“An extra life inside them, another branch, reaching, sheltering the other, like God’s angels protecting this old earth when He’s busy. Look after each other, girls.” She’d hugged and reminded them when they worried about their peculiarity.
Flannery and Patsy’d been relieved last winter when they heard about a set of boys born two counties over on New Year’s Day. “1952’s newest babies are, of all things, twins!” the radio announced.
Flannery growled at the girls’ bad-mouthing Patsy like that and pushed past them, biting down on her tongue.
“Flannery Butler,” the girls called after her, “where’s Patsy Baker?” Their laughter trailed.
Inside, Flannery headed to her classroom. A few girls from baton practice huddled together in the hall. They shot Flannery nervous smiles, but never called her over.
Wendell Black spotted her and raised a shy hand. Flannery stopped and tossed one back. For a second it looked like he might come over and talk to her. Then her freshman teacher, Mrs. Goebal, called, motioning Flannery to her side. “You look lost. Looks like you lost your other half, Miss Butler. Did Patsy join the circus with that clown Danny?” She chortled low with another teacher locked beside her in a classroom doorway.
The gossip punched to the bone. At that, Flannery drew back her shoulders, screwed her face, and lit a look that meant to do a’cuttin’. Slipped the teacher the meanest eye she could muster for trashing her sister’s good name.
Mrs. Goebal dropped her jaw and pressed a hand to her chest. “Well, I never,” she exclaimed, patting. “Heathens.” She snatched Flannery’s sleeve. “I should paddle you.”
But something in the hardness trapped in Flannery’s eyes made the woman release her.
When Flannery got home from school that afternoon, she found Mama on the porch, upset, clutching something wrapped in cloth.
“What is it?” Flannery said warily, grabbing the wooden porch rail. “What you got in there, Mama?” She lumbered up the steps with her schoolbooks and set them on the rail.
“Those awful kids,” Mama said. “They came speeding down the drive, and one of them jumped out and threw this on the porch. I was resting, but I came running when I heard them whooping it up out here. I saw the two Scott boys and the Franklin girl in that old green pickup of the Scotts.”
“Bess Franklin,” Flannery said.
“Yes, that’s her. Violet Perry’s friend. See what they left? Look, Flannery. Look . . .” Mama worked up a wail and shoved the lumpy package in her daughter’s face.
Flannery peeled back a dirty blanket and saw the small baby dolls, their bald, rubber heads marked in thick, tomato-red paint that read PATSY’S BASTARDS.
CHAPTER 22
“Nothing but school-yard shit then and nothing that needs attention now,” Hollis repeated, thumping the dash again.
“It was more than that,” Flannery whispered. “That’s your brother and my sister in your car.”
“It’s over, dammit. I’m not going to be hurt anymore,” Hollis said, pressing down on the gas, eager to drop her off.
“We’re all hurting.” Flannery tried to reason with him.
All those hurtings eventually drove Flannery away. In her senior year at Glass Ferry, she’d kept her nose in the books, earning good grades and the principal’s favor.
Before the ink dried on her high school diploma in ’53, Flannery fled Glass Ferry for the city and the University of Louisville.
Mama’d cried and begged Flannery to stay. And if the principal hadn’t intervened on Flannery’s behalf, she surely would’ve been stuck. In the end the principal called Mama and insisted that Flannery should have the higher learning so Glass Ferry could get themselves a new teacher. Mama sold some of Honey Bee’s things to pay for that learning, and soon Flannery left.
Getting miles away from Glass Ferry and her mama’s sadness, from those rumors and half-truths of small-town living, helped some.
*
In Louisville, Flannery kept her eyes peeled for a glimpse of her missing sister. But it wasn’t long till she forgot, hardly bothered, and only then if a familiar sound or sight jolted her into remembering to be on the lookout for Patsy. She pretended to be an only child to those she met. And soon she believed it. Isn’t that what Patsy was doing, probably at this very second? Flannery always rationalized.
A sound sleep still was difficult to get. Class work in Latin and geography seemed easy enough, but Flannery still missed more than a few lessons. It was hard to memorize all the Latin grammar rules, rivers, mountains, and country capitals when she couldn’t fall asleep sometimes until near morning.
But the one class she’d roll out of bed for in her sophomore year, be on time for no matter what, was better than all the rest. His name was Mark Hamilton, a visiting lecturer for one of her sociology courses. He talked soft and slow like Honey Bee, reminded her of him and the other kind but strong menfolk back home. “I’m in ministry training across town at the Southern Baptist Theological Seminary.” His words slid all over her. “From Alabama now, but as the son of missionaries who struck out early in cotton and other goods, I’ve been all over,” he’d said at the start of that first class. A dreamy Ashley Wilkes-looking fellow, everyone thought.
He invited questions after class. She found one, though the second she asked, it was lost to his boyish smile, his big green peepers. And when he looked at her like no one else had, she felt alive. His eyes roamed appreciatively, more boldly and unapologetically than those of others had, and for once she knew she looked like Betty Grable, her flat tires aired nicely.
They’d stood there for a few sparking seconds, taking each other in, when he grabbed his jacket and said, “Let’s go get coffee, and I’ll give you a better answer.”
“Let me powder my nose,” she practically sang. Inside the bathroom, Flannery freshened her makeup and at the last minute reached under her sweater and rolled up her skirt. She gave the waistband another tuck, looked at her legs. Just another inch, enough that she hoped he’d notice.
Shifting her weight, she popped out a knee and inspected. Her nylons had been cleaned just last night with the Lux Flakes that Betty Grable advertised on their box, washed gently with the tiny diamond soap flakes. Flannery smoothed down her skirt and smiled.
Coffee turned into lunch, a lazy stroll around the campus, and then a fine steak dinner at a restaurant called Hasenour’s, the fancy kind of place she’d read about in books.
Inside the darkened restaurant foyer, Flannery looked beyond to the black leather booths tucked along ruby-red walls against a backdrop of tall, gleaming mirrors that circled a large room in a dizzying display.
Flannery touched the pearl button at the top of her pale yellow sweater, nervously tugged.
Mark whispered something to the ma?tre d’, and, without hesitation, the man led the couple into the big dining room.
Crystal goblets and silver sat atop red linen-draped tables. The tinkling of fine dishware and soft chatter of folks floated across the room.
This was not the darkened cellar of the Seelbach. The expensive cigar, aged bourbon-soaked, whispery room that Thomas had treated her to. Appreciatively, Flannery took in her surroundings. Fancy-dressed people were served by men who were all gussied up like dandies. This was something bigger, a clip of what could be better for folks who were better. She was impressed and a little scared.
Quickly, they were seated at a center table. Two groomed waitstaff wearing tuxedoes and white gloves served them water, bowing slightly to Mark, uttering clipped sentences and putting on city airs.
Mark ordered a martini for himself and an iced tea for Flannery, then picked out dishes she couldn’t pronounce, quickly dismissing the two hovering waiters.