“Why didn’t those Bowman people just keep her as a foster kid?” Gilbert asked.
“I don’t know for sure,” Camille said, “but one of the commenters on the site said the family would have probably won out over a foster situation.”
I leaned back in my chair. “Mama placed me for adoption, then my dad’s family butts in, so my mom took me back to keep them from getting me?”
“That’s what it seems like to me,” Camille said.
“Mama always said that other than my daddy, his family was born sorry. But at least they wanted me.”
Camille plopped her backpack on the table and pulled out her notebook. “And so did the Bowmans. Now you can write your letter.”
As much as I hated the idea, the Bowmans were step one of Operation Escape. “I’ll write them, but I am not asking them to take me in like some stray poodle.”
“You’re more like a collie,” Gilbert said. “Long hair, goofy grin.”
“And you’re like a flea aggravating me to death!”
“Whatever you want,” Camille said. She handed me a pen.
“Good. ’Cause if I do this, then Gilbert has to try to get in the GT classes.”
Gilbert’s head jerked backward like he’d been hit with a two-by-four. “How’d I get tangled into this?”
“If I’m doing something, you’re doing something.”
Gilbert pointed to Camille. “What about her? What does she have to do?”
I drummed my fingers on the table, thinking. “She has to teach Frank and Beans to read.”
“What?” Camille yelled. “I don’t have time to do my own homework.”
“You’re the one that said they could read if someone cared enough to teach them. And we all have to start calling them Frank and Baily, no more Beans.”
Camille rolled her eyes. “Fine, start writing.”
“Gilbert?” I asked. “You’ll actually try to get in to GT?”
“Sure, yeah, why not,” he said. “Maybe I’ll get lucky and flunk.”
I picked up the pen again and after thinking for a few seconds, scribbled a short note. I slid it in front of them.
Dear Anita,
Wavie found your name in my papers and is asking lots of questions about what happened. What do you think I should tell her?
Ronelda
“I agreed to GT classes for that?” Gilbert said. “You didn’t even tell them it was you!”
“They might be crazy,” I said. “I want to feel them out some first.”
Camille folded the paper and stuck it in her bag. “I’ll get a stamp from my dad. Now we just have to figure out how to keep the answer out of Samantha Rose’s grubby fingers.”
“Why don’t we use one of your addresses?” I asked.
“Gran makes Flipper Johnson hand the mail directly to her. She’s not about to lose her Social Security check to one of the two-bit thieves around here.” Gilbert’s neck flushed tomato red. “No offense, Wavie.”
“It’d be suspicious to put our names on it,” Camille said. “And if you put our address, Flipper will think it’s a mistake and put it in your mailbox anyway.”
The warning bell rang and chairs scraped across the tile floor as a hundred pairs of legs began to scurry off to class.
“Samantha Rose’s box is with everybody else’s at the bottom of the hill,” I said. “We’ll just have to be down there every day before she is.”
We figured that if I started bringing in the mail every day, Samantha Rose would grow suspicious, so we decided to take turns waiting on Flipper Johnson. Since we never knew when he’d show up, Camille enlisted Frank and Baily to help watch, too. As soon as the mail truck disappeared out of sight, one of us would pop up from behind the row of mailboxes, check for a letter from the Bowmans, then stuff everything back inside.
• • •
“IT’S BEEN A week already,” Gilbert said. “Are you sure we sent it to the right address?”
“Maybe they’re on vacation and didn’t get it,” Camille said.
“Or maybe they know Mama is dead,” I said, “and don’t want any part of me.”
Whatever the reason, the Bowmans weren’t writing back. Operation Escape was a dud.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
I wrung the water out of my jeans and hung them on the clothesline. I’d already taken down and folded a load of towels, ugly Hoyt’s ugly ball pants and Samantha Rose’s undergarments. “If we ever need to make a sail, I know whose underwear to use,” I said to Spotted One. His tail thumped against the ground as I scratched behind his ear. “There’s half a piece of bologna coming your way after dinner.”
Samantha Rose’s Buick bounced and shimmied up the road and pulled to a stop with a hiss. She climbed out holding a Walmart bag in each hand. “You pick up the living room?”
“Yes.”
“What about Philson? He get his snack?”
“I gave him some cereal, no milk, like you said.”
Samantha Rose nodded. “Here.” She threw the two bags to me.
“What’s this?”
“They ain’t Chinese puzzle boxes. Open them up and see for yourself.”
I squatted down in the grass and opened the bags. One held a pair of jeans and a short-sleeve shirt that bore a map of Kentucky with the words The Bluegrass State written under it. The other bag had a pair of new sneakers.
“These are for me?”
“No, they’re for Hoyt. Of course they’re for you,” Samantha Rose said. “Run put them on. And go wash your face while you’re at it.”
I went into the kitchen. It still looked shabby, but not like the day I’d first arrived. As I walked down the hallway to my room, I noticed lots of differences. The pictures on the wall in the hallway looked better since I’d rearranged them so that Mama had the best spots, eye level. I’d put Samantha Rose on the lower nails.
I tapped the photos of Mama as I passed, baby picture after baby picture, then first grade, second grade, on up until the last one where she was wearing a cap and gown. I stood back and looked at them all: Mama, Samantha Rose, the odd one here and there of my grandparents. “There aren’t any baby pictures of Samantha Rose,” I said to Mama’s seventh-grade photo. “Probably broke the camera.”
The living room wasn’t nearly as cluttered as it had been the day I’d moved in either. Hoyt had burned all the newspapers and magazines in the backyard, and the knickknacks now sat in neat rows on the shelves. The radio wasn’t constantly playing music anymore, but the flat-screen television I’d bought was turned on to a news program. Uncle Philson waved from his spot on the couch, then closed his eyes.
I went into my room and began to put on my new clothes. The jeans were the right size, but I guess I’d lost weight since I’d moved in, and they hung low on my hips. The T-shirt fit, but the shoes were a size too big. I thought about stuffing the toes with toilet paper, but we were down to the last of the roll and I didn’t want to waste it.
“Wavie!” Samantha Rose yelled from outside. “Come on out here and let me look at you.”
I pushed open the screen door and came down the steps.
“Not bad, not bad.” Samantha Rose motioned for me to come closer. I leaned back, bracing for another slap. Instead, she gently pulled the tag off the jeans and put it in her pocket. “Don’t get those dirty. They were thirty-two dollars, if you can believe that. I’ll take ’em back once the hearing is over.”
“When what’s over?” I asked, but a familiar car had already turned onto the road and was headed up the hill.
Mrs. Chipman was finally here.
• • •
MRS. CHIPMAN HUGGED me hard and long. “Girl, I swear you are a sight for sore eyes.”
I lingered, my face pressed against her blouse. Mrs. Rivers and her lice check/high five was nice, but it couldn’t compete
with Mrs. Chipman’s full-on hug.
She put her arm around my shoulders. “That’s quite a house. When was it built?”
Samantha Rose was wearing her special-occasion leopard again. “Early 1900s. I know it don’t look like much to city people, but we like the peace and quiet.”
“I can understand that.” She looked toward the backyard. “Are those train tracks?”
“Yes,” I said. I looked at my watch. “The coal train will be by in about an hour. If we’re in the backyard he’ll blow his horn.”
“Why don’t we go in and sit?” Samantha Rose asked, smiling. “I’ve got some store-bought cake inside.”
“Oh, that sounds delightful,” Mrs. Chipman said, “but I need a little time with Wavie.” She coughed. “Alone.”
Samantha Rose’s smile lost some of its luster, but she nodded. “Why don’t you show Mrs. Chipman around, Wavie? I’ll go cut the cake.”
My shoes flapped as I walked, and I concentrated on stepping carefully around any wet patches on the path that led to the cemetery. If Samantha Rose wanted to return these, too, she’d be ill if they were mud stained.
“How do you like your new school so far?” Mrs. Chipman asked.
“It’s good,” I said. “Smaller than Andro, but the kids are really nice.”
“And your aunt and uncle? You like living here?”
I hesitated. “It’s different.”
“I imagine it would be. It’s bound to take some getting used to.”
We reached the cemetery and sat down on the bench. “What are foster homes like?” I asked Mrs. Chipman.
“Some are better than others. You know I promised your mama I’d do my best to find you a good one.” She stared at me, her eyes solemn. “You aren’t happy here?”
“Samantha Rose is nothing like my mama,” I said. I pulled at a honeysuckle vine that had wound its way up the bench. “If I found somewhere else to go, could I?”
“You mean like with a neighbor?”
“I guess.”
Mrs. Chipman moved her head side to side, thinking. “They’d have to petition the court, too. If your aunt decided to fight it, the court usually goes with the family, and she seems like a fighter to me.”
“Yeah, she sure is.” I looked at the path leading to Angel’s house. “What if the people were folks my mom liked better?”
“If your mama had named someone specific, that’d help. But I did ask your mom for names and she didn’t give me any.”
I sighed. “What if I really hate it here? You’d move me to foster care?”
“I would recommend moving you to foster care. I’m not going to sugarcoat it, honey, there are some good foster homes out there. But you’re eleven. That’s a hard age to place, and we have a shortage of homes. You might be put in a group home for a while.” She placed her hand on my arm. “Do you? Hate it here?”
“Sometimes,” I answered.
Mrs. Chipman’s mouth turned down at the corners. “Tell me the truth, now. Are they abusing you in some way?”
I thought about the slap. I wasn’t one hundred percent sure if that qualified. I wasn’t sure about anything. If I asked to be moved, I might be giving up Camille and Gilbert for a worse situation. “No,” I finally answered.
“Well, that’s a load off.” She stood up. “So this is a family cemetery?”
“More like a community one. Some of my family is here, but there are others.” I smiled. “Gilbert says everything in Convi—uh, Conley Holler is connected.”
Mrs. Chipman walked up and down, reading. “Oh, a poor child. Now that’s sad. I love that verse, though. Matthew 5:8. ‘Blessed are the pure in heart for they will see God.’”
“When’s the hearing?” I asked. “That’ll make this permanent, right?”
“Once that’s done, yes.” She tugged at her panty hose. “I’m filing my home visit report on Monday. Then it’s just a matter of the judge putting it on his calendar. You want me to look into some foster homes?”
“I don’t know. They might be bad, and I don’t know for sure if another family is interested. It’s all kind of hopeless.”
Mrs. Chipman pointed to the gravestones. “Until I’m under one of those, I don’t ever stop hoping. You know another verse I love? Jeremiah 29:11. ‘For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans to prosper you and not to harm you, plans to give you a hope and a future.’”
“That was one Mama used to say.” My eyes started to water, thinking about her. “She said that everybody—rich or poor, it didn’t matter—they all had the promise of a hope and a future.”
Mrs. Chipman hugged me. “Your mama was a smart woman.”
“I don’t want you to look for foster homes,” I said. “But can you put off the hearing for a little while?”
“I can’t put it off forever, but I’ll do my best. Okay?”
I nodded.
“Then let’s go get some of that store-bought cake.”
• • •
TWO DAYS AFTER Mrs. Chipman’s visit, the letter came.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
It was lying there, a large tan envelope among the grocery circulars and the demand-for-payment bills. I grabbed it to my chest and ran to get Camille and Gilbert.
“Are you going to open it?” Gilbert asked. “Or just stare at it all day.”
We were sitting knee to knee in the grass behind Gilbert’s trailer. Frank and Baily were in the distance trying unsuccessfully to get a kite off the ground. I knew it was silly, but it seemed like the air around us had stilled in anticipation.
“Go ahead, Wavie,” Camille said.
I undid the clasp at the top of the envelope and opened the flap. I pulled out a single sheet of pale blue paper and laid it on the ground.
“It’s got their names on it,” Gilbert said. “Printed. They really are highfalutin folks, ain’t they!”
I nudged it toward Camille. “I’m too nervous. You do it.”
“Okay, here goes,” she said:
Dear Ronelda,
We were very excited to get your letter. We’ve been wondering how you are feeling. I hope that this letter finds you in better health.
I’m sorry that Wavie found our checks, although I’m not surprised. How many times have you written that she’s bright and curious.
I know this must be hard, but I’ve always found that what they say is true, honesty is the best policy. I’ve enclosed a couple of letters that we exchanged that might be helpful. After all of this time, I still have everything. If you think she’d want to see more, let me know and I’ll put them in the mail.
Sincerely,
Anita
Camille stuck her arm into the light. “I’ve got chills. Seriously, look!”
Gilbert snorted. “I think it’s weird. ‘I hope that this letter finds you in better health’? No one around here talks like that. Did your mama send you to the Queen of England?”
I tilted the envelope and poured the contents onto the grass. There were two more letters and a photograph.
“Wavie, look! Is this you?” Camille picked up a photo showing two people and a baby.
“I guess so. It looks a little bit like one of the JCPenney portraits I have in a drawer at Samantha Rose’s.”
“Let me see,” Gilbert said. He turned the photo toward him. “You can tell they’re city people.”
Up until then I’d been staring at my own bald head and hadn’t paid much attention to the Bowmans. Gilbert was right. They were definitely shiny. Both of them had thick dark hair and big toothy smiles. They looked like they ought to be on the side of a toothpaste box. The woman had tilted the baby forward so that whoever was taking the photo could see her face. I looked like an alien next to them.
Camille picked up the top sheet of paper. “Hey, this is the birth mother letter.”
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“What’s that?” I asked.
“Remember my cousin Petra, in Texas? Mama said the adoptive parents had to write a letter to the birth mom so she could choose who she wanted—this must be the one the Bowmans sent your mom. Want me to read it, too?”
I nodded. “This is so weird.”
“‘Dear Birth Mother,’” Camille began:
We are honored that you are taking the time to consider us as an adoptive family and want to tell you a little about us. I am a fifth-grade math teacher, but plan on being a stay-at-home mom when I become a mother.
“A math teacher,” Gilbert said. “They’re the worst.”
“Shh,” Camille said. She continued:
While teaching keeps me busy, I do find some time occasionally to paint, spend time with my friends, and participate in church activities. My husband, John, is an attorney and we have been blessed this year in that we have been able to buy our first house. It’s a modest three bedroom, but it is in a very safe neighborhood.
We enjoy our time together. During the summer we spend weekends boating, hiking or fishing.
Camille turned the paper around. “Look, here’s a picture of them in a canoe. Nice!”
I leaned forward for a better look. The photo showed the two of them in plaid shirts and jeans, holding a tiny fish and smiling like they’d just won the Bassmaster Classic.
Gilbert snorted. “Is that the fish or the bait?”
I closed my eyes and listened as Camille continued:
During the winter, we enjoy skiing, and try to get away to the mountains as much as possible.
“Seriously. Don’t they seem kind of braggy?” Gilbert asked.
Camille ignored him.
We have always dreamed of having a family, and being able to adopt would be a dream come true. We hope that you will consider us and you have our word that we would do everything possible to give your baby a wonderful life.
Sincerely,
Hope in the Holler Page 11
