Palmetto Moon (5 page)

“I’m talking to you,
boy
.”

Joe Pike stands and teeters a bit. His legs are bowed from birth, so Frank was told, although Joe swears different. He has a gimpy hand and likes to tell folks it got that way working cattle in Texas when he was south of fifty years old. But Frank knows different.

“Go on home, Joe.”

Frank’s words snap the old man’s head back, and he looks at Frank like he just threw a glass of sticky sweet tea in his face.

“You better mind yourself, Frank
Darling
.”

“And you better mind yourself, too.”

Joe pushes off from the table to get his old legs moving and whispers something under his breath so that only Tiny can hear it. Her eyes go wide and she blushes and Frank is terrified of what might come out of her mouth, because even though Joe Pike can keep his mouth shut, Tiny is completely incapable.

She walks over his way. “What was that all about?”

Frank buses Vada’s table himself, slowly, wishing that he could linger all day over these dishes. But the stink of the past Joe Pike left in the air won’t let him.

“Joe’s never liked you much, but I’ve never seen him like that.” Tiny’s known Frank since before he was born and always knows when something’s wrong. Her face softens. “Maybe he’s jealous.”

Frank looks at her like she’s crazy.

She cocks her head to the side and smiles. “Maybe he saw her first.”

Tiny has always said laughing and hard living would keep her alive forever. She lets out a cackle and wants Frank to laugh right along with her, but all he can do is nod at her and go back to the kitchen, clean up, and try to get back the part of the morning that was almost perfect.

The post office door barely closes behind me and already I’m thinking about Frank Darling and his cocky promise about the postbox. After getting my first job, I’m feeling more confident, too, and positively fly up the front steps of the boardinghouse, until I run smack into Miss Mamie.

“Good morning, Miss Mamie. I’m delighted to inform you I am gainfully employed, or will be when school starts after Labor Day.”

“I heard, Miss Priss. Six months’ rent. Now pay up.”

I head upstairs and pull Rosa Lee’s
tredjuh
pouch out from its hiding place and look at her money mingled together with mine. I wish I could call her and tell her about the job. She’d be so proud of me.

“If you’re stalling because you don’t have the money, you can pack your things and leave.” Her manly voice catches a little, most likely due to the crow she’s choking on. Starting down the stairs, it’s almost impossible to wipe the smirk off of my face. I can feel traces of it as I hand her the money. She counts it twice and grunts in approval.

“You got a long-distance telephone call right after you left out this morning.” She scrutinizes my face for a reaction with a technique that would put the best prosecutor in Charleston to shame.

“A long-
distance
call, how delightful. I’m so sorry I missed whomever it was.”

“A man, and he sounded colored. I don’t know why I bothered to write down his number. If you’re cavorting with a colored man, you can pack your bags this instant.” She looks at a slip of paper, presumably with the phone number on it, folds it back up, and slips it into her apron pocket slowly, like it’s precious and worth keeping.

“I assure you, Miss Mamie, I am not cavorting with anyone.” I pray my smile masks the horror that an emergency in Charleston has warranted a call from Desmond. I eye the note sticking out of the pocket of Miss Mamie’s flower-sack apron that looks like she made it when she was a young girl. The stitches are uneven, and the apron is threadbare in places. But it is as formidable as Fort Knox, and I’d probably have to knock her senseless, or worse, to see the note for myself.

“Then why would he call? And what kind of decent woman receives calls from a colored man?”

She looks at me even harder. I look right back, not hard but not smiling anymore. This woman is just itching for an excuse to send me packing. Vinegar or honey?
“I’m so happy I’ll be staying in your lovely home. Long-term. And thank you for telling me about the call.” I hold my hand out in hopes that she will hand over the paper with the phone number. She balks and pretends to brush something off of her apron and heads out the kitchen door for the garden.

Even with her back turned to me, I can feel her wicked smile. As the kitchen door closes, all the oxygen rushes out of me. Why did Desmond call? Is he calling to tell me my father knows where I am? No, if he knew I was here, he’d come himself and make me go home. Well, just let him try. I’m not under his thumb anymore. I have a new life and a job. He can’t make me do anything I don’t want to do, much less marry Justin McLeod.

Miss Mamie’s ancient black telephone in the parlor rings loud enough for the deaf to hear, reverberating through my body like the buzz of a giant tuning fork. I was told boarders must ask for permission to use the phone, and we have strict instructions never to answer it.

“
Hello,
” I whisper.

“Vada, honey? Lord, it’s good to hear your voice.”

“Desmond. Is everything all right?”

“I’m not sure, but Rosa Lee and I talked and decided you should be the judge.”

“Is she there? Can I speak with her?”

“No, I’m calling from the pay phone, so I don’t have much time.”

“What’s wrong?”

“A call came in late last night, after your parents went to bed, from a Miss Wentworth in Memphis. She demanded to talk to you. About Darby.”

“Darby? She knows where she is? Oh, Desmond, that’s wonderful news.”

“I’m not so sure, Miss Vada. This Miss Wentworth woman sounds like a real troublemaker. We didn’t give her your phone number or say where you are, but I did take her phone number down. Me and Rosa Lee went round and round about it before deciding to tell you.”

“Oh, Desmond, maybe this is a sign that I’ll find Darby and we’ll be friends again.” He rattles off the number, and I jot it down on the pad beside the phone.

“I don’t know if it is or if it isn’t. Are you doing all right, Miss Vada?”

“Yes, everything is wonderful. Please tell Rosa Lee I got a job teaching. It doesn’t start until September, but I have enough money to tide me over until then.”

“I’m so proud of you, Miss Vada.”

“Thank you, Desmond, and thank you for telling me about Darby.”

“We both love you so much. Promise me you’ll think long and hard before you call this woman, and if you do call her, be careful.”

“I will. I love and miss you both so much.” Saying the words brings tears to my eyes.

The operator interrupts the call to tell Desmond he has one minute to deposit more money in the phone. I look up to see Miss Mamie coming toward the kitchen door with a basket of tomatoes.

“I have to go, Desmond. I love you. Please tell Rosa Lee I love her, too. Good-bye.”

Miss Mamie doesn’t get as far as the porch, sets a basket of tomatoes down, and heads back to the garden with an empty basket. I tear the note off of the pad and stare at the number. Should I risk placing a call? I have no doubt that if Miss Mamie catches me on the phone, she’ll throw me out and keep the money I’ve given her. She has her back to me as she walks down a row of butter beans, feeling each pod to see if it’s filled out enough to pick. Maybe there is enough time. I pick up the phone and wait for the operator to come on the line.

“Yes, Brentwood 649. It’s in Memphis.”

“Hold please,” the operator says and connects the call. A gentleman answers.

“Miss Wentworth, please.”

“Whom may I say is calling?”

I think about Desmond’s warning to think this through, which I didn’t. To be careful. “Just put Miss Wentworth on.” Even my most intimidating voice sounds unconvincing.

“May I ask what this is regarding?”

“It’s about Darby—O’Doul.”

“Just a moment, I’ll get her for you,” the man says.

Even from the living room, I can look down the shotgun hallway and see Miss Mamie in the garden; her head bobbing up and down like a chicken scratching in the dirt. She stops and wipes her face with the long sleeve of the shirt she wears to keep the sun off her baggy old arms.

“Hello?”

“Yes, this is Vada Hadley.” My voice sounds like a squeaky hinge.

“
Finally.
This may be a total waste of my time, and if it is, that little Irish bitch is going to regret her lies.”

“Darby?” Her name gushes out of me with a mix of relief and excitement. “You know Darby? You know where she is?”

“Yes—no,” the woman bites out. “She lived in my house for three years and ran up a considerable debt, always bragging about her rich sister in Charleston. That would be
you
. She even called you a few times, on my dime, I might add.”

Darby called? Was I away at college? Why wasn’t I told?

“Lucky for me I keep meticulous records, but the colored man at that number refused to give me yours.”

“Is Darby all right? Is she happy?”

“She will be neither unless I get the money the little tramp owes me. Two hundred and fifteen dollars. Otherwise, when I do find that runaway, she’s going straight to jail.”

Miss Mamie straightens up and starts for the house with a basketful of butter beans on her hip. She limps hard when she thinks no one is watching and walks fine but slowly when she knows someone is. I try to duck back out of sight, but the phone cord won’t reach.

“Yes. Of course, she’s my sister. I’ll pay her debt.” Somehow.

“Wire the money to the Western Union here in Memphis. Make it snappy, and I’ll consider the matter settled.”

“No.”

“
No?
Young lady, believe me, if I have to come down to Charleston and get the money myself,
you’ll
be sorry. And if the authorities get involved—”

Miss Mamie struggles up the steps of the back porch and will be through the door any moment. If she looks through the panes in the door, she will see the phone off the hook and will promptly toss me out on my ear.

“What I meant to say, Miss Wentworth, is I’ll bring you the money.” After paying my rent, I have a little less than a hundred dollars, my grandmother’s necklace, and no transportation. I try to sound honest, and not desperate. “Please. I’ll do anything to find Darby.”

“Fine, but I’m warning you, I want my money. I’ll give you seven days, just until the Fourth of July. After that, I turn the matter over to the police, and when they find your sister, she’ll rot in jail.”

As she rattles off directions to an address in Memphis, Miss Mamie takes off her garden hat and hangs it on the hook just inside the kitchen door. “I have to go now,” I whisper as Miss Mamie sets tomatoes, bottom side up, on the red-checkered oilcloth. “I’ll be there soon with the money. I promise. Good-bye.”

My hand is still on the telephone when its shrill noise sends me dashing upstairs in my stocking feet, and I am halfway up the steps when I hear Miss Mamie waddling toward the parlor. I whip around like I was just now coming downstairs and smile at her. Maybe I should offer to help out around the house. Maybe that would butter up the crusty old broad.

Brrrring
!

Miss Mamie lets out a heavy sigh as she trudges to the telephone table and picks up the handset. “Hello.” The ancient oiled floor creaks under her weight as she shifts from one bad knee to the other. “
Hmmmmm
.
Hmmmmm
. She’s right here.” She glares at me as she hands me the phone. If Miss Wentworth has called to say she’s changed her mind, all hope of ever seeing Darby again is lost.

“Hello.”

“Vada?”

“Who is this?’

“Frank Darling, from the diner.” His breathing is quick and nervous. Even after the unsettling phone call with Miss Wentworth, I can’t help but smile. Miss Mamie is standing there, glaring, without the least bit of manners that would allow me a speck of privacy. He lets out a big sigh that spills out his words. “Well, I was wondering if you’d like to get a bite to eat. With me. Tonight.”

“At the diner?”

“God, no. I thought I’d pick you up at six. I have someplace special in mind to take you on our first date.”

“Thank you for the dinner invitation, I’d love to go.” Miss Mamie stands there looking hard at me, like I’m some sort of hussy, before she shakes her head and toddles off toward the kitchen.

“We can have a nice meal, and then I’ll bore you with my life story.”

I hear myself laugh and hope that Frank will understand that I can’t possibly tell him mine.

Everything Frank pulls from the chifforobe has grease spatters that look like big raindrops that will never dry. His shirtsleeves are rimmed with bright yellow mustard. His only dress shirt has a thin line of dust on the shoulders. He holds an underarm up to his nose. Even after a good washing, the diner smell never washes out of anything. Between the bacon and the rancid cooking oil, Vada will surely wish he kept his clothes in the meat locker. His father’s clock chimes the half hour, reminding him he has thirty minutes to either find something presentable to wear or cancel. But he can’t cancel. He won’t.