by Kirby Larson
Outside, Miz Junkins mounted Maisie, then tugged Willie Mae up behind her. Maisie snorted once or twice to make her opinion about the situation known, but she plodded along regular. “She knows the way to town blindfolded,” said Miz Junkins. “She’ll have us there in a few hours.”
Willie Mae shivered in her threadbare coat. Miz Junkins reached into her own coat pocket and pulled out a thin wool scarf. “Tie this over your head,” she told Willie Mae. “Helps to keep your head covered.”
Willie Mae obeyed. The scarf helped—and so did clinging to Miz Junkins, to share her warmth. Willie Mae got so comfy perched on Maisie’s back that she might have been sawing logs if she hadn’t been preoccupied with memorizing every inch of the ride so she could tell Marvel and Ma about it later. And write about it to Theo, too. They rode under the twisted arms of coffee trees, pods clicking as the wind swept through the branches. Willie Mae reached out to run her fingers across the scaly black bark of a bare persimmon tree, and she scootched closer to Miz Junkins when they passed a stand of chinkapin oaks, white trunks glowing ghostly.
After they’d been riding for some time, they came upon a glossy green holly tree, bursting with red berries. Miz Junkins stopped Maisie, slid off, and drew a knife from her saddlebag. She cut several large sprigs. “Won’t this make my house festive for Christmas?” she said.
“They’re good luck, too,” Willie Mae added, gingerly holding the clippings while the librarian remounted. Miz Junkins then took her treasures and balanced them in her arms the rest of the ride.
Willie Mae knew Miz Junkins had to be bone tired from all her riding and carrying. She didn’t mind that they weren’t talking. It gave her mind time to spin stories. She was particularly fond of the one she was growing in her head about a possum that ate too many persimmons. She had done that once herself when she was younger and paid the price with many hurried trips to the necessary that night. Pap had laughed at her predicament. “Greed has a bitter reward,” he said. But he also plucked a few green persimmons and boiled them up to make her a tea that calmed her insides down considerable.
She was so tangled up in the tale she was weaving that she nearly missed the Clearbrook city limits sign. She shivered again, but not from the cold this time. “Do you think I’ll do?” she asked, her voice as thin as her coat.
“I wouldn’t have suggested you otherwise.” Miz Junkins eased Maisie to a stop in the road in front of a grand white house. “Here we be.”
Willie Mae slid off, her legs wobbly as licorice whips. She reached up for her feed sack. “Thank you for the ride, Miz Junkins.”
“I’ll walk you to the door.” Miz Junkins slid off Maisie’s back, handing Willie Mae a sprig of holly. “For luck,” she said. “Now come along.” She headed briskly for the house, across the sprawling lawn. Willie Mae hightailed it right behind her, feed sack in one hand and holly in the other. She wondered if they would go to that massive front door, black and glossy like Ma’s fresh-washed hair.
Halfway into the yard, Miz Junkins turned. They’d be knocking at the back door, it appeared.
Miz Junkins stopped at the stoop. “Go ahead,” she said, indicating that Willie Mae should knock.
Willie Mae summoned her courage and rapped at the door. A lady in a print apron soon appeared.
“Miz Trent?” Willie Mae asked.
The lady laughed. “Not me. But you must be that child from the holler. Thanks for bringing her, Miz Junkins. You-all had best come in out of the cold.” The door creaked open wider to allow them passage. Willie Mae took a small step into the warmth. One breath and she was practically slobbering like an old hound dog. This was heaven: all these good smells in one place. She sniffed again.
“I need to get home to my children,” said Miz Junkins, who had remained on the stoop. “I’ll check on you from time to time.” She scooped Willie Mae into a hug.
Willie Mae nodded. “I’d like that.”
Miz Junkins and the apron lady said their good-byes and the door shut. Willie Mae felt smaller than ever in that big, shiny kitchen.
“You hungry?” the apron lady asked.
Willie Mae put on her best company manners. “No, ma’am.”
The lady got a sad look on her face. “You mean I cooked you up a nice supper and you ain’t even going to taste it?” She clucked her tongue.
“I didn’t mean to be rude, ma’am.” Willie Mae licked her lips. “I could manage a bite, I suppose.”
“That’s a relief.” The lady held out her hands for Willie Mae’s coat. “Here, I’ll take that. You go on and sit over there.”
The kitchen table was set with a covered dish. Willie Mae sat down and a full glass of milk appeared to the right of the plate. The lady in the apron lifted the cover and Willie Mae could not believe her eyes. Greens, mashed potatoes, and a whole pork chop! And there was a roll, and jam.
“Go ahead. Eat.” The lady laid a napkin in Willie Mae’s lap. “You’re going to need your strength.”
For the next twenty minutes or so, the only sounds in the kitchen were the ticking of the clock, Willie Mae’s chewing, and the apron lady chuckling here and there.
Willie Mae ate every bite of food on the plate, eating till her stomach felt like it might burst. She wished she could save some of this feast to share with Marvel and Ma. Thinking of them eating cushaw squash and soup beans made her feel bad. But with her gone, they’d each get a bigger share of the vittles. And when she went back, think of the groceries she could take with her! Maybe she could afford a whole ham.
The kitchen door swung open. “Olive?” a woman’s voice called out.
“Yes, ma’am.” The apron lady—Olive—hopped up.
A woman with curly white hair and a dress the color of a pawpaw flower stepped into the kitchen. “Has the girl—?” She stopped when she saw Willie Mae. “I see the answer to my question is right here, at the table.”
Willie Mae dropped her fork and took a run at her face with her napkin. She stood up to introduce herself proper. “I’m Willie Mae Marcum, ma’am.”
The lady smiled, waving Willie Mae to sit back down. “Don’t stop eating on my account.” She fiddled with the gold necklace resting on her large bosom. “Lord knows, you’ll need your strength for Mother.” She paced around the kitchen, lifted the lid of one of the pots on the stove, and peeked in. “Oh, that smells wonderful, Olive. Not too much paprika?”
Olive shook her head. “Not even a dash. I know Mrs. Weldon has a touchy stomach.”
“Yes. Well.” Mrs. Trent lifted one eyebrow and let the lid drop back on the pot. “Send the girl—what’s your name again?”
“Willie Mae.”
“Send Willie Mae out to me when she’s finished eating. Make sure her hands are clean. And see if there’s a comb you can run through her hair.” She turned and left the kitchen.
“I’m finished. Thank you.” Willie Mae picked up her plate. “Where shall I wash this up?”
“Don’t mind the dish.” Olive took it from her. “You are going to have your hands full enough with Mrs. Weldon. Come on, then. Let’s get you cleaned up and presentable.”
Her fingernails and neck and ears scrubbed pink and her hair parted and plaited and tied with two blue bows, Willie Mae was led to the parlor where Mrs. Trent sat knitting. “Well, don’t you look sweet.”
Willie Mae listened for a hint of phony in her words but heard none. Maybe she really did look sweet. Imagine! Wait till she told Theo!
“Let me show you your room.” Mrs. Trent set her knitting aside and stood. She led the way out of the parlor and up a wide set of stairs with two landings. At the far end of the second landing was a closed door. “That’s my mother’s room,” she said, pausing briefly. They climbed another, narrower flight of stairs.
“I hope you’ll be comfortable.” Mrs. Trent opened the door.
“It looks like a picture in the Monkey Ward catalog,” Willie Mae blurted out.
Mrs. Trent laughed. “Well, it’s hardly that fancy
.”
It might not have been fancy to someone like Mrs. Trent, but to Willie Mae, this room was a Cinderella surprise. A tidy bed, covered in a chenille bedspread of blue and pink roses, was tucked snug under the dormer. Willie Mae moved to it, running her fingers over the bumpy chenille. She imagined herself lying there—a whole bed all to herself!—and looking through those sheer white curtains to the sky outside.
Mrs. Trent pointed around the room. “There’s a desk there, and feel free to use all the drawers in that dresser.”
All of Willie Mae’s possessions would easily fit in one of the drawers. Imagine owning so many clothes that you needed a whole dresser.
“The bathroom is down the hall, that way.” Mrs. Trent smoothed a tiny wrinkle from the bedspread.
No running to the privy on a dark, cold morning! Willie Mae could scarcely take in such luxury.
Olive had followed them up the stairs. “I sleep on this floor, too,” she said. “If you need anything in the night, have a bad dream—anything—you call out and I’ll be right in.”
Willie Mae nodded her thanks.
A clock chimed somewhere in the hall. “Seven o’clock already?” Mrs. Trent fiddled with her necklace again. “It’s time to meet Mother. Come, child.” She led the way down the stairs and across the landing to that closed door.
Mrs. Trent hesitated a moment, then knocked.
“Come in.” The voice sounded pleasant enough to Willie Mae’s ears. She followed Mrs. Trent inside the room.
“Oh!” She couldn’t contain herself as she took it all in. There wasn’t a place her eyes could light that didn’t hold something to take her breath away. Look at that seashell the size of Ma’s teakettle! Willie Mae bet a person could hear the ocean in such a shell. And shelf after shelf was lined with baskets and bowls and bins, overflowing with rocks that put her to mind of planets and dinosaurs and mysteries.
“Close your mouth, child.”
The words caught Willie Mae up short and she clamped her lips together.
“You can talk, can’t you?” Now Willie Mae saw the speaker, an old lady who looked like one of those apple-core dolls, all wrinkled of face; a mane of white duck down flared out above her forehead and behind her ears.
“Yes, ma’am.” Willie Mae didn’t know if she should curtsy. She ducked her head. “My name is Willie Mae Marcum.”
The lady stuck her neck out like a banty rooster. “A holler girl? And you can read?” It was a question that implied the answer must be no.
“Yes, ma’am. Miz Junkins says I’m one of her best readers.” Willie Mae scratched behind her left pigtail.
“Melba, she doesn’t have fleas, does she?”
Mrs. Trent sighed so quietly that only Willie Mae could hear. “She comes from a good family, Mother. No fleas.”
“Doesn’t look like she eats regular.” The apple-seed eyes squinched up. “She won’t get sickly on me, will she?”
Willie Mae didn’t wait for Mrs. Trent to answer. “I’m healthy as a horse, ma’am. Even when Marvel and Ma got the grippe, it skipped me clean over.”
“This won’t do at all.” The apple core lady tugged at the shawl draped over her shoulders. “She’s probably a carrier.”
“Mother, don’t be ridiculous.” Mrs. Trent nudged Willie Mae forward. “What would you like her to read to you this evening?”
Now it was Mrs. Weldon’s turn to sigh, only it wasn’t quiet. In fact, it was so loud Willie Mae couldn’t imagine it really came from that frail body. “I suppose she’ll make an utter mess of The Adventures of Tom Sawyer,” she finally said.
Willie Mae scanned the rows of books behind the old lady. As luck would have it, the words “Tom Sawyer” jumped right off one of the spines. She walked straight across the room, took the book, and opened it up. Her heart fluttered in her chest like a Kentucky warbler as she began to read.
The old lady pulled her spectacles down and looked over them about the room; then she put them up and looked out under them. She seldom or never looked through them for so small a thing as a boy.…
“I’ll have Olive bring your warm milk up in an hour, Mother.” Mrs. Trent sidled out of the room.
“I’m going to get a fractious head if I have to strain so to listen.” Mrs. Weldon patted the seat of the chair next to her. “Come closer. Sit here.”
Though she is scarcely dressed in silk, I sense a fellow samurai in the room. One who knows that the carrot, not the rod, makes the donkey move.
Willie Mae eased across the room like she would in the presence of a skittish animal and lightly perched on the edge of the chair, all the while reading. She stumbled a few times, which triggered some thorny words from Mrs. Weldon, but they hardly counted for anything. Pap would’ve said this little old lady was all growl and no snap. Willie Mae would have to pinch herself when she went to bed this night. Imagine, getting paid to read Tom Sawyer! Wait till she wrote Theo!
Within a few days, they’d settled into a routine. Willie Mae would read to Mrs. Weldon after lunch and dinner and await her call at other times for odds and ends. When she wasn’t with Mrs. Weldon, she had time to read and write on her own. Mrs. Trent had seen her scribbling the second night she was there and the very next day presented Willie Mae with one of those new coil-spring notebooks. “Let me know when this one is filled and you need another,” she’d said. Willie Mae had felt exactly like Sara Crewe did when the Indian Gentleman arranged to have presents sent to her while she was living in Miss Minchin’s attic. She’d written Theo all about it that very night.
During the day, when she wasn’t needed by Mrs. Weldon, she also made herself helpful to Olive even though Olive said that wasn’t part of her chores. But pitching in helped the time pass more quickly. Olive found out that Willie Mae had a weakness for icebox cookies, so she baked them every day. “Those squalls from up there”—Olive tossed her head toward Mrs. Weldon’s second-floor realm—“have quieted considerable since you came. These cookies are small thanks for your part in that.”
“All I do is read to her or listen to her,” said Willie Mae. “That’s nothing.”
“It’s something to us,” said Olive. “I swan—Mrs. Trent’s been so lighthearted she could put the star atop the town Christmas tree without a ladder.”
On the fifth day, Mrs. Weldon rang for Willie Mae before she’d finished her oatmeal. Willie Mae cleaned up real quick and flew up the stairs, two at a time.
“You sound like a horse, panting so,” Mrs. Weldon grumbled. She sat behind a long desk, nearly hidden by piles of stones. “This isn’t a racetrack. But perhaps coming from the hills you wouldn’t know how to behave in a proper home.”
Hot words boiled in Willie Mae’s mouth, but she swallowed them down. Pap always said you could catch more flies with honey than vinegar, but it appeared Mrs. Weldon didn’t know that. Willie Mae stood, forcing herself to breathe as quietly as possible to cool off. When she felt she could speak in a normal voice again, she asked, “Was there something you needed my help with, ma’am?”
Mrs. Weldon’s wrinkled lips pursed so tight they looked like some kind of creature all to themselves. It took powerful control for Willie Mae not to out-and-out stare.
Mrs. Weldon’s hand rested on a large gray rock with white streaks folded through it. “I have decided it is time to organize my rock collection.” She smacked her lips in dismay. “I suppose it’d be hopeless to try to teach you how to categorize them.”
Willie Mae moved closer to the table. She picked up two stones on the edge of the desk, nearest her. “These look like the same sort of rock. What are they called?”
“Lucky guess.” Mrs. Weldon sniffed. “They are the same type. Sedimentary. Formed when stones are cemented together by mud and such.”
Willie Mae reached for another rock. “Is this sedimentary, too?”
“Yes, yes.” Mrs. Weldon waved her hand impatiently. “Put them in that box there.”
Willie Mae did as she was told, and then she picked up a sm
all stone that put her to mind of a speckled bird’s egg. “This one’s different than those sedimentary ones,” she said.
Mrs. Weldon sat back in her chair, seeming to really look at Willie Mae for the first time. “It is. That’s called igneous. It’s created when molten rock, or magma, cools.” She waved her hand toward a second box. “That type can go in there.”
“Since there are three boxes, there must be three kinds of rocks,” Willie Mae said. “What’s the third called?”
“Metamorphic.” Mrs. Weldon patted the dark stone with the white swirls in it in front of her. “ ‘Metamorphosis’ means ‘change.’ These are rocks that are changed by the earth’s pressure or heat.”
Willie Mae reached for a rock that looked like a slice of the creek bank, all different shades of mud layered together. “Is this metamorphic?” she asked. She tried to imagine where you might find such a rock. Where Mrs. Weldon had found all of these rocks. It must have taken her a long time to gather up such a collection.
“What do you think?” Mrs. Weldon replied sharply.
Willie Mae’s answer was to place it in the third box. Soon, she had a rhythm going, hefting rocks, looking them over carefully, and deciding which box to place them in. It was like the game she used to play with Mary Rose and Ma’s button box, sorting the buttons by size or color or shape. Mrs. Weldon twitched like the cat that didn’t catch the mouse when Willie Mae got them all sorted to a T.
“That’s the last one.” Willie Mae dropped the final knobby rock into the “sedimentary” box.
“Bring me that box there.” Mrs. Weldon snapped her fingers impatiently.
Willie Mae took the box she’d indicated from the shelf. “Oh!” she said, startled.
“What is it?” Mrs. Weldon asked. “Spider?”
“No. No.” Willie Mae held the box to her chest, all the while looking into the darkest eyes she’d ever seen. They belonged to a good-sized doll, likely hinged at the hips from the way she was sitting on the shelf.
Even though the doll had been partially hidden behind the box, Willie Mae was hard-pressed to figure how she had so far missed something this spectacular.
