June (29 page)

“You don’t want Lemon’s name anywhere near it.”

“He’s going to be gone soon, Eben.” And the way Apatha’s voice turned soft, Lindie knew she meant Lem, not Clyde. She loved that man dearly; Lindie could hear it. How had they mistaken love for loyalty all these years? “I don’t want him mixed up in ugliness.”

Lindie heard Eben rise. “Your secret’s safe,” he said, although she wondered if even he could keep a secret like this. Could Lindie? For it was hers now too.

Apatha stepped out onto the porch. Lindie tiptoed to the window. It was a dark night, the moon just a crescent of a crescent. Could she make out Apatha heading back across the lawn? Was that movement up by June’s window? Was that June Lindie saw, creeping down the column she herself had clambered up so many times?

Lindie couldn’t know for sure. She didn’t know much of anything, it seemed.

The Two Oaks doorbell rang bright and early the next day. June had been up since yesterday; she wondered if staying up so many nights in a row had turned her nocturnal for good. She saw the Olds pull up in front of the house, then watched Thomas rush out of the car to open the back door, as if neither of the passengers’ hands worked. What she felt was irritated; why couldn’t everyone just leave her alone? It was a selfish thought, she knew, especially as the man and woman disappeared from view as they came onto the porch. She withdrew her gaze, casting her eyes accidentally over Lindie’s house, and guilt swirled inside her.

This was what she’d meant by “too fast.” She didn’t like who she became when people wanted her to make decisions. She felt skittish. She felt mean. The doorbell rang, and she tiptoed down the upstairs hallway, making her way to just above the servant stairs. She was relieved to see no sign of her mother or Apatha, who frowned upon eavesdropping. She heard Apatha open the front door, then the sound of Jack’s low greeting and Diane’s enthusiastic “Well hello there!” June hated this jealousy, hated wondering if she looked right, hated that she ached to see him, hated knowing that seeing him with another woman, here in her home, would be a horror.

“You sure you have the right house?” Apatha said in her dry, usual tone, which made even June smile; Apatha wasn’t impressed that famous movie stars were standing at the front door.

They came in then, and June could hear them better. Jack was Mr. Salesman; it turned her stomach to hear him using that bombastic voice, already pitching when only one step inside. Apparently he’d had a harebrained idea and needed to talk to the household, could they trouble the powers that be for just a moment? At Idlewyld, he’d cooed like a warm ember, a purring kitten, a rushing brook, but there was none of that softness here. Apatha asked them to wait in the front parlor, and June heard her make her way up the main staircase.

June leaned her head back into the hall and listened. Cheryl Ann was waiting in the upstairs hall; she squealed in delight when Apatha told her who’d arrived. Then she groaned in horror—“I don’t have my face on!”—and June heard the door slam to what Cheryl Ann insisted on calling her boudoir, really just the master bedroom, which she’d taken over when she decided Lemon needed to be moved to the back bedroom near Apatha’s servant quarters.

Then June heard Apatha making her way back to the servant stairs, but the only way not to get caught was to go downstairs herself, and June couldn’t face Jack. She cringed when Apatha spotted her.

But all Apatha said was “What do you suppose they drink in the morning? Sanka?”

“I don’t think they came to drink anything,” June whispered, as Apatha headed past her and down the stairs.

“Stop hiding up there,” Apatha replied sharply. “They sit on the toilet, same as you and me.” And then she was gone, into the kitchen.

But of course June wasn’t hiding because they were famous. She was hiding because Jack was here, in June’s home, in the place she knew inside and out in detestable and precious ways—the squeak of the branch against the front parlor window, the groan of the pipes as the water turned warm. By the end of this month, Jack would know nearly every detail of June’s whole world, and she would know nothing of his. She could imagine that some girls would love that mystery, but it set her on edge. Not to mention the fact that he’d brought his known lover into her home. She heard Diane say something just then—not the words themselves, but the curl of them in the air—and that was, apparently, enough to send her rushing down the stairs, into the foyer and into the parlor, dreading the sight of Jack and Diane together.

“Good morning to you!” Jack boomed at the sight of her. June lost her tongue. She’d forgotten how gorgeous Diane was, and Jack’s beauty, angry as she was at him, was undeniable.

Diane smiled her plastic smile. June wondered if she knew. But there was no chance to discover more because just then Cheryl Ann burst down the stairs, flapping her hands with shock and delight, filling both parlors with her feigned deference, fawning over Jack, fanning herself, kissing Diane’s cheek with her sweaty lips. The small spit of skin between Diane’s eyes wrinkled in concern. Then came Apatha with a tray of biscuits that they all knew none of them would touch.

“We want to host a party,” Jack announced.

Diane leaned one shoulder into her smile. “We’d like to do it here.”

“On Saturday, I’m afraid.” Mr. Salesman smiled in false concern, and June resisted the urge to kick him in the shin.

Cheryl Ann clapped her hands together and wheezed. It was like a vaudeville act.

Before Apatha could open her mouth to object, Jack said, “I’ll pay for everything.” Diane shot him a significant look, and he corrected himself. “We’ll pay. You won’t lift a finger.”

Diane clearly felt he was taking the wrong tack. “You see, we want to show St. Jude how much we appreciate everything you’ve done to welcome us. And we can’t think of a better place to hold the celebration. Why not choose the most magnificent building in town?”

Cheryl Ann looked as if she might explode.

“And since we’ll be wrapping up the shoot next Thursday,” Jack added, “we’ll be going back to Los Angeles by the holiday weekend.” June felt his eyes skim over her as he mentioned leaving. Then he held out his hands as if he’d done a magic trick. “I’m afraid the only option is to have the festivities in a few short days.”

One look at Apatha told June the old woman believed there were, in fact, many other options. But Apatha listened patiently as Jack and Diane detailed their plans of musical acts and tents for the yards. It seemed a banquet caterer had already been contacted, and waitstaff would be brought in from elsewhere.

Jack fingered his gray felt hat. It was hard not to notice the way Diane’s gaze drank him in and swatted him away at the same time. June felt sick at the thought of a party here, hosted by them. She could hardly believe that this very man, right here in this room, had knelt before her only three days ago and told her he wanted her. She had said as good as no, and it had been the right choice—had it not?—because here he was with another woman. How quickly he had moved on.

“It’s settled then,” Cheryl Ann said, without consulting Apatha or June on the matter, and there were handshakes all around, which June made sure to avoid by picking up a biscuit. Artie, she thought (and the thought was like a breath of fresh air), Artie is uncomplicated and he would never do this to me, and the idea warmed her as she watched Apatha let them out.

On set by nine, Jack winked at Lindie. He was still in his street clothes. “I made her jealous.” He cocked his head and pulled a cigarette from behind his ear. “That should do the trick.”

As soon as the
St. Jude Caller
announced the party the next morning—
YOUR INVITATION,
the headline read in scripted letters,
TO THE NIGHT OF A THOUSAND STARS
—it was the talk of the town. The St. Judians had only three days to dust off their proverbial ball gowns (none of them had actual ones), polish their shoes, and set their hair. No surprise that the movie stars who’d transformed their humble town into a Hollywood set had been able to convince crusty, crazy old Lemon Gray Neely to open his doors.

That morning, Jack had a cleaning crew up from Columbus. If Lindie hadn’t been P.A.’ing, she’d have volunteered herself, for the chance to see June. When they wrapped for the day, she raced home, eager to glimpse what was reportedly a grand operation in the last bit of waning light—gardeners, a phalanx of maids, and a dozen men pitching a tent the size of the gymnasium in the side yard. Cheryl Ann was pacing the property like an officer would his fort, Two Oaks lit up behind her. Lindie leaned back on her front porch, hands behind her head, and beamed her best smile; there was no law against sitting out, enjoying a beautiful evening.

Did June see Lindie? Did she watch her from her window? What was she thinking and feeling in there, about Jack, about the party? Had Jack successfully made her jealous? What would making her jealous actually accomplish? And was it just Lindie’s imagination, or was her Schwinn parked in a slightly different spot—front wheel askew—from where she’d left it the day before? Could it be that June was sneaking out to Idlewyld—or elsewhere—alone? These questions were Lindie’s torment and reality. Despite all this turmoil, she could admit that, in one respect, June’s distance was good: it made the secret of Apatha’s marriage to Uncle Lem easy to keep.

On Friday, they erected a second big tent, this one in the backyard. Lemon was spotted on his porch that afternoon, taking a lemonade in his wheelchair, and those who saw him agreed that he didn’t look quite as close to death as they’d imagined him to be. That night, after another long day of shooting, Lindie watched June’s window from her own, listening to an owl’s lonely call from one of the branches somewhere on the Two Oaks lawn, until her eyelids cried to be given sleep.

She awoke Saturday at dawn to the clattering arrival of the trucks with the flowers, tables, and food. A crowd had already gathered to watch the preparations. The St. Judians were awed to witness this long-dormant home finally waking up, whipped into shape like something touched by the wand of Cinderella’s fairy godmother.

But on set that morning, the mood was decidedly less jovial. There were only five budgeted days left; they’d have to breeze through every single scene in order to finish shooting in the time allotted. Nervous they wouldn’t get back to Los Angeles by the holiday weekend, most of the crew blamed Diane. It was no secret, by now, that she couldn’t memorize her way out of a paper bag. That wouldn’t have really mattered as long as she’d been able to cry on command, or seduce the camera with a sultry gaze. Plus she wasn’t especially friendly, and never said “thank you,” or laughed at any of her (numerous) gaffes. Gone was any memory that the shoot had been delayed because they’d lost the original canal location; now the story had it all falling on Diane’s shoulders. Unless she made serious changes, no one would want to work with her again, or at least that’s what Ricky said.

They broke early for the party, which thrilled no one. Up until that week, Lindie hadn’t heard one bad word about Jack. But by the time the director yelled the day’s “Cut,” she’d heard more than a few grumbles about Jack being a show-off, and the lunacy of throwing a party when there was so much work at hand, and that now that Jack was surely back in Diane’s bed he cared more about getting laid than getting paid. Lindie wondered if he’d miscalculated. Whom was he trying to win over with this grand gesture? Quiet, private June? Lindie wasn’t entirely convinced this would do it. But then, if he really was in Diane’s bed again, maybe he didn’t care about winning June at all.

At five, the town and crew slipped into their houses to gussy up. Lindie took a proper bath, scrubbing all the important bits, although she knew from experience that the soles of her feet would remain a permanent black. Back in her small bedroom, the heat bore down from the eaves, scalding the top of her head. She heard the first neighbors arrive. A small orchestra struck up a Strauss waltz from underneath the great white tent. Parched and exhausted, she stood before her closet and realized, with a growing sense of doom, that she’d outgrown nearly everything in it. But that wasn’t really it, was it? Not entirely. Because even if she had a dozen dresses in her size, the prettiest, most stylish dresses available, they’d still be wrong. Most of the time, Lindie could get by in dungarees, but tonight’s event was highlighting something she already knew but had been afraid to look straight in the eye: she couldn’t get away with her current wardrobe much longer.

All the anger and disappointment she’d been carrying around seemed to rush into her at once: June’s meanness, and June’s wedding, and Apatha’s secret, and the movie almost being over, and even, yes, having no mother with whom to talk about any of these things, and she looked down at her strange body and wept. She threw herself onto her bed and let the sobs overtake her.

On the bed, Lindie reasoned with herself—she could surely find some dress that would fit the bill. But as soon as she sat up, she was encircled again by doubt and fear. Even if she had a dress, could she bring herself to put it on? What was wrong with her? Because if she couldn’t wear a dress, she couldn’t go to the party of the century, which was happening just below her window. She was considering just flinging herself out that window once and for all, when she heard a knock.

She sat up and sniffed, wiping at her eyes. “Come in.”

Eben opened the door. He held up a boy’s suit on a hanger. The outfit was old-fashioned, with knickers instead of trousers, sewn from a shadowy velvet no boy would have worn anymore. “Uncle Lem had it made for me when I was about your age.” He hung it on the doorknob.

Lindie cleared the gunk from her throat. “I should wear a dress.”

“You should wear what feels right.”

Twenty minutes later, they stood in the Two Oaks foyer, side by side. Lindie’s fingers fiddled at the fine gray-brown fabric on her thighs. The collar was tight around her neck, but not uncomfortable. She’d opted to go without a tie, and made sure to brush her ear-length hair, hoping that, if she was clean, no one would make fun of her for dressing like a boy. She wore a pair of her mother’s shoes her father had dug up, simple, nondescript leather flats that most girls her age wouldn’t have been caught dead in, but which she already treasured.

Around her whirled the party of her dreams—bow-tied waiters and paid musicians, St. Judians unrecognizable in their fancy getups, glasses of real champagne, tea cakes, tiny little sandwiches on tiny little plates. Every door, save the one leading into the kitchen, stood open. There was a bar in one corner of the living room. A feast of candied ham and cookies and cut-up pineapple, of meringues and mint patties and plenty of other foreign delicacies, was spread across the dining table. Lemon’s office-cum-bedroom had been transformed into a sitting room for the oldest St. Judians, but people of all ages mingled across the front and back parlors, climbing the grand staircase and then ascending to the third floor, where she could make out Count Basie’s orchestra swelling on the record player in the long-forgotten ballroom. Children darted in from the side yard. Football players snuck sips of liquor when they thought no one was looking. The movie people arrived: Ricky and Sam wore bow ties; the makeup girls had done themselves up to look like stars. Lindie admired the physics of the girdle as Cheryl Ann glided across the parlors toward Uncle Lem, who was propped up on the yellow tufted couch. Dressed in a brown cotton dress, Apatha stood at his shoulder, leaning down to whisper the names of the mayor and the police chief. Lindie felt Apatha’s eyes pull at her. Lindie looked away, afraid the secret would be written all over her face.

But June—where was June? Where, for that matter, was Jack? Diane? Artie? Clyde? A new wave of guests arrived through the front door, and the crowd pushed Lindie and Eben apart. Eben rode the wave farther into the back parlor, where Fred Ripvogle and Alan Shields clapped him on the shoulder and ordered a round of whiskey. Lindie was drawn toward the spine of the building, that intricately carved staircase she’d once thought of as hers. She ran her hand along the smooth banister and decided to simply knock on June’s door. She’d apologize. She couldn’t stand this silence.

The Two Oaks stairway had been built for a party like this. Plaster garlands adorned the top bit of the ceiling, mirroring the wreaths that decorated the waxed, quarter-hewn oak baseboard railings. Lindie joined the stream of traffic to the second floor, avoiding jabbing elbows and bare heels and short strides. On the eighth step, she passed Gretchen Beck and Ginny Sherman. They snickered as they traveled past, but it didn’t occur to Lindie that she was the object of their derision until she was nearly on the landing.

But those stupid girls didn’t matter. Not as she forged her way up through the tightly packed stairs, darting under arms and around canes. Evening light streamed in through the stained-glass fleurs-de-lis. She was about to make things right with June. And then she sensed it, above her—an ever-so-slight parting of the crowd. She lifted her eyes to the top of the stairs.

June. June looking as Lindie had never seen her before, but somehow distilled to her most essential self, head held proudly but without pretension, hands folded neatly at her front. Her hair was pinned up in an old-fashioned chignon. Her dress was virginal white cotton; simple, unadorned. Cheryl Ann had probably picked something much flashier and would be steamed. But June had the right instincts. She looked like something out of a storybook, and she was coming right toward Lindie.

But then, she was coming down toward everyone, and Lindie was not the only one to notice her. The stairway leading down into the foyer was like a stage, and June its ingenue. People just entering the foyer hushed to watch her descend. Those as far away as the back parlor quieted their conversations to eye her. The crowd on the stairs parted ever so slightly; as she passed, Lindie found herself tongue-tied, unable to say June’s name or draw her attention. Instead, Lindie stepped out of June’s line of sight and watched everyone watch June—Ricky and Sam, the makeup girls, Mr. and Mrs. Freewalt and their four little Freewalts, and, there, at the far end of the foyer, Diane DeSoto and Clyde Danvers.

As soon as June’s foot touched the ground floor, the curtains swayed shut across the moment. The St. Judians went back to their conversations, to chasing after their hooligan sons, to finding refills of their gimlets. June turned toward the side door and out onto the side lawn, where the orchestra was now playing standards from the war. Lindie changed tacks, deciding to head back down the stairs to follow June, but, without the collective hush of June’s presence, the river had turned back into sludge. Lindie found herself caught behind old Mr. and Mrs. Fishpaw; she had a bad knee, he took each stair with two careful feet, supporting her.

Diane’s eyes followed June; once the girl was out of sight, Diane whipped back to Clyde, a sly smile raking her lips. He leaned into her and whispered something that produced from her a cool, wicked laugh. Her eyes flicked up to catch Lindie watching. Diane curled her finger in a gesture of enticement. Lindie didn’t much want to see Clyde, but, by the time she reached Diane, he had disappeared into the crowd.

“What a handsome little monkey you are,” Diane said, holding Lindie by one hand and insisting she twirl with the other. It didn’t sound like a compliment.

“It was my father’s.”

“I’m going to take you shopping,” Diane said. “Find you some proper clothes, little beast.” It wasn’t the first time she’d promised this, and Lindie thanked her politely, as she always did, without believing it meant anything real.