Ashes to Asheville

by Sarah Dooley

  “Oak Street,” she says, gazing at the neat row of houses next to the green street sign. “I wonder what it’s like to live on Oak Street in . . . in wherever-we-are, Virginia.” She sounds homesick, but I don’t get why. The houses here are small and sweet, and I think again of the crummy apartment she and Mama Shannon share. I want Mama Shannon and Zany to have a better place to live. Someplace like where I’m living, bright and safe.

  At the Waffle House, Zany parks several spaces from the door. As the truck motor dies, I have second thoughts.

  “Maybe they’ve seen you on TV. Maybe they’ll turn you in. Maybe we—”

  “Shouldn’t do this,” Zany finishes for me. “You’ve got to stop saying that, kid.” She shrugs. “Maybe they’ve seen us, okay? Maybe they have. And then we get caught and we get sent back and we have to try again, but, Fella, I’m tired of shouldn’t. There were so many things in Mama Lacy’s life she wanted to do that she didn’t do because she shouldn’t.”

  “Like what?”

  “Like doing things alone. Do you remember how much she wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail all by herself?”

  “I don’t know, maybe.”

  “Well, she did. She wanted to get out in the woods alone and figure things out? But she didn’t, because you don’t do that if you’ve got kids and a wife and a job. She put it off and put it off and now she’ll never get to do it. Or what about her singing? She loved to sing all those old songs, but she got so embarrassed if anybody heard. Why shouldn’t she have gotten to sing in front of everybody? Why can’t people just do the stuff they want to do before it’s too late?”

  “And you think scattering her is going to fix it?” I huff out a mad breath. “I still need her, Zany.”

  Zany’s got the longest sigh anywhere. When she stops sighing, she reaches over to rub the urn like it’ll help her think. “Fella, I thought you were with me on this. We’ve got to do what she wanted.”

  Before she’s finished talking, I shove the truck door open, hard, and climb out. “Come on, then. I’m going with you. We’ll just hope they don’t recognize us, since we have to do everything your way.”

  “But your dog—”

  She hasn’t even finished the sentence before I’ve turned around to secure him. I make sure the windows are rolled up with a little gap for air, and that the doors are locked so he can’t get out. We’re not doing that again! I don’t want to leave him in the truck. Mama Lacy once threatened to call the police and Mama Shannon almost broke a window to rescue a dog left in a hot car. But it’s the middle of the night and cold, so I think he’ll be okay.

  Zany follows me across the parking lot with another long sigh. “They’ve been at work all night, Fella. How do you figure they’ve been watching TV? There’s no way they’ll recognize us.”

  I push through the door without answering. The bright yellow diner is open twenty-four hours, but at this hour, it’s deserted except for the cooks and waitresses, who are singing along with the radio. Everybody’s wearing stripes and the lights and patterns and color are too much for my sleepy eyes. I squint and fall back a step, letting Zany catch up.

  “Good morning, y’all,” an energetic waitress bellows. I’m startled by the word morning. I think it ought to still be night.

  “Good morning,” Zany says wearily, dragging herself into the nearest booth. I slide in across from her and start studying the shiny menu, using it to hide the bright ketchup and mustard bottles from my view.

  “Out early today, are we?” the waitress notices, snatching up a pen and a pad of striped paper. “What can I get you ladies to drink?”

  “A Pepsi,” I say. “Or a Coke, whatever you got.”

  Zany rubs her eyes. “Can I get a coffee and a Mountain Dew?” She dumps a pile of quarters on the counter.

  “We don’t serve Mountain Dew. You want I should bring you a Sprite?”

  “There’s no caffeine in Sprite!” Zany sounds shocked. “I’d like coffee, please. Lots of it. Black.”

  “How old are you?”

  “Why?” I can tell Zany’s trying to make her face look older by the pinched look on it. “Is there an age limit for coffee?”

  “Kid, I’m just asking.” The waitress holds up her hand.

  “Do you have pecan pie?” I ask.

  “Good thinking! Sugar is good!” Zany chimes in.

  The waitress gives her an odd look but delivers the pie and our drinks. Zany heaps four spoonfuls of sugar into her coffee, then gives up on the spoon and dumps sugar in straight from the jar.

  “Zany, can I have a dollar?” I ask. I’ve spotted the jukebox. Zany’s taken charge of my sock money like she has just about everything else on this trip, from taking Mama Lacy in the first place to stealing the truck.

  She hands over the dollar without a word, and I jump up and start scanning the songs. Some of the titles are familiar from a hundred years ago. I think maybe we listened to these same songs on the way to West Virginia from Asheville with Mama Shannon and Mama Lacy.

  “Remember this?” I ask Zany, and I start one of the songs we used to listen to, Sister Hazel’s “Just Remember.” I’m proud to remember something that maybe Zany doesn’t, but of course she does. A smile plays across her lips and I look at her dry, dry eyes. I wonder if she ever cries. Zany takes the longest drink of hot coffee I’ve ever seen anyone take without stopping to breathe. Then she leaps from the booth to grab my hand and we spin around the diner between the syrup-sticky booths, feet slipping on the checkered floor.

  Our waitress is smiling with her whole face, mouth, eyes—something nobody in my family has done in a long time. When she sees me looking, she glances away, but I get shy anyway and slide back into the booth.

  “We used to dance to this with Mama Lacy, didn’t we?” Zany asks, breathless, falling back into her seat. “While Mama Shannon was at work.”

  “Yep,” I say, pleased that I remember.

  “And you would dress up in Mama Lacy’s work clothes and you thought you looked so cool with her chicken shirt and her paper hat.”

  That part I don’t remember. Maybe. The shirt had red stripes? I sigh. I must have been pretty little at the time. It was probably one of the jobs Mama Lacy cycled through to support our family and her passion for photography.

  “It’s not fair, you know,” I say.

  “What’s not fair?”

  “That you’re always going to be older than me.”

  She laughs. “Not much you can do about that.”

  “But you remember the best stuff and I’ve forgotten almost all of it.” I stab my pie with my fork so hard a pecan splits in two.

  “What don’t you remember?” Zany asks.

  “Well, I can’t know unless I remember, can I?” I point out, frustrated.

  “All right, then. What do you remember?”

  “About Mama Lacy?”

  “Yeah. And the time we lived in Asheville.”

  “I remember dancing. All the time, dancing. Mama Lacy had so much energy back then. And I remember eating a lot of chicken for dinner.”

  “That’s because Mama Lacy had that chicken job.”

  “And Mama Shannon worked at a different phone company back then.”

  “Yeah, she had the tool belt and she had to climb the poles.”

  I nod. “I do remember that. She let me try on her spiky boots one time and climb up as high as her head.”

  “Me, too.”

  I stop stabbing the pie and start eating, big bites, till my plate is empty except for the little square I’m saving for Haberdashery. Zany’s barely started on hers, but I notice she’s drunk half the coffee already.

  When the bell above the door jingles, I glance up and freeze.

  “Zany.” I try to talk without moving my lips, which is apparently the going method for talking when there are police ar
ound. I nod slightly toward the police officer, certain he’s come in to arrest us.

  “Relax,” she whispers back, and takes another bite of her pie. She’s acting natural, but I can tell she’s watching the cop out of the corner of her eye. I’m glad our song’s over. I would hate for “Just Remember” to always remind me of the day I got arrested.

  The officer sits down in the booth next to ours, with a tremendous jingle as all his keys and handcuffs and possibly weapons settle themselves into the booth along with him. I drop my face onto my arms. I was hoping he’d go sit at the far end.

  Still, I’m curious what cops eat. He orders a BLT with no mayo and enjoys a cup of coffee. I say enjoys because I can hear him sipping and sighing and making tiny, happy noises into the cup. His radio crackles and bleats, but never makes a noise I recognize, although he nods like he understands the sounds it makes.

  Zany wolfs down the rest of her pie and chugs her coffee so fast I know it’s all going to hit her brain at once and we’re going to be lucky if she doesn’t take off and fly through the ceiling. She’s hustling me out of the booth by the elbow when the cop says, without looking at us, “Up early, aren’t you?”

  Zany stops so fast I step on her heel.

  “Us?” she asks in a squeak too small to have come from my brave sister. I start feeling uncertain, dancing from foot to foot. I’m not used to Zany being unsure.

  Now the cop looks up. His face isn’t unfriendly, but I scoot closer to my sister anyways and she loops an arm through mine to steady me.

  “I have a girl close to your age,” he says to Zany. “I don’t think I’d let her roam about at this hour in the cold. Not even five in the morning yet. Just wonderin’.”

  Zany looks at me and blushes. “I wanted to treat my baby sister to some pie. She got an A on her big math test.” Which I’m certain he can tell is a lie simply by looking at me, because, clearly, I am not the A-making type, and certainly not in math. A students in math can at least match the right number of socks to shoes. I wrap my left ankle around my right one to hide the purple sock peeking out.

  “So you take her out at five in the morning? Your parents let you do that?”

  Zany blushes again and looks at the floor. I start to get the feeling she’s holding my arm to steady herself, not me. “Not exactly,” she admits. “We . . . kind of didn’t tell them.”

  The cop nods. Seems to appreciate Zany’s honesty, because he doesn’t know it’s not completely honest honesty. I’m preoccupied by my panicking. Five? It’s already five in the morning?

  “I see.” He studies us. “Do you live far?”

  “A couple blocks up the road. On Oak Street.”

  The officer nods slowly, then flashes us a smile. “I’m gonna drive up that way in twenty minutes and I’d better not see you still roaming,” he says. “And make sure you tell your parents before you head out at this hour again.”

  We nod furiously. Zany tugs me toward the door and I’m careful to keep my free arm crossed over my robe so he can’t see Haberdashery’s blood. He might think I’ve murdered somebody and that’s why we’re sneaking around. We make it out into the swirling flurries, where Zany starts laughing frantically. Her laugh doesn’t sound like anything is funny. I wish she hadn’t had so much coffee.

  In the car, Zany sits for a minute behind the wheel, gathering courage. She’s careful to pull out in the direction of Oak Street, traveling almost three blocks before she loops around toward the interstate.

  chapter

  17

  By the time the interstate takes us from Virginia into Tennessee at half past five, we’re singing along to a radio song we barely know. Zany’s making up words and Haberdashery’s yipping and howling at all the right spots. I’m humming the guitar riffs and tapping out the rhythm on the dashboard.

  “See, this isn’t so bad,” Zany says between songs. “This is what a road trip’s supposed to be like. Fun and singing. You’re having a good time, aren’t you?”

  I’m reluctant to admit it, but she’s right. “Yeah, I guess.” The sugar revived me. My glum mood from earlier is gone and I’m enjoying the music.

  I’m even sort of enjoying Zany, just a little bit. It’s nice to be alone with her, just the two of us, like grown-ups.

  “A,” she says out of the blue when the music gives way to commercials. “Texaco has an A in it.”

  “Huh?” I see the Texaco station but have no idea why she’s pointing it out.

  “The alphabet game!”

  “Oh.” I start scanning the signs, but Zany spots a B first.

  “Biltmore!” She points to a billboard. “See, there are already ads for stuff in Asheville. We’re not that far away!”

  Dread swims in my stomach. “Please don’t do this,” I say.

  “Do what? Beat you at the alphabet game?”

  I touch the urn. I don’t want Zany to get mad at me, but this is important. We’re getting close enough to Asheville that there are billboards for its attractions by the highway. I’ve got to get her convinced before we arrive.

  “Don’t scatter her. Just because you want to doesn’t mean we all do.”

  Zany grips the steering wheel harder. “We’re on C,” she says. “You better keep looking.”

  “Time-out. Zany—”

  “Doesn’t matter what any of us want except her.”

  I do remember when Mama Lacy wanted to hike the Appalachian Trail. I hadn’t thought about it in years until Zany brought it up, but when she reminds me that Mama Lacy’s wishes are what matter now, I think of it again. I was little, maybe six. I didn’t want her to go away from me. I begged and begged her not to go.

  It worked, that time. And at six years old, I was happy, but at twelve, I’m thinking about what Zany said before, that Mama Lacy will never get the chance to hike the trail now. And she’ll never sing in public and she’ll never run outside in the first spring rain the way she always loved to do. Every single thing Mama Lacy has ever done is in the past, and there won’t be anything else.

  What Mama Lacy wanted matters. It does. But I still don’t know how to stop wishing that I didn’t have to let her go. “Zany—”

  “Time-in. Start looking for the next letter.”

  I bounce on the seat in frustration. Zany won’t listen to me at all. But she’s peering into the darkness and I know she’s going to find a C first. Suddenly I can’t stand to have her beat me at this stupid game. I squint at the next road sign as our headlights flash across it, lighting up grime from coal trucks and streaks of muddy snow melt and, underneath, the letter C.

  Zany gets there first. “C!” she says. “Comfort Inn!”

  “Dang!” I hate when Zany finds all the letters before me. I start looking for E instead of D, figuring she’ll surely find D before me and then I’ll be ready with an E, but then an Exxon sign flies by and I can’t even say it because Zany hasn’t found D yet.

  Just when I find a McDonald’s sign, Zany shouts, “D! Days Inn!”

  “Stop it! Give me a chance!”

  And then she says, “E! Speed limit!” I smack her on the arm and sniffle back my tears. They aren’t about the game. They’ve just been waiting at the surface for something to poke a hole so they could get out. But Zany doesn’t notice. She’s still rubbing her stinging arm. “Quit it, brat! I can’t help it if you suck at the alphabet!”

  “G!” I shout, pointing at a Golden Corral sign. I am going to win this game.

  “We’re on F,” Zany corrects me. “Speaking of which, Food City.”

  “G!” I screech, pointing in the rearview mirror. “Golden Corral! You can still see it!”

  “No, the sign has to be in front of you or it doesn’t count,” Zany says.

  “You just made up that rule!”

  “Did not! That’s always been the rule!”

  “No, it hasn’
t!” I slam against the door and cross my arms over my chest. “I’m not playing with you! You’re a cheater and I don’t play with cheaters!”

  “Fine,” Zany says. “If it makes you feel better to tell yourself that, that’s fine.”

  Half a second later, I sit up straighter. “Ooh! G! Garden Center!” I point to a Super Wal-Mart.

  “I thought you weren’t playing,” Zany says. “H. Home Depot.”

  “I!” My voice is just this side of loud enough to shatter glass. “Speed Limit again!”

  “You can’t reuse—”

  “Oh, you can too reuse signs! Stop making up rules!”

  “Fine!” she screeches. She’s sunk to my level. “J! Flying J Truck Stop!”

  “The letter can’t be all by itself,” I say. “It has to be part of a word.”

  “Does not! Now you’re making up rules!”

  “Well, if you get to make up rules, I get to make up rules!”

  “So you admit you made it up!” Zany hollers. “That means it doesn’t count! Next is K! The K in Flying J Truck Stop counts! Then L! Left Lane Closed! I got two!” She laughs triumphantly before her face gets serious. “Wait, left lane closed? For real?”

  We swish around a turn and Zany hits the brakes to get us slowed down. Ten or fifteen cars have bottlenecked trying to get into the open lane.

  “M,” I say. “Man, it sucks to run into another traffic jam.”

  “N.” Zany giggles. “Nobody here knows how to drive, or we wouldn’t be stuck waiting for people to scoot into the right lane!”

  “O! Oh, gosh, can these people not drive!”

  “P! Please get in the right lane, people!” We both dissolve into giggles.

  The car in front of us squeezes through the traffic jam, and we follow. Soon we’re back up to seventy. After a while, I notice a shopping plaza sign with all kinds of good words.

  “What letter are we on?” I ask Zany.

  “I don’t know. Let’s start over. And let’s say it has to be the first letter of a word. It’ll make it last longer.”