Palmetto Moon (3 page)

She hears the truck doors open and pulls back the curtain to get a better look at the two people below. There is just enough light from the slight moon to see one is a white woman, the other, dark, maybe colored. Jonathan’s breath stutters a little. Claire turns her attention away from the window and holds him a little closer. His gangly limbs bounce against her, reminding her how big he is, how big Daniel and Peter are, too.

The woman hugs the dark figure and then takes her suitcase up the front steps. The man gets into the truck and drives away. Claire puts Jonathan beside his brothers, who lie straight and tall like sleeping soldiers. She goes back to the window.

She wonders who the woman is and why she came here in the middle of the night. From the window, Claire can’t see the porch, but she can hear the old swing creaking slower and slower, until it stops. She imagines the woman has fallen asleep. Her intuition tells her the woman isn’t trouble. Hopefully, knowing who she is and why she came to Round O tomorrow will confirm that. Her heart flutters a bit as she crawls back into bed. Claire hopes the woman is kind and maybe close to her age. It’s been so long since she had a friend, a true friend, it’s almost too much to hope for.

Something hard jabs at my ribs, and I awake to see an old woman poking me with a broom handle. “No vagrants here. Move along now or I’ll call the county sheriff.”

I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, and the gray woman gives me another poke for good measure. “
Oww.
Stop that.” I push the broom away. “I’m no vagrant.”

The boxy gray-haired woman glares at me. “Who are you and what do you want?” The crusty tone of her skin matches her gray dress and shoes.

“I’m Vada
Hadley
,” I say in a huff, stupidly, without thinking. This may be the shortest stint for a runaway in the history of runaways. I pause for a beat. My name means nothing to her. Elation bubbles up.
My name means nothing to her.

She looks at my suitcase and mumbles something about it being a beat-up old piece of grip. “If you’re here for a room, I’ve got none. Move on.”

“But your sign says you
do
have a vacancy.”

“You on my doorstep like a boxcar orphan first thing this morning? Who knows what kind of riffraff you are. I got a room, but not for you, missy.”

“I know this may not look proper, but my father dropped me off early this morning, before you opened up. He didn’t want to leave me here alone, but he had to get back to go work. I told him this looked like such a fine establishment, I was sure I’d be okay.”

She starts to jab me again in the ribs, and I push the broom away. “I said, move on.”

There’s no place else to go, no hotel, not even a motel. And the town isn’t really a town at all—just a spot where two country roads crisscross. A few tiny clapboard houses are scattered about, along with a lone church and some kind of business that claims to be a diner, a general store, and a post office all rolled into one. I look at the sign again,
Miss Mamie’s Boarding House—VACANCY
. Okay, Vada, vinegar or honey? Honey or vinegar? Decide.

“Miss Mamie, I’m interviewing for a teaching position at the school on Monday.”

“I don’t care. You’re not staying here.”

“I’d greatly appreciate if I could stay until I have the interview. I’d pay you, of course, and if I get the job, I’ll pay you three months in advance.”

She looks at Rosa Lee’s suitcase again and narrows her eyes. “I don’t think you have that kind of money, but make it six months and you can stay. Twenty dollars a month, five a piece for tonight and Sunday. No job, no room, and you move on like the vagrant I’m sure you are.”

“Agreed.” I reach to shake on it, but she turns on the heels of her awful shoes and goes back inside.

“Room’s at the top of the stairs. No drinking. No smoking. Breakfast is at seven,” she yells over her shoulder before disappearing down the hallway. “If you’re not there, you don’t eat.”

I open the screen door and step into a large parlor with drab burgundy furniture. There are no pictures over the fireplace and no personal items that might make the house look like a home. A telephone table is to the left of the stairs, with a cardboard sign that says,
BOARDERS MAY
NOT
USE THE PHONE
. From the clatter, I’m guessing the hallway from the living room leads to a kitchen and, maybe, a dining room. I take my suitcase upstairs, looking for some clues about Miss Mamie, something I can use to butter her up, but there is nothing.

The room she assigned me is fine, really, although the bed looks more like a cot. There’s a basin to wash up with and at least one bathroom that I saw in the hallway. Yes, this should do just fine, but I can’t decide if unpacking is confident or bad luck, so I put the suitcase on the luggage rack and lie down. Just for a moment.

“Pretty.” I hear a child’s voice and awake to see three lovely boys inspecting me. The youngest, who is maybe four, strokes my hair again. “Pretty.”

I prop up on my elbows and smile at them. “Hello, my name is Vada.”

The serious one nods and grabs the little boy’s hand. “I’m Daniel. These are my brothers, Peter and Jonathan.”

“Jonathan,” the little one echoes.

“It’s nice to meet you boys.”

“You missed breakfast and lunch,” Daniel says. “Our mother told us to get you up for dinner. Her name is Claire. You’ll like her.”

“I’m sure I will.” He nods and punches the middle brother, who said something under his breath. “What did you say, Peter?”

“I’m sorry, he was being rude.” Daniel gives Peter another shot in the arm.

“
Owww,
” he whines and hits his brother back. “I said you don’t
look
like a reprobate, and you don’t.”

I laugh. “Good to know.”

For three young children, they’re awfully quiet as they make their way down the stairs. A lovely woman dressed in black, not much older than me, pokes her head out of the doorway. “You met my boys.”

“Yes, they’re adorable.” I straighten my dress, which looks like a disaster after being slept in. It slips off of my shoulder and I push it back up. “I must look a mess. I’m Vada.”

“Claire Greeley.” Her smile is friendly. “You’re very beautiful, Vada. I’m sure Daniel’s already head over heels for you. He is at the age where he’s noticing girls.”

“What does his father think about that?”

Her smile fades and she looks at the floor. I say I’m sorry, but she shakes her head like she can’t bear another apology that won’t bring her husband back. She pinches at the shoulder seam of my dress and laughs when it falls down my arm again. “I could fix that for you, if you want.”

“Really?”

“I take in sewing, alterations mostly. I’m happy to take your dress up, maybe after the boys go down for the night.”

“Thank you, Claire, you’re so kind.”

“And so grateful to have another woman in the house.”
Besides the horrible Miss Mamie.
We look at each other like twins, amused at identical unspoken thoughts. “Better come to supper, though. Miss Mamie normally doesn’t care if we miss meals, but after you missed breakfast and dinner—”

“What?”

“She says if you miss another meal, she’s going to throw you out for being sick.”

“Can she do that?”

“I respectfully told her you’re no Typhoid Mary, but it is her place. She does anything she wants.”

Claire has a sweet face full of a thousand questions she is too polite to ask. “Thanks for telling me.”

“Of course. I look forward to getting to know you, Vada.”

The door closes behind Claire. In her absence and without the thrill of convincing the old bat to let me stay, I see the room for what it really is. The gray flowered wallpaper looks like it might have been lavender at one time. Wild roses meander in an intertwining pattern with plump cherubs, and I’m certain Miss Mamie was not the decorator. But if she wasn’t, who was? When I sit up on the edge of the bed, the mattress dips into the slats that are too far apart. I run my hand over the small bedside table that smells sweet, almost like bourbon, and open the drawers. There’s nothing but a dark brown stain, most likely evidence of how the last poor boarder survived, or the reason they were expelled.

A rickety-looking basin stand is beside the window with two threadbare towels folded over the spindle railing. My old suitcase sits on the luggage rack, a reminder of my old life and Rosa Lee and Desmond’s sacrifice. I’m sure when my absence was discovered, they were lined up with the rest of the staff and interrogated, but if anyone had looked on the Harrington chest in the foyer, they’d have seen the note I’d debated leaving. It was short, but not because I didn’t have time. I’d written it weeks earlier and stashed it in the pocket of my Sears dress. A lengthy explanation would have been a waste of ink and paper.

Dear Mother and Father,

I cannot live in the world you’ve planned for me, and regret circumstances have forced me to leave. Do not worry about me. As you’ve so often reminded me, I’m a Hadley. I will make my mark on the world.

Love, Vada.

It’s hard not to think about Darby, what leaving must have been like for her. Did Mrs. O’Doul pack her suitcase like Rosa Lee packed mine? Did she hold Darby close and tell her she loved her before she sent her away? Did Darby land someplace dreadful, or was she too heartbroken over what happened with Mr. McCrady to even notice? No. Darby is too Irish not to land on her feet, and too brave not to grab life by the scruff of the neck and shake it until she gets what she wants.

The latches on the suitcase don’t stick this time, and seven dresses rise and expand like fat colorful loaves. The modest chifforobe has the appearance of a pine coffin stood on end and only has four hangers. I loop two sleeveless dresses on each hanger. The tags scream the names I’ve grown to love but will never be able to afford in my new life. Dior, Chanel, Nina Ricci. My thumb skims across the large showy Hardy Amies label before I rummage through the contents of my makeup bag to find the cuticle scissors. My hands shake as my finger slips under the satin squares.

Knowing Darby is out there somewhere and she’s made a brave new life for herself makes me believe I can do it, too. I snip away the small neat stitches that anchor tags to dresses that are so beautiful, they used to make my heart ache. The excitement buzzes in my chest and grows a little stronger as each tag falls onto the scarred pine floor. I keep at it until I’ve cut away my past for good.

Frank Darling moves slower than a two-legged coon dog on a Monday morning. It doesn’t matter that it is Monday, lately his days at the Sit Down Diner are all the same. He knows the feeling comes from the thud in his gut that came when he had to turn tail and come back to Round O, something he swore he’d never do.

When he turned eighteen, he tried to join the Navy to see the world. That was just before the war began, and with no boogiemen like Hitler and Mussolini trying to take over the world, there wasn’t a really high demand for soldiers, but he joined anyway.

The Navy said he had a weak heart, a murmur. Nothing to worry about, the moonfaced nurse had promised as she stamped his file with thick black ink.
REJECTED
. His next physical, he coughed like he had the pleurisy and not just when he was supposed to. But the Marines, the Army, and the Air Force were all wise to that trick. Even the Coast Guard passed on him.

He was so torn up after that, he did the only thing he could do and came back to Round O. That was ten years ago, and ever since, Frank believes he can hear his defect mocking him. It happens on days like today, when there’s a little breeze in the air, when the sky is fresh out of clouds, and the “Halls of Montezuma” sounds like a real place he’ll never see from this hellhole.

Frank used to wish this place was the real Round O in Texas, but it’s just some Podunk crossroads in South Carolina, a town where people live and die without much in between. Running the diner is as redundant as the name of the town, but Frank would rather die than wallow in public pity. Most days, he wakes up and tries to picture his life different, like if he tries hard enough, he can make it so. Every time he turns an egg or a hoecake on the griddle, he pictures his life turning, changing into something more than six days a week at the Sit Down Diner. Unfortunately, today is not one of those days.

“Two eggs. Spank ’em. Grits, extra butter. Biscuits. Bacon.” Tiny’s booming voice startles him; she seems to get a motherly kind of satisfaction out of getting his mind back on the griddle. “Today’s just like yesterday, shug. Same as tomorrow.” He gives her a dirty look, and she runs her hand through her hair so that only Frank can see she’s giving him the finger. “Who went and stomped on your biscuits this morning?”

Frank nods at the order Tiny puts on the carousel and cracks an egg with each hand; they settle onto the griddle and begin to harden. Tiny pops her gum and raises her eyebrows at him, waiting for a wisecrack, but he’s fresh out of snappy comebacks.

“You better spank those eggs and fry them hard, Frank, or you’ll be doing ’em again.”

Frank glances up at the next order and catches sight of the veiled image of a woman through the screen door. The morning sun outlines her small frame, and he doesn’t have to see her face to know she’s beautiful. He flips a salmon croquette and waits for her to open the door. It sizzles and he imagines what it would be like to love her the moment he lays eyes on her. Sure it sounds trite, but not compared to working ten-hour days at the diner. It’s a good word to describe Frank’s job, the diner. Hell, the whole crossroads is commonplace, as stale as yesterday’s mackerel.

The woman is still on the other side of the screen. His heart pounds, but the murmur doesn’t sound like it usually does, sloshy like an old wringer washing machine on its last leg. No, he feels the sound of each chamber opening and closing, strong, like a big bass drum, beating for the woman behind the screen.

Old Joe Pike clears his throat in a guttural way that always makes the ladies cringe, and even turns the heads at the back table, where the truckers sit. The woman hesitates like she’s rethinking the sameness of her own life and stands in the threshold for so long, Frank panics. Maybe there is a God, and if there is, Frank’s in trouble for thumbing his nose up at him for a multitude of sins, some of them his own. That last thought lays into Frank like a good stiff punch, and he almost drops the heavy skillet he yanked off the back burner the moment he saw her.

The door opens slowly. Even from Frank’s cubbyhole, her face is luminous, a word never used about women in Round O, no matter how old or young they might be. Still, seeing the woman standing there, backlit by the promise of a new day, takes his breath away.

She looks surprised, maybe even a little embarrassed that Tiny knows she is new in the area, and blushes as Tiny sets about taking her order and prying into her business. Frank’s daddy used to bawl Tiny out for being such a busybody. After he left the diner to Frank, there were times Frank used to get on the old woman good for being so nosey, but not today.

“Need a minute?” The woman shakes her head and Tiny seems satisfied with her bashful answers that can’t be heard above the clatter. Frank wants to holler out from the kitchen for everyone to shut up so he can hear her voice.

“Crab cakes, grits, and tea—with milk of all things.” Tiny winks at him, and he wills himself not to beg her for another morsel. “Single.” She belts out the word and twirls the carousel so hard, the tickets nearly fly off.

If Frank wasn’t so elated over the woman’s marital status, he’d be mortified by Tiny’s lack of discretion. “Vada,” Tiny half mouths, half says under her breath. “Vada Hadley.”

Every cell careens around Frank’s body, crashing into one another, screaming her name. Straight away, he scoops up a handful of the crab cake he mixed up around five this morning, but then throws it back into the bowl. He should mix up a new batch and make sure they’re the best damn crab cakes she’s ever had, but that might take too long.

A bead of sweat drops off of Frank’s forehead, and he misses catching it before it falls into the bowl, because he’s distracted by the way she holds her cup with two hands. Her elbows perch on the table in a way that makes it look like perfect etiquette. She finishes her tea, adjusts the little chain that keeps her sweater around her shoulders, and shifts around in the booth like maybe she’s rethinking her decision to stop in for a bite to eat. Looking around the place, then back toward the part of the building that is both general store and post office, her gaze settles on the exit.

Frank scoops up two handfuls of his daddy’s secret recipe and throws them on the griddle with a little extra butter. In four minutes, they are on a plate beside lumpy stone-ground grits with a little puddle of yellow butter in the center. Tiny puts the plate on her forearm that has hardened over the years into the serving position by arthritis and repetition. A carafe of hot water for more tea dangles from her good arm. Frank prays that the cakes are done enough as she strolls her way toward the table.

“Frank won’t brag, but his crab cakes are the best in the Lowcountry. Won’t tell a soul what the secret ingredient is.” Vada smiles and nods like she agrees, before she’s had the first bite.

Even from the kitchen, he can see that her hands are pale and soft. Her lips part for the fork. He imagines them parting for his lips. She makes the face he wants to see every day for the rest of his life. Scrunched up like a young girl’s, blissful like a woman’s. Her shoulders rise and then lower slowly in approval as she takes another bite.

“Your hoecakes are burning,” a voice says from the counter. Old Joe Pike points to his coffee cup. “Even when Tiny was running her mouth, your daddy never let nobody’s coffee cup go empty. Burned them things good, you did. Serves you right.”

Frank should throw him out of here, but the crusty old bastard knows he won’t. Frank gives him the eye and barks out an order. “Tiny. Order up. And get Joe some more coffee. Pronto.” Joe gives him the eye right back to let Frank know the two of them will never be square.

Frank snatches the cake off the griddle bare-handed and tosses it into the wastebin. His fingers throb in perfect time with his selfish heart, which has kept him in this awful town for one reason.

“You have to talk to the boss man.” Tiny nods and winks at Frank. “He rents the postboxes. Are you month to month, or are you going to be here for a while?”

All sounds cease, and every customer turns to listen. Vada looks around the restaurant; everyone is frozen, waiting for her answer. Her eyes are the truest shade of blue Frank has ever seen. She blushes again and pushes a strand of wispy blond hair behind her ear.

“For the school year at least. I’m a teacher.”

The clatter returns in a rush, and Frank can’t make out what she is saying. All he knows is the breakfast shift is almost over, and in twenty minutes, he’ll be face-to-face with Vada Hadley.