A Smidgen of Sky

by Dianna Dorisi Winget

  I poured myself a glass of milk, dished up some cobbler, and sat at the kitchen table where I could keep an eye on Miss Claudia. She squinted at my dress for so long, I worried maybe she couldn’t fix it. But then she reached for her sewing shears and started clipping loose threads.

  “So when is this wedding, again, Piper Lee?”

  “Two months.”

  “Ahh. I bet you’re jus’ as excited as can be.”

  “Not really,” I said through a mouthful of cobbler. “Me and Mama are just fine like we are.”

  You’d think I had let loose with a string of swear words for how quiet it got. Miss Claudia stopped snipping.

  I stopped chewing.

  “Don’t you love your mama, Piper Lee?” Miss Claudia finally asked.

  “Well, course I do.”

  “Then you should be tickled pink that she’s lucky enough to find somebody to care for. Don’t you know the Good Book there says you gotta treat people the way you wanna be treated?”

  An old Bible lay near me on the table, its gold letters scuffed and worn from years of loving use. I swore it was glaring at me.

  “Well, yes, ma’am. It’s just that Ginger and I don’t get along much. She only likes Mama.” I knew it was weak, but it was all that came to me right then.

  “Well, course she likes your mama, fine woman that she is. Girls need a mama. Poor little thing’s never had one, has she?”

  I tried to recall the little bits of information I’d heard. “I know her name was Tina, and she left when Ginger was a baby.”

  “There you go,” Miss Claudia declared, as if that explained everything. “She’s probably jealous as all get out.”

  Jealous? Ginger was a spoiled brat and got too many A’s on her report card. But jealous? Of me?

  “You jus’ wait and see,” Miss Claudia said. “The four of you are gonna be as happy as a rooster in a hen house.” She pointed to a little plastic bin on her sewing table. “Could you bring that to me, child?”

  I carried it over, glad for the distraction. She popped the lid, and her chocolate fingers rummaged through a bunch of sewing odds and ends—thimbles and half-used spools of thread, buttons, little bits of fabric and lace. She pulled out a small white tube and held it out to me. “This here is fabric glue. You watch, now—this is magic.”

  “But it’s white!” I cried as she squeezed out the first strip.

  “No, no, not to fret, now. As soon as it dries, it’ll be clear and it’ll pull the fabric together. It won’t be perfect, but nobody will notice.”

  I bit my bottom lip as she squeezed out six more strips, each about an inch long. Then, magically, the first strip began to turn clear, and I let out a happy breath. “Hey, that’s lookin’ pretty good.”

  “See? What did I tell you?”

  It was another ten minutes before my dress was dry. Miss Claudia put it on a pretty padded hanger and sent me home.

  Mowgli lay in a tight ball at the end of my bed, one paw over his eyes, as if he were trying to block the sun.

  “Hey, fat cat. Check out my dress. It’s still ugly, but it looks good as new.”

  I whomped my hand onto the pillow to get his attention. Dust particles twirled up my nose and made me sneeze, but the shocked look on Mowgli’s face was worth it. “You deserved that for causing me all this trouble.”

  I hung the dress in my closet. One problem out of the way. But Robert Redford smiling down at me made me think of Daddy, and I realized that fixing the dress hadn’t really solved anything at all. I flopped down next to Mowgli and thought about the day Mama had met Ben. She’d come home from her shift at the Black-eyed Pea with leftover biscuits and gravy for our supper, her face all pink and happy.

  Mama definitely smiled more now and looked prettier. She even sang as she did stuff around the house. Those were nice things. But then I noticed my fifth-grade school picture on the bookshelf. It reminded me of another picture, my favorite one in the world.

  I got my aviation scrapbook off my dresser. Daddy grinned out at me from a big newspaper clipping, his Piper Cub parked a few feet behind him. The picture was taken the day he was awarded a silver plaque for his flawless ten-year safety record taking aerial photographs for the Georgia Board of Tourism.

  Mama had clipped five newspaper articles about Daddy—this one about the award and the other four about the accident—and had given them to me when I’d started the scrapbook.

  I laid my school picture beside the grinning photo of Daddy, comparing our faces the way I’d done a hundred times before. We had the same chestnut hair—thick and with a mind all of its own. Mama said we had the same smile. I couldn’t be sure; I looked pretty serious in my school picture. The longer I compared them, the more the photos blurred together. I wiped at my eyes.

  “Daddy,” I whispered. “I am so sorry I kept you from going up to look for those people earlier.”

  5

  I MUST HAVE fallen asleep, for the next thing I heard was Mama’s key jiggling the lock. I sat up and stretched, trying to shake off the sleepy feeling as I stumbled out to the living room.

  Mama struggled through the door, balancing her purse and two overloaded grocery bags. “Hey, kiddo.”

  “Hey, Mama. Today’s not grocery day.”

  “No, but Ben and Ginger are coming for supper tonight. Did you forget?”

  Oh, yahoo. “I don’t remember you telling me.”

  Mama kicked off her loafers and handed me one of the bags.

  I peeked inside. “No okra in here, I hope.”

  “Nope. I thought we’d just fry up some chicken and have corn bread and salad with it. Nothin’ too fancy. Oh, shoot. I forgot to buy buttermilk.”

  I knew what she was thinking. Ginger hated corn bread without buttermilk to pour on top. I hid my smile. “Oh, well,” I said.

  Supper was supposed to be at five thirty, but Ben and Ginger didn’t show up. Mama set the chicken in the oven to keep it warm. It smelled so good, I could hardly stand it. By ten to six my belly rumbled like thunder. I kept picking little bits of tomato and celery off the salad.

  They finally showed up at six thirty. Ben was still wearing his tan prison-guard uniform, and his hair was rumpled. I’d never seen him look so tired. He ducked his head to give Mama a kiss. “Sorry, y’all,” he said.

  Ginger wore shorts and a pink tank top that said “Miss Kitty” across the front. I wondered if she was wearing that training bra again. I still needed to talk to Mama about getting me one.

  Mama gave Ben the once-over, reaching up to smooth his hair. “What happened, guy? Rough day?”

  “Somethin’ like that.”

  “Wanna talk about it?”

  “No, ma’am. I’m starved.”

  “Me too,” I said. “Supper’s been ready for—” Mama shot me a look, and I shut my mouth.

  Ginger caught the look and giggled. “What’s that, Piper?”

  “Mama made corn bread, but we’re outta buttermilk.”

  Her face turned into a big wrinkle. “Piper Lee, that is not what you were gonna say.”

  “Hey,” Ben warned. “I’m not in the mood, so don’t even start.”

  Ginger narrowed her eyes at me from behind his back.

  I clamped my lips real tight to keep a giggle from slipping out.

  Mama carried the chicken and corn bread over to the table and set out some beer and Cokes before sliding into the chair next to Ben’s.

  “Could you pass me a Coke, please, Heather?” Ginger said.

  “I’ll take a beer,” I said.

  Mama handed each of us a cherry Coke.

  Ben said a ten-second blessing, and nobody spoke again till we’d polished off most of supper. Then Ben took a long swig of his beer and said, “The inmates caught wind of the governor’s new bill today.”

  Mama dabbed at her mouth with a napkin. “The one that cuts the budget for some of the prison programs?”

  “Cuts the prison library hours in half and gets rid of most of the s
ports programs, too.”

  “So, was there a lot of ruckus?”

  “Oh, yeah. Kenny and I dragged three guys to solitary over it; that was just from my unit.”

  “How come prisoners get to play sports, anyhow?” I said. “I thought prison was to punish you.”

  Ben took another long sip of beer and wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “Diversion, mostly. You’ve got seven hundred guys locked up—they need some way to burn energy.”

  “I guess it’s understandable they wouldn’t be real happy about it,” Mama said. “Do you expect more trouble over it?”

  Ben raised his eyebrows and said nothing.

  “You keep talking about guys,” I said. “Aren’t there any ladies?”

  Ben smirked. “Well, ladies don’t usually end up in pri­son, but no, there aren’t any women inmates where I work.”

  Seven hundred prisoners. That seemed like a whole lot to handle, especially if they were all upset about something. It made me wonder if Ben ever got scared. I was about to ask him when I noticed Ginger eyeing the last chicken leg.

  We both reached for it at the same time. “I only had two,” I said.

  “You did not. You had three.”

  “Like you were keeping track.”

  “No, I just saw, is all. Daddy and you had three, and me and Mama had . . .”

  I was so surprised, I let go of the drumstick. Ginger’s eyes got as big as Mowgli’s food bowl. Even Ben and Mama seemed stunned for a second. Then Mama got this goofy little smile on her face and winked at Ginger.

  Ben took the chicken leg from Ginger, pulled off the meat as best he could, and gave us each half. “There. Now nobody has any reason to bellyache.”

  Ginger’s face turned the color of a ripe watermelon. She picked up her meat and nibbled at it. I did the same.

  “Come on,” Mama said to Ben. “You look like you could use a neck rub.”

  “Mmm. Be a fool to turn down an offer like that.”

  “Would you girls please put the dishes in the dishwasher?” Mama said, leading Ben into the living room.

  I waited until they disappeared before whispering, “She’s not your mama, you know.”

  Ginger didn’t look up. “I know. It just slipped out, is all.”

  I wanted to warn her not to ever slip again or I’d slap her silly, but there was something in her voice that made me bite my tongue. I heard Miss Claudia say, “Girls need a mama,” just as clear as if she were leaning over my shoulder.

  I picked up a piece of chicken skin and stretched it until it snapped.

  Ginger moved a little piece of corn bread away from her salad.

  “So, speaking about mamas,” I said, taking a chance, “what happened to yours, anyhow?”

  “She left when I was a baby.”

  “How come?”

  “I dunno. Daddy says they got married too young.”

  “How old was she?”

  “Nineteen.”

  Nineteen sounded plenty grown up. “You know anything about her?”

  “I’ve seen pictures. She’s real pretty. Daddy says I look a lot like her. He says she was real nice and popular, too. She was on the drill team.”

  I didn’t understand how somebody could be nice and yet walk out on her own kid. And if age had been the problem, how come she hadn’t come back? Wasn’t she curious to see how Ginger was turning out? “Do you know where she’s at now?”

  “No. But she called from Colorado on my sixth birthday and left a message on the answering machine.”

  “Colorado? You mean she went and turned Yankee?” I could tell Ginger didn’t think it was funny, and I felt kind of bad for teasing. “So what did the message say?”

  “Just that she’d call back later. But she didn’t.”

  “Probably chickened out.”

  Ginger’s mouth turned into a square of anger. “You don’t know that.”

  “Don’t go getting all in a flap. I only meant it would be hard to be gone for a long time and then just call like that.” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “Have you ever thought about trying to find her?”

  Ginger screwed her face up like I’d asked the question in Chinese. I fully expected her to tell me I didn’t have a speck of brains. But she just sat there, her mouth half-open, looking like a real doofus. Then she whispered, “How would I do that?”

  I eased back in my chair and took a long, slow look out to the living room to buy myself a few seconds to think. Then I hunched toward Ginger and said the first thing that jumped into my head. “Well, I s’pose the phone book would be a good place to start.”

  6

  “WHICH PHONE BOOK?” Ginger said. “She don’t live around here.”

  “Are you sure? Maybe she moved back.”

  “To the coast?”

  “Well, maybe not right here. Maybe Oakdale or Atlanta or someplace.”

  Ginger shook her head. “I don’t think she lives in Georgia, Piper. She called from Colorado, ’member?”

  “We could look on the Internet.”

  “We don’t have the Internet.”

  “No. But the library does. Has a bunch of phone books, too, I think.”

  She scowled. For a few minutes I’d really had her going, but now she looked more put-out than interested.

  “Her last name is Hutchings, right?”

  “I don’t think so. Daddy said her name was Liman.”

  “Okay, hold on.” I scooted back my chair. Mama was perched on the edge of the big recliner, rubbing Ben’s neck. He sat on the rug in front of her, his eyes closed while they chatted.

  I tiptoed over to the kitchen counter and pulled the phone book from its drawer.

  Ginger watched with narrowed eyes. “This isn’t gonna work, Piper.”

  “Don’t know till you try,” I said, borrowing one of Mama’s favorite lines.

  I sat beside her and opened the book to the white pages. At first we couldn’t find anyone with the name of Liman. But then Ginger said maybe it was L-y and not L-i. Changing the spelling worked. She stopped running her finger down the page and sucked in her breath. “Here’s two of them.”

  My heart pumped faster. I hadn’t expected there to be any. “Yeah? Where?”

  “Here. Rebecca M. Lyman and Francis Lyman.” Ginger slumped. “But Mama’s name is Tina. These guys aren’t her.”

  “Oh,” I said. “Maybe they know her. Shoot, they’re probably your relatives.”

  Ginger and I hunched back over the book, as if staring at the names might answer our questions. She twirled a section of hair around her finger and unrolled it just as fast.

  “Maybe the next time your daddy’s busy outside, you could try calling these numbers,” I said.

  “And say what?”

  “Well, you could, um, say something like ‘I’m looking for Tina Lyman and wondered if you might know her.’”

  Ginger’s eyebrows scrunched. I could tell she wanted to believe me but wouldn’t let herself.

  “What are you girls whispering about?” Ben called out from the living room.

  Ginger jumped so hard, she banged her leg into the table.

  We both whirled around just as Mama and Ben walked into the kitchen.

  Ben grinned. “Shoot,” he said. “You two look as guilty as Pedro Wooly when I caught him with a fork from the cafeteria.”

  Mama giggled.

  “Pedro Wooly? Is he a person or a sheep?” I asked, my nerves still on high alert.

  “Hard to tell,” Ben said. “Looks a little like both.”

  I groped for the front of the phone book and flipped it shut.

  Ginger still stared. She looked real guilty, all right.

  “So what are you up to?” Mama asked.

  “Nothing,” I said. “I was just showing Ginger something.”

  Mama and Ben exchanged a look.

  For once Ginger did the helpful thing. She stood and carried the phone book back to the drawer. I started stacking supper plates and humming “O
de to Billie Joe.”

  “Well,” Mama said, “we came to tell you there’s a fifties car show going on at the park. We thought we might go stroll around for a bit after you girls get the kitchen done.”

  “Oh, okay,” I said. “Be done in a minute.”

  Charlesburg Park swarmed with folks eating hot dogs and boiled peanuts, oohing and aahing over the old cars. Some of the ladies wore pink poodle skirts or rolled-up jeans and white T-shirts. I thought they looked like weenies, but I liked the ’50s music blaring through the park. The cars were okay, too—not as great as airplanes, but still pretty cool, splashed with shiny chrome and shimmering paint.

  Soon Ginger started holding her hair up off her neck and complaining she was too hot, but I was glad we’d come. The air smelled of barbecued pork and mowed grass and the fishy scent of the Atlantic.

  Ben stopped in front of a sleek silver Mustang. He gave an admiring whistle. “This is how mine’s gonna look one day.”

  I had my doubts about that. The ugly brown Mustang parked in his yard didn’t look anything like this one.

  Mama smiled. “In a few more years and with a few more dollars.”

  “You know,” Ben said, “if you’d let me take an early retirement, I’d have a lot more time to work on it.”

  “I hate to tell you this, guy, but you got another twenty years before you can take early retirement.”

  “Well, shoot,” he said. “That’s not what I wanted to hear.”

  Mama giggled her little-girl laugh, the laugh she saved just for Ben. I couldn’t help but notice how happy she seemed, strolling beside him, holding his hand. But it was Daddy’s hand she should’ve been holding, not Ben’s.

  “Hey, Piper.” Ginger nudged me. “Looky there.” A little kid ambled past with a huge ice cream. It was melting faster than he could eat it, leaving brown ribbons of chocolate streaming down his wrist.

  “Want to get some?” Ginger asked.

  I nodded.

  Ginger hopped up beside Ben. “Hey, Daddy? Can I get some ice cream?”

  Ben didn’t answer. He was still drooling over the silver Mustang. Ginger darted around in front of him, wrapped her arms around his waist, and stepped right up on his toes.