“You’re ten times better than Xander Cole. What about your misdemeanor charge? Any word from Bodie?”
“The state attorney has to decide if they have a case. I’m hoping they consider a misdemeanor charge involving a Hollywood star is not worth the hassle. I’d be happy to pay a fine. Even apologize to Cranston.”
“I’ve been thinking about your diarrhea-of-the-mouth issue.”
“You got some Pepto-Bismol wisdom for me?”
“Matt, I think you should call Booker.”
As he chewed on Dad’s advice, the Starlight sign cut through the dark horizon. The wind rose and fell. Somewhere on the next street over, an engine revved.
“I think that’s what’s been eating you up inside all these years. Why you let people walk all over you, crash at your place, trash it. You don’t think you deserve your success because you ruined Booker’s life. Or so you believe.”
“And I’m still messing up people’s lives. Look, Dad, Book blasted me in front of everyone that one Christmas we were both home. He made it clear he never wanted to talk to or see me again.”
“Then you stopped coming home for holidays.”
“I flew you and Granny to my place a couple of times.” Though nothing compared to Christmas at the Starlight. Not even Tinseltown.
“I’ve been thinking about the night you blabbed,” Dad said. “You were supposed to meet him at the Starlight, right? Then you ran into Ricky and Jonas. You never showed.”
“Yeah, so? He was off stealing the test.”
“I wonder if he wanted you to talk him out of it.”
“It’s a decent theory, Pop, but I’m still the one who blabbed. Would Principal Conroy have been more lenient if the whole school didn’t know?”
Matt distracted himself from the familiar sense of guilt by breaking off the twigs and peeling the loose bark from a stick he found at the bottom of the steps.
“Booker is responsible for his own actions. Even his daddy Abel said so. But your friend needed you that night, Matt,” Dad said, “and you never showed. Did you ever apologize to him forthat?”
TUESDAY
SEPTEMBER 1940
A girl did the best she could, you know, after her son ran off to join a foreign military. As promised, LJ sent a letter from New York before boarding the Queen Mary.
I’m sorry I didn’t tell you, Ma, but I was afraid you’d talk me out of it, and I wanted to go. Doc says I’ll be well cared for, and there’s a group of American fellas flying for a Charles Sweeney. I promise to be careful. You know I’m good for it. I never lied to you except this. Don’t let Dup get away with anything. I’ve written to him too, told him to help you without giving you lip. I think he’s good for it. Well, the train’s pulling into the station. That’s why my writing is so wobbly. I’ll get this in the nearest postbox. I love you, Ma.
In the first few months he was gone, he wrote often, promised he was thriving, excelling in his training, and learning the ways of the British.
But now England was in the fight. Chamberlain didnotbroker peace with Herr Hitler, who American journalists called a caricature and a clown. Yet thatclownamassed an army, invaded Czechoslovakia after Poland, and, in July, bombed London. As far as Tuesday Knight was concerned, he bombed her boy.
In August, Leroy started showing up. He looked old and worn out, like a man carrying on in sinful living. He puttered around the house, fixing things like the rotted posts on the porch and leaks in the roof. Even fixed the loose floorboard in the kitchen. Thank goodness LJ had removed the deed box. Tuesday made a note to ask him where he’d hidden it in her next letter.
Lee painted the house a pretty blue and hammered new white shutters by the front window. He mowed the lawn and plowed up the front flower bed for perennials. He bought her a new washing machine and showed her plans to expand the kitchen and add on a family room.
Wasn’t that peachy? Yet every night as Leroy mopped the gravy from his plate with her homemade bread, he never said a word about why he was home or about her old potbelly stove.
In September, he showed up with workers and technicians to install central air conditioning at the Starlight. Central. Air. Conditioning. Land sakes alive. At the Starlight! It was practically unheard of in these parts, except for movie theaters, but the old Midnight didn’t have A/C. Dale Cranston Sr., who just remodeled the place with his granddaddy’s inheritance but decided against central air, turned every shade of green.
Tuesday asked Lee a hundred times, “Where did you get the money?”
“Someone owed me a favor,” he answered a hundred times in return.
He pulled out his Richardsons and joined her at the rink several nights a week, and even took a turn playing the Wurlitzer. He only knew one song, but my, how her heart overflowed.
The boss man with the thick brow and beady eyes came around once in a while, inspecting the Starlight with a hungry look in his eyes, talking in low tones to Lee.
