Yankee Girl (14 page)

But where? I knew the Mateers had gone shopping.

I peeked out my bedroom window. The men in the Cadillac looked asleep, but they didn't fool me. They had probably thrown a Molotov cocktail, a bomb made with gasoline and a pop bottle. It just hadn't gone off. Yet.

Maybe Jeb was home now. With a shaking finger, I dialled his number.

I always let the phone ring ten times because maybe the person was in the bathroom. I counted thirty-six rings. The Mateers weren't home.

Trapped. Windows in every room. Was there no safe place in the house?

The closet. My bedroom closet.

I checked out front. One of the Cadillac men leaned against the hood, smoking a cigarette. What would he do next?

I slid open the closet door and dived in, pushing away a pile of shoes. I shoved at the skirts dangling in my face. The closet smelled like sweaty sneakers and mothballs. At least the Klan couldn't get me. Could they?

The house settle-creaked in the wind. Or was someone trying to get in the house? I couldn't tell, because right then WOKJ came back on the air.

Over the distant mumble of the radio, I could hear the door from the kitchen into the carport opening. I hadn't locked it behind me. How stupid could I be? Was it the guy with the cigarette?

Whonk! Something heavy landed on the kitchen counter. A gun? Would Mama find my bullet-riddled body spilling from the closet?

“Alice Ann Moxley,” a voice bellowed from the kitchen. “You march yourself out here right this minute.”

Mama! The something heavy was her wooden purse hitting the counter. I pushed open the closet door and gulped fresh air.

Mama started right in. “You know better than to leave doors unlocked.”

I started babbling about noises and pink-Cadillac men.

“Calm down,” said Mama. “Something hit the living room window? Well, let's go see what it is.”

“I'm not going out there.” Not as long as the Cadillac was parked in front.

“It was a robin,” Mama said when she came back. “The poor thing flew into the window. I found him dead in the gardenia bushes. You were scared of a dead bird.”

Well, it
could
have been a bomb. I was never staying in the house alone again.

A couple of nights later, Daddy came home only long enough to eat.

“I have to go back to work.” He shovelled creamed corn onto his plate.

“Nice of you to drop in.” Mama's lips flattened as she speared a ham slice with a serving fork.

Oh, chicken hips. Mama and Daddy were going to fight. Time to change the subject.

“Valerie's daddy is in Alabama with Martin Luther King. Someplace called Selma.” Valerie always got Daddy's attention. This time it backfired.

“You want to know why I work seven days a week, twelve hours a day?” Daddy sliced his ham into precise squares. “People like Dr. King and Reverend Taylor. To protect their rights.”

“Why can't you protect their rights from nine to five?” Mama spooned corn on her plate with an angry splat. “Why do you have to go in tonight?”

“Inspector Ryan is here from headquarters.” Daddy checked his watch, then pushed back his chair from the table. Mama scowled as she followed him out to the car.

I cleared the table, clashing silverware and plates as I stacked them on the drain board. I didn't want to hear what was going on outside. Not that they would have a big fight in the driveway, where the neighbours could see them.

No, they would be super polite to each other the way that people are when they
actually
hate each other's guts. Mama thought yelling was “unpleasant”.

I wondered if Daddy really was meeting with the inspector, or if he was doing something more dangerous. The bad thing about an FBI agent father was that you never knew where he was or what he was doing. He wasn't supposed to talk about work, so I knew better than to ask him. He might be sitting in his office writing reports. Or he might be out in the country somewhere tracking down KKKers. You just didn't know.

For the millionth time, I wished that Daddy sold shoes or drove a milk truck. A job where you couldn't get killed by the Klan.

Mama was still grouchy from the fight when she drove me to Dr. Warren's after school the next day.

“Working sixty, seventy hours a week,” she grumbled. “Even Martin Luther King takes a day off now and then.” She griped all the way to the doctor's office and all the way home.

We could hear our phone ringing when we pulled into the carport. Mama ran in to answer it.

Jeb was in his driveway shooting baskets. “Wanna play horse?” he called.

“Sure. Let me put my books in the house.”

Mama hung up the phone as I came in. “I'm going to pick up Daddy. Do you want to come with me?”

And listen to her gripe some more? I shook my head. “I'm going over to Jeb's.”

“All right. We'll be back in half an hour.” I was out the kitchen door before she finished her sentence. Mama fired up the Chrysler and drove away as Jeb tossed me the basketball.

I lost two games in a row.

“Play again?” Jeb spun the ball in his hands.

“Kind of dark, isn't it?” I squinted at my Timex. Six-fifteen? That couldn't be right! “Mama should be home by now.” I tried not to sound scared.

Mrs. Mateer stuck her head out the kitchen door. “Supper, son.”

“Alice's mama's gone to fetch her daddy and they ain't home yet,” Jeb said. “She's kinda worried.”

Mrs. Mateer could tell I didn't want to be alone because she said I could stay with them until Mama and Daddy got home.

“Why don't you call the office, hon?” she said. “Your daddy might be detained at work.”

“Federal Bureau of Investigation, how may I help you?” It was Grady, one of the clerks. For some reason, the FBI clerks were always called by their first names, instead of “mister”.

“Grady, this is Alice Moxley.” It felt good to hear a familiar voice. “Has my father left yet?”

“Let me check.” I heard the phone receiver clunk on the desk and Grady walking away. Then footsteps coming back.

“Alice, you still there? He clocked out at 5:20. He isn't home yet?”

Almost an hour ago! My stomach turned to ice.

“I haven't looked in a while,” I said. “I'm over at the neighbours'.”

“I see.” A long humming silence. “Well, they might be home now and wondering where
you
are,” Grady said in a fake cheerful voice. “But, Alice…”

“Yeah, Grady?”

“If they don't turn up soon, give me a call, okay? I don't want you to be there alone.”

I hung up.

“He left already.” I tried not to cry in front of the Mateers, eating their supper at the breakfast bar. “Maybe they're home by now. I'll go look.”

They weren't.

“I'll make a few phone calls,” said Mrs. Mateer in a take-charge voice. “Jeb, Pammie, take Alice home and stay with her.”

“I can't. I'm baby-sitting, remember?” A car honked in the driveway as Pammie gathered up her schoolbooks. “Don't worry, Alice. Your parents are fine.” She gave my arm a squeeze on her way out.

Jeb and I stepped out into the warm, windy night. The air smelled like damp earth and azaleas. A full moon glowed in a star-flecked sky. Such a soft spring night. For a minute, I felt happy.

Then I looked across the street. The pink Cadillac was gone. Of course it was gone. Those guys were off kidnapping my parents.

My stomach hurt.

I unlocked the back door and fumbled for the light switch. Even with the lights on, the rooms had a spooky, empty feeling. Jeb flopped on the den couch, air whooshing out of the vinyl cushions.

“
The Beverly Hillbillies
is on,” he said. “Wanna watch?”

“I don't care.” I turned on the TV, and canned laughter filled the room. “Jeb, what'll I do if they're dead?”

He leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Skipper's mama died last year. Our class took up money for funeral flowers. Everyone was extra nice to him. For about a week.”

Life without Mama and Daddy? I couldn't imagine it. I didn't
want
to imagine it.

“This is a dumb show,” griped Jeb. He twisted the TV dial to the other channel. “Nothing on.” He wandered into the living room.

I joined him there and pressed my forehead against the cool window glass. Who would tell me my parents were dead. Grady? The police? Mrs. Mateer?

“Hey, Alice,” Jeb said softly. “Don't worry. They'll be okay. You'll see.” He sounded so gentle and un-Jeb-like that it scared me.

He thinks they're dead, too.

Far down the street, the bobbing headlights of a car came towards us, passing under a streetlight. The Chrysler. My parents were home.

“See? I told you they'd be okay.” Jeb sounded like Jeb again. He let himself out as the Chrysler bumped into the driveway.

I yanked open the driver's door before Daddy turned the motor off.

“Where have you been?” I burst into tears. “I thought you were dead!”

“Where have
you
been, young lady?” said Mama. “We called and called.”

“I was at the Mateers',” I blubbered. “Why didn't you call there?”

“We did,” said Daddy. “The line was busy. Then when we got through, there was no one home to answer the phone.”

“Why didn't you call somebody else?” I hollered.

“Who?” demanded Mama. “Just who else could we have called?”

She had a point. “You're four hours late!” I yelled, to change the subject.

“We had a little emergency,” said Daddy. “Inspector Ryan's ulcer kicked up so we took him to the hospital. We didn't think it would take so long for a doctor to see him. I'm sorry.” Daddy hugged me close. “I promise you, nothing will happen to us.”

You can't promise that. You don't know what's going to happen. Nobody knows what's going to happen.

It was weird knowing Daddy had made a promise he couldn't keep. Like I'd grown up all in a minute. I didn't want to be a grown-up. Not yet.

The following Monday, Valerie and Lucy arrived at school in a strange car driven by a strange woman. As she passed me on the playground, I could see that Valerie's eyes were wet and red. Something terrible must have happened. Valerie never cried.

I looked around. The Cheerleaders had their heads buried in
Song Hits
, memorizing the Beatles' newest, “Eight Days a Week”. The coast was clear.

“Hey, Valerie.” I touched her elbow. “Anything wrong?”

“Daddy's been arrested.” She looked down at the asphalt. “There was a march yesterday and they arrested everybody. He's in jail.”

Arrested! What did you say to someone whose daddy was in jail? I decided on “Gee, that's too bad.”

Valerie whirled to face me, chin up, eyes flashing.

“No, it's not,” she said. “It's an honour.”

“What did he do?” I'd never heard of a minister getting arrested.

Valerie's eyes lost their flash and just looked sad. “He got arrested at the march in Alabama yesterday. He promised nothing would happen to him.” Her lip quivered.

“I'm sorry,” I said, but Valerie wasn't listening. She stared at Miss LeFleur on the steps, taking the “King Cotton March” out of the record jacket.

“Daddy came home Friday, just for the day. You know what we did Friday night?” Valerie's voice sounded far away. “Daddy and me? We watched
The Addams Family
on TV. That's our favourite show. We hardly ever get to watch it together 'cause Daddy's hardly ever home. But he was home Friday night. We made popcorn and watched
The Addams Family
. Lucy was asleep and Mama was at a meeting, so it was just him and me. He sure likes that show. His favourite character is Cousin Itt. We laughed our heads off.”

It was hard to imagine the Reverend Taylor laughing his head off. I always pictured him like he was on the news, solemn-faced in a suit and tie. Did he wear sport shirts at home and walk around in his socks, the way my daddy did?

I stared at the back of Valerie's neck as we marched into school.

I realize now we have something else in common, Valerie. We're scared for our daddies.

Because eleven-year-old girls have no say in what happens to their daddies. No matter what kind of promises those daddies make.

The pink Cadillac moved on.

“I told you we were too boring for the Klan,” said Daddy. “They won't be back.”

Still, I checked the street every night before I went to sleep.

After all, there are things that daddies couldn't promise.

I watched Valerie. She didn't look like somebody whose daddy was in jail. She stood for the Pledge, sat for the Lord's Prayer, and answered Miss Gruen when she was called on. Same as always. Only her bit-up fingernails gave her away. Valerie Taylor was one cool customer.

I wished I could tell her that.

“I can't wait for Class Day,” said Cheryl.

“What's Class Day?” I asked. “Is that like graduation?”

“Sort of,” said Carrie. “Except that it's before the end of the year, and we don't get diplomas. It's a programme to show our parents what we've learned. And they hand out some awards. It's a very big deal.”

“I can't wait for the Class Day
party
,” said Debbie. “Even if Mary Martha
is
giving it.”

“Not that we
like
that nigger lover,” explained Saranne. “But I want to go to her party.”

As soon as Mary Martha and Skipper announced they were throwing a graduation party, the Cheerleaders made up to Mary Martha. If it had been me, I would have been so happy that they were talking to me again, I'd have tap-danced on the ceiling. Not Mary Martha. She was her usual calm, polite self.