When he turned, he discovered Mr. Patrick was already wearing the white cowboy hat. He held out the black one to Kyle. “Ready to play the bad guy?”
Kyle accepted the hat and placed it in on his head. “Ready.”
Rose
Been Down That Road
(2004)
THE GLENMORA BRANCH of the Rapides Parish Library had never looked so festive. The room was small, but the staff managed to squeeze a long table between two rows of bookshelves. They covered it with a white linen tablecloth and, in the center, set a cookie platter next to a punch bowl filled with pink lemonade and a floating fruit ice ring. Rose’s books were stacked at both ends with the top one displaying Books on the Bayous. It showed a photograph of a young Rose, standing near the bookmobile she’d driven years ago.
Twenty minutes remained before the afternoon reception started. The librarian Hilda Monroe and her aides were putting out a few folding chairs. Rose stood in front of the table, trying to take it all in. She wore a yellow dress, instead of the drab gray suit she’d almost chosen, because Luther had always said she looked like walking sunshine whenever she’d worn the color. If only Luther could be here today, thought Rose, then the day would be perfect.
Rose had not done everything she’d wanted to in life. She’d not gone to college, not even finished high school. Instead she’d worked to help support her family, married young, raised three children. Now at seventy-nine years old, she’d finally realized a dream come true. She’d become a writer. The book wasn’t any of the stories she’d written in the Indian Chief pads or spiral notebooks. This tale told about her days as a young bookmobile driver in the bayou communities of Houma.
The book would never have happened if it wasn’t for the article she submitted to Sweet Memories magazine. Who would have thought the story Rose wrote on a whim would find its way to the hands of a New York editor? And had the grandmother of that young editor not shared the article with her granddaughter, Rose’s book would never have existed.
The editor’s letter arrived on a warm autumn morning. Rose had just finished hanging sheets on the clothesline. She owned a dryer but loved the smell of bedding that had spent the day in fresh air. Later she walked to the mailbox, returned to the house, and settled into her chair with a cup of coffee. Thumbing through the envelopes, she felt disappointed not to receive a letter from any of her family. Except for Annabeth, no one wrote letters anymore. Everyone e-mailed, whatever the heck that was. Merle Henry told her she needed a computer so they could keep in touch. “Hogwash!” she’d said.
That morning, she’d almost set the New York letter aside, mistaking it for junk mail. But she gave the envelope another look because it was addressed to Rose McGee Harp. No one had attached her name to McGee in decades. She shook her head, trying to erase the bitter feeling that surfaced every time she thought of how her father had abandoned them and how her mother had to work for years at the Boudreaux Oyster Company just to make ends meet. The only good thing that had come from her papa leaving was finally meeting her grandfather. Not long after they moved to Houma, Antoine’s heart softened toward them all. When she married Luther, she told her grandfather the truth about her age. A look of relief washed over him, but it had quickly changed to horror. “You only sixteen and you marry dis man? You just a baby!”
Rose slid the letter opener under the envelope’s edge and took out the page.
Dear Mrs. Harp,
My grandmother sent me a copy of your article that appeared in Sweet Memories magazine. I was moved by your story about your days as a young bookmobile driver in 1940. Do you have more stories about this time in your life? If you do, I would like you to consider writing a book on your experiences. You have a lovely spare voice that would appeal to readers. And you capture a time and a place that many people find fascinating. Please contact me at your earliest convenience.
Sincerely,
Amelia Peters
Rose sat there stunned, not moving an inch. Then she tried to grab the phone so quick she missed her aim, knocking it to the floor. After picking it up, she dialed the first call she’d ever made to New York City. Initially, Amelia seemed like she was too busy to talk until she’d figured out that the caller was the woman to whom she’d sent a letter.
“Oh, Mrs. Harp. How nice to hear from you.”
“You really want me to write a book?”
“I’d love for you to try.”
“Mercy,” Rose whispered under her breath.
“Pardon?”
“How much would this cost me?” Rose asked. Her house was paid for, but she was living on Social Security and a few CDs.
“Mrs. Harp, you don’t pay us. We pay you.”
“Mercy,” said Rose.
* * *
After the phone call, Rose dug out the leather journal she’d kept in Houma and began to write. When she completed the first draft, she cashed in a CD and bought a computer. She told no one about the book, afraid that the deal might fall through. Each morning she sat at the kitchen table and wrote about the people of Bayou du Large, Pointe-Aux-Chenes, and the other bayou communities. The spurt of energy she felt upon waking surprised her. Writing a book was better than a shot of cortisone. She could hardly feel those old aches and pains. A few months later she sent in her manuscript, thinking she’d said all she had to say about those days.
Several weeks had passed when a package arrived from Amelia Peters. It contained a seven-page letter and her manuscript. She’s changed her mind, thought Rose, thankful she hadn’t told anybody. Then Rose read the letter. The first page touted all the wonderful sensory details Rose used to paint a picture of life in Houma. But the following pages contained suggestions about how she thought Rose could improve the story. Amelia’s last comments summed it all up. “Surely a fourteen-year-old girl experienced emotions of all sorts. How did you feel about your mother making you quit school and asking you to lie about your age? Did you have a love interest? I urge you to revisit those experiences and share them with readers.”
Rose had to chew on that a bit. She didn’t want to feel like she was betraying anyone she cared about. But she wanted this book to happen more than anything. Otherwise her stories would exist only in paper tablets that would probably be thrown out after she died. So a few weeks after the letter arrived, Rose opened a private place inside her and wrote about her mother, Antoine, Pie, Possum, Luther, and young Gordie.
Rose was retracing all this in the library when she felt a hand on her shoulder.
“Momma.”
She glanced up, startled, because Gordie looked so much like Luther had a few years before he’d died—the deeply lined forehead, the silver hair, those eyes. Luther’s blue eyes had made her grow weak until the day he drew his last breath.
Rose hugged Gordie. “Thanks for being here.” She’d never formally adopted him, but he was hers.
Gordie smiled, nodding. The quiet boy had grown into a quiet man who had recently retired from being a research librarian at LSU. Rose was proud that at least one of her children had worked with words. He knew something about everything. Except maybe women. He was sixty-six years old and was finally getting married, mainly because the woman had asked him.
“None of us would have missed this day for the world,” Merle Henry said with a wink. Lily Bea stood beside him. They’d struggled over the years with Merle Henry’s wanderlust, changing jobs and cities. It was like his desire as a boy to trap a mink, thought Rose. He was never satisfied with possums or raccoons. Somehow he and Lily Bea had made it in spite of all those moves.
Rose glanced toward the door and noticed Annabeth and her family walking in. Emma was as pretty as her mother, but she wished Kyle would cut his hair. He had such a nice face.
Rose embraced each of them. Kyle gave her a quick hug before heading toward the punch bowl and the cookie platter, even though no one else had touched the refreshments.
“Hold on, Kyle,” Paul said. “They’re not serving yet.”
&nb
sp; “As a matter of fact,” said Rose, “my throat was starting to get dry.” She joined Kyle at the punch bowl. To her surprise, Kyle filled a cup and handed it to her.
“Thank you, young man.”
“Gamma Rose, is your book about Alligator Man?”
Rose nearly choked on her drink. “You remember him?”
“Of course. I remember all about him. I remember how he lived in Bayou Blue and how he rescued the fishermen and those librarians that drove around in that little bus.”
Rose smiled. “The bookmobile.”
“Yeah. Those were cool stories.”
“I’m afraid that’s not what this book is about. This one is a true story.”
“Oh,” Kyle said, disappointed. “Well, maybe your next book could be about Alligator Man.”
Rose laughed. “Maybe so.”
Now people from the community entered the library. Rose’s daughter, Marie, wasn’t there yet. She was late coming into this world and had never been on time a day in her life. Her carefree manner reminded Rose so much of Pie, who had just arrived wearing the most enormous pink hat she’d ever seen. It was a good thing her current boyfriend was short. He fit right under the brim of Pie’s hat. Rose tried to remember his name. She knew he had been a banker. Her sister had gone through three divorces before declaring, “Marriage is like spinach. It’s just not for me.”
Suddenly she heard someone holler, “Rose Harp, if you aren’t a sight for old eyes.” Erma was being wheeled into the room by a young man, probably one of her great-grandnephews.
Rose felt a twinge of guilt. She’d visited Erma only once since Erma moved into the nursing home in Alexandria.
“I’m so proud of you, Rose. All those years around books, and I thought I’d never know a real author. All along, one was right under my nose.”
Hilda stepped forward. “Could you say a few words, Mrs. Harp?”
A lump formed in Rose’s throat. She’d not planned on that. But there they all were—her loved ones standing before her. She didn’t know how she’d be able to speak without breaking. Just then Marie burst into the room, announcing, “Sorry! Sorry!”
Merle Henry hollered, “You’re right on time, Marie. Your time, ten minutes late.”
Everyone laughed. The moment had lightened the mood, and Rose gathered the strength she needed to carry her through.
After swallowing a sip of lemonade, Rose took a deep breath. “Seeing each of you makes me realize what a great life I’ve truly had just because you’ve been a part of it.” She looked toward Erma. “Thank you for celebrating with me.” Then facing her children, grandchildren, and great grandchildren, she said, “My family, you are my home.”
Rose couldn’t speak anymore. She felt too full. Everyone seemed to feel the same way, and for a long moment, silence fell upon the room. The afternoon train whistled outside the window and a few cars could be heard driving by.
Suddenly, Kyle yelled, “Hear, hear!” holding up his cup.
Paul shot a stern look Kyle’s way, but Merle Henry rested his hands on Kyle’s shoulders and said, “Hear, hear!” And since no one had a cup except for Kyle and Rose, everyone else began to clap.
After Rose had settled behind the corner table, they all lined up to get a signed copy of Books on the Bayous. She wrote her name until Kyle, the last person in line, had gotten his book signed.
“Thanks, Gamma Rose. I might even read this.”
Her hand throbbed, but it was a good ache. She certainly wasn’t going to complain.
“Have you seen what’s outside yet, Rose?” Erma asked with the same enthusiasm she’d shown years ago, putting books and people together. She looked like she was about to jump out of that wheelchair.
Everyone headed out of the cramped library and into the parking lot where Annabeth stood by her SUV.
Rose looked confused. Then Merle Henry said, “Annabeth is going to take you on your book tour, Momma.”
“A book tour?” The words came out in a screech.
Annabeth stepped forward. “I hope you don’t mind, Gamma Rose. I booked you at libraries from here to Houma. Here’s your schedule.” She handed the paper to Rose.
Rose stared down at the itinerary. All the details were there—the library talks, the hotels, when to eat. Annabeth had scheduled everything, including a stop in Terrebonne Parish, where it had all started.
“Mother even packed your suitcase for you,” said Annabeth.
Sure enough, Rose’s suitcase was at Lily Bea’s feet. “We knew if we told you ahead of time you wouldn’t go.”
Rose studied all the faces, thinking, I can’t go. I’m seventy-nine years old. But why not? What was stopping her now? From where Rose stood she could see the highway stretched out beyond the railroad. She’d been down that road before. Many times. But today it was calling for her.
“Don’t worry, Gamma Rose,” Annabeth said. “I’m old enough to drive.”
A few knowing laughs came from the crowd.
“What’s so funny?” Kyle asked Lily Bea.
Lily Bea wrapped her arm around Kyle’s shoulders. “I’ll tell you later. Better yet, read the book.”
Annabeth took hold of Gamma Rose’s hand. “I want to show you something.” She guided Rose around to the back of the vehicle where the hatch was open.
Rose stared at the boxes of books. Those were her books filled with her words.
“Come on, Momma,” Merle Henry said, opening the passenger door. “Go tell your stories.”
The choice belonged to her now. Rose looked up at Annabeth. Then she studied the rest of her family, all three generations. She wanted to freeze this moment. She wanted to take each of them with her. But then Rose realized they would always be a part of her, just as she’d always be a part of them.
The tangerine sun was straight up in the sky. Rose could feel its warmth all the way through her bones. It seemed to be stirring things inside her. She didn’t regret one minute of her life, but finally it was her turn.
Rose got inside the car and waved good-bye.
Acknowledgments
THE IDEA FOR these stories started with a picture I saw in Down Cut Shin Creek: The Pack Horse Librarians of Kentucky by Kathi Appelt and Jeanne Cannella Schmitzer. One photo revealed librarians working in a Louisiana bayou community. When I decided to write a generational book, I knew the stories would begin there. I owe a lot to Betty DeYeide Lockwood from Houma, who, at seventeen years old in the 1940s, drove the Terrebonne Parish Library Bookmobile. Her fabulous memory and her tireless energy contributed greatly to this book.
In addition to the above mentioned, I am also deeply grateful to the following: Mark Bahm with the Terrebonne Parish Library; Shannon Holt (many bouquets to you, my dear first reader); Jerry Holt; Christy Ottaviano—who convinced me this story was a novel, too; the Retreat Girls—Kathi Appelt, Lola Schaefer, Rebecca Kai Dotlich, and Jeanette Ingold—for that late-night writing exercise; Brenda Willis; Laurie and Tom Allen; the two Margarets— Margaret and Margaret Shaffer; Holly Alexander; the Amarillo Public Library (especially Pat Mullin and Carol Wallace); and the Rapides Parish Public Library.
ALSO BY
KIMBERLY WILLIS HOLT
My Louisiana Sky
When Zachary Beaver Came to Town
Keeper of the Night
About the Author
KIMBERLY WILLIS HOLT is the author of several award-winning novels, including Keeper of the Night; When Zachary Beaver Came to Town, which received the National Book Award for Young People’s Literature; and My Louisiana Sky.
Seven generations of Ms. Holt’s family were from Louisiana. Although Ms. Holt grew up in a military family and lived in many different places all over the world, Louisiana remained her emotional home. She now lives in west Texas with her family.
www.kimberlywillisholt.com
Henry Holt and Company, LLC
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Henry Holt® is a registered trademark of Henry Holt and Company, LLC.
Copyright © 2006 by Kimberly Willis Holt
All rights reserved.
eBooks may be purchased for business or promotional use. For information on bulk purchases, please contact Macmillan Corporate and Premium Sales Department by writing to [email protected].
First edition—2006
eISBN 9781466887909
First eBook edition: November 2014
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