“I couldn’t get past the oldest Thatcher boy to see the mother,” Old Mr. Jolly is saying.
“Once a snake, always a snake,” I tell him, cramming another piece of pie into my mouth.
“I’ve been thinking about bringing food to the Morrell family,” Rosalyn says, looking at Mirabel. “Would you help me?”
Even before Mirabel answers, Rosalyn is rolling ahead with her next idea. “Phoebe has been wanting to learn how to make one of these vinegar pies. Perhaps she could come over and you could teach her how, Charlie Anne?”
I am nodding even before I see Mirabel’s frowning face. As easy as pie, Rosalyn has found a way for Phoebe to come back.
“Phoebe, come see my room,” I say, stuffing the last bite of pie in my mouth, and we are all running upstairs before Mirabel has a chance to do anything.
We fly onto our bed, and the feathers in the mattress sack are fluffed high because I just shook it out this morning. Everything is clean, the floor is swept, the window is washed.
“You all sleep in this bed?”
“Yes,” says Birdie, giggling. “But Charlie Anne snores and keeps me awake all night.”
“I do not,” I say, jumping up and pouncing on her. “Take it back.”
“No,” she says, squealing, her arms all pinned. “Charlie Anne snores louder than Papa,” she says before I can get my hand over her mouth, and then we are all shrieking and rolling around the bed, and pretty soon Mirabel is banging the top of the broom handle against the ceiling, which means quit it, or else.
“We need to do something to that Thatcher boy, to get him back,” I say, rolling over on my stomach and propping my head up with my arms.
“What should we do?” Birdie asks, her eyes big.
“I don’t know,” I say. “Something that teaches him good.” I watch a cow fly buzzing around our ceiling and remember the time the oldest Thatcher boy grabbed me on the walk after school and pulled me down in the dirt. “Eat it,” he said, pushing a fistful of gravel into my mouth, making me gag until I kicked him good.
“Maybe make him eat dirt. Something like that.”
Birdie looks a little doubtful. Phoebe looks a little doubtful. I feel a little doubtful.
“He’s awful big,” says Birdie.
“Maybe,” says Phoebe, “the way to get him back is to get the school open and show him we’re no quitters. That’s what my mama would tell us.”
Birdie and I just look at each other. You’ve got to hand it to Phoebe. She knows what she’s talking about.
When we come down, they are still sitting around the table, and Mirabel is brewing more tea. Rosalyn is saying she’d like to hear some of that manners book she’s been hearing so much about, and Mirabel takes it out of her pocket, and wouldn’t you know it, the section Mirabel reads actually makes a teeny bit of sense:
In all social relations, strive to
throw your influence for that
which is faithful, sincere, kind,
generous, and just. Have a special
thought and regard for those who
may labor under disadvantages; be
especially kind to the shrinking
and timid, to the poor and
unfortunate.
Mirabel pauses, and looks at Rosalyn. “I don’t know why Charlie Anne makes such a fuss about this book all the time.”
Rosalyn sips her tea and looks over at me. “Maybe girls should be a little noisy now and again, don’t you think? Otherwise, bullies like that Thatcher boy can do whatever they want.”
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“This is how you make a vinegar pie,” I am telling Phoebe.
Mirabel is peeling potatoes. “Did you know vinegar pie makes the hard times better?” she asks Phoebe in her loud voice. I’ve noticed she uses this voice all the time for Phoebe, like maybe Phoebe can’t hear right or is a little slow-witted or something. Even my feet are embarrassed.
Phoebe’s got that ironing board down her back again. “My mama knew how to make things better, but not by baking pies.”
You can tell Mirabel doesn’t know what to say to that. She goes back to the cookstove and stirs the beans for a long time, even though we all know beans don’t need much stirring.
When the pies are in the oven, Mirabel shoos us outside, and Phoebe and I go sit on the porch. We watch Birdie run down through the sheets and look for something, then go back and sit by the shade of the barn, only to run back down again. She does it three times while we are sitting there.
“What’s she doing?” Phoebe shields her eyes with her hand to block the sun.
I shrug. “Let’s go see.” And then Phoebe and I go down to find out.
“What are you looking for, Birdie?”
Birdie is hunting between the sheets, snapping them off their clothespins. Her cheeks are covered with tears. She goes back to searching.
“What is it, Birdie? What are you looking for?”
Birdie looks behind the last sheet, pulling it down on the ground. “I keep seeing Mama,” she sobs. “But by the time I get down here, she’s gone.”
“Oh, Birdie,” I say, getting down on my knees so I can look in her face. “Oh, Birdie.”
I hold her and she cries my arm all wet. She looks up, sniffling. “Is Mama coming back, Charlie Anne?”
“I don’t know, Birdie.”
“If we wait long enough?”
“I don’t know. Maybe in different ways from what we had before. You look just like her, you know.”
“I do?”
“Yes,” I say, hugging her, and then Phoebe is there, too, looking like she knows all about losing your mama. Then we pick up the sheets and brush them off and hang them back up again. Anna May is telling me to thank heaven that it is not a muddy day.
When we walk up to the house, we do it just the way Old Mr. Jolly and Rosalyn do it with Phoebe: we both take one of Birdie’s hands and we swing her up off the ground with every few steps and pretty soon she is shrieking and laughing and the tears that are clinging to her lashes from before are wondering what they’re still doing there.
That night I let Birdie sleep close to me and I don’t make her push over.
“Charlie Anne?”
“Yes, Birdie?”
“You spoil me with hugs. Just like Mama.”
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37
The Morrell house is very dark when we get there. The door is shut up tight and the curtains are drawn. There is no smoke coming out of the chimney and even the chickens are still.
I am ready for Old Mr. Jolly to fly Phoebe and me out of the back of the truck, but he is already hurrying up the walk and knocking on the door, and Rosalyn is right behind him. Mirabel is carrying the basket of food: golden harvest soup, apple dumplings, her pot of baked beans and a vinegar pie made by Phoebe and me.
Pumpkins and squash are still sitting in the garden, and if somebody doesn’t come get them pretty soon, they’ll be good for nothing but the compost pile. There’s no rooster, no dog, no cats running around. When Old Mr. Jolly knocks again, I see a curtain move.
“Knock harder,” says Mirabel.
I go over and tap on the window. It is icy cold. “Sarah, it’s me, Charlie Anne. We brought food and stuff. Open the door. Please.”
Finally, after about a hundred years, the door opens just a sliver. Sarah Morrell looks out. Her eyes are big as Anna May’s.
“How you doing, Sarah?” I step closer. “We’ve got a big basket of things for you.”
She looks unsure if she should open the door any more. “My mama is sick.”
We are all just looking at Sarah. Her dress is hanging off her shoulders and she has no shoes and no socks.
“There’s apple dumplings in the basket Mirabel is carrying,” I say softly. “Can we come in and see your mama?”
Sarah gives me a long look and then steps out of the way so we can all go in together. The house is dark and cold, and there is a lump of blankets on the couch and
there are two little girls standing near the table, which is covered with dishes. There is a bad smell coming from the kitchen.
“Oh my,” says Mirabel. “Bring me those dishes,” she says, pointing to the dirty plates, and she rushes off to the kitchen.
Old Mr. Jolly and Rosalyn go right over and kneel in front of Mrs. Morrell and ask how she is and she tries to smile, but she winces and whispers how she has surely seen better days. Old Mr. Jolly goes out and gets a big bucket of fresh water from the well, and Rosalyn squeezes out a cloth and starts wiping Mrs. Morrell’s face, and then Mrs. Morrell is crying.
It is a sad thing to see someone’s mama crying. Phoebe and I just stand there not knowing what to do, and then Rosalyn looks over and says maybe we can lay out the food. Mirabel gives us a towel, and Phoebe and I wipe off the table and start unloading everything. We tell Sarah to get plates and forks, and I show her and the little girls how to put the forks on the left, and napkins under, and I tell myself to stop it because I’m sounding like Mirabel. Then we watch the Morrell girls all plow through the apple dumplings (it’s okay to have dessert first sometimes, Rosalyn says), and then they reach for the pie. Mirabel washes some bowls and some spoons and I ladle out the soup.
Rosalyn helps Mrs. Morrell with her soup, but she has to stop because Mrs. Morrell has started crying again. Rosalyn dabs at Mrs. Morrell’s eyes with a napkin and keeps saying, “There, there, things will get better very soon. You’ll see.” Old Mr. Jolly jumps up and hurries outside, and he brings in wood and starts a fire in the cookstove, and then he carries in bucket after bucket of water, and by the time Mirabel has heated it almost to boiling, Mrs. Morrell has stopped crying.
Sarah shows us where the broom is and the washbucket and the mops, and Phoebe and I and Rosalyn get to work helping Mirabel, all of us cleaning and scrubbing and putting everything away, and while we are doing that, we tell the girls all about the school.
Rosalyn asks Mrs. Morrell if maybe the girls could go to school tomorrow, and by the time we get the house clean and warmed with a fire, she is saying that maybe they could.
“Can Charlie Anne come, too?” Phoebe asks Mirabel, and then everyone is looking at Mirabel.
Mirabel twists a towel around her fingers. “Gosh, it’s getting hot in here,” she says. Then she opens all the windows to let some fresh air in.
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The oldest Thatcher boy is chopping wood by the barn, and he looks up as we pull into the driveway. He isn’t wearing a coat, and he has that mean look he’s had since his father got killed in that hunting accident.
This was Old Mr. Jolly’s idea, to bring food over. Maybe he could get to the mother and talk to her about her oldest son, he told us.
Old Mr. Jolly turns off the truck, and we watch big dogs on chains howl and jump toward us, and I think on how you’d have to be crazy as a loon to get out of the truck.
The house is turned gable-face to the road, which means the front door looks out on a field overgrown with ragweed and thistle. The side door is covered with poison ivy. Three doghouses sit on the grass and the clothesline creaks around and around. Paint is peeling and cracking off every single clapboard.
After a while, the oldest Thatcher boy comes over to the truck, an ax over his shoulder. Two other boys come out of the house and watch us. No one is wearing shoes.
“What do you want?”
Old Mr. Jolly opens the truck and climbs out and slowly straightens his back. He is tall, now that Rosalyn makes him stand up straight. “We brought some things over. We hear your mother is sick.”
The boy backs up a pace. “We don’t need no help.”
“We know you and your brothers are fine,” Old Mr. Jolly says, pointing to the porch, where there are now four boys standing beside a broken swing. “We brought food for your mother. How is she?”
“Poorly,” he says. “She has the influenza.” The boy is stubbing his toe into the dirt.
“Well, she might like this,” says Rosalyn, climbing out of the other side of the truck, carrying a basket, keeping her eye on the dogs. “There’s soup and bread and apple dumplings and pie.”
Rosalyn holds out the basket. “Can we go up and see your mother?”
“She don’t like company.” The boy scratches his toe in the dirt again.
Rosalyn watches the dogs. “I can see that.”
Mirabel climbs out of the truck. I watch her noticing the dirt all over the boy’s neck and his ripped shirt and dirty feet.
Rosalyn takes a step closer and sets the basket in front of him. “We’re opening the school tomorrow, if you’d like to come.”
I look at Phoebe, my mouth open. “NO!” I can’t believe Rosalyn is inviting the oldest Thatcher boy. I remember how he stuck my braid in the inkwell on my desk, and how Miss Moran thought I had done it myself to get attention. “NO!” I say again.
The oldest Thatcher boy turns and looks at Phoebe and me. I look right back at him, daring him to look away first.
“Is she going?” he asks, pointing to Phoebe.
“Yes,” says Rosalyn, her voice slow and careful. “The school is for everyone.”
“I ain’t going to no colored school.”
No rock is necessary this time. The words cut Phoebe all by themselves. Then he picks the basket up off the ground and walks to the porch and tells his brothers to get in the house now or he will beat them silly, and then he follows them inside and slams the door.
We notice the garbage all over the porch, and then Mirabel marches after the Thatcher boys. Old Mr. Jolly starts after her. We’ll just see about that, I tell my feet, and I am hurrying right behind.
It smells like cats, many, many cats that don’t have the sense to pee outside. Blankets are nailed over the windows to keep the sun out.
“Where’s your mother?” Mirabel asks, and the little one points to the bedroom.
“Ma’am?” says Mirabel, going in. “Mrs. Thatcher?”
Mirabel is right over, pulling the blankets down and opening the windows so she can see better. The bedroom is not much bigger than our pantry. Mrs. Thatcher has only a sheet covering her, and she shivers when the fresh air comes pouring in the room.
Mirabel turns to us. “This is going on right under our noses? My goodness.”
“You,” she says to one of the middle boys. “Go get some fresh water. And you,” she says to another, “go put on some tea. And somebody get a mop, for God’s sake, and clean this room up.”
Mirabel forgets all about her manners book and orders us all around for the next couple of hours. When we are done, Mrs. Thatcher is eating a piece of vinegar pie and sipping some strong tea. Mirabel has written down chores for all the boys to do. “I’m coming back tomorrow to make sure these things are done.”
“They can’t read,” I whisper to her. Mirabel looks at Rosalyn, and turns a little red. Then she reads the list. “Make sure all the cats stay out of the house. That’s number one.”
As we are leaving, Mirabel turns to the oldest Thatcher boy. “My girls are going to school tomorrow. And if you try to stop them, you’ll have me to answer to. Do you understand?”
I feel my heart lighten, just listening to Mirabel say that. I wonder when she changed her mind about the school. The littlest boy is nodding, up and down, up and down. The oldest Thatcher boy is giving me an ugly look. I know things are not over.
When we get back, Old Mr. Jolly says he has been wanting to fix that swing of mine for some time now and he needs something to do to keep his mind off things and would that be all right and I say yes, yes, it surely would.
Well. When we are done getting the ropes up to the highest limb that can hold me, I swing farther than I ever have before, almost all the way up to where Mama is, and she is laughing, she is so happy for me.
I tell her I am still too mad to talk to her and she says that’s okay. Sometimes that’s the way things are when mamas die. Sometimes there are a lot of mad feelings that need working out.
/> CHAPTER
39
I believe my bed wants me to stay, and it starts humming that happy tune that makes me feel better about things, but I am very stern with it this morning and tell it that no, today I am going back to school, where Rosalyn knows how to help readers like me.
I put my feet on the cold floorboards, and my toes are so happy they don’t even notice. I give Birdie a hurry-up–get-up kiss on the cheek, and she hollers to be entering the wake-up world so early, and I yell at Ivy to get up or she will sleep right through this amazing, wonderful day.
Ivy rolls over and sticks her head under the pillow, but I am already jumping into my sunflower trousers. A girl who is going to school can pick out what she wants to wear, Mirabel or no Mirabel. Then I rush down the stairs and out the door to Belle and Anna May.
It is so early the sun’s not even up and I hear the trees along the road waking each other. They tell the stone wall not to grumble so much about standing still. Being strong is no small thing, they say, and they are right, but I am glad for my feet and how they can fly out to the barn.
Olympia and Minnie and Bea still have their heads tucked under their wings, and Anna May wants to know what I am doing here looking for milk so early. Belle is wondering what the dickens is going on.
“Oh, happy day!” I yell over to Minnie and Olympia and Bea, and they look up and start clucking about being woken up, and then I reach around and give Anna May a big hug, and then I go get the milk pail and the stool and put it down beside her and tell her she better be good, or else. I don’t have time for any fooling around.
Anna May turns around and gives me one of her grumpy looks. “Oh, don’t you be doing that,” I tell her, and when I get the pail nearly full of milk and am thinking about being with Phoebe at school and how I’m going to learn to read so well that even Becky Ellis can’t laugh, that’s when Anna May lets her kicking foot fly and she sends the bucket straight up in the air and the milk comes flying down all over me and my new trousers.
The Wonder of Charlie Anne Page 13