Color the Sidewalk for Me (12 page)
After about a month Danny and I had settled into an amicable ease. He smiled more often and I'd tease him gently. We still didn't talk about his home life, however, and by some implicit understanding neither did we talk of mine, lest the comparison plunk us too close to forbidden territory. School was out; Bradleyville was eventless. So we spoke of the future.
“I want to travel,” he'd declared two weeks ago, his profile lighting up at the thought. The river's current was slow and the weather hot and dank.
“So do I. Where do you want to go?”
He wore jean shorts cut off in a fringe and a plain gold T-shirt that matched the hairs on his tanned arms. “The ocean. I want to sit on the beach. Run the sand through my fingers, watch the waves. I bet I could do that for hours.”
My intake of breath turned his head. “Me too,” I whispered. “I'm always drawing something, and lately I've been drawing nothin' but oceansâyou should see all the pictures on my bedroom walls. And so many times I've dreamed of sitting on the sand at night, wrapped in a blanket, seeing the moon's reflection on the water.”
I didn't tell him the dreams once included Bobby Delham.
Danny had gazed at me with those green eyes, a faraway expression softening his mouth. How many people yearned to see the ocean? Thousands, millions, yet the discovery of our shared desire brought a glow to his face as if he'd just unearthed the world's most precious jewel. Perhaps it was because we had so little in common. Or perhaps my desire somehow validated his own.
Then there was last Saturday. Just thinking about it now made me hug Barbara's pillow tighter. We'd been talking of traveling again, Danny saying he was praying that God would allow his future work to take him sailing around the world.
“What would the job be?” We were leaning against one of the wide oaks under our canopy, legs stretched out, my right shoulder touching his left as we gazed dreamily at the river.
“I don't know. I'm good with fixin' things, since I always had to work on equipment and stuff on the farm.”
“A sailin' janitor,” I said, giggling.
His muscles tensed. “You think that's all I can be, a janitor?”
There was that chip again. Why did he always have to be so sensitive? “No.” I rolled my head in his direction against the tree, its bark catching my hair. “I think you can be anything you want, because you're Danny Cander. And you can have whatever you want. For the same reason.”
He rolled his head toward me, chin practically touching his collarbone. His eyes were so green, like velvet emeralds. I'd never been that close to them before, had never noticed the golden-tinged ring around his irises. He was staring at me with such intensity that I felt heat rise in my chest. The shy Danny I knew would not look away, his eyes searching mine with a longing that captured my breath. I could smell his skin, rich and musky, like Granddad's sandalwood box. His hands rested on his stomach. I was clutching my elbows. Kiss me. The thought wafted through my head, leaving a clamor in its path like a sudden breeze through wind chimes. He swallowed, his gaze traveling to my mouth and up again. In the last second his eyes fell away. Neither of us moved.
“Danny,” I said quietly, letting go of my elbows. He would not look up. Before I lost my nerve, I reached out to take his hand. He shot me a startled glance, then slowly and solemnly entwined his fingers through mine. It was too embarrassing to look at each other anymore, so we gazed at the sunlight dancing across the river.
Remembering it now in Barbara's room, my friends chattering on, I could re-create the sceneâthe roughness of his palm, his smell, the black fringe of his lashes when he'd glanced away. A long sigh escaped me. This was only Tuesday night. How could I possibly wait until the weekend to see him again?
“Ooh, look at her.” Barbara's voice drifted over my thoughts.
“She's gone, y'all, totally gone,” Melissa piped, nudging me with her brush. “Hey! You dreamin' about bein' in that car with Bobby?”
I just smiled.
A
fter staying up half the night at Barbara's, I could hardly keep my eyes open as I watched Miss Jessie's kids. Busy making bridesmaid dresses for a couple over in Albertsville, Miss Jessie had lately been requesting my help often during the week. I didn't mind; it gave me something to do and the extra money was good. And we were all proud Miss Jessie had gained such a reputation as a seamstress that people were beginning to come from Albertsville just for her services.
“It's good for local business,” Mr. Tull had remarked in his reedy voice a few days ago after the bride-to-be and her mother had bought numerous articles in his store. Granddad and I were standing at the counter, having just brought our glasses, sticky and rose-colored from our strawberry milk shakes, back inside. Jake Lewellyn and Hank Jenkins were still ensconced under the awning in their usual chairs.
Wayne Tull had run the town's drugstore for twenty years, having inherited it from his father. He was now forty-five. The whole town knew his age due to his unabashed announcing of his birthday every year, complete with balloons and a colorful sign in his large front window. This naturally prompted the competitive ladies of the Methodist church and the Baptist church to bake him their fanciest cakes. He would gush and sigh over every flower decorating those cakes, privately declaring to each woman, “Now don't tell Mrs. So-and-so, but I do believe your petals are the prettiest.” I used to think Mr. Tull announced his birthdays for the attention. Now I realized he just loved a party.
Mr. Tull was short with a round, spectacled face and sparse tufts of brown hair. He looked and moved like a fussy bird, flitting around his store with unending energy, now filling a prescription, now making sodas. Jake Lewellyn and Hank Jenkins were two of his favorite patrons, but Granddad walked on water. Mr. Tull would titter unendingly at the shenanigans of Granddad and Mr. Lewellyn, telling the latest exploit to all his customers. He was Granddad's public relations dream.
“Sure is,” Granddad had replied. “Miss Jessie's just plain good for this town. Not bad to look at, either.” He winked at Mr. Tull, who gave him the expected mock-disapproving huff. Mr. Tull couldn't disagree, however. Miss Jessie had wavy brown hair, a smooth complexion, trim waist, and an equally beautiful disposition.
I left her neatly kept house and dragged home in the afternoon sun to find Mr. Lewellyn hobbling up our porch steps, his white Buick carefully parked at the curb. Two years ago he'd traded in his old car and had immediately driven by to show off his new chariot to Granddad. “He's just tryin' to best me,” Granddad had grumbled that night at supper. “Just 'cause he got hisself a new car and I got rid a mine years ago.” Granddad stabbed forcefully at some ice cubes stuck together in his tea. “Well, he's got car payments and I ain't, so who's bestin' who?”
Jake Lewellyn reminded me of the old bulldog that used to live on our street before it got run over. His mottled jowls hung fat and red, and they shook with righteous indignation when he argued with Granddad. His legs were short and bent, his chest wide. He used to scare me to death. In the last few years he'd slowed considerably, the veins in his beefy arms popping out beneath thinning skin, an omnipresent black cane in his hand.
“Hi, Mr. Lewellyn,” I called, summoning the energy to run up the steps and open the screen door for him.
“Hello, Celia.” He bumped across our wooden porch. “Your granddad home?”
“I imagine so.”
“Sure as I'm livin',” he said to himself with a wheeze. “Where else would the old goat be?”
“You okay?” I asked, pressing against the door frame to let him pass. “Sounds like you got a cough there.”
“It's nothin'. Don't go squealin' it to Thomas now; he'll be lookin' for me to keel over, a gleam in his eye.”
I laughed. “Don't worry, I won't.”
In the hallway he stopped, both hands resting on his cane, which was smudged with a multiplicity of fingerprints. “Thomas Bradley, where are you!” He picked his way toward the dining room table and our box of checkers while I pulled out his usual chair.
“Want some iced tea?”
“Yes, pretty girl, and I thank you.” He smacked the table with an open palm. “Thomas! Where is everybody around here?”
“Mama's probably at the store,” I called over my shoulder as I entered the kitchen. “And Kevy's playin' with Reid, I guess. Maybe Granddad's takin' a nap; I'll check.”
“Humph,” I heard him mutter. “Naps're for old men.”
When Granddad appeared, looking as spry as possible, he made sure to inform Mr. Lewellyn he'd been reading, not napping. Gray as Granddad's face could become when his heart suffered palpitations, he always managed to exude energy around Jake Lewellyn. Their lifelong competition hadn't abated, I mused as I set Mr. Lewellyn's tea before him; it had simply adapted to the limitations of their seventy-four years. I was pleased that Granddad looked the younger one, and often made a point of telling him so.
“No games yet, my girl,” Mr. Lewellyn said when I pushed the checkers toward him. His chair creaked as he leaned back, easing out his leg and rolling slightly to one side so he could dig in his pants pocket. “I came to show you this, Thomas.” Pulling out a newspaper article and unfolding it, he suppressed a cough.
Granddad accepted the piece of paper, eyeing his friend curiously. “You all right, Jake? Where'd you git that cough?”
“See what I tol' you?” Mr. Lewellyn stuck his chin out at me. “One little catch in my throat and I made his day.”
Ignoring the comment, Granddad adjusted the article a certain distance from his face and began to read, lips moving. Once or twice he glanced up in surprise. When he was through, he studied the other side of the paper, eyeing a portion of an ad for a storewide clearance sale, then flipped it back over. “You expect me to believe this, Jake Lewellyn? Where'd you git it?”
“What is it, Granddad?” I reached for the paper.
“The Lexington Herald,
see right there.” Mr. Lewellyn stopped my hand, pointing to the small print above the headline. “Page A-4, that's what it says.”
“I don't believe it; it ain't real,” Granddad declared. “This is another one a your tricks. And a poor one at that, I might add.”
“Pshaw.” Mr. Lewellyn shook his head. “I come all the way over here to bring you this, and you end up callin' me a liar.”
“Well, ya are one.”
“Oh, get off it, Thomas!”
“Get off it yourself!” Granddad shot back. “What do ya think I am, some acorn-spittin' idiot?”
“You ain't got no cause to shout!”
“I got cause when you try to trick my medals away from me!”
“Aagh!” Mr. Lewellyn banged the table with his cane. “Never mind, then; I'll just take it on home. You can forgit the whole thing.” His jowls sprayed pink.
Unable to read in the midst of their arguing, I headed for the kitchen, wincing as Granddad pronounced his friend jealous and yellow-belliedâremaining behind in two wars while Granddad had volunteered to fight.
“Well, somebody had to stay here and protect the town, not to mention your wife and daughter, while you ran around makin' a monkey a yourself!”
“Monkey! You think that's what those medals I got're for? You gone teched in the head, Jake Lewellyn!”
I plopped into a kitchen chair, set the newspaper article in front of me, and stuck a finger in each ear. “Governor Honors War Heroes,” the title read.
LexingtonâOn Veteran's Day in November, the Lexington Herald, aided by Governor Julian Carroll, will honor medal-bearing veterans now living in Kentucky, in a special ceremony on the steps of the governor's Frankfort mansion.
“There are many heroes living in our state,” Governor Carroll said, “and I'm proud to accept the
Herald'
s invitation to recognize their valiant sacrifices for our country.”
Veterans who wish to participate in the ceremony are urged to send their medals as proof of their accomplishments to reporter Lawrence Tremaine at the Lexington Herald by August 11, with a completed registration form explaining the circumstances under which the medals were earned. The medals will then be re-awarded during the ceremony, which Vice President Mondale has been asked to attend.
“We know these medals are precious,” Bradley Gottenheim, editor of the
Herald,
noted, addressing the concern that some may be reluctant to part with them even temporarily. “My staff will hold them with the utmost care, and we will see that each is returned to its rightful ownerâwith all the pomp and circumstance the Bluegrass State and our illustrious governor can muster.”
For a registration form please call Lawrence Tremaine at (606) 555-2822. All honorees' travel expenses relating to the ceremony will be paid by the
Lexington Herald.
Fingers still in my ears, I read the article a second time. Oh boy. Mama would be more than a little perturbed at having to drive Granddad all the way to Lexington for a war medal ceremony. Suddenly it occurred to me that Granddad hadn't been telling his battle stories lately and that this could be as much the cause for the recent calm in our house as my not arguing with Mama. I'd been thinking so much of Danny, I hadn't been paying attention. But how strange, Granddad's inexplicable silence regarding his favorite subject.
By the time I left the kitchen, Mr. Lewellyn had pulled to his feet and was heading for the door, his right hand shaking as he clutched his cane, fat cheeks a vibrant red. “That's the last time I try to help you, Thomas Bradley!” he stormed, sliding into a fit of wheezing. “Just tryin' to help a friend . . . and all I git . . . is more a your crab-edged . . . ill-tempered, cantankerous, dim-witted accusations. . . .”