Dawn of a New Day Page 2

  Suddenly the seat settled, and she heard Mark saying, “Hey, that was some test, wasn’t it?”

  Prue turned to see that Mark had plopped down beside her and was smiling cheerfully. He was unwinding the chord of the earphone that was attached to his radio and plugged it into his ear. Turning it on, he listened for a moment and then removed it and said, “Listen to this.” He held the earphone to her ear, and she heard Elvis singing “Are You Lonesome Tonight?” Mark grinned and said, “Do you like that bird, Elvis Presley?”

  “I guess so.”

  “Seems kind of weird to me the way he twists and jumps around, but all the girls seem to be crazy about him.” He listened to the song for a moment, then pulled out a packet of Juicy Fruit. “Here. Have a chew.”

  Prue took a stick and unfolded the wrapper, but before she popped the gum in her mouth she said, “I’m sorry you got into all that trouble because of me, Mark.”

  “Because of you? It wasn’t because of you. It was that Neanderthal, Leon.”

  “Did Mr. Brawner paddle you?”

  “Ah, he gave us a few licks. Nothing to worry about. I had to go back and take the test over again. Didn’t do too good, I don’t think.”

  Eileen Ferrell, sitting across from Mark, leaned over and said, “Leon says he’s going to stomp you, Mark.”

  “Let him fly right at it,” Mark said cheerfully.

  Prue bit her lower lip and shook her head. “I hope you don’t fight with him again.”

  “So do I. It’s hard on the hide rolling around punching at somebody. He’ll probably forget it. He’s too dumb to remember anything very long.”

  The bus rumbled on, and Prue was relieved to see that Mark did not seem at all upset. She had been nervous all day and unable to give more than scant attention to the teachers. It didn’t seem to matter though, for no matter how hard she tried, she never could make good grades.

  When they got off the bus and it went roaring off with a cloud of diesel fumes, Prue felt she had to say something to Mark. “I thank you so much for sticking up for me,” she said timidly.

  Mark turned and looked down at Prue. The sun struck her black hair, and her eyes looked almost black. He grinned and tapped her on the shoulder with his fist. “Hey! We’re pals, aren’t we? I can’t have anyone trying to run over my buddy.”

  “Thanks anyway.” She turned to go away but heard him call her name.

  “Did you hear about the rally over in Fort Smith?”

  “No, what is it about?”

  “It’s a political rally. John Kennedy thinks he’s going to be president. He’s doin’ pretty good too.” Mark kept up with politics closely, and now he ran his hand through his hair and shook his head. “It looks to me like he’s got a good shot at being president. May not get another chance to hear him. Don’t know what he’s coming to Fort Smith, Arkansas, for, but he is. You want to go? Dad said I could borrow the car, and I’m gonna go.”

  It was the first time Mark had ever asked her to go anyplace in a car, and a thrill ran through Prue Deforge. “I–I’d like to, but I’ll have to ask Momma and Daddy.”

  “Ah, they won’t care. They know old Mark Stevens is a trustworthy fellow. We’ll leave right after school’s out tomorrow. We’ll have time to stop and get a burger somewhere after the rally. We’ll be in late though. Tell your folks that.”

  Prue whispered, “All right, Mark.” She turned and flew to the house and found her mother peeling potatoes in the kitchen. “Momma,” she said, “Mark wants me to go to a political rally over in Fort Smith tomorrow.”

  “He does? Who all’s going?”

  “I don’t know, but can I go?”

  Violet Deforge turned and looked at this daughter of hers, and her heart seemed to swell. Other girls had had real dates at fifteen, although she knew she would not permit Prudence to do such a thing, but she knew Mark Stevens like he was her own. He had been in and out of the Deforge house since he could walk, and seeing the pleading look in Prudence’s eyes, she said, “Well, you ask your daddy. He’s out fixing the gate.”

  “All right, Momma.” Prudence dashed out of the house and found her father wiring a gate together, and before he could say a word, she said, “Mark’s going to a rally over in Fort Smith tomorrow. He’s got his daddy’s car, and he wants me to go with him. Can I go?”

  “Whoa! Whoa up there!” Dent grinned. He got the story out of her and then pulled his straw hat off and stuck one thumb under the bib of his overalls. “I wouldn’t even consider it if it was anybody except Mark,” he meditated, “but I guess it’s okay.” He was driven backward as Prue threw her arms around him and kissed him on the cheek. “We’ll be in late, Daddy,” she cried. “Don’t worry about us!”

  Prue had spent two hours getting ready, scrubbing herself until her skin shone. She had only one dress that would be suitable for what she considered her first date with Mark Stevens, and after her shower she slipped into the polyester minidress in a bright, multicolored pattern with a scooped neck, short sleeves, and a dropped waistline where the bottom of the skirt was pleated. She worked on her hair, which she considered her best asset. It was thick and black, with a slight curl in it, and she had let it grow longer than the current fashion. There was nothing else to do, and she paced the room nervously; finally she went over to her chest of drawers and opened the drawer next to the bottom, which was filled with mementos and souvenirs. She withdrew a green, leather-bound volume, her diary, and carried it over to the desk and opened it. She took a gold Cross pen, also a gift from her parents, and began to write:

  My first date, and with Mark Stevens! I’m so excited I can hardly hold this pen! We’re going to a political rally over in Fort Smith. I’m wearing my new dress that Momma and Daddy bought me, and it looks all right, except I’m too skinny. I wonder if I’ll ever have a bosom! Anyway, we’re going to the rally, and we’ll be late coming home, so we’ll probably eat at a fancy restaurant.

  For a moment Prue paused and then added one sentence:

  I don’t know what I’ll do if he wants to kiss me. I just don’t know—but I think I’ll let him.

  Prue’s face flushed at the words, and she shut the diary quickly as if apprehended in a shameful deed. Quickly she went back and concealed it and for the next hour grew more and more nervous. She had taken a half day off from school, the first time she had ever done so, and by four o’clock she had driven her mother crazy.

  “Well, there he is,” Violet said. “You have a good time.” She hugged her daughter and watched her as she ran out to the Chevrolet station wagon that had pulled up. She walked out on the porch, saying, “Now, you be careful. Drive slow. You hear me, Mark?”

  “Yes, ma’am, I always do. Don’t worry now. We’ll be back pretty late. It might be one or two o’clock.”

  Prue settled down in the front seat, and Mark said, “Hey, you look nice. A new dress?”

  “Yes,” Prue said shyly. “I’m so excited to be going.”

  Mark was wearing a pair of charcoal gray slacks, a tan shirt, and a pair of brown saddle oxfords. As he drove quickly out of the driveway, he said, “We’ll have to pick the others up, then we’re on our way.”

  Prue sat silently for a moment and felt something close around her heart. “The others?”

  “Oh, didn’t I tell you? Yea, John Tyler’s going with us. He’s sold on Kennedy—and Debbie is going too, of course.”

  Mark continued to speak happily of the trip, but if Prue had had her way, she would have gotten out of the car and gone back home. She sat silently as Mark stopped to pick up John, Mark’s best friend, who greeted them both cheerfully and got in the backseat, saying, “Better get back here with me now, Prue. You know who’s gonna want to sit in the front with Mark.”

  Prue silently got into the backseat beside John, and he began at once talking about the primaries for the presidential election. She knew nothing of this and could only nod and make an agreeable noise from time to time.

  Debbie’s parents l
ived in a large house just outside Cedarville. Her father was in real estate, and the Peters were one of the wealthiest families in the county. Debbie came out wearing a light blue polyester minidress that clung to her figure provocatively, had a V-neckline, short sleeves, and was trimmed with a band of darker blue ribbon. Mark, who had gone in to get her, opened the door for her, then went around to take his seat behind the wheel. “You look like a beauty queen, Debbie,” he said, grinning.

  “Why, thank you, Mark.” Debbie smiled and sat close to him as he started the car up. She turned toward the backseat and said rather coolly, “Hello, Prue. Hello, John.” She took their greetings, then turned around and scooted closer to Mark. “This is going to be such fun! You’re going to tell me all about politics.”

  The rally was held in the Convention Center, a rather grandiose name for the largest building suitable for such a rally in Fort Smith, Arkansas. It was just off the square, very close to where Isaac Parker, the hanging judge during the days of the Indian territory, had stood and watched the men he sentenced hang. The gallows were still there, at least a replica of them, with the ropes dangling down, and Prue, who had visited the place once, felt a chill as she thought of the executions.

  Now, however, they were inside the Convention Center, which was packed, and John Tyler constantly nudged her with his elbow or poked her with his fingers, a nervous habit of his. “You’re gonna love this guy Kennedy,” he said. “He’s from the rich Kennedy family, you know.”

  As he spoke, the moderator finished introducing John Kennedy, and the politician came to stand before the podium.

  “Why, he’s so handsome!” Debbie exclaimed. “He looks like a movie star!”

  Kennedy was, indeed, a handsome man—a florid face, a broad, white smile, tousled hair that gave him a boyish look. He looked trim and fit, and for forty-five minutes he spoke in his Boston accent, strange to the ears of these Arkansas folk, but whatever it is that gets a man attention, John Fitzgerald Kennedy had it. Prue understood little of what he said. She was still sick at heart for the disappointment that had come at discovering that this was not to be a date at all, at least not for her. She looked bitterly sometimes at Debbie and with almost something like pain at Mark who put his arm around the blond girl from time to time, but who mostly listened to Kennedy.

  Finally the speech was over, and Kennedy smiled and said, “I would like to take a few questions. Our time is short, so I can only take three or four. If you will.” He broke off, saying, “Well, young man, I see you’re the first volunteer. What’s your name?”

  “My name’s Mark Stevens, Senator Kennedy.”

  “What’s your question, Mr. Stevens?”

  Mark had a good, strong voice, and he said, “Mr. Kennedy, on our currency there are the words, ‘In God We Trust.’ Do you believe this?”

  A shocked look swept across Kennedy’s face. He was a Catholic, of course, and had already gone through intense grilling. He had not expected it from what appeared to be a high school student in the backwoods of Arkansas. Now he said, “I don’t think my religion is the issue here.”

  “Why, Mr. Kennedy, the founders of our nation believed in God, and as I’ve said, our currency says we trust in him. I’d like to hear your comment on how that will affect you if you’re elected president.”

  Kennedy’s lips drew tight, and he lost his smile for a moment. “You’re not a reporter in disguise, are you, young man?” Laughter followed his remark, and Kennedy regained his good humor. “When I’m elected president,” he said, “you’ll probably be a star reporter for the New York Times. I want you to come to my first news conference, and I’ll guarantee you I will answer any questions.” He sensed the mood of the audience, however, and said, “Of course I believe in God, and I believe in the values that the fathers of the nation have set before us….”

  After the meeting was over and the four students were on their way home, Debbie said, “I was so thrilled that he answered your question.”

  “He didn’t answer my question.” Mark shrugged. “He just gave me a politician’s noise.”

  From the backseat John said, “Why, he claimed to believe in God.”

  “Almost everybody in America claims that,” Mark said as he swerved to miss a pothole in the road. “I caught him off guard a little bit, but he’s a good man.”

  The car sped on through the darkness. As Mark settled down to the long drive back to Cedarville, Prue noticed that Debbie had moved as close as possible and Mark’s arm had fallen around her shoulder. He steered the station wagon expertly with his left hand, and once she saw Debbie turn her face up and whisper something. Mark’s head came around, and he gave her a quick kiss, then turned his eyes back toward the road.

  Prue got out of the car when Mark stopped. He had let the others out already, and she had seen him take Debbie up to the front door, where they had remained longer than was necessary. When Mark had come back he was whistling and happy. Now Prue got out and said, “Thanks for taking me to the rally.”

  “It was fun, wasn’t it?”

  “Yes, it was. Good night, Mark.”

  She moved on into the house and found her parents still up.

  “You didn’t have to wait up,” she said.

  “Wait until you have a little girl going out on her first date and coming in at two o’clock in the morning,” Dent said, but he was smiling. “Did you have a good time?”

  “Yes. It was nice.” She walked over to her parents, kissed them both, and went upstairs to her room.

  “She don’t seem very happy,” Dent said. “I thought it was going to be fine for her.”

  “She’ll tell me about it tomorrow, Dent.”

  The next day Prue did tell her mother the full story, and when she said, “I thought it was going to be a date, but it was Debbie that he was interested in. Not me,” Violet remembered her own hard times. Now she came over and put her arms around this tall daughter of hers and said quickly, “Your turn will come.”

  “No. It never will.”

  2

  CONCERT IN FORT SMITH

  Prue entered her bedroom, singing under her breath Johnny Preston’s version of “Running Bear,” but as soon as she stepped inside she stopped dead still and looked wildly about. She had left her room in good order, but now it appeared as though a bomb had gone off. The drawers of her chest were opened, and clothes were pulled out; the snacks she kept on top of her desk were all opened, and over on her dressing table, beside her bed, sat the culprit, a yearling coon who had a jar of cologne in the clever fingers of his right paw and the top in the other. He stared at her, eyes beady, then dropped the bottle and cap, leaped off the dressing table, and scurried across the floor. When he reached the girl’s feet, he reared up and pawed at her knee, his mouth open as if he were trying to speak.

  “Bandit! What in the world have you done?” She stared down half filled with anger but amused at the same time. Her father had brought the coon home from a hunt, and she had raised it on a tiny doll’s bottle filled with condensed milk. He had grown rapidly, and though she usually kept him outside in a pen, she had brought him up to her room earlier to play with him. A call from her mother had drawn her away, and now twenty minutes later she came back to the wreckage that had been her room.

  “Bandit! You’re a bad coon!” she scolded. The coon opened his mouth, and seeming to grin, pawed at her knees, making a plaintive noise in his throat. Stooping over, Prue picked him up and cuddled him as if he were a baby, holding his head beside her face. He nibbled at her ear gently, as he always did, and his tiny feet clutched her blouse. Despite herself, Prue laughed and shook her head. “You’re a charmer,” she said. “Now, look at this mess I’ve got to clean up.” She put the coon down and wagged her finger at him. “Now you behave yourself while I clean up the mess you’ve made.”

  Quickly the girl started putting the room in order, stopping long enough to turn on the radio of her new stereo set. Ray Charles began to belt out “Hit the Road, Jack!
” and when he had finished, Ricky Nelson’s voice filled the room, and Prue sang along as he crooned “Travelin’ Man.”

  Soon she paid little attention to the music and did not actually care for most of what she heard. Keeping one eye on Bandit, who seemed content with the stick of peppermint that she gave him as an offering, Prue completed her job, then hesitated for a moment and glanced at the clock. Quickly she turned, opened the door, and stepped into a room no more than eight by ten. It had been used as a storage room, perhaps as a bedroom, by her grandparents, but Prue had made it into her own special treasure room. She had transferred her diary there and for the past year concealed it in an old horsehide trunk with a curving top. The shelves were filled with items she had kept from her childhood on, including baby rattles and the toys that she had grown up with.

  At one side of the room was an enormous chifforobe made out of cherry. It reached almost to the ceiling and was fully four feet wide. Taking a key from a gold chain around her neck, Prue unlocked the armoire and swung both doors open, thinking, It’s nice to have a private place like this. She pulled out a twelve by fourteen pad covered with canvas used by artists, and snatched up a piece of charcoal. She glanced at the variety of paints that she had collected, mostly odds and ends, then turned and went out into the bedroom. Sitting down on the bed with her legs underneath her, she held the pad steady with her left hand and with her right began sketching the raccoon as he sat sucking on the peppermint. Her hand flew fast, and in a very short time she had captured the animal just as he polished off the candy. He dropped to all fours, came scurrying over, and clamored up on the bed, reaching for the pad.

  “No you don’t!” Prue scolded. “You can see it, though. That’s you, Bandit.” She studied the sketch she had done; it had caught the animal just as she wanted it. “Now,” she said, “I’ll begin painting it tonight if I have time, and you’ll have your own picture.” She reached over and picked him up, and he lifted his paws up to touch her face. She touched her nose to his and laughed. “I’ll bet you’ll be the only raccoon with a portrait by a famous artist.” She laughed, put Bandit away, then went back and replaced the canvas and charcoal. Closing the door, she locked it and dropped the key back down the front of her shirt. She heard someone calling and stepped outside, then opened the door to her bedroom. Her mother was calling, “Come for supper!” and she called back, “All right, Momma. I’ll be right there!”