All the Beautiful Girls Read online

She closed the volume when she saw her uncle lumbering back across the parking lot. He sat heavily behind the wheel and turned toward her, smiling so that his canines showed long and sharp. “You’re so sexy,” he said, using his husky, nighttime voice. “You make me lose control.” He scanned the parking lot and then crept his hand across the front seat toward her. Lily scooted so that her back was pressed against the passenger door. Surreptitiously, she tried to find the handle. “You’re not going anywhere,” Uncles Miles said as he started the truck. “You hear me?” He looked straight ahead through the windshield splattered with dead insects. When Lily failed to answer him, he slapped the seat between them, making dust rise. “Hear me? I said ‘NOWHERE.’ ”

  “Yes,” Lily said, her voice small.

  “Sir!”

  “Sir,” she squeaked.

  “Or else!”

  “Or else,” Lily confirmed.

  On the way back to the house, Uncle Miles took a detour. “Got something to show you,” he said as if he were giving her a gift. He drove until they reached a neighborhood of homes with big, welcoming front porches and shadowy green lawns. Uncle Miles slowed the truck, looking at house numbers. Finally, he stopped in front of a pale gray, two-story house with elaborate white trim. He let the engine idle and pointed.

  “See that one?”

  Lily nodded. It had broad flower beds with lilies, roses, and Mama’s favorite—peonies.

  “That’s where he lives. The man who killed your family.”

  Lily stared at the contrasting charcoal-gray front door with its inset diamond panes of leaded glass. She saw a lush fern hanging from the porch ceiling and two white wicker chairs angled toward each other, as if they were friends. Everything she saw from the window of Uncle Miles’ truck only deepened her curiosity about the man who’d collided with Lily’s family on that June night when dry lightning raked the horizon.

  “You listening? I’m telling you that a murderer lives in that fancy house. These air force pilots think they can come to our town and lord it over the rest of us. You just remember,” Uncle Miles said as he took the truck out of neutral and slowly pulled away from the curb, “when you hear those sonic booms it’s probably that aviator, flying over you. The man who killed your family.”

  Lily looked back at the Aviator’s house for as long as she could. She wanted for him to come out of the front door, to see her. She wanted to sit on his front steps and ask him things like Why? and How come? She wanted to beg Save me.

  * * *

  —

  SHE HAD FEW memories of the night that broke her life into Before and After. She remembered that her allergies had been so severe that her nose bled, and so Mama made Lily lie down in the backseat, wrapped in a blanket patterned with stars and moons. As Lily drifted off to sleep, she watched Dawn stand, reach over the front seat, and begin to braid their mother’s hair.

  Lily remembered waking up on the side of the road, curled into the arms of a stranger and seeing the Aviator standing near his car—the one with taillights set in wildly exaggerated fins that looked like some beast’s red, wicked eyes. She remembered her family’s motionless car, sparks of insects flashing in the headlight beams. Redwing blackbirds rising from fields of summer wheat, panicked by the commotion. The hiss of whitewall tires as they sighed last breaths; a violent whoosh of steam erupting from the radiator.

  The Aviator had knelt beside Lily, holding a handkerchief to the top of his head. A thick shock of black hair hid his eyes. Lines of blood painted the contours of his face and ran into his mouth.

  “What have you got there?” he had asked Lily—just as if he’d met her on the street outside Hutchinson’s Ice Cream Store in downtown Salina.

  Lily handed him her bouquet of four crayons, the ones she’d held on to, tight, when the stranger lifted her from the car’s wreckage. “These ones are my favorites,” she said. Periwinkle, Carnation Pink, Cornflower, and Pine Green.

  Mostly, Lily remembered that the Aviator hadn’t felt like a bad man. He felt like a sad one.

  * * *

  —

  THERE WERE INTERMITTENT pools of rainwater relief, times when Lily smiled. Those times came when the parcels arrived in the mail, wrapped in brown paper, tied with twine, and addressed in bold black ink to Miss Lily Decker. The first was Gene Stratton-Porter’s Freckles. It was an old book from 1904, with a battered cover and fine engravings of trees, cattails, birds, and clouds. Before beginning the novel, Lily hoisted herself onto the kitchen counter and sneaked exactly ten saltines from Aunt Tate’s larder. Then, she propped herself up on her bed with the book, eating the saltines as slowly as possible. As she sucked the salt from each cracker, she knew she was just like Freckles—crippled and unlovable. Still, she felt a little less lonely.

  The mysterious books smelled of time, somehow held the breath of another reader, someone before Lily. The secrecy surrounding the identity of the book-giver made Lily feel special, somehow deserving. The books also let her travel far from the relentless flatlands of her life with Uncle Miles and Aunt Tate.

  Pragmatic Aunt Tate didn’t abide mysteries, but if she wondered about the books’ origins, she never said anything to Lily. Aunt Tate dealt with the tangible world, the only exceptions being Jesus, the disciples, and the New Testament miracles. As for Lily, she thought the books might be from her elementary school librarian, who’d often commented on Lily’s avaricious appetite for books about pioneer girls who were held captive by Indians, or the wildly vengeful myths of the Greeks and Romans. In a way, it didn’t matter who sent the books, as long as whoever it was kept sending them.

  * * *

  —

  IT TOOK SOME convincing, but finally Aunt Tate agreed to let Lily sleep over at Beverly Ann’s. The girls had been friends forever. They traded Cherry Ames books, shared after-school snacks of apple slices loaded with peanut butter, and played Chinese jump rope.

  “We’ve missed you, sweetheart,” Beverly Ann’s mother said, kissing Lily good night and promising that they’d have French toast in the morning.

  When Mrs. McPherson pulled the door nearly closed so that only a thin pillar of light shone from the hallway, Lily felt a sudden moment of panic. She audibly sucked in her breath as a fleeting image of Uncle Miles’ probing hands crossed her mind. The image was there, he was there, even though she knew that at least for tonight she wouldn’t have to fear the drop of his weight on the bed like a gunnysack of river rocks.

  “What’s wrong?” Beverly Ann asked, her voice sleepy.

  Lily thought about telling. She could tell Beverly Ann about what happened in her bedroom, when the only noises in the house were crickets and the hum of the refrigerator. Sometimes the furnace clicking off or on. And Uncle Miles’ breath, his huh-huh-huh that got faster and faster.

  But she couldn’t tell. It would make her sick to tell. Sicker to tell than not to tell. Beverly Ann would know how disgusting Lily was, and Lily would lose her best friend. And if she did tell, then what would happen? She had nowhere else to go.

  “Nothing,” she said, finally, but Beverly Ann had already fallen asleep. Lily listened to her friend’s deep, regular breathing, the breathing of a girl who could trust, even in the dark. Lily felt her own eyes fluttering closed as she nestled in sheets that smelled of a sun-kissed clothesline.

  The next morning, Lily came home from Beverly Ann’s begging for a pogo stick, but Aunt Tate said it was “too dear,” and Lily nearly stomped her feet. Beverly Ann got to have everything! Lily’s friend’s life was a constant reminder of all that Lily had lost, and sometimes—like this time—Lily felt her cheeks flame hot with jealousy and anger.

  But a few weeks after the sleepover at Beverly Ann’s, Uncle Miles beckoned a hesitant Lily to join him in the backyard beside his workshop. In his hands, he held a pair of homemade stilts.

  “I sanded the handles real good so you wo
n’t get splinters,” he said, turning the stilts so that Lily could admire his workmanship. “And I know these aren’t the same as a pogo stick, but you can learn to do tricks on them. Here,” he said, motioning to Lily to come closer. “I’ll help you get up on them. You’ll learn fast cuz you’re real coordinated.”

  He was right; it took Lily no time to learn how to walk steadily, and soon enough she could balance on one stilt and even hop on a single wooden pole while holding the other one in the air. She sang songs and made up dances she could do balanced high on the stilts.

  “I still think they’re dangerous,” Aunt Tate said after one of Lily’s stunt shows, performed just before dinner.

  “Lord, Tate. Let the girl have some fun,” Uncle Miles had said and then winked at Lily, which made her nervous, not a happy co-conspirator. Lily became convinced that Uncle Miles wanted something in exchange, that he was incapable of a simple kindness. Eventually, that persistent knock of fear led Lily to abandon the stilts next to the woodpile, against the back fence where the squirrels lived.

  * * *

  —

  MAYBE UNCLE MILES loved Aunt Tate. Lily didn’t know. He did love his raspberries—all forty-eight bushes, lined up in rows like soldiers on parade. He inspected them for infestations, dusted them with a white powder that poisoned any bugs bold enough to alight on the sharp leaves. He fertilized. He shooed away sparrows who dared to feast on the ripe fruit. When frost was predicted, he used old pillowcases to shroud the bushes so that they stood like an eerie battalion of child-sized ghosts.

  They weren’t pretty plants, not like the boldly bright dahlias that had filled Mama’s flower beds. They were thorny creatures that protected themselves by being nondescript, unwelcoming. But when the fruit came—the faceted gemstone berries with their lush lobes, the juice running down Lily’s chin—it was heavenly. Aunt Tate would ladle the berries over vanilla ice cream, and they’d sit out back, watching the soft evening descend. It was a puzzle Lily couldn’t solve—the fact that something delicious came from her uncle’s devotion.

  Lily’s fourth-grade school portrait showed a tall, gangly ten-year-old with a long neck and indentations at her temples as if someone had pressed his palms to the sides of her skull and squeezed until the bone succumbed. The generous spread of her cheekbones gave her a clear, open gaze. Her indigo blue eyes were large, her child’s lips surprisingly luscious, and she faced the camera without flinching. If Lily had held a numbered placard in her hands, the school photo almost would have passed for a mug shot.

  It had been nearly two years since the accident, and from time to time, she saw the Aviator around town. Lily liked to imagine that he was watching her, a presence like God or Jesus or Zeus or Santa Claus. Someone who knew her secrets but wouldn’t tell. He was a potent mystery—not an enemy, not quite a friend. Just there.

  She discovered, finally, that it was the Aviator who was sending her the old books. When How They Carried the Mail arrived, it had the Aviator’s name in it, written elegantly in what Lily’s teacher called copperplate calligraphy. His name was Stirling Sloan, and he had once been a boy living on Magnolia Street in Dormont, Pennsylvania.

  Holding the books from the Aviator’s childhood, turning the pages of his memories, Lily sent her mind to the places where his mind had been. She dogged his steps. And although she thought Stirling was a nice name, to Lily he remained always and forever the Aviator.

  Mostly, it was curiosity that led her on a warm, late-April day to pedal all the way over to the Aviator’s street, put down her kickstand, and leave her bicycle tilted on the sidewalk that bordered his front lawn. She’d dressed up for him, pulling her hair back on the sides with a pair of pink butterfly barrettes, and she wore her best smocked cotton dress—the yellow one with a big sash she’d tied in back all by herself. Still, she was feeling less bold, now that she was actually at his house. Lily used the rubber toe of her Red Ball Jets tennis shoe to kick at a tuft of crabgrass that grew up through the sidewalk crack like a patch of unruly hair.

  If she continued to linger out front, Lily realized, one of his nosy neighbors might come out and ask her questions she didn’t want to answer. Lily took a deep breath, marched up the front steps, and pressed the doorbell.

  Nothing happened. She wasn’t sure how long she should wait. Feeling a nervous queasiness begin to slosh about in her stomach, she pushed the buzzer again. Again nothing. She saw the Aviator’s mail stuffed into his mailbox and realized he must still be at work. Maybe he was busy flying one of the jet-propelled B-47 bombers, part of the country’s Strategic Air Command they’d learned about at school.

  Slowly, Lily descended the front porch. She hadn’t gotten what she wanted—an audience with the Aviator—and she couldn’t leave. Not yet. Maybe she’d just circle around back. Maybe she could wait there until he came home.

  As Lily rounded the house, she could smell something overripe, on the edge of decay. Her tennis shoes slid on rotting apricots that had dropped from the neighbor’s tree. Lily picked up a piece of the fruit, brought it to her nose and grimaced. There were speckles of fruit flies all over the mushy flesh, and she dropped it quickly. She wiped her sticky fingers on some long, wet grass and then dried them on her dress.

  Boldly, Lily climbed the Aviator’s back steps and sat on his porch swing. She pushed off with her feet and could hear the groan of the bolts that held it aloft.

  He was taking forever to come home, and Lily wished she’d brought along Jane Eyre or A Girl of the Limberlost. She twiddled her thumbs for a while, and then she tried whistling. It came out slender, ineffectual. She wanted to learn to whistle so loudly that hordes of dogs from all over town would come running to her. She wanted to be able to whistle a tune when Dinah Shore came on the television and sang “Shoo-Fly Pie and Apple Pan Dowdy.”

  “Lily?”

  She hadn’t heard his car. The Aviator pushed open the screen door and came out onto the porch. Lily stood guiltily.

  “What are you doing here? Lily, does your aunt know you’re here?”

  He’d said her name, twice. He did know her. She was so full of emotion that she was having trouble finding her voice.

  “Sit down a minute,” the Aviator said, gently taking her arm and leading her back to the porch swing. “How did you know where to find me?”

  “Uncle Miles showed me.”

  “That’s your bike out front?”

  “Yes.”

  “But, Lily—do they know you’re here? They can’t possibly know you’re here.”

  Lily shook her head.

  “Oh, this is a bad idea,” he said. “You can’t be here. I’m so sorry. You just can’t be here.”

  “But I came to ask you,” she said before he could make her leave unsatisfied. “I have to ask you something.” Lily clenched her fists in the way her mother had always said proved just how stubborn you can be, Scallywag. She was determined not to leave without asking him.

  The Aviator took a deep breath. He was a handsome man with an omnipresent five-o’clock shadow, a nose so straight it looked as if it had been drawn with a ruler, and bruised-looking blue eyes. He sat with a ramrod-straight back, and he was wearing a military green flight suit that zipped up the front. On one sleeve was an embroidered patch picturing an armored fist that clasped an olive branch and three bright red lightning bolts.

  “You may have three questions,” he said at last.

  “Like three wishes with a genie?”

  “Yes. And then you go home.” She could see he was afraid of her questions, but still he said, “Go ahead. Ask me.”

  “My school is having a dance. Fathers bring their daughters.” She opened her hands, wiped her sweaty palms on the skirt of her dress. “I get to dress up and everything. And I wanted for you to take me.”

  She’d been so happy when she’d concocted this plan to avoid humiliation. The other girls wou
ld be so jealous—even Beverly Ann. Lily would dance with a handsome pilot, handsomer even than the men on The Dinah Shore Show, and the fact that she had no father to take her would be completely overshadowed by the splendor of the Aviator.

  The Aviator’s face went from one expression to another in an instant—as if clouds were first blotting out the sun and then letting it shine full force. She saw him pained and surprised and then frustrated. Maybe even angry, which scared her a little.

  “I wish I could,” he said at last. “But I can’t.”

  “Why not?” Lily stood and faced him.

  The Aviator bit his lip, and for a minute Lily thought they both would cry. She felt violent and crazed disappointment thrashing about in her chest.

  “Please,” she begged.

  The Aviator stood quickly and pulled her into a hug. She pressed her face into the dark solidity of him, felt the zipper of his jumpsuit chafe her cheek.

  “They would never let me,” he said, still holding her.

  “Because they hate you,” she said, raising her face to look up at him.

  “That’s right.”

  “But wasn’t it an accident? Like when I spill the milk? Or when I trip and fall?”

  He put his hand on the top of her head, as if blessing her. “I wish it were that simple,” he said.

  “You didn’t mean to kill them, did you?”

  The Aviator released her. “Come sit back down for a minute. Are you thirsty? Do you want a glass of water?”

  Lily shook her head. What she wanted was answers.

  “Okay. Well…” The Aviator rubbed his jaw with his knuckles. Lily thought she could hear the rasp of his beard’s stubble. “I was driving fast. Too fast. I do that sometimes—go out on the highway and fly along the asphalt, blow off steam. And I didn’t see them—you. There was a dip in the road, and I hit your car. I’d take it all back. I can’t—” His voice broke.