by Mary Knight
Contents
Title Page
Epigraph
C
D
E
F
G
H
I
J
K
L
M
N
O
P
Q and R
S
T
U
V
W
W (continued…)
X
Y
A Note on Pronunciation
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Copyright
In loving memory of
Other Daddy, who gave his daughters a love for words,
and
Mom, who passed it on
Wisdom begins in wonder.
—Socrates
Ever since I can remember, Papaw’s been giving me words. Every week a new word, beginning with a and running through the alphabet twice a year. It’s a perfect system, or so Papaw says. “It’s as if the calendar folks and the alphabet folks planned it that way.” He gives me the word on a Sunday and I’m supposed to use it every day of the week. Some words I take a shine to more than others. Lackadaisical is one of my favorites. I like the way it rolls off my tongue.
The kids at school up in Fraleysburg aren’t too keen on my words, so Papaw and I mostly use them at home here in Wonder Gap. Sometimes when I let one slip, they make fun of me. Now that I’m in seventh grade, it’s even worse. Like when Carl Jenkins dropped his lunch tray next to me and his fruit cocktail shot out in every direction all mixed up with his spaghetti and meatballs. When I looked down and saw what had happened, I blurted out: “Gee, Carl, that’s a verifiable mess you got there.” Well, he was on me like a coyote in a barnyard of chickens.
I think it was that black eye that caused Papaw to acquiesce (first word, this year). “No use using ’em where they ain’t working,” he said, agreeing to keep my words to ourselves.
“So what’s the use of using them at all?” I said, holding a pack of frozen peas over my right eye and feeling downright belligerent (second word, this year).
“Well, Curley, words are your way out of the holler,” he said.
Papaw always says that, even though he’s never asked me if I wanted to go. I love my papaw, so it’s hard to argue with him. Besides, he’s all I’ve got.
My daddy died in a coal mining accident right after my little brother, Zeb, was born. I hardly remember him. Four years later, Ma and Zeb were gone, too, swallowed up by a river of sludge. It had been raining hard all week, and the coal company’s slurry pond at the top of the mountain over from ours broke through its walls. A thick stream of black mud came cascading down the holler, covering everything in its path. Ma and little Zeb were winding their way back home from old Ida’s house along the creek bed. I guess they couldn’t get out of the way fast enough.
Papaw came to get me at school that afternoon. “Your ma and little Zeb are gone” was all he said. “Just you and me now, Curley. We’re all we’ve got.” Papaw was Ma’s pa. He’d been staying with us since my daddy died, Papaw being a widower and all.
For the rest of the day after Papaw told me, I simmered in a world of hurt, wondering how Ma could have up and left me like that—taking Zeb with her and not me. It wasn’t until we showed up at the Donnelly house for the viewing that I realized they weren’t just gone, but dead. I know that sounds weird, but Papaw says our minds try to protect us from a painful truth for as long as they can. Papaw also says I kicked his shins black and blue that day, but that he deserved it for not finding a better way to tell me that terrible news.
My mother and brother were found on the banks of Miller Creek. I’ve often wondered what caught Sheriff Whitaker’s eye. Was it the pale hand of my mother reaching high out of the muck like she knew the answer? I’m told she was clinging tight to little Zeb in her other arm.
Ida Donnelly and her sister, Rosa May, took over cleaning up the bodies. They washed them in an old claw-foot tub in their backyard. Papaw said he’d forever be obliged to them for that. He didn’t think he could have done it himself and gone on living.
They put Ma and little Zeb in a coffin together, wrapped in a quilt, and buried them up on a grassy plateau by my daddy’s grave with a view of our holler. Lots of folks came to the funeral. The Donnelly sisters were there, of course, and my friend, Jules, and her ma, Irene. A whole slew of miners stood back a ways, clumped together like coal, their faces all shadowy gray. They must have come right from the night shift that let out that morning, but the day shift was glaringly absent. That was back when I was seven, and things still haven’t changed. Far as I can tell, here in eastern Kentucky, nothing ever does. The mines don’t stop working for nobody, Papaw says, not even for one of their own.
Mr. Barkley, the owner of the mine, didn’t even have the decency to show up for Mama and little Zeb’s funeral. Papaw said it had something to do with not wanting to show culpability, which at the time was a word I didn’t understand. The manager of the mine was standing with the others, though—Antoine Martin, a fancy name that no one had the patience for, so they called him Antsy for short. Folks say he’s always fidgeting about something, but that day he was standing stock-still. All through “Amazing Grace,” I gave him my evil eye.
Preacher Jones handed me the shovel after he said a few words. I guess he wanted me to throw down some dirt, but I threw the shovel instead. It clunked and clattered against the wooden casket as a hush settled on everyone there. No word seemed big enough for the mad I felt. Later, Papaw told me I said, “This whole thing is absolutely futile,” before I broke from his arms and ran all the way home.
Futile. That was the word for the week, as you might have guessed. Papaw and I couldn’t bring ourselves to use it again after that, but the word sat between us nonetheless.
I guess I should tell you something about myself. My name’s Curley Hines. Well, actually, it’s Michael Weaver Hines, but my folks started calling me Curly on account of my hair. I added the e in grade school so it wouldn’t look so girly. I think it helps.
Anyway, Michael and Hines I get from my daddy. Weaver’s from Mama’s side and Papaw’s last name. Both sides of my people are Scotch-Irish, come over from the old world to settle in the new. The way Papaw tells it, they pushed west until they recognized the green of the hills and called Appalachia home.
I may as well tell you I have a girlfriend. She lives down the holler from me and her name’s Julia Cavanaugh, or Jules for short. I told her once that her name reminds me of treasure, and she kind of liked the idea. Our mothers were friends when we were babies. They’d pack us up on hot summer days and take us to play in the creek or pick wildflowers up on Red Hawk Mountain. We like to say we’ve got history, which, of course, is true. I know her better than anybody besides my family. Come to think of it, I guess I know her more.
My birthday’s this Tuesday, so Papaw said I could invite any friend I wanted over for Sunday dinner to celebrate. He said it that way on the off chance I might invite somebody other than Jules, not that he has anything against her. He’s just always saying I need to “widen my circle,” which means he doesn’t want me to get too attached to anything—friends or mountains—that will keep me from eventually leaving home.
I know he means well, but I think I’m a lost cause. I’ve been attached to these mountains since I was born, like my umbilical cord was lassoed around their tops. I know that sounds extreme and maybe even gross, but that’s how it feels. And then, after Ma and little Zeb died, the mountains were the only thing that kept me from flying apart—them and Papaw, of course. Jules understands this. She loves the mountains, too.
Papaw sighed wh
en I told him I’d invited Jules, but then he said, “Well, good.”
In that my birthday is January 21, it often falls on a c word. Papaw spends extra time flipping through the dictionary the week before, looking for just the right one. During last year’s birthday week, my word was collaborate, the kind of word that Papaw hopes will stick with me and guide my ways. Papaw’s always reminding me that words are more than a mishmash of letters and sounds.
“Words are thoughts and thoughts are things,” he says, which makes no sense to me, but he promises I’ll grow into the idea.
Papaw seems particularly pleased with his pick for this year’s birthday word. He’s been chuckling about it all week. I’ve been yammering for a hint all day, but he says he wants to wait for Jules to get here before he gives me my first clue.
Jules makes an entrance, as usual. I mean, she doesn’t mean to. She doesn’t even know she does. It’s just that when she’s not there, something always seems missing, and when she’s there, the room seems all of a sudden full. That’s how it is when she bursts through the front door, all red-cheeked and breathy, her frizzy black hair bushing out from under a blue knit cap.
“Brought you something,” she says, slapping a square-looking package against her jeans to shake off the snow before handing it to me. “You can open it after dinner, I guess.”
The package is wrapped in burlap and tied with a scrap of yellow silk ribbon, probably from her ma’s sewing basket. Jules and her ma go up to the Kmart in Fraleysburg on a regular basis, so it’s not as if wrapping paper isn’t available. As Papaw explains it, Mrs. Cavanaugh was raised by a couple of back-to-earth hippies and prefers to make do with what she’s got.
“Hey, Mr. Weaver, what’s cookin’?” Jules calls to Papaw, throwing her coat on a rack by the door and brushing by me on her way to the kitchen.
“Gee, thanks, Jules,” I say, looking down at my present.
You’ll never catch Jules being sentimental about anything, incidentally. Not birthdays. Not holidays. Not puppies or kittens. Not love. Especially not love.
That didn’t used to be a problem.
I know I said she was my girlfriend, and she is. I’ve even heard her call me her boyfriend to her friends at school. But—and this is a big “but”—she always adds, “Just not in that way.” Like I said, that didn’t used to be a problem.
“I’m thinking of a word and it begins with c,” Papaw says, beginning the word game we play every Sunday. He gives Jules the silverware and me the plates to set the table. “This one’s a little different from your usual birthday word, Curley. Now that you’re entering your man years, you need to find a way to articulate”—(first word, last year)—“what a puzzle this world can be.” Papaw always pauses at the clues when it’s time to guess, so I can tell puzzle is one of them. So does Jules.
“Hmmm, I think this one’s a stumper,” she says, carefully setting the forks to the left and the knives to the right of the plates. “What do you think, birthday boy?”
“It’s right on the tip of my tongue,” I lie as I look at her across the table. All I can think about is the way her tawny skin dimples when she smiles, creating a tiny cave in only one of her cheeks. I’ve wanted to stick my finger into that dimple for as long as I can remember, but I figure she’d kill me if I ever tried.
“Well, I’m sure there’s no problem the two of you can’t figure out when you put your heads together,” Papaw says, chuckling, “even if it seems unsolvable.”
Jules plops herself down in Ma’s rocker by the cookstove, drawing her knees up under the oversized flannel shirt she’s wearing. She gets those rocker legs rolling tip to tip so hard they make the oak floor rumble.
“I think this was a vocabulary word in Mrs. Rosen’s class last year, Curley,” Jules says over the thunder she’s making. “You know this one.”
The word all of a sudden pops into my head, like Jules willed it there. I remember it because we spent an entire day in Mrs. Rosen’s English class making up riddles and puns that made absolutely no sense at all.
“Conundrum? Is that it, Papaw?”
He smiles and nods.
“Aw, that was easy,” I say, like I ever would have gotten it without Jules zapping it over to me on that telepathic highway of hers.
“Easy to say, maybe, but never easy to understand.” Papaw stirs the gravy. “Life’s a conundrum, my friends. Some mysteries were never meant to be solved.”
Just then, we hear a thump, thump, thump at the front door.
“Now, who could that be?” Papaw raps the gravy spoon twice on the side of the cast-iron skillet. “Curley, go see who it is.”
I swing the door open with what must be a goofy grin on my face. Honestly, I think maybe it’s a surprise visitor for my birthday, although I can’t imagine who that would be. The last person I expect to see is Antsy Martin.
“Hey, Curley.” He nods at me and takes off his cap. He always does that. It’s like he’s paying respects to the dead every time he sees me.
“Mr. Martin.” I nod back. I’m not about to invite him in. Neither is Papaw when he shows up beside me.
“Antsy? What the heck?” Papaw stretches his long arm out and leans against the doorframe, like he’s barring the way in. “Curley, you and Jules go put milk on the table. I’ll take care of this.”
As I turn to leave, I overhear Antsy saying, “Sorry, John, I know you told me never to come by when the boy might be home.” He’s talking in a low raspy voice, but I can hear him as clear as rain on a tin roof. It’s like my ears get all supersized when I hear he’s talking about me. I hide behind the coatrack to listen.
“Yeah, that’s right, Martin … which is why this better be good.” When Papaw draws his words out all slow and easy like that, you know you’re in trouble. But what can Antsy possibly want on a Sunday afternoon? And what’s so all-fired secret they don’t want me to hear it?
“That’s just it, John—it isn’t good.” There’s a long pause while Antsy clears his throat and spits. I’m assuming he does that right outside the door, and I gag silently, thinking about it sitting there on the porch all brown and globby.
“John, the mine’s getting a new owner. Barkley is selling out to some big corporation up in Indiana, and the new owner is coming down next week.”
I guess this is big news for some in these parts, but for the life of me, I can’t figure out why Antsy thinks Papaw would even care. It’s no secret that Papaw’s not exactly a friend of coal, although since Mama and Zeb died, he’s kept what he calls his “spit and vinegar” to himself. You’d think it would be the opposite, but when I gave him an I ♥ MOUNTAINS bumper sticker for his van last Christmas, he used it for a bookmark—shut up all tight between the pages of his dusty old spy novels.
Speaking of spies, my eyes just about pop out of my head when I see Antsy hand Papaw a short, padded white envelope. “This may be the last one of these,” Antsy says as Papaw stuffs the envelope into his front pocket.
I’m standing behind the coatrack, scratching my head over what I’ve just seen, when Papaw turns around and sees me. I swear he’s got eyes in the back of his head. “Go on, boy. This doesn’t concern you. I gave you a job to do.” He nods toward the kitchen, so I skedaddle on out of there.
I’m chewing on what might be in the envelope as I return to the kitchen and see Jules still rockin’ away. Any thoughts of intrigue melt at the sight of her, sitting there all dreamlike, gazing out the window at the falling snow. She doesn’t even look up at me.
I pull the milk carton from the top shelf of the fridge. It’s got the face of one of those missing kids on the back of it. He’s got curly hair just like me. “Hey, Jules.” I put the carton up next to my face so she can see the resemblance. “Do you think I might have another family somewhere?” I’ll do anything to get her attention.
But Jules, she just keeps on rocking. Obviously, she’s not in the mood for goofing around, which has been happening a lot lately. Girls are a conundrum, that’s
for sure.
“Sooo … how about grabbing some glasses down from the cabinet, then?” I ask, taking a swig of milk from the carton.
Now she’s staring at me with those soulful brown eyes of hers, and I wonder if she’s got a crush on me, since I’m turning twelve and all—but no.
“Oh, right.” I roll my eyes at her. “Pleeease?” I squeeze out the word please like it’s a blob of crusty old toothpaste at the end of a rolled-up tube, and then I stick my tongue out at her for good measure. She slides out of the rocker, ignoring me, as usual.
Sometimes it feels like we’re married.
“Anything wrong?” Jules jerks her head in the direction of the front door. She sets the glasses down in front of each plate and I pour.
“Naw, just Antsy Martin for Papaw on some kind of business. I think it’s about a conundrum or something.” She looks over at me and grins.
“Well now, where were we?” Papaw lumbers back into the kitchen, rubbing his hands together like he’s just come back from the bathroom and not some covert operation. “Oh, that’s right … Life’s a conundrum and there’s a meat loaf in the oven.”
He sounds so lackadaisical about whatever just transpired with Antsy that I almost believe it isn’t anything to fret about. But then I notice the top edge of that envelope sticking out of his pocket, and all I can think is payoff.
“Come on, you two … dinner’s ready.”
Papaw pulls my birthday meat loaf and a tray of biscuits out of the oven, and the smell just about knocks me over. My stomach starts growling like I haven’t eaten in days. Whatever Papaw’s conundrum is about, I’ll think on it later.
After dinner, we retire to the living room, where Papaw stokes the fire in the woodstove and gets it blazing. He eases himself into his overstuffed chair. This is the time of the evening when lots of families in Wonder Gap are turning on the old “boob tube,” as Papaw would call it, and watching Celebrity Tonight or Gossip Hollywood about all those movie stars, or maybe they’ve been watching football all day long.
Believe me, I’ve been campaigning for cable ever since I could talk. But Papaw says owning a TV is bowing to mediocrity (m word, last April), which basically means it turns your brain to mush. When I gave Papaw the TV-is-educational argument, he handed me an issue of National Geographic and said there were hundreds more like it where that came from.
