“Miss?”
Addie groaned. The operator’s voice again. Which meant the line must be busy. Sociable Mother was probably talking to one of her many friends.
“That number is not in service.”
Addie drew back and frowned at the telephone. Had she given the wrong series of numbers? Granted, she hadn’t called for quite a while, but surely she hadn’t forgotten her parents’ number. She closed her eyes and searched her memory. No, she’d been correct. “Are you sure you connected it properly?”
A huff met her ear. “Yes, miss, I’m sure. The number is not in service.”
Maybe the telephone was broken. Telephones could break, couldn’t they? Addie took a slow breath, forcing her racing pulse to calm. Daddy would be at the bank. Although she hated to bother him at work, this was an emergency. “All right, then, please dial Georgetown Citizens Bank.” She gave the number and gnawed a hangnail on her thumb, her pulse galloping.
“Citizens Bank. May I help you?”
Addie didn’t recognize the man’s voice, but she’d been away long enough to forget many of her father’s coworkers. At least she’d reached the right place. “Yes. I’d like to speak to Mr. Cowherd, please.”
“Penrose Cowherd?”
How many men with the surname Cowherd worked at the bank? “Yes, Penrose Cowherd.”
“He’s no longer employed here, miss.”
Addie’s legs turned to jelly. She slumped against the wall and slid down until her bottom met the narrow bench. She clung to the telephone receiver the way a drowning man gripped a life preserver. “What do you mean he isn’t employed there? He’s been employed there my whole life.” Except for the two-year period when the bank was forced to close its doors. But the moment they’d opened again, the president had put Daddy back to work.
“Am I speaking to Addie?”
She managed a raspy yes.
“Addie, this is Mr. Bowles.”
Oh, yes, Mr. Bowles—a middle-aged man with coal-black hair and a mustache to match. He’d given her clove-flavored candy sticks on visits to the bank when she was a little girl. She could speak freely with him. “Mr. Bowles, I don’t understand. Why is Daddy not employed there anymore?”
“The bank got bought out. The new owner let go any man older than fifty-five. Your daddy’s in his sixties, so…”
“When did this happen?”
“Last October.”
“October?” She squawked the word. Seven months ago? How could she not have known? Yes, Daddy had been home her entire Christmas break. But when she asked why he wasn’t going to work, he kissed her cheek and said, “I’d rather spend the time with you, sugar dumplin’.” She’d never suspected he wasn’t telling the full truth. “They probably can’t afford to keep the telephone connected.”
She didn’t realize she’d spoken the thought until Mr. Bowles’s voice rumbled in her ear. “They lost the house a month ago. According to bank gossip, they took a room in Mrs. Fee’s boardinghouse.”
Addie envisioned the huge clapboard building on a rise at the edge of town. With peeling paint, missing spindles on its porch railing, and a dirt yard dotted with weeds, the Fee boardinghouse was the saddest looking dwelling Addie had ever seen. Even sadder than the ramshackle orphans’ home where she’d spent a dismal nine months before Mother and Daddy adopted her. Tears pricked, and she bit the inside of her lip—the tactic she’d used since childhood to prevent herself from crying.
“I can give you the number there, if you want it.”
She closed her eyes and rested her forehead against the wooden barrier. Her chest ached. She could hardly bear to think of her beloved parents residing in a room in the Fee boardinghouse.
“Addie? Do you want the boardinghouse’s number?”
If she didn’t say something, Mr. Bowles would think she’d hung up. She swallowed a knot of agony and forced her tight vocal cords to speak. “Yes. Thank you.” She didn’t have anything on which to write, but she chanted the number to herself as she hung up and then hooked her finger in the dial.
But she didn’t turn it. She stared at the wall, puckering her brow.
Why hadn’t Daddy let her know things were so bad? Why hadn’t Mother told her they’d moved? Anger churned in her belly. She wasn’t a child to be coddled anymore. They should have been honest with her. How cruel to let her find out on her own. She expected better from her ordinarily loving parents. Even if they couldn’t call, they could have written. They should have—
She jolted. Maybe they had written. When had she last visited her mail cubby? She cringed. Six weeks ago, at least. Caught up in sorority activities, studying, and other end-of-year programs and events, she hadn’t even thought about checking for letters from home.
Guilt chased away the anger. She smacked the receiver into its cradle, bolted from the telephone booth, and headed for the mail cubbies.
Addie
HOLDING HER BREATH, ADDIE LEANED down and peered into her mail cubby. Three letters waited in her box. Her breath burst free on a little cry of regret.
She pulled them out. A quick glance confirmed all were from her parents. She pressed the envelopes to her aching chest and bit the inside of her lower lip. Hard. Punishingly hard. When they hadn’t received a reply to their missives, Mother and Daddy must have thought she didn’t care at all. And they were right to make such a presumption. How could she have been so neglectful?
She arranged the envelopes in chronological order according to the post office date stamps but then impulsively slapped the most recent one, sent the third of May, on top. She would read it first, although she already surmised what she would find inside, given her conversations with Dean Crane and Mr. Bowles.
Likely, the letter would confirm no money was coming. She wouldn’t be allowed to take her final examinations. The entire semester, all the studying and completed assignments, was wasted. Sadness—or was it anger?—struck with force. Facing Dr. Crane and admitting that her parents were unable to pay the bill would require courage. Maybe she wouldn’t meet with him after all. What was the use?
With the letters gripped firmly in her hand, she set a straight path for Patterson Hall, ignoring the winding sidewalks and crossing the recently mowed grass instead. Students were discouraged from treading upon the lush lawns, and she’d always made use of the established walkways. But she wasn’t a student any longer, and therefore, the rules didn’t apply to her. Besides, if she didn’t reach her room quickly, she might not be able to hold back the tears pressing for release. She’d nearly bitten through the tender skin behind her lip, and it wasn’t helping. If she was going to cry, she would do it in private.