True Colors

by Natalie Kinsey-Warnock

  “What’s gotten into you?” Hannah asked. “I declare, you’re as jumpy as Cat.”

  Finally, on the third day, when I’d just about given up hope of Nadine ever answering me, I found a letter on our porch steps. I took it up to my room so I could read it in private.

  Here are the words that describe you: sneaky, treacherous, traitorous, underhanded, perfidious, unctuous, and mendacious.

  NOT your friend,

  Nadine

  My throat stung the whole time I spent ripping that letter into tiny pieces.

  I carried out a bowl of milk to go talk with Cat.

  “Nadine must have spent two hours looking up all those words,” I said. “Sneaky and underhanded I get. But per-fid-i-ous and men-da-cious?”

  Cat finished her milk and sat down, watching me.

  “I told her I was sorry. A real friend would have forgiven me. I forgave her.”

  Cat licked her paw and washed her face.

  “I guess you’re the only friend I have now,” I told her. “Even if you’re not a very friendly friend.”

  I made my deliveries and rode home by the ball field, hoping to see a game, but no one was there.

  I rode by Nadine’s house on my way home, hoping she’d be outside and we might start talking to each other.

  I didn’t think I could feel any worse, but I was wrong.

  A big sign was tacked up on the Tiltons’ mailbox.

  FOR SALE.

  I hadn’t thought it would really happen. I guess I’d thought that, somehow, Mr. and Mrs. Tilton would get back together, or that Mrs. Tilton would decide to keep the camp, or that Nadine had her mother and father so wrapped around her finger that she’d find a way to keep the camp, too. But that FOR SALE sign made it real. They were actually going to sell the camp, and never come back.

  I lay awake a long time that night, my mind racing with if-onlys.

  If only I hadn’t tried to get my column back from Nadine. Then none of this would have happened. If only Hannah hadn’t gotten hurt. Then I wouldn’t have had to have Nadine write my column in the first place. If only Mr. and Mrs. Tilton weren’t getting a divorce. Then I wouldn’t have had to keep a secret from Nadine. If only, if only, if only. One word, one little event, can change everything. Two words, FOR SALE, meant I was losing my best friend forever.

  I thought of how many times our lives depend on one little event. What if my mama had decided to keep me after all? What if she’d left me in some other person’s yard? What if Hannah hadn’t found me?

  I thought of Hannah flying in that airplane in 1911. What if that plane had crashed? Hannah never would have been around to find me and take me in.

  Mr. Gilpin was right. Someone should write a story about Hannah. I should ask her what it was like to fly in that plane, and what it was like to shake Teddy Roosevelt’s hand, and if he said anything to her.

  The more I thought about Hannah, the more I thought about the other stories the quilting ladies had told about the women in their families. If I couldn’t write my article about the missing animals, at least I could write those stories. They’d be more interesting than my columns, and they seemed like the kind of stories that other people, from other towns, might want to read, too. Mr. Gilpin hadn’t written up those stories for the pageant, but they deserved to be told, just as much as Colonel Barton’s, or Alexander Twilight’s, or even Spencer Chamberlain’s. Esther was right: they were stories that really shouldn’t be forgotten.

  I slipped out of bed and found my Big Chief tablet and pencil. Sitting back in bed, I wrote down story after story, trying to remember everything the women had said, not using big words, just telling the stories the way the quilting ladies had told them.

  I wrote down as much as I knew of Hannah’s story, too, her grandmother coming from Scotland, Hannah shaking Teddy Roosevelt’s hand, and how she might have been another Amelia Earhart if her father hadn’t died.

  I’d forgotten most of the dates and wondered if I could find some of them in the old newspapers. And I really had meant to look up those articles that Mr. Webster had written. Maybe they’d give me an idea of how to write my stories better.

  It was time I found out about my history, too, and that’s when I decided. First thing in the morning, I’d ride to the train station and buy a ticket to Barre. I could use the money I’d earned from writing my column.

  The next day, as I rode to town, Dolly tried to go into the Tiltons’ yard, but I kicked her with my heels to keep going past.

  It was on the way to the train station that I thought of a problem. Mr. Blanchard, the ticket agent, would be sure to ask questions as to why I was traveling to Barre all by myself, and word would get back to Hannah. Maybe I’d better buy my ticket at another train station, one where they didn’t know me. Except that would take me an extra hour to ride to the next town, so I’d have to wait till tomorrow to do that.

  Red, white, and blue banners were already being put up throughout town, and tents were going up at the fairgrounds, getting ready for the sesquicentennial.

  Mr. Gilpin looked up from his desk when I walked in, gave a nod, and went back to writing.

  Raleigh was sweeping up.

  “Baby,” he said. Oh, no, he was on that again.

  “No, I haven’t seen Rodney, and I didn’t see any other babies on the way over here,” I said, and hurried past him before he could say anything else.

  I found the story and pictures of Teddy Roosevelt coming to the fairgrounds, and the pictures of the old plane that Hannah had taken her ride in. I searched again through all the newspapers for 1941 to see if there was anything I’d missed about Peddler Jenny (there wasn’t). I wasn’t sure what year Mr. Webster had written his articles, and there were too many stacks to search through. Besides, my head hurt from looking at all those old newspapers. I’d have to come back another day.

  Standing up, I toppled over a stack of newspapers. They skidded and scattered across the floor like a lava flow. Stupid old newspapers. I kicked at the pile and another stack toppled over. I stamped my foot. It was going to take me at least two hours, I bet, to gather them back up and put them all in order.

  I got on my knees to start sorting them and saw a photo with the words DEATH NOTICE over it, but it was the name underneath that caught my eye: Herbert Spooner.

  Hannah’s husband. I looked at the date on the paper. September 7, 1938. That was three years before Hannah found me.

  I sat down on the newspapers and read the whole article, about how Herbert had been wounded in the First World War; had been awarded the Distinguished Service Cross for extraordinary heroism in action near Saint-Mihiel, France; had worked at the post office for twenty years; was an elder at the Presbyterian church; and would be interred in the East Craftsbury Cemetery. But it was the next sentence that made me stop breathing.

  “He leaves a wife, Hannah, and a daughter, Myrtle Rose.”

  chapter 28

  The stairs creaked.

  “Blue,” Mr. Gilpin said. “I was …” But his voice trailed off when he saw the article in my hand.

  I ran up the stairs, pushing past him, into the Monitor office. Raleigh looked up, startled, from his sweeping.

  “Blue,” Mr. Gilpin said again, and I spun to face him.

  “Why didn’t you ever tell me Hannah has a daughter?” I said, and Mr. Gilpin’s expression changed to that of a boy who’s been caught stealing frosting off a cake.

  “Myrtle,” Raleigh said, and it was my turn to feel stunned. The only words I’d ever heard Raleigh say were Blue True, baby, and pat cat.

  So. Even he knew. If Raleigh knew, everyone in town did.

  Everyone except me.

  I hated Raleigh then. I’d trusted him, I’d even tried to protect him, but he’d lied to me, he and Mr. Gilpin and Hannah and everyone in this town. They’d pretended to care, but all along, they were just a bunch of liars.

  “Where is she?” I asked.

  “California, I think,” Mr. Gilpin said
.

  “How come I’ve never heard of her?” I asked. “Why hasn’t she ever come back?”

  “I think you’d better ask Hannah about that,” he said.

  “What, so she can just lie about it some more?” I said, and turned toward the door, fighting back tears.

  “Wait,” Mr. Gilpin said. “Let me explain.”

  Raleigh stepped in front of me, waving his hands out to get me to stop.

  “Blue True,” he said, but I pushed past him. He reached to grab my arm, but I snatched it away.

  “Don’t touch me, you stupid ret—” I caught myself before I’d said it, but Raleigh jerked back like I’d punched him.

  “Blue!” Mr. Gilpin thundered.

  I ran out the door and leaped on Dolly’s back, digging my heels into her sides. She blew out a long breath, surprised, and trotted a few bone-jarring yards before settling back into a slow walk.

  “Blue!” Mr. Gilpin called after me, but I didn’t stop.

  Dolly might have been slow, but my mind was racing. Why hadn’t Hannah ever told me she had a daughter?

  I rode up to the highlands, found my mossy rock, and sat looking over the valley, but it didn’t really help. I’d always loved it up there, but now it seemed like a lie, too. From up here, at a distance, everything looked so pretty, but all you had to do was look close to find people who were mean and told lies, just like anywhere else.

  Sitting there, my fingers tracing the carving of the heart and the two initials, I wondered what had happened to whoever had carved it. Had they lived to be old, or died young, like so many of the people back then? What had their life been like? Had it been full of love and happiness, or had it been weighed down with heartache instead?

  When I finally rode home, Hannah was in her flower garden, her arms full of yellow roses and lilies.

  “Aren’t these just the prettiest things?” she said, smiling.

  Myrtle Rose. It made sense that Hannah had used flower names for her daughter. But why had she just named me Blue? Why not Lily or Iris or Violet?

  Hannah looked over at me and frowned.

  “You all right, Blue?” she said.

  I stared at her. All this time, I thought I’d known her. I’d trusted her, completely. I loved her. But she’d been lying to me all these years. What else hadn’t Hannah told me?

  There was so much I wanted to ask her. But I didn’t. I turned and went to the barn instead.

  Cat ducked behind one of the milk cans. I squatted down and waited. Cat poked her head back out. When I didn’t move, she sat down, watching me.

  She’d kind of betrayed me, too, letting Raleigh pat her, but I didn’t have anyone else to talk to, so I told her all the questions I had about Hannah and Herbert and Myrtle Rose. Cat didn’t have any answers, but she tipped her head to the side and listened.

  I did all my chores, milking, feeding the calves, my mind trying to solve why Hannah’s daughter had disappeared and never come back. Had she and Hannah had a fight? Had Myrtle done something bad?

  All through supper, Hannah kept looking over at me, but I didn’t say anything.

  It took a long time for me to fall asleep that night, and when I did, I had dreams of a dark-haired woman sewing letters into the corner of a quilt. MRS, MRS, M R S.

  My eyes snapped open and I sat upright.

  M R S.

  Myrtle Rose Spooner.

  chapter 29

  I don’t think I slept a minute the rest of the night, questions piling up in my mind like a snowdrift, but all of them melted away when it came to the biggest question of all.

  Was Myrtle my mother?

  Maybe there was another explanation. Maybe the person who’d wrapped me in that quilt had exactly the same initials as Myrtle. Or maybe Myrtle had made that quilt for someone else and that person had used it to wrap me in the quilt.

  You don’t believe that for one minute, the little voice in my head said.

  I tugged too hard while milking Iris, and she kicked over the milk bucket. I didn’t even care. All I could think about was Myrtle, wondering how I could find out for sure if she was my mother. I’d have to meet her before I could be certain. But how? Where was she? Was she even still alive?

  I stared hard at Hannah while she bustled around fixing breakfast.

  Did she know? Was she ever planning to tell me about Myrtle Rose?

  My very next thought made me feel short of breath.

  If it was true that Myrtle was my mother, then Hannah was my real grandmother.

  Had she ever planned to tell me that?

  I opened my mouth to ask her, but then I shut it right up again. Hannah had kept this secret for ten years. How could I trust anything she told me now?

  “You’re looking a little peaked this morning,” Hannah said. “You feeling all right?”

  No, I wanted to scream, but I just nodded. I didn’t think I could speak a word anyway.

  “Maybe you need a dose of castor oil,” Hannah said.

  What I need is someone to tell me the truth, I thought, but I just shook my head.

  Hannah had orders for me to deliver, but I went first to the Monitor office (I’d been afraid of seeing Raleigh after what I’d said, or almost said, to him, and breathed a sigh of relief that he wasn’t there) and marched right up to Mr. Gilpin’s desk.

  “You knew about Myrtle,” I said. “All this time, you knew, everyone in town knew, and no one ever told me.”

  “Blue—” Mr. Gilpin began, but I didn’t let him finish.

  “You were all laughing at me behind my back.”

  “No one was laughing at you, Blue,” Mr. Gilpin said, but I didn’t believe him. “It was Hannah’s place to tell you, not ours.”

  “Then why didn’t she?”

  Mr. Gilpin shrugged.

  “Every family has secrets,” he said.

  I delivered the rest of Hannah’s orders but hardly noticed where I was, and I could barely speak to Mrs. Wells, Mrs. Thompson, and Mr. Hazelton. I was mad at them, all of them. No one had told me the truth.

  Maybe that’s how Nadine was feeling, too, because I hadn’t told her the truth.

  Mr. Gilpin’s words went round and round in my head.

  Every family has secrets.

  I’d kept secrets all summer, too, but none of them seemed like anything compared to this secret. The other thing I’d found out about secrets was that they have a way of coming out.

  Back home, I counted up how much money I’d saved over the summer.

  Eight dollars and thirty-three cents. I didn’t know how much a train ticket to California cost, but I was sure it was a lot more than eight dollars and thirty-three cents.

  Right then, I decided I wasn’t going to wait until I earned enough to get me to California. I’d go as far as eight dollars would take me, then sneak onto trains like a hobo. I didn’t know how I’d ever find Myrtle, but I was going to try, and I’d find out from her whether she was my mother or not.

  The sesquicentennial celebration would be a perfect time to leave. Everyone would be in town, and it would be hours before anyone noticed I was missing. If anyone noticed I was missing.

  I had to pack in secret, so Hannah wouldn’t see. I thought hard about what to take because I knew I had to travel light. I stuffed dungarees, shirts, and a sweater into a grain bag and hid it in my closet. I’d have to leave my books. I figured Myrtle would buy me new books when I got to California.

  If she really was my mother.

  Maybe it was just because I’d been waiting and watching so many years for my mother, and maybe it was because I wanted so much to believe that Myrtle was my mother, but I heard the little voice say:

  She is.

  And I believed it.

  At milking time, I patted the cows and hugged Dolly, already missing them. I planned on riding Dolly to the train station, figuring either she’d walk back home on her own or someone would return her. I’d miss her, but maybe Myrtle would buy me a horse, too.

  I di
dn’t think Myrtle would buy me cows.

  I thought how things would be here after I left: Raleigh would keep helping around the Monitor, Mr. Gilpin would keep trying to scoop Mr. Allard on stories, Mrs. Wells would keep telling her boring stories, the quilting ladies would keep meeting and quilting, the Wright brothers would keep tormenting kids and animals throughout the town. It made me feel hollow inside, realizing my leaving wouldn’t change anything. Hannah would be farming by herself again, but everyone would pitch in to help, just like they had when she was in the hospital. She’d get by, and things would go on pretty much as they always had. It would be almost like I never existed at all.

  I tried to cheer myself up with thinking of all the new things I’d be seeing, like the sun setting on the Pacific Ocean, and Hollywood stars driving by in their fancy cars. I might even get Humphrey Bogart’s autograph!

  I tried not to think about how much I would miss Hannah.

  I didn’t want to leave without trying to make things right between me and Nadine, either. It took me a while to work up enough courage to walk over and knock on the Tiltons’ door.

  Mrs. Tilton answered.

  “Is Nadine here?” I asked. “I came to apologize.”

  Mrs. Tilton looked at me, sadly.

  “I’m sorry, Blue,” she said, “but Nadine doesn’t want to talk to you. I’ll tell her that you’re sorry, and I’ll try to get her to come over to talk to you, but I’m not promising anything.”

  I nodded and stumbled down the steps. Even if Nadine did come over (and I was pretty sure she wouldn’t—she could be awfully stubborn), I’d be gone. I wondered if Nadine would miss me once she realized I was gone for good.

  I knew I’d miss her, even with the fights we’d had. Through the summers I’d known her, we’d had more good times than bad.

  “Blue?” Mrs. Tilton said, and I turned.

  “You’re the reason we’ve kept coming here all these years,” Mrs. Tilton said. “Nadine’s never been good at making friends—goodness, I don’t have to tell you that she’s not the easiest person to get along with—but having you for a friend has made all the difference for her. Thank you.”