“Blue,” I said.
“Perfect.” Aunt Patty Cake put the car in drive, and I didn’t see her until this morning.
The blue fabric is beautiful. It has a purple hint to it, like the lilac chaste tree in Irma Bitters’s yard. That morning, I stood there admiring it draped over Aunt Patty Cake’s bed. It’s a downright pity, because with Aunt Patty Cake as the seamstress, this is the best that fabric is ever going to be.
Garnett thought it was pretty too. She stroked the fabric. “You are going to look gorgeous at the talent show.”
I sure hope Aunt Patty Cake manages to sew on the sleeves this time.
I need to forget about that dress and concentrate on my singing. I’m curious, Mr. Williams, does someone make those cowboy shirts for you?
Trying to stay focused on my song,
Tate P.
March 25, 1949
Dear Mr. Williams,
WHEN I LEFT FOR SCHOOL Monday morning, Aunt Patty Cake was laying out the pattern pieces of my dress. I would have asked to see the cover, but she had a mouthful of pins and she didn’t glance up when I walked into the kitchen. Frog and I ate bread and fig preserves on the front porch. Aunt Patty Cake didn’t bother saying good-bye when I hollered to tell her I was leaving to meet the school bus.
That afternoon, when the school bus dropped me off at home, I left Lovie on the front porch and went inside. Aunt Patty Cake was sitting in front of her black Singer.
“Hi, Aunt Patty Cake,” I called out.
With her back to me, she lifted her hand in a quick wave. That afternoon I heard words I’d never heard coming out of her mouth. I can’t write them here, but to give you an idea, Frog and me would have had our mouths washed out with soap if we’d whispered them under our breath. I was getting real nervous thinking about how that blue dress was going to turn out. I guess it would be better to be laughed at because of my dress than because of my singing.
Before I went to bed, I ducked my head inside the kitchen. Aunt Patty Cake was glaring across the room, and I swear there was meanness shooting out of her eyes. When I realized her focus was the blue fabric wadded up in the corner next to the broom, my stomach felt like someone was squeezing it hard. That night, I tossed and turned, and when I finally fell asleep I dreamed of wearing a dress that not only had missing armholes but also no place for my neck to come through either. I was a blue ghost.
The next morning, Aunt Patty Cake wasn’t by the sewing machine. She was sitting in her straight chair, listening to you sing as she ripped out a seam. Oh, how I wish Constance Washington was making my dress.
When I came home, I was in for a surprise. The blue dress was hanging on the back of my bedroom door. Miracle of miracles! It wasn’t hemmed yet, but it was beautiful! I half suspected someone, maybe Garnett, came over in the middle of the night and finished it. Although I didn’t even know if Garnett knew how to sew.
I ran out of the room and hugged Aunt Patty Cake, who’d been dozing in her chair with her feet resting atop a Delightfully Devine Beauty Products box. I told her how the dress was perfect and how she was the best aunt in the entire parish and maybe in the great state of Louisiana.
She hugged me, then held me at arms’ length with her hands resting on my shoulders. She sighed and said, “Tate, I hate to break this to you, baby, but I’m never sewing another thing for the rest of my entire life.”
I don’t understand why a person would give up on something after they finally got the hang of it. I’m never, ever giving up on singing, and neither should you, Mr. Williams.
Singing forever and ever,
Tate P.
April 5, 1949
Dear Mr. Williams,
LATELY LOVIE HASN’T BEEN meeting me at the mailbox when I get off the school bus. Uncle Jolly says she has wanderlust and that I shouldn’t worry about her, because she’s always home by dinner. But it makes me think she’s not happy here if she goes gallivanting. Uncle Jolly’s right, though. She always comes home by dinner, waiting for me to put scraps in the old aluminum pie dish.
Mrs. Applebud was in our kitchen this afternoon, drinking a cup of coffee and eating a slice of pecan pie with Aunt Patty Cake.
“Mrs. Applebud has good news. Her son and his new family will be moving here by next fall.”
“I hope you and Keiko can be good friends,” Mrs. Applebud said. “She’ll need some help with English. Although she’s already learning.”
“Maybe she can teach me Japanese,” I said. It was funny how the Japanese seemed like enemies a few months ago, but Coolie’s and Theo Grace’s pen pals helped me see Japan differently. I guess that’s what Mrs. Kipler meant when she said we’d get to know new worlds. Although I don’t think Wallace or his family is going to be excited about Yuki and Keiko moving here. And probably some other families too.
Later that night, Aunt Patty Cake was ironing a basket of laundry while she hummed to the radio.
I asked her, “Where will Albert and his new family live?”
“What do you mean?” Aunt Patty Cake asked.
“Will they have to live in Pine Bend?”
Aunt Patty Cake frowned. “Why in the world would you think that? They’ll probably live with Mrs. Applebud. She has plenty of room.”
“Well, good. You can call on them personally for your Delightfully Devine products.”
She seemed annoyed by my remark. I was just wanting her to win that Dream Dust Derby. She was still frowning as she sprinkled starch over Uncle Jolly’s collar. When she finished, that shirt was so stiff, it could have stood up on its own.
Relieved Aunt Patty Cake skipped the starch on my clothes,
Tate P.
April 21, 1949
Dear Mr. Williams,
LAST NIGHT WAS the season opening for the Alexandria Aces. I’d been rehearsing for the talent show every day, so I was glad when Uncle Jolly announced we’d be going to the game. I needed a break. Uncle Jolly’s truck was in the shop, so we took Aunt Patty Cake’s car. Frog and me climbed in back, where Uncle Jolly’s baseball glove lay on the floorboard. “Reckon this will be the big night you catch a foul ball?”
“You never know,” Uncle Jolly said. “Either way, I’ll be ready.”
You should have seen Uncle Jolly’s face when we picked up Garnett and she walked out of her little house with her very own baseball glove.
Our seats were so high up that they should have both left their gloves at home. But these are two dreamers, and whenever they heard the crack of the bat they both held their gloves like the ball was going to fly their way. Anyone could tell Uncle Jolly and Garnett were crazy about each other, but I could see them peering out of the corner of their eyes, sizing up the other’s glove. One time, Uncle Jolly caught her scoping his glove out, and he held his stare until her eyes met up with his. When they did, she just smiled and Uncle Jolly melted like he always does when Garnett flashes her pearly whites at him.
Frog and I were getting hungry, and so I asked Uncle Jolly for a cotton candy. Uncle Jolly flagged down the boy carrying a tray of the pink spun sugar. He was digging in his pocket to get out his wallet when John Tidwell stepped up to bat. When we heard the pop of the bat, Uncle Jolly was handing the boy a dollar. The ball flew up over the backstop and soared through the air above us.
Holding up her glove, Garnett jumped to her feet. Uncle Jolly was taking change from the boy when the ball landed with a smack in Garnett’s mitt. And when Uncle Jolly handed the cotton candy to me, Garnett yelled, “Hot dog!”
Uncle Jolly waved to a hot-dog boy, then he did a double take.
Garnett held the ball under Uncle Jolly’s nose. “Look!”
Uncle Jolly’s chin dropped. He’d been trying for years to experience what Garnett had accomplished. It happened right next to him, and he hadn’t even witnessed it.
But I had, and I said, “Hot dog, Garnett!”
Uncle Jolly sent the hot dog boy away with a “Never mind.”
After the game, Garnett rushed out to
the field to get her ball signed by all the players. She asked us to come too, but Uncle Jolly shook his head, and Frog and me decided to stay put also. Besides, it was fun to watch Garnett from the bleachers. She was more entertaining than the game. Waving her arms around, probably telling them how she caught the ball. She asked them to sign her glove, too. I could tell they didn’t mind none. Garnett is a looker, after all.
I know Uncle Jolly thinks Garnett is the cat’s meow, but the way he sat up there waiting for her to finish getting those autographs, you’d have thought she was his number one enemy. Garnett chattered all the way home about what the players said to her. Uncle Jolly tried to act as if he wasn’t listening, but he was soaking in every word like biscuits sopping up gravy.
When we arrived at Garnett’s house, I was afraid Uncle Jolly was so mad that he’d forget he was a gentleman. But he put the car in park and walked around to open the passenger door. And when he did, Garnett said, “James, close your eyes, and I’ll give you a big surprise.”
Uncle Jolly must have heard this before, because he leaned toward her, shut his eyes, and puckered his lips. Garnett grabbed his hand and placed the autographed baseball in his palm. Uncle Jolly opened his eyes and looked down. Then she kissed him on the cheek and dashed off.
“Good night, Tate! Better luck next time, James!” she hollered, and giggled all the way to the front door.
Fan of Hank Williams, the Alexandria Aces, and Garnett Bilmont,
Tate P.
April 22, 1949
Dear Mr. Williams,
LOVIE DIDN’T COME HOME last night. Aunt Patty Cake said she was making a pan of cornbread when she’d noticed Lovie pass the kitchen window. She figured Lovie was visiting Gayle Rockfire’s place, but when Mr. Rockfire dropped by this morning for coffee he said he hadn’t seen her in two days.
When I got home from school, I headed toward my bicycle, determined to find Lovie. Frog followed me, and I knew exactly what was on his mind.
“You don’t have a bicycle anymore,” I reminded him. I thought about letting him ride on my handlebars, but then I looked down at his feet. Frog was wearing Big Pete’s boots. Just when I’d thought I’d seen the last of them—he must have dug them out of the trash after Uncle Jolly threw them out.
“Well, if you come with me, you can’t wear those boots,” I said.
He turned and stomped off.
I was glad Frog wasn’t going. He would have slowed me down. I jumped on my bike and took off toward the road.
Aunt Patty Cake hollered for me from the front porch. “If you’ll wait a second, we can go in the car.”
I told her I wanted to use my bike because I could go places a car couldn’t, places a dog might think about hiding. When I said those words, I had a choke in my throat. Why would Lovie want to hide from me? No one here had mistreated her. Even though Aunt Patty Cake scared her something terrible when she yelled at Lovie for wetting my bed, she’d dropped a crispy bacon strip for her on the floor an hour later.
I pushed off and pedaled away from home.
Aunt Patty Cake called, “Be back before dark, Tate!”
Canton Cemetery Road turned into a blur, but I braked every time I thought I saw something move in the grass. I rode down to the Kizers’ place and knocked on their door. Ebby answered, and I could tell she was wearing Florida Sunrise Pink on her lips. If I hadn’t been on such an important mission, I would have told her how nice she looked. When I asked if she’d seen Lovie, she said, “No, I’m sorry, Tate. I’m afraid I’ve never seen your dog. Let me ask Newman.”
She asked me to step inside, but I said, “No, ma’am, thank you. I’ll wait out here.”
Then Ebby called out to Newman. I heard the Carter Family singing from the back of the house. Newman walked up behind Ebby and peered at me over his glasses. He had the Alexandria Town Talk in his hand.
“Tate is looking for her dog,” Ebby said, resting her hand against Newman’s chest.
Newman’s eyebrows met. “What’s your dog look like, Tate? I see dogs all the time walking up and down this road.”
“Lovie is a Louisiana cur dog, leopard colored and icy blue eyes.” I’d practiced saying that all the way there.
Newman raised his eyebrows. “That’s your dog?”
My heart beat like a broken clock. That’s what a slice of hope can do to you. “Yes, sir!”
“I saw that dog. Hard to forget those eyes. Yes’m, I saw her a couple of days ago heading toward Gayle Rockfire’s place.”
My heart sank. “Yes, sir,” I told him, “Lovie visits Mr. Rockfire and Corky a lot, but Mr. Rockfire hasn’t seen her today.”
Newman scratched his head. “I’m sorry, little gal. Wish I could be a bigger help, but I’ll keep my eye out for Lovie from now on.”
“Sorry, Tate,” Ebby said. “Don’t worry too much. I’ll bet anything she’ll show up. A dog remembers the place that loves her most.”
I decided to ride over to Mr. Rockfire’s again. Maybe I’d find Lovie along the way. As I pedaled up the hill, I stopped anyplace that I thought Lovie might like. When I noticed an opening in some underbrush beside the road, I stopped my bike. After dropping on all fours, I crawled over to take a peek inside. The only thing I found was a sack of garbage someone had tossed out. Down the road a piece, I saw an abandoned car that had been there a long time, although no one had figured out how it got there. Frog and I used to pretend we were driving that car, until a snake crawled out from under the seat. It was just a harmless brown snake, but it kept us from returning. Nothing could keep me away today. I braced myself and opened the door on the driver’s side. I looked in the front and back. I whispered her name aloud—“Lovie, Lovie”—but I didn’t see or hear a peep.
The sun was setting low in the sky, so I straddled my bike and headed back on the road. At Mr. Rockfire’s house, Corky was lying on the porch. He stood when I approached and barked. He barked so much that I started to wonder what Lovie saw in him. I was relieved he had a chain leash attached to his collar. Thank goodness Mr. Rockfire finally came outside. One of the straps from his overalls was undone. “Is that you, Tate?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Still looking for Lovie?”
“Yes, sir.” My throat felt thick. I could hardly talk. I was grateful Mr. Rockfire was doing it for me.
“Tate, sorry to say I haven’t seen her, but I’ve got a feeling she’ll show up at either your place or mine. If it’s mine, I’ll get her back home quicker than a sneeze.”
I nodded, because that’s all I could do.
Mr. Rockfire must have understood exactly what I needed to know, because he said, “Tate, you’ve been real good to that dog. She’ll come home.”
I waved before pedaling back to our house. I didn’t cover half of Rippling Creek, but I planned to start out again first thing in the morning.
Mr. Williams, you write a lot of heartache songs. Is that because you lost something you really loved?
Hoping your life is going better than mine,
Tate P.
April 25, 1949
Dear Mr. Williams,
IT’S BEEN THREE DAYS, and Lovie has not returned. I don’t want to think about what could happen to a sweet dog out there alone in the world. We missed your show on Saturday because we were busy looking for her. And you know we never miss the Louisiana Hayride. Aunt Patty Cake asked, “You reckon Lovie is trying to find her way back to Texas?”
Now, if that wasn’t the dumbest idea I ever did hear. Why would a dog that had its bark beaten out of her ever want to go back to her old home?
By now everyone in Rippling Creek knows about her being gone. At school, Mrs. Kipler asked the principal if there was anything they could do. You know your dog is really lost when the principal of Rippling Creek School writes an official announcement and orders every teacher in every class to read it.
When Mrs. Kipler read it to ours, everybody turned to me with the most pitiful looks, including Verbia. And if there is anythi
ng I hate, it is someone like Verbia Calhoon feeling sorry for me. All day in school, I drew pictures of Lovie. I drew a doghouse with a soft bed of her own made with pillows and Aunt Patty Cake’s wedding quilt (Lovie always liked that quilt). I got so caught up daydreaming that I didn’t listen to Theo Grace read her letter from her pen pal. Mrs. Kipler peered down at my drawing when she walked by my desk, but she didn’t say anything.
I guess it will come as no surprise to you that I won’t be singing at the Rippling Creek May Festival. Can’t see the point in it now. When a person’s heart is breaking, the idea of getting onstage and singing seems like a lousy idea. I hope you don’t take that personal, Mr. Williams. I guess that’s how we’re different. I can’t sing because my heart is breaking, and you sing because yours is.
Waiting for Lovie with a big hole in my heart,
Tate P.
PS—Mr. Williams, if you do happen to see a leopard-colored Louisiana Catahoula dog with icy-blue eyes around Shreveport, please let me know. She’s awful shy, but she knows her name. So all you’d have to do is call out “Lovie” in a sugar voice (the same tone you use when you sing “My Sweet Love Ain’t Around”), and I’m sure she’d come to you.
April 27, 1949
Dear Mr. Williams,
THERE IS AN EMPTY CORNER in my room that rips me to pieces whenever I look at it. I guess you know what that means. Lovie still hasn’t returned. Aunt Patty Cake wrote Momma about it, and Momma wrote me a letter. I’ll share it with you. It said:
DEAR TATE,
You’re in my prayers and thoughts right now. We both know what it’s like to lose someone special to us. And now you’re having to go through it again with Lovie. I can’t promise that Lovie will show up. I wish I could. I will say this, though. After Jolly told me about Lovie, I knew you gave her a better home than her last. That should make you feel proud. Lovie must have her reasons if she hasn’t come back. Please don’t give up hope, but don’t give up getting on with things. It’s hard to lose our loved ones, but they would want us to go on. You should reconsider singing at the May Festival. It will do you good to focus on something.
Dear Hank Williams Page 9