Palmetto Moon (6 page)

Khakis are a constant reminder of the Army’s rejection. He’d rather die than wear them. They’re in the store, tucked away in the farthest corner from the kitchen, behind a tall bin with drawers full of seeds, so khaki-wearers know where they are but Frank doesn’t have to look at them. What about dungarees? He can’t take a girl like Vada out wearing dungarees.

He stalks across the yard in bare feet, which isn’t a problem until he hits the parking lot and the loose oyster shell that’s a poor substitute for gravel. The shells press into the soles of his feet. He picks up the pace, skimming across the tops of them so that he doesn’t show up ill-dressed, with bloodied feet.

He unlocks the door to the store side of the Sit Down Diner and hurries toward the seed bin. There are only a dozen pairs of work pants on the table, smooth, the color of half-baked biscuits. The matching work shirts alongside them look too much like a day laborer’s or, worse, a lowly private’s uniform. Frank shoves the shirt and pants up to his nose and breathes in deeply. Satisfied the caustic smell of dye and starch trumps the diner smell, he takes both of them just in case his dress shirt doesn’t work.

The screen door bounces behind him as he starts back across the parking lot, always three times. His mother believed everything good came in threes, and everything bad, too. She told Frank that the last night she tucked him in, before she left forever. Frank was only seven, too little to know she was leaving for good, so he didn’t think anything of it when she told him she loved him. She kissed his forehead three times, and when he awoke the next morning, she was gone forever.

Not that he believes those kisses had anything to do with what happened. Life is what you make it, and he doesn’t have to have three Vada Hadleys walking through the door of the Sit Down Diner to know how lucky he is. But his palms sweat and his hands are unsteady as he hurries into his dinky house, stripping as he walks through the door.

It hurts to admit the khakis look good with their razor-sharp creases, so stiff they can almost stand on their own. Bare-chested, he searches, desperate to find a brush to get the dust off of the shoulders of the white shirt so he doesn’t have to wear the khaki one. A comb won’t do, but he has a scrub brush under the sink he used on a black cast-iron skillet once. Instead, he finds his toothbrush. He works the bristles over the fabric, sending a year’s worth of dust scattering into the air. He has just enough time to comb his hair and use the brush on his teeth.

“Oh, God, why did I give up church? At least I’d have a decent Sunday shirt to wear.” His conscience jabs him hard, reminding him why. He shoves the comb into his pocket and feels like he’s forgetting something. He’s sure he is, and maybe it’s knowing just how fragile the next few hours of his life will be. He knows how women are. They shop for men, and though you’d be hard pressed to find a man who’ll admit it, they do the same. Is she the right size? Is she smart? Is she pretty?

Frank has no doubt Vada will size him up like a new dress. Does she like him enough to invest in him? Will he be her favorite, or discarded in a few days, or hell, maybe hours, like an ill-fitting pair of shoes? Shoes. He picks up the stained brogans he wears every day of his life and slips them on, lacing them hard in disgust. He’ll make sure this is the perfect date, so perfect, Vada won’t even notice his damn shoes.

He tries to bring his breathing somewhere near a normal level, but after lying to himself about the shoes, it’s impossible. “It’s a date. It’s not even a date; it’s just dinner,” he says out loud. But that’s another lie. It is a date.

He sprints out the door and stops short of the shed. Until now, he was sure his car looked good, really good, but, standing here, it’s clear that the paint is fading, that it’s not a Buick, or even a Ford. It’s a blinking Plymouth Mayflower, like the damn ship. A girl like Vada deserves better than this. He gets in and cranks the beast up and hopes she’s not expecting much.

As perilous as Darby’s situation is, I am giddy with hope that I’ll find her. Maybe she’ll come back to Round O with me. We could share a room. After I start my job and make a little money, we could go shopping on Saturdays. Maybe Claire can come along, too. Of course, she looks nice in black, everyone does, but I’d love to see her in something striking. Jade or peacock blue. I finger the neckline of my flouncy chartreuse dress thoughtfully. There really isn’t a good reason why a young woman like Claire, who doesn’t look a day over twenty-five, can’t mourn in a more flattering color.

Staring at my reflection in the cheval mirror, I remember Rosa Lee’s warning to fit in, but I can’t wear my Sears dress on a date. I won’t. I clip my earbobs on and pinch my cheeks. Claire doesn’t wear earbobs. Come to think of it, I’ve not seen anyone around here who does. I unclip the baubles and massage my earlobes until the red marks are gone.
There.
Small-town chic and ready for Frank Darling.

He seems like such a nice man, and he’s very handsome. I wonder what that was, when our hands touched? I’ve never felt like that before, and certainly not with Justin, who always seemed genuinely shocked when I turned away his affections. But then he rarely took any notice about how I felt about anything, much less him.

Let all the darling debutants in Charleston swoon over him. They don’t see what I see. The apple of Justin’s eye is Justin. And the times he did touch me, the times his hands settled on my shoulders when he helped me on with my wrap or reached for my hand at dinner, I never felt that sharp current like I felt when Frank touched my hand today. I wonder if he noticed it, too.

“Pretty,” little Jonathan coos at me as I start down the stairs. I scoop him up and start back up the steps. Miss Mamie only allows the children to play in their room, the front yard, or in the street. They’re not allowed in the common areas downstairs and never anywhere near the garden in the backyard.

“You’re the pretty one, sweet boy.” I give him a little kiss on the cheek and he squeals in delight. “
Shhhh
, Miss Mamie will hear you.” How that horrible landlady expects these children to grow up in this house without making a sound is beyond me. But Claire does a good job keeping them occupied and quiet enough to only warrant an occasional dirty look from the old bat. I knock softly on Claire’s door.

She opens the door and reaches for Jonathan. “Ah, there’s my little Houdini. Thanks, Vada. You’ve only been here two days and already I don’t know what I’d do without you.” The leggy three-year-old wraps himself around his mother and lays his head sweetly against her shoulder. “Did Miss Mamie see him?”

“Stop your worrying, Claire. I got him before he was halfway down the stairs,” I whisper. “I wish the boys didn’t have to walk about the house like they’re in church.”

“Me, too, but it seems all my wishes are ignored these days.”

Last night, when I was porch sitting and making polite conversation with the three ancient bachelors, Mr. Clip and Mr. Mann told me that Claire’s husband hadn’t even been drafted until a few months before the war was over. Bobby Greeley had made it through hell only to have “a Kraut get him” a few days after the war ended and he was due to come home. Mr. Stanley, who is a particularly unattractive bachelor, didn’t comment but said something about Claire. The words were nice, but the way he said it was so unsettling, I excused myself and went to bed.

“I don’t have any family here in Round O and neither did Bobby, so we’re stuck here,” Claire says. “I keep wishing there was someplace besides this awful house for us to live, because I don’t know how long I can keep them quiet. They are children. Boys at that. I’m not even sure it’s good for them to be quiet all the time.” Her older two, Daniel and Peter, read quietly in a corner of the room; they look up at us and then quickly back down at their books.

Her smile is worried. She is pretty and petite, with long jet-black hair pulled back with a tattered strip of satin that looks like it was white at one time. The room is as threadbare and shabby as mine, except there is a stack of other people’s mending Claire takes in to pay her rent. This is no place to raise three children.

“I got the job. It doesn’t start until September, but—” She stops me before I can say what I’m thinking.

“Vada, that’s wonderful. Oh, you’ll have Daniel this year; he’ll be so pleased. I think he has a bit of a crush on you.” The boy doesn’t look up again from his book, but the only thing redder than his face is his ears, which are too big for him.

“Yes, well, I was thinking, since I’ll have a little money coming in on a regular basis, maybe we could find a small house to rent. Together. I could help out with the boys, especially during the summers, and I have a friend who might—”

“No.” She looks mortified and not at all as excited as I was sure she would be. “We couldn’t do that.” She sets the little one down, and he toddles over to where his brothers are reading. He plops down hard on the floor with an empty wooden spool in each hand and begins to roll them across the floor.

“Why not, Claire? Between the two of us, we could swing it.”

“You don’t understand—” Her face is pale, her eyes look worried, as if little Jonathan had taken a tumble down the stairs.

“What’s there to understand, really? It would be fun. I—”

“Lower your voice, Vada.” Hers is barely above a whisper. “This is a small community, and you’re new here. You’ve probably never even heard of the Chastain sisters, who weren’t sisters at all. It was a scandalous Boston marriage, and they were run out of town on a rail when they were found out.”

“A Boston marriage? I don’t know what that is, but I think you’ve got this all wrong.”

She pushes me out into the hallway and closes the door behind her so the boys can’t hear what she has to say. “Two women. Living together. Not sisters.” I cock my head to the side. Why do I feel like she’s getting ready to wash my mouth out with soap? “Lovers,” she hisses.

“Oh.” I nod blankly. “
Oh.
No, not at all like that. I mean I’m not that kind of girl. I even have a date tonight. With Frank Darling.”

“I know you’re not,” she says, her voice a little softer. “But people will talk. As much as I am not that kind of girl either, I’m stuck here until someone is crazy enough to marry me. And my boys.”

I see her tears, the desperation I had expected to see from a woman in her position, but haven’t until now.

“Claire, you’re beautiful—”

She shakes her head and looks down at her hands. Her nails are bitten down to the quick. “Mr. Stanley has a pension.”

I shake my head. “No.” He’s old and smelly and passes gas when he walks.

“He’s made a proposal, of sorts.”

Her chin is resting on her chest. I can feel the hope seeping out of her. She’s actually considering this. Oh, God. “Claire. You can’t. You mustn’t. You’re young and beautiful, and he—well, he’s not.”

“You don’t know what it’s like, Vada.” She looks up at me with that kind smile that would melt the hearts of a thousand young men if it were her, just her. “I don’t regret marrying at fifteen, having my boys. But Bobby’s never coming back; I have to make a life for them.” Resignation is etched into fine lines that she’s too young and too beautiful to have. Nothing about this is right.

The doorbell rings. I hear Miss Mamie limping toward it, cursing under her breath but still loud enough for the whole house to hear.

“Your date?” Her smile is as genuine as she is. On the other side of the door, the older boys start to fuss. She raps softly on the door, and they are instantly silenced. “I hope you have a swell time. You look beautiful.” She gives me a quick hug and pulls away, her face so achingly sad.

“We’ll talk about this later, Claire.”

“What do you want?” Miss Mamie snaps at who I am sure is Frank. I can hear his soft laugh. He says something to her, but all I can make out is my name.

“You better go, Vada.” I nod, and just before she closes the door, she reaches for me. I can feel her longing and remember her face when I said I had a date, how for a sliver of a second she looked like a blushing schoolgirl full of hope and love. She lets go, and the resignation settles back onto her face. “Frank’s a swell guy. Have a good time.”

Does she know Frank? Does she want him? I suspect they are close to the same age, and yet he’d called her Widow Greeley, like she was ancient and that was actually her name.

“
Vada
,” Miss Mamie barks up the stairs.

“Coming,” I say. “Later, Claire. I promise.” But the door has already closed.

I hurry, almost tripping over Miss Mamie, who stands like a sentry at the bottom of the stairs so that I have to wait for her to move. Frank looks at me, and I want to melt. I can tell he’s trying too hard to keep a straight face in front of Miss Mamie. She finally steps aside, and he opens the front door for me.

As they walk toward the car, Frank’s hand brushes up against Vada’s, and he wants to reach for it, but he can feel the battle-ax watching them. Just the same, he looks toward the house as he closes the door of the Plymouth. Miss Mamie doesn’t make any pretense of hiding. She holds back the lace curtains in the parlor, staring him down. He gives her a nod, not a friendly one, mind you, and believes her and Joe Pike would make a really good pair.

Vada leans toward the window, which is rolled down because it’s so damn hot. “Frank,” she says softly, and in his head, he puts the
darling
on the end for her. “It’s so kind of you to ask me to dinner.”

“I think it’s pretty swell that you agreed to go out with me.” Her laugh is just about the prettiest sound Frank has ever heard. God, she’s beautiful, but she’s more, much more than just looks.

He hurries around to the driver’s side and slides in, hoping to God the car doesn’t do that hiccup thing it does sometimes. He almost apologizes to Vada for not picking her up in a Cadillac or something even better, if there is such a thing, but he doesn’t, because the engine cranks right up. He puts his arm across the top of the seat to back out of the driveway. Vada doesn’t move away, but she doesn’t slide across the bench and rest her head on his shoulder, either.

He sits there for a moment, and she cocks her pretty head to the side. “Is something wrong?”

“Uh, no.” He just has no idea how he’s going to drive this car, because he can’t stop staring at her.

She declares she’s hungry. He would run all the way to China in bare feet to satisfy this woman, so he puts the car in gear and starts down the road toward Highway 17, grinning like a fool.

“Your food is wonderful, Frank. Why aren’t we going to the diner?” Frank looks at her like she’s got to be kidding, and she laughs again. He could get used to this, her pretty face, the easy way about her, the way she tucks her hands under her thighs so that they disappear underneath the sides of her pouffy dress. She’s trying not to talk with her hands, but he wishes she would. He loves watching her long, slender fingers tell her story.

“No way.”

“Where, then?”

“It’s a surprise.”

“
Oooh
, I love surprises. Can you give me a hint?”

“Afraid not, ma’am. You’ll have to torture me to get it out of me.” Sitting here with both hands on the steering wheel, unable to touch her, is torture enough. “But if you really want to know, I’ll tell you.” She turns toward him and is a few inches closer than she was. She’s nodding, grinning like it’s Christmas morning. “I’m taking you to the best damn restaurant in Charleston.”

“
What? No!
” She looks pale, like she might be sick. Hell, maybe she is. She’s holding her stomach. He’s positive the next words out of her mouth will be a demand to go home. The Plymouth limps over to the side of the road, and he puts the car in park.

“Vada, are you all right?”

She nods her head. “Why?”

“Well, I was worried about you—”

“No.” She shakes her head like she’s getting ready to throw up. “Why Charleston?”

Her cheeks are corpse white. He stifles the urge to run the backs of his fingers across them. Even dog sick, she’s the most beautiful woman Frank has ever seen. “I don’t have any idea what the best restaurant is, but I figured once we got to King Street, I’d ask around and take you there. I don’t know much about Charleston. I’ve only been there once.” He doesn’t tell her it was to get turned down flat by the Navy.