Waiting for Sunrise (23 page)

Morris smiled. “My wife—and social secretary, by the way—has informed me we’ll be there. Congratulations. Veronica Sikes is a fine young lady. Fine young lady.”

Billy smiled too. “Yes, sir, she is that.”

“Frank will be home by then too. He’s planning on coming as well.”

“I’m glad to hear that.” Billy leaned over, rested his elbows on his knees, and cracked his knuckles. “There’s something I’d like to do . . . I’m not sure if it’s legally possible, but I’d like to find out.”

“You’ve come to the right place.”

Billy’s throat had gone dry again. He felt a headache threatening from the base of his neck. This was going to be more difficult than he thought. He took another swallow of Coke before offering up a prayer to God that he could get through the meeting. Then he’d go home and rest. “Mr. Morris, I’d like to have my birth certificate changed.”

Albert Morris blinked three times rapidly. “In what way?”

“I’d like to have my father’s name removed. I’d like any and all references to his being my father eradicated.”

Morris straightened in his chair. “Well, Billy, I can’t say I blame you, but . . . have you spoken to your mother about this?”

“No, sir. In fact, I don’t want opinions on it. I’m a grown man now and I know my own mind. I just want to do it.”

Mr. Morris leaned his forearms against the desk, clasped his hands together, and said, “You understand that if you do this, you’ll have no rights to his estate when he dies.”

Billy shook his head. “If he owned the crown jewels, I wouldn’t want anything the man had.” He drained the Coke, replaced the glass, and said, “Understand, Mr. Morris. This isn’t anger or vengeance talking. This is me putting Ira Liddle where he belongs in my life, which for me is nowhere. I haven’t seen him since . . . since he and my mother divorced. I don’t talk to him. I don’t even talk about him.” Billy wiped a moist palm over lips that had gone dry again. “I realize just how much of a father he was—or
wasn’t—
and I want no connection to him.”

“You’re a godly young man from everything I know about you. Have you prayed about this, Billy?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Do you feel this is God’s direction?”

“Not entirely, if I’m going to be honest.” Billy paused. “Mr. Morris, I don’t want you to think I don’t pray for the man. I do. Every day I pray for God to penetrate his heart, but . . . that doesn’t mean I want any
legal
connection to him. I’ve got to put him behind me . . . and . . . well, you know how when we accept the Lord, we’re baptized?”

“I do.”

“That’s an outward symbol that we’re putting the past behind us, that we’re allowing our sins to be washed away, right?”

“Yes, it is.”

“Well, this is an outward symbol that I want shed of any connection to the name Ira Liddle. Same as Mama changed her last name. I don’t want to go that far; I just want to make sure Ira Liddle has no part in my future.”

“Ah.” Albert Morris pulled a yellow legal pad from a drawer, jotted notes with the pen he removed from the pen/pencil stand at the top of his desk, and said, “This means, of course, that Ira Liddle also can make no claims on anything you may or may not accomplish in this life.”

“Yes, sir, I know.”

The two men sat in silence as Morris made further notes on the pad. Billy finally dared to ask, “So, what will this cost me, Mr. Morris. Because, to be honest, I’m not making a whole lot of money right now, what with Mr. Sikes and me trying to open the restaurant in Cedar Key.”

Albert Morris glanced up from his notes. “Billy,” he said, the
y
coming out like a question. “You came to the hospital nearly every single day to visit my son.”

Billy blinked. “Yes, sir.”

“That was a gift, you know that? Frank was miserable during that long stay in the hospital.”

Billy chuckled. “Yes, sir. I remember.”

“So here’s what I propose,” Mr. Morris said, leaning back once again. “I propose I file all the necessary paperwork for you pro bono
.
”

“Pro . . .”

“That means ‘free of charge.’ I can never truly repay you for what you did for Frank, but this will maybe put us somewhere on the same page.”

Billy couldn’t believe what he was hearing. He slid all the way to the end of the chair. “Oh, but Mr. Morris—”

Morris raised the pen, pointing the narrow tip toward the ceiling. “Nope. That’s my offer. Take it or leave it.”

Billy stood. And this time, he was first to extend his hand. “I’ll take it, sir.”

26

Spring 1963

There was nothing about waking up in the morning that Billy didn’t like. And why not? When he opened his eyes, it was to a beautiful wife snuggled up against him, breathing in and out so sweetly he could almost feel her breath slipping around her form and entering into his own lungs. Beyond the sounds right there in his bedroom—soft breathing and creaking mattresses—were those that poured in from the outside through the opened bedroom windows. The seagulls calling to one another, the early morning boaters revving up their engines, chatting briefly about this or that, insects starting to swarm, and the breeze rustling the palm fronds.

Soon he’d shave while the coffeepot coughed and sputtered and bacon and eggs sizzled in the frying pan. He’d smile, listening to Ronni fuss over the grits as they bubbled and threatened to burn in a two-quart pot. “I just can’t quite get it right,” she’d say. Every morning. Never failed.

If she ever did get it right, he felt he’d almost be disappointed. She was so perfect in every other way; she needed something to make her a little less angelic and a little more human.

That morning, after breakfast and a kiss good-bye to his bride, he walked to the restaurant so Ronni could have the car. He’d come to know every line in the sidewalks and every chip in the paint of each storefront. He knew the owners’ cars and the boats he could expect to see lined along 2nd Street. He had grown comfortable, even at his young age, with the rhythm of the older citizens, their morning routines, the way they talked and experienced life. And that was one thing he could easily say about Cedar Key. People here
experienced
life, they didn’t just live it.

The management of Sikes’s Seafood Restaurant in Cedar Key had been fully turned over to him. He hired a good staff, and business had grown. Slowly at first, then steadier. With summer on the way, he reckoned, they’d be even busier.

As he’d predicted before he’d proposed to Ronni, the last few years had shown a steady upswing in tourism and the small island’s population growth. Even a few famous people had come not only to see the place where John Muir stopped on his thousand-mile walk to the gulf a hundred years before, but also to check out the Island Hotel, what with its haunted history, which Billy wasn’t altogether sure he believed in.

Billy arrived on Dock Street and continued with his morning routine, saying hello to the fishermen and boaters he saw along the way, stopping to watch a few birds in flight. Once at the restaurant, he unlocked the front door, walked in, flipped on the nearby light, turned and shut the door to lock it again. He opened up the windows, allowing the salty breeze to push away the staleness of the previous night. He stood by the one at the farthest end of the restaurant, breathing it all in. Fat pelicans sat in rows along the boardwalks, each one with its beak pointed toward the sun lying low still in the east. A few gulls sat alongside them, but this was definitely the pelicans’ territory.

Billy rested his hands over the thin leather belt looped through his lightweight trousers as he looked out across the dark gulf water to Atsena Otie. A single boat rocked toward it in the high tide. He smiled at the sight; maybe today he could get his friend to take him and Ronni out to the island. She enjoyed walking the trails, reaching the old graveyard, and reading the headstones. Pretty soon the hot weather would bring swarming mosquitoes, which would keep them away, so hopefully . . . today . . .

The flat of Billy’s palm swept down his crisp white, short-sleeved shirt. The blue and white necktie felt cold to his touch. “Well, young man,” he admonished himself. “Best get some of that paperwork done before the lunch crew comes in.” He reminded himself to call the Ice House and Cedar Key Fish & Oyster Company to place his orders.

The phone rang from the office directly off the kitchen. “Coming,” he said but still took his time; something he’d learned to do in the few years since he’d moved to Cedar Key. No one rushed. If anyone from the island—and only a few had a phone—was on the other end of the line, they’d know this. The ringing wouldn’t stop until he answered. And if they did hang up, they’d call back.

“Sikes’s Seafood,” he answered. It was early still and he could just answer with a “hello,” but it could be his father-in-law on the other end and he didn’t want a lesson in restaurant management before lunch.

“Baby . . .”

“Hey, sweetheart. Miss me already?” He grinned. The thought of her wanting him to come home didn’t disappoint him.

“No . . . I mean, yes. I . . . Billy . . .”

Billy sat in the chair behind his desk. “What is it?” His thoughts flew to his mother. Was something wrong on the mainland? “Mama?”

“No . . . yes . . . she just called.” Ronni took a deep breath. “Billy, you need to come home. Now.”

Trinity, South Carolina

As soon as Patsy saw four of her children climb the steps of the school bus, she squeezed Donna’s toddler fingers that were sticky from morning jam. “Come on, baby. Let’s go home,” she said to the pigtailed, urchin-faced child.

Donna grinned up at her, all the while dragging her little feet. “Carry me, Mommy.”

“You’re a big girl, you can walk.”

Donna’s bottom end eased toward the sidewalk stretching in front of the neighboring houses. And the whining started. Again. “Carry meeeee . . . I want you to caaaaary me . . .”

“Donna.” Patsy jerked her daughter’s hand in a lame attempt to get her to stand. How was it that such a little child—whom she clearly outweighed—could hold her own in this common tug-of-war? “Get up, do you hear me?”

“Uhhhhh . . .” More pulling.

Battles of will with this child were always futile. Not to mention, Patsy was just too tired to put up much of a fight. “Come on.” She bent at the waist and scooped up her daughter from her armpits. When Donna had settled herself on her mother’s hip, Patsy said, “Are you happy now?”

“Yes.”

“Ugh . . . you are something else, do you know that?”

“I’m spoiled rotten.” Truer words had never been spoken, but from such a face . . .

“You are that.”

They walked a few steps in silence.

“You’re clearly getting too heavy for this.”

“Mommy?”

“What, baby?”

“Is Daddy going to be home today?”

“No, sweetheart. Daddy works, remember?”

Donna rocked against Patsy’s hip. “But I want to see Daddy.”

“Donna, stop it.” She patted her daughter’s bottom. “Daddy will be home for supper like always.”

The child settled. “Why does Daddy go to work so early?”

Why, indeed.
“Because he has a lot of work to do.”

“I don’t like Daddy being gone so much.”

“Me either.”

“Is that why you call him all the time?”

Patsy shifted Donna from one hip to the other. The driveway leading to their house was within sight. “I don’t call Daddy all the time, Donna.”

“Daddy says you do.”

Patsy stopped. Looked at her daughter. “Did you hear Daddy say that?”

The toddler nodded. Dark pigtails bounced alongside her ears as darker eyes grew wide. Eyes that always reminded her of Billy’s . . . and their mother’s. “He said he’s worried.” She pouted, then reached up with sticky fingers and pressed her mother’s lips together. “Why is Daddy worried?”

Patsy pulled away from pressing fingers and resumed walking. The sooner she could get Donna in front of the television, the sooner she could call Gilbert and give him what-for. “I’m sure you misunderstood him.”

“No.”

“No, what?”

“No, ma’am. I didn’t. He was talking to Grandma on the phone when you were at the grocery store.”

Patsy arched a brow. “Grandma B?”

“Uh-huh.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

They turned onto the driveway, lined with yellow and white daffodils. Approached the right side of the house, where pungent honeysuckle grew on a trellis. The scent was almost too sweet for her right now. Sickeningly sweet . . .

“How do you know it was Grandma B?”

Donna shrugged and wiggled some more. “Daddy called her ‘Mam.’ That’s what you call Grandma B, so I know.”

Patsy squeezed her arms around her daughter’s backside in another attempt to keep her still. “Want to watch
Captain Kangaroo
?”

“Uh-huh.”

Patsy sighed. “Yes, ma’am.”

“Yes, ma’am, and
The Alvin Show
too.”

She put her daughter down. “Then let’s scoot inside.” She patted her daughter’s back to encourage her to get along. It worked. Donna ran full steam toward the side door the family most commonly used.

Within minutes, Patsy was in her bedroom calling Gilbert’s office. Mary Ann answered on the second ring.

“Hi, Mary Ann. Is Gilbert in his office?”

“He is.” Patsy wasn’t sure, but she thought she heard exasperation in the secretary’s voice. “Hold please.”

Patsy narrowed her eyes. She did
not
call too much. She did not.

“Hey, honey.”

The back of her knees came against the unmade bed, which she plopped down upon. “Did you tell my mother that I call you too much?”

A long pause. “Who told you that?”

“That doesn’t matter, Gilbert. Did you?”

“It does matter. Who told you that?”

Patsy crossed one thin leg over the other, swung it back and forth. She didn’t have to answer the question. She wasn’t on the defensive. She was the one with the evidence of betrayal. “Did you?”

“Patsy, I’m not playing games. Who told you that?”

“I’m not playing games either, Gilbert Milstrap. I want to know if you said it and I want to know if you feel that way. Because I don’t. Feel that way.
Or
call you too much.”

“How many times a day would you say you call me, Pats?” Gilbert’s voice was steady and calm.

She didn’t know . . . maybe twice. Three times . . . twice.

“Twice.”

Gilbert chuckled, but not as though he thought this was the least bit funny. “Mary Ann keeps a record of every call that comes into this office, did you know that?”

“So?”

“So . . . you call sometimes five and six times a day and, quite honestly, for no apparent reason other than to check on me or to tell me how hard you have it at the house. Donna won’t stop fussing, the kids aren’t doing their homework, the pickle jar won’t open. But mostly to see if I’m here at the office, doing whatever I do but you
doubt
I do, and to make sure I’m coming home on time. Which I always do.”

“That’s not true.”

Yes, it was. It was so true.

But how could she trust that he was where he said he was . . . or that he’d come home at the end of the day. And what if, one day, he met some pretty waitress at one of his cafés or a spiffy secretary at one of the supply offices he sometimes visited? Dressed to the nines, nails done, hair combed—not like hers, worn long and braided down her back—with makeup even? What if?

“It is true. And it’s also a private matter and I’m at work. I’ve got things to do here today, Patsy, and I cannot keep spending time convincing you that I’m here or that I’m coming home or even that I love you and always will.” He breathed out. “Even though I do and always will.”

The side doorbell rang. “Great. Now who?”

“What is it?”

“Someone is at the door. I have to go.”

“Patsy—”

“What?”

“You all right?”

“What do you think?” And with that, she hung up.

The doorbell rang again. “Coming!” she hollered, leaving the bedroom and walking down the long hallway, then into the main part of the house. From the family room, the voices of Mr. Green Jeans and Captain Kangaroo echoed from a too-loud television. “Turn that television down, Donna Sue Milstrap,” Patsy said as she entered it.

Along the way she picked up toys, cradling them in her arms. Several children back she’d placed a wicker basket—narrow on the bottom and with a wide rim—at the side door, which led from the family room to the carport. It was the place where all discarded and forgotten toys went to rest. There, she dumped the items and opened the door to find Mam standing on the other side.

“Mam, what are you doing here?”

Mam stepped in without invitation, not that she needed one. “I take it Rayette and Sandra haven’t gotten here yet.”

Patsy shut the door, placed a hand on her hip, and said, “Why on earth would they be here this time of day?” Or at all, for that matter.

Mam had already made it halfway to her grandchild, who sat on the floor but was scurrying to stand. “I’ll let them fill you in,” she said with a wave of her hand. “Come to Grandma . . . come to Grandma, you little darling.”

“Grandma!” Donna ran with outstretched arms.

Patsy closed the door while the two hugged and cooed over each other. When her patience had worn thin, she said, “Mam. What are you doing here?”

Mam turned to her, Donna still wrapped in her arms, legs dangling and swinging. “I’m here to watch this adorable, wonderful, most precious child with jam all over her fingers.” Mam frowned. “Really, Patsy . . .”

“Me!” Donna squirmed. “You’re gonna watch me!”

Mam practically beamed. “That’s right, you.”