Almost Home

by Valerie Fraser Luesse

  “Selfish as always, Miss Dolly,” Reed said.

  R.W.’s put me up what I call a Needs Box over at the lake. It’s just a wooden box with a slot—sits on a post like a mailbox—and we painted “I Need” on the side of it. At first we had a sign dangling beneath it that read, “All Needs Confidential,” but then we figured out that some of the folks on the loop didn’t know what “confidential” meant. So we took that down and put up another sign that reads, “Won’t Nobody Know but Dolly.” Everybody on the loop that needs something leaves a little note in there, and then once a week, I empty out the box and meet their needs.

  Sometimes, of course, children leave me notes that have more to do with wants, but they think they’re needs: “I need a new pair of roller skates.” I evaluate those on a case-by-case basis. But what a joy it is to meet the real needs in our community. Some of those notes will break your heart: “I need money to take my children to the doctor.” “I need any food you can spare.” “I need shoes for my little girl so she won’t have to go to school barefoot.” I go to my Needs Box with the same excitement I used to go to the mailbox, looking for letters from Violet.

  And as a little tribute to Catherine and Andre, I have R.W. slip and leave the food and money we provide in little burlap bags on families’ front porches. Violet (more on her in a minute) embroiders a tiny red robin on each of my burlap bags—our way of saying thank you to Andre the River Robin.

  “Dang!” Daisy said. “That is just too bloomin’ perfect.”

  We got so many requests for food—and always from the same five or six families—that Si hit on another one of his wonderful ideas. He said it was likely embarrassing for those mothers to ask for food again and again. So we had a pretty little store with a big front porch built on the front end of the old skating rink, and we keep it stocked with all the essentials. Everything in it’s free to whoever needs it. Si just loves running it—he named it The Backup Store because it’s your backup when you run out of money. But everybody’s done shortened the name—they just call it The Backup. And it has become quite the gathering spot. Si invites some of the boys with their fiddles and guitars to come and play on the weekend. We don’t charge to swim in the lake anymore—we just let everybody come and enjoy it.

  One weekend, Si hit on the idea of bringing a couple of ponies to The Backup so him and R.W. could give the children rides while the adults enjoy the music. Now he’s thinking about opening a circus, and that has put such a spring in his step!

  “Well, if anybody can start a circus in Blackberry Springs, I reckon it’s Si,” Reed said.

  But here’s my big news. Violet and her family have moved into the house with us! Wiley was out so long after his accident that he lost his job, and his back is too bad now to do anything that requires physical strength. He knew how bad Violet wanted to come home, so we talked it over and they took the second floor of Little Mama’s house for now. With Violet’s share of Catherine and Andre’s money, they can do anything they want, so they’re building them a house on the Coosa River, and Wiley’s going to open a little marina for all the fishermen. For now, I get to have three young’uns darting in and out of my kitchen, pestering their Aunt Dolly for chocolate cake.

  Reed kissed Daisy on the cheek. “I’d like to thank my lovely wife for masterin’ that recipe.”

  “Lucky for you, I like the cake part.”

  Back to the money. Little Mama would say it’s tacky to talk about it the way I am—I know you all said you didn’t want no more of it. But that’s not right. I wouldn’t even have it without you. Of course, I don’t understand how all this works, so I had to let the banker in Childersburg set it up for me. (Y’all, it’s amazing how nice he is. I never knew a man so eager to help a customer.) Anyhow, he’s set up an account for each of you—one at the bank in Red Bud, one at the Whitney Bank in New Orleans, and one at First Chicago. No need to fret over it—just know you’ve got a financial cushion in there if you need it. And in case you’re feeling bad for Joe, I sent him a little something too, just to thank him for his kindness when things were so hard.

  “What you reckon she means by ‘financial cushion’?” Daisy asked.

  Reed shook his head. “Knowin’ Miss Dolly, it’s the size of a mattress. I hope it’s not possible to give away four million dollars, but if she can find a way, she will.”

  “She sounds happier than she’s ever been—spendin’ all her money helpin’ other people.”

  Well, that’s about all I have to report. As Anna requested, I’m enclosing Catherine’s second journal so you can all finish reading it. I hate we couldn’t finish it together, but everything just fell apart after the rink burned. Never seemed to be any time to circle us up again. Violet and me read it together last night, and Anna was right—there’s a surprise in there, ladies. Just pass the journal along to one another, and make sure it gets back to Red Bud. (Anna, honey, thank you so much for letting us keep our little reading circle going all these miles apart. Me and Violet opened your package yesterday and got started on journal number three. That one’s coming soon, Daisy and Evelyn!)

  Give the men (and little Dolly) my love!

  Your friend always,

  Dolly

  “There ain’t never gonna be another Dolly,” Daisy said.

  “You wanna go see her and Si on my next break?”

  “Yeah, I do. Maybe we could—”

  “Stop over in Gulfport and eat at Vrazel’s?”

  Daisy laughed. “I guess I’m a creature o’ habit. How’d it go today?”

  “Fine. I just get frustrated with some o’ the younger ones comin’ in. They spend way too much time worryin’ about what’ll be on the exam when they need to be learnin’ everything they can so they can save somebody’s life one day.”

  Daisy smiled. “Well, listen at you—the senior statesman of the class.”

  Reed laughed. “Do I sound preachy?”

  “I was gonna say wise, but if that’s the way you wanna go . . .”

  “Did you make it to Royal Street today?”

  “Reed, I just can’t quit lookin’ at it. The light and the wrought iron and the old plaster—I’ve been drawin’ so much my hand’s gonna fall off. Do you have any idea how old some o’ those buildings are? I checked out some books at the lib’ry. There’s Spanish stuff and French stuff and it’s been here for hundreds of years. And all the courtyards and fountains . . .”

  “I believe my wife is in love.”

  Daisy smiled at him. “With you and New Orleans.”

  “I have a confession to make. I stole some o’ your drawin’s and took ’em to a professor in the art department last week.”

  Daisy rolled her eyes. “He prob’ly thinks my sketches are—”

  “Some o’ the best he’s ever seen, as a matter o’ fact. He says you’ve got some things to learn about technique, but the talent is absolutely there. So, Mrs. Ingram, the brilliant artist—what you gonna do about that?”

  “Well . . . there’s somethin’ I’ve been meanin’ to talk to you about. I do wanna go to school . . . but not for my art. That’s somethin’ I love doin’ and always will, but it’s not what I wanna go to school for.”

  “What you got in mind?”

  “Nursin’.”

  “What? I had no idea you were even interested in medicine.”

  “I’m interested in you—and watchin’ you heal people the way you healed me. You’re not gonna be in school forever, and I know you wanna start a clinic in Blackberry Springs. You’re gonna need a nurse at your side. And the thought o’ somebody else bein’ right there with you when you’re helpin’ all those people—that makes me sad. I wanna be the one. You think I’m smart enough to be a nurse?”

  Reed smiled and put his arms around her. “I think you’re smart enough to be a brain surgeon. Daisy, I don’t know what to say. I think it would be amazin’ for us to work side by side. I just want you to be sure nursin’ would make you as happy as medicine makes me.”


  “It will. It absolutely will.”

  “Why don’t we take some o’ the rent money we saved up and go out to dinner tonight? We could even gussy up and go to Galatoire’s since it’s still early enough to get a spot in line.”

  Daisy smiled. “It’ll be a sacrifice on my part not to cook, but okay.”

  “I’ll go clean up and we’ll catch a streetcar.”

  “Right behind you. I just need to put this stuff away.” As she slipped Dolly’s letter back into the envelope, Daisy noticed a narrow ribbon marking a spot in Catherine’s journal. She couldn’t resist taking just a quick look before getting ready for dinner.

  March 1, 1845

  Dear Self,

  This is the last time I’ll be writing to you. From now on, I’ll address my little jottings to another—one who makes my heart overflow. My time is near. I am going to have a child—Andre’s child—and I am filled with so much happiness that I cannot contain it. I’ve heard about the terrible pains of childbirth. But I welcome them, as they will bring our baby into this world. I don’t care if it’s a boy or a girl. I just hope our child has its father’s beautiful smile. And his courage and strength.

  March 12, 1845

  My Precious Angel,

  You are so perfect that I can hardly bear all the joy I feel inside! I fear my heart will burst every time I look at you. I see your father—and, I’ll confess, just a little bit of myself—in you. My baby girl, you are a wonder, a miracle. Your father and I will love you forever. We have named you for his beautiful mother, sweet Lillian . . .

  CHAPTER

  one

  OCTOBER 10, 1962

  A sleepy purple twilight wrapped around the farmhouse, its tall windows glowing with warmth from somewhere inside. It was suppertime, and the cool October air smelled of cotton lint and field dust. Inside was an eleven-year-old boy playing checkers with his grandfather. As was his custom lately, he wore a flannel shirt many sizes too big for him.

  “Pete, honey, you’ve got a closetful of clothes—why do you insist on wearing that old hand-me-down of your daddy’s?” his mother asked.

  “I don’t know,” he said with a shrug. “’Cause he gave it to me, I guess.”

  There was more to it than that, of course. The truth was that Pete’s father was both his hero and his best friend. There was no one he admired more than Jack McLean, no one he so longed to emulate. Not only that, but he thoroughly enjoyed his father’s company—and Pete could tell the feeling was mutual.

  So there he sat at his mother’s kitchen table, wearing his daddy’s shirt and holding a tentative finger on one of two red checkers still remaining on the board. “Okay, Daddy Ballard,” he said to his grandfather as he lifted his finger and leaned back in his chair. “Your move.” Their checkers game had become a weeknight ritual.

  “You sure, son?” his grandfather said with a grin.

  “Yes, sir.”

  Pete’s mother peeled a colander of potatoes at the sink as a radio played in the windowsill.

  Mrs. Kennedy attended a charity luncheon in Washington this afternoon. The First Lady wore an autumnal suit of red wool crepe . . .

  Daddy Ballard made the only remaining move left to him. Pete’s face lit up when he saw his opportunity—the long-awaited winning jump.

  “I won! I finally won!” he cried as his grandfather laughed. “Wanna play again?”

  His mother shook her head. “Now, Pete, you know your daddy’ll be home before too much long—”

  She was interrupted by the blaring of a truck horn. It blew and blew all the way from the county blacktop, and you could hear the tires slinging gravel as they sped up the driveway and into the backyard. Pete looked at his mother, whose face had frozen in fear and dread.

  All three of them had heard it—the split-second transformation of ordinary sounds into a cry of alarm. Truck horns, tires churning gravel, men yelling to be heard over machinery—these were everyday background noises on the farm. But when something went wrong, when someone got hurt, those very same sounds took on an urgent tenor. You could hear it. You could feel it in your bones.

  “Y’all in there? Come quick!” It was Isaac, one of Daddy Ballard’s field hands, who helped Pete’s father work the cotton.

  The adults bolted for Isaac’s truck, with Pete leaping over the tailgate and crouching in back before they had time to tell him not to. Cold wind blasted his face as they raced down the narrow strip of pavement to a dirt road that divided two sprawling cotton fields. He had to hold on tight as Isaac drove straight through the cotton, bouncing over furrows and tearing through tall, brittle stalks to get to a giant ball of light glowing in the distance.

  So many trucks were beaming headlights onto the accident that it looked like a football stadium on Friday night. Chains rattled and clouds of red dust swirled everywhere as the field hands and Pete’s uncles—summoned from their own family farm—made a frantic attempt at a rescue.

  “Shut that engine off!”

  “Get the slack out! I said get the slack out!”

  “Back up, back up, back up!”

  “Can you see him? I said can you see him!”

  Daddy Ballard held Pete’s mother back.

  “Jack!” She screamed his name over and over and over.

  At the center of it all was a massive red machine, his father’s cotton picker, turned upside down in a sinkhole like a cork in a bottle. One of its back wheels was still spinning against the night sky, like it was trying to run over the moon. Pete could hear—or maybe he just imagined—clods of red clay splashing into the watery sinkhole far below the snowy clouds of cotton. And he knew, without anybody telling him, that his father was lost.

  Spotting him standing beside the truck, wide-eyed and horrified, Isaac came to pick him up. But with nowhere to take him, Isaac just walked around and around the truck, Pete’s legs dangling like a rag doll.

  “You gonna be alright. You gonna be alright. We gonna make it alright.” Isaac was shaking.

  Pete heard a loud, booming crash as the trucks pulled the picker over onto its side to clear the hole.

  “There he is! Lower me down! Hurry!” That was Uncle Danny, his father’s oldest brother. Isaac had stopped in a spot that kept Pete’s back to the accident. “Pull! Ever’body pull harder!”

  There was a momentary silence before Pete heard the sound of water dripping off of something heavy. It reminded him of the sound his father’s Sunday shirts made when his mother hand-washed them, plunging the saturated cloth up and down in the sink.

  Soon the field hands began to moan. “Sweet Jesus. Mister Jack . . .”

  Only then did Pete realize it—Isaac was soaking wet.

  Acknowledgments

  Writing makes me grateful—and not just because it brings me joy. Every time I sit down to write a new story, I’m aware of all the friends and family whose support makes it possible for me to do this thing that I love. I’m especially thankful for all the family members who have told me stories of our shared past, stories that have been sparking my imagination since I was a child. Thank you especially to “Grandme,” Uncle Bud, Uncle Chick, cousin Jimmy, and sweet Aunt Patsy, who gave me one of the funniest lines in the book.

  As always, love and gratitude to my husband, Dave, who took over the house, the laundry, the grocery shopping, the cooking, and everything else while I finished the manuscript for Almost Home—and still found time to let me read chapters to him so he could reassure me that they weren’t terrible.

  Last year, while I was promoting my first novel, Missing Isaac, I discovered that there’s no end to the number of book signings my parents will attend, or the number of copies my aunts, uncles, cousins, and friends will buy. (Thank you, Jenny, for single-handedly boosting sales.) Blessed. That’s all I can say.

  Special thanks to the very talented Mark Sandlin, whose photography has amazed me for years now. It’s not easy getting an appealing portrait from a camera-shy subject, but somehow he managed.

  Many tha
nks to my agent and friend, Leslie Stoker of Stoker Literary in New York. One day I hope to persuade her to move south so we can garden together. I also owe a great debt to an amazing team at Revell: two terrific editors, Kelsey Bowen, whose insightful guidance transformed the first draft of this book, and Jessica English, whose refined sensibilities elevate every manuscript she works with; creative director Cheryl Van Andel and her group, who produced a front porch I want to sit on for the cover; senior publicist Karen Steele, who never stops looking for new channels for promoting my work; and Hannah Brinks Korns, Michele Misiak, and the marketing and sales teams at Revell, whose time, talent, and creativity have been a gift.

  Much gratitude to Sid Evans, Krissy Tiglias, Nellah McGough, Lil Petrusnek, Carole Cain, and the Southern Living staff for your support, friendship, and encouragement.

  For sharing their valuable time and reading advance copies of the book, I sincerely thank Sid and Krissy at Southern Living; authors J. I. Baker, Michael Morris, and Nancy Dorman-Hickson; Leland Progress editor and publisher Stephanie Patton; Birmingham Home & Garden editor Cathy Still McGowin; and HGTV Magazine editor in chief Sara Peterson.

  Special thanks to my church family at First Baptist Church of Harpersville, Alabama, and to my oldest and dearest circle of friends back home. (Sarah Slaughter, thank you for being our trail boss and keeping us together! I love all of you.) And much love to my Ging, who was there for so much.

  Finally, I owe a great debt to a fellow Alabamian I never had the pleasure of meeting, the late Eugene B. Sledge, whose memoirs of his World War II experience are nothing short of phenomenal. I stumbled onto his books—and the miniseries The Pacific, based on one of them—not because I was researching a novel but because I wanted to understand my Uncle Ferrell’s wartime experience on Okinawa. He never talked about it, and many years after he died, I felt I owed it to him somehow to learn what I could. Eugene Sledge was the son of a physician in Mobile, Alabama, and later became a professor at the University of Montevallo. He would later write one of the most gripping and harrowing books I’ve ever read—With the Old Breed: At Peleliu and Okinawa. Mercifully, I’ll never know what combat is like. But Dr. Sledge brought me as close as I’ll ever come. I wish I could’ve met him. I wish I could thank him for bearing and sharing his wartime experience.