21. Forthcoming Truths

Dancing at The Orange Peel - Episode 21

Welcome to Episode 21 of Dancing at The Orange Peel, a 1960-70s serialized historical novel. Just getting started? Episode 1 | Full Episode Guide | Extra fun content in THE MAILBAG

Previously: Episode 20, Roads Apart. Wednesday evening, April 10, 1968. Inside Dennis’s rain-speckled Camaro, hurt feelings and tension simmer as Gwen, Dennis, and Libby grapple with choices pulling them in opposite directions. Family bonds strain under rare disagreement, leaving plans—both immediate and future—uncertain.

Episode 21: FORTHCOMING TRUTHS

Gwen glanced over her shoulder at Denny before stepping out of the car. “You don’t have to walk us in.”

“Nin, stop it!” He hurried out of the driver’s side to open the back door for Libby. Usually, those two would chatter on about some animal or a new star the scientists had found. Not today. Together, they followed her up the sidewalk, Libby sulking and still angry at her, and Denny, resolute about making this trip to Washington for the Poor People’s Campaign march. The week-long bantering to convince her little brother to go back to school instead had worn Gwen down.

She had hoped he’d just drop her and Libby off at their apartment then leave. But now that they were here, she wished he’d stay for supper as usual whenever he was home from school—never an invitation necessary. If he stayed, he’d be a good distraction for Libby, hopefully keep her from asking about those darn roses she’d lied to Grant about. But another fuss with him about skipping school to go to D.C. was more than she could deal with right now.

She unlocked the apartment door and to give him leeway to decide whether to stick around or not, she said, “Grant will be here shortly.” Dropping her purse in a chair, she turned toward the kitchen. “I’ve got to pull something together for dinner.”

Denny followed with Libby skipping behind, seeming to be over her angry spell. The kid never stayed in a bad mood for long. “Uncle Grant’s bringing Chinese so you don’t have to cook on a school night. Remember, Mama?” Libby said.

“Oh . . . yes.” She faced the window over the sink, trying to think of what to do next.

“Nin.” Denny’s voice was close, at her shoulder. He touched her elbow. “We can’t be like this, sis.” He wrapped his fingers around her arm and urged her back out of the kitchen. She gave in to his gentle guidance. When they got to the living room, he stopped and faced her. “I know you understand why I want to go.” Glancing toward the kitchen where Libby had lingered to get a drink of water, he lowered his voice. “If you didn’t have Libby, you’d go, too.”

Libby breezed into the room. He grinned sheepishly when Gwen yanked her arm away and glared at him. Of course she would go and support what the Poor People’s Campaign stood for, but how could he say such a thing where Libby might hear?

Libby dropped cross-legged to the floor directly in front of the television. She reached to click it on. “Go where?” When neither of them answered, she asked again, “Where do you want to go, Mama?”

Gwen moved toward the couch but remained standing. “Nowhere, Libby.” Her words felt like a lame reassurance that she wouldn’t leave her daughter. Even with four years gone by since Carter’s shooting, Libby’s despair at the loss of her father and her uncle still troubled Gwen. The family had thought Libby, only five then, couldn’t truly comprehend what had happened. “Children are resilient,” her mama had said. “She’ll recover quickly, as kids always do.” But the counselor had warned that Libby might, after the initial flood of grief, block out her feelings, remember the incident but not the intensity of its effect on her, and so, seemingly, “be over it.” And yet not be. On the surface, couldn’t that look the same as Libby being happy, living a normal kid’s life? Gwen often troubled over which one was her daughter’s truth. Holding up a palm, fingers spread, she assured Libby again, “I’m not going anywhere,” then dropped to the couch.

The reality of what she’d said settled on her like a dank blanket. Never going anywhere. The same didn’t apply to Denny, though. He would go . . . somewhere. She clutched a throw pillow and hugged it close. Of course he would. She’d always pushed him towards that. Get out of Kent Creek. Just like she’d dreamed of doing. Art school was the way for him, as she’d thought it would be for her.

But now, options she hadn’t expected were in front of him: school or Washington. Those were his choices to make.

And if he didn’t choose school, the government would get its way: Vietnam.

She punched the pillow with her fist. He had to stay in school. She’d make sure of it.

Denny slipped the pillow from her grip and tossed it aside. He eased down beside her and wrapped her hand in both of his. Then he echoed the instruction she always gave him when he was in a tizzy: “Breathe.”

She’d started saying it to him when he was in high school and all bent out of shape about Clarissa Miles dumping him. Gwen had calmed him with her new knowledge of controlling the breath, taught to her by Patricia, her British neighbor who’d studied yoga in Switzerland with a guy named Iyengar. Gwen had hung out with Pat and her friends that year, and everyone but Denny thought she’d joined a cult. She gave up yoga when Libby came long, and she sure as heck didn’t want to breathe right now. She struggled to hold back tears. All she wanted was for Denny to say he wouldn’t throw away his talent like she had, that he would never leave school.

“Don’t you see, Denny?” With her words came the tears. “This is your big chance.”

“Aw, sis. Now who’s being melodramatic?” He gently wiped her cheek with his thumb. She pulled away, but he scooted closer.

Libby, who’d been pretending not to listen, turned from the TV toward them. Gwen hid her face in her hands. She had no energy left to explain to a child why she was crying. But when she felt Libby approach and put a tiny hand on her shoulder, Gwen raised her head and wrapped an arm around her daughter. “Tell your Uncle Dennis he can’t quit school, honey.”

Libby stepped over Gwen’s feet to climb in her uncle’s lap. “Like Mama said, Uncle Dennis.” She threw her arm around his neck. “Don’t quit. We never quit.”

Denny shook his head. “You girls!” He eased Libby off his knee onto the couch and stood. “I am not quitting school. I’m just going to Washington for a week or two. Then I’ll go back. Hell, even two of my teachers are going.”

Gwen wanted to believe him. “You swear?” He’d always kept his word when she made him swear.

“I swear! Now stop it.” He paced the floor, his brow wrinkled. “I just hoped I could do this with a little help from you, Nin.” He paused in front of her and his face softened. “I need you to make Ma understand. Maybe June, too.”

Getting everyone to understand. How had that come to be her job every time? “What about Daddy?”

They both knew the answer. Why had she bothered to ask?

“That man”—he shook his head—“won’t ever get it.” He paced another line across the living room. “Maybe June and Ma won’t either.” He stopped again and met her eyes. “But frankly, that’s fine, as long as you do.”

Of course. He would expect her permission, her approval, even encouragement. She’d always given it freely, eagerly, about everything he wanted. He was accustomed to that. Not this time. When she rose from the couch, she stood tall. “I’m sorry, Denny. I know you.”

He seemed to measure her expression. Then he turned his back on her.

Libby, now hugging the pillow, watched them from the couch, her forehead furrowed. Checking her words, Gwen continued, “You’ll get up there in Washington, in the middle of all the excitement . . . all tied up in the reason you’re there . . . and you won’t come back, not here to Kent Creek or to school.”

He threw his arms in the air. “God, Gwen! I have to come back.” He yelled now. “Stop all this nonsense.”

He was right. Libby didn’t need to hear any of this. And if she kept pushing her brother, he’d be more likely to do what he wanted anyway. Any other time, she would be proud he was so much like her in that way. Or . . . at least the way she used to be. She swallowed to choke back more tears.

“Look, you’ve got Grant coming.” He stepped toward the door. “I’ll leave and we’ll talk about this later.”

Tossing the pillow on the floor, Libby jumped up from the couch. “Don’t go, Uncle Dennis.” She went to him and took his hand. “We can call Uncle Grant and have him bring extra.” She turned pleading eyes on Gwen. “Please! Mama, tell him not to go.”

They never should have had this conversation in front of her.

He wrapped his arm around Libby and hugged her close. “I’ll see you tomorrow, Little Nin.”

Libby leaned into him, then threw back her head to look up into his face. “So you won’t go to Washington?”

“Not yet.” He chucked her under the chin, then reached for Gwen. “Not yet,” he repeated, pulling her close too.

Gwen patted his cheek. She was losing this one. She hugged him tight, didn’t want to let go. Libby wrapped her arms about their waists and squeezed. The three of them stood like that for what seemed a full minute. Finally, Denny took in a deep breath then released it long and even. “I suppose . . . ” Stepping back an arm’s length from them, his eyes darted to Libby, then settled on Gwen. “Maybe . . . I should stick around.” He straightened and seemed taller. “To check out Grant, I mean.”

Gwen smiled, glad for this change in conversation, even to the subject of Grant.

“I need to make sure his intentions are right,” he teased, stepping away, then plopping down on the couch. Libby did the same beside him.

Gwen mimicked them, dropping into the chair. “Grant does not need any encouragement.”

“So I hear. How you going to deal with that?”

“I dunno yet,” she muttered. “Libby, get out of those school clothes, honey.”

Reluctantly, Libby trudged toward her room, but turned at the hallway door and pointed at her uncle. “Don’t leave!”

Gwen scooted to the edge of the chair and reached to tap his knee. “You heard her.” She waited until Libby’s bedroom door closed. “And besides, I need you to stay this evening.”

“Why?”

“If you don’t . . . ” She lowered her voice just in case Libby popped out of her room. “I’ll have to explain to her why I lied today.”

He pulled himself up straight. “You lied to Libby?”

“To Grant, but she heard.” She rubbed her forehead. “It just wasn’t the time or place to tell him.”

“Tell him what?” Before she could respond, Denny answered himself, relaxing back into the couch. “Oh . . . the mystery man.”

She nodded. “I couldn’t tell him at the office. Besides, Libby daydreams about Grant becoming her daddy.”

Palms up, he lifted his shoulders. “He has been around a while.” He paused. “What was your lie?”

“He gave me roses.” When Denny shot her a puzzled look, she added, “Mystery man. Not Grant.”

“So?”

“I didn’t want him or Dorothy to know where they came from. I never should have taken them to the office. When Grant asked about them, I claimed they were from Ma’s rose garden. I didn’t know Libby could hear.” He cocked his head, still not understanding, so she went on, “Ma doesn’t grow yellow ones. Libby knows that.”

His chin rose in acknowledgment. He glanced toward the hallway. “What’s wrong with telling her the truth?”

A weight settled on her shoulders. Her head dropped and she stared at the floor. “I wish it were that easy, Denny.”

“What’s so hard? You’ve fallen in love.” He raised an eyebrow. “That’s a good thing, right?”

She scoffed. “First, I don’t know yet if I love him. And if I do, this isn’t a simple matter of ‘happily ever after’.” Her shoulders rounded, heavier.

Her brother lifted her chin and studied her face. “If you’d tell me more, I could help.” When she stayed silent, he leaned forward to pat her hand. “I’m in the dark here. At least give me a name, so I’ll know who we’re talking about.”

“Nate.”

“What’s he do?”

She closed her eyes. “Manages a club.”

“A nightclub?” His words made her wince. “Whooee. Leona won’t like that.”

She put both hands over her mouth and spoke between her fingers. “Ma won’t like much about him.”

“Such as?”

She bit her lip then sat a moment, frozen, her eyes closed. Denny had always made it easy for her to tell him anything, everything. Even this?

She tried to speak but couldn’t begin. He wouldn’t judge her. She knew that. Probably encourage her, in fact. But once she told one person in the family, the door would be open and she wouldn’t be able to close it again. To her surprise, that excited her. “Oh, for heaven’s sake!”

“Nin, what in the hay is so bad you can’t tell me?”

She shook her head and sucked in a breath. “I might as well get on with this.” When he leaned closer, she glanced toward the hallway. No sign of Libby, but when she looked him square in the eyes, she whispered, “He’s a Negro, okay?!” Not waiting for his reaction, she stood and paced a wide circle. “Half anyway.” She stopped in front of him and fluttered her hands like she was shooing him away. “There. You know now. Okay?”

“O . . . kay . . . I . . . didn’t expect that.”

She lapped the living room again, but the earlier weight had lifted. Her shoulders relaxed.

“How do you know him?” he asked.

“He’s a member of the Chamber.” She recognized pride in her voice.

“In little ole backwards Kent Creek?” He chuckled, then shook his head. “This town’s finally coming up in the world.”

She stopped in front of him again, crossed her arms. “Oh, it’s still Podunkville, make no mistake. Not all the Board members are happy about this. Neither is my boss. But Nate works for a businessman who’s got pull. A lot of it.” When he reached for her, she dropped her arms and sat beside him.

“Wow,” he said.” You’ve done some things, sis.” He nodded. “But this is a doozy.”

Libby bounced into the living room, carrying the game of LIFE. “What have you done, Mama?”

Gwen’s eyes darted from Denny to her daughter’s legs. “Why’d you put on that old pair of britches?” She was relieved at the chance to divert their conversation. “They have holes in the knees.”

“I like ’em.” Rounding the coffee table, Libby, in her persistence, asked again, “What’d you do that’s a doozy?”

Frustrated, Gwen turned to Denny. He shrugged as if to say, “I’m sorry.”

She took the game from Libby and placed it on the coffee table. Gently, she pulled Libby by the arm to stand in front of her. Libby didn’t resist.

“Honey.” She looked into her daughter’s green eyes and took in a big breath. Denny nodded once, a signal of encouragement. She exhaled and took Libby’s hands in hers. Rubbing her thumbs across those little knuckles, she admitted, “I lied today.”

Libby’s stare was piercing. Heel, toe, heel, toe, she rocked. Then stopped. “You never did that before, Mama.”

Her breath caught at Libby’s pure innocence. Never? If she only knew. Gwen gently squeezed Libby’s hands. “I’m so sorry.” Oh, how she meant it.

Libby drew back on her heels, rolled to her toes again. Back, forth, back, forth.

“Do you forgive me?” Gwen asked.

The rocking halted, but Libby was silent. Finally, finally, she nodded.

Gwen swallowed. “I promise I’ll explain it all later, baby. I promise.” Libby peered at her as if expecting her to say more. She added, “I’m so so sorry.”

Eventually, Libby’s eyes softened. Her lips curled slightly and she patted Gwen on the shoulder. “I know, Mama. You’ll explain later.”

She pulled Libby close, the easiest child in the world to have, always wanting to please and obey. By asking forgiveness without explanation Gwen had just taken advantage of that. But for now, that was all she could manage.

Next Episode —> Coming Soon!

<— Previous Episode

Thanks for reading! Each episode is a work-in-progress, which means you’re a vital part of my creation process, and the story may expand or contract as I write. I encourage and value your comments.

Jump to: Episode Guide | THE MAILBAG

DANCING AT THE ORANGE PEEL is one story in evolving collection called “The Kent Creek Chronicles.” To follow along and receive extra related tidbits from THE MAILBAG…

Subscribing is free, but a paid subscription helps me continue writing my stories and living my dream as a author.

Whichever you choose, thanks for your support!

Your grateful scribe,