A Trail of Crumbs

by Finkbeiner, Susie;

  She smiled at me. “I think so, too.”

  Ray and I shared a room there in the farmhouse. Mama and Daddy were just across the hall. I was glad to be so close to them all. It made me feel safe.

  Mama had made sure to tell me no less than three times as she tucked me in that she’d be just a handful of steps away from me in case I needed her or if I got up in the middle of the night with a bad dream.

  I was so tired, though, I was sure I’d sleep clear into the next morning.

  Laying in my bed, I heard Ray’s gentle breathing, knowing he was already deep in sleep. And I could hear Mama and Daddy’s low talking, their voices nothing more than a murmur.

  It was enough just knowing they were there.

  CHAPTER TEN

  I woke to full sun on my face. Sitting up, I remembered I was in the room at the top of the stairs in Aunt Carrie and Uncle Gus’s house. And I remembered we were in Bliss, Michigan. I about pinched myself, it seemed too good not to be a dream.

  I got myself dressed, glad Ray was already up and out of the room so I had a little privacy. My work dress had the tiniest stain on it, right on the hem. If somebody didn’t look for it, they might not even see it, but I knew it was there.

  It was from just around Christmas time the year before. Beanie had knocked over Mama’s coffee, the half-full cup spilling on me. Mostly it’d hit my legs but some splatters got on my dress. It hadn’t been hot, but I’d been so mad at her I could’ve spit. There in that room in the Seegert’s farmhouse fingering that remaining stain, I couldn’t remember what it was I yelled at her. It wasn’t nice, though, I knew that much.

  Regret burned right in the center of my chest and I found it hard to pull in a good breath.

  I sure hoped God would forgive me for the times I was so mean to my sister.

  Trying to push away the thoughts and feelings and sadness of not having Beanie, I set to work making my bed the best I knew how. Then I looked across the room at where Ray had slept.

  He’d tried making his bed. I could tell he’d put in a little effort at least. The blanket was pulled up to the pillow with at least a dozen lumps all the way to the foot of the bed. I fixed it, pulling the sheets and smoothing the quilt, fluffing the pillow so it didn’t look slept on. Tugging and tucking and making it look nice.

  My imagination tempted me with thoughts of being a grown-up woman and keeping house for my husband. For my kids, even. It poked at me, wanting me to see how happy I’d end up being some day.

  Happy ever after.

  Happy as a fairy tale.

  But fairy tales weren’t real. I remembered that as I finished up Ray’s bed.

  Aunt Carrie sat at the kitchen table, a cup of coffee beside her and a book in her hand. The clock on the wall told me it was after eight already. All the men would be out working the fields, making themselves useful. They’d have been at it for at least an hour already.

  And there I was, just getting up. I felt like a lazybones.

  Seeing Aunt Carrie there with her bare feet propped up on a chair made me feel a bit better, though.

  “Good morning,” I said.

  She jumped, pulling the book to her chest and laughing at herself. She had the kind of laugh that was more a hooting sound than anything.

  “Oh, goodness,” she said. “Am I ever jumpy.”

  “I’m sorry, ma’am,” I whispered, fearing she’d be upset at me for sneaking up on her even though I hadn’t meant to.

  “Don’t be. I just got to the scary part of this book.” She looked at the cover. “I should know better than to get so involved in a mystery. I sometimes forget that the world is still going on around me.”

  I knew exactly what she meant.

  “Are you hungry?” she asked, getting up and putting a scrap of paper in her book to save her place. “I have some sausage I can warm up. Do you like toast?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” I answered. “Is my mama up?”

  “She is,” she told me. “She’s out hanging some laundry from your trip.”

  Aunt Carrie bent and took a frypan out of a cupboard by her knees.

  “I would offer you an egg or two, Pearl, but I’m afraid I’ve been too occupied with that silly book and have neglected my chicken coop duties.” She put her pan on the stove and dropped a couple patties of sausage in. “If you want, I could gather a few. It wouldn’t take but a minute.”

  “That’s all right,” I told her. “After I eat, I could get them for you.”

  “You’re sure?” She lit the fire under the pan and soon the sausage sizzled against the heat.

  “Yes, ma’am.” I moved to stand beside her and watch the grease pop. “Mama had hens back in Oklahoma. I used to tend them sometimes. I don’t mind them so much.”

  “That would be wonderful,” Aunt Carrie said. “But first, I want you to eat. There’s nothing worse than farmwork on an empty stomach.”

  Aunt Carrie handed me the bucket of scratch for the hens. She told me to put the eggs in one of the baskets she had on a shelf there in the coop.

  “Watch out for Billina,” she called after me when I walked away. “She pecks.”

  Her chicken coop was three times the size Mama’s had been. And where our birds back home had been sickly and scrawny, Aunt Carrie’s were round and active, wandering free all over the yard. Once they saw me with their breakfast in my bucket, they came clucking their good-mornings and pecking at what I scattered for them.

  “Y’all must be hungry,” I said to them.

  The hens seemed real sweet and I was glad to feed them from the palm of my hand even. I knew it didn’t take much, getting a chicken to like me. All it took was a little food and some soothing sounds. I sang to them soft and low the way Mama had when she took care of her hens.

  Mama had a voice that sounded like a fresh, cool breeze. My singing was more like a rumbling engine, especially after being sick the way I’d been. The hens didn’t seem to care too much, though.

  Still, I wished I sounded like Mama when I sang.

  Leaving the girls to their meal, I ducked into the coop for the eggs. I kept right on singing. It felt good and made the loneliness leave a little. I plucked the eggs up out of the nests, gentle as I could, placing them lightly into the basket.

  Once my eyes got used to the dim light in the coop I realized I wasn’t alone. One yellow hen sat on a nest, watching me as I collected the eggs. That girl didn’t seem like she was fixing to move and I thought she must be the one Aunt Carrie had warned me about.

  “Billina,” I said, keeping my voice calm. “May I please have your egg?”

  Slow and careful as could be, I reached toward her. Soon as I got close enough, though, she jabbed at me, trying to get me with her beak.

  “Now, you don’t scare me none,” I told her.

  I kept going after that egg of hers and she kept trying to guard it. I wasn’t about to let a stubborn old chicken win over me. I had to get that egg. After half a dozen tries I did get my hand under her and grab the prize. I was careful as could be putting that one in the basket. It would’ve made me mad if after all that work I’d dropped it.

  Putting the basket on the floor, I lowered my face close to Billina’s.

  “That wasn’t so bad, now was it?” I said. “You’re a tough bird, aren’t you? But I think I like you most of all.”

  I reached out to give her a pat but she wasn’t willing to make friends. Flapping her wings and jutting out her head, she opened her beak big as she could and screamed like the devil. It scared me so bad I jolted back and screamed myself.

  Billina settled back on her roost, cackling like she was real pleased with herself for giving me such a fright.

  “What’d you do that for?” I asked, holding both hands up to my chest, feeling my heart thud a hundred miles a minute. “You stupid hen.”

  I backed up from her, hitting against the wall of the coop which made me yelp. I slid down to my backside. My skirt was all hiked up on my legs, but I just did not care.
And I started to cry.

  It wasn’t because of that hen or because I was alone. And it wasn’t on account I’d gotten scared by a silly old bird. I cried because the sadness burst up out of me, an out-of-control blast of awful feelings. Everything I’d tucked down deep surged up and out like a bad coughing fit.

  I cried so loud I thought sure somebody would hear me.

  If they did, they didn’t come, which was fine by me.

  I made good and sure my face was dry before stepping out of the coop. My wailing must’ve bothered Billina enough to get her off her nest. She was nowhere in sight. While making my way to the house, a bird swooped low over my head. It wasn’t a fancy one, that bird. Just brown of feather and chirping in little peeps. Still, I watched it dart up and down all the way to the trees.

  She disappeared into a forest I hadn’t noticed the day before. I wondered what it was a little bird might find in there. I imagined critters. Squirrels and deer and coyotes finding cover in those woods. I did believe if there were bears Uncle Gus would’ve warned us.

  I figured a hundred years before that day Indians must’ve run among the trees, bow and arrow in hand, leather moccasins strapped to their feet, beads strung around their necks. They’d have used that as hunting ground, I was sure of it. At least they would have before the white man came and built their farms and towns and roads.

  The weight of the egg basket grounded me, making me remember not to flitter off into my daydreams just then. I could’ve hovered over real life all day in my imagination if I wasn’t careful.

  Trying my best not to give the forest another thought, I turned toward Aunt Carrie’s house. Much as I wanted to, I couldn’t ignore the warning all my fairy tales had taught me—that the forest was a dark and wicked place where horrible things happened to children.

  Even so, that old curiosity tugged at me, making me want to wander under the cover of all those trees.

  Before opening the back door of the farmhouse I took one more look.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  Uncle Gus wouldn’t hear one word of protest from Mama. He was just bound and determined that he’d throw a picnic to welcome us to Bliss. He couldn’t hardly stand the idea that we’d been in town four days already without meeting every person who lived within five miles.

  “It’s too much fuss,” Mama told him.

  “Ain’t neither, Mary,” he said back to her. “You stop bein’ so stubborn and let me do this for you and Tom. Kids, too. How else’re they gonna make friends?”

  Mama didn’t have an answer for that, so she didn’t say anything at all. What she did was cross her arms and jut out one hip the way she did when she was trying to show she was in charge. Didn’t seem that worked on Uncle Gus so well.

  I hoped real hard I might make a friend, maybe even two.

  The picnic was to be that coming Saturday and I spent every single awake moment daydreaming about it. It’d be a bright day, the day of the picnic. The sun would shine on everybody, but not so hot that they’d sweat through their fine linen shirts or get red skin on their noses and cheeks.

  All the folks would come and they’d play games in the yard like croquet or kick the bucket. None of the grown-ups would holler about the kids running around because Uncle Gus never minded that kind of thing. And Mama would let me play because she wanted me to make friends.

  I imagined there would be at least one girl in the whole town who liked playing make-believe. Not in a baby-doll, playing-mama-of-the-house kind of way. But in the Indian princess and lady explorer kind of way.

  In my prayers at bedtime I asked if God wouldn’t mind giving me just one new friend. I told him I’d even settle for a girl who liked sitting around and talking if that was all He had to give. I made sure God understood I wasn’t one to be picky.

  In Jesus’s holy name. Amen.

  On the day of the picnic nearly all the folks from Bliss came out to the farm. Dishes and bowls and platters covered the table Aunt Carrie’d had Uncle Gus set up. Fried chicken and sliced tomatoes and potato salad had my mouth watering. There were cakes and pies and a jar of pickles near as tall as me.

  Ray said he was fixing to try a bite of everything. I just shook my head and warned that he’d bust at the seams if he tried. He didn’t listen to a word of it. That boy sure did love his food.

  People sat at picnic tables and on the blankets and sheets Aunt Carrie’d spread out on the grass. They stood in clusters, holding plates of food or cups of lemonade. A gaggle of ladies stood around Mama. It seemed they squawked at her all at once. She kept her smiling face on the whole time.

  It didn’t matter where Mama was or what she was doing, she had a certain kind of brightness that drew all eyes to her. I sure was proud to call her mine.

  Daddy stood out by the barn, a cigarette between his fingers. A couple other men stood beside him, including Uncle Gus. Every once in a while one of the men would say something and the others’d nod their heads or turn their heads to spit. A couple times they even smirked or let out a full laugh. Most of the time, though, they just stood together in silence, holding down the grass. They seemed happy enough to be doing just that.

  A troop of boys had already stolen Ray from me, asking if he wanted to play a game of baseball out in a fallow field. They hadn’t asked me and I did my very best not to pout about it. They didn’t know me good enough yet. Soon they’d realize I liked playing catch just as much as any boy. And that I could throw a baseball just as hard, too. At least that was what I liked to think.

  I went and sat on the back porch, watching everyone else enjoying the picnic. Slumping my shoulders, I allowed for a good old-fashioned pity party that only I was invited to.

  Meemaw had always said that feeling sorry for oneself was like a pig rolling around in its own muck.

  “You might like wallowin’ around in it for a while,” she’d said. “Might even feel good in a way. But it don’t take long before you smell like manure and ain’t nobody for miles wants to be around you.”

  Seemed to me, though, there wasn’t anybody all too interested in being near me just then anyway.

  In my lonely misery I watched Aunt Carrie flit from one group to another, touching arms and giving warm nods. She greeted newcomers and refilled the cups of folks who’d been there all along. In between landing among different swarms of buzzing and chattering people she checked on the food, making sure there was still plenty and swatting at hungry flies and thirsty bees.

  She caught a glimpse of me and fluttered her way over, the light cotton of her dress dancing along with her movement.

  “Are you feeling all right, dear?” she asked once she got near enough. “Have you had anything to eat?”

  “I’m fine, ma’am,” I told her. “I had some pie.”

  “What kind?” One of her eyebrows arched up for just a second.

  “Apple.” I licked my lips at the memory of the sweet fruit and spicy cinnamon. “It was good.”

  “I’m glad.” She rolled her shoulders forward and leaned in closer to me. “Did you meet any of the girls yet?”

  I hadn’t and told her so.

  All the girls I’d seen had been sitting in a circle that looked too tight for me to fit into. I’d had my eye on them and a couple of them had been watching me, too. We’d been checking to see if we’d like each other from all the way across the yard. Most of them had on dresses I guessed were made out of flour sacks just like mine were. Their shoes didn’t look shiny new. Seemed to me they might make good friends. Most of them, that was.

  The way one of the girls had squinted her eyes at me, I didn’t think she’d like me if I was the only person in the world.

  I felt the same about her even before hearing one word from her mouth.

  “Would you like to go meet them?” Aunt Carrie asked.

  “Yes, ma’am.” It was a lie.

  She held her hand out to me and I took it, letting her lead me off to where the girls sat. With each step I felt a thudding doom in my chest and a p
ulsing sickness in my stomach.

  If she hadn’t held my hand so tight I might have run off to see if the boys wouldn’t lend me a ball glove. I would have even let them throw the baseball at me hard without complaining about how it stung my hand.

  But when we got up close to the girls I knew it was too late. I prayed that at least one of them would like me even a little.

  The girls made room for me in their circle and went around telling me their names. There was an Ethel and a Victoria, an Isabell who liked to be called Izzy and a Margaret who liked to be called Maggie. I knew as soon as those girls introduced themselves I’d get them all confused. I didn’t think I’d ever be able to tell which was which.

  The last girl, though, she was different. She sat stick straight with her legs folded like she was riding sidesaddle, holding her hands on her lap like a lady. Her copper-colored hair was curled just right with a red bow holding half of it in place pulled off her face. She was pretty and I thought she probably knew it.

  I knew we’d never make friends.

  “I’m Hazel Lee Wheeler,” she told me, her words clipped and crisp and perfect. “My father owns the general store.”

  “Good to know you,” I said.

  “My family founded this town. My great-great-great-grandfather Bliss was the first to settle here.” She puckered her lips and eyeballed me. “He’s on my mother’s side.”

  “Weren’t there any Indians?” I asked.

  “Well, yes. But he brought civilization when he came.” She pursed her lips real tight and I wondered if she knew how much like a duck she looked just then. “My people came over on the Mayflower all the way from England.”

  “That must’ve been a long boat ride,” I said.

  She shot me a look that would’ve stabbed right through me if I’d let it. Good thing I’d decided not to care about what she thought of me.

  “What’s your name?” one of the girls asked.

  “I’m Pearl Spence,” I answered.