She ends up with more than two hundred stitches, even though they warn it is really too late to stitch the wounds. There will most likely be terrible scars. Then they take her into surgery to reset the bones. I hope they keep her for a few days’ rest—keep her from Jack.
“It’s all on me,” Mr. Sutton instructs the charge nurse. “Bill directly to me.” Because my grandmother is with us, the staff allows me to stay with Mama through the night. When the sun comes up the next morning, I have to make a choice. Leave Mama and make a last-ditch effort to catch up with River, or stay here until Mama is better and hope he comes back next spring.
I want to leave with River and never look back. I want to believe Mama will be fine without me. I want her to wake up and say, “Go, Millie. I’ll be okay. Go find him.” But of course, that doesn’t happen.
My grandmother stays, which surprises me. There’s so much to say, but neither of us says a word. The Reverend sends her a bag of clothes, and a letter. She stares at it blankly. She asks the nurse to read it out loud, so I figure she must not know how to read. It is short and to the point, not like my grandfather, whose reputation is that of a long-winded preacher.
Sarah,
It’s in God’s hands. Come home.
Paul
My grandmother takes the letter in one hand and holds Mama’s gown with the other. She whispers, “I’m sorry, Marie. I’ll never turn my back on you again.” Then she looks at me and says, “You never turned your back, Millie. You’re a good girl.”
I don’t cry or smile or nod. I just sit there. In all these years, she has never spoken so much to me. I don’t know whether to feel happy or sad, angry or bitter. I look at the clock on the wall and watch the hours slip away. I certainly wouldn’t be a good girl if I ran away with River.
For three more days, we stay with Mama—my grandmother on one side and me on the other. I sit and wonder how long River might wait for me.
Before I know it, a few days of rest has turned into more than two months of recovery. Mama’s lungs keep collapsing and she darts back and forth between knowing exactly where she is and thinking I’m an angel or a ghost or an irate nurse out to get her. After only a week, my grandmother received a second letter from my grandfather insisting she come home “now or never.” She took her clothes and her two folded letters and walked away without saying good-bye. I haven’t seen her since.
We haven’t seen Jack since the night he left Mama to die on the kitchen floor. He’s never been gone this long. Nearly every day, he sends a skinny young cowboy to check on us. The boy brings sandwiches from Trixie’s or a paper sack of dollar bills or a fresh batch of fruit from the trains. He also delivers a message. The same question from Jack every time. “Forgive me?”
So far, Mama hasn’t answered. Now, after months of tension and turmoil, summer has arrived. It’s time to take Mama home. Mr. Sutton drives us to the cabin and helps me get Mama settled. Since the day Jack beat Mama, a new family has moved into Cabin Three, the Reggios. As I unload our belongings from the truck, two Reggio kids meet me at the door. They hand me a letter. My heart plummets. I know who it is from.
Dear Millie,
I waited as long as I could. I’m heading to the coast and then over to Texas. Hope to cross your path again soon. If not, see you in the spring.
River
CHAPTER 15
December 1942
For months I have spent most of my time sitting at the kitchen table, as I am doing now. I count how long the house creaks when the wind blows and how many drips fall from the faucet before a glass overflows. I add logs to the fire and sweep crumbs from the floor and watch the Reggio kids wrestle in the dirt next door. Jack hasn’t come home since he left Mama for dead on the kitchen floor in the spring. It’s winter now, and it seems that he is still waiting for Mama to answer the question, to send word with the cowboy that yes, she forgives him. She now relies on the farmhands’ deliveries of medicine more than ever, and I don’t object. She spends all day slipping in and out of sleep, and so far, she hasn’t answered the question.
I wish I had gone with River.
It’s been three seasons since he told me he would take me with him. Six months since I was given a letter that proved he had set off without me. That he’d come back for me in the spring. Since then, I have packed my bag, laced my shoes, and set several plans to find him. Figured I’d hitch a ride with the straggling travelers, catch up with him at the next stopping point. But now it’s too late.
The hardest part of all is not knowing. Not knowing if River stood at the camp, playing his harmonica, waiting as morning turned to noon and the travelers pulled away in their wagons. Or if he sat in my porch swing, watching sun turn to moon, thinking I’d come home to meet him. Or if he asked Mr. Sutton where to find me, and he, not trusting a gypsy, kept silent. Maybe he found Miss Harper, the librarian, and tracked me to the hospital, where a protective nurse shooed him away. Maybe he waited in Sloth’s cabin before realizing I wasn’t going to keep my promise.
When Mama wakes up, I fix her a warm batch of potato soup, her favorite, take it to her bedroom, and feed her from a small, round spoon. She sips sweet tea in bed and swallows some soup. “I’m sorry, Millie,” she says. “This isn’t the way it’s supposed to be.”
I rub my hand across my pocket and feel the key Babushka gave me, still safe within the green felt pouch. I am tired of waiting around for a perfect moment. Tired of being afraid my questions will send Mama over the edge for good. It is time to ask about the box she buried. I start by telling her about the key.
“Did I ever show you what the old gypsy gave me?” I ask Mama. I’ve told her about my interactions with the travelers, although I’ve kept talk about River to a minimum. She must know how I feel about him, but I haven’t said it out loud.
She swallows a spoonful of soup and shakes her head.
I pull the green bag from my pocket and place it in her hands. “It’s a key,” I say. “Take a look.”
Mama opens the pouch and examines the key. “What’s it to?” she asks.
“She told me it belonged to me,” I hint. “That it’s the answer to my past. And my future.”
Mama goes stiff, pushes away the next spoonful I serve her. “What else did she say?” she asks.
“Nothing else,” I explain, watching Mama carefully. “I wanted her to read my palm, but she said the key would tell me all I needed to know.”
Mama sighs, and I know I’ve got her. But then she says, “I’m tired now, Millie. I need to go back to sleep for a while.”
With that, she turns her back to me and closes her eyes. I place her pillow flat under her head and kiss her good night.
Within seconds, she is asleep again, and I am stuck with nothing but disappointment. I grab the box from under my bed and sit at the table. I touch each item in the box, examining every detail. I’ve done this countless times, and I still don’t know what any of it means. I read the business card: Hank’s Tank Shoeshine Stand Serving Downtown New Orleans. I suppose Mama might have known a man who shined shoes. Maybe her first love. Maybe she met him through church or a revival or something since the back of the card mentions the Glory of God Revival Temple. Maybe that’s why Mama’s always so sad. Maybe she had her heart broken.
I look at the diamond ring and figure the shoeshine boy may have proposed. Might have planned for a baby. That would explain the blanket. Until Mama discovered the man was a liar. That he already had a family. The family in the picture. He was married. Had two sons. So she returned to her Bible, the book of Luke, and read it so many times the pages grew tattered as her heart tried to heal.
Judge not, and ye shall not be judged: condemn not, and ye shall not be condemned: forgive, and ye shall be forgiven. (Luke 6:37)
I bet Mama is ashamed. Embarrassed to tell me her stories. But I need to know. I need to know who she really is.
I put everything back in the box and carry it to Mama’s bed. Eventually she will wake. And I will ask
her for truth.
It’s morning, and Mama is awake now. She stays in bed reading The Waves.
“Mama,” I say. “We need to talk.”
Mama holds up her finger, tells me to listen, and she reads aloud: “There was a star riding through clouds one night, and I said to the star, ‘Consume me.’”
She pauses and lets the sentence sink in. “Woolf. No one like her.” Then, she closes the book and places it next to her. She sits up and says, “You know what else Woolf says?”
I wait for the rest, wishing Mama could live in the real world with me for just one day.
“If you do not tell the truth about yourself, you cannot tell it about other people. So,” she says, “let’s have at it.”
I bring Mama the box, set it in her lap. She sits up, stares at it, and then at me, too surprised to talk. Then, slowly, she opens the lid. She thumbs through the items, taking time to pull each one out and look it over. I watch her closely, ready to pull it away if she starts to lose her mind. But she doesn’t seem angry or sad. In fact, she doesn’t seem to care at all, and I wonder why I’ve been afraid to confront her. For years I have carried this moment around in my belly like a stone, finding excuses, and here she is pulling out one item at a time as if she’s picking tomatoes.
She holds up the business card. “Hank’s Tank Shoeshine Stand,” she reads aloud. “Okay. Not much to tell about this one. My father used to live in New Orleans. His real name is not Paul Applewhite. He’s not even a reverend.” She laughs, rolls her eyes. “Not really. His name is Hank. Hank Bordelon. He had it bad, I guess, as a boy. His father left the family. His mother fell on hard times. And Hank landed himself in some trouble. So he hopped a train and got off in Iti Taloa. Gave himself a new name and a fresh start. Born again. That’s what he called it. That’s pretty much all there is to know about that.”
I remember Mama’s stories about her father’s strict rules. His religious rituals. Her choice to leave the church, to choose Jack, against her parents’ wishes. And I think about the Reverend’s abandonment of her while she was in the hospital. I can understand why it’s not something she likes to talk about.
But I need to know more. “There’s something else. On the back,” I say.
She flips it over and reads the inscription about the church in New Orleans. On Depot Street. Sighs. Says, “Well, Millie. Just remember, there’s nothing pretty about a faith distorted.”
Mama always talks like this, leaving me to figure out what she really means instead of just telling the truth. “What does that mean?” I ask.
“It means that sometimes a man who claims to be doing the work of the Lord is really nothing more than a devil in disguise. My father twisted every bit of love out of the Bible. Left nothing but judgment and fear.”
Mama has always relied on her faith, leaving everything to God. But she wants nothing to do with church. She puts the card back into the box and lifts the Bible. She stares at it for a while, flipping through the pages of Luke. Finally she looks up and says, “I can recite this gospel by heart.”
“Really?” I ask, thinking of River’s ability to quote something beautiful from nearly any book I mentioned.
“People may have thought I came into the world with God’s blessing,” Mama says, “but being the daughter of the Reverend Paul Applewhite proved to be nothing but a punishment. I couldn’t even laugh or else he’d force me to kneel on grits. Swallow castor oil. Scrub the pews. And the worst, memorize the entire book of Luke from start to finish. That’s what happens when you give a Bible to a madman. Suddenly everything he does is in the name of God.”
She flips through to a folded page in Acts with red marks in the margin. The passage marked is from 13:10. She reads aloud: “Thou child of the devil, thou enemy of all righteousness, wilt thou not cease to pervert the right ways of the Lord?”
I bite my nails. This may all be too much for Mama. But she seems ready. Willing to tell me her secrets. One by one.
She pulls the blue baby blanket from the box and holds it to her chest. Smells it. “You had a brother,” Mama says. Tears fall from her eyes, and I want to tell her it’s okay. That she doesn’t have to do this. But I can’t believe what she’s just said. I can’t believe I had a brother, and I want to know more.
“Jack and I were young,” she says. “Just married. We’d moved out here, thinking it was just a place to get our start. Didn’t figure on staying here long. Before I knew it, we were expecting. Jack was overjoyed. I’ve never seen him so happy, Millie. I wish you could have known him then.” Mama clears her throat. The absence of Jack fills the room.
“Mrs. Sutton was still alive, and she kind of took me under her wing,” Mama continues. “Told Mr. Sutton to run power out to our cabin. Convinced him we’d need running water, a suitable sink. Jack was making good money on the circuit, and I started taking in laundry. We fixed the place up a bit, planted flowers, prepared a room for the baby.
“He was born right here, in the spring. John David. That’s what we named him. I knew something wasn’t right when I didn’t hear him cry. I kept asking, ‘Why isn’t he crying? What’s wrong? Isn’t he supposed to cry?’ But the midwife didn’t answer, and Mrs. Sutton wouldn’t look my way. His skin was blue. Blue as this blanket. He never took one breath.”
I bring Mama a handkerchief. Let her stop to wipe her tears.
She adjusts herself and continues. “Jack had been waiting on the porch, eager to become a father. The women left the room when Jack entered. I held John David, rocked him, sang to him. But Jack wouldn’t touch him. ‘See, Marie? I’m nothing but a curse.’ I couldn’t convince him otherwise. It was too much for him to take.”
Mama rolls the blanket through her hands. Adjusts her pillow. I stay quiet, hoping she’ll tell me more.
“When my father showed up at the burial, he told us to bow our heads, said he’d lead us in prayer. ‘Thank You, dear Jesus, for taking John David into Your hands,’ he prayed. And that was the final straw.
“Jack left the cemetery, yelling back to all of us who prayed with my father, ‘Fools, all of you. You pray to a madman.’ Any chance of reconciling with my parents was over in that one instant.”
She can’t stop the tears. I hand her a glass of tea, but she doesn’t take it.
“He’s buried in Hope Hill, Millie. Not far from the gypsies. You should go by there one day. Leave flowers. It’s a tiny tombstone, marked JDR.”
I am numb. I can’t believe I’ve stood in that cemetery year after year, watching the travelers, listening to their stories and songs, never knowing I was only steps away from my brother’s grave. Never knowing I had a brother at all.
“Why didn’t you ever tell me?” I ask.
“I got pregnant again right away,” Mama says. “Thought Jack would be happy. Grateful for a second chance. But sometimes, a person just can’t take any more hurt. Jack never could open himself up again. I’m sorry for that, Millie.”
My own tears fall with Mama’s as she folds the blanket, puts it back into the box. I want to hug her. Take away her pain. But she wipes her face and shakes her head and that’s the end of it.
She pulls out the family photo and holds it for us both to see. “This was Jack, when he was a little boy,” she says, pointing to the older of the two boys in the photo.
“Jack has a brother too?” I ask, overwhelmed by all these secrets.
“He’s never mentioned his family at all,” Mama says. “I found this in the trash one day, pulled it out and put it on the shelf. Jack saw it and threatened me. Told me he never wanted to see it again as long as he lived.”
I start to ask more questions, like where was Jack from and is his family still alive and is this my Choctaw grandmother, but someone knocks at the door and Mama tells me to answer it.
It’s the cowboy again, with a bag of potatoes. He doesn’t seem much older than me. Nineteen maybe. Twenty at most. He’s respectful and polite. Always waits on the porch, never expecting anything in return
for his kindness. I have never invited him in, and Mama has never answered Jack’s request. Forgiveness is a mighty heavy word when you’ve been left to die.
“Is Jack still staying at the arena?” I ask, realizing this boy has been visiting us for months and I’ve never bothered to learn his name.
“Yep, sleeping on a cot,” the boy says. “Waiting for Mrs. Reynolds to send word that he can come home.”
“I’m Millie,” I say, taking the sack of potatoes and placing them on the porch.
He nods. Of course he knows my name. “Bump,” he smiles, extending his long arm for a sturdy shake. “We’ll be heading out today for Birmingham,” he says. “I’ll be sure to check on you and Mrs. Reynolds as soon as we get back in town.”
I thank the boy for the potatoes and watch him leave, imagining all the places Jack has seen by traveling with the Cauy Tucker Rodeo crew, and wondering what kind of person names her son Bump.
Now Mama looks at the sack of potatoes and wants to know when they’re coming back. I leave her in bed, still holding the box, and I go to the kitchen pantry where Jack tacks his schedule. According to the chart, they’ll head out from Birmingham up to Memphis and then over to Jackson before coming home. “Two weeks,” I shout to Mama from the kitchen.
I haven’t forgiven Jack. Can’t imagine I ever will. But the items in the box and the cowboy’s frequent visits have made me curious. It’s strange, but I want to know more about my father—a man I never thought would care enough to cry about what he’d done. I certainly never thought he would beg forgiveness.
I’ve also been thinking a lot about the rodeo. Whether it’s the box of secrets, or the Romany tradition of sharing stories, or Bump’s frequent visits to check on us, I can’t seem to kick the idea that I want to know more about the world Jack inhabits. The world of bulls and broncs. The world I’ve been forbidden to enter. I’m sixteen and I’ve still never been allowed to see Jack ride. Even though I’ve spent my entire childhood roaming around Iti Taloa, I’ve always avoided Cauy Tucker’s arena, skirting around it like a disease, afraid of being sucked into the wrath of Jack.
Into the Free Page 9
