got there, say hi? Maybe not to Lux, but to Alan Ray, who usually seemed happy to see her? She wanted to deliver the message, but something made her hang back, to stop and weigh things before she opened the screen door. Angel, devil, devil, angel. She wasn’t even sure whether to head down to the Jeep or yell out from the porch to tell them Dessie was coming.
But then it didn’t matter. Like a barefooted green flash, Dessie shot downstairs, past the kitchen, straight through the living room. Billie reached to open the door for her sister.
“One moment, Dorothy,” Rose called out, walking in from the kitchen, the smell of cornbread trailing after her. Dessie stopped and turned back. She wore a green pleated skirt, hiked up inches higher than Rose would allow, and a green-and-white print blouse with a high ruffled neck. She was carrying her shoes in her left hand, and her wet hair was gathered up with a wide stylish leather clip. Dessie looked at Billie, as if Billie should have known this would happen, as if she should have done something to distract their mother.
“Sit with me a moment, Dorothy, over here,” Rose said, wiping her hands on a dish towel and settling onto the piano bench in the living room. Billie could see Dessie’s right hand quickly unravel the waistband of her skirt so the hem hung down to the bottom of her knees; then, she sat down beside Rose and pulled her skirt down even lower over her knees, crossing her ankles below the bench. Her eyes were fixed on the outside door.
Rose smoothed her apron and sat up straight, facing her elder daughter who was already taller than she was. She took each of Dessie’s hands in each of her hands, bowed her head, closed her eyes, and said, “Dorothy, dear, let us pray. Heavenly Father, please protect my daughter this evening and bring her safely home to her family.” Rose blinked her eyes, but kept her head bowed.
“Amen,” said Dessie, her eyes cast down at the floor, and Billie said, “Amen,” out of habit more than out of conviction. From where she stood beside the doorway to the porch, Billie could hear both the gospel radio in the kitchen and the voices of the guys outside. Billie knew Dessie was ready to bolt. Rose seemed to know this too. Rose continued to clutch each of Dessie’s hands in her own trembling hands. On the wall above Rose’s silver, braided hair hung a framed print of a painting of Christ kneeling in prayer in the garden of Gethsemane. Rose said, “Father, you have blessed this home with two daughters, and I pray with all my heart that you do not see fit to take them before they can do Your work.” Rose’s eyes seemed to be about to well up with tears, and the trembling of her hands seemed to increase with each tick of the clock on the mantel. Billie wondered how long Rose would clutch at Dessie’s hands. It seemed like she was about to start crying.
“Mother,” Dessie said after she could no longer keep silent. “We’re going into town. We are going to have something to eat. Then we are going to come right back home.”
Rose sighed, her voice hushed. “May it be Your Will,” she said, and reluctantly released her hold. She peered above her glasses into her Dessie’s eyes. “Stand up now. Let’s see that skirt. You know that the Lord has given mothers eyes to follow their daughters wherever they choose to go.”
Dessie stood, swirled around, and Billie could see her tummy suck in, letting the skirt’s hem fall as low as possible. “That’s a pretty blouse,” Rose said. “Right proper.”
When she had her back to her mother and only Billie could see, Dessie rolled her eyes at the ceiling. Billie tried not to laugh. “May the heavenly Father protect us all,” Rose said. She walked Dessie onto the porch, offering her cheek for a good-bye kiss. Then, she added, “Be home before 11.”
“We will,” Dessie called, dashing down the porch stairs, not turning around.
FOR ONE last brief second, Billie wondered what would happen if she just skipped on down there, following her sister to the Jeep, and in a friendly way flat out asked them all if she could come along. But it was clear as day that she should not do that. Dessie did not invite her to go. And Rose could start in all over again.
Oh well, welcome back to boring. Billie crossed the living room, peeked into the kitchen. Supper was still not ready to set out. Since Rose was unable to see her, Billie searched the swan ashtray, pulled out a medium-sized Lucky, and headed back upstairs.
From the window in Dessie’s part of the bedroom, Billie watched Lux ease down the hood of the Jeep, wipe the grease off his hands, and help Dessie up into the passenger seat. Alan Ray sat in the back, a bottle of Coke in one hand, a cigarette in the other, his long legs in green army fatigues stretched out across the whole backseat. Bertram stood on the footbridge watching, his hands idly tapping a pack of Luckies to settle the tobacco. The Jeep turned and splashed across the creek, climbing onto the main road. Black exhaust smoke hung in the air, the rumble and sputter of the engine mixed with the twang of pedal-steel guitars. And then only the wide, wet tire tracks remained.
Billie found the apron, trying to remember where she’d left the needle, thread, and pins. They were half hidden under Dessie’s quilt. She’d have to find Rose’s sewing box, finish hemming the apron, set the pocket, and then show it to her teacher for grading, so she could bring it home to surprise Rose. The idea came to Billie that since she already had a pattern, she could start another apron as an engagement present for Dessie in green fabric, with some pretty stitching. She could cut out a heart-shaped pocket to make it special.
Though she’d been living in this house for her entire life, sitting on the foot of Dessie’s bed, her sister’s half of the bedroom suddenly seemed different. It felt like the scenery in a school play, everything almost like real life, but instead, props rolled into place, waiting for the actors. Billie pictured the original room without a dividing wall. Big. Big enough that she could push both beds together and have one double bed. What if she could have that whole closet, which was very likely as big as a model’s closet? Billie looked down at the Seventeen magazine on the desk, the model’s big oval eyes, her smile wide and friendly. I’m a model, the model said, sort of telepathically. “I’m an actress,” Billie answered back. “Would you like my autograph?” Yes, please, the model answered. Billie took a pen and wrote her signature, Beverlee Ellen Price, diagonally across the cover of the magazine, making sure to place a large swirl for each of the capital letters, so they hooked together in a sort of alphabet chain.
She switched Dessie’s radio back on. “Next up,” the announcer was saying, “‘Light My Fire.’” Billie hurried to close the door, so she could make the radio louder. If Rose heard what she was listening to, she would be horrified. Of all the bands out there, Rose despised The Doors the most, declaring Jim Morrison a demon who’d made a pact with Satan for the souls of girls, although no one explained to Billie how that could be possible.
If only Dessie was there, they could sing along. Dessie could hit the high notes, and she’d take the lower ones. They’d be the performers as well as the audience. Now though, Dessie was further and further out of reach, like the moon, but circling a whole different planet, some different world she could barely glimpse with the naked eye, planet Lux, with his Jeep and his country music. Country boys, Billie thought. Who even cares about being popular with those guys? There are other guys out there. The Jim Morrison type—wild, enticing, too handsome, too shocking—or maybe the kind of guys in Seventeen, clean-shaven guys who wore polo shirts, who had sports cars, not Jeeps. Billie sat down on the top of Dessie’s desk, opened up the window a bit wider, checked to see if anyone could be watching, and lit up the half-size Lucky.
Across the yard, she could see her father’s shape as he walked toward the barn in the twilight. He would clean up the tools, sweep the workshop, come back to the house, and be ready to eat. If she stayed upstairs too long, Rose would come looking for her. Soon, after another puff or two on the cigarette, another chance to practice her smoke rings, soon, when this song was over, she would turn off the radio, wash her face, rinse
