Cher wants us to see Suzette during Thanksgiving. I won’t say I’m not scared of being disappointed that Suzette really hasn’t changed as much as I hoped. Or that the sight of Suzette behind the glassed prison visiting room won’t rattle me. But either way, I now have the real strength to handle it.
And I’m satisfied that two months ago Miss Claudia did a somersault in heaven when the doors to the Claudia Tyler Rescue Home opened at the old Piggly Wiggly. Richard laid the law down to Patricia. He demanded that the money earned from selling Miss Claudia’s home be used to buy and refurbish the abandoned grocery store. I think the only reason Patricia held out from making a final decision for two days was because she didn’t come up with the idea herself. After the sale, Richard moved out of the garage apartment and used part of his inheritance to buy a small brick house six blocks from Elm Drive.
The day the United Way lady asked me about volunteering, I waited a week before calling her back. Not because I didn’t want to. I just never felt like I had my own life together, let alone was able to help somebody else. But I knew Miss Claudia would’ve been put out with me for giving in to those fears. So two evenings a week, when I help out at the shelter, I drive by Miss Claudia’s old home. A young couple with a small blond-haired girl live there now. Sometimes I see them after supper, sitting on the porch swing. Driving slowly by the brick home with white columns, I shake my head and remember how intimidated I was of the fancy place that turned out to be the best school I ever entered.
Missoura was hunched over when she met me at the door. “I ’bout decided I’m too old for this volunteering business,” she said with a hand propped on her hip. “I’ve done signed one girl in and washed a load of towels.”
“Y’all been busy.”
“Sheriff’s office called, and they bringing one more from the emergency room this evening. Bless her heart. They say she got a little baby and a four-year-old.” Missoura looked down and opened the tinted glass door. “Lord have mercy. I’ll see you day after tomorrow.”
I folded the towels in the lobby. The early newscast played on the corner TV, next to the portrait of Miss Claudia.
The first time I saw the painting was the day the shelter opened. I joined Wiregrass’s finest at the ribbon-cutting ceremony. Most the people I had met before at Miss Claudia’s home didn’t remember me. I had on the pink linen suit that Patricia gave me when we cleaned out Miss Claudia’s closets. This is not a handout, I told myself the morning I put the suit on. Fastening the jacket’s pearl buttons, I decided it was a gift, a part of Miss Claudia. The safety pins that secured the skirt scratched against my waist. But I didn’t pay it any mind. I loved wearing the suit that day and slyly tilted my head down to the shoulder, where her signature summer-dew scent lingered.
Almost bumping into the reporter interviewing Prune Face, I overheard her official comments. “The minute I learned about this place I jumped right in,” she said with clasped hands. “As Christians we must help the needy.” Fearing I might gouge my elbow into her skinny chest, I moved towards the painting.
I got tickled thinking what Miss Claudia would say of her portrait. The artist showed an elegant Miss Claudia wearing a white and navy hat, her head slightly turned. I could just picture her looking up at the painting and saying, “Good gracious alive. Why did they go ugly up the place with this old thing?”
The shrill security buzzer made me jump. I released the switch and allowed a female deputy, a young woman carrying a baby, and a little brown-haired boy into the lobby.
“Evening.” I tried to look upbeat and smile real big, just like the United Way lady taught us during volunteer training.
The twenty-something was wide-eyed and kept her hand on the head of the young boy. Her auburn hair was parted in the middle and layered down the sides. Black wiry stitches decorated the side of her cheek. One eye was green, and the other lined with red blood vessels and a purple bruise.
“You want to come over here and play while we sign Mama in?” I asked the little boy. He was dressed in a black wrestling shirt and looked up at his mother. She motioned with her chin, and he followed me to the plastic container filled with toys.
The deputy left before I finished explaining the policy to the new resident. My eyes drifted to the baby dressed in disposable diapers. “We left the house so fast, I didn’t have time.” She rolled her good eye towards the half-naked baby.
“I know. Don’t worry about nothing,” I said and waved my hand in the air. “We got clothes for y’all and everything.”
Thuds from toys landing on the floor echoed while I completed the necessary paperwork. The girl balanced the baby in one arm and tried to scribble her signature. Each time she tried, the hand twitched wildly and only chicken scratch appeared. She sighed and put the pen to her forehead.
“Here. Let’s try this.” I placed my hand on hers and steadied the pen. With each stroke, her hand vibrated under my palm.
I led them down the dormitory hallway and handed over fresh towels and clothes. She opened her mouth, but nothing came out. I smiled and lightly rubbed her elbow. “Y’all sleep tight. Everything’s fine now.”
Turning off the lobby TV, I pick up toys scattered about the room. While I glance up at the painting of Miss Claudia, I clutch a miniature tractor-trailer and gaze into her eyes.
Nights like these, when the shelter grows still and the residents are tucked in bed, I stare at the painting and carry on a mental conversation with Miss Claudia. I update her on lives changed at the rescue home, Cher’s horse riding and band practice, the new people in my night classes, and something funny Gerald might’ve said. But mostly I tell her how I long to hear her words of wisdom and to sit for a spell at the kitchen table on Elm Drive. And as crazy as it sounds, during those times I feel like she’s gone away just for a little while.
Placing the tractor-trailer into the toy box, I watch the hazel eyes follow me. Those eyes, even on canvas, look right through my heart. The same heart that feels parched from the empty place she left in my life. And just then, from the brightest corner of my mind, I hear her drawl, Why keep love in your heart when you can give it away for free?
Acknowledgments
To my editor, Renée Sedliar, thank you for your wisdom and humor. I also value the tremendous support that I have received from the sales and marketing teams at HarperCollins and HarperSanFrancisco. To my friend and agent, Laurie Liss, thank you for your persistence and dedication.
I am grateful for the wisdom, guidance, and enthusiasm of Chris Ferebee, Jeff Dunn, Debbie Justus Collins, and Susan Downs. My gratitude also goes to Mary Ellen Wells and Hospice of Wake County and to Dr. Bert Losken for keeping the writing within the lines. And to Tim McLaurin, thank you for motivating me to move forward with four simple words—“You’re a good writer.”
About the Author
MICHAEL MORRIS is the author of the acclaimed novel Slow Way Home and a contributor to the short-story collection Stories from the Blue Moon Café. He lives with his wife in Alabama.
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PRAISE FOR A PLACE CALLED WIREGRASS:
“Erma Lee Jacobs is a wonderful character full of strength, vulnerability and possibility, all in equal measure. It is hard to believe that A Place Called Wiregrass is a first novel.”
—Anne Rivers Siddons, author of Nora, Nora
“Having done a lot of literary work in one of the poorest counties of eastern Kentucky, I know the world of this novel. Michael Morris has captured the hardscrabble world of the marginalized and dispossessed to a ‘T.’ The depiction of abusive relationships is very real, as is the friendship, camaraderie, and strength among women. This novel is truly inspiring and uplifting without ever being preachy or didactic. A real page-turner with very strong characters.”
—Lee Smith, author of The Last Girls
“In words both simple and eloquent, Michael Morris writes of the people he knows with hone
sty and compassion. His style is worthy of comparisons to fellow Southern writers Larry Brown and Lee Smith.”
—Tim McLaurin, author of The River Less Run
“Michael Morris is a born writer who learned his craft by living. He knows that story comes first. Try putting this one down!”
—Janice Daugharty, author of Like a Sister
“A Place Called Wiregrass is a powerful story of saving grace, cherished friendship, and gritty survival. You’ll read it and cheer. This is a great book!”
—Lynne Hinton, author of Friendship Cake
PRAISE FOR SLOW WAY HOME:
“The reader may hear echoes of Harper Lee in his focus on racial conflict, or of Flannery O’Connor’s Southern grotesques…or even of Huck Finn…. But Morris has his own voice and his own story, and he tells it with uncommon skill and compassion.”
—Washington Post
“A compulsively readable novel with many fine passages on the importance of home and the comforts of faith.”
—Booklist
“[A]n emotionally charged work that is as timely as it is touching.”
—Dallas Morning News
“[An] impressive achievement…entertaining and affecting.”
—St. Louis Post-Dispatch
“Eight-year-old Brandon Willard may well be one of the most endearing novel narrators since young Scout Finch in To Kill a Mockingbird…. There is much to be lauded about Slow Way Home. It is a story about dysfunction and destiny, family and friendship, redemption and reconciliation—and more than a few moments of pure grace. Michael Morris has told a great story, but also to his credit, he has told it masterfully.”
—Northeast Mississippi Daily Journal
“Pain, joy, anger and love suffuse Michael Morris’s moving novel Slow Way Home, in which a young boy narrates his turbulent journey toward the defining moment in his life…. Morris excels in creating the child’s voice: Brandon’s attempts to comprehend his teetering world are realistic and, at times, absolutely heart-rending…. Morris’s debut novel, A Place Called Wiregrass, was a BookSense pick, and in this second effort, he has again crafted an inspiring portrait of a true survivor.”
—Bookpage
“In Slow Way Home, Michael Morris has written a lyric pavane for a lost mother and a destroyed youth. With almost perfect pitch, he captures the rhythms of childhood and the tempo of slow maturation.”
—New Orleans Times-Picayune
“Alabama writer Michael Morris is someone to watch…. When I picked up Slow Way Home, I thought I’d get a charming, Southern coming-of-age story. This book is much more than that. It’s also courageous and heartbreaking and moving in a way I didn’t expect…. Morris gets it right—from the clothes to the politics to the people.”
—Birmingham News
“A heartwarming story about family sacrifice.”
—Atlanta Journal-Constitution
“Morris…has a wonderful ear for the vernacular of the South.”
—St. Petersburg (Florida) Times
“Emotional and fast-paced…. The social issues covered make this an intelligent book for debate…. Michael Morris has written another empowering story of a young person escaping a dangerous environment and his journey to self-discovery and love.”
—Southern Scribe
“A tour de force…told in a Southern style that invites readers in and asks them to stay awhile.”
—Gadsden (Alabama) Times
“Slow Way Home is a warm, witty, fresh, and innovative novel. At once touching and funny, it is the story of a family on a journey of discovery and truth. Hang on, buckle up, and enjoy the ride.”
—Homer Hickam, author of October Sky
“Slow Way Home is a novel for the heart. It is pitch perfect and the character Brandon is going to linger…. The opening chapter is one of the most poignant and powerful I have ever read. This is a fine book.”
—Anne Rivers Siddons, author of Nora, Nora
“A gentle story suffused with brutal truths, almost fablelike in its resonant simplicity…. Slow Way Home is a journey well worth taking.”
—Tim Farrington, author of The Monk Downstairs
“…a novel for the ages. Told with compassion and honesty, Slow Way Home is an inspiring story that will leave you wanting more.”
—Richard Paul Evans, author of The Christmas Box
“Master storyteller Michael Morris has delivered another stunning novel…touching, truthful, and beautifully written. It is not to be missed!”
—Lynne Hinton, author of Friendship Cake
“Brandon Willard’s amazing journey is peopled by some of the most endearing characters I’ve encountered in ages…. In a remarkably consistent narrative voice, Michael Morris takes us along for a moving, funny ride.”
—Silas House, author of Clay’s Quilt and A Parchment of Leaves
ALSO BY MICHAEL MORRIS
Slow Way Home
Copyright
This book is a work of fiction. The characters, incidents, and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to actual events or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.
A PLACE CALLED WIREGRASS: A Novel. Copyright © 2002 by Michael Morris. All rights reserved under International and Pan-American Copyright Conventions. By payment of the required fees, you have been granted the non-exclusive, non-transferable right to access and read the text of this e-book on-screen. No part of this text may be reproduced, transmitted, down-loaded, decompiled, reverse engineered, or stored in or introduced into any information storage and retrieval system, in any form or by any means, whether electronic or mechanical, now known or hereinafter invented, without the express written permission of HarperCollins e-books.
Adobe Digital Edition February 2009 ISBN 978-0-06-190018-1
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