by Kirby Larson
There came a time when the old woman’s room was quiet, empty. I was bundled up into my trunk, along with my belongings. And there I slept until yesterday, when I was brought into the light again. Before I knew Willie Mae, it would have been mortifying to hear the list of my shortcomings as I was lifted from my trunk: “Look how worn this kimono is” and “Can we get that mark off her obi?” and “I don’t know if we can fix that dirty spot on her cheek.”
Now I wear such scars with pride.
With Pop already behind the wheel and raring to go, Lucy jumped out of the car. “I forgot something!” She ran back inside Aunt Miriam’s house for her tablet and pencil. How would she have kept up with her letter writing if they’d been left behind? She grabbed them and hurried back to the car.
“You finally ready?” Pop asked her, double-clutching, and easing the gear stick into first.
Lucy hugged her tablet to her chest. She kept her eyes focused straight ahead and didn’t let them veer anywhere near the direction of Gloria Jean’s house. “Yes. I’m ready.”
Pop pushed old Betsy’s horn. AAOOOGAH! AAOOOGAH! “And they’re off,” he said, mimicking the horse race announcer he sometimes listened to on the radio.
“And we’re off,” Lucy corrected.
Pop answered her by launching into a rousing rendition of “California, Here I Come”: “That’s why I can hardly wait, Open up that Golden Gate, California, here I come!”
After they’d sung the song through three times, Lucy scrunched around in her seat and peeked over the boxes and bedding in the back to try to catch a glimpse of Goodwell out the rear window. She couldn’t see anything. Anything at all. It was almost as if Goodwell were only a place in her imagination. That it never existed, that wonderful place she was born, grew up in. The place she’d always be from.
Mixed-up feelings bounced around in her belly as the car bounced over the rough road. She’d wanted to move west, especially after Mama passed. It was their chance for a real home again, not living with relatives. Even if they had to live in a town, not on a farm, she thought it might help her and Pop to heal over their big sore. Not that they’d ever get over losing Mama. That was impossible. But Lucy’d got it in her head that California would soothe their hearts a bit. Now, driving away, all she could think about was Mama’s little grave, lonesome back there in the Goodwell Pioneer Cemetery, with only a cross made from the staves of an old feed bucket to mark it. Pop had told Reverend Parker that as soon as he got the money together, he’d send it along for a proper stone. She and Pop had already picked out what it would say: Lila Lucille Turner, A True Prairie Flower, May 10, 1907–August 5, 1939.
Lucy said the words aloud: “A true prairie flower.”
“What’s that?” Pop asked. It was hard to carry on a conversation, as the Model A had developed a cranky cough that Pop couldn’t fix.
Lucy shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, louder. She didn’t figure Pop needed a reminder of Mama now, the very moment they were headed west.
Pop nodded, then took off his hat and tossed it in the back. They drove and drove and drove. Lucy fell asleep and woke up and fell asleep and woke up again as Pop eased old Betsy off onto the shoulder.
They ate the lunch Aunt Miriam had packed—hard-boiled eggs and biscuits and oatmeal cookies—washing it down with a thermos of sweet tea.
Pop wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m going to make this swallow last. It’s going to be some time before we can spring for sugar in our tea.”
Lucy sipped her tea from a dented tin cup. She would’ve preferred lemonade. Or sarsaparilla, which she’d had only once in her whole life. “How much longer till we cross the state line?” she asked.
“Now, if you’re going to start that up, this trip will take an eternity.” Pop unrolled his tobacco pouch and made himself a pipe. He puffed on it to get it going once it’d been lit, and then his face softened. “I expect it’ll be close to suppertime.”
Lucy nodded, then set about tidying up after their picnic while Pop finished his pipe. She visited the bushes on one side of the road, and Pop did the same on the other side. Then they were ready to start off again.
Settled back in the car and under way, she pulled out her tablet.
Pop glanced over at her. “You’re not writing another letter to Mrs. Roosevelt, are you?”
Lucy grinned. “Gloria Jean,” she said, hollering over the engine noise. It was tricky to write at first, but then she learned that if she just eased up all over her body and rode out the jounces and bounces like she was riding Pop’s old horse, Ace, she could manage. She had just finished writing the words “Dear Gloria Jean” when a powerful jolt threw her clean off the seat onto the floor. “What was that?” She scrambled back up.
Pop fought to settle Betsy off to the side of the road. When she was stopped, he got out and took a look. “Tire,” he said. He kicked at the flat. “Might as well get out and get yourself comfy while I patch it.”
Lucy found a small clump of grass to sit on and picked up her tablet again.
Dear Gloria Jean,
We’re already having our first adventure on the trip. After lunch, we got a flat tire. We thought we’d cross the state line around suppertime. I hope this won’t put us too far behind.
Lucy chewed on the end of her pencil. There wasn’t much else to tell Gloria Jean about the trip so far. It’d only been a few hours.
She watched Pop wrestle the tire off the rim and pull out the inner tube. “Hand me the patch kit, will you?” He leaned his cheek close to the tube, to feel where the air was escaping. “Grab the pump, too.”
Lucy shifted a box of potatoes, a lard can filled with sugar-cured bacon, and the small pasteboard box with her clothes. “Here you go.” She gave the supplies to her father, who pumped and pumped until he was satisfied. He pulled a tire gauge from his shirt pocket and checked the pressure. “I’d say we’re ready to saddle up again.” While he put the tire back on the rim, she put the tools away. It was well past suppertime when they rattled into Amarillo.
Near Amarillo, Texas
October 7, 1939
Dear Mrs. Roosevelt,
I bet you’re surprised to hear from me again. We have been living in a tramp camp for the past few months, picking cotton for a farmer here in Amarillo. Sometimes I babysit for the farmer’s wife. Yesterday she gave me five stamps as pay because she knows how much I like to write letters!
The tramp camp’s not much but it’s worked out fine. We can leave Betsy—that’s what we call our Model A—put because it’s only a mile or so to walk to the fields. Pop found some pasteboard and I found some lard buckets and we’ve turned old Betsy into a Ritz Hotel! It’s like the forts Gloria Jean and I used to build on the farm. When we had our farm.
I don’t mean to keep bothering you with our troubles, but it’s time to be getting on our way and we’ve had the bad luck of four flat tires. Pop’s worried that last patch won’t hold us till we get to California, so I was wondering if you could loan us $12.50 for a new tire. We’ll pay you back, I promise.
Your friend,
Lucy Turner
Lucy checked with the farmer’s wife, Mrs. Foley, one last time before they left Amarillo. Mrs. Foley shook her head. “Sorry, Lucy. There was no letter today.” She jiggled baby Vernon on her hip. Vernon reached out his hands to Lucy.
“Show your mama ‘Pat-a-Cake,’ ” Lucy said, putting her hands over Vernon’s chubby ones. “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man. Bake me a cake as fast as you can. Pat it and roll it”—here she turned his little hands in a circle—“and mark it with a V, and throw it in the oven for Vernon and me!”
Vernon laughed and held out his hands. “Agin,” he said.
Lucy cooperated.
“Hang on to him a minute, will you?” Mrs. Foley handed over the baby and hurried off. Lucy and Vernon got through “Pat-a-Cake” two more times before Mrs. Foley came back with a lumpy flour sack. “Here’s you some sandwiches and raisins and
an onion and some beans. That’ll take the crinks out of an empty stomach when you’re down the road a bit.”
Lucy took a step back. “Oh, I better not. Pop don’t take charity.”
Mrs. Foley clicked her tongue. “ ’Tisn’t charity. It’s your pay! For all them times you helped me with the baby.” She pushed the sack at Lucy, who hesitated only a moment longer.
“Thank you, Mrs. Foley.” Lucy handed Vernon to his mother and then took the flour sack. “I’ll miss you and Vernon.”
“There’ll always be a job for your daddy here. You, too.” Mrs. Foley walked her to the door.
“Pop says old Betsy will only go one direction on the Mother Road and that’s west.” Lucy’s stomach grumbled at the smell of the onion in the sack. There’d been no breakfast this morning or supper last night. They were saving every penny, every crust of bread, for the next leg of their trip. “But I could write you.”
Mrs. Foley nodded. “You do that. Let me know how you make out in sunny California.”
When she got to the end of the walk, Lucy turned to wave. But Mrs. Foley and Vernon had gone back inside the house. That was no nevermind. Easier to say goodbye that way. She tossed the sack over her shoulder and didn’t mind one bit how it caused her neck to ache on the walk back to the camp. Because what was inside would help take away the ache in her belly. At least for a little while.
Lucy and Pop were in good spirits as they sailed through Tucumcari, New Mexico. “Too bad we can’t stop and stay awhile,” Lucy said. “That name sounds like a song.” Pop agreed, making up a little ditty that he sang loudly off-key: “To live in Tucumcari, you must be very hairy.” As they were passing through Winslow, Arizona, the patched tube gave clean out. Pop steered the car to a parking spot in front of a bakery and then sat there for the longest time, his hands gripping the steering wheel, his head bowed. The smell of cinnamon and sugar and yeast made Lucy woozy. She swallowed hard, pretending she was swallowing a bite of one of those sweet rolls in the bakery window. Finally Pop shoved the driver’s-side door open and got out. “Come on. We gotta find an inner tube.”
He stopped a man wearing a suit coat over his overalls and was pointed to the hardware store a few blocks away. The store carried the inner tube Pop needed. And they had something else.
“Puppies!” Lucy exclaimed as Pop took out his paper-thin billfold. She scooped one of the spotted powder puffs up in her arms. The pup wiggled to get at her face to give it a good washing. “Look!” She held the puppy out so Pop could see its tiny black nose and kind eyes.
“Don’t even ask!” The sharpness in Pop’s voice nearly made Lucy drop the puppy.
I sit on the shelf, watching the seamstress mend my kimono. It seems I am being prepared for something, but I do not know what that is.
There is a new feeling in my heart—how strange and yet how sweet to say that word. It is a bit like being nudged awake by the sun, before it has even risen. Or like hearing a gentle tune on the wind, when there is no yokobue, no flute, in sight.
Or like there is a string tied to my heart, as if it is a kite being tugged by a kite flier whose face I cannot see.
Yet.
Lucy set the fluffball back in the cardboard box with its sign, “Free to Good Homes.” “I wasn’t going to ask for a puppy,” she said quietly. It was tough enough to feed themselves; she knew they couldn’t take on a pet. But what was the harm in cuddling this dog? For a short moment, the puppy’s meaty breath, wet tongue, and soft fur had taken her away from this place and their troubles. Holding him, she’d felt almost as good as she had back when Mama was alive, when they still had the farm.
She ducked her head and slipped out of the store, waiting on a splintery bench out front while Pop paid for the inner tube. She was sure when he came out, he’d tell her he was sorry for snapping at her. It wasn’t like Pop, who never raised his voice at her, not even when she burned the first batch of hotcakes she tried to cook.
But when Pop came out, he brushed past her without a word. She couldn’t move, she was that surprised.
About ten steps away he stopped and called over his shoulder. “You coming?”
Biting her bottom lip to stop it from trembling, she eased off the bench and followed him back to old Betsy.
Holbrook, Arizona
November 20, 1939
Dear Gloria Jean,
I traded my hairbrush for some stamps so I can write you. Pop says no more letters to Mrs. Roosevelt and I promised. At least for a while.
We are in Holbrook, Arizona. Pop’s picking lettuce and I’m pulling carrots. I made thirty-five cents yesterday! I know you have started up to school again. That’s one thing I miss. But soon enough we’ll be to California and I’ll get into school there. In the meantime, one of the ladies here used to be a schoolteacher and she has let me borrow her copy of Little Women. I would like to be Jo because she’s so bold, but I think I’m more like Beth, who’s quiet. I think I have a little more backbone than she does, though. The other day, the field boss gave me a nickel instead of the quarter I’d earned and I spoke right up. He frowned but made it right.
What does your pop say about coming west? I sure miss you! I wear your ribbon every single day.
Friends forever,
Lucy
Lucy thought it would be the best present ever to roll across the California state line on Christmas Eve. Out of Kingman, Arizona, Route 66 had changed its temperament. Most of the way, the Mother Road had been easygoing and easy to maneuver, if a bit bumpy and lumpy now and again. Past Kingman, she got a sharpness to her. She’d turned all unfriendly, as if to say, “You want California? It’ll cost you.” The road went up and up and up, with steep grades that set Betsy to chugging. And the curves were as tight as Aunt Miriam’s pin curls—without a guardrail in sight.
They’d skittered and rumbled their way a good part of the morning, but when the road leveled out a bit, Pop set the hand brake. “You best walk, Lucy.” He nodded toward the back. “Carry that wash bucket and maybe your clothes. Gotta lighten the load.”
Lucy didn’t move at first, thinking the old Pop had come back and was pulling her leg. But she saw the ring of white around his mouth and the same white in his knuckles as he grasped the steering wheel, so she hopped to. She pulled out her box of clothes, the washtub, the coffeepot, and the cast-iron skillet. As Pop eased away, she also snagged a bit of rope from the backseat. Old Betsy’s gears groaned as she lurched upward.
“Meet you at the top!” Pop called. Betsy was like a high-strung colt, skittish to think of climbing that hill. If anyone could get her up and over, it’d be Pop.
Lucy stood there, trying not to feel all alone in the world as Pop and Betsy bumped out of sight. She looked at the pile of belongings next to her and wondered how in the world she was going to carry them. Best thing to do was toss everything in the tub and drag it along with the rope, hoping she didn’t wear a hole in it. She was tying the rope to the handle of the washtub when she heard a car chug-chugging up behind her. She yanked on the rope to pull her load out of its way.
Next thing she knew, a string bean of a boy was next to her, struggling with his own mess of stuff, and calling, “See ya soon,” toward the car. A woman’s voice called out, “Watch your brother!” Lucy saw that with the string bean was another boy, maybe four years old.
“Walking to the top?” the string bean asked.
She rolled her eyes. “Nope. I’m planning to fly.”
He laughed out loud, showing a mouthful of missing teeth. “That’s a good’un.” He pointed at himself with his thumb. “I’m Winston. And this here’s Wilson.”
Lucy softened. There wasn’t any call to be so snooty. Besides, with these two scarecrows at least she wouldn’t be alone on the climb up. “I’m Lucy.”
“Wilson doesn’t say much,” Winston said. “You might say I’m the mouth of the family. But he’s the brains, and I can see he’s got a plan.”
Lucy looked at Wilson, whose eyes were barely visibl
e under a shock of hair in bad need of cutting. He didn’t look much like a mastermind to her. Not with that thumb in his mouth. “What’s the plan?”
Wilson removed his thumb and pointed at the washtub. Winston translated.
“We stuff everythin’ in the tub and you take one handle and I take the other. That way, we divide the load and multiply the joy.” Winston grinned. Lucy couldn’t help but grin back.
“That’s a great idea, Wilson,” she said. The little boy popped his thumb back in his mouth as his big brother and Lucy loaded their respective belongings into the tub.
“Heave ho!” said Winston, and they hefted the tub off the ground. Winston reminded Lucy of Mama, chattering away about this thing and that. She learned that they’d lost their farm, like Pop and Lucy, but in Nebraska. They were headed to their uncle’s place in Bakersfield. “You should come, too,” Winston said. “He needs lots of help picking his grapes. He’s got the biggest farm around.”
“Really?” Lucy motioned to Winston to hold up so she could pull a burr from her foot.
“Course.” He threw his shoulders back. “He’s my uncle, ain’t he?”
All that long uphill trudge, the only breeze came from Winston’s flapping lips. But Lucy didn’t mind. The talk took her mind off her hot, sore feet and the muscles in her shoulders that grumbled so about toting that washtub.
The whole walk, Wilson didn’t say a word. He toddled along behind them, bending every now and again to pick up a stone or a feather or some other roadside treasure. He didn’t even exclaim when he found a penny—head up!—in the dust. He tapped at Lucy until she turned and he unfolded his grubby fingers.
“Well, this is your lucky day,” she told him.
The corners of his mouth worked into a smile around his thumb. He held the penny tight in his left hand. Lucy understood that: every pocket she owned was more hole than pocket. She imagined that was the case for Wilson, too.
It was an hour or more that they went along. When they crested the hill, they found their parents leaning on Betsy’s hood, talking like old friends. Lucy and Winston dropped the washtub and joined the adults. After introductions around, Lucy got herself a swig of water from the canteen, then thought to offer Winston and Wilson a swallow.