To All My Fans, With Love, From Sylvie

by Ellen Conford

  “Maybe you can change at one of the farms we stop at. Ask to use their bathroom, and take your bag in with you. Have you got anything to change into in that tiny little thing?”

  “Nothing really decent, but in my suitcase—my suitcase!”

  I completely forgot my Southern accent.

  “My suitcase! Walter, I left my suitcase on the Greyhound bus!”

  Chapter 8

  “But everything I own is in that suitcase!” Half my sandwich lay on the seat next to me and I held the Coke bottle so tightly between my fingers I might have broken the thick glass. I wasn’t drinking from it anymore. I was too upset to do anything but go on and on about my suitcase.

  “Look, they must have a place for unclaimed luggage right at the bus terminal,” Walter said. “First thing we hit Los Angeles, we’ll find out where the Greyhound bus terminal is and we’ll get your suitcase. It’ll probably be waiting for you when we get there.”

  “What if somebody takes it?”

  “Did they give you a baggage check?” Walter asked. “It was in my wallet!”

  “Well, whoever took your wallet probably got off in Springfield, so the suitcase is still on the bus.”

  “Unless they showed my check and took the suitcase too.”

  “They probably didn’t even notice the baggage check until they were off the bus,” Walter said. “A pickpocket just wants cash anyway. They wouldn’t bother with a young girl’s suitcase. They wouldn’t think there’d be anything of value in it.”

  We were pulling up in front of a white farmhouse set back from the road. I could hardly see through the tears in my eyes. “My scrapbook was in there,” I said miserably. “That’s valuable. To me, anyway.”

  “You had a scrapbook?” Walter sounded impressed. “You mean, with all your reviews and pictures and write-ups?”

  “Sort of.” I guessed I shouldn’t tell him the scrapbook was full of pictures of other movie stars, and not of me. He might think—oh, I don’t know what he might think. All I could think of was that besides not having a cent to my name, now I didn’t own a thing in this world except the dress on my back, my three crinolines, and the stuff in my hatbox.

  “Well, don’t you see,” Walter said excitedly, “that’s great.” He toned off the car and twisted around in the seat. “You can identify the contents of the suitcase. That scrapbook is your identification. No one else could claim that suitcase without describing your scrapbook, and only you know it’s in there. All you have to do is tell them that, and they’ll open the suitcase, and there’ll be a book full of pictures of you. What more proof could they ask for, even without a baggage check?”

  “Yes, I guess that’s right.” No need to tell him there were no pictures of me in the scrapbook. Once I got to Los Angeles, it wouldn’t matter what Walter thought, and at least he’d given me some hope that I’d be able to get my stuff back.

  “But what am I going to do until we get to Los Angeles?”

  “We’ll make plenty of stops along the way,” Walter said. “If you need a few things, I’ll be glad to buy them for you.”

  A woman had come out onto the porch of the house and was looking at Walter’s car.

  “I’ll take care of you, Venida. Don’t you worry about anything. Now, come on. I’ve got a customer to see.”

  I was beginning to think maybe Venida wasn’t such a good name after all. Somehow I liked it less and less the more Walter said it. I don’t know why. Maybe it looked better on the hair-net sign than it sounded when it was spoken out loud. I’m not sure. All I know is I thought maybe I ought to start thinking up some other names.

  Walter got out of the car and went around to open the trunk. He pulled out my hatbox and a brown leather briefcase. He slammed the trunk shut and came to open the car door for me. He leaned in the window and said, “Now, don’t ask to use the bathroom right off. Wait till I get her signature.”

  “Her signature?”

  Walter opened the car door. “You’ll know when,” he said. “After she signs the paper.”

  I didn’t know what he was talking about, but I didn’t really care, either. I got out of the car and followed him up the dirt path to the house.

  The woman was standing on the front steps with her arms folded across her chest. She wore a navy blue dress with red cherries on it and bedroom slippers without backs.

  She didn’t look like any farmer’s wife I had ever seen; I’d never met a real farmer’s wife, but I’d seen pictures of them, and in the movies, of course. Farmers’ wives are all plump and jolly and they wear aprons all the time. She wasn’t wearing any apron and she wasn’t particularly plump and she definitely didn’t look jolly.

  “Do for you?” she asked, as Walter handed her his card.

  “My name is Walter Murchison and this here’s my daughter, Venida.”

  “You a salesman?” She turned the card over and over in her hands. Then she looked at me, standing next to Walter, holding my hatbox, and seemed sort of confused.

  “Well, ma’am, I don’t like to think of myself as a salesman,” Walter said. “The way I see it, I’m more of a messenger, like John the Baptist.”

  “That right? Well, whatever you call yourself, you’re sellin’ somethin’ just the same, aren’t you?”

  “Eternal life, ma’am. Eternal life, that’s what I’m selling. Nothing less.”

  She tilted her head to one side and squinted up her eyes, like she was trying to figure out what he meant. So was I.

  “Mrs. Fitch—”

  “How’d you know my name?” she asked.

  “I don’t claim to be Dunninger, ma’am. I didn’t read your mind, I read it off your mailbox. Anyway, my girl and I have been driving three hours and it’s mighty hot out here in the sun. If you could possibly—”

  “Well, come on in then,” she said impatiently. She opened the screen door for us. “Come into the kitchen, I’ll get you something to drink.”

  “That’s very hospitable of you, Mrs. Fitch. I can see I came to the right place.”

  Mrs. Fitch poured out two glasses of lemonade and handed them to us.

  “You came to the right place for a glass of lemonade,” she said. “But if you’re looking to sell me anything, you came to the wrong place.”

  “But it’s a nice place,” Walter said. “Real nice. One of the prettiest spreads I’ve seen all the way from Fort Wayne to Little Rock.”

  I shot him a quick look, but he hadn’t taken his eyes off Mrs. Fitch’s face. He wasn’t even drinking his lemonade, which was delicious. I’d already finished mine.

  “It’s a living,” Mrs. Fitch said. “Barely. I have no extra money for fancy face creams, if that’s what you’re selling. It’s too late for me to get eternal youth anyhow.” She pointed to her face, which was creased with lines near her eyes and mouth. “See?”

  “I’m not selling fancy face creams,” Walter said gently. “And I know there’s no such thing as eternal youth. I’m bringing you eternal life.”

  He unbuckled his briefcase and pulled out a big, white book. He held it up in both hands so she could see it.

  “This is the Holy Bible, Mrs. Fitch. The word of God. You don’t need a fountain of youth when you’ve got life everlasting.”

  “We’ve got a Bible,” Mrs. Fitch said. “What makes you think we need a Bible?”

  “Of course you’ve got a Bible!” Walter cried. “Why, what would be the point of my even talking to you if you didn’t have a Bible?”

  Mrs. Fitch frowned. She looked really puzzled, which I could understand, because I was puzzled too. It sounded like Walter wouldn’t try to sell a Bible except to someone who already had a Bible, and that didn’t make any sense.

  “Mrs. Fitch, let me explain with a parable, just like our Lord did. You’re a farm woman, you’ll understand what I mean when I tell you this. If you had two sons and the Lord gave you another son, would you say, ‘Lord, why do I need another son? I’ve already got two’?”

  “ ’Co
urse not,” Mrs. Fitch said.

  Walter nodded. “Is there a farmer in this whole, great country of ours that could ever have too many sons? The plowing, the milking, the sowing, the harvesting, the fence-mending—there’s no end to a farmer’s work.”

  “That’s true.” Mrs. Fitch nodded.

  “And if you had one son that helped with the plowing and one son that did the milking, that doesn’t mean you couldn’t use another son to help mend the fences, fix the tractor, and keep all that expensive equipment in working order. It’s the same with Bibles.”

  “How many Bibles does a person need?” Mrs. Fitch asked. “Bibles aren’t the same as sons.”

  “But this Bible, Mrs. Fitch, is not the same as the Bible you already have.” Walter held it up toward her again. “I’ll bet your Bible is old and black and it’s been in your family for years, isn’t that right? And you’ve got all the marriages and births and deaths written down in it and—do you read your Bible, Mrs. Fitch?”

  “Well, sometimes.”

  “In times of sorrow, or when you feel the need for a helping hand, or just want to feel closer to God. That’s what most folks do. Good Christians, too, just like yourself. But to make a regular study of the Bible, to really know the Word of God, that isn’t something most people do. I’ll bet the print in your Bible’s so small, you strain your eyes every time you try to read it.”

  “It is kind of small,” Mrs. Fitch admitted.

  “How can you study a Bible,” Walter said seriously, “when the words are so tiny you get tired reading even a couple of verses? The Lord meant for his word to be shouted, Mrs. Fitch, not whispered.”

  He opened up the big, white Bible and handed it to her.

  “Now, look at that. Look at the size of those words. God wouldn’t have any trouble getting his message across to you with this Bible, Mrs. Fitch.”

  “My,” she said, “I don’t even need my reading glasses to see that.”

  “And you’ll notice something else about this Bible too, besides simply the beauty of the white Leatherette binding and the gold stamping on the front. You see all that red printing in between the regular black print? That red printing is God’s actual words. Every single word God speaks in the Bible, every single uttering of Jesus, is printed in red. You don’t have to try and figure out the parts that are written by God and the parts that were written by the prophets and apostles. Why, the divine word of God just leaps out at you from every page.”

  Mrs. Fitch turned the pages of the book slowly. “It certainly is a handsome piece of work.”

  “All God’s work is handsome,” Walter said. “But if you don’t mind a little humor, Mrs. Fitch, the Good News Bible is the deluxe edition of God’s work. Now, tell me the truth. Isn’t this a Bible you’d be proud to have in your home? Isn’t this a Bible that wouldn’t be stuck on a shelf somewhere, but would deserve a place of honor right out on a table in your front room? Please look at the gold-tipped pages too, Mrs. Fitch. This isn’t just the holy word of God. If it isn’t blasphemous to say so, a lot of people actually think of this as a decorative object, as well as a Bible.”

  I forgot how hot it was. I forgot my suitcase, my three scratchy crinolines, and changing my name to something other than Venida. I kept looking from Walter to Mrs. Fitch and back to Walter again. This was like a Ping-Pong game and I couldn’t figure out who was going to win.

  “Mrs. Fitch, I know you’re a busy woman. Your husband will be coming in soon for lunch, or you’ll have to bring it to him.” He held out his hand to take the Bible back. Mrs. Fitch looked like she didn’t want to give it back, but she did. “So I’ll ask you how much you think the word of God is worth.”

  “What do you mean?” she asked. “You want me to guess how much this Bible costs?”

  “No. Just tell me how much the word of God is worth to you.”

  She looked confused. “Don’t know. How can you put a price on God?”

  “Exactly! The words of the Lord are like pearls beyond price. There just isn’t any way to calculate the value of receiving the Good News. But what if the Lord said to you, ‘My child, would you spend sixteen cents a day to hear what I have to say to you?’ Imagine, Mrs. Fitch, sixteen cents a day to know the Lord! Sixteen cents a day to walk along the path of eternal life with Jesus! You wouldn’t say, ‘Well, Lord, we’ve had a lot of unexpected expenses this month, and farm prices being what they are, I think sixteen cents a day is a little high.’ I just can’t picture you saying that to the Lord, Mrs. Fitch.”

  Mrs. Fitch began to look the tiniest bit suspicious again. “Wouldn’t say that to the Lord,” she said, staring real hard at Walter. “What you’re telling me is that Bible of yours is sixteen cents a day to buy, that right?”

  Now I was sure Mrs. Fitch wasn’t going to sign anything. I’d really been impressed listening to Walter and watching how Mrs. Fitch changed from distrusting him to being so interested in the way Walter talked, but I knew she was back to distrusting him again. I looked over at Walter to see if he knew she wasn’t going to buy.

  But he was just smiling gently. “Yes, ma’am. Sixteen cents a day. Less than it costs you to run your television set and worth so much more to you and your loved ones.”

  “Don’t have a television set. Sixteen cents a day for how long?”

  Walter opened his briefcase again. He took out a sheet of paper. “After the down payment, sixteen cents a day for five months.”

  Mrs. Fitch looked up at the ceiling and wrinkled her forehead. First I thought she might be praying to God, asking him whether she ought to buy this Bible or not, but then I realized she was trying to multiply in her head.

  “It’s right down here on the paper. The full price of the Deluxe Good News Bible is twenty-nine ninety-five. You put five dollars down and send us five dollars a month for five months. No extra charge for buying on time.” He pushed the paper across the table so she could look at it.

  “Five dollars down?” She frowned again.

  “That’s right.” Walter took a pen out of his breast pocket. “And right there’s where you sign, agreeing to pay the rest.” He looked at his watch. “My, my, how late it’s getting. Don’t know if there’s much point in stopping anywhere else.”

  Mrs. Fitch looked up from the paper.

  “After all, Ike Isely told me, ‘If you want to speak to the godliest person in town, you make sure and see Emma Fitch.’ ”

  “Ike Isely said that?”

  “Sure did. Said, ‘If a good Christian woman like Emma Fitch doesn’t want that Bible, you’re sure not going to have much luck with the rest of the folks around here.’ ”

  Mrs. Fitch reached for the pen, almost in slow motion. She looked sort of like she was hypnotized. I couldn’t believe it. She scrawled her name on the bottom of the paper and handed it back to Walter.

  “I’ll get the five dollars,” she said. I don’t think Mrs. Fitch knew what hit her. I sure didn’t.

  After a couple of hours I realized that Walter was a really terrific salesman. We must have visited about ten farms all down the road from the Fitch place and Walter sold five Bibles.

  I’d changed into my capri pants and a red-and-white-striped top at Mrs. Fitch’s and Walter put my crinolines and my dress in the trunk of his car, wrapped in a blanket. I wanted to lay them out across the back seat, but Walter said it wouldn’t look too good for a Bible salesman to be riding around with a pile of frilly lady’s petticoats in the backseat of his car. He winked at me when he said that. I didn’t think I liked the look of that wink at all.

  At first it was kind of interesting listening to Walter talk to the different people and tell them different things to make them want to buy the Bible. He didn’t just say the same stuff over and over again, except for that part about talking to Ike Isley. He told every woman that she was the godliest woman in Winota.

  Another interesting thing was that when the farmers were home with their wives, Walter hardly sold a Bible at all.

  “
The women are the religious ones,” he explained as we drove past the last farm in Winota. Walter had sold his fifth Bible there. “See how much easier it is when the husband isn’t around? We should have taken the lunch hour off and waited for the men to go back to the fields. I’ll bet we would have sold eight Bibles if there hadn’t been any husbands around.”

  By now I was pretty tired of the whole business. It wasn’t so interesting anymore. It was beginning to get boring. I was tired, hot, and starting to get hungry again. I was also beginning to wonder, since it took us almost two and a half hours to go about twelve miles, if we’d ever get to Los Angeles at this rate.

  “Well,” said Walter cheerfully, “I guess we’ve done enough selling for today. Better start making tracks. We can be in Kentucky before dark.”

  Something about what Walter said bothered me, but I wasn’t sure what it was. I leaned back against the seat and sighed.

  Walter turned on the radio and fiddled with the dial a moment. Then a man’s voice came wailing out. Not the same one we’d heard before. This was a different singer.

  I ’m nobody’s child, I ’m nobody’s child,

  I’m like a flower just growing wild.

  No mommy’s kisses and no daddy’s smile.

  Nobody wants me, I ’m nobody’s child.

  “Can’t you get anything else on that radio?” I yelled. Those lyrics were really getting to me. I leaned over and punched one of the buttons. There was nothing but some crackling.

  “You’re just getting static, Venida,” Walter said. He sounded hurt.

  “Well, even static’s better than that junk!” I settled back against the seat and closed my eyes.

  “And my name isn’t Venida.”

  Chapter 9

  We stopped to eat supper at a Howard Johnson’s. I felt kind of funny going to a restaurant in capri pants, even if it was only a Howard Johnson’s, but it was all I had to wear, except for my dress, which was folded up in Walter’s trunk.