No Way Home Page 2

  Each of the girls was partnered with a soldier. Lillie beamed as she watched Michele cross the stage and take the arm of a tall, gangly boy whose brief, shy smile revealed braces on his teeth. Michele was perfectly at ease on the stage, speaking out clearly and deftly fielding the blundered cues of her mumbling partner, smiling all the while. She gets it from her father, Lillie thought. She looks like she was born on that stage.

  From the audience, the rose-pink gown seemed to glow, giving Michele’s young complexion the radiance of a magnolia blossom. Lillie could recall exactly how it felt to wear that gown. The weight of the skirts, the tickle of the lacy bodice, the narrow waist, the sense that you were transformed, a feast for the eyes, a rose.

  Pink leaned over and whispered to Lillie, “Takes me back to the year you were in the pageant. You looked so pretty I couldn’t take my eyes off of you.”

  Lillie flashed her husband a guilty smile, for she had just been remembering the admiring gaze in the eyes of her partner that long-ago day. Jordan Hill’s deep-brown playful eyes had fastened on her with a yearning warmed by his sleepy dimpled smile.

  “Everybody and his brother is here today,” Pink said. “I think I may be able to drum up a little business.”

  Lillie nudged him in the side to be quiet and applauded wildly with the rest of the audience as the self-conscious belles and their make-believe swains hurried through their lines and sang with rousing enthusiasm a Stephen Foster tune before clambering off the stage with considerably less dignity than they had claimed it. As the applause died away, Lillie felt a rush of foolish, sentimental tears filling her eyes. During all those years of doctors and hospitals, and Michele’s tiny hand gripping hers, she had scarcely dared to think ahead to the next day, much less to dream that one day her daughter would be up there on that stage, a lovely young woman in her mother’s rose-pink gown.

  Pink got up and stretched. “Well, I’ve got to get out there and get to visiting,” he said. To Pink, every gathering, no matter how social it might be, was a business opportunity. A real-estate salesman in a county where people spent generations on the same land, his oft-repeated motto was “I have to hustle.”

  Lillie wiped her eyes and stood up. She was used to him by now. He would grab a person’s hand extended in greeting and cling to it, asking in a familiar voice about mortgage refinancing and whether they might not be better off letting just a corner of the farm go, especially when he could get them the best price for it.

  They strolled together out the French doors and into the brightness of the afternoon. “You go ahead,” said Lillie. “I want to find Brenda.” Brenda Daniels, her oldest friend and her partner in the catering business, was a three-time divorcee who had used the settlement from her last, brief marriage to get the business going and lure Lillie into it. She had caught Lillie at a good time. Michele was finally healthy, and both children were past the age where they needed her constant attention. The business had been a perfect channel for her restless energy. Lillie could hardly remember a day going by in their lives when she and Brenda had not talked together at least once. She turned to Grayson. “What time does the game start?”

  “In a few minutes. I’ve got to get over to the field and warm up.”

  “I’ll be right over,” said Lillie. “Good luck.”

  Pink cocked his hand as if it were a revolver and squinted down his forefinger at Grayson. “Knock ‘em dead, shooter. I’m counting on you.” Pink kneaded his son’s shoulder with one large hand and then smacked him gently on the back to send him on his way, as he turned around to scout for a potential customer.

  Lillie watched her son lope off in the direction of the baseball diamond. Allene Starnes materialized out of the crowd, still wearing her ballgown, and Gray stopped short to speak to her, one knee bent, his hat pulled down so that only his lazy, summery smile was visible under the shadow of the brim.

  Lillie gazed at him a little wistfully. He seemed to have none of the insecurities and doubts so common to other boys his age. At least he never spoke of them to her. Perhaps he confided in Pink. From the day he was born and Pink scooped him up from her arms in the hospital and gazed hungrily down into his soft, innocent face, he had belonged to Pink somehow. Grayson had been the kind of child whose life seemed to unfold in a smooth arc of perfection. His was an easy birth, and he spoke his first words early and could point with clarity to what he wanted. He took his first steps, into Pink’s waiting arms, when he was only eight months old. School was easy for him, and he was always one of those surprisingly coordinated children who got things right on the first try. What disappointments, what frustrations, he may have had, he brought them instinctively to Pink, who always was waiting. Their bond was a blessing to Lillie, who spent most of her time just trying to keep Michele from succumbing to one deadly episode after another in those days. But now, looking at her son, already so grown-up, she felt a sense of loss. Already he was taking up with girls, and soon he’d be a grown man and gone, and she felt as if she had never really possessed him.

  Snap out of it, she chided herself. You’re going to ruin the day with your moping. And it’s just the oppressiveness of the air getting to you, the low sky weighing you down. Lillie began to walk slowly in the direction of the baseball diamond. She kept an eye out for Brenda, but there was no sign of her. Lillie thought she knew what that meant. Brenda had gone up to Nashville the day before to do some shopping, and like as not had looked up that married studio musician whom she had vowed never to spend another night with. Lillie secretly suspected that Brenda enjoyed the drama of these doomed affairs. Although she never came right out and said it, Brenda clearly regarded Lillie’s life as far too humdrum for her tastes.

  Lillie wiped her damp forehead and fanned herself with the program from the pageant. Everyone she greeted on her way to the ball field had the same thing on their minds. “Can’t recall a Founders Day hot as this one,” said Bessie Hill, brushing Lillie’s cheek with her papery old lips.

  “Twister weather if I ever seen it,” intoned Bomar Flood, the local pharmacist, as Lillie squeezed his damp hand and moved on. As she came up on the diamond, she saw Pink buttonholing an old farmer who was wearing overalls and the ubiquitous “Cat” cap pushed up on his forehead. They were standing just off the first-base line, and Pink had one eye cast on the game, which was just beginning.

  Lillie felt a protective surge of warmth for her husband. It was true that he was not the kind of man who inspired poetry and fireworks. But he had come into her life at a time when she was desperate and frightened. He had promised to take care of her, and he had. He worked hard, he doted on the children, and he lived with her moods without complaint. She was grateful to have him for her husband. She knew plenty of women who wished they could say as much, she thought.

  Pink spotted Lillie and waved to her. “Come on, our boy’s about to get up to bat.” Lillie walked up beside him and took a seat on the bleachers next to where Pink stood. The old farmer took the opportunity to excuse himself from Pink’s importuning pitch. Lillie perched on the edge of the seat and shaded her eyes with her hand as Grayson stepped up to the plate.

  Royce Ansley, the county sheriff, dressed in short sleeves and an olive-drab tie, walked up just then and stood beside Pink. In his fifties, Royce had the physique of a man half his age and the bearing of the soldier he had once been. He wore his graying hair in a crew cut, as he had ever since Lillie could remember. His black shoes shone like patent leather. ‘That’s Gray, isn’t it?” he asked.

  “Number eighteen,” Pink said proudly.

  “Hi, Sheriff,” Lillie said. Royce nodded and smiled at her. She could not remember a time when Royce had not been a law officer in Felton. When she was a young girl she had thought him sort of a romantic figure, gruff and silent. He had been an eligible bachelor until he was nearly forty, invited to many a home-cooked meal by mothers hopeful for their daughters. When he finally did marry, it was to a girl from Memphis, and for some years he was as happy as
a boy. Lillie turned her attention back to the game. Gray was assuming his stance, squinting purposefully into the distance. Lillie noticed several girls, including Allene, lined up behind the cage, giggling and preening, their eyes on her son. As the pitch came toward him, Gray drew the bat back and swung it fluidly, his body moving with the grace of a natural athlete. The bat connected solidly with the ball, and it sailed out far into the field, sending the outfielders scrambling after it in a ditch below the railroad tracks that bordered the diamond. Cheers erupted as Grayson made his turn around the bases.

  “He’s a fine hitter,” Royce observed as Pink pounded his fist into his hand in glee and restrained a war whoop.

  “Yay, Grayson,” Lillie called out as she applauded. As the cheers quieted and the pitcher from the Welbyville team tried to regain his composure, Lillie turned to the sheriff. “How ya doing?” she asked.

  “Fine, thanks.”

  “Tyler playing today?”

  The sheriff frowned. “He was supposed to play. I don’t see him on the bench though.” There was a tightness in his voice when he mentioned his son. The strife between Royce and his seventeen-year-old son was well known around town, having erupted in public on several occasions. Ever since Tyler’s mother had died, when the boy was twelve, he had run a little wild.

  Lillie decided to change the subject. “I hope the lawbreakers give you a rest today,” she said, “so you can enjoy the festivities.”

  “Oh, I guarantee you I’ll be busy tonight. I’ll have every bunk at the county jail filled with drunk and disorderlies. People get to celebrating a little too hard,” Royce said dryly.

  “I suppose so,” said Lillie.

  “I can’t get over that boy of mine,” Pink interjected, tearing his eyes away from Gray, who had been soundly thumped on the back and had his hand pumped by every teammate. “If it was just baseball you could understand it, but I’m telling you, it’s every sport he plays. And it’s not just sports, either. He’s got the brains too. Way to go, Grayson,” Pink cried as the boy caught his eye and waved. “There is nothing that boy can’t do, isn’t that so, honey?”

  “His daddy’s pride and joy,” Lillie said, almost apologetically, to Royce.

  “He’s got a right to be proud,” said Royce. “Grayson’s a fine boy.”

  “Mom, Mom, I need the keys to the car.”

  Lillie turned and saw Michele coming toward them, trailing her gown through the dusty grass. “Hello, Sheriff Ansley,” she said politely.

  “Hello, Michele.”

  “What do you want the car keys for?”

  “To get my clothes. They’re in that bag in the trunk.”

  “Oh, all right. Pink—”

  “Hmmm…” Pink turned around. “Oh, there’s the belle of the ball. You did real good in the pageant, honey.”

  “Thanks, Dad. I need to get in the trunk.”

  Pink handed her the car keys. “Bring ‘em right back,” he said. “You should have got here sooner. You missed it. Grayson just hit a homer.”

  “Oh, that’s great,” Michele said in a bored voice. She was used to her brother’s accomplishments, and was even proud of them, but Pink’s excess of enthusiasm always affected her adversely, so that she acted indifferent. She turned to the sheriff. “Is Tyler here?” she asked casually.

  “He was supposed to play,” said the sheriff.

  “Oh, there he is, Royce,” Lillie said. As soon as she said it, she wished she could take it back. Tyler was in uniform, but the shirt hung out of the back of his pants and the uniform looked as if he had rolled in the dirt in it. Tyler leaned over to select a bat, and when he stood up he staggered a little before he could catch himself. The coach came up to him and held his arm, speaking to him with a serious expression on his face, but Tyler waved him away with a limp hand and walked carefully toward the plate. He leaned over into his stance and licked his lips as he tried to focus his eyes on the pitcher. Tyler was a tall, well-built boy, nearly his father’s size, with long dark hair and a fleshy, sensuous face that was usually creased into a scowl.

  Tyler jerked his chin at the pitcher to indicate that he should go ahead. The pitcher wound up and sent one flying across the plate. Tyler swung wildly after the ball was already in the catcher’s mitt, and nearly lost his balance. The coach came out to the plate, calling out, “That’s enough.” He grabbed Tyler by the arm and spoke quickly into his ear.

  “He must be sick,” said Michele.

  Lillie held her breath. She could see the muscles in Royce’s jaw working furiously as Tyler protested and tried to shrug off the coach. A couple of other players came up and surrounded Tyler, who was shaking his head with his eyes closed. Two of the boys took him by the arms, but Tyler angrily shook them off and walked unsteadily off the baseline.

  “That’s not fair,” said Michele. “They won’t even give him a chance.”

  Lillie marveled a little at her daughter’s naivete. It was clear to everyone from the silence in the bleachers that Tyler was high on something. But to Michele he was just another underdog to root for. It was Michele’s natural tendency, Lillie thought fondly. Any runt of the litter, any stray cat, was her daughter’s natural ally. She cried at the news reports on the poor and, to Pink’s complete annoyance, wore black armbands whenever there was a prison execution. The troubled Tyler Ansley was a cause made to order for Michele.

  Lillie did not want to look at Royce. She knew he would be pale from the disgrace of it. She wished she could make the whole incident disappear for him. The next batter got up and started for the plate. Lillie was trying to think what to say when she was saved by Wallace Reynolds, Sheriff Ansley’s deputy, running up to the diamond with a grim expression on his face.

  “Sheriff,” Wallace said in a low, anxious voice, “you better get back to your car. Francis has been trying to reach you on the radio. There’s been a break at the county jail.”

  A murmur went up from the people nearby and then a loud buzz as the news was passed down the bleachers. Lillie and Pink exchanged a glance of surprise, and Lillie put a hand on Michele’s shoulder.

  “All right, Wallace. You follow me up there,” said Royce. Without another word he turned and hurried in the direction of his patrol car.

  “What happened?” Pink asked as the deputy hesitated a moment to catch his breath. A group of people left their seats and had gathered around them.

  Wallace shook his head. “I don’t know.”

  “What did Francis say?” asked a man seated in front of Lillie. Francis Dunham, as everyone knew, was the dispatcher at the county jail, and had been for about twenty years. “Who was it?”

  “I told you,” Wallace said, “I don’t know what happened. I got to get up there myself.” Wallace began to shoulder his way through the crowd and was pelted with anxious questions, which he waved away.

  “Folks, folks, the game,” pleaded the coach, who had jogged over. The players, unaware of the cause of all the excitement, watched the knot of buzzing spectators in bewilderment.

  “He’s right,” said a woman in red toreador pants. “The sheriff will get ‘em. Nothing we can do about it.” There were nods all around as the group of people dispersed and resumed their seats. The next batter stepped up to the plate.

  Lillie looked across the diamond and saw that Tyler Ansley was gone. That was lucky timing for him, she thought. Saved by the bell. She turned her attention back to the game as Michele went off toward the car to retrieve her clothes.

  The day’s festivities went on without further incident, although the sheriff and his deputy did not reappear at the picnic. Various contradictory reports filtered back about who, what, and how many were involved in the jailbreak. Somewhere between the time that the Felton team captured the county championship from Welbyville and the women started serving up the plates of cornbread, ribs, and chicken, the sky darkened threateningly and then a wave of cool breezes began breaking over the picnickers, and the air cleared. The crowd, already cheerful, became b
uoyant. Everyone helped clean up, agreeing that the food was better than it had ever been. Then, since night was falling, a country band began to set up inside the grand ballroom, and the floor was cleared of chairs for dancing. As soon as the band struck up its first tune, Pink tugged Lillie by the arm.

  “I think it’s time we got on home, honey. I’ve got property to show tomorrow.” He looked suspiciously at Lillie’s tapping toe. “You don’t want to stay, do you?”

  Lillie watched the band for a minute and then looked away. “No, not really. You think it’s safe to leave the kids with those convicts running around loose?”

  “Sheriff’s probably caught up with them by now. Anyway, they’re not going to come around here, with all these people,” said Pink.

  “You’re right,” Lillie said. “We best tell them we’re leaving though.”

  They did not have to look far for Grayson. He was already out on the dance floor, guiding an animated Allene Starnes in the country swing. Pink caught his eye and the boy came over, still holding Allene by the hand.

  “Your mother and I are going home now, son.”

  “Okay, I’ll see you later.”

  “Not too late. Be home by eleven,” said Lillie.

  “Eleven-thirty,” said Gray.

  “All right,” said Pink, beaming up at Grayson, whose blond hair was haloed by the light from the electric candles glowing in sconces all around the old ballroom.

  “Walk home with your sister,” Lillie said. “I don’t want you walking home alone, either of you.”

  “Mom, don’t worry,” Gray said. “Where is she, anyway?”

  “I don’t know. I’m going to go find her,” Lillie replied.

  “I’ll meet you at the car,” said Pink.

  Lillie wandered through the crowd still outside the ballroom doors. She saw Brenda, who had arrived in time to share supper with them full of tales of a wild evening with the musician in Nashville the night before. Brenda was talking now with Bill Mosher, a pudgy guy who worked at the bank. Lillie could tell by the glazed expression on her friend’s face and her static smile that Brenda was getting ready to bolt for home to sit by that phone. Lillie smiled and moved on, knowing she would hear all about it tomorrow.