Waiting for Sunrise (4 page)

4

Phyllis Buchwald greeted Patsy with open arms in the foyer of a two-story farmhouse that stood in the middle of an open field about two miles north of Trinity. “Oh, you darling thing,” she spoke against Patsy’s hair. “I’m so glad to finally have you here.”

Patsy stepped out of the woman’s embrace. “Thank you.”

Wesley Buchwald walked into the foyer through the front door, carrying her meager luggage.

“Hon,” Phyllis said to him, “put that in our room for tonight.”

Patsy noted the kind but unspoken words between them. Mrs. Buchwald didn’t flutter about nervously and Mr. Buchwald didn’t enter with the fearful presence of Mr. Liddle. The thought was fleeting, but it was enough to make her relax, even if only a little.

Mrs. Buchwald, a somewhat stout and handsome woman, wrapped stubby fingers around Patsy’s arm. “We’ll go through the dining room here,” she said, indicating the darkened room to her right, the same direction Mr. Buchwald had gone, “and into the kitchen for a little hot tea before I show you to your room.” Her words were whispers, soft and coaxing. “Didja eat?”

“Yes ma’am.”

“Well, come on then.”

Patsy didn’t hesitate to walk alongside Mrs. Buchwald, whose fingers slipped from around her as she pushed open the swinging door between the dining room and a butler’s pantry.

After they’d stepped into the kitchen, Patsy paused. The kitchen glowed from a Bakelite lamp perched atop an occasional table standing at the far side of the room.

“Go have a seat at the table. Right in there,” the older woman told her, indicating she should continue on to the table in the nook. “I’ve got the water simmering on the stove top.”

As Patsy pulled a chair from the table, she realized she still held on to her purse as though it were a life preserver. She also noted that the chair nearest the lamp, which was to her right, was already pulled away from the table and that a book was opened at its place.

Sideward observation told her it was a Bible.

She placed her purse in the chair to her left, leaving the chair to her right for Mrs. Buchwald. Moments later, hot ginger tea was served in delicate teacups. “Here you go,” the woman said. “And here are some sugar cubes if you’d like.”

Patsy removed small silver tongs from the matching sugar bowl before setting about preparing her tea as she liked it. “You have nice things,” Patsy said.

“They were my mama’s. Mama loved pretty things.”

Patsy took a sip of tea, careful to place the cup back into the saucer without breaking it.

“You must be plumb tired out.” Mrs. Buchwald sat next to her and immediately took a sip of her own tea. “I know I’d be if I were you.”

Patsy inhaled a spicy curl of steam. She closed her eyes, thought of just how truly tired she was, and that—at this very moment—she was in the same house as her full-blood brother. She opened her eyes. “I don’t know what to call you.”

A firm pat on the hand and she looked directly at her hostess. “Oh, hon. You can call me anything you like. Now, your brother—you know about your brother, don’t you?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Your mother said as much, but I wanted to make sure.” She took a sip of tea, returned the cup to its saucer. “Your brother calls me Mam. Don’t ask me how it got started because I just can’t remember. But he calls me Mam and he calls Mr. B Papa. I want you to feel free to do the same if it’ll make things easier for you.”

It seemed an odd thing to do, calling complete strangers by such endearments. “I’ll try,” she said finally. “I suppose anything else would be . . .”

“The only thing I ask is that you not call us by our given names. That wouldn’t be proper.”

Patsy took in the woman’s features in the veiled glow from the light. Her dark hair capped her head in tight but soft curls. Her face was round, and she, like her husband, wore round frameless specs. Behind them were dark, kind eyes. Her forehead was high and—even at the late hour—her lips bore the stain of red lipstick. She wore a simple housedress. Not yet ready for bed, Patsy supposed.

She patted Patsy’s hand again before adding, “Drink up.”

Patsy did as she was told. A noise from the kitchen door diverted her attention, but it was dark and she couldn’t tell what it had been.

“That’s Papa,” she heard. “He’s in our room, right off from the butler’s pantry. Out back is our greenhouse and a small shop. We have a place in town now too. Had to give it up for a while, but things are getting better now.”

Patsy finished her tea as the woman continued to fill her in on the way of things. “Now, I want you to feel free to sleep in as late as need be tomorrow. But your brother is an early riser so expect to hear him mulling around upstairs.”

“Is that where we sleep? Upstairs?”

Mrs. Buchwald nodded. “Yes. And we have indoor plumbing up there, just across from your room. I’m sure you’ll need to use the facilities before going to bed.” Her face turned toward the dining room door. “Papa and I are right down here if you need us. Are you done with your tea?”

Patsy nodded. Together, they stood, both gathering up the dishes.

“On Sunday, of course, we go to church.” Mrs. Buchwald placed her dishes near the sink, and Patsy did the same. “We’re Methodists.”

“Mr. Liddle is a Baptist, so we go to church there.” Patsy grimaced. It felt like a stupid thing to say.

“Nothing wrong with that,” the woman said with a squeeze of Patsy’s shoulders. “Now, let’s get upstairs. I took the liberty of shopping a little for you. Bought you a pretty nightgown and it’s all laid out for you on the bed.”

“Thank you.” Patsy stalled. There was something she needed to ask. “Mrs. Buchwald? Mam?”

“Yes, darlin’?” From the look on her face, Mrs. Buchwald was pleased with the title coming so quickly.

“There is one thing you can help me with.”

“Anything. Anything at all.”

“I don’t know my brother’s name . . .”

———

Patsy was grateful Mrs. Buchwald had given her permission to sleep in late. In spite of being in unfamiliar circumstances, she’d slept soundly and—to her knowledge—without dreaming. She’d even been too tired to cry.

When her eyes finally opened, the room was filled with bright light. The lightly ticking Westclox on the bedside table told her it was after ten o’clock. She pushed herself up on the polished pine twin-sized headboard and adjusted the feather pillow to the small of her back before taking in the room.

It was simply decorated. The bed was covered in crisp white sheets topped with a thin quilt handmade from scraps of pink fabric. A mirrored pine dresser with three narrow drawers and a matching bedside table made up the remaining furniture save for a white wicker rocker in one corner. Atop the dresser was a small arrangement of summer flowers resting over a crocheted doily. Her luggage stood just inside the door, and she wondered when it had been placed there.

Patsy pulled herself from under the covers then slung them back over the mattresses before smoothing them with the palms of her hands. A fluff of the pillow before placing it at the headboard and she was ready to get dressed. It was then she remembered placing her traveling clothes on the rocker the night before. But they were no longer there. Mrs. Buchwald—Mam—must have taken them to be washed.

She had no idea what her mother had packed. She’d just as soon her new family not know she was awake, so she heaved the worn luggage up onto the bed and opened it quietly. Inside, she found several items of her favorite clothes including a pair of dungarees with red and white checkered cuffs. She pulled them from the suitcase along with a red short-sleeved sweater.

She’d used the bathroom the night before and was happy it was so close to her room. After washing her face and brushing her teeth, she dressed quietly. Opening the bathroom door to return to her bedroom, she gasped. Standing across the hall, leaning one shoulder against the wall and with a leg crossed over the other, stood a boy. His face was strikingly handsome—even for a lad of eleven—and he wore dungarees rolled up at the cuffs, a dark red and light blue horizontally striped shirt, and a worn red cap with a green four-leaf clover front and center.

He smiled at having surprised her. “You must be Patsy,” he said, straightening. He extended a hand to her as though they were new classmates.

Patsy swallowed. “I am.” She didn’t move. “You must be . . . my brother.”

His head bobbed once. “Lloyd.”

Her head mimicked his. “Lloyd.”

He glanced nervously toward her bedroom door. “So . . . you like your new room? Mam arranged the flowers, but I put them on the doily.”

She smiled. “It’s nice. They’re nice. Thank you.”

“Mam says we don’t have a lot, but what we have is clean. Mam likes clean.”

Patsy took tentative steps toward her room. Lloyd turned as though to follow. “I guess I missed breakfast.” She stepped into the room, Lloyd right behind her. This was new; just as she wasn’t allowed in her mother and Mr. Liddle’s room, at home her little brothers weren’t allowed in her room.

“Yeah, but Mam will make you something to eat. Mam loves to cook. She’s good at it too.”

Patsy sighed as if she’d been squeezed. “Oh yeah?” She looked around the room, not knowing where to put her new nightgown.

Lloyd pointed to a narrow door on the wall to her right. “It’s a little closet, but Mam put a hook on the inside of the door just for your nightclothes.”

Patsy blinked. “Thank you. Again.”

She opened the closet door. High inside was a bar with a few wooden hangers. She took them down one at a time, then set about to the task of unpacking her suitcase. Lloyd was quiet while she worked. He sat in the rocker, elbows on his knees, hands clasped together, and when she’d finished he said, “So, you’re my real sister.”

Patsy whirled around. She couldn’t answer; she could only nod.

“Well, then.” Patsy watched as he visibly swallowed. “I guess you should go on downstairs and eat something for breakfast before it’s time for lunch.”

———

Little William Liddle—called Billy—was only four years old that September night in 1946, but he was old enough to know what was what.

He knew his sister Patsy had gone somewhere. And from the way his mama was acting, it had to be somewhere bad. He reckoned she’d done something awful. His daddy was always mad at her for one thing or another; she must have really done it this time.

He also knew Daddy would be fighting mad about it too.

They’d been put to bed early that night, him and his older brother Harold. Him and Harold had played hard that day, and Harold had gone right to sleep. But Billy couldn’t find his way to dreamland. The air was stirrin’ in the house, and Mama was nervous as a cat.

When he’d heard Daddy’s car shut off in the driveway, he’d closed his eyes tight. Daddy was sure to look in on them, and he didn’t want to be caught with his eyes open. So he rolled over on his side, pulled the covers tight up under his chin, and listened while pretending.

He heard Daddy walking in the front door. Mama said something to him, low and easy. Daddy said, “Where are my boys?” Daddy’s voice always boomed when he came home from his workweek.

And Mama said, “. . . both so tuckered out, I put them to bed early.” Footsteps headed up the stairs. The door opened, and even with his eyes shut, Billy could see the shaft of light from the hallway.

The door closed. Mama and Daddy heading back down the hallway, Billy figured to their own room.

“Don’t you want your supper?” Mama was asking. “I kept it warm in the oven.”

Daddy said, “What’d you make?”

Mama rattled off, “Meat loaf and sweet potato soufflé and tomato slices with some cukes and I made a nice pound cake. Came out real good.”

Daddy said, “Where’s the girl?”

He always asked like that. Never called Patsy by her name. Always “the girl.”

Billy sat up in bed now. “Harold?” he whispered. But Harold didn’t stir.

“I said, ‘Where’s the girl?’” Daddy said it again.

Boy, oh boy. Mama’d better come up with a good one or Patsy’d sure get it when she got home. Daddy would whup her like he ain’t never whupped her before. And then Billy wondered why Daddy always beat on Patsy so. She was a good sister. A pretty sister. And seemed to him like she tried real hard to make Daddy happy.

“She’s gone,” he heard Mama say.

“Gone where?” And then Daddy used those words Mama said she’d best not ever hear out of Billy or Harold or she’d wash their mouths out with soap. “. . . better not be off spending the night with one of her girlfriends when she knows we got to get to church in the morning and you need her help with the boys.”

There was a long sigh of quiet. Then Mama said, “I sent her off.” Right out of her mouth like that.

“What do you mean you sent her off?” Daddy’s voice was low and it scared Billy.

“Be mad if you want to,” Mama said, her voice sounding all strong. Not like Billy usually heard his mama when she was talking to Daddy. She was bossy enough during the workweek when Daddy was gone, but just as soon as he came home . . .

“Harold,” Billy whispered one more time. Still nothing.

Mama kept talking. “Don’t think I don’t know the kind of looks you’ve been giving my girl. I sent her off somewhere you’ll never be able to get at her. No more whippings, Ira. No more . . .
looks
.”