A Song of Home

by Susie Finkbeinger

  I sat there in the pew between Mama and Aunt Carrie on that sunshine morning, fit to bust for how happy I was. And scared half to death of what bad thing might be waiting just around the corner.

  I had no doubt, the bad would come.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  Over breakfast the day after Easter, Mama said something or another about how she’d like nothing better than some fried chicken. So when Daddy’d brought home a whole bird from the butcher’s she wasted no time in cutting it up to fry for supper. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t seem to remember the last time I’d had Mama’s fried chicken. What I did remember was how crisp the outside got and how juicy the meat stayed.

  I thought when I grew up and had a family of my own I’d need to know how to make chicken just like Mama’s. My husband, whoever he ended up being, would love me even more for the way I cooked it and my kids wouldn’t leave so much as a scrap of it on their plates.

  But first I’d need to learn how. I came to the kitchen and asked Mama if she needed any help.

  “I’d like that,” she said.

  She let me help her sift the flour and dip the legs and wings and breasts in the buttermilk and then press it in the flour, then back to the milk, back to the flour.

  “Why twice?” I asked, my fingers coated in a layer of the breading, making more of a mess than helping, I was sure.

  “My mother always did it that way,” Mama said. “I never could make it just the way she did. I think she added something she never told me about. Some kind of a spice or something.”

  “Why wouldn’t she have told you?”

  “I don’t know,” she said. “Maybe so my chicken wouldn’t be as good as hers. She was funny about some things.”

  “What was she like?” I asked.

  “My mother? Oh, I guess you wouldn’t remember her. She wasn’t around us much once you were with us.” Mama pushed a piece of chicken into the flour. “She passed on when you were little.”

  “I wish I could remember her.”

  “She was a fine woman, I guess. Tough as could be. Course, she had to be, I suppose.” Mama lowered the chicken into the bubbling oil with as much care as she could so it wouldn’t splash. “She always said she was part Cherokee but I don’t know about that.”

  I looked up at Mama’s dark hair and eyes and wondered if it was true, that she was part Indian. I wished there was a way to be sure. Next day at the library, I’d get myself a book about the Cherokee and see if they had any pictures on the pages. It would’ve been a great discovery if one of the squaws in the book looked just like Mama.

  “Beanie was always scared of her. She’d cry whenever my mother got close. Didn’t ever know why.” Mama shook her head. “My mother never understood why we kept Beanie.”

  “What else would you have done with her?” I asked.

  “My mother said we should’ve put her in some institution up in Boise City,” Mama said. “One for mongoloids.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It was just another way of saying Beanie wasn’t right.”

  “Beanie was just fine.”

  “She was. Yes, she was.”

  Mama fished the pieces of chicken out of the grease that were cooked through and put them in her covered dish to stay warm.

  “I’m glad you didn’t send Beanie away,” I said, dunking a chicken piece into the milk.

  “It wouldn’t have been right.” Mama blinked a tear loose. “She belonged with us at home.”

  I hoped Mama hadn’t seen me peek at the calendar hanging on the wall. She’d circled one day out of all of the dates in April. It was a tiny circle, made with a pencil, around the number fourteen. I didn’t remember the dates of everything that happened through the year. But that one I knew. That was the date of big, black dusters and lost sisters.

  It would be a full year the very next day. It didn’t hardly seem possible. The stab of missing Beanie had changed over the months to an ache right in the middle of my chest whenever I thought of her. Aunt Carrie had told me once that having that kind of pain came because we still loved the person that was gone and that it never all the way left us. She’d said it was good to feel it and it was all right to still love Beanie so deep.

  Mama felt it too. I could tell by the way she made her lips into a tight O and pushed out a thin ribbon of air.

  We kept on making the chicken, Mama and me. Then we went on to setting the table, Mama telling me to put out an extra plate for Winston. I was glad he was coming. I hoped he’d tell us a story or two, maybe even a joke. And I hoped maybe he’d help us forget the sadness the next day would bring us.

  We got changed into fresh clothes and Mama had me sit on her bed as she pulled a brush through my hair.

  “It’s growing out,” she said. “It’s pretty, darlin’.”

  She was more gentle with me than she usually was, careful not to tug too hard at a snarl or to push the bristles into my scalp. Soft and low, she hummed one of the songs she’d sing when I was smaller, one to keep me from being sad or scared. It was one I thought sure she’d made up herself on account I never heard it anywhere else.

  “I’m glad you came home, Mama,” I said, worried she wouldn’t hear it because it’d only come as a whisper.

  But she’d heard it. I knew she had by the way she paused in her brushing, just for a second, before going on. I looked at her reflection in the mirror on the other side of the room. She hadn’t smiled and hadn’t nodded. She’d closed her eyes and breathed in through her nose, pulling her lips in between her teeth.

  She had to pull a hanky from her pocket to dab under her eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  Having Winston sitting at our table and filling our house with his big old voice and booming laugh made my heart feel fit to bust from happiness. He’d had only kind words for Mama’s chicken and ate so much of it I thought we probably should have fried up two whole birds. He licked his fingers and wiped the grease off his chin with the palm of his hand, saying he’d never tasted anything so fine in all his life.

  “I’m glad you liked it.” Mama leaned back in her chair, her fingers laced together on the top of her stomach. “Pearl helped out, didn’t you, honey?”

  I nodded, feeling swelled up with pride.

  “Some man’s going to be lucky to marry you one of these days,” Winston said, winking at me.

  “Hold there.” Daddy put his hands up like he was surrendering. “Let’s not rush the girl, all right?”

  The three grown-ups laughed and for some reason it made me feel embarrassed, like I should crawl under the table so they wouldn’t look at me anymore.

  “I read something the other day,” Winston said, grabbing another drumstick for his plate. “There’s girls waiting to get married until they’re well into their twenty-second year. Can you believe that?”

  “Why do you think that is?” Daddy asked.

  “Don’t have any idea.” The mayor tore off a chunk of chicken with his teeth and held the drumstick up, using it to point as he talked, looking for all the world like a picture of King Henry the Eighth I’d seen in one of my library books. “But it don’t seem natural, waiting so long to get married.”

  “I was seventeen when Tom and I got married,” Mama said.

  “Seems so young now we’ve got an eleven-year-old, huh?” Daddy asked, winking at me.

  “I guess so,” Mama said. Then she cleared her throat. “Maybe they can’t afford the marriage license.”

  “Could be,” Winston said. “Or they’ve just come to realize what I’ve been saying for twenty-some years. If the bachelor life was good enough for Saint Paul, it’s good enough for me.”

  “Well, the bachelor life isn’t for everybody. Myself included,” Daddy said, raising his glass of water like I’d seen folks in the movies do with wine. “I’d toast you with champagne, but the town only gives me a tap water paycheck.”

  “You and me both, Tom,” Winston said, raising his own glass. “You and me both.�
��

  Mama sat up straight as a stick and breathed fast, a little gasp. She half turned her head and looked down at the table.

  “You all right, Mary?” Daddy asked.

  “Yeah. Yes,” she answered, hardly moving an inch. “Just a little twinge.”

  Daddy got up and poured some fresh water from the pitcher into Mama’s glass.

  “It’s normal,” Mama said, nodding. Then relaxing, she put on a smile and leaned back into her chair. “I’m fine.”

  “You sure?” Daddy asked.

  She didn’t answer him. What she did was look at everybody’s plates and ask if anybody wanted more of something.

  “I made plenty of potatoes,” she said.

  Nobody ate a bite more. Not even Mayor Winston.

  Winston only stayed long enough for us each to have a good slice of the cherry pie that he had brought over from Shirley’s diner and for the grown-ups to have cups of coffee. It was all right by me, though. Mama had said Ray and I couldn’t stay up too late on account we had school the next day.

  “Pearl, I’ll have you help me clear the table,” she said.

  I did as she asked, scraping the plates and stacking them in the sink, shaking crumbs from the cotton napkins and putting them aside to be washed the next day. I lined the glasses along the counter, ready for Mama to swish them in her soapy water and rinse them clean. But Mama hadn’t drawn the dishwater yet like she usually would. Turning to see what was keeping her, I saw she was leaning against the counter, her eyes closed.

  “I can wash these,” I told her. “You don’t have to.”

  “You sure?” she asked, her eyes still closed. “I’m just so tired.”

  “It won’t take me long.” I turned on the tap, letting the water get steaming hot before plugging the sink up and putting a dot of soap in.

  She was still standing there, hardly moving but to breathe deep.

  “Why don’t you go on to bed?” I said. “If you’re so tired.”

  “Maybe I will.”

  Turning, I got started on the dishes, plunging my hands in the water and yelping for how it burned all the way to my bones. Mama didn’t ask if I was all right, and when I looked over my shoulder I saw she’d already gone.

  We sat in the living room, Daddy, Ray, and me, waiting for the news to finish so we could hear a radio play or comedy act. Mama’d already gone to bed, so there wasn’t anyone fretting over us staying up so late on a school night.

  The man spitting out the news talked fast and with a higher voice than any man I’d ever known. He spoke of tensions in Europe and a man taking hold of Germany and all manner of things I just did not understand.

  But the way Daddy held his ear close to the radio and his eyebrows pushed down I thought it was no good, whatever was going on.

  “You think there’ll be a war?” Ray asked.

  “Don’t know, son,” Daddy answered. “I sure hope not.”

  As soon as the radio show started, Daddy lit a cigarette and leaned back in his chair. He didn’t laugh at the jokes or shake his head at the pickles the character in the show got himself into. His eyes seemed to be looking off at something far away.

  His cigarette burned down and I worried he’d get his finger with it. He must have felt the heat of it. He reached over and dropped it in the ashtray.

  “Daddy?” I asked. “What’s wrong?”

  “Nothing, darlin’.” He looked down at me and smiled. “Just thinking.”

  I didn’t have to ask what it was he was thinking about. Seemed plain to me.

  Jesus had called all the weary and heavy-burdened folks to come to him, I knew that was so. And He promised that His way of living was easy and light. I sure did think Daddy could use a lighter load.

  I’d made my best try at falling asleep. Seemed like I’d spent hours rolling to one side or the other to get more comfortable or clamping my eyes shut as I counted sheep. No matter what I did I couldn’t manage to get my brain to slow down.

  Back in Red River I could always blame Beanie for keeping me up with her tossing and turning, her kicking and stealing the covers. More than a couple times a week I wished I could have a bed all my own.

  That night I would’ve given anything in all the world to have my sister back.

  I scooted over to the edge of the bed, the side I would have occupied had Beanie been there. On my side with arms crisscrossed over my chest, I pretended she was there. I imagined like neither of us was sleeping the way Mama would have wanted us to. Instead, we shared quiet giggles, trying so hard not to get caught.

  It wouldn’t matter what was causing us to laugh. All that was important was being with my sister.

  A smile on my face, I shut my eyes and held onto hope that she was all right. That she had a place in heaven where the pillows would be fluffed just right and nobody’d get too sore with her for making little noises in her sleep.

  I didn’t cry for Beanie just then, even though I could have. But I did hold a loneliness for her in my chest that seemed deep as a well.

  I got myself up to see if Daddy was still awake.

  There were no lights on in the living room and nobody making so much as a peep in all the house. Daddy wasn’t in his chair or in the kitchen. I saw that the door to Mama’s room wasn’t closed all the way so I pushed it open, wondering if maybe she was awake. If she saw me, I hoped she’d invite me to come and sit with her a spell.

  I didn’t step in the room, though. Daddy sat on the end of the bed, elbows resting on his lap and his face covered by one of his hands. Mama was curled up tight on the far side of the bed like she was trying to take up as little room as she could.

  In Daddy’s free hand he held a photograph. The way he held it in a stream of moonlight made it so I could see that it was a man and woman in the picture, standing close together.

  Daddy and Mama.

  I knew the one even without getting a real close look at it.

  It was taken out in front of our house in Red River. Before the dust had gotten real bad. Daddy had his arm around Mama, pulling her close into him. With his other hand, he’d tipped up her chin so they were looking right into each other’s faces. She had that smile of hers, the one I could have sworn would stop the sun from setting. And he looked about as happy as could be, just having her close like that.

  They had loved each other.

  If I could’ve had a wish just then, it would have been that Daddy would put that picture down and that he’d climb in under the covers right beside Mama. That he’d have an arm draped over where her waist dipped down. Maybe he’d even feel the bumping of the baby like I had. Maybe then he’d decide to love it, too.

  But even wishing on all the twinkle-twinkle stars in the sky couldn’t undo much of anything.

  “Pearlie?” Daddy whispered.

  He stood and came toward me, putting a finger to his lips to let me know I should be quiet and dropping the picture on top of Mama’s dresser. Pulling the door closed behind him, he steered me back toward the davenport.

  “You all right?” he asked.

  I nodded.

  “That’s fine, darlin’.” He looked back at the bedroom door and crossed his arms. “Your mama wasn’t feeling so good. I was just checking on her.”

  “I know,” I said. “What’s wrong with her, Daddy? Is it the baby?”

  He turned back to me and wrinkled his nose and shook his head. “She’s fine. Just not feeling good. It’s normal.”

  “Should we get the doctor?”

  “Nah.” He shook his head. “She’ll be right as rain tomorrow. You’ll see.”

  “All right,” I said, not sure if I believed him.

  “Now, why’d you get up?” he asked. “Have a bad dream?”

  “No, sir. Just couldn’t sleep.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that,” he said. “Tell you what. I’ll tuck you back into bed. I can even tell you a story. That sound good?”

  It did and I let him know by following him up the stairs and climbi
ng right back into my bed. He pulled the covers up until just my face peeked out at the top.

  “Can you tell me a story about Jed Bozell?” I asked.

  Daddy knelt down on the floor right beside my bed. “Jed Bozell? You sure you wanna hear about that old cuss again?”

  I nodded.

  “I ever tell you about the lady old Jed liked to bring along with him?” Daddy asked.

  “He always had ladies with him,” I said. “Didn’t he?”

  “Well, you’re right about that, I guess. But this lady, she was special. Not cause she was prettier than any other woman in the world. She never wore anything all that fancy like the others in the show. She was content to wear her gray dress and shoes. Most folks thought she was just a cook or maid Jed brought along to take care of the folks in the show.” Daddy scrunched up his face. “Most just didn’t pay her any mind at all.”

  “What was her name?” I asked.

  “Smokey,” he said. “Her name was Smokey.”

  “Because her dress was gray like smoke?”

  “That and cause she’d be there one second and gone the next.” Daddy grinned. “Smokey the Disappearing Woman.”

  “Did she really disappear?” I asked.

  “Sure she did. At least I saw it a couple times. Guess you could ask Gus. I bet he’d tell you the same thing.”

  Daddy leaned in closer to me to go on with the story.

  “Now, some folks said it was just a trick with mirrors and trap doors.” He shook his head. “No, ma’am. They were wrong.”

  “They were?”

  “Sure. They all were accustomed to magic shows. The kind where the magician would tell them to look one way so he could stuff a dove into his sleeve or something like that,” Daddy said. “But that’s not the kind of disappearing Miss Smokey could do. Her disappearing was real.”

  Daddy got up off his knees and used his hand to let me know I should scoot a little for him. He sat on the edge of my bed.

  “I’m getting too old to be on the floor like that,” he said. “Anyway. Jed told me once that he hated when folks asked to see Smokey disappear. Said it always made him sick to his stomach with worry about her. But she never did seem to mind. Whenever the crowd would holler out to see her disappear, she’d walk right out on stage in that gray dress of hers and give them the show they wanted.”