The Future Homemakers of America

THE FUTURE

H
OMEMAKERS

OF AMERICA

A Novel

L
AURIE
G
RAHAM

COPYRIGHT

Copyright © Laurie Graham 2001

All rights reserved.

The right of Laurie Graham to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988

A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library

Fourth Estate
Hachette Book Group
237 Park Avenue
New York, NY 10017
www.HachetteBookGroupUSA.com

The Fourth Estate name and logo is a trademark of Hachette Book Group USA, Inc.

First eBook Edition: November 2008

ISBN: 978-0446550192

CONTENTS

Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Chapter 62
Chapter 63
Chapter 64
Chapter 65
Chapter 66
Chapter 67
Chapter 68
Chapter 69
Chapter 70
Chapter 71
Chapter 72
Chapter 73
Chapter 74
Chapter 75
Chapter 76
Chapter 77
Chapter 78
Chapter 79
Chapter 80
Chapter 81
Chapter 82
Chapter 83
Chapter 84
Chapter 85
Chapter 86
Chapter 87
Chapter 88
Chapter 89
Chapter 90
Chapter 91
Chapter 92
Chapter 93
Chapter 94
Chapter 95
Chapter 96
Chapter 97
Chapter 98
Chapter 99
Chapter 100
Chapter 101
Chapter 102
Chapter 103
Chapter 104
Chapter 105

For my own hardy perennials
Bridget, Liz, Rachel, Trish and Vivvy

1

We were down at the commissary, just for something to do, me and Lois, pushing Sandie in her stroller. Breath puffing out like smoke every time we laughed and just hanging there in the air. The cold hadn't killed the scent of the beet harvest, though. All my born days, I never knowed such a sickly smell.

‘I swear,’ she said, loud as you please, ‘this place is colder than a gravedigger's ass.’ Lois always did have a mouth on her.

‘Uh-oh,’ she said, ‘here comes the Pie-Crust Queen.’

And sure enough, there was Betty running after us, flagging us to wait till she could catch her breath and tell us the big story.

‘Peggy!’ she said, gasping and wheezing and hanging on to my arm. ‘Have you heard the terrible news?’

When your husband flies F-84S, sitting up there on 3,000 gallons of jet fuel, cruising — now
there's
a word — cruising at 51omph, hoping to get his tail waxed by some Russki so he can be Jock-of-the-Week back at the base, there's only one kind of Terrible News, but we both knew, me and Lois, that it wasn't that.

That kinda news comes quiet, on flannel feet. The base chaplain brings it to your door, and the CO's wife follows through with a few brisk words about courage and dignity. After that, you better hope you got some friends. Some squadron wives to take turns answering your phone and feeding your kids and keeping you from falling into a thousand pieces.

When Terrible News comes to married quarters, there's no pulling down of blinds. Military don't hold with closing the drapes. Word gets round, but you'd never know, looking in from outside, that anything was happening, because heck, if air force wives went around yelling ‘Have you heard?’ the whole thing could run out of control. Next thing you know, every girl on the base'd be out there screaming, ‘His poor wife! His poor orphaned children! It's so tragic. It's unbearable. But I'm okay.
I
’m okay. It's not me. Not this time!’ And that would never do.

Still, I guess we both missed a beat. Terrible news?

‘His Majesty King George of England,’ she said, ‘died in his sleep at Sandring Ham Palace.’

Betty always had a thing about royalty, clipping photos, pasting them in her albums, specially anything about that Princess Margaret, or the royal babies.

‘Princess Margaret had tea with General and Mrs Eisenhower,’ she told us one time. ‘She was fifteen minutes late, but it wasn't her fault. They had angel-food cake and dainty little sandwiches, but the princess probably didn't do cake, watching her lovely figure an’ all. She wore a yellow shirt and the cutest black dirndl skirt.’

‘Well, I'll be dirndled.’ Lois was always taking the rise out of Betty, but she took it in good part. When you're in a hole you gotta stick together and USAF Drampton was a hole, no two ways.

I knew Betty from way back, at Topperwein High, Class of ‘42. I was captain of the softball team and she was president of Future Home-makers, stuffing toy bears for needy children and selling lunch-boxes for Healthful Living Week. We really didn't run with the same crowd. But then she married Ed Gillis and I married Vern Dewey which made us both 96
^th
Bomber Wing wives. By the time we were posted from Travis, Texas, to some frozen salt-marsh, East Anglia, next stop Siberia, we were blood-sisters, near enough. Never would have thought I'd be so glad of Betty's everlasting cheerfulness. That's homesickness for you.

‘He was found by a servant,’ she said. ‘That'd be a footman or a pageboy, taking him his coffee. Imagine. He'd put down the tray, all beautiful silver and jewels, and say, “Good morning, sire” and ba-boom, the king's dead.’

Gayle Jackson was parked, waiting for us.

‘Y'all wanna come back to my place?’ she said. ‘Get a coffee or something?’ Time hung heavy for Gayle, poor kid, stuck out in a rental waiting for her darling Okey to come home.

Lois said, ‘Sure. You won't mind if I bring along something, give it a little
lift?’
She had a liquor bag hanging from the back of Sandie's stroller.

Gayle's face lit up. I guess there always was that weakness in her.

Betty said, ‘Honey, did you hear? About the king?’

‘He's dead,’ Lo chipped in. ‘Ba-boom.’

‘Course,’ Betty said, ‘it had to be a servant found him, not the queen. They'd have separate bedrooms. Kings and queens always do.’

‘Jeez,’ Gayle said. ‘How come?’

‘Why, because they have such palatial homes, of course!’ We relied on Betty for that kind of inside information. ‘They have separate closets, separate everything.’

Sounded fine to me.

‘And poor Princess Elizabeth is thousands of miles away in Africa, having the news broke to her by her courtiers. She's just going to have to pack her bags and fly right back here and get coronated.’

She leaned down to rub Sandie's frozen little cheeks. ‘Hi, sweetie pie. Have I been ignoring you today? My, you're so cold. Lois, is this child warm enough?’

Sandie gave Betty a big smile. ‘Told,’ she said. ‘Digger's ass.’

So we all headed down to Gayle's place, and Audrey came in from next door, for coffee and a little something from Lois's bottle, just to warm us through and wish the old king God speed. Even Betty came along and that didn't happen too often, on account of Ed keeping her on a short tether. Betty was allowed to go any place she liked, as long as it was the PX, the chapel or the school gate.

‘I'm just fine,’ she always said. ‘If Ed Gillis is happy, Betty Gillis is happy. Anyways, I don't have time for gallivanting. My babies keep me busy. Caring for my home and my babies.’ Her babies were Deana and Sherry, but she included Ed too, for some reason we could never fathom, so that made three whining brats, leaving their skivvies for her to pick up and generally giving her the runaround.

Gayle and Audrey were off-base, on account of they didn't have kids. The rest of us were in quarters. They weren't much more than cabins, with flat asphalt roofs, but at least we had each other. At least inside that perimeter fence we were one Nation, under God, indivisible, with Liberty and Justice for all.

Audrey didn't seem to mind being outside. She was of a pioneering disposition. They could have put her in a mule wagon and she'd have made the best of things.

‘When in Rome,’ she always said.

Well, when in
Rome
, maybe, but not when you've been posted to the asshole of the universe.

Lois said, ‘Aud, you're wasted here. Can't they send you some place you'd have to live in a pup tent? I may just have a word to the CO's wife. See if they got any mutinies need putting down. Any prairie fires need extinguishing.’

The rentals were just outside Drampton, in a place called Smeeth. It wasn't a town. Just a couple of places growing sugar beet and a pumping station, supposed to keep the river moving along. It was called The Drain and it ran higher'n the roadway, which didn't seem natural to me. I hoped and prayed that pumping station never broke down. Been me quartered there, I'd never have dared turn my back on it. I wouldn't have slept nights for fear of waking up drowned.

Where they were, looked like one house but it was two, back to back, holding each other up but only just. Every house out there had that look about it, sagging in the middle, crouched down, like the sky was too much for it. They had a whole lot of sky in Norfolk, England.

Audrey and Lance were in one side of this broke-back house, Gayle and Okey were in the other, and oh how Gayle longed for a baby. A baby, and quarters, with steam heating and a Frigidaire.

‘Next year,’ Okey said, ‘next year.’

They seemed like a pair of skinny kids, playing house. Her with her ponytail and her bobbysocks. Him with his crewcut.

Gayle put on the coffee and Audrey fetched a kitchen stool from her place, Gayle and Okey not having much in the way of seating.

‘Right, this king?’ Lois said.

‘
The
king.’ Betty put her straight.

‘Whatever. They'll have a fancy funeral for him, right? With a big parade and everything. And it'll be in London, huh? Because he's the king.’

‘Well, I guess.’

‘And where exactly is London?’

Audrey said it was in the south-east. Fact was, though, none of us had seen the sun since the day we landed, so that didn't help much. Get to the base gate, we still wouldn't know whether to turn left or right.