging her to let it go. Let it all go. “No,” he said. “He’s not.” Finally, when nothing remained except an eerie silence between them, she raised her head and he cupped her chin. Empathy flickered in the blue of his eyes and the wide brow wrinkled with worry.
“I’m sorry,” she said, not moving out of the odd embrace, afraid he’d think her not appreciative of his compassion.
Using his thumb pads, Carlton swept the moisture from her face. “Don’t be.” Then he smiled. Faintly, but a smile nonetheless. “Now we both have secrets to hold on to for each other.”
“I don’t —”
“You kept my secret about wanting to marry Betty Jo, right?”
Alice-Ann nodded.
“Then I’ll keep your secret, doodlebug.” He released her. Laid his hands on his chest. “You’re completely safe with me.”