The Wonder of Charlie Anne

by Kimberly Newton Fusco

  I make a little bed, just like she says. “Like this?”

  “Yes,” she says, pulling me close so she can whisper in my ear: “This trick never, ever fails.”

  “Never?”

  “Never.”

  CHAPTER

  42

  Someone should have told me how assistant teachers are pretty bossy.

  Since the sun is out and it is getting warm, and Old Mr. Jolly is nearby, Rosalyn tells Sarah and Birdie and me that we can go under the maple trees. Phoebe brings a basket of books. I think, now that I know my b–d trick, I am ready for First Reader, at least.

  “Don’t you want to practice?” Phoebe asks.

  “No. I can do it.” I’m a little hurt that she thinks I need so much help.

  “Pat, doll, cat, ball, gill, hot, moon,” I say, opening the first page.

  Phoebe has a puzzled look on her face. “You’re not sounding these words out, Charlie Anne.” She looks over my shoulder. “You got some of them right but most of them wrong. They are pot, ball, cat, doll, girl, hat, moon.”

  I pull the book back, making a tiny tear in the page.

  Phoebe is looking like she’s wondering what’s gotten into me, and she says there are many confusing words that she wants to practice with me, and I say okay, but when can we get to the reading, and she says, “Charlie Anne.”

  I want to tell her right then and there that she is sounding rather like a know-it-all, but I bite my tongue because I remember that manners book and also because I want to be reading so much—much more than I want to make her mad.

  “There are some words that can get us all mixed up. Especially when they are the same word that means two different things. Like bear,” says Phoebe.

  I am tapping my thumb on my leg. Tap. Tap. Tap.

  “Sometimes it means a big black bear and sometimes it means trying to hold up a big load. Like a foundation holding up a house.”

  Phoebe shows the word to Birdie. “See? They are the same word.”

  I am cracking my knuckles. Crack. Crack. Crack.

  “Do you see, Charlie Anne?”

  “I know all this already.” I am rolling my eyes. Roll. Roll. Roll.

  Then Phoebe points to the word left. “Sometimes it is a direction, like you put your fork on the left.” She’s starting to sound just like Mirabel.

  “And then,” says Phoebe, “sometimes it means Mama left me.”

  Then Phoebe wants to tell us a story about her mama, and I tell her that is very nice and all but when are we going to get to reading?

  She looks annoyed. “Charlie Anne, who is the teacher here?”

  I want to tell her, I am feeling mighty sorry right now that it is you, but I don’t because I want to get to reading more than I want to do anything, even eat lunch. Plus Mirabel’s dumb little manners book keeps reminding me that I will be losing love and friends if I don’t watch myself. I don’t want to lose Phoebe, but I do want her to get to the reading.

  Then Sarah wants a turn and Phoebe gives her First Reader and she is so good she jumps right to Second Reader and I am feeling all terrible again that I’ll never be as good a reader as anyone else.

  Then Birdie wants to know how did Phoebe learn to sing so good, and then we have to hear the whole long story about how her mama told her there was a light inside her and she had a choice: either she could be who she was supposed to be, or she could be a quitter.

  “Wasn’t that supposed to be a secret just for me?” I want to know.

  Phoebe looks at me very sternly. I feel like I am Anna May being looked at.

  “What’s wrong with you?” she wants to know. “It’s just Birdie.”

  I don’t know what’s wrong. I give her my most terrible mad look and I’m not even sure exactly why, but right then and there, under that big maple tree, I change my mind about what I told Anna May and Belle: how nothing can tear blood sisters apart.

  CHAPTER

  43

  I ignore the candle Phoebe lights in her window that night, and for the next four days, I tell Mirabel I have a bellyache so bad that I can’t eat and I can’t drink and I need the hot-water bottle, and she tells me to stay in bed. I think as I hear Ivy and Birdie get ready for school that there has never been a girl as pitiful as me.

  Rosalyn comes over to check on me one afternoon, but I tell Mirabel I am too sick to talk to her, and I don’t want to talk to Phoebe, either. Especially not Phoebe.

  “You are just a faker,” Ivy says, coming in with more peppermint tea.

  “I am not,” I say, being careful not to sit up too fast or to look too hopeful that there might be cookies with the tea.

  I hear Anna May and Belle wondering what the dickens I’m doing, anyway, and how come Mirabel is coming out with the milk pail.

  On Saturday, since there’s no school anyway, I tell myself I might as well get up, and I tell Mirabel I am feeling better and head out for my swing. I ask Anna May and Belle if I look like a bolt of lightning as I soar through the sky and they tell me I do.

  I swing and swing and swing on the swing Old Mr. Jolly fixed so fine, and I get myself going higher, higher, higher. I practice pointing my toes up and waving my arm out to the side, just like Phoebe does. Then I lean over backward and let my hair almost touch the ground, and I see Anna May and Belle wondering what I am doing all upside down like that, about to break my neck.

  I keep watching for Phoebe so she will see that I am much better than she is at swinging, and then, after a very long time, she comes out her front door and notices me on my swing. She takes her swing into the barn, and I count to thirty so I know she is climbing up to the very top of her hayloft, and then she comes shooting out with her toes pointing up, and she leans over backward, and I think one of her every-which-way braids is actually touching the ground.

  Well. I need to get higher so I can get a better start. As soon as Phoebe flies back to her hayloft, I climb off my swing and rush into my barn and come out dragging the apple barrel. I look over at Anna May and Belle. They have stopped munching and are watching me. Even Minnie and Olympia and Bea are looking to see what I am doing.

  “I’ll show you,” I tell them, climbing to the top of the apple barrel, slipping just a little because it is not on solid ground, and I jump into my swing and I am flying up, up, up and I am laughing because Phoebe may read better than me, but I am the better swinger.

  Then Phoebe comes shooting out of her barn again. Her toes are pointed up and she lets go, first one hand and then the other. Then when her swing goes as high as it can, she jumps and lands with a little roll. She stands, says “Ta-da” and curtsies.

  Believe me, I don’t even bother to clap. Instead, I look around for something higher to climb onto.

  I look over at Belle. She’s looking up at me, wondering what the dickens is taking me so long to figure things out. Why don’t I climb up onto her back?

  So I tell her to come on over, but she just stands there looking at me, munching on some grass, and I have to go over and get her. Now, climbing up on a cow is not the easiest thing, especially when you have a swing in your hand. For one thing, Belle won’t hold still.

  “Stop walking,” I tell her.

  The other problem is cows have such bony backs. Anna May is not so sure about things. She comes over for a closer look.

  “Don’t make Belle all skitters,” I tell her, standing up, trying to keep my balance and jumping onto my swing.

  But it works, and Belle bolts out of the way, and I fly. I tap my feet and do a little shuffle in the air with my new shoes, and then I notice that Phoebe is swinging even higher.

  I let myself slow down and think about how I can go farther. I look up the trunk of the elm tree. I think about how if I could climb up there, I could jump out of the tree.

  So, I wrap the ropes around my shoulders and start climbing. Birdie sees me and rushes over, whining, and crying that this time I really will go straight to heaven, and I tell her she has to stop doing this, and to shush,
but she starts sobbing, and I tell her to stop being such a baby because Mirabel will hear. Birdie doesn’t understand that when you are so mad at your best friend, you don’t care if you break your neck or not. You just want her to know you are the best at swinging.

  “You be quiet, Birdie,” I yell down to her, but she is already running for the house.

  As I climb higher, Phoebe shoots out of her barn, a golden bullet, and this time she opens her mouth and starts to sing, and just like all the other times, heaven comes out. She sings so beautifully that even Belle and Anna May pause to see who’s making that wonderful sound.

  “Stop looking at her,” I tell them.

  I open my mouth and start singing, too, and I sing the only song I know, “Amazing Grace, how sweet the sound.” I am screaming and croaking and belting out the words, and when I look over, Phoebe seems in pain just to listen to me. Belle and Anna May walk away, and pretty soon Olympia, Minnie and Bea follow them, and I tell them all, go, good riddance, who needs friends anyway?

  Two more feet and I am higher in the elm tree than I have ever been, and I sit myself on my swing and then I jump.

  I feel myself fall, fall, fall, the earth coming close, and then the rope catches and I sail out, and then the swing catches me again, because swings are like that, and I am flying back the other way, straight back, and I try and twist myself around because when you’re on a swing, you need to know where you are going.

  And just for an instant, I see Anna May over by the privy looking at me with her molasses eyes, but they are not soft, they are filled with cow-worry.

  Then I slam into the tree and feel myself crumple and my hands let go of the ropes, and I am falling to the ground, where the roots of the elm tree rise up in a gnarled and angry mess.

  When I look up, there is Mirabel picking me up and carrying me into the house, and I am thankful she is pretty good with cuts because I have a lot of them.

  CHAPTER

  44

  All the next morning I sit on my swing and watch to see if Phoebe is looking for me. After a long time, she comes out and crosses the road and pretends she can’t see me. She climbs over the fence and walks right up to Belle. I can hardly believe it.

  “Did it hurt when Charlie Anne climbed up on you like that?” she says, kissing Belle all over the nose. “She doesn’t know how to treat a cow, does she?”

  I am off my swing like a bullet. “Don’t you be touching Belle,” I yell at her, rushing over. My cuts hurt quite a bit. “You stay away from her, do you hear?”

  But she does touch her. She touches her all over and then she pats her all tenderly on her wet nose and whispers little soft words in her ear, just the way Belle likes it. Anna May comes rushing over to see what the dickens is going on and if maybe Phoebe has some corn in her pocket, or maybe an apple. Then Phoebe is giving little whispers in Anna May’s ears, too. I think she is telling her bad things about me.

  “Don’t you be doing that. Don’t you be saying things about me to Belle and Anna May.”

  “You don’t need to worry about that,” Phoebe says, backing up from Belle and looking at me. “I’m not even thinking about you, Charlie Anne.”

  Well, that hurts just a little because I have been thinking about Phoebe ever since school, but I do not let her know that. Then Phoebe gives Belle and Anna May big goodbye hugs and sets off toward the river.

  “Don’t you dare go in our fields,” I yell. “That river is ours. Plus it’s too dangerous now.”

  “I know how to be careful of a river, Charlie Anne. Why are you acting all stupid?”

  Well, that makes me so mad I run after her, a little slowly on account of my cuts, and I grab her arm and jerk her around to look at me. “I AM NOT MAD. AND STAY OUT OF OUR FIELDS.”

  Phoebe yanks herself out of my grip and she hisses, “Don’t you ever touch me again, Charlie Anne.”

  All of a sudden I know exactly where she is headed. “Oh, no,” I tell her. “Don’t you dare go by my mama. I am not sharing her with you.”

  “I am not going by your mama. And when did God make you the owner of that river?”

  That’s the last thing Phoebe says before she turns away from me and stomps off into our fields, and I climb back on my swing and spend a whole long time swinging higher than Phoebe.

  When I get tired of swinging and go in the house, Mirabel wants to know why I have been missing for so long, because she wants me to dump all the potato peels on the compost.

  It is getting cold. The sheets I hung out are stiff. Mirabel will tell me soon to go get them and bring them back in, it’s too cold, she’ll say, and I will want to tell her why didn’t she think of this before?

  I am thinking about this when Mama starts calling, Hurry, Charlie Anne, hurry. I hear the river rushing over the big rocks that sit piggyback on each other out in the middle, and when it does, it makes a booming, booming, booming. I’m not talking to you, I tell her.

  Hurry, Charlie Anne, hurry, she calls again, and I put the compost bucket on the ground and put my ear up to the wind. The river is loud from all the rain last night. Hurry, Charlie Anne.

  I walk down by the clothesline and out past Anna May and Belle. Their eyes are filled with cow-worry. I climb over the fence and through the garden, now all picked over, and start along the way that Phoebe went, out through the cornfield with all the corn cut down. Hurry, Charlie Anne, hurry, and now Mama is screaming and the river is screaming, too, and I’ve never heard either of them do this before, and I begin to run.

  I fly over corn stubble, listening to the water pound. I call out to Mama, and when I reach her, the river is racing like there’s no tomorrow and I ask Mama what is wrong, and she says, Phoebe.

  I do not see anything except churning, rushing water. My heart pounds. I hurry downriver where the beech trees are all silvery with yellow leaves, and I look out and keep asking Mama where is Phoebe, but now that I am so close to the river, all I hear is the roaring.

  I don’t know what you’re saying! I yell back to Mama, and I rush up the ridge that towers over the water and go by Mama.

  Hurry, Charlie Anne. Go down to the water. Hurry.

  I rush back down the bank, slipping, and hurry along the river edge, listening, listening, listening, but all I can hear is the crashing of the water.

  I am so afraid that Phoebe has fallen into the river. I yell for her, but I cannot even hear myself over the churning water.

  I go back and forth along the river edge, retracing my steps, over and over. Mama is saying the same thing, over and over: Hurry, Charlie Anne, hurry. I tell her to stop so I can listen. Is somebody moaning?

  Yes, Mama tells me. Yes, yes, yes. Hurry, Charlie Anne, hurry.

  My heart is leaping. I run, screaming “Phoebe, Phoebe,” and right then and there I start praying to the angels again, because it’s the only thing I can think of. Please, I pray. Please, please, please, let the best friend I ever had keep being the best friend I ever had.

  CHAPTER

  45

  And then I hear it, a tiny, thin little voice. Phoebe! I look around me, all around, but there is nothing out of place on the ridge, nothing on the bank, nothing along the river. But I hear it again, and this time it is louder. It is awfully sad and awfully tired and awfully hurt.

  Hurry, Charlie Anne, hurry! screams Mama.

  I rush toward the voice, a moaning coming from behind a pine tree, and then I stop because there is my Phoebe on the ground. Her face is turned up and she is very still and worst of all, her foot is caught in one of the Thatcher boys’ rusty old traps. There’s a big red T painted on the side, and the rushing in my head starts as soon as I see the blood, and I believe I am going to fall over right here. “Oh,” I say. “Oh, oh, oh.”

  She is wearing boots, but the trap has chewed right through the rubber and there is blood coming out. Then she is moaning again. I say a prayer to the angels that I won’t faint and fall over. “Phoebe, Phoebe. I am here,” I say, kneeling down.

 
She doesn’t do anything but moan. Big moans, now, and I am afraid, and I don’t know what I should do. She is lying on the ground and her skin is river cold.

  “Phoebe. It is me. Charlie Anne.”

  Phoebe does nothing but moan a little more, and then she opens her eyes and closes them again. I take off my jacket and make a pillow for her and lift her head up real careful, and then I am not sure what to do. I put my head on her chest and listen to her heart. It is a slow quiet beat.

  Her foot is a terrible-looking thing, and I try and pull the jaws of the trap apart, but they are strong. I pull at the chain that holds the trap to the tree, but I can’t break it, and the moving makes Phoebe moan. I cry out to Mama. I am not sure if I should leave Phoebe or if I should stay. I am not sure if she will be alive when I come back.

  I rush along the river, looking for a rock big enough to smash the chain, and Mama tells me that won’t work, that I need something to wedge the trap open, but I tell her that maybe she doesn’t know everything, and I carry a rock as big around as a slop bucket and drop it on the chain, and that makes Phoebe cry out and then faint.

  Then I start sobbing.

  Stand up, Charlie Anne. This is no time for quitting.

  Mama says to go find a rock that is shaped more like a fence stake so I can wedge it in the trap and force it open. The trap is big and Phoebe’s foot is small and it might work, says Mama.

  Phoebe is moaning again. “I’ll be right back,” I whisper in her ear.

  New tears are falling down my face and I have to wipe them away so I can see my way back down to the river.

  I rush down the hill, searching along the river for a rock the right size. After about a hundred years, I find something at the edge of the water that might work, and I rush back to Phoebe.

  I wedge the rock in the space between her foot and the side edge of the trap and push, and I scream out to Mama, and Phoebe lets out a terrible cry as the trap opens, and then she faints again.