Page 5 of The Light Year (Stardust Beach #6)
"Okay, you know I'm not one for idle gossip," Carrie says, leaning back in her chair and crossing her feet at the ankles as she holds her coffee mug in both hands. "But what is this business going around about Bill Booker kissing some woman at the Cape?"
Barbie's jaw drops. "What? I haven't heard a word. Oh, I don't know, Carrie," she says, shaking her head. "I'm not sure I even want to hear it if it doesn't come from Jo directly."
"Well," Carrie says with a shrug, putting her mug to her lips. "It's out there, and the rumor is circulating."
"Did you hear that from Jay?"
"No, he's just a regular guy," Carrie says, flapping a hand at Barbie. "He comes home and wants to talk about work stuff, not the actual interesting things going on there."
Barbie isn't sure what to say, but she's uncomfortable at hearing the news, and she doesn't really know what to say to it.
It reminds her of a time, many years ago, that rumors were circulating around Westport about her own father, and she has never forgotten how her mother felt, having to go to dinner parties and fundraisers with a smile on her face, rubbing elbows with the same women who spread the gossip from ear to ear like some sort of communicable disease.
In fact, there had been a time, when Barbie was twelve, that she was worried her father might move out and leave the family.
Her mother spent every evening locked in a guest bedroom in a different wing of the house from the master bedroom and from George Mackey's office, and any time Barbie walked by the closed door, she could hear her mother crying quietly to herself.
There was shouting in the house, and Barbie overheard various accusations from her mother about her father spending time with other women.
It had been scary and confusing for her.
Ultimately, her mother had ended up with a new amethyst ring the size of a quarter and she'd eventually come out of the guest room and rejoined them at the dinner table, but things had never been quite the same between her parents again.
Barbie wants no part of contributing to that same scenario for poor Jo, who does not deserve to have women—especially her friends—passing around tidbits like this nonsense about Bill kissing someone at work.
"Listen," Barbie says, deftly changing the subject. "I wanted to hear more about that protest you were talking about last week. Who was it for?"
"Clarence Triggs." Carrie sets her coffee mug on the table and levels her gaze at Barbie.
All frivolous chatter about Bill and Jo falls away instantly.
"He was found shot in the head. It was the Klan," she adds in a whisper, looking around as if someone might be listening to their discussion.
"It had to be. And the fear is that nothing will happen--that no one will be held accountable. "
Barbie's eyes narrow as she listens. "So what did you do to protest?"
"We went to Tallahassee and marched on the capitol.
We were on the news and everything." A grin spreads across Carrie's face.
"I helped organize the whole thing, and I know we're not changing what already happened, but we need to let our government know that we will not stand for the outright murder of our citizens. "
Barbie shifts her gaze to the still water of the swimming pool, then turns her head to get a glimpse of Huck in the living room; he's still thoroughly engaged in building block towers.
"You're right," Barbie agrees. "That is definitely not okay."
Carrie is watching her from across the patio table.
"I'd love to have you join me at a protest or a march, Barbie.
If you're interested, that is." She holds up a hand. "No pressure whatsoever. I know not everyone feels personally connected to the cause or to civil rights in general. I’m also working with a church not far from here that could really use our help, so if you want to pitch in on something like that, I’d be thrilled to have you with me there, too.”
Barbie knows that Carrie's words are meant to let her off the hook, not to make her feel as if she doesn't care about other people, and she nods.
"I think I'd like that," Barbie says. "I would."
In her mind's eye, when she thinks of civil rights, she pictures Neville and Winnie. She is personally connected to the cause. She does care about how people--all people--are treated in America.
At the thought of Neville and Winnie, the night before her mother's birthday in 1944 comes back to her.
She'd crept back into bed with the cookies that Neville had stolen for eight-year-old Barbie, eating them carefully and brushing all the crumbs onto the floor, just like he'd asked.
The last thing Barbie remembers is falling asleep happily, her eyes glazing over as they scanned the dollhouse across the room.
Her final thought before sleep washed over her was of the miniature mother in the dollhouse--the one in the apron.
Had she been baking cookies for her children?
And if so, would she always make sure they had some after school or before bed?
But the next day... that's the day that is still memorable for Barbie, over twenty years later.
She'd kept herself busy all day as the servants and hired staff had cleaned and decorated the house, and every wonderful smell imaginable had emanated from the kitchen.
But Barbie knew instinctively to stay away, lest she draw Winnie's ire for being underfoot.
By dusk, the partygoers were arriving in full evening attire, and her mother had swept down the staircase in the most beautiful rose-colored chiffon dress that Barbie had ever seen.
The house glowed with lit candelabras, and the staff wore starched uniforms with aprons for the women, and gloves for the men.
A string quartet played at one end of the giant sitting room at the front of the house, and everywhere Barbie looked, glamorous adults held champagne flutes as they talked in muted voices and laughed at jokes she knew she wouldn't understand.
Barbie hid behind couches and peered into doorways as she made her way through the house, remembering how Neville had helped her hide from her father the night before.
It had been a fun game then, but now it appeared Barbie was the only one playing, and that even if she weren’t hiding, no one would have paid her any mind.
“She married him for money, you know,” one woman was saying to another as Barbie sidled up to them, hands laced behind her back.
Barbie’s blonde hair was pulled back in a black velvet ribbon, and her white taffeta dress had a matching belt made of black velvet.
She knew she looked pretty and like a well-behaved little girl, so she smiled at the adults who noticed her, most giving her a distracted half-smile before turning to pluck a fresh drink from a silver tray.
“Of course she did,” the other woman whispered. “And that’s why she’s staying, too. Can you imagine putting up with the nonsense that comes with being married to George Mackey?”
This got Barbie’s attention: the women were discussing her father. She stopped and pretended to admire a potted plant along a windowsill, keeping herself within listening distance.
“I would never,” the first woman said. “Not even for all this.”
They both looked around, taking in the fine furniture, the heavy brocade curtains that Marion Mackey insisted the staff take down once a month to clean, and the shining piano in one corner of the room.
“She came from nothing, you know.”
The second woman pursed her lips and gave the smallest shake of her head. “I heard she was a college dropout?—“
“College?” The first woman sounded horrified. “Why would a woman that beautiful be going to college?”
“To be a nurse ,” the other woman said, putting emphasis on the word nurse as if it were just a hair more respectable than being a lady of the night.
“Oh my.” The first woman, older by a decade, put a hand to her chest and looked scandalized. “And did he pay for her to finish college?”
The other woman laughed, but it sounded mean. “Well, he got her in a family way as soon as possible, so I don’t think she had much choice about going back to college, but also why should she? She has all this.” She swept a hand around, indicating house, servants, children.
“Hmph,” the other woman said, finally catching sight of Barbie and lifting an eyebrow. The women moved away as a unit just as the string quartet launched into Schubert’s “Death and the Maiden.”
Barbie wandered on, stopping to eat a tiny pastry that she discovered too late was filled with meat instead of sweet jelly or custard. Barbie made a face, but chewed and swallowed the hors d’oeuvre like she’d been taught to do.
The kitchen doors swung open as she drew near, and Barbie heard the clatter of pans and the rapid-fire discussion between cooks and servers as they prepared and plated the food.
She stood just outside as the warmth of the ovens and the stove filtered out into the hallway.
Schubert was muted, but she could still hear it in the distance.
“Missus done fired him?” came a woman’s voice that Barbie couldn’t quite place.
“Mmm, no. Not missus—the senator did.”
Barbie knew that voice—it was Winnie’s. She bit the inside of her cheek, waiting.
“Why he do that?” the first woman asked. “Neville always do what he’s asked.”
“Yes, he does,” Winnie said. “He always did.” There was disappointment in Winnie’s voice, though Barbie could not see her face. She’d known Winnie and Neville her entire life, and even without seeing Winnie’s face, she could imagine how she looked.
“So why the senator man go and fire him?”
Winnie clucked her tongue in a way that was more than familiar to Barbie. “He stole cookies for little miss last night and let her eat in the kitchen here at midnight. Missus said no to that. Said little miss was to go to bed hungry. Senator didn’t like him disobeying.”
There was a sharp intake of breath, and for the briefest pause, the clattering and movement stopped short.
Even Barbie, who wasn’t supposed to be lingering outside the kitchen and spying, had a moment of clarity: Neville was because of her.
A man who had worked for her father for over a decade was sent away over something that minor.
To Barbie, it was a feeling that life and everything about it were impermanent.
For the people in the kitchen (Barbie realized much later in life, as she looked back on this moment), it was the realization that job security and loyalty did not exist when you worked for a white man.
“Anyway,” Winnie said with a clap of her hands. “We got work here. Get this food on the plates, or we’ll all be fired.”
There was laughter in the kitchen, but it was utterly joyless.
Barbie didn’t want to hear anymore. In fact, she’d heard quite enough for the entire evening, and rather than rejoin the birthday party in the main rooms, she crept up the stairs of the West Wing and into her own bedroom, closing the door softly.
Instead of being there while her mother blew out thirty-two candles on her birthday cake, Barbie sat on the floor in front of her dollhouse, playing quietly.
In the scenario she created there, everyone was happy. No one had money, and no one went without. No one got fired for being nice to children, and everyone got birthday cake and cookies. Lots and lots of birthday cake and cookies.
The patter of tiny hands against the glass of the patio doors brings Barbie back to the present. Little Huck is there inside their house on Stardust Beach, smacking the window with both pudgy hands. Carrie jumps up from her chair across the table from Barbie and opens the door for him.
“Hey, buddy,” Carrie says, reaching out both hands for him and picking him up easily. She rests Huck on one hip and slides the door closed again to keep the cool air inside. “Want to come out here with us?”
Barbie smiles at her friend gratefully, and she watches how easily Carrie leads Huck over to a spot in the shade under a palm tree, setting him down with the truck he has in his hands.
“I do want to help out anywhere I can,” Barbie says to Carrie definitively. “I want to join you at a march or help at the church—anything, really. It matters to me.”
Carrie stands upright after getting Huck settled, smoothing the front of her homemade peasant dress with both hands.
She looks at Barbie like she’s seeing her with fresh eyes.
“Yeah?” she says with a smile. “Okay, then. Let’s get you out there, girl.
I’ve got a few things cooking, and I know I’ve got something you can be a part of. ”
This sits right with Barbie; she knows she has something to offer the cause—whatever that cause may be.
With a satisfied grin, she leans back in her chair and picks up her now-cold coffee, smiling at her little boy as he drives his truck up the trunk of the palm tree.
If nothing else, Barbie will do as her mother did for her: she’ll set an example for her children.
She’ll show them what it means to give and to do and to be more than the world thinks you are.
And she’ll start right now.