by Leah Weiss
We sing, and flecks of white start falling from the sky. The bits land on hats and hair and shoulders. “Is it snow?” someone says, and the word snow runs through the crowd in wonder. It snows in my mountains but not here. Not with stars shining bright.
Then somebody shouts “Fire, fire” from the back of the crowd, and fingers point at smoke swirling above the trees. It’s not snow. It’s ashes. But what’s burning? We move up River Road to Main Street, and the gate stays open, and the Germans come with us. The fire truck clangs, and people in front can see.
It’s the newspaper building where Irene works.
She’s with Byron, but she pushes to the front, and we go, too, and we see the fire above bare trees. Then we’re a block away. Flames lick out the second-floor windows. Irene screams Drake Cunningham’s name, her boss, her friend. “He worked late,” she sobs to everybody close. “Is he inside? Did he get out? Have you seen Drake Cunningham?”
Everybody looks for Drake Cunningham with gray hair and scratchy voice and a cigarette always dangling from his lips.
Nobody sees him. The Ford firetruck comes. The fire gets hotter. Firemen unwind the water hose and hook it to the hydrant. One shouts, “Step back everybody. Move back.” The water comes on and runs through the hose and pushes out the end, but it’s a puny spout next to a fire burning stacks of paper and dry wood.
Irene wails for Drake Cunningham inside the burning building. She fights to break away from Daddy and Byron holds her back. Does she want to rush inside a burning building? “It’s only burning up there,” she says and points to the second floor. “It’s smoke on the first floor, so let me go. Let me go in. Somebody please help,” she wails.
Tiny Junior watches Irene’s grief. He starts crying for his worried friend. He pats her on her shoulder with his big hand, then steps in front.
He walks past the firemen.
Into the door.
Swallowed by smoke.
Flossie cries, “Oh, Sweet Jesus. Somebody stop my boy. Stop.” She pushes to the front of the crowd and sinks to her knees—but she’s too late. Tiny Junior is outta sight and outta time, and the second floor falls, and the heat slaps us back.
The crowd is flabbergasted. Those in back didn’t see Tiny Junior walk into the burning building. Words get passed around, and hearts are clutched, and Flossie faints. Irene’s mouth hangs open in horror. Then she looks over my shoulder, and her hands fly to her face, and she falls to her knees. What does she see?
Drake Cunningham. At the back. Up on his tiptoes. Trying to see what’s going on up front.
Chapter 59
Lucy: Saint Tiny
Drake Cunningham is alive, but Irene wants to die. She is a broken woman we carry home on Christmas Eve. “I’ll never forgive myself,” she says. “Never, ever.” Irene is put to bed in Helen’s room, away from the silk wedding dress and lace veil hanging in Irene’s room. Byron comes quietly on Christmas morning to see Irene, but she doesn’t come out of the bedroom, so he sits in the parlor and waits. The air in our home is somber and chilled no matter how much heat the woodstove pumps out. We barely slept since the unthinkable happened.
Last night Irene called herself a killer and wanted the sheriff to arrest her. Then Sheriff Cecil does come, but he brings Flossie Rose to our door. Flossie is pale and weak but says, “I must see dear Irene.”
I don’t know how Flossie stands upright. How she carries her grief, the loss of her only man-child who was good and noble. Where does she find the courage to reach out to my sister in her desperate hour of need?
Flossie taps on the bedroom door, steps inside and closes it. Irene wails and beats against the wall like a trapped animal. Flossie’s voice is soothing. We can’t understand her words, but we feel her kindness emanate through the walls. Irene’s screaming eventually morphs into raspy sobs that dull to whimpers of exhaustion. Gradually, the crying stops and the two women come out.
Sheriff Cecil has been sitting with Daddy and Byron in the parlor, waiting without talk, because what can you say on a day like today? Helen and the little ones went to Aunt Fanniebelle’s since it is Christmas, and they will be spoiled there as best this tragic day can deliver. Grady is in the barn. Mama steps to the parlor. “They’re coming out,” she says, but the men stay in the parlor and don’t crowd Irene. Bert and I are at the table, and Mama is at the stove. Flossie helps Irene walk like she’s an invalid, and Mama pours cups of strong tea for them. Irene has come undone and been turned inside out. Her face is bruised and swollen with pain. The tendons in her throat are stretched tight. The curve of her shoulders bends more than Oma’s ever did. Grief and guilt are appalling punishers. Flossie leaves to plan her son’s funeral.
His wake begins the day after Christmas. Everybody comes. They witnessed or heard about the sacrifice that rivals war heroes, to walk fearlessly into harm’s way for a mighty cause, necessary or not. My family goes to pay our respect at Flossie’s house. We wait in line with everybody else to enter the small house that requires friends to rotate in and out. Grady holds the door open for Bert but then walks in front of me. The cold foods are set outside on plywood tables under a tepid sun. The warm foods are inside. It is more bounty than can be eaten, but that’s how we comfort one another in the South—with food. Mama brings Oma’s German marble cake she made for Christmas that didn’t get eaten.
Irene would not be left behind, and I’m proud of her. To shun Tiny Junior’s wake because of her broken spirit would have been a sin to my way of thinking. Everybody here is kind to her, knowing the sorrow she bears. Soldiers who knew and loved Tiny Junior arrive with Byron. He comes to Irene’s side and hugs her, but she is despondent and he is patient.
Stories about the gift of Tiny Junior ripple through the crowd. Everyone has one, and they’re shared in low voices. He always seemed to be where he was needed…a quiet boy with a sweet smile. Folks with men away at war could count on him showing up on that old bicycle of his, lumbering from side to side, doing what needed doing. In our memory, this man was an innocent, a pure soul who gave without taking. If we were a Catholic town instead of Baptist, we would call him a saint. We’d erect a statue on his behalf.
Ricky Miller comes with his parents, and when he sees Grady nearing the cinder block steps, he takes off running across the yard. His mama yells, “Arthur Richard Miller, stop running this instant.” I never knew Ricky’s first name was Arthur. Or that his initials were A.R.M. I watch him closer.
Tiny Junior’s casket is closed. There was nothing Baylor’s Funeral Home could do to make the body right. I smell charred ashes when I pass the casket. Bert and I stand in the kitchen up against the wall on each side of frail Irene. We can see the closed casket through the doorway. We each hold a slice of marble cake on a paper napkin and nibble at it. I wipe crumbs from my sister’s pale lips. We stuff the napkins in our coat pockets. The mourners grow tighter. It’s hot in the house with so many bodies, and Irene looks peaked and close to fainting.
Off the kitchen is the one bedroom with a blanket hanging down the middle to divide two sleeping spaces. The room is empty. Bert and I steer Irene through the doorway to gain a little air. We don’t want to rush our visit and leave too quickly, looking disrespectful. The left side of the room is Flossie’s, her single bed covered in a faded quilt in the star-block design. Two worn dresses hang from pegs, and a cracked mirror is on the wall. Under the mirror, a washbasin sits on a stand.
On the right side of the partition is a narrow iron bed made with neat military corners. The army blanket Byron gave Tiny Junior lays folded at the foot. Familiar flannel shirts and overalls hang on pegs. I smell Tiny Junior’s Black Jack chewing gum but don’t see any. I think of the Dentyne that Lydia smelled when Oma whispered in her ear. Maybe a spirit can cast their special scent to let you know they’re close by. Maybe Tiny Junior sees today that he is loved. That everyone is here to honor him. He might wonder what all the fuss is abo
ut.
Irene tears up standing in his space, and I slip my arm around her for support. She whispers, “I can’t believe he’s gone,” her voice ragged and raw. “Was I ever unkind to him? Did I ignore him because he never required anything? I can’t remember, and it bothers me. If I was ever curt or mean to him…”
I say what she needs to hear. “You’re a good person.” I don’t say she can be harsh, but that’s just Irene getting things done. And being loved has changed her. Tiny Junior would never take offense. He never looked for hidden agendas.
The three of us are shoulder to shoulder in Tiny Junior’s personal space that holds little except a narrow shelf made of bare wood mounted above the bed. I step toward it, curious about what he would put on display. Bert and Irene move with me, away from the murmur of mourners and into our dead friend’s room, which seems too small for the large heart of him.
Until we stand in front of that shelf.
It holds three scraps of paper.
REAL. BAD. MEN.
Words Tiny collected at different story times. Words he wanted to see written down, then put in his pocket.
The shelf holds three things: a can of Dapper Dan pomade. A tarnished belt buckle. A pearl-handled switchblade.
“Oh, dear God in heaven,” I whisper, and we look wide-eyed at one another, flushed of sorrow replaced by shock. Did Tiny Junior do what we think he did? Has The Case of the Three Missing Men been solved?
In each instance, Tiny Junior would have had opportunity and motive. He likely wanted to protect pregnant Violet from a husband who beat her. Maybe the burying box was too small for Larry’s body and the head was chopped off because it didn’t fit.
And Frankie Tender. Did Tiny Junior defend his friend Bert being battered when she cried out in the dark for help?
Did he deliver swift justice for his two German friends when his uncle confessed to killing them?
And if he did what we think he did, what do we do now? His souvenirs are in the open. Anybody could deduce the truth. The town might turn against the memory of someone who kills so easily. They might turn against Flossie Rose because of her son.
Irene decides how Tiny Junior’s story will end. She reaches into her pocket for her paper napkin holding crumbs, wraps it around the can of pomade and slips it into her deep coat pocket. I use Bert’s napkin for the army buckle and mine for the pearl-handled switchblade. They go in Irene’s other pocket. Bert takes the BAD scrap of paper and crumbles it into a wad, leaving only REAL MEN.
We carry his damning tokens and push against the incoming tide of friends, out the front door, down cinder block steps, past the line of mourners telling their personal Tiny Junior stories. Uncle Nigel’s Chrysler is parked on the side of the road, and he comes toward us, walking Aunt Fanniebelle to the wake. Trula Freed has stayed beside his car and waits.
She wears a cape of violet purple that is the color of spirituality and rare honey and healing mystery. A strange wind scurries across the fallow field and whips her cape like a kite wanting to take flight. Trula Freed watches us with an easy calm, for today is the loosening of a secret she’s known all along. An enigma revealed when it can do the least harm. A bittersweet secret we’ll take to our graves.
THE END
Author’s Notes
The German POW campsite I visited was located in my birth-town of Williamston, North Carolina, in Martin County. In this work of fiction, the town and county names were changed to Riverton and Mercer County to avoid confusion or misrepresentation. Were it not for the many contributions of the generous citizens of Williamston, this book would not be nearly as interesting.
In Chapter Five, the movie Lassie Come Home plays at the fictional Majestic Theater in June of 1943, but the movie wasn’t released until December of 1943. This exception was taken to parallel the movie’s theme of exile and loss with Bert’s exile from her home and loss of family.
Chapter Twenty-One about the Brown’s gall-double-dang flu relating to the Spanish Flu of 1918 was written in early 2019, more than a year before the COVID-19 pandemic affected the world. It was strange foreshadowing.
The plot in All the Little Hopes is entirely fictional, but the book is peppered with historical truths the author uncovered. Here is an alphabetical list of some of the little-known facts: the beeswax contract in WWII, blue ghost fireflies, German glass marbles, German POWs, Glenn Miller’s disappearance, purple honey, Russian test pilots in Elizabeth City, Shape Note singing, the Spanish Flu of 1918, and folklore wolpertingers in Bavaria.
A Taste Of Hope: Oma’s German Marble Cake
A light, moist, slightly sweet cake
1 cup butter (2 sticks), softened
1¾ cups sugar
2 teaspoons vanilla extract
5 eggs, room temperature, separated
3 cups all-purpose flour
2 teaspoons baking powder
1 cup + 2 tablespoons whole milk
3 tablespoons sweetened cocoa powder
Heat the oven to 350 degrees, and grease and flour a 10” tube pan. Cream the softened butter and sugar in a large mixing bowl. Add the vanilla and the egg yolks and beat for 10 minutes. Combine the flour and the baking powder in a separate bowl. Alternately stir the flour and milk into the sugar/butter mixture. Beat the egg whites in a separate bowl until soft peaks form, then fold into the batter.
Put ¼ of the batter in a separate bowl and thoroughly mix in the cocoa powder, and set aside. Pour half the remaining butter batter into the prepared tube pan, then add half the cocoa batter, and swirl through with a knife. Pour the last of the butter batter into the tube pan, add the rest of the cocoa batter, and swirl with a long knife to create marbling throughout. Bake for 50 to 60 minutes, then check for doneness with a toothpick. Cool in the pan for 10 minutes.
Lacy Cornbread
(Aunt Susie made it best)
1 cup white cornmeal, sifted*
1¼ cups very cold water
1 to 1½ teaspoons salt to taste
In a pourable container, mix the ingredients with a fork until smooth and runny. Heat a generous amount of cooking oil, enough to cover the bottom of a well-seasoned cast iron frying pan. Stir the batter briskly with a fork while pouring into the center of the pan. Tilt the frying pan and make sure oil touches all sides of the hoecake. Cook a few minutes and watch for lacy edges to brown, not burn. Turn over with a wide spatula and cook 1 to 2 minutes more. Flip the hoecake one or two more times, looking for even browning. Drain on paper towels. Serve hot with butter.
*Use quality stone-ground cornmeal like that made at Old Mill of Guilford in Guilford County, NC. Keep cornmeal refrigerated after opening. Oldmillofguilford.com
Reading Group Guide
1. Lucy’s mother points out that language is meant to communicate, not separate, which discourages Lucy from overusing her enormous vocabulary. Throughout the book, how do you see language used to communicate? To separate?
2. What do you think of Bert’s desire to stay a girl instead of growing into a woman? How do we see Bert and Lucy accept growing up throughout the book? What are the chief differences you see between childhood and adulthood back in the 1940s as compared to today?
3. Describe the role of the Browns in their community. What are the broad effects of being a bibliophile?
4. Bert tends to blame herself when things go wrong—her mother dying, her father sending her away, Violet locking her out. Why do you think that is? Is it more of a female trait? Are there things you blame yourself for that really aren’t your fault?
5. What do you think about the mystery of Trula Freed? Was her magic plausible? Have you ever had an experience with a spiritualist or medium?
6. Lucy and Bert argue about treating Nancy Drew like a real person. Can you think of any literary characters that you wish were real or who felt as real to you?
7. Though purple honey in North Carolin
a is rare but real, what role does it play in the book? Did it arrive just to cure the mysterious flu, or is it a symbol for something larger?
8. Whiz Mayhew comes home from the war with what we might now call PTSD, and his homecoming is difficult. In his drunken state he confesses that the Nazis didn’t shoot him when given a chance because they didn’t think he was worth it. What was he confessing in that statement? How did his community help him heal? Do we have better options today to help soldiers with PTSD?
9. Describe the relationship between the Riverton community and the German POWs. What effect does Terrell Stucky have on the reputation of the POWs? How do the Germans come to be an accepted part of the town?
10. When Bert was almost compromised, her greatest sorrow was that Frankie Tender never asked her name. Discuss the importance of that missing question and the consequence for Frankie Tender. If he had asked her name, would the evening have ended differently or not?
11. Helen refuses to interact with the Germans in any capacity. What do other characters think of her stubbornness? What does her stubbornness cost her? Do you think you would be as resistant in her place?
12. During her father’s funeral, Bert realizes how much she’s changed since she left home. Do you agree with her sister that she doesn’t belong to the mountains anymore? How is “home” defined throughout the book?
13. None of the vanished men are particularly missed, and each presented a certain kind of danger to the community. How does Larry Crumbie’s domestic abuse compare to Frankie Tender’s callous seduction? To Terrell Stuckey’s hate mongering and murder? Do you think these men deserved their fates?
14. Did Lucy, Bert, and Irene do the right thing when they found Tiny Junior’s souvenirs? Would you have done the same?
