I don’t know. Part of me wants to share all of my thoughts about Mama, and part of me wants to keep these memories private, locked secret within the shell of myself. And what can I say about Jack? No one here wants to know the truth.
I decide to leave things as they are. Pretend right along with everyone else. Convince myself that Jack was a hero. A perfect man who came home every night to hug his wife and talk to his daughter. A man who showed up. Stayed around. Stuck it out. A man who kept his promises and protected his family instead of forcing them to live in fear.
The cowboys drape a flag over Jack’s coffin, and I try to pretend it all away. I think about River. Wonder if he’s coming back for me. I think about Mama’s stash and wonder if there’s anything left. I understand now, Mama’s desire to numb the pain.
CHAPTER 24
It is the end of December, and the air is thin and frigid. Now, the rain falls. A soft, slow drizzle slides through the gray afternoon.
The funeral has ended with another prayer, and we are supposed to drive to the burial site. I figure we’ll be going out to Hope Hill, the same cemetery that holds the gypsy king and queen. And my brother. But Mr. Tucker surprises me again.
He meets me at the car and says, “Millie. I know Jack wouldn’t want to be laid to rest in a crowded row of stones. He’d want to be out in the wild. Where the horses and the cattle roam with him. And from what I hear, your mama would have wanted the same. A field of wildflowers. So, I’ve made arrangements with Mr. Sutton, and he’s agreed to give you a little corner of his pasture. A shady place under a big oak. I hope that’s fine with you. I want it to be a place where you can remember the good times, Millie. I know there must have been plenty of those.”
“Thank you, Mr. Tucker,” I say, grateful for his kindness.
Mr. Tucker closes our car door, and we follow the caravan to Mr. Sutton’s plantation, the place I call home. My wheelchair isn’t able to make it up the hill in the thick pasture grass, so I watch from the car. I am glad not to have to hear the sound of dirt falling on Mama’s coffin. I think of the mama mutt dog, all those years earlier, and my frantic race to uncover her pups.
The coffins are carried up the hill, and I worry that the pallbearers, all tough-skinned cowboys, will slip on the slick grass and Mama or Jack will go tumbling down, tossed from their pinewood boxes and rolled through the weeds. Hilda leans over to roll up the windows in the rain. I leave mine cracked open and watch the water drip down the glass. Soon, I hear the crowd sing “Be Not Afraid,” another one of Mama’s favorite hymns.
Diana moves from the front seat to the back and wraps me in her coat. She pulls me into her warm chest and lets my tears fall over her. When the crowd disperses, visitors stop by the car to offer their sympathy and to wish me well. Some invite me to stay in their homes, but I don’t know who they are or what they would do if I actually showed up at their doors. I just try to smile and nod and shake hands and say thanks and do all the things I am expected to do to make them feel better.
Diana sits next to me, rubbing my back. “Have you seen your grandparents?” she asks.
I shake my head no. Diana’s probably been holding out hope that they would show up and give it one more shot. Try again to take me with them. What she doesn’t know is that Mama has been dead to them for years. That my grandmother doesn’t have the strength to defy her husband. To do the right thing.
The driver starts the engine. Mr. Tucker, Bump, and Janine stand in the rain next to my window. “Thank you for all you’ve done,” I say to them. “Jack and Mama would both be honored. I know the truck isn’t nearly enough. What else can I do to repay you?”
Mr. Tucker protests. “Aww, girl, I don’t need that truck. It’s all yours. If you can drive it, go for it. If you can’t, then sell it and use the money to do something good for yourself. That truck was Jack’s. And what was Jack’s is now yours.”
“But Mr. Tucker, I don’t have any money to pay you. If you don’t take the truck …”
He interrupts. “Look here, gal. I may be a money man. But some things just ain’t about money.” He tips his hat and says, “Now, if you find yourself in need of a job, you know where to find me.”
Janine nods, her bright-pink lipstick coating a sugar-sweet smile. Bump watches, quietly, and I sense he doesn’t want to see me cry. Mr. Tucker, with no way of knowing how happy he’s just made me, knocks the top of the sedan twice with his large fist, and the driver takes off in the rain.
In the distance, one man remains. He is wearing a long black raincoat with a black fedora pulled low over his brow. “Who’s that?” I ask, pointing out the window to the man as we pass. Diana and Hilda look confused. “That man, over there. Does he need a ride?”
The driver slows and asks, “What man?”
“Right there. By the tree,” I sit up and point, showing them the man who stands alone in the rain under a dripping cedar. He is only ten feet from the car. He turns so that his hat no longer blocks his face. It is Sloth.
“Millie,” Diana says calmly. “There’s no one there. Probably just a sapling. Things look different in the rain.”
CHAPTER 25
We return to the hospital, where Diana and Hilda do their best to get rid of my chills. They crank up the radiator in my room and layer more blankets over me. I can’t stop shivering. Hilda brings me a thermos of hot chocolate and demands I drink it all, standing over me with her old sense of dominion. When the thermos is empty, my bones began to thaw.
She leaves to get a refill, despite my opposition, and Diana just giggles at the sight of Hilda’s determination to take care of me. “I’m seeing a whole new side of Hilda,” she says. I watch the rain fall harder against the window. Diana turns to the window too and notices the Christmas tree in the sill. “You have one more present,” she says.
I squirm my way up higher in bed and fake excitement as I accept the gift. I am too sad from the funeral. And I feel guilty. Everyone has gone out of their way to make me feel better. I wish I hadn’t put them through so much trouble. “I’m sorry I climbed that tree,” I tell Diana. “That was kind of stupid.”
“Not at all,” Diana answers. “I think I would have done the same thing.”
No sooner would Diana have climbed a tree than skinned a hog; she is far too prim for that. But I let her kindness wash over me unchallenged. I start to remove the bright-red bow from the rectangular package, but Diana puts her hand over mine and says, “Wait just a second. There’s a story that goes along with this one.”
I relax into the pillow and think of Mama’s stories. I listen as Diana tells the tale.
“Have you ever heard of Pandora?”
I nod.
“And her box?”
Again, I nod, thinking of the box of secrets Mama had buried. I’ve read the Greek myths with Mama. She taught me about Pandora and her locked box.
“Well, do you remember what was in her box?”
“Death. Disease. Sorrow,” I say. “All the evils of the world.”
“That’s right,” Diana continues. “It all started with a trick.”
Diana sits next to me and tells the story of Prometheus and Zeus. I pretend she is Mama. Her voice is like a long sip of sweet tea. “Zeus ordered Hephaestus to craft a woman out of clay and to give her a human voice. When Zeus’s daughter saw the masterpiece, she liked the woman so much that she breathed life into her. She taught the woman how to weave. She gave her clothes. Aphrodite gave her beauty. Hermes taught her to lie and deceive. One by one, the gods offered her their gifts. She was called Pandora.”
“And she became the first woman to join mankind,” I interrupt, shifting my position in bed.
“But remember,” warns Diana, “Zeus had created Pandora as a way to punish Prometheus for returning fire to mankind. So he sent this beautiful woman to Prometheus’s brother, Epimetheus, and even though Prometheus warned his brother never to accept a gift from Zeus, because it was probably a trick, Epimetheus couldn’t help himself. He
fell in love with the beautiful Pandora.”
“And they were married,” I add.
Diana nods. “Now when Zeus heard the news of the wedding, he sent a gift, a box with a lock and a key. Then, he ordered Pandora never to open the box. But over time, she became more and more curious. She couldn’t understand why anyone would give her a locked box and then tell her not to open it. Just as Zeus suspected, she could not resist the temptation for long.”
Diana takes a sip of water, so I continue the story. “One evening, while everyone else was away, Pandora sneaked to the box and slipped the key into the lock.”
“Yes. And then she opened the lid. And before she could stop it, the whole world was filled with troubles. Hatred. Jealousy. Greed.”
“Violence. Disease. Famine,” I add.
“Just like you remember, Pandora had released all the evils known to mankind, with the simple turn of a key. But Pandora still had one thing left in her box,” Diana continues. “Do you remember what that was?”
I nod again. I know the answer. But I want Diana to keep talking. I want to listen to her tell me stories forever. “It was hope,” Diana says. “Hope. And that’s what I’m offering you here, Millie. The gods have tricked you. They gave you gifts of beauty and knowledge and strength and endurance, but they continued to throw one bad thing after another into your world. Remember, no matter what they throw your way, you still have hope.”
With that, she lets go of my hand and nods for me to unwrap the gift. It is a polished wooden box with a hinged lid and a miniature golden key. Shiny and clean. Nothing like the box Mama buried under the sycamore tree.
Inside the box is a letter. I unfold the ivory-colored paper and read Diana’s words. They are written in beautiful calligraphy, like a genuine invitation. Please come live with us. We would be honored if you would join our family.
The letter shakes in my hand.
“I know it may be too much to take in right now. You don’t know me too well yet, Millie. But you need a safe place to land. My husband, Bill Miller, and I have one daughter. Her name is Camille. She’s nine and she’d love more than anything to have a big sister. She’s prayed for one her entire life, in fact. We have a room ready for you, right across the hall from Camille’s. We don’t want to pressure you, we just—”
I can’t put her through any more. I interrupt, “I’ll come.” I mean it to sound sure and happy, but it comes out as a tiny whisper.
CHAPTER 26
Just after the new year, Dr. Jacobson discharges me on the condition that Diana will care for me at her home. I don’t plan to stay forever, only until spring, when River returns and I can join the gypsies. We leave the wheelchair at the hospital, and Diana drives me out to my house to pack.
She encourages me to box a few things from the cabin. It isn’t easy to manage with my arm still in a cast, but I prepare a bundle of library books to be returned to Miss Harper. Diana helps me fold some clothes into Jack’s worn suitcase.
In a pillowcase, I pack Jack’s cowboy hat and dusty boots, pulled from the hospital bag. I add Mama’s faded apron and a small bundle of zinnia and peony seeds I clipped from her summer gardens.
I remove the family photo from my bedroom wall and wrap the glass frame carefully in newspaper. Then I slide it into the suitcase, careful to pad it between layers of clothes.
Mama’s secret box is on her bed. It is open, as if Mama had been looking through it after I left for the rodeo. Before she died. Spikes go through me as I realize the box, and its contents, are what made her so upset. I am the one who pulled that box from the ground. I insisted on going to the rodeo. And I left Mama alone with a last request to tell me her secrets when I returned. It is all clear to me. I am to blame for Mama’s death. My own selfish desires pushed Mama over the edge.
My ears ring with guilt. And then I see the empty pill bottle. I feel sick. Sick that I left Mama here alone, with a box of sad memories and only a stash of morphine to turn to for help.
I pull Mama’s tattered Bible from the box, its pages worn from years of turmoil and faith. A dried leaf from my sweet gum pokes its edges out from a page. I flip to the marked passage and read Isaiah 43:2 to myself.
When thou passest through the waters, I will be with thee; and through the rivers, they shall not overflow thee: when thou walkest through the fire, thou shalt not be burned; neither shall the flame kindle upon thee.
I want to laugh. Scream out to Mama’s God, “Where are You now?”
Instead, I close Mama’s Bible and place it gently back in the box. I add the box to my luggage. Next to that, a bright-yellow scarf. A promise given to me by Babushka. I’ve kept the scarf safely in my drawer for three seasons now. It still smells of whiskey and fires. Of River, a promise, and freedom. Where are you now?
I move to the kitchen, find the glass Jack brought to Mama when he filled it with tea. I walk outside and take a good long look at the porch swing, carving an image of it in my heart. I add a shaving of Sweetie’s bark to my bag. I want to climb back up my tree and look down on the world below, take one more glance at Mama and Jack placed side by side in Mr. Sutton’s field. Go back to the day when Mama and Jack walked hand in hand in the field of clover, when I followed them through the blooms. When Jack looked up at a hawk sweeping the sky and said, “Today sure is good.” But there’s no turning back.
I whisper good-bye, close the front door of my house, and follow Diana out to her car.
Diana lives in a beautiful white house. Sparkling windows are framed with wooden shutters and every flower box sprouts purple pansies, despite the winter’s cold. A large porch wraps itself around the house like a bow, with circular sitting areas at each corner and an abundance of comfortable porch swings and rocking chairs. A sunny garden spot stretches along the back of the yard and a tire swing sways from a large pecan tree.
I am greeted by a long-haired cat, purring and hugging my ankles. “Looks like Charlie’s glad you’re here,” Diana says as I bend down to give the gray feline a few gentle scratches behind the ears. “He’s a stray. Showed up on the doorstep last summer.”
“Kind of like me,” I say, understanding why Charlie chose this house above all the others in Iti Taloa.
Before I can follow Diana to the front door, a blonde ball of laughter comes bouncing around from the backyard. “This is Camille,” Diana says, introducing me to her beautiful daughter. Diana has told me she’s nine, about the same age I was when I first followed the gypsies.
“Welcome, Millie,” Camille takes a bow as if I am the Queen of England. “I’m oh so very glad you’re here. I’ve heard all about you. Like how you read big books and how you can draw really good pictures of horses. And did you know I like horses too? So I figure we’re pretty much like sisters already. I’ve always wanted a sister. I’ve prayed and prayed and prayed all my whole entire life. And now here you finally are. I can hardly believe my eyes. And you’re so—pretty.”
Camille comes up for air and I look to Diana for a hint of how to react to this blue-eyed wonder. Diana shrugs and smiles, as if there isn’t much she can do to tone down Camille’s flair for drama.
“Wanna see my room? You can share it with me, if you want. But Mother said you might want a room of your own. I’m so glad you’re here! Let’s go see our room!”
The entire house smells like pecan pie. I breathe in that rich blend of brown sugar and molasses baked in with sugary syrup and roasted pecans, and suddenly I’m no longer a sixteen-year-old orphan in a stranger’s home. I am five years old again. Jack and Mama are alive. Autumn has arrived. I weave my way between my own yard and Mr. Sutton’s big house, through the trunks of seventeen pecan trees. I gather as many pecans as I can find, pile them into tin buckets, and separate them into brown paper sacks.
Mr. Sutton’s three-legged dog named BoBo joins me as I stack the bags of nuts in a rusty red wagon. The wagon’s wheels whine once we hit the smooth concrete sidewalks, as if they prefer the rugged dirt paths as much as I do. Wh
en we reach the area of town where the houses wear fresh coats of paint and the streets are named for dead presidents, we sell the pecans for three cents a bag, unshelled. A nickel, shelled.
BoBo and I spend our afternoons knocking on doors and trading nuts for coins. I roll smooth silver nickels around in my pocket, as I pull my wagon on to the next beautiful house. There I repeat my much-rehearsed presentation: “Hello, ma’am. Would you like to buy some pecans?” Mama taught me that phrase, and it is a winner.
When I knock on the door of 121 Lincoln, I sell not one, not two, but three bags of shelled pecans to a tall, tanned lady with a beautiful gray hat. Later that afternoon, a steaming pie has already been left to cool on the windowsill. The wave of bubbling cane syrup makes my stomach rumble. I am ecstatic to hear her call me to her porch. “Millie, why don’t you take a break and come enjoy a warm slice of pie?” Her voice is not sweet and sticky like honey, but soft and strong like a feather.
“Um, I probably shouldn’t,” I reply, happy that she has bothered to learn my name.
“I really don’t want to have to eat this all alone,” she argues.
The roof of her porch is painted a fabulous shade of robin’s-egg blue.
“The thing is,” she continues, “how do I know these nuts aren’t poisoned? I insist you take the first bite.”
I putter up the steps and feign disinterest. With her insistence, I swallow a spoonful of pie. But I do it slowly, acting the part, showing hesitation. Then I crumple into a mound of torturous screams and pretend to convulse into death. BoBo barks and pounces on me. All the while, I swim away in the peaceful blue ceiling and the taste of warm pecan pie.
The woman laughs. “See now. That’s why I don’t trust you not to poison my pecans. You’re one to watch, Miss Reynolds. One to watch for sure.”
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