Hunted,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. Forget it, Mr. Marsworth. I’m not going to leave this letter, because you’ll tell Gram that I was shot. Then Gram will make me give my route to Dare. I’m not telling Dare now either, because he’ll say the same as Gram. He’ll say a route is no place for a girl. And he’ll blab it all to Billy, and they’ll all be on one side. Never mind. I’ll write you something else.
Wednesday, July 3, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
It’s two days in a row you haven’t written.
You didn’t answer my last question: Can you join us for the Fourth? Or are you going to be with family? I guess I hope you are. I sure wish Dad could come home for the Fourth.
I can’t write too much this morning because I’m having a rough day. You probably wonder how a kid can have a rough day before the daylight, but believe me this kid can.
On a happy note, Dare and I both love your cottage! We wish the Kellys had a cottage just like yours to call our own. (Well, without the eggs, and mud, and boarded windows. Did you know that kids have wrecked your cottage? I hate the kids in this town, and you should hate them, too.)
We have chores before our party so we can’t go back today. I’m scrubbing Gram’s cracked toilet and dreaming of your shore. It was a perfect, peaceful place to swim with Dare. I wish that I could live there. I wish today could start again.
If you’re alone tomorrow, could you please, please, please, please come?
I’ll check back this afternoon, and hope you’ll leave a YES.
Your Friend,
Reenie Kelly
Wednesday, July 3, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
THREE TIMES today between my chores, I checked your milk box. You aren’t answering my letters, should I take that as a NO? Have I turned into a nuisance? Don’t you like me anymore? Did I do something to offend you? Are you mad I clanged that bell?
I can’t look forward to tomorrow if you hate me, Mr. Marsworth.
Is this all because I told you we were broke?
We are broke, that’s the truth. I know money should be private, and I’ll keep ours private now. I won’t say another word about the bills we have to pay. Or even Billy’s college. I’m already busy solving Mizzou for myself. (Ingenuity, remember?)
And if you don’t want to talk about the war, I promise you, I won’t.
Is there another subject that might have made you mad? I wish I had my letters here to look.
If we’re both at the parade could we please just say hello? You know I’m the freckled redhead dropping your Tribune. Do you have a little picture of yourself you could leave inside your box?
I want to know you when I see you, Mr. Marsworth.
I think you’ll like me more in person, I really truly do. I’m better than my letters, I don’t really write that well.
Your Friend Still,
Reenie Kelly
Wednesday, July 3, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
My apologies, but I’m afraid the Kelly picnic isn’t the place for me just now. It’s a holiday for families, and I’m happy you’ll have yours.
It was kind of you to offer. I hope your day is grand.
Sincerely,
H. W. Marsworth
P.S. As to the matter of your letters: less frequent and exhaustive might be a worthy goal.
Thursday, July 4, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Did you see me at your gate at 5:30 this morning? Did you see that rubbery, raw chicken Cutler hung up on your fence? A flag stabbed through its skin. A rusted steak knife in its leg. Ketchup slimed over the skin like it was blood.
I cut it down to help you, and I’m going to KILL those kids.
I know Rat and Cutler did it, Mr. Marsworth. Last night at Piggly Wiggly I saw Rat and Cutler scheming near the meat, making bawking sounds and clucking when I passed them in the store. What boys would shop for chicken, Mr. Marsworth?
“Chick, chick, chicken,” they called, laughing, but Gram put on her scolding face and told them to grow up. (It’d be better if I’d said it. No kid wants a gram to fight her fights.)
I know they bought that chicken, because they left it on your fence.
Don’t you worry, Mr. Marsworth, your enemies are ours. Dare and I made sure that slimy chicken went back where it belongs.
607 Grimes. That’s the Cutlers’ grimy corner house next to the school. (I found his address in the phone book while Gram was still asleep.)
I hope the Cutlers find that chicken on the steps with their Tribune.
I guess your letter to the paper caused the chicken AND the eggs. The mud smeared on your cottage. Or maybe they just hate you, the way they just hate Dare and me.
Kids can hate you for no reason, Mr. Marsworth.
Don’t worry, we’ll protect you, and we’ll protect your cottage, too. No one’s going to hurt you with the Kellys on your side.
Your Ally,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. My holiday is horrid and it’s barely 8 a.m. Now I have to go to that parade, and think about that slimy chicken hanging from your fence. If we see Rat and Cutler, we plan to cream them both.
P.P.S. I wish you would have answered YES, I really do.
P.P.P.S. Is this too frequent and exhaustive? I tried to keep it short.
Thursday, July 4, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Did you stay home from the parade? I wish I had!
The first bad thing was Main Street with that row of fancy tables set back from the crowd—Army, Navy, Air Force, and Marines—and soldiers giving out free stuff like pens and stickers. Every table that we stopped at urged Billy to enlist while Uncle Slim nodded in agreement, and Dare asked a hundred questions like he was ready to join now.
“You don’t want to lose your chance to make a choice,” those soldiers said to Billy, and they sounded so convincing with their promises of training, and a college education when Billy’s service time was done, and the chance to choose a trade and travel, I couldn’t leave Billy for a second for fear he might enlist. If they’d taken Dare at thirteen, he’d be enlisted now. He ate up every word those soldiers said.
“Don’t do it,” I told Billy when we’d walked off from the Marines. (All the soldiers seemed like good men, and they made me think of Skip, but I don’t want my brother in this war.) “It’s college that you want.”
“You don’t have to tell me, Reen,” Billy said, but I could see these soldiers had him thinking that enlisting might be best.
“It doesn’t mean that Billy will miss college,” Uncle Slim said. He put his big hand on my head like I was six years old. “But if he could get a desk job by enlisting it might keep him out of combat. They say he’s safer signing up than getting drafted. Better chance of learning a trade he really wants. Not every kid gets sent to the front lines.”
“Skip didn’t get a desk job,” I corrected Uncle Slim. “He’s right there in the fighting, and in every letter that he sends me he says Billy should stay home.”
“Well, was he drafted?” Uncle Slim asked, like I wouldn’t know the difference, but I did.
“Yes,” I said. “But not all the soldiers have been drafted, and they’re fighting in the jungle just like Skip. Lt. Gerald Walker lost his leg.”
“Okay, okay,” Uncle Slim said. “That’s enough of that talk, Reen.”
“Well, it’s true,” I said. “Lots of boys are dying, Uncle Slim.”
“Reen’s always the expert,” Dare said with a shove.
“There’s no good choice without some money,” Billy said, discouraged. He looked up at Uncle Slim like he was asking him for help, and his big brown eyes were sadder than I’d seen them in a while. Sadder than the day we left Beth Harvey waving in our yard. “If I’m too broke to go to college what else can I do except enlist or risk the draft?�
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“I’m afraid that might be it, son.” Uncle Slim tucked Billy close against him, the same way Dad does to us all.
“We’re not too broke for college,” I said, before we all gave up. “We’ll get the money, Billy. I swear to you we will. Ingenuity, remember?”
“Sure,” Billy said, like he wished he could believe it. “I guess if anyone can save me, it’s you, Pup.”
The second terrible thing was the parade. Not the marching band, or floats, or the veterans with their flags, or the firemen throwing candy to the crowd, or the man on stilts dressed up like Uncle Sam, but the young soldier in a wheelchair with a cardboard sign that said SEND OUR SOLDIERS HOME, and the two hippie girls behind him who chanted “U.S. out of Vietnam! Peace now!” If you ask me, those three had a right to their opinion, but the town folks started booing, and telling them to leave. The younger kids threw candy, and nobody said, “stop.”
“PLEASE STOP!” I finally screamed, because I couldn’t just stand there on the sidelines doing nothing.
“Reenie Kelly!” Gram said, angry, then she grabbed me by the elbow to pull me from the crowd.
It’s a good thing you skipped our picnic, because Gram said I’d made a “spectacle,” and Slim and Kate left early because the twins were out of sorts, and Gram burned Dare’s precious fish, and Dare wouldn’t go to the fireworks just in case Dad called. In the end, we spread a sheet out on Gram’s lawn and watched a few bright edges fizzle in the sky. Billy fell asleep before they’d finished, and Gram got tired of mosquitoes and went inside to bed. I kept thinking of that wounded soldier in the wheelchair and Skip in Vietnam.
“Well, those fireworks were crap,” Dare said into the darkness. Snoring Float was stretched beside him with his ear against Dare’s heart.
“The whole day was,” I said. “All of it, beginning with that chicken.”
“Yep,” Dare said. “And Dad didn’t even call.”
It was a no-good Fourth from start to finish, Mr. Marsworth.
I could add on more, but I don’t want to be exhaustive.
Unhappy Independence,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. You didn’t tell me Cutler’s father was the sheriff!!! Or that I’d have to see Cutler and his brothers riding on that sheriff’s float like big shots. I guess we shouldn’t have left that bloody chicken at Sheriff Cutler’s door.
Friday, July 5, 1968
Okay, Mr. Marsworth,
All I do is hope for answers—from you, Skip, Dad, Mizzou’s Office of Financial Aid. Can’t you find a minute to write a letter to a friend?
That’s right, Mr. Marsworth. I took your good advice and wrote the Office of Financial Aid at Mizzou by myself, and so far I haven’t told a single soul, but you. Do you think Mizzou will give the Kellys money, yes, or no? I did a great job on the letter, best penmanship and all, and I wrote just what you wrote me: “Surely there are scholarships for a nearly straight-A student who can pitch and play guitar.” I told them we were bankrupt, that we’d lost our house in Denton paying for Mom’s cancer, and we owed money still to doctors, but as soon as we had extra we’d pay back every dime they could give Billy. We wanted scholarships, not charity.
I said they had to hurry, because school would start soon, and if Billy wasn’t at their college he’d have to face the draft. Or worse, he might enlist, and a boy with Billy’s good heart was too gentle for this war. He’s never even punched another kid. I said I was his sister, and I was twice as rough as him. I made sure they understood that the Kellys served their country, so none of us are cowards, but college would be best for Billy now.
Wouldn’t you give Billy money if you ran Financial Aid and got a letter from his sister? I definitely would.
Aren’t you happy with my scheme? I know you don’t want Billy in this war.
All Fingers Crossed for Good News,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. The chicken landed on Gram’s doorstep ☹. It was covered with black flies and reeking like a dead fish in the sun. If Float had found it first he could have died. Luckily I stashed it in Gram’s trash, but when she caught a whiff of it, she scolded Dare and me.
Do you think Gram ought to blame us for that chicken?????
We didn’t tell her how it happened, Dare just said some town kids hate us, and it was probably those two jerks that left it on her steps. “Don’t be ridiculous, Dare Kelly,” Gram said before she left for Brindle Drug. “You have to be a friend to have one. Go inside and take a shower, maybe that would help.”
I liked the part about the shower, but I kept that to myself. ☺ ☺ Dare AND Float could both use showers, I won’t lie.
Saturday, July 6, 1968
Dear Miss Kelly,
Is "okay" a proper salutation? I think not.
Nevertheless, I shall respond to simply set the record straight.
I did not advise you to write the Office of Financial Aid. I know better than to tell a child to do this on her own. Please don’t ever tell your brother or your father that I did. I doubt I’d be forgiven, and I don’t wish an ounce of ill will between your house and mine.
Ingenuity is one thing, but imprudence is another, and while your loyalty is moving, you can’t ask a public college to save Billy from the draft. Or any other boy. The draft exists to force our young to fight. Without it, many of our drafted soldiers might not serve, including Skip. A state college cannot be a haven from the draft.
Was that letter wise or foolish? Only time will tell. I shall hope you were convincing for Billy’s sake and yours.
Finally, I absolutely do not need an ally in Lake Liberty. Have I made that clear? There is no war on my behalf you need to fight, no dispute that should involve you: chicken, eggs, or otherwise.
You are impetuous, Miss Kelly, a trait common to the young, but I cannot be a party to your schemes; I simply can’t. Your actions day-to-day continue to astonish, but I am far too old for such surprises. I wish your lovely mother could supervise your days; if she were here she’d know what would be best.
I do not pretend to know what would be best for you, Miss Kelly, except perhaps a rest in correspondence for us now.
Do enjoy the cottage.
Sincerely,
H. W. Marsworth
Saturday, July 6, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
A rest in correspondence?
You’re right, you don’t know what’s best for an eleven-year-old kid. Do you have any children, Mr. Marsworth? If you did you might remember it’s best for kids to have at least one friend in a mean town.
Plus, I have things I HAVE to tell you. Things YOU NEED TO KNOW.
If it’s too much to write an answer, you go ahead and rest, but I’ll still write.
I know you’re mad I wrote to Mizzou, but I had to trust my instincts, it’s what Mom would say to do if she were here. “Trust your instincts, Reen,” Mom always said. “You’ve got a good head on your shoulders, you’ll be fine.”
I guess she probably said that because she knew someday I’d have to make all these hard decisions for myself.
Don’t worry, Mr. Marsworth, I won’t tell Dad or Billy, or any other Kelly I wrote Financial Aid because of you. Never ever ever. No one knows we write these letters, and no one ever will. And I didn’t mean to blame you, I didn’t expect you’d be so mad. Do you know how hard it is to be eleven? I don’t think so.
That’s all I’ll say this morning, so you’ll have time to nap.
But just so you’re prepared—there’s trouble at your cottage, I think you ought to know. That letter’s coming later, but if you find it too exhausting just rest a couple minutes until you’re ready to read on. That’s how I taught my ex-friend Mack McCoy to read Go, Dog, Go when we were six. A few words at a time, then he could rest.
Your Loyal Friend Still,
Reenie Kelly
P.S. I didn’t mean to ask Mizzou to
be a haven from the draft. I hope it won’t mean trouble. I doubt Billy will forgive ME if I screwed up his college plan. Please don’t ever tell him if I did.
Saturday, July 6, 1968
Dear Mr. Marsworth,
Did you get through my morning letter and take a good long nap?
This one might be exhaustive, so remember what I said. A few sentences, then rest. Z . . . z . . . zzzzz.
Are you resting now? I bet you are. I’m the only one awake still in Gram’s house. I’ll be resting once this letter’s done.
Good or bad news first?
Dad prefers the good news, so I’ll just start with that.
THE GOOD NEWS
We love your cottage, Mr. Marsworth, we really, truly do. Dare loves your big deep woods as much as Gram’s. We’ve built a stick fort in the trees, and every day we eat lunch on your dock. Warm bologna sandwiches and pickles, and a jar of grape Kool-Aid we mix at Gram’s. (Float even gets a sandwich.) My favorite thing is swimming, and playing water tag with Dare, and the two of us together, because that really is a first. Dare had too many friends in Denton to play with me alone, and I never will forget this first summer by ourselves.
THE BAD NEWS
Do you get down to that cottage, Mr. Marsworth? I don’t think you do because it’s gone to rack and ruin, and I can’t understand how a perfectly fine house is left to rot. If the Kellys had a house that nice, we’d keep it good as new. Did you board up those broken windows? Did you know the white paint peeled to the gray wood underneath? How long has it been since you’ve spent summers at that place? When we look through the front window, it’s like the house has just been left. We can see the furniture’s old-fashioned, and there’s a fish calendar from 1950 hung above the couch. Someone left her knitting on a bench beside the door. Was there a Mrs. Marsworth, Mr. Marsworth? Gram said you live alone, so I’m afraid she must be gone.
Until Tomorrow, Mr. Marsworth Page 5
