When I woke up the next morning, Mama’s visit was almost like a dream. The sun was shining in the window; Woody Guthrie was whining at the door.
I’m down at Miss Addie’s, I wrote to Nightingale and Baby. Both of them were still in bed asleep. We’ve got Sugar Smacks for breakfast. I set the box out on the table with two bowls and two spoons. Tomorrow, I’d fry up eggs or pancakes, but I still had a chocolate cake to bake before my trip to town.
Outside, I raced across the dewy meadow, past Atticus and Scout, and Lady Jane already stalking bugs in the tall grass. Through the windows of the trailer, I could hear Miss Addie’s small TV; Miss Addie always kept her TV loud.
“Pride?” Miss Addie looked surprised when she opened up the door. “Is everything all right, child?” A nervous rattle trembled in her words.
“We made it through the night,” I said.
“Oh, good,” Miss Addie said like she’d forgotten that she’d left us. Or maybe she’d forgotten Old Finn was in St. John’s.
“This business with the president.” She hobbled toward her TV and shut it off. “I’m sad to say I lived to see a thing like this.”
“I know,” I said, but I didn’t care about Nixon. Washington, D.C., was too far away to matter to me now. All that really mattered was Old Finn.
“Your grandpa will be happy to see that man impeached.”
“I’ll tell him when I see him. I’m riding in today.”
“Again?” Miss Addie frowned. “All the way to Goodwell on that horse?”
“Thing is,” I said, “I can’t go as myself. I’m going to need a costume. Some makeup for the trip.”
“Makeup!” Miss Addie said, excited. She was always after me to put makeup on my face, to pat on the crusty powder that covered her old skin, but I didn’t want to be orange skinned like Miss Addie. “You’re growing up, dear Pride!”
“Maybe some,” I said, if makeup made me older. “I just need to look as old as Mama.” We still hadn’t told Miss Addie that the hospital thought that she was Mama. Nightingale said my lie might set off a nervous spell, wear down Miss Addie’s anxious heart. “The hospital, they want Mama to come in.”
Miss Addie blinked, confused. “They don’t know your mama’s gone?” she asked as gently as she could.
“No,” I said. “And I didn’t want to tell them we were out here on our own, because Old Finn wouldn’t want that. So instead I have to go as Mama.”
“You?” Miss Addie shook her head. “I have a gift for makeup from the days I was an actress. I could paint you up to twenty, but I’m afraid your mama would be thirty now at least.”
“I know,” I said. “But maybe with your wig? That long black one I used to wear for dress-up?”
“My Cleopatra wig? From summer stock in Grand Marais?”
“Yes,” I said. “That’s it.” I loved Miss Addie’s stories of summer stock in Grand Marais, the place Miss Addie used to be a star. “You always said that wig made me look older.”
“Yes.” Miss Addie smiled. “I remember that it did.”
I waited at the table while she rummaged through her closet. When she came back to the kitchen she had the long black wig, plus the old green box of makeup she let us use for plays. Our first Eden winter I’d spent hours directing fairy-tale plays. Miss Addie did our makeup and our costumes, Nightingale wrote our scripts, Baby colored in our programs, put out all the props. I’d worn the Cleopatra wig for Snow White and Sleeping Beauty. Nightingale never minded my big roles; she was happier to write than stand onstage.
“You think that this will work?” I asked.
Miss Addie unscrewed her jar of peachy face cream and rubbed a wet glob of Revlon makeup on my cheek. “I’m sure it’s worth a try, Pride,” she said sweetly. But I could see in her old eyes she wasn’t sure herself.
10
MAKE-BELIEVE
When Miss Addie finished with her painting, my eyelids were bright blue, my lashes black and crusty, my skin a sickly shade of tan. A little mole was painted near my nose. My lips were red; Miss Addie’s clip-on earrings pinched against my lobes.
Miss Addie tugged the wig onto my head and hid my loose hair underneath it. The inside netting scratched against my scalp. I’d forgotten how Miss Addie’s wigs always made my head itch.
“You got an outfit at your place?” Miss Addie asked. I was too tall now to fit into her costumes. The only costume shoes I could fit into were a pair of plastic high-heeled slippers with feathers on the top.
“I think,” I said. There was a cedar box of Mama’s things tucked back in Old Finn’s alcove. Maybe I could wear a dress of hers.
“Well, now,” she said with a smile. She puffed a final pat of powder on my nose. “You may just pass for thirty after all.”
• • •
Baby shrieked when I walked into the cabin, and Nightingale let her book drop to her lap.
“Pride?” Baby gasped. “How come you look like that?”
“It’s makeup for a play,” I said. “Like I wore for Sleeping Beauty.”
“But it isn’t Sleeping Beauty.”
“I’m just getting ready, in case we put it on again,” I said. Baby was too young to understand me dressed as Mama.
Nightingale sighed like she’d already guessed my plan. “That isn’t going to work,” she said. “You can’t be Mama, Pride.”
“Mama?” Baby frowned. “Pride doesn’t look like Mama.”
“That’s right,” I said. I tried to hide the disappointment in my voice. I didn’t need to look like Mama to make believe I was; I just needed to look a whole lot older than thirteen. “But you know what?” I poured a bowl of Sugar Smacks and sat down at the table. “Last night at our meeting, we never got to my part of the list.”
“That’s true,” Baby said. He couldn’t take his eyes off my face, the long black wig, the little painted mole.
“And I said all of Nightingale’s prayers before I went to sleep. Said a few this morning, too.” I was lying, but Nightingale wouldn’t know.
Nightingale cleared the morning dishes from the table, walked over to the sink, and got started on the washing. Nightingale rarely did the dishes.
“I only have one thing,” I said to Nightingale. “And I let you have four.”
She flipped off the noisy faucet and turned to look at me. “Okay,” she said. “What’s yours?”
“However long Old Finn’s fever lasts,” I said, “we’re going to have to stay on the same side. Stick together as the Stars. The way Mama always said.”
“Did Mama really say stick together as the Stars?” Baby never tired of the same stories about Mama; this one I’d told a hundred times.
“She did,” I said. “When Daddy died. And lots of other times. Whenever Nightingale and I would start to bicker, she’d say—The Stars have to stick together, stay on the same side.”
Nightingale ran her rag over the bowl; she knew that it was true. She’d heard Mama say it plenty.
“We have to stay a family first,” I said. “Do the best we can while Old Finn’s gone. Even if we don’t agree. It’s what Old Finn would want. Mama, too.”
“I’m on your side, Pride.” Baby jumped up from his seat, ran over to my chair, and pressed his head into my chest. “I like the wig. Even if it makes you look a little like a witch.”
Nightingale laughed and I laughed, too. Maybe I did look a little like a witch.
“Okay,” Nightingale said. “We’ll stay on the same side. But I don’t want to end up in trouble like the president. Because once you start to lie . . .” She stopped and stared into the sink. “And you know, just pretending to be Mama, well, that’s a kind of lie, Pride.”
“Or else it’s make-believe,” I said. “You love make-believe.”
“No,” Nightingale said. “This is defini
tely different.”
“Well, if it’s a lie,” I said, “it ought to be my last.”
11
HOOT
When I rode up to the Junk & Stuff, Thor’s saggy eyes widened in surprise. “That’s some kind of getup there, Kathleen.” He pointed at my wig. I was glad Mama’s paisley minidress was hidden in my knapsack. I still hadn’t settled on a story to tell Thor. “You headed for a masquerade?”
I gave a little nod. A masquerade was the perfect explanation. And I hadn’t really lied. “So you knew that it was me?” I said, a little disappointed. Maybe I didn’t look thirty after all.
“More or less.” Thor hooked his thumbs under the straps of his stained overalls. “But, I bet it was the horse. I always recognize your grandpa’s horse.”
“Oh, right.” I slapped my forehead. Who else would be on Atticus?
“Why don’t you let me tend that horse today?” Thor said when I got down off the saddle. “You got your masquerade. I’ll see to the tack, get the fellow water. Your grandpa’s truck still down?”
“Uh-huh,” I said, which didn’t count as a yes. “I got the seed sacks that you lent me. And the thirteen cents we owe.” I pulled Baby’s pennies from my pocket and handed them to Thor. “Here’s your money for the eggs.”
“Your grandpa make you pay?” Thor dropped the pennies into his pocket without bothering to count. “I know he won’t take credit. But thirteen cents was hardly worth the trip.”
“Nope,” I said. “We paid you back ourselves.”
• • •
In the greasy bathroom of the Texaco in Goodwell, I tried to hold my breath so I didn’t smell the stink. I switched into Mama’s dress, quick painted on another coat of lipstick, then walked out past the gas pumps in the direction of St. John’s. Every couple steps I lost my balance in Miss Addie’s stupid slippers.
“Hey, babe, what’s the rush?” somebody shouted. Over at the Lucky Strike a group of teen boys leaned against a car. “How about those feathered shoes?”
I pulled my shoulders back and hurried down the street, but the whistles and the jeers followed until I’d gotten past the Pie Place. I didn’t want to look as old as Mama if boys were going to joke.
“Hey,” Suzy said when I walked into St. John’s. She was standing at the counter staring at my wig. “I know you. You’re the wheelbarrow girl!” Suddenly my cheeks burned pink; humiliation stung my grimy face. If Suzy saw me through my outfit, Bernice would know me, too.
“No,” I said.
“You sure are. You were in here with your sister.”
“No.” I shook my head. I didn’t want to say another word.
“Well, it isn’t Halloween,” she said, laughing. “You don’t need a costume now.”
I stumbled to the bathroom and stared into the mirror. Miss Addie’s crusty makeup made everybody laugh. I yanked a wad of towels out of the holder, ran them under water, scrubbed the layers off my face. Black streaks bled under my eyes. Women came and went, but I didn’t care. I stuffed the wig into my backpack with Miss Addie’s plastic slippers and my tin with Old Finn’s cake. Then I stepped inside a stall and shimmied out of Mama’s dress.
“Hey?” somebody said. I peeked out through the stall crack; it was Suzy in her candy-striper jumper, her perfect blond hair pulled tight in two high pigtails. She’d never wear her mama’s clothes to town. “I didn’t mean to hurt your feelings.”
“You didn’t.” I just wanted her to leave.
“I hope you won’t report me.” She sat down on the sink. “I can’t get any more reports.”
“I won’t,” I said. I knew better than to snitch; if you snitched at the shelter the older girls stuck you with a straight pin or dug their nails into your skin until you bled. Besides I didn’t have anyone to tell. I was too embarrassed to tell Nightingale I hadn’t passed as Mama. That I’d been dumb to wear those feathered slippers and that wig. I was glad she wasn’t here to see it.
“Your patient any better?” Suzy asked.
“I hope,” I said. “I brought a piece of cake.”
“Cake?” She smirked. She turned and looked into the mirror, tightened up her pigtails, smoothed the wrinkles from her jumper. Those boys outside the Lucky Strike wouldn’t have laughed at Suzy. “Got to go,” she said over her shoulder. “I’m sure he’ll think your costume is a hoot!”
12
GONE
All that and it was a different nurse working the front desk on Old Finn’s floor. Kind Bernice was nowhere to be found. I didn’t need to come as Mama after all.
“May I help you, hon?” a big-boned woman asked.
“I’m here for Michael Finnegan.” I hoped Old Finn would be awake today, and if he was, I hoped he wouldn’t mind the stain of orange left on my face, the rings of gray underneath my eyes. “Do you know if he’s awake?”
“Michael Finnegan?” she asked like I’d come to the wrong place.
“He’s my grandpa. And he’s in here with a fever. Some trouble with his brain.” His slice of cake was waiting in my knapsack; I’d come all this way to sit here at his side.
“Oh dear,” she said. “Mr. Finnegan was transferred to Duluth. St. Mary’s Hospital.”
“Duluth?” My heart dropped to my knees. Why would St. John’s move Old Finn to Duluth? Old Finn hated cities; he wouldn’t get well in Duluth.
“They have specialists in Duluth,” she said. “Doctors there will know about his brain. I’m afraid we’re just too small for certain cases.” She slid her pen behind her ear. “The next of kin was notified this morning.”
“She was?” I swallowed hard. I was Old Finn’s next of kin, but I wasn’t even listed.
“Yes,” she said. “Dr. Atchinson phoned Miss Addie Lee. It says right here she was notified.” The doctor must have called after I left Miss Addie’s trailer, maybe while I was on my way to town. “Is that your mother, dear?”
“No,” I said. I didn’t want Miss Addie to be Mama. I wanted Mama to be Mama, to be here with me now.
She looked over the paper. “There isn’t any other family listed here. Is there someone else’s name we should pass on to St. Mary’s? Your parents’ names perhaps?”
“No,” I said.
“Okay,” she said as if my answer didn’t make sense. “So you don’t want your parents listed?”
“No,” I said. “I just want to see him.”
“He’s gone,” she said again like I didn’t understand. I knew he was, but that didn’t change the deep want in my heart. “You’ll have to visit in Duluth. St. Mary’s is the best place for him now.”
“But he won’t get well in a city. He hates the city. It’s why he moved to Goodwell—so he didn’t have to see the city anymore. It’s too much time with people.”
She glanced down at her watch, shuffled through her papers. “You should head on home now,” she said.
“But how long will he be gone?”
“All these questions,” she said. “You’re going to have to ask your mother, dear.”
• • •
“You’ve changed,” Thor joked when I walked up toward the barn. I’d changed, but it wasn’t just my clothes. The hope I had was all gone from my heart. “What happened to that wig? The masquerade all done?”
“I guess.” I was too beaten down to care about the lies I’d told this morning. I had to find a way to get to see Old Finn. “You ever go into Duluth?”
Once, we’d gone to Duluth in Old Finn’s truck, but I didn’t know how to get there by myself.
“Sure,” Thor said. “Can’t say I like it much. Why you ask, Kathleen?”
“Just wondering,” I said.
“That so?” He gave a little tug on his black seed cap, ran his hand beneath his big hooked nose.
I shrugged. “Just thought I’d
like to go, look at the big lake. Maybe take the Greyhound for a trip?” I’d seen the Greyhound bus parked outside the Lucky Strike; maybe one could take me to Duluth. I didn’t know any other way to get into that city by myself.
“Greyhound? Your grandpa won’t get on a Greyhound bus.”
“Maybe not,” I said. “But can you take the Greyhound to Duluth? I mean does one go there from Goodwell?”
Thor crossed his arms over his chest and leaned back against the railing. “Things all right out at your place?”
“Fine,” I said. That wasn’t quite a lie; so far we were self-sufficient. We’d made it through the night; we had food enough to keep us fed.
“Well, if there’s something that you need.” He put his hand down on my shoulder. “If I were you, I wouldn’t run off to Duluth.”
“I won’t,” I lied. Thor’s hand on my shoulder almost made me cry. I reached into my bag; Old Finn’s tin of cake was waiting there. Thor ought to have it now. I still had a near-whole cake on the countertop at home and I didn’t even want to eat a bite.
“Here,” I said. “It’s just a single slice, but it’s devil’s food. I baked it up myself.”
“Well, glory be,” Thor said. “Thirteen cents and cake? You sure do like to make good on your debts. But while you’re here, I got a slab of bacon for your grandpa. Bought too much at the butcher. Tell him it’s my thank-you for the roof.”
13
SELF-RELIANCE
When I got back to the cabin, Nightingale and Baby were waiting in the driveway. Woody Guthrie was sleeping in the shade; Lady Jane was curled into a ball on Baby’s lap.
“What about Old Finn?” Baby asked. A coat of gravel covered Baby’s Wranglers; his hands were mapped with dirt. By tonight he’d need a bath or a dip down in the pond. Maybe I could hose him down with Atticus and Scout.
“Did you finally get to see him?” Nightingale set her crochet project in her lap. Nightingale was always crafting some new thing—knitting, stitching, weaving. I didn’t have the patience to move a needle back and forth. “Is his fever any better?”
Keeping Safe the Stars (9781101591215) Page 4
