After Big Pete left, Momma started working at the concession stand, popping popcorn before the movies, dipping up ice cream cones after the shows ended. The way she tells it, Elroy Broussard the Third came to the Saturday matinee when a Gene Autry movie was playing. The movie had already started when Elroy arrived, but I guess he took one look at Momma and decided he wasn’t in any hurry. Momma said she’d never seen a man dress so pretty. He spun a quarter on the counter and asked Momma, “Heads or tails?”
Momma said, “Heads.”
Elroy tossed the quarter, caught it, and checked. “I’ll be. Looks like you’re going to an early dinner with me tonight.”
Whenever Momma told that story, she ended it the same way. She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head. “It was like Elroy Broussard dropped plumb out of the sky and landed in front of me and the popcorn machine.”
The first time Aunt Patty Cake heard it, she said, “Jordie June, you think the silliest moments are romantic.”
To me, Momma is the most romantic person I know. Some people with good singing voices around here claim, “God gave me this gift,” and they won’t sing anywhere but church. Only church folk hear them Sunday after Sunday.
Momma wanted to share her gift with the world. She drove all around Rapides Parish with Lulu Swenson, singing in places where people could hear her. Aunt Patty Cake never said anything, although the way her mouth twitched every time Momma went, I could tell she didn’t like it. Every Friday and Saturday night, Momma grabbed her purse, headed out the front door, and slipped into Lulu’s car. Lulu’s and Momma’s voices harmonized like sisters. Which some say makes the best harmony. But personally I think a mother and daughter do.
I know because Momma and I sang together late at night when she’d get back. She’d try to be real quiet so as not to wake me, but I was always waiting to see the headlights of Lulu’s car pull up in front of our house. I kept my window cracked just in case I fell asleep. When I heard Momma say “good night” in her hushed tone, my eyes popped wide open.
The front door squeaked and then our bedroom door. While Momma changed into her nightgown, I stayed quiet. After she slipped into bed, I’d whisper, “Momma, let’s sing.”
She’d sigh. I knew she was bone-tired, but she always asked, “What are we going to sing, Tate?”
“‘Keep On the Sunny Side,’” I’d say, or “‘My Darling, Clementine.’”
Momma would start out singing soft so that she didn’t wake Aunt Patty Cake. Her voice moved through the lyrics as if she was on a big stage. Like someone sticking their toe in the water, I’d join in the middle. Singing with her made me feel like I’d hitched a ride on a cloud. We’d finish with Momma saying all dreamlike, “Thank you, very much.” Then she’d fall sound asleep. That’s what I miss most about her. Lying in the dark, side by side, singing together, oh so sweetly, until Momma found her way to dreamland.
I don’t know why Mr. Broussard came all the way from Crowley to the Glenmora picture show. I wish he wouldn’t have. The first time he came around here, Uncle Jolly said he looked like a gangster with his fancy suit, shiny shoes, and tilted hat. He gave Aunt Patty Cake a bouquet of roses, Frog a slingshot, and me a Little Orphan Annie doll.
Frog immediately ran to find a rock outside and practice. Me, I don’t play with dolls. Never have. But I said thank you just the same because I saw Momma giving me her three-two-one look. That’s her countdown look, meaning if she had to start counting, I would be in trouble by the time she reached “one.”
So I said, “Thank you, Mr. Broussard. You shouldn’t have, sir.”
Momma smiled and winked at me.
They left in Mr. Broussard’s black Mercury. Aunt Patty Cake, Uncle Jolly, Frog, and I stared as the car rode past the Applebuds’ place and disappeared around the bend.
“Highfalutin nonsense,” said Uncle Jolly. Then he spit on the grass. (I guess Frog gets that nasty habit from him.) Aunt Patty Cake didn’t say anything, so I followed her into the house and said, “Those sure are nice roses.”
She was filling a vase with water. “Mm-hm” was all she said.
“I’ll bet Mr. Broussard is rich.”
She turned toward me with raised eyebrows. “Why do you say that?”
“He bought all this stuff for us.”
She turned back to the sink. “Could be.”
That was as far as I could get her to go on the subject. Aunt Patty Cake loved to give her opinions, but when she didn’t want to, her lips could be as tight as Dolores’s girdle squeezed over her lumpy rear end.
Momma went out with Mr. Broussard almost every night. But Mr. Broussard stopped coming around our house. I don’t think he liked how Uncle Jolly gave him the three-two-one look. Instead Mr. Broussard picked Momma up at the picture show, and she didn’t get in until late. She stopped singing. The only reason we know was because a couple of weeks later, Lulu drove up and said, “Tell your momma that I wish she’d let me know if she doesn’t want to sing together anymore. Mr. Lacombe is threatening to replace us if she doesn’t come back.”
Momma got fired from the picture show in Glenmora. For weeks, she’d called in sick and gone on dates with Mr. Broussard instead. And since she wasn’t singing with Lulu anymore, she wasn’t making any money.
She used to talk about getting a big break and being discovered like Lana Turner at a drugstore soda fountain. But now she seemed to be more interested in Mr. Broussard’s big break.
“What is it that man does all day besides strutting around like a proud rooster?” Uncle Jolly asked.
“He’s a businessman,” Momma said.
Uncle Jolly snorted. “I reckon I know what kind of business he’s in.”
Momma rolled her eyes and left the room.
“What kind?” I asked Uncle Jolly.
“The no-good kind.”
Nobody around here seemed to explain things where I could understand. Aunt Patty Cake with her talking about Daddy’s tomcat ways, and Uncle Jolly with his griping about Mr. Broussard’s no-good kind of business. A person could go crazy dreaming up things about what that means. That day, I thought I’d never know what Mr. Broussard’s no-good business was. But then, two weeks later, I found out. And oh, how I wish Momma had never seen the likes of him.
Mr. Williams, this sad story has plumb worn me out. I’ll finish telling you about Momma tomorrow.
In a sleepy and sorry state of mind,
Tate P.
November 22, 1948
Dear Mr. Williams,
BRACE YOURSELF FOR a dramatic ending to Momma’s story. One day Momma had been gone longer than usual. We heard from Mrs. Ronner before the sheriff called us. That’s how fast news travels in Rippling Creek. Mrs. Ronner’s son’s best friend’s cousin works at a Shreveport bank. His bank got a call because a Texas bank near the Louisiana state line had just been robbed. After holding up the bank, the man ran out to a car that was being driven by a young woman. The driver took off fast and lost control. The car hit a fire hydrant, and water spewed everywhere. Momma never could drive good. The car backed up quickly and didn’t stop until it hit the front door of the bank. By that time, I imagine, the alarm was going off.
Momma got five years. That was thirteen months ago. I will be fifteen years old when Momma gets out of prison. I’ll have all kinds of things happen to me that she’ll miss. And she has already missed a lot.
A few months after Momma arrived at the women’s prison in Huntsville, Mr. Goree, the prison warden, heard Momma singing. He plucked her up and set her down right smack in a women-prisoners singing group.
You see, Mr. Williams, my momma is a Goree Girl. Not anybody can be a Goree Girl. You have to have committed a murder or stolen someone’s money or maybe driven a car during a bank robbery like Momma did. You also have to have a voice like a honky-tonk angel so that you can sing on the radio. Momma lives at the women’s prison in Huntsville, Texas. She is Number 000851. But when she is a Goree Girl, everyone calls her Pretty Miss Jordie
June from Rippling Creek, Louisiana.
They sing at fancy parties, the prison rodeo, and on the radio. That’s how they got known all over Texas. Some folks outside Texas know about them too because their radios can pick up stations from far away. Since Shreveport is near Texas, maybe you’ve heard of them.
Some nights I sneak out of bed and turn the dial trying to pick up a Texas station that’s playing the Goree Girls. But the furthest station I ever reached was out of New Orleans, and that’s in the opposite direction. So I lie in bed and listen for Momma’s voice, and when the wind carries it to me, I sing along.
Now you know the real story about my momma, Miss Jordie June Ellerbee. I’m sorry that I have told such big stories about my momma and daddy. I’ll understand if you never want to hear from me again.
Hoping Mr. Hank Williams will forgive me,
Tate P.
PS—The part about Momma’s friends saying you were a living dream is true, only it was the Goree Girls who said it. That’s what Momma wrote in her postcard.
November 26, 1948
Dear Mr. Williams,
HAVE YOU FORGIVEN ME YET?
Hopeful,
Tate P.
November 29, 1948
Dear Mr. Williams,
THANK YOU for another autographed picture of you! I knew it was your way of saying you’d forgiven me. On Thanksgiving Day, I prayed your heart would soften toward me. And Saturday while listening to you on the Louisiana Hayride, I hoped you might send me a sign of some sort. Then today here came that envelope with your photograph.
Don’t worry. I’ll never mislead you ever again. I’m a forgiving person too. I forgave Uncle Jolly for messing up the night of the Father and Daughter Potluck Banquet at Rippling Creek Southern Baptist Church. Uncle Jolly felt awful bad about it. In fact, here’s a special news report: Uncle Jolly hasn’t had a drop of whiskey since! And no, it’s not because he has a girlfriend (he doesn’t). Aunt Patty Cake says sometimes people have to hit rock bottom before they can start climbing up.
After Uncle Jolly’s hangover went away, he drove to the hardware store in Lecompte and bought some screen to fix the porch door. He fixed it good and painted it. He asked me to choose the color.
“Pink,” I said, just out of meanness for what he’d done. I guess he knew why I said that, because then he apologized and asked how he could make it up to me.
Most people would say, “That’s okay. I’m glad you’re walking on the right path now.” But I’m not like most people. I told Uncle Jolly flat out, “I want to hear my momma sing on the radio.”
“Tate, we’d have to go all the way over to Texas to hear her.”
Aunt Patty Cake overheard. She stepped into the living room and kept drying the bowl while she spoke. “James Irwin Poche, you are not going to Texas. Bad things happen to this family in Texas.” She wasn’t only meaning about Momma getting arrested. She was also talking about my grandma and grandpa.
Aunt Patty Cake was still drying the bowl even though there wasn’t a drop of water on it. “No sirree. You are not going to Texas.” With that said, she walked back into the kitchen.
Uncle Jolly looked at me all shy like, but I didn’t back down. I set my jaw in a way that meant business. Finally he said, “Let me think on it some.”
I believe good things are waiting around the corner for me—performing in the May Festival Talent Contest and hearing my momma on the radio. Until then, Mr. Williams, I’ll listen to you.
Grateful that Mr. Williams is the forgiving sort,
Tate P.
PS—In case you’re wondering, Uncle Jolly painted the screen door green. Now our house makes you think of Christmas all year long.
December 3, 1948
Dear Mr. Williams,
I WANT YOU TO KNOW that I have kept my promise to not share our correspondence (except for the pictures you sent me). Of course, I realize that’s probably why you haven’t sent me a real letter. Every time you sing, you’re getting a little more famous, and famous people can’t be talking and writing about their lives. They have to be private. One exception is Momma, who loves being a celebrity. The only problem is, I can’t talk about her because Aunt Patty Cake thinks it’s best that nobody is reminded about where Momma is. Then when she gets out of prison, it will be easier for her to get back to normal.
I know you don’t have enough time to write a long letter, but have you ever thought about sending me a postcard? That’s what Momma does. Momma’s so busy with her singing and other duties, she hardly has time to write a long letter. But every few days, we can count on receiving a postcard. I could paper the walls in my bedroom with her postcards. Instead I tie them with ribbons and keep them in a cigar box. If you wrote on the back of a postcard, you’d only have to write a sentence or two, like Momma. It wouldn’t take too much time, and I would treasure it forever.
If I did stick Momma’s postcards on my wall, I’d hang them where the backs showed. Then I’d have Momma’s words surrounding me—Don’t forget to brush your hair a hundred strokes every night. Mind Aunt Patty Cake all the time and Uncle Jolly some of the time. Say your prayers and say one for Frog and me. Do you ever think about going anywhere out of Louisiana? Let’s go to Paris when I get out.
I wouldn’t mind just going to a World Series game. But I’ll go to Paris or anywhere else in the world with Momma when she gets out. Aunt Patty Cake wishes Momma wouldn’t write on the back of postcards. “Everyone around here knows Jordie June’s business.” Personally, I’ll take a postcard or a long letter from her. Frog feels the same way, although it always makes him sad when I read them. I think he forgets about her being gone until we receive one. Sometimes I think he’s mad at her for leaving us.
Theo Grace and Coolie are the only kids who share their pen pal letters. How could those other letters compare with the ones from the Japanese kids? They tell us all the things they eat, which may sound like that would be boring, but it’s not. They seem to like rice as much as us, but they also eat raw fish. They call it sushi and sashimi. Of course Wallace had to blurt out, “We call that bait here.” Everyone ignored him because we were too busy listening to Theo Grace read about how they pull their shoes off at the door and sleep on mattresses that fold called futons.
All that stuff is interesting, but nothing could compare with having Mr. Hank Williams as a pen pal.
Luckier than I deserve to be,
Tate P.
PS—Now you know three Japanese words—sushi, sashimi, and futon. I guess I’m the next best thing to having an international pen pal.
December 5, 1948
Dear Mr. Williams,
YESTERDAY UNCLE JOLLY took Frog and me to see The Count of Monte Cristo in Alexandria. His truck was in the shop, but Aunt Patty Cake let us take her car. After the show he drove by City Hall, which was lit up like Mrs. Applebud’s birthday cake. The building was covered in thousands of lights. Every corner has a huge sparkling Christmas tree and lights spell MERRY CHRISTMAS over each entrance. Just the sight of it all plopped me smack into the Christmas spirit. Even Frog was speechless.
On the way home, Uncle Jolly drove over to Hoyt Home Appliances in Lecompte. When we pulled up, the store went dark. We’d arrived right at closing. Frog had fallen asleep on the way over there, but Uncle Jolly and I hopped out to get a closer look at the Victrola in the window. Not only could it play phonographs, it also had an AM/FM radio. We were in such a trance, it took us a second to see the salesgirl waving at us from the front window. By the time we did, she’d moved away from the window and opened the front door.
“You want a closer look?” she asked. She was tiny, with black hair and blue eyes, and appeared to be about Momma’s age.
Uncle Jolly didn’t answer her. He seemed too busy taking in her beauty. I glanced at the lady’s wedding band on her left hand. Sure enough, someone else had noticed her beauty before Uncle Jolly. He was always sizing up the wrong woman.
I nudged him in the side with my elbow.
/> Uncle Jolly blinked, but his mouth still hung open. I was afraid he’d start drooling.
“Uncle Jolly, the lady asked if we want to go inside.”
He stammered. “Uh, uh, uh, no … that’s okay, ma’am. You’re closing and all.”
I was glad Uncle Jolly didn’t say yes. Frog could wake up and think we’d abandoned him.
The saleslady came outside and joined us in front of the window. “It comes in mahogany or walnut. Which would you like?”
“Ma-ma-ma-hog-gany,” Uncle Jolly said.
I had to step in before he bought a Victrola he couldn’t afford. “How much does that Victrola cost?”
The lady pointed to the sign at the foot of the Victrola that somehow we’d missed. Now I could see it as clear as day—$209.50!
Uncle Jolly snapped out of his trance.
“That includes fifty phonographs,” the saleslady said.
Mr. Williams, you’ll be happy to know what my next question was. I asked, “Are any of them by Hank Williams?”
“I don’t believe we have any of those yet.”
“Then we wouldn’t be interested, would we, Uncle Jolly?”
“Well, now…”
The lady laughed. “I never lost a sale over Hank Williams before. I guess we better look into getting some of his phonographs. Which song do you like best?”
“‘Move It On Over,’ but Uncle Jolly likes ‘Lovesick Blues.’”
“That’s my favorite too,” she said, smiling at Uncle Jolly.
“That a fact?” Uncle Jolly leaned against the wall and tipped his hat. That lady knew how to sell a Victrola to Uncle Jolly. He was settling in. I had to think quick.
“Uncle Jolly, we better go. Frog will be waking up and wonder where we’re at.”
Uncle Jolly turned toward me like I’d snapped him with a rubber band. For a few seconds, he didn’t say anything, just stood staring at me. Then he looked to the lady and said, “I’ll come back when it isn’t closing time.”
Dear Hank Williams Page 5
