by Kirby Larson
“Never let it be said that Ernestine Weldon does not have a Christian bone in her body,” she declared. She would visit the child. Comfort her. Bring her succor.
Mrs. Weldon refreshed herself—washing face, combing hair, reanointing with her favorite toilet water—then prepared to venture out of her own room and up to the child’s. It was the farthest she’d been in … Well, she couldn’t remember in how long. But surely a woman who had ascended Machu Picchu in her youth could climb a set of stairs in her own home.
She grabbed her walking stick and started for the door.
Something pulled her back. One took something to the ill, did one not? It was out of season for apricots, certainly. What could she take?
She glanced around her room, ajumble with the detritus of her unconventional life, looking for an appropriate sickroom gift. Her eyes landed on just the thing. She galumphed across the floor, gathered up the target of her gaze, and started for the stairs. It felt as if she were back on Machu Picchu, earning each step, her lungs struggling for each sip of oxygen. But after a small eternity, she was at the landing, thumping her way up the stairs.
“Mrs. Weldon!” Olive scurried to meet her at the door. “What? How?” She gathered her apron and her thoughts about her. “It’s not wise for you to come in.”
“Pish posh.” Mrs. Weldon tapped her stick on the floor by Olive’s feet, scaring the woman out of her way. “She’s only a child.”
“A very ill child, and you are—” Olive stopped in midsentence.
“A very old lady.” Mrs. Weldon progressed into the room. “What of it?” She shifted the object she toted to her other arm. “Move aside.” She clumped toward the bed.
“Willie Mae, we are behind in Huckleberry Finn.” She peered at the pale face, paler than the pillowcase on which it lay. “At this rate we shall not finish before your time is up.” Her hand flew to her cheek. “I mean, before it is time for you to return home.”
“Mrs. Weldon—” Olive stepped forward as if to pull the older lady out of the room.
The girl stirred. Coughed. Coughed again. “I’m sorry, ma’am,” Willie Mae offered in a voice as wispy as an angel’s robe. “I aim to be up soon.” As if to prove the point, she struggled to sit up under the coverlet.
“Stay down!” Mrs. Weldon commanded her. “It’s no sense you reading to me now, anyway. Your voice would sound like a cat scratching on a mirror. I will read, if you tell me where you’ve placed the book. Oh”—with weary arms, she held out the object she’d been carrying—“and I need you to do something for me. I need you to watch over Miss Kanagawa while I, while I …” She glanced at Olive. “While I go to Lexington for an important appointment. There’s no one else I trust.” She stepped so close to the bed that she could smell the mustard poultice Olive had recently applied. “May I have your word you’ll keep her safe?” She placed the doll in the bed next to Willie Mae, whose tears dried the moment she gazed feverishly into its eyes.
Mrs. Weldon turned to Olive. “Where is the doctor?” she hissed. “This child needs care!”
“He’s stopping back this evening,” Olive said. She moved to the bed, smoothing the coverlet, smoothing the child’s hair.
Mrs. Weldon fluffed herself up like a broody hen. “I should think so.” She reached her hand out, too, as if to touch Willie Mae’s hair.
“I’ll stay with her, Mrs. Weldon,” said Olive. “You best go back to your room.”
Mrs. Weldon tapped her cane on the floor. “And you’d best mind your own business.” She scanned the room. “Ah, there’s Huck Finn, over there.” She moved toward the bureau and snatched the book from its resting place on top. She spied a rocking chair in the corner and hobbled toward it.
Settling into the chair, Mrs. Weldon opened the book up smartly.
A slip of paper fell into her lap. “I could do with a glass of water, Olive. With a thin slice of lemon,” she added, picking up the paper.
Olive sighed loudly, nodded, and slipped out of the room.
Mrs. Weldon glanced at the page in her hands. It was rough and coarse, with many erasures and written in a child’s round hand. The sheet was filled with poems—about giant seashells and river rafts and sorting stones. The very last poem was entitled “A Quiet Friend, by Willie Mae Marcum.” Mrs. Weldon glanced over at the girl, now sound asleep with her thin arms wrapped tight around the very subject of the poem. Softly, she read the last stanza aloud:
She hasn’t told me with her words,
That doll with hands as graceful as birds,
But I know by looking into her eyes so dark
That she counts me friend within her heart.
Mrs. Weldon read all of the poems, and found her eyes misty at their sweetness. There was even one about her, comparing their daily visits to pulling treasures out of a Christmas stocking. Mrs. Weldon was not a frivolous woman, but she would have been willing to bet that no one—except perhaps her beloved Arthur—would look at time spent with her in such a way. She pushed herself out of the rocker and limped over to the child’s bed. Should her forehead be so hot? Her cheeks so pale? She was going to give Dr. Pemberton a piece of her mind when he arrived.
As she watched the girl, an image of her young self came to mind, and a humiliating memory of her father finding some of the poems she’d written after Mother’s death and reading them aloud over supper one night. She sensed that Willie Mae wasn’t ready to share these with the world yet, either, so she refolded the paper and tucked it under Miss Kanagawa’s obi as the doll lay in the sleeping girl’s arms. The poems would be safe until Willie Mae was up and around again. Mrs. Weldon made her way back to the rocker, determining that after Huck Finn, they should read poetry. She had that lovely collection of Wordsworth, for starters, and then they could move on. Perhaps to Dickinson or maybe even that Yankee, Robert Frost.
When Olive returned with Mrs. Weldon’s glass of water, the old lady didn’t pay her any mind. She kept reading out loud from that Huck Finn book. She read all night, even after Dr. Pemberton came. She read and read and read, from one day to the next, until that little girl slipped out of the suffering of this world and flew on angel’s wings to meet her Pap and Mary Rose.
Though she could never see the reason in it and it exasperated her no end, Mrs. Weldon lived for five years more, during which time she arranged for a monthly check to be delivered to Willie Mae’s family—something not even the nosiest of the town’s busybodies ever discovered.
After Mrs. Weldon died, Sarah Junkins nearly fell off her horse when Mrs. Trent flagged her down and told her she’d been left the Weldon book collection along with strict orders to open a free lending library. And the mayor got a nice check to build said library. That was surprise enough, but the whole town was knocked for a loop when it was revealed that Mrs. Weldon had not, after all, left any money to the Daughters of the American Revolution, but instead had bequeathed a tidy sum to her daughter, and to a family she’d never met, way down Cut Shin Creek.
MISS KANAGAWA
After the little girl died, I tried my best to comfort the old woman. On good days, I was able to untangle some pleasant memories from her sad thoughts and pull them to the surface. Then she would speak to me. “Remember when Willie Mae made that joke about the Egg Rock?” she might say. Or, “I knew that girl was something special the first day she read to me from Tom Sawyer.” Or, “Didn’t Willie Mae’s smile light up this sorry old room like fireworks on the Fourth of July?” For a few fleeting moments, she was lifted by such remembrances. But nothing could truly bend her grief; it was rigid as a yari, a spear.
Most times the old woman sent everyone away. She would rock sorrowfully in her chair, a copy of Huckleberry Finn in her lap, saying nothing. It was impossible for me to connect with her. There on the shelf, I was left to my own thoughts.
I came to understand that those unfamiliar twinges inside me when I met Bunny and Lois were part of the awakening process. Those little discomforts were signs that the tight bud of
my heart had begun its slow unfurling into full bloom. But I do not understand why Master Tatsuhiko wished this awakening for me. I do not know why any doll would want it, not when it means being opened to the pain of loss.
And yet, that pain is softened somewhat when I recall that my presence dried many of Willie Mae’s tears. I think I now understand Master Tatsuhiko’s words about good and bad being entwined in one rope.
Though I wish I did not.
FROM OKLAHOMA TO CALIFORN-I-A—AUGUST 1939–1941
Lucy Turner
Lucy balanced the tablet on her bent knees, writing furiously to block out the hum of grown-up voices downstairs. It had been only a week, but Mama’s scent was disappearing from Aunt Miriam’s house. The best place to smell Mama anymore was here, in the bedroom closet. The closet was a good place for other reasons, too. When Lucy was inside it, she could block out the face Pop was wearing these days, all ragged and gray like a worn-out sock. She could block out all the people downstairs, in the kitchen, dressed in somber suits and somber dresses. She could even block out Aunt Miriam, wearing a flowered apron as she served sandwiches and coffee.
In the closet, no one bothered Lucy with words that didn’t make any sense, like “She’s gone to a better place” or “At least she’s not suffering anymore.”
In the closet, she could let out the tears that came every time she thought about Mama going to the hospital, and not coming back. She scribbled furiously.
Dear Mrs. Roosevelt,
Even though I haven’t gotten an answer to my last letter, I wanted to write and let you know about Mama. It hurts to breathe sometimes when I think of this world without her. I had hoped to get a new dress for the funeral. But we made do. Gloria Jean’s big sister had outgrown her Easter dress and it fit me pretty good after Aunt Miriam shortened it and tied the bow in back extra tight.
Pop says you are too busy to answer all the letters you get, but in case you have time to answer mine, I wanted to let you know that we are leaving Goodwell soon. We are headed for Californ-i-a, where Pop is sure to get work. I will write again to let you know our address.
Your friend,
Lucy Turner
She put her pencil and tablet down, wiggling deeper into the closet, the hem of Mama’s waltzing dress brushing the top of her head. Lucy could almost imagine it was a dancing night, a Friday night, again and Mama was calling to her, “Lucy, come tie the bow on the back of this dress. You’re the only one who can get it just so.”
“Midget?”
Lucy raised her head at Pop’s voice, saw that he held out a plate. “It’s red velvet cake. Your favorite.”
She ducked her head again, rubbing tears against her scratchy stockings so he wouldn’t see. The last cake Mama had baked was a red velvet cake for Lucy’s ninth birthday last month. “I’m not hungry.”
Pop eased to the floor, just outside the door frame. She heard the clink of china against the linoleum. “Me either.”
When she turned her head to peek at him, he patted the floor by his leg. She hesitated, then scooted out from the closet and under his arm. Pop rested his chin on her head. Lucy breathed in his smell of tobacco and coffee and St. John’s Bay Rum aftershave.
“The preacher did a real fine job today, didn’t he?”
Lucy nodded in agreement.
“Real fine,” Pop repeated. Lucy could feel his heart beating hard in his chest. “Your mama would’ve loved the singing, too.” His voice cinched up and he didn’t speak for a while. Lucy didn’t mind; it was a comfort to sit with him without having to say anything. Mama had been the talker in their family, anyway. She would chatter like a kingbird trying to scare folks away from its nest. But it was lively chatter, happy chatter. Any story Mama told was bright and cheery, like the first jonquils in spring. Thinking about her made Lucy’s throat clamp tight and her eyes all leaky.
“I got something important to talk to you about.” Pop’s chin bobbed up and down on her head as he spoke.
She snuggled closer.
He cleared his throat. “Aunt Miriam—” he started. Then he scratched his neck. “A girl needs a woman around. And Aunt Miriam could sure keep you comfortable. Better than sleeping in our old jalopy on the road.”
Lucy pushed herself away so she could look her father in the face. “No. No. I’m going with you.” That was the one thing she’d held on to through Mama’s long sickness, through losing the farm, through having to move to Aunt Miriam’s, with her unhappy ways and constant reminders that they were living off her charity. California meant a home of their own again. She wasn’t going to lose that chance. “No sir, no way. I’m not staying.”
Pop patted his pocket for his pipe and tobacco. But he left them there. Aunt Miriam threw conniptions about his smoking in the house. “There’s liable to be tough times. Empty bellies.”
“Times won’t be so tough if we’re together. Besides, you said a man couldn’t go hungry in California. Beans and pears and tomatoes and potatoes. It’s a regular Garden of Eden, you said.” Back on their farm, ankle deep in dust, Pop had sat at the kitchen table, night after night, reading aloud to her and to Mama from handbills printed by the growers in California. The flyers said things like “300 workers needed for peaches. Plenty of work. Start Right Away.” After the last cow died, they’d made plans to head west right then and there. As soon as Mama felt better.
But she didn’t get better.
“I know I said that, but—” Pop took off his glasses and rubbed his eyes. He pushed his specs back up on his nose. “You’d have to leave Gloria Jean.”
Lucy couldn’t remember a day when Gloria Jean hadn’t been in her life. But if she had to choose between Pop and Gloria Jean … “Well, we can write. And maybe her family will come west, too. She said her daddy’s talking about it.”
Pop let out a breath, long and slow. “I never could win an argument with either of my girls.” He hugged Lucy. “Okay, partner. I’ll tell Aunt Miriam.” He stood up, brushed off his trousers, and headed downstairs.
Lucy reached for the plate Pop had brought her and ate up the slice of cake, every last crumb.
Pop did odd jobs—mostly for Aunt Miriam, who was practically the only person in Goodwell who hadn’t gone bust—for a month or so to earn the money to fix up their Model A for the trip. Lucy and he spent hours poring over maps of Route 66, the “Mother Road,” which would take them to California. “Wouldn’t it be something to see the ocean?” Lucy asked. She dreamed of scuffing her bare feet on wet sand, chasing after waves, filling her pockets with shells.
“Don’t think we’ll make it that far west,” said Pop. He had it all planned out—they’d cut down through Texas and pick cotton around about Amarillo. “That should fit us up to get to someplace in Arizona for the lettuce and carrots. I might could earn some real money that would carry us through to California.”
“I’m a good picker,” Lucy said. She pumped her right arm to show her muscles. She’d helped in the fields at the farm since she could walk.
“You are, at that,” Pop agreed. He lit his pipe and moved out to Aunt Miriam’s front porch to smoke. She had fussed at him something awful after that cinder from his pipe had burned a hole in her settee.
“Can I go see Gloria Jean?” Lucy followed him out, holding the map. “And show her where we’re going?”
Pop nodded.
That was the best thing about having moved off the farm and into town to live with Aunt Miriam. Gloria Jean was now only two streets away. Lucy was a fast runner and was knocking at Gloria Jean’s front door in no time. The two girls plopped on the parlor floor, studying the map.
“It looks like a long ways,” Gloria Jean said in a small voice. “Farther than I thought.”
“That’s why you have to talk your daddy into coming, too.” Lucy traced her finger along Route 66. For her, it wasn’t so much a road as a magic carpet that would carry them far away from dust and despair to a place where it was warm and sunny and she’d eat oranges until t
he juice ran down her legs and filled her shoes. Because she would have shoes in California. Everybody did.
“Where should we live when we get to California? Bakersfield? Wasco? Lamont?” Lucy’s pointer finger jumped around on the map.
“ ‘Lamont’ has a nice friendly sound,” Gloria Jean said, twisting her pigtail around her finger.
Lucy nodded in agreement. “It does, doesn’t it?” She drew an imaginary circle around the town of Lamont. “That’s it, then. Lamont. We’ll get there first and check it out so that when you come, we can show you all around.”
Gloria Jean was as still as the air before a storm. Then she rolled off her stomach and onto her back. “It’s a nice dream, Lucy. I sure hope it comes true.” Her words wobbled a bit, as if they were having to work their way around some tears.
“It’s got to, Gloria Jean. It’s just got to.” Lucy rolled onto her back, too, tapping her left foot against Gloria Jean’s right. Then she sat straight up. “Let’s make a pact. A friendship pact.”
Gloria Jean wiped her eyes, then nodded. “Okay. But what shall it be?”
Lucy bit her lip, thinking. “I’ve got it.” She began to untie the ribbon from her pigtail and motioned for Gloria Jean to do the same. “I’ll always wear one of your ribbons and you always wear one of mine. That way, every morning, no matter how far apart we are, we’ll think of each other.”
They made the switch, then stood in front of the mirror, studying two sets of pigtails, each set with one green ribbon and one blue.
“We’ll be friends forever,” said Gloria Jean, touching the new ribbon in her hair.
“This old world isn’t big enough to keep us two friends apart.” Lucy tilted her head so it touched the side of Gloria Jean’s. “Sister Gloria Jean, can I get an amen to that?”
Gloria Jean sniffled and laughed at the same time. “Amen, Sister Lucy. Amen.”
