There it was, created from pieces of the earth and the ocean and the sky, just as Mele Grace remembered it!
Hundreds and hundreds of stitches made of plant material were woven and knotted into coils. Black triangles of fern root made a pattern all around. Feathers from a red-winged blackbird and a mallard duck and the crest of a quail were also attached. And abalone beads hung from the coils like tiny stars.
But really, a thousand words can’t describe how beautiful it is.
Mele Lorraine and Mele Grace were VERY teary, even though they had seen it before many times. Hazel sketched a picture of it.
Meanwhile, Angel had decided to hide inside a replica of an old beat-up car supposedly from the Midwest during the Depression, that terrible time in the 1930s when farms were drying up during a drought. The car had the sign CALIFORNIA OR BUST! hanging from the side of it. It took us thirty whole minutes to find her, and then she kept yelling, “Angel or Bust! Angel or Bust!” in a singsong voice, almost all the way home.
That was annoying, but it wasn’t the outstanding bitter experience. That comes next.
LATER
It hurts so much to write about it. But I have to.
When we drove up to Hazel’s house to drop her off, Rick and Hazel’s mom were sitting on the outside steps. Liza gave us a lips-only smile and Rick just stared. Hazel leaped from the car.
Mama leaned out the window and shouted, “Enjoy your out-of-town guests!”
Rick frowned and looked at Hazel.
Rick: “What out-of-town guests?”
Mama: “The ones Hazel mentioned. Otherwise, we’d love her to join us now for pizza and a sleepover.”
Rick: “No out-of-town guests planned. She just wanted to stay home with us, and we wanted her here, too.”
Hazel’s cheeks turned Petunia Pink. She ran inside her house.
So they weren’t excuses. And they weren’t reasons. They were just more fabrications.
I, a fabricator, shouldn’t judge another fabricator. But Hazel’s lie still hurt.
“Hazel wants to spend every spare second she has with her goat,” I explained to Mama and Sammy.
But I don’t really think that was the real reason.
Like Gabby said, she doesn’t SLEEP with that goat.
What was the other reason?
I saw Mama and Sammy looking at each other as if they were reading each other’s mind. I think I was thinking the same thing. I hope we are all wrong.
Love,
Me
MONDAY, MAY 18, 2015
Dear You,
Hazel wasn’t in school today.
Just before dinnertime, Sammy answered the phone.
Sammy: “You’re kidding me! No, she’s not here.”
It was Hazel’s mom. She had stayed home from work because Hazel insisted on being with Nell on Nell’s last day with the family. The lonely widow was arriving to pick up Nell that very evening. Hazel’s scare tactics about Nell’s indigestion and bowel and behavior problems just hadn’t scared the widow away. Her mom said Hazel had gone out to the backyard this afternoon but she wasn’t there anymore.
AND NELL WAS GONE, TOO!
Hazel’s mom was telephoning us from her car because she and Rick were driving around the neighborhood, frantic with worry. Hazel and Nell were nowhere to be seen.
Me: “I think I know where they are.”
And I was right. Because where else could they have been?
As Sammy and I turned the corner onto Hazel’s street, we could see a telltale trail of poop drops leading to the stairway entrance. And all we could hear was “M-AH-AH-AH-AH!” coming from behind the garbage pails.
The Secret Stairway was no longer an ironclad secret. Neighbors were peering out their windows. Some were standing on the sidewalks. Behind the garbage pails, we found Hazel hugging Nell, Hazel’s mouth a determined straight line, her eyes like slits.
Nell: “M-AH-AH-AH-AH!”
Way at the top of the secret stairs, leaning over the rickety fence, was a man and a woman and a little boy.
Man: “We kept asking what was wrong, but she wouldn’t tell us.”
Woman: “We were just about to call the authorities.”
Boy: “Can we keep the goat? Can we keep the goat?”
Can we keep the goat.
That was what made Hazel’s determined look crumple up. She began to cry.
Sammy: “Sweetie, your mom is very worried about you. I don’t think Nell’s a happy camper, either.”
Nell: “M-AH-AH-AH-AH!”
Hazel must have known that the Time Had Come. Slowly, she stood up. She led Nell down the stairs by the leash attached to the goat’s collar. What else could Hazel do? She’d tried everything.
Sammy, Hazel, and I slowly walked back down the street to Hazel’s house, with Nell and her poop drops following behind. Hazel’s mom and Rick (the goatist!) were pulling up in their car just as a woman driving a pickup truck was arriving, too.
It was the lonely widow in the pickup truck, a kindly looking little person with pink, apple-shaped cheeks. Under ordinary circumstances, I would find that fact amusing, because her name was Mrs. Applebaum. But nothing was amusing at that moment, and it’s not even amusing now.
Hazel’s mom hugged Hazel. But all Hazel wanted to do was hug Nell. Me, too. We put our arms around Nell’s warm neck. We buried our noses in Nell’s soft ears.
Nell: “M-AH-AH-AH-AH!”
Nell knew something was up. Nosiree, she didn’t want to be separated from her family and friends! I began to feel hopeful. A little apple-cheeked person can’t get a big, strong, stubborn goat to do what the goat doesn’t want to do, I was thinking.
But Mrs. Applebaum knew her Nubian goats. She offered Nell some grain from the palm of her hand. Before we knew it, Nell allowed herself to be led to the pickup. Little Mrs. Applebaum, murmuring sweet nothings, quickly and expertly placed Nell’s front legs onto the bumper and leaned on Nell’s haunches. Then she moved Nell’s head toward the truck to show her that there was even more grain inside.
And poor, hoodwinked Nell jumped right in! Mrs. Applebaum clanged shut the back of the pick-up and drove off.
It was all over. The goatist lit a cigarette. Hazel’s mom put her arm around Hazel, who wasn’t crying anymore. I guess she had emptied out all her tears and was kind of in shock.
Hazel’s mom, to us: “Thank you so much for bringing my daughter home.”
And she and the goatist and Hazel went inside their house. Sammy and I went home.
It was all so sad.
Love,
Penny
SUNDAY, MAY 24, 2015
Dear You,
There is so much to write, and I keep putting it off, but here goes.
SECRETS of the SECRET STAIRWAY (SOSS) ANGRY FAREWELL EDITION
Yes, FAREWELL, I am sorry to say.
Hazel wasn’t in school on Tuesday, either. But on Tuesday afternoon, she phoned both of us after school and asked us to please meet her at the Secret Stairway that afternoon.
Hazel gave both Gabby and me a small portrait of Nell. She had used watercolors and acrylics. They are beautiful and look just like Nell. Some people probably think all Nubian goats look alike, but those of us who know and love her can tell that it couldn’t be any other goat but Nell.
Hazel: “I have to confess a few things. I want to apologize for getting your hopes up about going to a Warriors game. Rick never promised to take us. I lied. I just wanted you both to be my friends.”
Gabby and I were very understanding at first. But I wasn’t really surprised that she’d lied. As I said, it takes a fabricator to sniff out another one.
Gabby: “You were a new girl. I guess you really wanted to make friends.”
Me: “I know what it’s like to lie about something you want very much.”
Hazel: “Thank you for understanding. I hate Rick with all my heart and soul. And Penny, I also want to confess something about your birthday sleepover. It wasn’t m
e. It was Rick, mostly!”
Me: “What do you mean?”
Hazel: “I wanted to go to the sleepover at your house. But Rick and my mom wouldn’t let me.”
Me: “Why not?” (I already suspected the answer, You.)
Hazel: “Well, you know.”
Me: “Not really.” (I sort of did.)
Hazel: “Because you have two moms. Rick and my mom don’t think that’s right. They didn’t want me staying overnight at your house. It’s mostly Rick, though.”
Me: “Why isn’t it right to have two moms?”
Hazel: “Well, you know.”
Me: “Actually, I don’t.”
Hazel wouldn’t look at me: “Rick said it’s just not right.”
Me: “You said that already.”
Hazel: “Rick didn’t want me to go to the sleepover at Gabby’s, either.”
Gabby: “Why not?” (Of course, we knew the answer to that, too.)
Hazel: “Because he’s a racist. My mom said I could go. But Rick put his foot down for YOUR sleepover, Penny. He said he would move to Colorado without us if she allowed me to go to your party at a house with two moms.”
Gabby, in her loud voice, the loud voice that everyone except her best friend (me) is surprised she has: “SO YOU SHOULD HAVE TOLD HIM TO MOVE TO COLORADO WITHOUT YOU!!!!!”
I agreed. I told her she should have stomped down hard, right on Rick’s big feet! Or gone on a hunger strike. And told him what was right about my family.
Hazel just sat there with her head down, looking at her knuckles in her lap. And then Gabby and I got up and left the Secret Stairway, probably forever.
I am angry at Rick and Liza. I am angry at Hazel.
But I am also angry at MYSELF.
Because I didn’t say everything I should have to Hazel. I didn’t tell her what is very, very RIGHT about Mama and Sammy being together.
I should have told Hazel how happy they are and how much they love each other. How they are never crabby without apologizing right after, how they sing together, and how they read each other’s mind, how they both cook our favorite foods and have Sundae Mondays and laugh at each other’s dumb jokes, and how Mama brings Sammy ginger-mint tea when Sammy is working late, and how Sammy tucks a pillow behind Mama’s back when it hurts, and how they take care of me as a team when I’m sick, and also when I’m not, and how they can’t wait to have a baby in the house, and how they never, ever forget a birthday or an anniversary or a Valentine’s Day or a Just-Something-to-Celebrate-Day, even if the cards are homemade. I wish I had said all that and much, much, much more.
I told Mama and Sammy what happened. They said there will be lots of times in my life when I will wish I’d said something when it is too late. That happens to everyone. But they are glad I wrote it all down.
Me, too.
For the record, even though it doesn’t seem so important now: Last night, the Warriors beat Houston in their third game in the Western Conference Finals. 115–80. I have been watching the games, just not writing about them.
Love,
Penny
WEDNESDAY, MAY 27, 2015
Dear You,
Gabby and I are not speaking to Hazel. We don’t look at her disdainfully. We look at her sadly and with great disappointment in our eyes. Well, in Gabby’s eyes, because I can’t see my own eyes, but I’m sure they look just as hurt.
I thought I would want to be Hazel’s friend forever.
Mama and Sammy say maybe I am being too hard on Hazel. And I say Hazel should have defended my family to her family!
I am learning that it is much easier to tell you happy things than not-so-happy things.
You are almost thirty weeks old now. I read in What to Expect that your brain is growing. It now has wrinkles and grooves so that it can expand even more later on. You are getting set “for a lifetime of learning.”
So I guess my own brain has expanded a little. Because I have to tell you that a person realizes certain mature things when she moves further up in the double digits. This is what I have learned this week: People can disappoint you. A friendship can disappear—POOF!—just like that.
As Mama and Sammy always say, real life is harder than losing a basketball game. And there are more important things than winning one. Real life is not a GAME. I always knew that in my head. But I guess I never really felt it in my heart, deep down.
Sorry that I have to tell you all this, You.
The Warriors lost to Houston on Monday, 115–128.
And guess what? SO WHAT?
And then the Warriors beat the Rockets 104–90 tonight to close out the series. They are off to the NBA Finals against Cleveland.
That’s nice, but guess what? SO WHAT?
Love,
Pen
PS. Hazel put a note in my mailbox. She said she is hoping against hope that I will find it in my heart to forgive her. She has thought about things and, of course, she knows my family is just as right as any other family. She just didn’t have the words to say that to Rick.
She should have tried harder to find those words.
Except . . . even I didn’t have the words for Hazel right away. So how could I expect Hazel to say them to Rick?
THURSDAY, MAY 28, 2015
Dear You,
Lots more has happened.
Momentous, soul-shattering things.
Remember Barbara Wolney, the jam maker, from Junoville, Wyoming?
She mailed a package to Hazel’s address. Tonight, Hazel’s mom brought it over.
Hazel’s mom: “Rick wanted to mail it, but I thought it would be easier if I just brought it over.”
Mama and Sammy looked puzzled. Of course, I knew immediately what it was.
Hazel’s mom didn’t stay very long, but she was very nice, thanking Mama and Sammy for taking Hazel to the museum. I wondered if Hazel had said anything to her.
It was a big box wrapped in brown paper. The return address said BARBARA WOLNEY, FRUIT OF THE VINE. The package was addressed to PENELOPE VICTORIA BACH, care of HAZEL PEPPER, with Hazel’s address underneath that. Someone (probably Rick) had made a big, black, angry cross-out over that address and written PLEASE FORWARD, then scribbled our address instead.
Me: “Oh, I can explain what that is.”
So I told them the whole story about using Hazel’s iPad. And I said of course it was wrong to write to strangers on the Internet, but I was trying to track down clues about Mama’s relatives as a surprise. And that I was still waiting for something from the Doppel Country Cousins Trio, which will probably be forwarded, too, if the Trio answers me.
“Wolney,” Mama whispered. Her eyes were teary. I figured she was crying because of me writing to strangers on the Internet. Or maybe because I was having so much trouble tracking down relatives for her.
Sammy said, “Well, we may as well go ahead and open it.”
So I tore off the brown paper, and underneath, there was a box wrapped in fancy paper decorated with balloons and cakes and candles and HAPPY BIRTHDAY written all over it. I didn’t remember telling anyone about my birthday, I thought. I tore off the fancy paper and opened the box.
Inside were three big jars of gooseberry jam with labels that said FRESH FROM THE VINE.
And a little beige book called poems of hooves and the wind in my hair, by someone named Alfred J. Wolney.
And, also, a folded-up letter.
Me: “How come a stranger knows it’s my birthday?”
Sammy opened the letter. Two photographs fell to the floor. Mama picked them up and looked at them. Tears poured out even more, as if they’d been hiding behind her eyes for a long time. She leaned her head on Sammy’s shoulder and made Sammy’s baby-blue T-shirt turn navy.
Sammy quickly glanced over the letter, then handed it to me.
Sammy was crying, too.
Dear Penelope, My cousin, Barbara Wolney, the jam maker, gave me your letter.
My name is Al Wolney, a poet and also an accountant. A lover of bot
h words and numbers, one would say.
I am also your grandfather.
Happy birthday!
Of course a grandfather knows his granddaughter’s birth date! I am so happy you found me. I have been looking for you. I’ve never known where you lived, Penelope, since your mom changed both of your last names.
I wasn’t going to tell you the truth about who I am. But I’ve changed my mind.
It has been almost nine years, and this old guy has learned a few things, and grown a bit, especially after my wife (and your grandmother), Carol, died. Say hello to your mother and Samantha. Tell them we were wrong, and that I am sorry. I hope they will find it in their hearts to forgive me, and that you will, too. They will explain what happened.
Please keep in touch. There are some pretty cool aunts and uncles and young cousins who want to meet you all.
Love,
Al Wolney
[email protected]
Turns out, Mama and Sammy told me, this Mr. Alfred J. Wolney, the locally famous Junoville poet, is MY relative, not Mama’s. Turns out he is my dad’s father! Turns out that, no, Mama doesn’t have any relatives left in Junoville. She is an orphan, brought up in foster families, but my dad really wasn’t an orphan.
Then Mama and Sammy told me a story I never knew until THIS VERY DAY.
Here it is: When I was a very little, Mama and Sammy and I flew from California all the way to Wyoming to visit my dad’s father, Al, and my dad’s mother, Carol, who is now dead. They wanted to introduce them to their granddaughter.
Me.
We stayed in a hotel. Al and Carol invited the three of us to their home, but just for an afternoon visit. Mama and Sammy could smell chicken roasting in the kitchen, but we weren’t asked to stay for dinner. That’s because Al and Carol said they didn’t think our family was “right,” same as Liza and Rick don’t.
So Mama and Sammy and I went home to California the next day, and they never spoke to Al and Carol again.
Mama picked up the photos that had fallen to the floor. She held up one of her and my dad on a motorcycle. A man was standing beside them with his hand on my dad’s shoulder.
Love, Penelope Page 11