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Memphis, Tennessee
Ron’s first letter home lay face down on my chest. I’d devoured it ten times already, scrutinizing every word. It didn’t seem like he was still mad at me for causing his enlistment, but he didn’t sound mad at Dad either. Sarcastic maybe, but not mad. And that would have been impossible.
Fort Bragg, NC
Dear Family,
Well, Basic Training is over. Guess what, Dad?
I’m a marksman now. I know how to shoot an M16.
Not something I’m proud of but I know it makes you happy.
Turns out I’m a pretty fast runner, too.
My sergeant asked me if I was a sprinter or a running back.
I told him I was a defensive end benchwarmer but thanked him for asking.
I got my induction cut. Y’all wouldn’t recognize me. I look like Uncle Fester. (He’s on The Addams Family, Dad.) No wonder they say a crewcut feels like a Brillo pad. It’s a good thing you can’t see me, SuSu. You’d be laughing your butt off.
I’m taking my four days leave in Myrtle Beach with three buddies in my unit.
They’ve become my brothers. Most of them didn’t attend college.
(None of their families could afford it.) Only one of my brothers, Freddy C, got to go to college before Basic.
He got drafted as soon as he graduated. He’s the one good thing about the army.
We’ve become as thick as the blood running through our veins in only two months.
After the leave we’ll all report back for our flight to Vietnam. The sergeant says we better rest while we can. We won’t have another break for a year, unless we get R & R sooner, which he said will never happen. I’ll write again when we make it over there.
Peace,
Ron
P.S. SuSu, please don’t scratch Cuda’s hubcaps when you pull away from the curb.
P.P.S. Have so much fun at the Beatles concert. I would kill to be there with you. No pun intended.
Satisfied that he was not mad at me—at least not at the time he wrote the letter—I rolled off my bed, then grabbed both my suitcase and Ron’s guitar. I turned out the bedroom light with my chin.
In no time I made it to the bottom of the stairs, a bit out of breath from the heavy load.
The luscious smell of fresh-baked banana bread wafted from the kitchen.
Poking my head inside the living room, I found Mama in her favorite chair, reading.
Like every day, she was dressed as if she would be meeting Queen Elizabeth.
Her husband expected it. His wife was a representation of him.
“I finished my book,” I said, chewing my bottom lip in hopeful anticipation.
“Can you please take me to Livy’s now? She’s waiting on me.
” Livy was my very best friend, and her home, my refuge.
There were many reasons for that, but chief among them was the strict commandment in our household—no dancing allowed.
That rule didn’t exist in Livy’s family. Dancing wasn’t against their religion.
Mama turned off the lamp, gathered her purse. “I’m proud of you, honey. Is that your fifteenth or sixteenth book?”
“Eighteenth.”
Elation spread across Mama’s face as she clapped her hands together. “You’re going to win that summer reading challenge. I just know it!”
“Impossible. Vicki Olson wins every year. Last year she read sixty. She has no life.” Thinking about my eighteenth book, I moved toward the foyer, then placed my belongings down on the black-and-white marble floor.
I’d spent the morning wrapped up in The Catcher in the Rye.
Holden’s troubles reminded me of mine. The way he missed his brother, how he struggled to discover his real self.
Mama had no idea about all the hells and goddamns.
Probably two hundred of them. If she’d known, the book would have been snatched away before I ever cracked the cover.
“That Mrs. Foster is a doozy,” Mama said, high heels clacking against the marble. “Why, she invites you over every Friday night. You should return the favor more often, honey. I love having Livy here. She’s a doll.”
With a hand on the doorknob, I stopped, turned to face my mother. “Livy can’t spend the night out anymore. Kim misses her too much.”
That was a bold-faced lie. Livy and her little sister couldn’t stand each other. She used to spend the night at my house all the time, but once Ron left and Dad turned into a first-class ogre, Livy grew fearful of him.
I picked up my stuff and rushed out the front door.
“It’s the polite thing to do,” Mama called from behind. “I wouldn’t want the Fosters thinking poorly of us.”
“They don’t,” I called back, walking swiftly toward the car. “I swear.”
“Don’t swear, Suzannah.”
“Sorry, it was a slip.”
“What game are you girls playing tonight?”
“Beats me,” I muttered, almost to the car.
“Why don’t you bring along our new Parcheesi board? Let’s be generous.”
Before I could object to such an embarrassing notion, Mama had already scurried back inside. I’d once told her that Livy’s family, like ours, played a lot of board games. Lying had become one of my strong suits—born out of necessity—but in my mind, “Beats me” was not a lie.
While Mama was inside, my mind drifted. She was right.
Mrs. Foster was indeed a doozy. Just not the way Mama thought.
Aside from earning the title of Grooviest Mother in America, a moniker I had given her in the seventh grade, Mrs. Foster adored me, and, most important, she covered for me.
Livy said it tore her mom up that I was growing up the same way she had, “in a strict religious family,” so she felt it her duty to protect me from what she called “rebellion and other repercussions.”
Not only did she approve of our dancing, but she danced with us. She let Livy smoke. Even bought her cigarettes. I’d never seen Livy’s parents play a single board game, but I always saw them playing cards with their friends.
Cards were another sin in my family.
Moments later, Mama met me at the car with the Parcheesi board in one hand and the car keys in the other.
“I’ll take those,” I said, slipping the key ring over my finger.
I flew to the back and opened the trunk of my brother’s prized possession—his ’63 Plymouth Barracuda—and slung my suitcase, the guitar case, and the Parcheesi board inside.
I loved driving Cuda whenever I got the chance. According to Dad, it needed to be driven to keep the battery alive. He wouldn’t let me take it overnight to Livy’s, though. Ridiculous.
The Memphis heat made it impossible to sit down without airing out the car.
After opening the doors and rolling down all the windows, Mama slid into the passenger seat, all the while exclaiming, “Oh dear, oh dear.” She pulled down the vanity mirror and tied her car scarf under her chin. To protect her hairdo.
I jumped into the driver’s seat and cranked the engine. Cuda roared to life. Struggling to turn the wheel—she had no power steering—I managed to inch away from the curb without scratching her hubcaps. With a glance in the rearview mirror, I watched our house, and my troubles, temporarily disappear.
Like always, I tuned the radio to my favorite station, WHBQ-AM.
“Cherish” floated yearningly from the speaker.
Just hearing the first stanza of the new song from the Association sent me straight into a fantasy about Paul: the soft melody, the unrequited love.
So apropos. Knowing every word, I sang along.
Singing made me feel good about myself. It gave me a reason to breathe. Especially with Ron gone.
Just as we came to a stop sign, “Cherish” ended. I noticed a smile on Mama’s face. Good to see. Smiling was something she hadn’t done much of since Ron left.
“You look happy,” I said, careful to keep my eyes on the road. Mama was a stickler for that.
“Hearing you sing makes me happy.” From the corner of my eye, I noticed her tenting her fingers, each one bouncing off the other. She shifted in her seat, then turned toward me. “Why don’t you join the choir, honey? It would delight your father so.”
If I had known she would bring that up again, I’d have never commented on her smile. “I already tried choir. It wasn’t for me. You know that.”
“God blessed you with a beautiful voice, Suzannah. It honors him when you share it with his church. Please give choir another chance.”
Watching my mother’s face fall, and the way she stared down at her hands, rubbing her thumbs together, made me reconsider joining the choir. Just to make her happy. Just to make her smile. But picturing those mean, gossipy biddies made me banish the thought, and I mashed the accelerator.
Singing in the youth choir was something I’d once loved. It had filled me with joy . . . until one evening after choir practice. I’d rehearsed “Holy, Holy, Holy” in front of the mirror all week long and belted it out during practice. The choir director even complimented my performance.
Once practice was over, I overheard two mothers saying terrible things about me. “Well, look at Little Miss Show-Off today. Doesn’t she think she’s something special,” one mom said, in a mocking tone. “What gives her the right to drown out all the other children?”
“Shame on her,” the other mom said, plenty loud enough for me to hear.
I bolted to the ladies’ room, then hid inside a toilet stall for thirty minutes until I finally gained the courage to leave. It had never dawned on me that I was a show-off. I hadn’t meant to be. I was just doing what I loved most. Singing.
Ron had saved me when I got home. “Forget those ugly biddies. They’re just jealous their daughters don’t sing as well as you do. We’ll show them. One day we’ll start our own singing group.”
Livy’s house was only eight minutes from mine.
She lived in one of those groovy gargantuan mansions on Belvedere Boulevard, the kind with a carriage house in the rear and oversize rooms in the main.
Playing hide-and-seek at Livy’s as a ten-year-old was like getting lost in the fun house at the Mid-South Fair.