“We got one of them named Granny back home, isn’t that right, kiddos?” He turned to the boys in the backseat, who were still fighting.
He shook his head with a smile as he got out of the car and took my carpetbag and typewriter case to put in the trunk. He patted Du-yu-go-dv on the head before closing the trunk. As we stepped around the car to get in, he checked his tie to make sure it was safely tucked into his vest. Once we were started on our way, he held his hand out to introduce himself.
“I’m Autopsy Bliss, by the way,” he said. “Those two boys in the backseat are my sons. Grand is the oldest. Fielding is the young one.”
I turned around and saw the two boys no longer fighting over the baseball. They were sharing it.
“It sure is hot today, huh?” Mr. Bliss once more checked his tie. “Feels like we’re all gonna melt.”
I looked back at the Welcome sign, that splintery piece of barn wood nailed to that soaring American sycamore. Before I could no longer see the tree, I untied the balloon from my strap and held it out the window.
“What’s with the balloon?” Mr. Bliss asked.
“It’s a letter,” I said. “To my father.”
I gave the bootlace a squeeze before letting go. As the red balloon floated up into the sky, I saw a cloud, circling from the heavens. Reaching down from that cloud was a hand with garden dirt around the fingernails and in the lines of the palm. This hand grabbed hold of the bootlace and slowly pulled the balloon in until it disappeared into the cloud. Leaning my head back against the seat and watching the hills go by, I remembered what my father had once said.
“No water is ever at rest.”
I know now what he meant because the ripples of his death have weakened. But the waters will never be still.
Acknowledgments
Thank you to my family. My sisters Jennifer and Dina, my father Glen, and especially my mother Betty, whose fierce determination, creativity, and intelligence continues to inspire me today.
Thank you to the team at Knopf, including Timothy O’Connell, Anna Kaufman, Paul Bogaards, Emily Reardon, Emily Murphy, Nora Reichard, Suzanne Smith, Sean Yule, Kelly Blair, Betty Lew, Robert Shapiro, and the late Sonny Mehta.
Thank you to the foreign and translation publishers:
Simone Caltabellota and the Atlantide publishing team of Priscilla Caltabellota, Lucia Olivieri, Luca Briasco, Gianni Miraglia, Francesco Pedicini, Flavia Piccinni, Francesco Sanesi/3centogrammi, Enrico Bistazzoni, and Gaia Rispoli.
Oliver Gallmeister of Gallmeister Editions and translator François Happe.
Weidenfeld and Nicolson’s Federico Andornino, Francesca Pearce, Tom Noble, Esther Waters, Ellie Freedman.
Hachette Australia and New Zealand’s Victoria Marin, Daniel Pilkington, and Kathie Kelly.
Juliette van Wersch and the Signatuur team.
Lastly, thank you to my mamaw Alka and my aunts, whose strength and grit were immeasurable. And though my papaw Landon died before I was born, I would like to thank him for being the type of father who empowered and supported his daughters while carrying forth and celebrating the legacy of our family’s Cherokee ancestors, leaving lasting ripples in our lives.
About the Author
Tiffany McDaniel is a novelist, poet, and visual artist born and raised in Ohio. She is the author of The Summer That Melted Everything.
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Betty Page 47
