The stands were filling up since it was a doubleheader. Some white folks were camped out on the right field side of the grass; the black folks always got the left side, and it was packed today on account of Tiny. Many of them on the left field side hadn’t changed after church, so it looked like an Easter picnic was going on. Bone spotted Aunt Queenie holding court by the left field fence.
Bone carried the blankets as Mamaw made for her usual seat on the left side of the bleachers. Uncle Ash and Miss Spencer headed toward the concessions. Daddy was talking to some folks by the cold-drinks stand.
Big Vein took to the field first. Jake and Clay were the only ones left on the bench. Bone was torn between wanting to watch or sneaking over to talk to Aunt Queenie. When Uncle Ash and Miss Spencer returned with hot dogs and RC Colas, Bone figured she’d eat first. She dug into her plain hot dog. Uncle Ash didn’t need to ask how she or Mamaw liked theirs. Purists, he called them. Miss Spencer favored mustard.
“Bone,” Uncle Ash said. Miss Spencer interrupted him to dab a spot of chili from the corner of his mouth. He blushed a bit. “Your daddy said for you to help Mattie out with the scrap drive after a while to give Ruby a break.”
“But—,” Bone protested.
“Bone,” Ash said patiently. “Ruby might like a chance to visit with her mamaw, too.” He winked at his mother. She mouthed her thanks in return.
Bone couldn’t deny her grandmother the chance to talk to Ruby without Aunt Mattie interfering.
“Okay,” Bone relented. “After I see Will play a bit.” She was forming a new plan.
“Fair enough.” Mamaw bit contentedly into her red hot.
Bone wolfed down her own hot dog. “I’m gonna watch from the fence.” She slipped out of the bleachers before Mamaw or Uncle Ash could say boo.
The crowd in the left field whooped and cheered as Tiny Sherman struck out his third batter in a row. Bone reached the chain link fence behind the dugout right as Will and the boys came running in to bat.
Uncle Junior handed Will a bat. “You’re up first.”
Will approached the plate, thwacked it with his bat, and relaxed into as good a batting stance as Bone had ever seen. The fastball tore down the middle of his strike zone, but Will met it with a crack. The ball peeled out of there toward the left field fence. Will took off toward first.
“He’s a regular Joe DiMaggio,” Uncle Junior declared.
“Run, Will,” Bone yelled when he headed toward second. The Great Valley man in left field finally got to the ball and let it hurl. Will slid for it.
“Safe!” the ump declared.
Bone backed her way along the dugout fence toward the left field side, hoping people would think she just wanted a better view of Will on second. Marvin Linkous popped up to center, and his brother Garvin struck out. Then Tom Albert hit a line drive but got tagged out before he reached first.
Bone stayed by the fence, watching the game, while Aunt Queenie talked to her church deacon. Tiny was up to pitch again. He shook his head at Tom Albert’s first signal but nodded at the next one. Then he reared back and unfurled that right arm as he wheeled around and snapped the ball toward home plate. The ball was like a bullet. The next thing Bone heard was the smack of it against Tom Albert’s mitt. He shook out his hand before he threw the ball back to Tiny.
“Strike one,” yelled the ump.
Tiny did that two more times, each seeming faster than the first.
A thought struck Bone as fast as that pitch. She’d seen his arm stomped by those white boys. How had it healed so perfect? Especially if Mama was the only one who tended to it. The bone had shattered into pieces like a broken jar.
“His pitching is as good as ever, ain’t it?” Aunt Queenie stood beside Bone.
“Yes, ma’am,” Bone replied. “I never seen anything so fast. Didn’t he break that arm when he was about Will’s age?”
“Ain’t that your mama’s sweater?”
Bone nodded.
“We used to see that sweater come round Sherman’s Forest all the time, especially after she set Tiny’s arm.” Queenie placed her finger alongside her nose like she was a spy in the movies telling her a secret. “It was a regular miracle he was still able to play ball after that,” she added in a whisper. “Tiny played four seasons for Memphis.”
Bone touched the cuff of her yellow sweater. Her mother laid a hand on Tiny’s arm for a long moment before proceeding to set it. The pain in his face eased under Willow Reed Phillips’s touch.
“How you doing, Queenie?” Mamaw came up behind them with her picnic basket in tow. “You best go help Mattie now.” She nodded her head toward the concession stand.
The vision disappeared, the spell broken.
Bone sighed heavily. Both women laughed like the old friends they were. They asked after each other’s families and then got down to business.
“I got that burdock and ginseng you wanted,” Mamaw said.
“And I got peach preserves and some of that brandy you like,” Aunt Queenie countered.
“Go,” both Mamaw and Aunt Queenie told Bone when they noticed she hadn’t moved a muscle.
Bone dragged herself toward the scrap drive. Her head was a million miles away (and about thirteen years in the past). And the sweater was nudging her along. It was like her mother was helping her understand what had happened, one little peek at a time.
A hand snatched Bone by the ear.
“Laurel Grace Phillips,” her Aunt Mattie roared at her. “What were you doing on that side of the grass?”
“I was talking to Aunt Queenie.” The fingers gripping her ear twisted hard. “Ow.”
“She is not your aunt. I am, and when you’re living under my roof, you’ll stay away from the wrong sort of people.”
“I ain’t living there yet.” Bone twisted away from her aunt’s grasp. “I got one more day.”
“Less than that,” Mattie Albert said with some satisfaction.
And she was right. Bone had a few hours left until her daddy left for Fort Benning in the wee hours of the morning. And she hadn’t solved anything. She had her suspicions, but she wasn’t any closer to finding out whether the Gift killed her mother. And none of it would make her daddy stay.
The water was rising around her. Soon she’d have nothing left to cling to.
Bone backed away from her aunt and took off running toward Big Vein.
19
BONE RAN UNTIL SHE COULDN’T HEAR Aunt Mattie’s voice calling after her. It was only a mile or two back to the coal camp, and she’d walked to the games plenty of times before. Maybe she’d think of something as the gravel road crunched out a rhythm under her feet.
But it wasn’t long before a familiar yellow pickup pulled alongside her. Uncle Ash leaned over and opened the passenger door for her.
He was alone, except for Corolla, who barked at her to get in already. Bone did and slammed the door after her.
“Try not to break my truck,” Uncle Ash joked.
Bone didn’t say a word.
Uncle Ash threw the truck into gear. Bone feared he’d whip around and take her back to the game to face Aunt Mattie. He didn’t turn, at least until they got to the river. Then he cut the engine off. He couldn’t be waiting for the ferry because it didn’t run on Sunday. He’d have to drive up the river to cross at the Spruce Run bridge to get home.
“What are you hoping to accomplish with all your questions?” He fumbled for a Lucky Strike as he turned to her.
“What do you mean?” Bone was genuinely surprised. She’d expected him to reassure her, like everyone else, that everything would be all right or at least that Mattie didn’t hate her. Corolla laid her head in Bone’s lap and looked up at her expectantly, too.
“Mama said you were asking Queenie about Willow.” Uncle Ash tapped an unlit cigarette against the dash. “And it hasn’t escaped my notice that you’ve been using our story-collecting jaunts for your own devices. Not that I mind, but I’m curious.”
Bone
shrugged. The water of the New River rushed past them with no way to cross it. She wanted to tell him but still wasn’t sure she should or could. She was out of time, as Mattie so unkindly reminded her.
“What is it that you’re trying to figure out?” Uncle Ash stuck the cigarette in his mouth but didn’t light it.
“Did the Gift kill my mother?” Bone blurted out.
Uncle Ash chucked the unlit smoke out the window. “You shouldn’t be scared of your own Gift, Bone.”
“That’s—” She was going to say that wasn’t it at all. But it was true. She was scared.
Uncle Ash shushed her gently. “The only thing that’ll hurt you is not learning how to use it. I’ve been remiss in my duties as an uncle, Forever Girl. I’ve been remiss in a lot of things. But whatever you need to know about your mama, maybe you’re looking in the wrong places. Maybe you oughta look to your own Gift. Her Gift was a big part of your mother’s life.”
He took out another Lucky Strike and lit it this time. Bone opened her mouth but didn’t quite know what to say. He went on without noticing. His eyes were on the river now.
“It runs through us like that river out there. Willow had an ease in her Gift. When I came back from the war, she showed me that I could use mine—like she did hers—to do real good. That kept me going. It still does.”
Bone felt like that muddy river was fixing to carry her away.
He started the truck’s engine again. “I’ll still come get you and India after school to collect stories, and you can come visit your mamaw anytime you want. Tell you what. I’ll meet you at the store after school every day.”
“Take me home with you now?” Bone had been hoping that Uncle Ash might steal her away to Reed Mountain to live in the tree house, like the Little People stole away the Forever Boy.
“Aw, Forever Girl, I can’t do that,” he said. “I promised your daddy we’d abide by his wishes after he leaves. Besides, you gotta give the Big People a chance first.”
“But Aunt Mattie hates me,” Bone let out. Corolla nudged Bone.
“She don’t hate you.” Uncle Ash turned to Bone. “Now she doesn’t like me much.” He chuckled. “But she loved Willow, despite what most people think. She loved her more than most anybody, except maybe Ruby. And Willow loved her.
“You ask that sweater of yours,” he whispered. “It saw everything.”
Bone couldn’t take it anymore. She wanted things to stay like they were—before the Gift, before that stupid note of Ruby’s, before that darned draft notice. The river inside of her was carrying her somewhere she didn’t want to go.
Bone got out of the truck and ran up the mine road and into Flat Woods. As she raced through the woods, the now orange and red leaves fell around her like early snow. Sun streamed in from above. The woods were quiet except for the distant chugging of a train.
Bone ran on. She ran past Picnic Rock and along the flats. She ran until she stumbled into a foxhole, the same one she’d hid in before.
She stretched out in the hole, her own ragged breath the only sound in the forest. Above her the trees were a bit barer, and the leaves glowed in the setting sun. Eighty years ago, men lay in this same spot to avoid being swept off to a war they didn’t want to fight. How many had avoided the press-gangs? How many got to stay home and tend their crops and be with their families—like before the war? Maybe if she hid out here Aunt Mattie couldn’t find her. Maybe her daddy couldn’t leave. Deep down, though, she couldn’t do that to him.
She dug around in the dirt with her hand, searching for that coin she’d touched before. She found it and braced herself for the images. They didn’t come right away. She held it up, brushing away the dirt with her fingers. It was an old nickel. Well, it looked like a nickel, but it had III on the back.
Bone wrapped her hand around the three-cent piece and closed her eyes. The scene flowed around her and she let herself be pulled along with it. A man clutched this silver coin. It had been summer. The leaves blocked out the sky above, and the air sweltered. The hole was cool against his back. He tossed the coin in the air to entertain himself. A voice whispered, “They’re coming,” and he snatched the coin from the air and burrowed deeper under the cover of his hole.
Horses and men picked their way through the underbrush. The man’s heart raced, and he broke into a sweat as he lay there trying not to breathe or shake. Images of a woman and child flashed through Bone’s mind. The man fought the urge to run. Voices came nearer. Twigs snapped.
The air smelled of sweat and liquor. The men were very close. One took a whiz against a nearby tree.
The underbrush rustled. Bone heard the sound of running—and a shot.
She dropped the coin and opened her eyes.
This was her Gift. She couldn’t hide from it.
20
HER DADDY WOKE BONE when it was still pitch black out. “Come on downstairs, sleepyhead, I’ll make you some breakfast.” He tousled her already-wild hair for good measure before he headed to the kitchen.
Bone yawned and rubbed the sleep from her eyes. She inhaled the not-so-far-off scent of fresh brewed coffee, burning toast, and something else she couldn’t quite place.
The familiar smell caught in her throat.
He was leaving today.
An icy wave of sadness welled up in Bone, fixing to drown her.
She pushed back the feeling as she fumbled for the clothes Mrs. Price had laid out for her today: her trusty yellow sweater, blue flannel shirt, and corduroy trousers. Her suitcase, packed with her feed sack dresses, overalls, and National Geographics, sat next to the mirror. Bone ignored it for now.
She crept down the back steps to the kitchen in her stocking feet. Daddy stood over the stove, his shirtsleeves rolled up and his pipe firmly clenched between his teeth. The kitchen smelled of burnt toast, cherry tobacco, and scrambled eggs.
Bone tried to stay mad at her father. He was leaving today.
She slid into her chair as he gently slid the pale yellow egg onto her plate. It was the only thing he knew how to make, and he hadn’t made them in a very long time. They smelled like butter. Lots of butter.
“I can’t remember the last time I made eggs for you.” Her father scraped the black off a piece of burnt toast and slathered it with butter.
Bone remembered, but she wasn’t mad enough to remind him of that evening. She’d never be that mad. It had been the evening her mother died. “You used to make them all the time when Mama was working,” Bone said instead.
She took a bite. Her egg melted in her mouth, all hot and buttery. For a moment, things were like they used to be. Bone could imagine it was just her and her daddy, eating eggs, talking about baseball or detective novels. And her mother would be home any minute to join them. Bone stuffed another forkful in her mouth, and the warmth filled up an empty spot in her.
Her father nodded. “I never have figured out how to cook anything else worth a damn.” He sat down at the table with his black coffee and toast. No eggs.
“You’re not having any?” Bone asked, her mouth full. She’d nearly cleaned her plate and was sopping up the remains with her toast, which he hadn’t burnt.
“I’ve lost my taste for them.” Daddy sipped his coffee. His still partly black toast lay untouched. “Who do you think will win the World Series?”
Bone couldn’t stay mad at her father.
Especially now. He was leaving, and things could never be like they were. But, for a few minutes, they could pretend.
21
BONE COULD FEEL SOMETHING breaking inside as Daddy climbed into Uncle Henry’s black ’35 Ford. She bolted after him and banged on the glass.
He was out in a flash, wrapping her in his arms once more. “Honey, I got to go.” He pulled away from her gently.
“Daddy, I’ve got a Gift, like Mama,” she blurted out.
Her father let out a sigh. “No, you don’t.” He bent down to look her in the eye. “Honey, I know what you’re doing. You want me to stay, but I can
’t.”
“That’s not it.” But it was. It was what it all had been about. She’d been clinging to this crazy hope that she could make him stay if she figured out her mother’s secrets. Yet Bone couldn’t bring herself to ask the sweater, like Uncle Ash said. What if the Gift did kill her? Bone was more afraid, she realized, of knowing what happened to Mama than maybe losing Daddy. Hope crumbled in her hands like rotten wood.
Her father kissed her on the forehead. “Do not pull this on your Aunt Mattie.”
Her aunt and cousin stood up the road, both of them with their arms crossed. Bone felt the water rising around her with nothing left to hold on to.
“She will not think kindly of any talk about the Gifts,” he added in a whisper. “I’ll call when I get to the induction station,” he said in a normal voice. “And send postcards when I can.”
And then he was gone.
As the Ford made its way down the road, the taillights disappeared around the bend.
“Laurel Grace Phillips!” Aunt Mattie called.
Bone trudged back up the road to the parsonage, suitcase in hand.
“Well, let’s get you settled, young lady,” her aunt said, not unkindly. “Ruby, why don’t you show your cousin to her new room?”
Bone had been in the parsonage many times over the years, and it hadn’t changed much. It was scrupulously clean, with not a feed sack in sight. Everything was store-bought and polished, even the two-way picture of Jesus hanging over the fireplace. If you looked at it from one side, Jesus was riding a donkey, but from the other side he was hanging on a cross. Bone always liked the donkey side better.
Her new room turned out to be Uncle Henry’s study. “Papa didn’t put up any fuss when Mama suggested putting you in here,” Ruby said stiffly. She ran her fingers through the dust on the bookshelf behind the big wooden desk. “Usually he doesn’t let anybody in here.”
Most of the room was taken up by the desk and the bookcase filled with Bibles and other religious books. There was an old chair and small closet. A cot was made up under the front window. Bone set her bag down on the cot and perused the stack of magazines by the chair.
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