Like I Used To Dance
A Novel by Barbara Frances
Chapter One
Grace heard the pickup roaring up the dirt lane. It skidded to a stop in the back yard before she could turn off the stove’s burner. Chickens squawked and flapped their wings to avoid the wheels. That could only be Billy Wayne. Her stomach sank as she walked to the screen door. There he was, her son-
Grace flew out the door. He has brought those babies with him. Two little girls, still in pajamas with sleep-
“Oh, my sweet Angie and Tessie. Grandma has some warm kolaches and juice just for you.”
“Grace, leave ‘em there.” Billy Wayne shooed her with his hand. “I don’t have no time. Just come by to tell you that Regina’s pukin’ her guts out, so she can’t go with ya’ll all to that thing in San Antonio.”
Grace hated his crudeness. That “thing” as you call it is a blessing. Your wife’s sister is becoming a nun today. But then what would you know of that? Grace wished she had the nerve to speak her thoughts.
“Grandpa,” Angie exclaimed. Bud was approaching from the barnyard with the look of disgust he generally reserved for his son-
“Oh, she’s alright,” Billy Wayne answered. “She’s just upchucking all over the place. With this one, she’s payin’ her dues alright.” He hitched up the front of his pants. “I bet ya everything I got it’s a boy and he’s givin’ her one hell of a time.” His bark of a laugh snaked down Grace’s spine.
“Well, who’s going to take care of the girls?” Bud’s voice had a hard edge. “You got to go to work, don’t you?” Most people would have been alarmed. Bud rarely spoke with harshness, but Billy Wayne blew it off with a shrug of his shoulders. I ain’t afraid of you, old man, he thought.
“Hell, they’ll be okay,” he answered defiantly. “Regina’s just sick; she ain’t dead. Besides, they ain’t none of your concern.”
Bud walked past Billy Wayne, yanked open the pickup door and said in a gentle voice, “Come on to Grandpa.” He picked up Tessie. “Hush now, baby. Everything’s going to be okay. ”He handed her to Grace and then scooped up Angie and turned back to Billy Wayne. “Tell Regina to stay in bed all day and not to worry. We’ll look after the girls.” Without so much as a goodbye, he turned his back and followed Grace into the house.
Billy Wayne glared. “You sorry bastard,” he muttered under his breath. “One of these days, I’m gonna…” He spat on a nearby chicken, hoisted himself into his rusty claptrap and rattled off.
Once inside, Grace began wiping the girls’ faces with an old washcloth used for kitchen cleaning. Her intolerance for dirty faces didn’t allow her to take the time to get a regular washcloth from the bathroom. “As soon as you eat breakfast, Grandma’s going to get you in the bathtub.”
She turned back to Bud. “All I have here are some worn-
Bud nodded as he held a cup of orange juice for Tessie to drink. Grace knew he was hurting just like she was. What kind of mess had their youngest gotten herself into? And how quickly a day can change.
GRACE had started out her morning as usual with the reassuring warmth of a coffee cup between her palms. Unlike nature, her morning Folger’s, always hot, always black, was something she could count on. The brief time she spent alone each morning, planning her day and enjoying the ordered beauty of kitchen or yard was a ritual that calmed and inspired her. But this morning when she looked out the kitchen window, she had grieved to see a back yard splotchy with grass patches and beds of flowers too wilted to hold up their heads. A couple of chickens were clawing through the concrete dirt looking for worms. Just yesterday she had watered, but the well was running low and Bud had warned her that if she kept that up there would be no water for what mattered most, the animals and humans.
But flowers matter too she had wanted to say, even though she knew beauty was an extra to him, like a new pair of socks when his old ones were still perfectly good. He’d save the good pair until she refused to darn holes on top of holes in the old ones. I wonder if he ever gets a tightness in his heart when he sees the flowers giving up their colors. Her soul needed beauty to keep on going, almost as much as her lungs needed air.
The morning was pleasantly warm, not at all like it would be in a couple of hours. The first of June and the summer furnace was already roaring full blast. A dark cloud bank had been forming to the southwest. “Please dear God, let it rain,” she prayed. “The crops need it and so do we.” Grace protected herself in a shroud of worry. Trouble could never take her by surprise like it did when she was a child.
Bud would see her frown and say, “Oh, we’ll be fine. Frettin’ won’t put money in the bank, so why suffer with it?” Sometimes he’d get concerned about the children and what they were doing, but that was about the extent of his worrying. His easy-
She looked towards the barns and saw Bud spreading hay for the cows. She laughed as he played dodge with a couple of the frisky calves, so energetic this time of the morning. God, he was such a good man, the only man she’d ever known in the Biblical sense. She was always aware that he loved her deeply, even though he didn’t always understand her. “I like the mystery of you,” he said one time as they were cuddling.
They married when Grace was eighteen and he was nineteen, had three children, two miscarriages and one stillborn. Both graduated from the Catholic parochial school, which went to the tenth grade. Grace had wanted to go on to the public high school and get a diploma but her dad had angrily snapped, “Goddammit, you want to end up in hell?” The prevalent belief was that the public school would drive a child right into Satan’s pit.
Bud and Grace had a peaceful marriage, each with their defined roles. Communication was sparse and generally superficial. They would talk over meals or while riding in the car or waiting by the radio for the Amos ‘n Andy or George Burns shows to begin. They discussed the crops, the cattle, the finances and sometimes the children and the neighbors, but that was about it. Wasn’t that enough? They didn’t seem to have the vocabulary or the nerve for sharing dreams, fears or longings. Grace would have liked more, but she was too unsure of herself to bring up what was going on in her mind or heart. She wouldn’t even know how to explain herself. Sometimes she felt like one of those chickens scratching the hardened ground. Did other people ever want a more profound existence or were most people like Bud, content with the way things were?
Past the barns and across the pasture she could just make out Mayphelia hanging out a sheet on her clothesline. Every Saturday that woman got up at the crack of dawn to do her washing. By noon, she’d have everything folded and in its place. Then she’d put on her shoes and walk to town to get groceries. Mayphelia looked like a black matchstick bobbing against the white sheet, her orange turban, the phosphorus crown.
Grace was as close to Mayphelia as she could be, being white and all. Everyone agreed that there was no better baby birther in the county. After having the stillborn delivered by the drunken white Dr. Clarkson, Grace had insisted that Mayphelia deliver Regina, their last one, now twenty and pregnant with her third. There were rumors that Mayphelia also did other things, evil things, for women, besides birthing and helping them to keep from getting pregnant over and over.
Grace had been preparing all week for this day. She had brushed Bud’s Sunday suit, starched and ironed his white shirt and shined his good shoes to a glow. Then, for herself, she had added a new collar and belt to last year’s spring dress and redecorated her go-
Finally, the day had arrived. This afternoon Angela, their oldest daughter, was going to become a Sister, a nun, at Sacred Heart Convent. Beautiful Angela with the thick auburn hair, the penetrating hazel eyes and the slightly olive skin, was giving her life to God. Grace’s heart contracted at the thought. She felt such pride, yet she knew she shouldn’t because pride goeth before a fall. Still, it was hard to remain humble when one of your children was chosen to follow Christ.
Bud, on the other hand, was not as pleased. “She’s too pretty and…well, womanly, to be closed off like that,” he had commented to Grace on one occasion, careful not to cloud her joy. Being the first-
He will come around to accepting, Grace told herself.
A SPLASH of water landed on Grace’s face. “See, Grandma, I can already wash myself all over. Mama says so,” Tessie announced.
“Yes, you’re a big girl,” Grace said, remembering that Tessie would be three in only a few months and Angie would be five the month after. She kept thinking of them as being younger.
“Grandma, Mama says I’m named after Aunt Angela,” Angie said as she scooped up soap bubbles in the tub.
“That’s right, darling.”
“Me too, me too, me too,” Tessie chanted, wanting what her big sister had.
Grace smiled. “Sweetheart, you’re named after St. Theresa, who was the Little Flower, just like you’re our little flower.”
“No, me Tessie,” she corrected her grandmother.
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Copyright 2023 Barbara Frances