“What’s that?” I asked, but I wasn’t really interested. I’d already seen his Starry Night. I hoped she wasn’t going to want to talk about impressions now.
“Hey, Pride,” Nash called in through the screen door. I walked out to the porch. All of Justine’s street was pretty houses and nice gardens, square green lawns, dogs tied up on chains. Fancy as it was, I couldn’t imagine living in Duluth, not without the woods or a place to sit and think or a pasture for Atticus and Scout, free land for Woody Guthrie, a trailer for Miss Addie. I hoped Justine wouldn’t ask to keep us here; I couldn’t bear to be cooped up like this for long.
Nash moved over on the swing, folded the paper closed, and set it on his lap. His shining face was shaved, his hair washed, his skin smelled clean like aftershave and soap. “I just want to say,” he said. “All the stories that you told me. I understand.” A lump rose in my throat. What he really meant was lies. “And I know that Thor does, too. And it doesn’t mean you’re not just like your grandpa, because without knowing the man, I can tell you that you are. Kids don’t grow up to have your courage without someone strong to show them how it’s done.”
“Mama helped us, too,” I said. “And Daddy.” I blinked to keep the tears out of my eyes. It would have been easier if he’d said I was like Richard Nixon.
“And Nightingale and Baby, they’re lucky they got you in the lead. They never would have made it this far without you.”
“Thanks,” I said. I wiped a quick tear from my cheek.
“If I could write that in a story, I definitely would. But your story’s better than some travel magazine. It’s pretty darn heroic—and you don’t read those much.”
“It is?” I said. I didn’t feel heroic. Just worn out and old. Older than I felt the day Old Finn went in with the fever. Older than a girl just turned thirteen. Maybe St. John’s would take me as a candy striper early.
“It is.” He smiled. “But you’re too good to see it. All you children are.”
• • •
When Nash’s van was finally packed to leave, we all walked them to the street to say good-bye. “Thank Justine for me,” Nash said. She was still gone at St. Mary’s talking to Old Finn. “And I hope you let her help you in all the ways she can. Thor, too.”
“I will,” I said, as long as it didn’t mean staying in Duluth.
“I’ve got her address. Let her know I’ll keep in touch.”
“Old Finn gets his mail right in Goodwell,” Baby said. “At the post office. Keep in touch with us. Send a postcard from Chicago!” Baby loved to look at postcards. “Or a letter on that fancy paper like Justine?”
I cupped my hand over Baby’s mouth. I didn’t want anyone to know about the letters. Not now. Maybe someday when I was ready for more truth.
“Hey!” Baby yanked my hand away. He ran up and gave Sage one last good-bye hug. Her mop of red curls covered Baby’s face. Maybe someday they’d be like Old Finn and Justine—writing love letters from Goodwell to Chicago. “Can you come back tomorrow?” Baby asked.
“Not tomorrow.” Nash laughed. “Sage’s mother isn’t going to part with her too soon. But we’ll definitely be back.” He reached out and shook Thor’s hand. “Thanks for the place to crash,” he said. “And helping with the kid hunt. And trusting a reporter when no one does these days.”
“You’re not so bad,” Thor said. “But you could use a haircut.”
Nash tossed the long bangs back from his forehead. “Will do,” he said.
“Okay.” Thor winked. “Take good care of that little girl.”
“And you take care of the Stars,” Nash said. “Although they’re not so little.”
“No,” I said. “Not little. And we take care of ourselves.”
“And you.” Nash turned to Nightingale. She was standing back, her arms across her chest, watching from the steps with her dark eyes. “I have a hunch you still don’t like me much.” Nash shook his head. “Just so you know, I’m not going to write the story of the Stars.”
“Or call the county?” Nightingale asked. “Or tell the proper people the way you said last night?”
“Not now.” Nash made a cross over his chest to show it was a promise. He opened up the van door, buckled Sage into her seat. “I feel confident you kids are in good hands. Justine has assured me you won’t be left alone.”
“Okay then.” Nightingale held tight to her black braids. “I guess I like you fine.”
• • •
The wait seemed long until Justine drove up from St. Mary’s. All of us were on the front steps waiting, even Thor.
“Well?” I said, before she’d stepped into the yard. “What did Old Finn say about the cabin? Can we go back today?”
Justine took off her hat and fanned her pretty face. “Maybe Mick was right when he said I couldn’t keep up with you kids. You move faster than I’ve moved in fifty years.”
“Did he say we could go back to Eden? Because Woody Guthrie needs his breakfast. And Miss Addie’s all alone.” Last night when we’d called her on the phone, I could tell she felt too worried without us. Miss Addie always worried. “And we still have our souvenirs to sell. Plus, Thor’s right here to take us in his truck.” I left out the part about our lessons because I wasn’t in a hurry to get back home to those.
“Yes,” Justine finally said. “I am certain he wants you back at Eden. So although Thor generously offered to take you to his home, I will be the one to watch you now.”
“You?” Baby said. “You’ll come and live at Eden?”
“For now,” Justine said. “If you think that would be all right.”
“But it isn’t very fancy,” Baby warned. “We don’t have all your paintings. And Old Finn doesn’t grow flowers. Just tomatoes and zucchini and carrots and potatoes, but they’re not pretty like your plants.”
“I’ve been out to Eden,” Justine said.
“Oh yeah,” Baby said, but I pinched his arm before he started on the letters.
“It has its charm.” Justine smiled. “Rustic charm. Not unlike Old Finn.” She laughed a little giggle. It was the first I’d heard her say Old Finn. “And best of all,” she said, “it has you lively children. So if you’ll accept me as your guardian, however temporarily, until Old Finn comes home, which may be in just weeks—”
“Just weeks!” I shrieked before Justine could finish. “You mean he’ll be well in just weeks?”
“Better,” Justine said. “At least that’s the doctor’s hope. Of course he’ll still need therapy, but he can do some of that in Goodwell, once he’s steady on his feet, able to communicate a little more.”
“I can help him then,” I said. If Old Finn could walk and talk, I could see him through the rest. The ABCs and counting. Telling time like Henri said. I could even teach him how to close his mouth, tuck his tongue inside. “I’m going to get a job candy striping at St. John’s, so I’ll know all the things to make him well.” Maybe someday I could be like Henri, tend to patients, help them with their slippers, wheel them to Speech. Old Finn would be my first.
“That’s excellent,” Justine said. “And apparently some brains can heal quickly. Old Finn’s brain is amazing, so let’s hope for the best.”
“Well, sure,” Thor said. “I’ve never seen a brain better than his. Heart either, for that matter.”
“That’s true,” I said.
“Yes,” Justine agreed. “And both have served him well.”
56
A HOPE THAT
SOMEONE HEARD
Justine stayed behind to pack her things, to put her house in order, to hire the next-door neighbor to babysit her plants. I couldn’t believe you’d need a sitter just for flowers, but that’s how fancy Justine’s garden was. She said she’d see us all at Eden by tonight.
When Thor drove us into Goodwell, it se
emed like weeks had passed since Bernice had dropped us at the Need-More and said it was a day we wouldn’t forget. Baby’s wagon sat against the Lucky Strike, just the place I left it, but Thor wouldn’t let me put it in the truck. He made me sit inside while he stepped out to do it. “Don’t need to do every last thing for yourself, Kathleen,” he said. “You learn to take some help.”
Through the front window of the Lucky Strike, I could see the owner sitting at the counter, the same gruff man who’d sold me our tickets to Duluth. “Wait!” I said, when Thor got back into the truck. “Could you borrow me fifty cents?” I knew Old Finn wouldn’t want me asking Thor for money, but I needed it right now. We were down to two thin dimes I just couldn’t spend. “I’ll earn it back this week.”
“Lend,” Nightingale corrected. Lend or borrow, I could never keep those two words straight. “You going bowling, Pride?”
“Lend,” I said to Thor.
“Lend or borrow.” Thor smiled. “It’s all the same to me.” He reached into his pocket, pulled out a fist of change. “Here,” he said. “Take how much you need.”
I jumped out of the truck, went up to the counter the way I’d done the day before. The owner was still on his tall stool, still smoking a stinky, fat cigar. A stack of bowling shoes sat waiting to be polished. He rubbed his rag in circles over one.
“New day.” He gave a nod toward the TV. “New president,” he said. “Let’s hope this one is honest.”
“Yep,” I said. “Honest would be good.” I stepped closer to the register, wished hard Miss Addie’s JFK was still inside. “Yesterday,” I said with my best manners, “I paid a fifty-cent piece for our tickets. And I said it was a keepsake.”
“I recall.” He chewed at his cigar. “A JFK.”
“That’s it!” I said. “I’ve got the money here to buy it.”
“Buy it!” His great big laugh sounded like a roar. “You can’t buy your money back, girl.”
“But it’s a keepsake for Miss Addie. She’s had it all these years. And she borrowed it to me to buy us groceries. But I bought bus tickets instead.”
He gave a little snort. “Spending someone else’s money for a bus ride?”
“I know,” I said, ashamed. It felt good to practice with the truth, even if I told it to a stranger. “I know that it was wrong.” I laid Thor’s change down on the counter and counted fifty cents. “So could I buy it back? Is it still there in your register?”
“Nope,” he said. “Money changes hands.”
“It’s gone?” My shoulders sank, my heart felt heavy as a wood stack. I never should have given him Miss Addie’s JFK.
He reached under the counter, pulled out a battered old cigar box, the kind Baby used to store his postcards and his rocks. “It’s right here in my collection. You’re lucky I save coins.”
“I am,” I said, relieved. “Really, really lucky.” He plucked it from the box and handed it to me. Then he pushed Thor’s change in my direction. “You keep your money, sweetie. I’m just glad to help Miss Addie out.”
“You know Miss Addie?” I didn’t think anyone in Goodwell knew Miss Addie. Just like hardly anyone knew Old Finn or us.
“Sure don’t.” He picked up his greasy rag. “But I know enough to see how much she’s loved.”
• • •
When we reached our signs out on the highway, Thor pulled over to the shoulder and parked his rusted truck. PONY RIDES AND POPCORN!!! with arrows up toward Eden.
“So,” he said. “You want to take those down?”
I looked out at Nightingale’s painting, her happy colored letters she’d worked so hard to make. The picket stakes I’d hammered by myself. Our business was just started; we still had our souvenirs to sell. And we could still make money on the coffee, the cookies in the jar. We wouldn’t need insurance to sell that.
I turned to Nightingale and Baby. “You want to end the business?” Old Finn wasn’t home to tell us no, and Justine wouldn’t be here until tonight. We still had a few good hours to get tourists.
“No,” Nightingale said, “we still need the money.”
“I have pennies,” Baby said.
Nightingale smiled. “You do, but that won’t be enough.”
“I don’t like it,” Thor said. “Strangers at your place. Your grandpa wouldn’t want it. You ought to wait until Justine arrives.”
“Okay,” I said. He was right about Old Finn, but Old Finn wasn’t here. “We’ll ask Justine tonight.” We might or we might not, but Thor didn’t need to know about that now. “Right now we’ll keep our signs up until Justine tells us no.”
“I hope that woman’s got some strength.” Thor laughed. “She’ll need it with you kids.”
• • •
First thing I did when Thor dropped us off at Eden was get Woody Guthrie a double dose of breakfast and pour fresh water in his dish. Inside the cabin everything was just the way we left it: our souvenirs stacked up in the basket; Baby’s bow and arrow; Justine’s letters on the table; Nightingale’s gown in a heap on Old Finn’s floor. I wondered if she’d wear them with Justine or if she’d feel funny in a nightgown with a stranger in our house. But Justine wasn’t quite a stranger now. I looked out the kitchen window—Atticus and Scout stood grazing in the pasture, Nightingale and Baby were already racing down the wood path to Miss Addie’s. I wished I had two JFKs to give her, but for today, one would have to do.
I went into Old Finn’s room, sat down on his bed, and pressed his pillow to my stomach. Please, God, make Old Finn well, I said inside myself. I said it once, not twenty-four more times the way Nightingale wanted, but for the first time in a long time I had a hope that someone heard. There was good out in the world—like Nash and Thor and kind Justine, Henri and Bernice, and help that wouldn’t hurt—maybe all that good was somehow God. Make him well completely, I added, because most of all I wanted Old Finn back the way he was. Strong and smart. Carving statues. Giving Baby his good-night ride around the yard. Teaching us our lessons, using his big words—not struggling to get through Justine and the. I’d even sit still for Beethoven or those horrible Shakespeare sonnets that didn’t make an ounce of sense. I will, I promised God. Just so it’s not too boring.
Then I got up from the bed, stepped outside to see the sun. Old Finn’s garden was a snarl; I had to weed, make sure that it got watered. I didn’t want the vegetables all shriveled before Old Finn got home. Just weeks, Justine had said. And later, by October, Old Finn’s pumpkins might be ready for a pie. And all of us would be here for Thanksgiving. Maybe even Thor. I’d cook us all a turkey packed with sausage stuffing, the way Old Finn had tried to teach me just last year. I could do it by myself, with Old Finn at the table passing on his secret recipes.
“Come on,” I called to Woody Guthrie. He trotted up beside me, then the two of us set off down the wood path to Miss Addie, to sit there in her trailer, just the way Old Finn had ordered the day that he left us for St. John’s.
Only this time we wouldn’t cut photographs from movie magazines or wait there full of worry or wonder how much longer. This time we’d know for certain, that Old Finn was coming home.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Thank you to all who helped to bring this book into the world: my husband, Tim Frederick, who read from the beginning; my children, Mikaela and Dylan, who saw it to the finish; my agent Rosemary Stimola, who made it possible; the Sisters of Clare’s Well, whose sanctuary gave this book a home; Sister Paula for her nursing expertise; Lynn and Frank James for twice lending me their paradise; the Bush Foundation for the gift of time and the beautiful little dream shed; Hamline University for allowing me to disappear for several months; my colleagues and students who share the writers’ journey; Malmo Art Colony for quiet; Callie Cardamon for reading; Willie Wilcox and Kate Shuknecht, who helped me with the horses; Lenore Millibergity for answering endless legal qu
estions; and as always Martin Case for everything from punctuation to politics—I could not write without you. Thank you to the good people at G. P. Putnam’s Sons, especially my amazing editor, Stacey Barney. I will forever love you, Stacey Barney. Eternal gratitude to all my stars—past and present—your love sustains me.
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