“Bitsy could see the future clearly. She would marry Ray. They’d live in one of the big cities like New York, Paris, or Waukesha, and she’d become a singer. Either she’d star in Hollywood musicals, like Breakfast at Tiffany’s, or sing with a band. Maybe both. And of course, she’d make records like Annette Funicello. She’d always had the best voice in her school, always been picked as female lead in the play. Ray adored anything with wheels, and he had a knack for fixing motors. He’d have a garage and a car dealership. They’d make tons of money. Do whatever they pleased.
“When she turned up pregnant, her daddy didn’t fall on his knees and pray, like he always said you should when there was trouble. He loaded his Remington Woodmaster and went after Ray. Threatened to blow his head off if he ever set foot near Bitsy again.
“She was desperate to see Ray. Every chance she got, she dialed his number, but no one picked up. Their friends were no help. No, they hadn’t seen Ray. No idea what he was up to. Soon as they heard from him, they’d tell him to call. ‘I figured they were scared of Daddy,’ Bitsy told me. ‘Most everyone was. Sundays when he preached, even the little babies went bone still with stretched-out eyes.’
“Still, she was sure Ray would come for her. After all, he’d promised. Forever never changed. They’d run off, have their baby, and … cue music, cue Hollywood ending.
“Bitsy’s parents kept her a virtual prisoner in the house. Her father forced her to polish the faded linoleum over and over, as if that might wipe out the stain on her soul. He preached at her constantly, raving about hellfire and brimstone, willing spirits and weak flesh.
“Her mother said nothing. ‘Momma would get this empty look. All she did was sit on the porch swing in her faded blue dress, humming that song she loved: ‘Moon River, wider than a mile …’
“Bitsy had to get away. She stole fifty dollars from the secret stash her mother kept behind the frozen okra, and she packed a suitcase. Soon as she could, she grabbed her things and ran. She was sure Ray would be at the creek, where all her friends hung out on hot days like this. And there he was, behind a clump of bushes, doing what engaged people did with her best friend Wanda.
“What followed was a blur. Somehow, Bitsy wound up on a Greyhound bus to New York. The next night, she arrived at the bustling Port Authority Terminal with a broken heart, a terrible bellyache, and nowhere to go.
“Bad men were on her, as she put it, like ticks on a hound. Thankfully, she knew enough to get away from them, from there. She slipped into the first church she came to and curled up between rows of pews. Hours later, she awoke in wrenching pain. Blood everywhere. The air rang with the scream of approaching sirens. Strangers hefted her onto a gurney and rushed her to the emergency room at St. Luke’s. Bitsy thought she was dying, being punished as her father had predicted for her sins. She’d never heard of a miscarriage.
“Once it was over, a hospital social worker came around full of questions. How old was she? Where were her parents? Where was home? Did she have insurance? What kind of insurance did she have? Bitsy’s instinct was to make up a story. She claimed she was nineteen, though everyone said she looked younger. Her husband had gone away with his Army reserve unit (like Ray sometimes did). He’d be home in a couple of days. Meantime, a friend named P. J. Clarke was going to look after her at 915 Third Avenue. Bitsy had seen that name and address in an ad on the endless bus ride to New York. Sure, they had the army insurance, but her husband had the card. She promised to call with the numbers the hospital needed as soon as she could.
“Amazingly, the social-work lady believed her. She kept inventing whatever stories she needed to keep from getting caught and sent home. No way could she ever go back to Myrtle. Daddy would kill her. Ray didn’t love her anymore. Maybe he never had.
“She knocked around, earned a few bucks, and found people here and there who were willing to put her up. She discovered all kinds of things in garbage cans and on the street: discarded food, gloves, even a thick green wool sweater with a puffy snowman on the front. It was ridiculous but warm. She imagined her friends laughing their heads off when they saw her in it, but she quickly marched the thought out of her head. They didn’t exist anymore. Neither did home.
“A week after Christmas, she wandered into a noisy bar one night to escape the cold. People were drinking and laughing, coupling up. In the shadows at the rear, a scrawny, bearded guy in a work shirt was playing a beat-up spinet. After Stardust, he segued into her mama’s favorite song. Moon River, wider than a mile …
“Bitsy drifted toward the piano. So much was running through her head: loneliness, longing, the stifling weight of her shattered dreams. She didn’t realize she was singing aloud until the manager came over, a wiry man whose name badge read CHAS. She feared he’d kick her out, maybe call the police. Instead, he said he liked her voice. Was she looking for a gig? His regular singer hadn’t shown up, and he could use her. How she grinned at that memory. ‘Heaven, right?’