Both Mary Beth and Cherise stared at her, wide-eyed. Through the open window, sounds from outside—someone raking grass clippings, rasping the ground and then sidewalk with a rake, little children giggling and calling to each other in a game of tag, cars passing—filled the silence in Cherise’s bedroom. Leigh fought a blush, but it took over her face anyway.
“Are you dating?” Mary Beth asked, sounding dumbfounded. “Who?”
“I’m not dating anyone.” Leigh primed her lips. I should never have asked them.
“You mean you’re just asking in general?” Cherise probed.
Leigh looked straight into Cherise’s dark, very pretty eyes and nodded. She’d begun to like Mary Beth and Cherise. When she’d transferred to St. Agnes two years ago, she hadn’t really tried to make any close friends. After going to public school for elementary and junior high, she’d felt odd at an all-girl’s Catholic school where everyone had known each other since kindergarten. She’d been unhappy that her mother had insisted she go there, and resentment had tied her tongue.
Also, the atmosphere had been so competitive and so repressive—the strict nuns in their white wimples and black habits—that Leigh had not made any overtures of friendship and few had come her way. Now, as her public-school friends drifted away, she realized she’d become very lonely.
But in the past weeks, Mary Beth had done a turnaround from treating Leigh as a hostile rival to treating her as a friend. Evidently beating Leigh out of the editorship had satisfied Mary Beth in some way. And Cherise often sought her out, to walk to classes together and eat lunch together. But no confidences had been shared—yet.
“Yes, just in general,” Leigh replied, unwilling to expose herself to either girl. But then why did I ask them?
Mary Beth twisted a short lock of her brown hair around her forefinger and stared at the gray carpet. Cherise studied Leigh. “I don’t think I would ever date any white boys.”
Leigh tried not to look away from the girl’s scrutiny, so she would seem to be just asking this in general.
“Why?” Mary Beth asked, saving Leigh breath.
Avoiding eye contact, Cherise smoothed her dark skirt again. “I think it would upset my family.”
“Really?” Mary Beth considered this with an intent expression. Finally, she contributed, “My mom and dad are NAACP members, so I don’t think my family would be too upset. But I don’t think any guy will ever ask me out anyway. I’m not pretty like you two.”
“What does that have to do with it?” Leigh asked.
“Guys don’t date plain girls who read all the time. ‘Boys don’t make passes at girls who wear glasses,’ “ Mary Beth recited.
Leigh found this hilarious. “Then how come so many married women wear glasses?” She burst out in laughter.
“And anyway,” Mary Beth continued grumbling, “when do we ever get to meet any guys at St. Agnes? Whenever we have those dances with the guys from St. Ignatius, I always end up serving punch.” Mary Beth glared at Leigh. “You always get asked to dance.”
“‘Gentlemen prefer blondes,’ “ Leigh couldn’t resist saying. She flipped her ponytail at Mary Beth. “One cliche deserves another,” she added, teasing a smile from Mary Beth.
“If the only time you see guys is at a school dance,” Cherise said with a grin, “then, girlfriend, you need to get out more.”
Leigh felt her spirits lift. Teasing with friends or girls who might become her friends lightened her mood. But she still couldn’t bring herself to share Frank with them. He was too personal, too special a friend.
And then she had her answer. Frank had become an unexpected friend, just like the two girls across from her. Just because she and Frank had spent such an emotion-packed day didn’t mean they were more than friends. Writing to Frank wasn’t dating him. He would never date her anyway. Why was she making such a big deal about his letter? She was six years younger than him, and he wasn’t interested in her like that. The kiss on her hair had just been because of the special moment they’d shared. Maybe that was why he’d written her. They had shared an experience like no other.
But she couldn’t forget his kiss or his covering her hand with his in the car that evening. No man had ever touched her like that. Like she was a woman.
“Are you girls studying French or discussing boys?” Cherise’s mother’s voice floated up the stairs.
All three of them smothered giggles. And then Leigh opened her French conversation textbook. “ Bonjour, Made-moiselle “she began, lifting her voice so Mrs. Langford would hear her. I’ll write Frank tonight.
Then another thought stopped her in her tracks. What if her mother found out? And wasn’t that what had really been stopping her from replying? The truth wound itself around her lungs, tightening like a boa constrictor.
Well, it wouldn’t be the first time she’d disobeyed her mother. But something told Leigh that this might elicit more than the usual scolding. However, her mother was wrong. Leigh shouldn’t have to be afraid of having Frank as a friend. Right was right.
That evening, Leigh sat at the desk in her pale blue room and began to write.
September 15, 1963
Dear Frank,
I’m so sorry it has taken me a few weeks to reply. Starting a new school year has kept me busy, and Mom’s been piling on the chores.
How are you? How’s Officer’s Candidate School?
I’m sure you’ve heard about the four little girls and the explosion at the church in Alabama. I felt awful for their families. How sick can you get—blowing up a church with children in it?
I didn’t write the article about the march in Washington after all. Is that crazy or what? I just couldn’t get it down on paper. However, I’m still writing for the school paper. I do love to write.
Well, that’s all the news that’s fit to print!
Yours,
Leigh
She folded the sheet of lavender stationery and put it into the matching envelope. She’d mail it on the way to school tomorrow—after Bette had gone to work.
In his crowded barracks, Frank sat hunched on his bunk, writing on a book on his knee. Fluorescent tubes glared down on the blank white page. The guys nearest him were arguing about this year’s World Series.
September 20, 1963
Dear Leigh,
Thanks for writing. I know what you mean about keeping busy. I barely have time to think. Officer’s Candidate School is a combination of college and a little like boot camp. Discipline is the main goal, of course. Intellectually, I can understand that, but it’s hard to be on the receiving end. It’s just like what I described to you about how I felt when I took part in sit-ins. Again, I feel stripped of all my family’s protection, my identity as part of that family. In the army, it’s just me and what I am. The challenge is learning enough to be able to lead a fighting group of men and at the same time submitting to the authority of others here and now. Very intense at times, and at times… irritating.
Some of the other candidates are good ole boys from the South. They don’t like it that I’m “edjicated. “ But I ignore them for the most part. And I make sure that they know I can take care of myself so they don’t try anything.
I try not to take satisfaction that in the future, Imay command some “good ole boys. “ But I’m human enough to look forward to the experience.
I think I understand why you couldn’t write about the march. I have trouble talking about it myself. Some experiences are too deep to share with strangers.
Yours,
Frank
“Lights out!” the loud voice announced, and darkness filled the room. Frank folded and then tucked the letter under his pillow. He’d mail it tomorrow after evening chow. He wished he had a picture of Leigh.
Leigh sat at the back of her journalism class. Mr. Pitney was lecturing them on journalistic sources and court cases upholding the free press’s rights to keep sources confidential. She began writing as if she were taking notes.
October 2, 1963
Dear Frank,
I’m so glad I wrote you. Or, should I say, that you wrote me? (Sorry for the delay in replying but too much homework.) Anyway, you understand what I mean. Sometimes I feel like I must be very strange or something because until I met you, only Grandma Chloe ever understood me. I wonder why that is. Do you feel like your parents don’t understand you, or is this something I’ll outgrow? I get so sick of hearing that, or words to that effect, from my mother. Will I outgrow being me? Did you?
Leigh
The bell rang, ending class. Closing her notebook, Leigh rose and in the crowded and noisy hallway caught up with Cherise on their way to their next class. She wished she had a photo of Frank. She still kept Frank’s letters hidden in her room. And since she always brought in the mail, Bette was no wiser about the secret correspondence.
It was Sunday afternoon, and Frank was enjoying a few hours relaxing outside in the autumn sunshine and rereading Leigh’s letters. He settled himself on a bench in a small grassy area on base and began writing.
October 20, 1963
Dear Leigh,
I’m getting near the end of OCS. I’ll have no regrets when graduation comes! Can’t wait to be done with this grind.
Now to address your question—no, I don’t think you’ll outgrow being yourself. And I know what you mean. I never seem to live up to my father’s expectations. My mother is a different story. She accepts everything I do with the same bland approval. Now that I look at those words, I see that they leave a lot to be desired. But one demanding parent and one who is completely laissez-faire is hard to take sometimes. Of all my family, I think my grandfather and I are the closest.
But still, I feel a distance from him. Our times are so different. I mean, they didn’t have the atomic bomb when he was growing up. Sometimes, I wonder if the president will ever press that button and launch a nuclear strike. And what would our worldbe like? Would it, would we survive? Would we want to?
Frank
He pictured her fresh young face, long golden hair. He wished she could always stay as idealistic and honest as she was. Not for the first time, an inner voice chided him, “Stop writing her. You’re liable to mislead her. Negro men and white girls can’t be friends.”
In the hushed, busy silence, Leigh sat in the library at school and started to write.
November 15, 1963
Dear Frank,
What you said about nuclear war—I’ve thought that so many times myself. Nuclear war seems to hang over us—unseen and not to be spoken of-—but there. Always there. Sometimes I almost feel stupid planning for my future. I don’t have any control over what is going to happen on the world stage. Who does? One man in Washington, D.C. and one in Moscow. I was so scared during the Cuban Missile Crisis. I don’t understand how anyone could even think of using nuclear weapons. Where would it all stop? Who would win in such a war?
Did you see the movie On the Beach? Very scary at the end, just newspapers blowing around empty streets in Australia. Chilling.
What do they teach you about this in the military?
Leigh
She’d never expressed this before to anyone, but she had felt it so many times. Once she’d tried to discuss it with her mother, but her fears had been dismissed as unimportant. Just because Bette was a secretary at the CIA, she evidently thought she was an expert on foreign affairs and especially the Cold War. But what human being knew the future? There were nuclear weapons—and they’d been made to be used, hadn’t they?
Leigh stuck her key into the backdoor keyhole, and then the door swung open on its own. Her mother stood in the doorway, glowering at Leigh.
“Oh, oh,” Dory said. Her little sister, whom she’d walked home from her school as usual, stood just beside Leigh.
Bette looked at Dory and gave her a tight, tiny smile. “Your after-school snack is on the coffee table.”
Obviously recognizing another storm about to hit, Dory gave Leigh a questioning, worried look and then hurried away, vanishing into the living room.
Leigh pushed her way past her mother and laid down her books on the kitchen table. “You’re home early,” she commented, unwilling to give in to apprehension. Bette was always upset about something.
“I wasn’t feeling well today and came home before lunch.” Her mother followed Leigh to the refrigerator, where Leigh pulled out the glass jug of milk. The jug was cold and heavy in her hand as she turned to carry it to the counter. She felt tension radiating from Bette. But she refused to ask what was wrong. She wouldn’t give her mother the satisfaction.
“I brought in the mail.” Bette folded her arms in front of herself and stared into Leigh’s face.
A sinking feeling started in the pit of Leigh’s stomach. But she didn’t let it show. “Oh?”
Bette waved a letter from her pocket in front of Leigh. “How long have you been writing to Frank Dawson?”
Leigh refused to react, but hot acid singed her stomach. She poured herself a tall glass of milk and went to the kitchen table and sat down. She shrugged as if this were nothing of importance. “A few months.”
“So you admit it?”
Leigh looked up, keeping her expression nonchalant. But she felt the buzz of adrenaline start inside. “Of course. Why should I deny it? Frank is an old family friend, isn’t he?” Leigh was proud of the way she was handling this. Just play it cool.
“That’s not the point and you know it.” Bette reached over to the counter and then tossed all of Leigh’s letters from Frank onto the table.
Jolted, Leigh felt anger flame through her. “You went through my things!”
“Yes, I knew something was going on. You’ve been acting strange… different. And then when I found that letter from Frank today, I decided I’d better find out how serious this was.”
Leigh surged to her feet, her pulse pounding at her temples. “You had no right to go through my things—read my letters! No right—”
“Yes, I did.” Bette propped her hands on her hips. “You’re a minor, my daughter, and I’m supposed to protect you—”
“You don’t have to protect me from Frank.” Leigh clutched the cold glass in her hand. “What kind of person do you think he is?”
“I think he’s the kind of person who helps you defy your parents and go to a march against their wishes. That’s the kind of person I think he is.”
Containing her rage nearly made Leigh weak in her knees. “Frank felt bad about deceiving his grandparents that day. But he wouldn’t let me miss the march. You had no right keeping me from experiencing an historic occasion.”
“Frank is only twenty-two and he isn’t my judge, young lady. Now, I will write Frank and tell him not to write to you anymore. And I want you—”
Shaking with outrage, Leigh set down the milk glass, sloshing some on the tabletop. “I will go on writing to Frank if I want to. This is none of your business.”
Bette slapped her.
Her cheek stinging, Leigh gasped. Bette had never struck her before.
“You are too young to know what this can lead to. But I know, and it scares me to death. I won’t have you beginning a relationship that could end in tragedy—for both of you.”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing.” Leigh rubbed her tingling cheek with the back of her hand.
“No, I’m not. I know just how impressionable a young girl can be and how making the wrong decision about a man can ruin her life. Your father…” Bette stopped and pressed her lips so tightly together that they turned white.
“What about my father?” Leigh asked, taking a step forward. Bette never spoke about Leigh’s father if she could help it. Almost everything she knew about her father, she’d learned from Grandma Sinclair and Grandma Chloe. “Why don’t you ever want to talk about my father? What did he do that was so wrong that you never—”
Bette turned away. “Go to your room.”
Leigh said, “No, I—”
“Now.”
Leigh burned. She wanted to break something, to slap her mother back, to scream. Instead, she shoved the chair out of her way and stalked from the room. Her only hope was her stepfather. He knew how to get around her mother’s unreasonable, stubborn streak. But an inner voice whispered, “You knew she’d react like this. You knew what you were doing when you wrote to Frank.”
Early the next morning, Leigh dressed in black Capri pants and a thick heather-blue cardigan and packed a small, gray, zippered bag. Just after dawn, she slipped out of the house and hurried to the nearest bus stop. After arguing most of the evening with her mother, Leigh felt bruised and battered. Her eyes were swollen from weeping and gritty from lack of sleep, and Ivy Manor summoned her with an irresistible call. Her stepfather had tried to intervene, but for once, he’d been unable to sway Bette to see sense. Bette had been implacable, immovable. Leigh would not be allowed to write Frank again.
The city bus pulled up and Leigh got on. Grandma Chloe would understand. Somehow she would make her mother see she was overreacting. Not for the first time, Leigh wished she could live at Ivy Manor. Her mom hovered over her like Nemesis. She was never satisfied. No matter what Leigh did it was never perfect enough, good enough, to suit her. And yet, she seemed to want to keep Leigh a little girl on a level with Dory. Why do I even try?
Late that afternoon, Leigh finally trudged up the quiet lane to Ivy Manor. Sparrows twittered overhead and crows cawed in a raucous chorus. She’d missed the last morning express and had to take the local train from Washington that stopped at every little town. And then, after arriving in Croftown, the streets were unusually deserted. And the bank was unaccountably closed. She’d not seen anyone she knew. So she’d had to walk all the way to Ivy Manor.
She finally went up the lane and around to the backdoor. Feeling victorious, rebellious, and fearful, she stepped inside and set down her bag in the back hallway. “Grandma? Grandpa? Rose?” she called out the names. Rose was a grand-niece of Aunt Jerusha’s and the present housekeeper of Ivy Manor.
No reply. Leigh walked through the quiet house. It was empty. She’d never suspected that when she got there, no one would be at Ivy Manor. Where had everyone gone? She wasn’t surprised that the doors had been left unlocked. They always were.
Leigh wandered outside to the deserted summer house where all the outdoor furniture was covered with dark green tarps. The sound of a TV reminded Leigh of Aunt Jerusha in the little cottage. She hurried there. The sound of the TV increased as she approached the little house. She knocked on the back door and then let herself in. Aunt Jerusha was unsteady on her feet and expected everyone just to come on in.
Leigh found Aunt Jerusha in the small front room filled with knickknacks in front of the TV with rabbit ears. “Aunt Jerusha?”
“ Child.”The old woman looked up, startled. “What are you doin’ here? I know nobody’s spectin’ you.”
Leigh came over and leaned down to kiss the old woman’s forehead. “I needed to see Grandma Chloe. Where is everyone?”
“Child, your grandparents gone to your house. Miss Chloe said she had to be with you all in Virginia. She wants to go and view the president’s body when it lies in state.”
“The president’s body?” Leigh’s mouth stayed open.
“Don’t you know, child?” With a man’s white handkerchief, Aunt Jerusha mopped tears from her wrinkled mahogany cheeks. “They gone and shot our president—that good man.”
A wave of emotion weakened Leigh. She sat down in the nearest chair. “I didn’t know.” She remembered now. People had been talking, but she had been too wrapped up in her own misery and hadn’t tried to understand what they were talking about. “I’ve been on the train and then I walked here. I haven’t been near a radio or TV.” She glanced at the screen. David Brinkley was questioning someone about the whereabouts of Lyndon Johnson, the vice president.
“Around noon, Mr. Kennedy was ridin’ in a open car in Dallas and someone shot him. They’re huntin’ for the murderer—the FBI. Maybe your stepfather gone there, too.”
Leigh closed her eyes. She couldn’t ever remember feeling what she was experiencing now. It was as if someone had hit her head with a heavy object and at the same time punched the air out of her. The president… dead. Impossible.
“You’re lookin’ white. Bend down your head, child. Right now,” Aunt Jerusha ordered, reaching over and pushing Leigh’s face down to her knees. “Take a deep breath. You gone to faint if you don’t.”
Squeezing her eyes tight against the vertigo, Leigh obeyed and drew in air deeply. Her head cleared but then tears welled up. “I can’t believe it. How?”
“I remember when that bad man shot McKinley.” Lean ing on her cane, Aunt Jerusha rose, hobbled to the TV, and turned down the volume knob. “I was already a mother then. But that isn’t like this. This time I cared about the president. He was for us. Things are changin’. I was thinkin’ of registering so I could vote for him. That would have been my first time. I wouldn’t put it past the Klan to gone and done this. They hated him.”
Leigh couldn’t speak. The wind still felt knocked out of her. She glanced at the muted TV. They were playing a news-reel of the president’s cavalcade in Dallas earlier. She looked away.
“He’s got two little children—those poor babies.” The older woman shook her white head and looked grim as she inched back to her chair. “And their mama, that sweet woman.”
Leigh struggled to hold back surging emotions. How could it affect her so? She’d only seen the president a few times in his motorcade in D.C., but this felt so personal—as if she’d known him.
“What are you doin’ here without your family?” Aunt Jerusha eased her arthritic joints back down into her chair.
Leigh looked up. “I needed to talk to Grandma Chloe. My mother…” Leigh felt her face flushing with recalled anger. “My mother is being unreasonable and I wanted Grandma Chloe to talk to her.”
Aunt Jerusha frowned and shook her head. “You should have stayed at home and went to school. Your grandma isn’t gone to argue with your mother over you. That’s not right.”
“It’s about Frank, about your great-grandson.” Leigh plunged on, wanting Jerusha’s approval, her understanding. “He’s been writing to me from the army and I’ve been writing him back. My mom says she won’t let me write him any more.” Leigh made a face. “It’s not her business who I have as a friend.”
“A friend?” Aunt Jerusha said in a mocking tone. “You’re a young white girl and Frank Three’s a young Negro man. The two don’t become friends.”
Her tone startled Leigh. “That’s old-fashioned, Auntie.”
“No, it isn’t.” Jerusha shook her head decidedly and let a frown drag all her wrinkles down. “What is Frank thinkin’? He should know what kind of trouble he can get into messin’ with a white girl.”
“He’s not messing with me.” Leigh moved forward on her chair. “He’s just writing me letters.”
The older woman snorted in reply.
In the house in Arlington, Chloe watched Bette go to the kitchen to start supper and then followed her. Everyone was in an odd mood. The news of the assassination had kept Bette restless and she’d paced so long she looked worn out. Even now, she switched on the kitchen radio and listened to the low murmur of voices discussing when LBJ would take the oath of office.
As if that hadn’t been enough to contend with, Bette had explained how she’d found a note left by Leigh, announcing she’d gone to Ivy Manor on her own. But the girl hadn’t called to say she’d arrived there and when Chloe had called, no one had answered. Rose must have gone to her own place. Chloe didn’t blame her. She’d felt the same need to be with family during this national tragedy.
But why had Leigh gone to Ivy Manor? Chloe had waited to ask this touchy question. Until now.
“Do you think Leigh has finally gotten to Ivy Manor?”
Bette turned and stared at her mother. “I’ll call Rose and ask.” She dialed the familiar number, but soon she hung up. “No answer.”
Chloe suppressed the fear that something could have happened to Leigh between there and Ivy Manor.
“Why don’t you call Rose’s home? She can check on Jerusha and find out if Leigh has arrived,” Bette suggested in a wary voice, washing her hands at the sink.
Chloe made the call but got no answer. She faced her daughter. “We’ve been so caught up in the assassination that I haven’t had time to ask you why Leigh has run away. Don’t you think it’s time you told me?”
Donning a floral apron, Bette passed the back of her hand over her forehead. “Mother, I don’t understand Linda Leigh. She does crazy things that I would never have thought of doing. Running off with Frank that day and going to the march when I’d forbidden it. Now I find out she’s been writing Frank secretly over the past three months. It’s as if she hasn’t any common sense.”
Chloe gazed at her daughter, considering this revelation. “She was writing him secretly?” I’m not surprised, Bette. Why are you?
“Yes, and both you and I know that nothing good can come of a friendship between them. Leigh’s so young and idealistic she doesn’t understand what she’d be getting herself into. Look what happened to Frank’s parents’ marriage.” Bette unwrapped a cut chicken from white butcher’s paper.
“Were these love letters?”
“No, but writing Frank secretly,”Bette said, getting out flour and oil. “You know how impressionable young girls are. Frank’s good-looking, older—”
“And forbidden,” Chloe cut in. “Forbidden fruit is always the sweetest.” How could you be so foolish, Bette?
Bette continued, heedless, “I was never like that when I was in my teens. It’s just one thing after another with Leigh. Ted and I have given her every advantage—”
Chloe stepped closer. “Bette, times are different now.” “What has that got to do with anything?” Bette added salt and pepper to the flour, then stirred everything with a fork. “You can’t mean that you approve of Leigh and Frank becoming involved?”