The Sisters of Glass Ferry. Kim Michele Richardson

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СКАЧАТЬ hung her head a little, thinking about the day he’d been found dead on his ferryboat. Pushing the horrid thought aside, she said, “Well, it would’ve been fun tonight with you there.” If Flannery went with Hollis, it would serve Patsy in a two-fold way: keep the older brother away from her and Danny, and let them spend time alone. “He’s the sheriff’s son, so Mama wouldn’t mind . . . Danny said it was Hollis who brought it up first, before he asked you—”

      “Too late, and I don’t care,” Flannery snipped. “Sheriff Jack Henry’s son or not, Miss Little wouldn’t have allowed it. Anyways, I heard he didn’t get approval, even when Violet Perry submitted his name.”

      All girls’ dates for school dances had to go through their home economics teacher, Miss Little, for preapproval.

      “What? Violet put his name in?” Patsy asked, wondering why she hadn’t heard that the pretty Violet Perry had to go back and submit another name to Miss Little, wondering what Hollis was up to now.

      “Heard he begged her to do it to test Miss Little, though I bet he secretly wanted to go with her,” Flannery said. “And you know if the pastor’s daughter can’t get Miss Little’s permission for Hollis, ain’t nobody going to get it.”

      That was true. Patsy’d thought it would’ve been okay to put Hollis and Flannery together for just one night, knew Hollis didn’t have a sneaky eye trained on Flannery, and then her sister wouldn’t gripe about working her shift. But after hearing even the preacher’s daughter couldn’t earn Hollis Miss Little’s good favor, Patsy knew Hollis would never go to any dance, not even his own senior prom. Not as long as Miss Little was alive and kicking, that is. Patsy’d barely squeaked her date’s name by the old teacher.

      * * *

      The seventy-four-year-old spinster took not only the name of your date, but also checked his grades and looked at any infractions the boy might’ve had in the last year. Folks knew she sniffed around better than any hound dog or gumshoe even, going so far as to call on the boy’s neighbors, pastor, or an employer if he had one.

      If something was amiss, Miss Little would tell you to find another date; the boy wasn’t good enough, and the troublemaker wouldn’t be allowed to attend. A girl could try to plead the boy’s case, but it was rare Miss Little would change her mind and give permission. Parents too. Especially the parents. Though Miss Little was indeed small and frail in appearance, in these matters she had a might of influence over all the grown-ups, especially since Alfred Harris.

      Long ago, Alfred transferred from another county after his school chased him off for doing bad things to animals. The family sent him to live with an aunt in Glass Ferry, but Miss Little found out his sickness had come with him. After that Alfred incident, no one grumbled about Miss Little’s guardian role or her results.

      Still, Miss Little tried to be fair, and there was always a chance if the boy’s offense was trivial. The teacher sometimes offered to have him atone for his misdeed by attending her Wednesday and Saturday two-hour Bible study at her house. If the boy made a month’s worth of meetings and seemed truly repentant, Miss Little would finally nod her consent.

      A boy willing to do that punishment knew his date was worth it, knew that come Monday morning after the dance he might be boasting about making it to second, possibly third base even, and, by lunch, he’d fish-tale it bigger and describe an almost homerun on prom night.

      The girls’ mamas and daddies thought Miss Little’s rules were nifty—as close to the Good Lord’s blessing as they could get. It saved them big headaches, and they didn’t have to worry their sweet magnolias would end up with a hooligan or the likes, and their families disgraced.

      The boys’ families said Miss Little helped keep their Southern sons honorable and on the straight and narrow, said their boys worked harder in school and at their jobs because of her date-dance scrutiny.

      Patsy had been thrilled to pass her first name to Miss Little for the Cupid’s Dance. Then again for junior prom.

      On that morning, long before the bigger troubles took root, Patsy’d dressed in a modest skirt and a buttoned-to-the-top blouse, and stood in line with the other girls, including the seniors.

      Quietly, Patsy had waited her turn to contribute to the pile of papers and place the traditional apple into Miss Little’s wooden bowl.

      Patsy watched the others in front of her pass their apples to Miss Little and give the chosen name inside their folded papers. Everyone in line stretched their necks, slipped a snooping eye, watching too as the teacher opened paper after paper and peeked, before folding and adding to the pile.

      At last Patsy handed Miss Little her polished apple along with the folded slip of paper, the name of the boy she was sweet on taking her to the big prom written in her best handwriting. It meant she was a woman now. And folks would look at her like one. Especially Danny.

      Miss Little examined the apple closely before putting it with the others.

      Patsy squirmed. She had gone through three pails from old man Samp’s orchard until she found one without a blemish.

      Miss Little studied Patsy’s paper. You could always tell which boys would get a pass right off and those who wouldn’t or needed more checking, because the old schoolmarm always hinted with a tiny smile, or a wrinkled worry in her brow, before folding up the paper and placing it to the side. Anxious, Patsy searched the teacher’s face.

      Danny had been careful not to get into trouble. But lately he’d been hanging with his brother and a few of the other older boys, and getting closer to it. And the more he hung, the more his good grades dipped, and as his lip got a little looser, and his breath smelled a lot boozier—the more Patsy found herself harping. She couldn’t dare risk losing the dance. Her chance.

      At last Miss Little nodded with the slightest smile, dismissing her. For a lingering second Patsy stared at her, agonizing she’d imagined it all.

      “Miss Butler, you may take your seat.”

      Patsy startled and gave a small curtsy, fleeing to her table. But not before seeing the blessing in her teacher’s crisp blue eyes.

      When Patsy told Mama she’d gotten permission, Mama’d squealed and grabbed her pocketbook. “Let’s celebrate.” Mama held up her hooked arms in invitation to the girls, then took them to Chubby’s for treats, letting Patsy drive the automobile there and Flannery tote them back.

      Flannery cheered some at that.

      Seated at the slick chrome-polished table inside Chubby’s, they’d chatted happily, and in a bit, Mama confided to her daughters that Miss Little had not approved Honey Bee for her own high school dance.

      “I can’t rightly remember what Honey Bee did to get turned down,” Mama began, while she fiddled with her dress collar, plucked it, and looked across the booth at the twins. “Something small, I’m sure.”

      The girls begged her to remember everything.

      “Well now.” Mama’s cheeks rosied, and she took a sip of Coke, attempting to hide her deepening blush behind the frosty glass. “Miss Little shot him down flat.”

      “Poor Honey Bee,” Flannery said. “What did he do?”

      “Lessee, that’s been a while.”

      “Mama!” СКАЧАТЬ