John and Anita Bowman
Camille handed me the letter. “They look like the same people in the photo.”
“I guess so,” I said. It felt beyond crazy. I had lived with those people. They were almost my parents! “We know I was almost adopted, but I still don’t know why.”
Camille picked up the other letter and handed it to me. “Maybe this one will tell us more. It’s from your mom.”
I stared at Mama’s handwriting, the crossed t’s, the loops and swirls of the letters, and a pain speared my chest so hard it was all I could do not to cry out.
“You want me to keep going?”
I shook my head. “I’ll do it.”
My voice quivered as I began to read:
Dear Anita,
Thank you for writing. Mr. Davis said once the adoption was final you could send pictures twice a year. I’d like that. I hope they are pictures of her doing fun things like riding horses or going to Disney. Not when she’s a baby of course, but one day. It’s a funny thing, but I’ve never met one person who’s actually been to Disney World. Then again most folks I know never been out of Kentucky. The day I found out I was pregnant I was in the hospital getting blood work done. I was staring out the window, watching all the traffic on 85, and wondering where they were all heading. The nurse said it was spring break and that as soon as her shift was over she was going to be right there with them on her way to Florida. I was thinking about Florida and what it would be like to stick my feet in the sand and feel the waves, when the doctor came in with the news I was pregnant. I’ve been calling her Wavie in my head ever since. I knew she was a girl way before the nurse that did the ultrasound said so. Do you have a name picked out? Maybe it’s best that I don’t know. Then I’d start thinking of her in concrete fashion. Wavie reminds me of the beach and other things I’ll never know. It will make things easier I believe.
I took a deep breath. My eyes were full of tears and I needed a second for them to clear enough to see to keep reading:
Anyway, I’m doing my best to take care of her while she’s here. I’ve been eating as much fruit and vegetables as I can get ahold of and I won’t let anyone smoke near us.
Good luck with your painting. It sounds like the nursery is coming along real nice. If you wanted to send a picture of her room, I’d like to see it. Don’t feel obliged. I just wanted you to know I’m okay with hearing about her future life.
Sincerely,
Ronelda M. Conley
“Did you know that about your name?” Gilbert asked.
“Not all of it,” I whispered. “I knew she’d been thinking about Florida when she found out about me, but that’s all.”
The afternoon coal train rumbled by and I felt the soft vibrations through the ground. Ever since Mama had died, life had felt like this, uneven and off balance. I picked up the photograph and looked at it again. “It settles one thing. There’s no way I’m going to ask them to take me back.”
“What? Why not?” Camille asked.
I stuffed the letters and the picture back in the envelope. “I’d fit in with those people about as much as a skunk at a garden party. Did you see the man’s hair? He looks like someone on TV that gives the weather!”
Gilbert nodded. “Yep. They’ve got raised on concrete written all over them. Probably got a house full of stuck-up kids by now, too.”
“Can you see me canoeing around with those people?” I asked. “The whole thing is crazy.”
“Ain’t nobody in Convict Holler got common ground with folks like that,” Gilbert said.
“You’re not helping, Gilbert!” Camille crossed her arms and glared at us. “They sound like normal people. What did you want them to be like, Wavie?”
“I don’t know,” I said, shrugging. “Better than sorry, but not rich.”
“What’s wrong with rich?” Camille said. “Haven’t either one of you ever seen Annie?”
Gilbert moved to the side and stretched out in the grass. “Rich people don’t care anything about people like us.”
“What about the Farley Methodist ladies? Don’t you get a backpack full of food from them every Friday?” Camille asked.
“That’s how they feel good about themselves,” Gilbert said.
“They give poor kids food.” She pretended to shudder. “The monsters!”
“They might not be monsters,” Gilbert said, “but everybody knows you can’t trust rich people.”
Camille threw up her hands. “I don’t get it. You want to get out of Convict Holler, too, Gilbert, but you don’t like people with money? Where you planning on going?” Camille asked.
“I ain’t got it all figured out yet,” Gilbert said. “But I won’t be depending on rich people to get me there.”
I listened, nodding my head occasionally. I mostly agreed with Gilbert. The girls that came from money at my last school walked around with their noses so far up in the air they’d drown in a hard rain. But Mama had chosen the Bowmans especially. She had to have had good reasons.
Camille looked at me. “Are you afraid that you won’t fit in with them, or that they’ll say no?”
“Both, I guess. You wouldn’t understand.”
“I might.” She played with her necklace. “Don’t freak out, but my parents are thinking of sending me to private school.”
Gilbert sat up. “What? You’re leaving, too?”
“I wouldn’t be leaving, just going to a different school. But I know how you’re feeling, Wavie. Sort of, anyway,” Camille said. “Where’s your mama’s letter?”
“You put it back in the envelope.”
“No, the other letter. The one you carry around with you all of the time with your mama’s final instructions.”
“Oh,” I said. “Up at the house.”
“What does number six say, and don’t even try to pretend you can’t remember.”
I sighed. “‘Be brave, Wavie B.! You got as much right to a good life as anybody, so find it!’”
“Exactly, be brave. Write them again and ask for one of the other letters Mrs. Bowman mentioned. It can’t hurt.”
“Ask her something about her house,” Gilbert said. “I bet rich ladies love to talk about decorating and stuff like that.”
“One more letter,” I said. “And then, whatever I decide, you guys have to be okay with it. Deal?”
Camille crossed her heart. “Deal.”
I picked up the envelope and stood. “I’ve got to get back before Samantha Rose starts looking for me. Since she bought the new TV, I’m in charge of dinner.”
“You mean since you bought the new TV,” Camille said.
“Any word on the hearing?” Gilbert asked.
“No, but she wouldn’t tell me anyway. I won’t know till she stuffs me in the Buick and heads to town.”
“Be brave, Wavie B.,” Camille said. “Write your letter.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN
My shoe connected with the plastic bottle with a satisfying thunk. It flew, end over end, up the dusty road another six feet.
Mama and Camille had said be brave like it was no big deal. I moved forward and kicked the bottle again. The tip of my white sneaker scraped the dirt, turning it gray, and I squatted down to clean it off.
I hesitated, my hand hovering over the dirty canvas. A brave girl wouldn’t care what Samantha Rose said about returning her clothes, not when they were the only ones she had that fit—and that she herself had paid for!
I took a deep breath and swirled my fingers into the dirt, then ran them across the front of my shoe. Four dark streaks stood out against the gleaming white. I dipped my fingers again, this time drawing them across my jeans. Samantha Rose would probably have a hissy fit when she saw what I’d done. “Not much daylight between being brave and being stupid if you ask me,” I grumbled.
As if just thinking of Samantha
Rose made her appear, she stepped out onto the porch and slammed the door. “Hey! What are you doing lolling about in the middle of the road,” she yelled.
My heart skipped a beat. Surely she couldn’t see my clothes from up there. I grabbed the soda bottle. “Picking up litter,” I yelled back.
She walked to the Buick. “Well, get out of the way. I’m heading to town and you make a poor speed bump.”
I was almost to the yard by the time she reversed the car out of the weeds and sped off down the drive.
Hoyt had left earlier, off somewhere with Zane, which meant it would just be me and Uncle Philson in the house. We hadn’t had another conversation since he’d settled the question of whether my dad was actually dead, but there was one more thing I wanted to know.
I hadn’t told Camille or Gilbert, but before I wrote to the Bowmans, I wanted to rule out my dad’s family as a possible alternative. Sorry or not, they might want to know me.
B-R-A-V-E G-I-R-L—GIVER, VIABLE, LIVE. A brave girl would want to know the truth. I opened the screen door and hurried inside.
• • •
MY UNCLE WAS always in one of three places: his bedroom sleeping, the kitchen eating, or in his recliner listening to country music. I followed the sound of Dolly Parton’s “Jolene” to the living room.
As usual, he lay horizontal, feet in the air with his eyes closed.
I’d been in the room to clean, but I’d never sat in there. I looked for a clean spot between the stains on the couch and sat down. The cushion made a pffft sound, and the smell of something spoiled and moldy floated around me.
Uncle Philson opened his eyes, blinking as if he’d been dreaming and now had no idea where he was. “Samantha!”
I shook my head. “She left five minutes ago.”
He yawned, then pulled the lever on the recliner and sat up. The sweet voice of Dolly had turned into that of a car salesman, and he motioned for me to turn the radio off.
Sitting there in his sock feet, he looked sallow and weak. I tried to imagine him going to work every day, digging coal out of a mine, but it was impossible. I could be brave in the face of Uncle Philson. “You said my dad was dead.”
He wiped his eyes and yawned again. “What?”
“You said my dad was dead. What about his family?”
“What about them?” he asked.
I traced the outline of a purple stain. The thought of being in this house and watching Hoyt suck down grape Kool-Aid for the rest of my life was too depressing. “Are any of them still around? In Farley or near about, I mean?”
“Jud’s people? I think he has a brother what’s not in jail.” He pulled his sock down and scratched his ankle where tiny blue veins collided. “I wouldn’t swear by it, though. I seen all of them wearing orange vests and picking up trash at some point.”
It shouldn’t have bothered me—Mama had said they weren’t worth knowing—but it did. I sagged against the back of the couch. Being brave was tiring. No wonder everybody in Conley Holler looked faded and worn out. I pushed myself off the couch and stood.
Uncle Philson flipped the lever on his recliner and leaned back.
“Radio!”
I turned the volume back up and shuffled down the hall.
• • •
I SAT IN my room at the desk, running my fingers along the dents and scratches. I liked to pretend that they were made by Mama when she was a girl.
I needed to write a letter.
I needed to write a letter to the people who had almost been my family.
I needed to write a letter that would be so good, they’d write back and I’d know if living with them was even a possibility.
There was no way that I was going to be able to do that, so instead I sat at the desk and did everything else but write the letter. I flipped through Mama’s worn New Testament. I blew kisses to Mama’s picture. I opened the drawer and pulled out the other photographs I’d brought from our trailer and laid them on top of the desk.
I stared at the framed 8x10 from the JCPenney Portrait Studios. It was made when I was six months old. “I was still bald,” I said to Mama’s picture. “Why would you tape a bow to my head?”
I held the photo up and looked closer. The dress was short, revealing my pudgy legs that ended in lace-trimmed socks and patent-leather shoes.
Samantha Rose had returned an hour ago. She and Uncle Philson were now sitting in front of the television, but I got up and locked the door anyway.
I pulled the envelope from Anita Bowman out from under my mattress and dug around until I found the picture of the three of us. No wonder the dress in the portrait was so short. It was the very same one I was wearing with the Bowmans.
I blew my bangs out of my eyes. If I’d stayed with them, everything would have been different. And I wouldn’t have known Mama, Camille or Gilbert.
Samantha Rose cackled from the other room and I felt my stomach roil. Our neighbor back home at Castle Fields Mobile Home Park had an old bird dog named Festus. One day he stopped in our yard and began bucking and gagging and basically having a fit. Mama watched from the lawn chair she’d pulled underneath a skinny tree made from an out-of-control juniper bush.
What is that fool dog doing? she’d asked.
By the time I ran over, Festus had puked a slimy green mixture onto a bald patch of dirt. In the middle was a peach pit as big as a tobacco can. Hard and greasy. That’s what the knot in my stomach felt like every time I looked at Samantha Rose.
If I’d stayed with the Bowmans, I would have never known her either.
I sat back down at the desk and looked at the photo of Mama. “I don’t care,” I whispered. “I wouldn’t trade having you as my mom for anything. Samantha Rose is terrible, but it’s a price I’m willing to pay for my time with you.”
Be brave, Mama had said. I put my notebook on the desk and picked up a pen.
Dear Anita,
Thank you for writing back. Wavie is glad that she stayed with me, but she has so many questions about y’all. You know how kids are. She said she wouldn’t have fit in with you anyway, she doesn’t canoe or hike, and math is her worst subject. Do you think she would have, really? Your letter talked about your house. Have you done anything new to it? I’d love to hear all about your renovations. Also, if you could send any of those other letters you mentioned, that’d be great.
Your friend,
Ronelda
I reread it trying to hear it in Mama’s voice. It didn’t sound like her; she wouldn’t have cared a bit about their house, but I didn’t know what else to say. I shoved the note into my backpack.
It would work or it wouldn’t.
We’d know soon.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
Maybe it was spring having finally decided to send the last of the cool temperatures packing that made me feel hopeful as I walked to the bus stop. I breathed in the smell of pine and honeysuckle. Rows and rows of mountain ridges were etched against the sky as far as I could see. They were deep green up close, but the morning haze turned them lighter and lighter until nothing but a faint silver silhouette remained in the distance.
Frank and Baily were staring at Camille like she had two heads. “You called me Baily,” Baily said, grinning. “No take backs.”
“I don’t want to take it back. Tell the kids in your class I said to stop it, too. If they have a problem, they can see me.”
Gilbert hitched his sweatpants higher. “Go on, tell them the rest of it.”
“After school, come over,” Camille said. “I’m going to help you learn to read.”
Frank shook his head. “What for?”
“’Cause you need to know. And you’re going to make good grades so your mama can see how smart you are. You got it?”
The two of them looked at each other and shrugged. “Okay?”
I smiled at Cam
ille. “Now doesn’t that make you feel good?”
“It feels like I’m going to have less time for my own homework is what it feels like.”
“You?” Gilbert asked. “Studying to get into GT means I’ll have less time for actual cool stuff, like exploring.”
Camille rolled her eyes. “What about you, Wavie? Did you write the letter?”
Mr. Vic pulled to a stop, sending gravel hopping, and we climbed aboard. I passed the letter over the back of the seat so Camille could mail it for us. She and Gilbert quickly read it.
“I don’t know,” Camille said. “You don’t really ask much. How are you going to know if they’re looking for more kids?”
“What kind of question do you imagine me asking,” I said, “that wouldn’t make my mama sound like she was two sandwiches short of a picnic?”
“I’m with Wavie,” Gilbert said. He smelled his underarm. “Sniff this and tell me if I stink.”
“Gross!” Camille said. “Not in this lifetime.”
I sat back down and faced the front of the bus. If I stayed in Convict Holler, I’d have to put up with Samantha Rose and Hoyt, but I’d have Gilbert and Camille. I played with a hole in the knee of my jeans. Even if the Bowmans took me in they’d just be doing it out of pity, and then I’d be away from my friends. They’d probably send me to Snob Middle School where everyone would look down on me. When another letter came from them, I might just throw it away without opening it.
• • •
THE FIVE OF US took turns checking the mailbox. Friday, it was my turn. I’d had to finish my homework and my chores first and I’d arrived at the bottom of the hill in time to see the back end of the mail truck. He had raised such a cloud of dust that I didn’t see the woman standing by the boxes until she moved.
Frank and Baily’s mother, the angular Mrs. Barnes, stood there blinking in the sun like she’d just left a dark cave.
“Afternoon,” I said.
Mrs. Barnes nodded. “How you?” Her voice was soft as a duck’s tail feather.
“Good.” I opened the mailbox, but other than some junk mail, there was nothing. I had turned to leave when Mrs. Barnes stopped me.
Hope in the Holler Page 12
