by Laura Best
“What are you doing in here?” I bark. “Can’t a person get an ounce of privacy?” Nastiness spins inside me like a top. I’ve never used my fists before, but there’s a first time for everything.
“I heard someone shouting. So I came to see what was going on.”
Nessa’s not fooling me, covering up her nosiness by sounding concerned. I swallow at the lump in my throat, but it won’t budge.
“You eavesdropping for some particular reason?” I ask, trying to sound as tough as one of Aunt Millie’s pie crusts. It’s a trick I picked up from watching Aunt Millie through the years. It always worked when there was someone standing outside the backdoor late at night, three sheets to the wind. I hope by now Nessa is shivering in her shoes.
“I thought someone might need help—that’s all. Excuse me for being concerned.” I detect a nip of pleasure in her voice. If she’s frightened by what I just said, she’s doing a fine job of hiding it. I can just imagine the fun she’ll have blabbing all this to everyone. Poor Cammie doesn’t know where her mother is. The other girls will think it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard.
“Well, next time just mind your own beeswax.”
I knock into her on purpose as I hurry out past. I don’t wait to hear what she has to say about that. When I get back to the dormitory, a few girls are crammed around Jennie’s bed like birds to bread crumbs, cooing over the verses in her autograph album. You’d think she just got herself a signed autograph from Lefty Frizzell or some big Hollywood starlet.
“Do you want to see it, Cammie?” asks Amy. “Tammy just wrote the funniest verse in Jennie’s album.”
“Sorry, I’ll miss my bath,” I say, heading toward my wardrobe. Not that a bath is that important to me, but at least it’ll give me something to think about other than Aunt Millie’s telephone call. Not to mention Nessa hearing my entire life story.
Nessa is standing beside my wardrobe. I don’t much like having her for a shadow, so I reach in and grab my bathrobe without saying a word. The telephone call from Aunt Millie rolls around in my head as I carry on with my business. I can’t imagine why Ed would suddenly be talking about adopting me. This coming from Aunt Millie, can it even be believed? Aunt Millie’s words have a way of digging their nails in deep. Maybe this is her way of making my life miserable. It’s not like she was happy for me to be coming here to school. Heck, she put up a fuss about me going to regular school back in Tanner. At home I’d push things away, keep them for later when I was alone in bed at night. Here at the school you’re almost never alone.
The water faucet makes a squeak. The tub fills up slowly. I kneel on the floor and stick my hand under the running water. I spent my whole life wondering why my parents never came to see me, and now that I’ve finally discovered who my father is, Aunt Millie’s trying to take that away from me too. Ed wants to be a part of my life. Is that so hard for her to believe?
My big toe reaches out to test the water. Perfect. Lowering myself in, I soap up the facecloth, cleaning my face, ears, and neck as I go.
“I’ll scrub your back,” the maid says. Her joints creek as she squats on the floor beside the tub. Handing her the washcloth, I draw my legs up and round my back for good scrubbing. Hunched over, face pushed into my knees, my chest makes a funny heave—another and another. Tears roll down my cheeks before I can stop them from slithering out. I don’t even know if this news about Ed makes me happy or sad.
“Are you crying?” the maid asks.
I nod. I know it’s no good to lie.
Chapter Seven
Last evening I wrote a note in big black letters and slipped it into my spelling notebook. “Who can take me to Burnham Street?”
That telephone call from Aunt Millie just made me more determined to track down Brenda and rub her nose in the fact that Ed wants to adopt me, that I’ve got one parent in my life who cares about me even if she doesn’t.
I wait for my own good sense to tell when the time is right to put my plan in gear. Mrs. Christi calls out our spelling words and I breeze through some of the easy ones. Slipping the note out, I can’t deny that I’m a bit anxious as I scrunch up the paper for good tossing. I wait for just the right moment, for Mrs. Christi’s ugly brown dress to swoosh past. The next word she gives us to print out is the word ridiculous. I take careful aim, count a quick one, two, three in my head, and send the note across the room. Seconds after takeoff, Mrs. Christi takes a step backward. I hold my breath. I see movement on the other side of the room. The note must have missed her. A skirmish takes place; the quick squeak of shoes against the floor. I wish I could see what’s going on. I can only imagine the boys are clamouring to get their hands on my note. This isn’t the first message to make its way to their side of the classroom. While it would seem the next step is to wait for a reply, I get a big surprise when I pick up my pencil and start printing.
“Barry,” says Mrs. Christi, her voice cutting through the classroom like a hand scythe through harvest wheat. “Would you please read the note that just sailed past my head?”
My heart pushes into my cheeks and ears. Mrs. Christi’s shoes make hollow sounds on the floor as she paces slowly back and forth. I’m busted! I’ll be tossed out on my ear, sent off to Mr. Allen’s office and from there back to Aunt Millie.
I can’t help feeling antsy at the sound of the paper being smoothed out. Barry Huphman clears his throat before reading my note out loud. A short silence follows.
“Burnham Street? How interesting,” says Mrs. Christi. “And who penned this note?” Laughter rings out. “Quiet, children,” comes a quick warning. I’m a finger’s width away from being found out, from having my name read out in front of everyone. Heat climbs down my neck as I imagine Mr. Allen’s accusations tumbling down on me.
“It’s not signed,” says Barry, sounding as surprised as I’m feeling at the moment. I can make out the sound of him turning the note over, the crinkling of paper.
Not signed! Impossible. I checked that note over three times last night. I signed my full name. I know I did. Then like a flash of lightning it hits me: Barry lied to save my skin. That has to be one of the nicest things anyone has ever done for me. I’m so relieved my toes are tingling. I want to rush to the boys’ side and kiss Barry Huphman right in front of everyone. Sometimes having your well-thought-out plan backfire on you ends up being a stroke of good luck. One thing’s for sure: for a blind person, Mrs. Christi can sure see a lot.
The cafeteria buzzes at lunchtime. Everyone wants to know who wrote the note. Me, my lips are sealed. I look over and see Nessa giving me the eyeball, like she’s considering it might have been me, and I get an odd feeling inside. But then she starts yapping about the picture show she saw last Saturday evening and I relax. As for my plan, I’ll have to come up with another line of attack. Brenda’s not getting off the hook that easily.
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“I keep telling her I can’t eat candy all day long, but she keeps packing it in my bag all the same,” Nessa says all breezy—like it’s no big deal. I’m not sure if she’s calling attention to the fact that she can get her hands on all the candy in the world or that she gets to go home on weekends. Seems to me there are plenty of worthwhile things to complain about in life—having too much candy isn’t one of them. Nessa pulls out a brown paper bag and tosses some candy on top of her bed. The girls look like chickens out in the dooryard the way they’re scrambling after the sweets—five or six of them going at it all at once. I guess they don’t care how ridiculous they look.
Not that I’m one for pointing out other people’s faults, but I can’t help noticing that Nessa likes being in control. She reminds me too much of Aunt Millie in that respect for me to be sociable with her. Not to mention I’ve been waiting for her to shoot her mouth off and tell everyone what she heard the other day in the washroom. Nearly a week after the fact and she hasn’t peeped a word about it. I’d like to say I’m impressed, but I know
she’s just biding her time. Things like that usually have sizeable teeth that come back to bite you in the rear end. No doubt she’s waiting for just the right moment to blab it around that Cammie Turple has a habit of talking to herself. Talking to yourself means you either have money in the bank or else you’re crazy. I’m pretty sure everyone knows I’m not rolling in the dough, so I don’t have to guess what they’re going to think. First thing everyone will be avoiding me like the plague.
“Take what you want,” Nessa says, reaching into the bag for another handful. “She’ll just buy more next week.”
Must be nice to have a mother who spoils you to the nines, buying you anything you want and then some. I say, city people have a strange way of spending their money. You wouldn’t hear tell of that back in Tanner. Back home candy’s a treat, something you maybe get once a week—and that’s only if you’re lucky. Talk is, being the only girl in the family, Nessa has a mother who bends over backwards to give her all she wants. I say Nessa should count her lucky stars instead of tossing her treats away like they don’t mean diddly-squat. If you ask me she’s got the mother of all mothers, the mother who only lives in my dreams.
“Have some, Cammie,” Nessa says, shaking the candy under my nose. I glance down into the bag, casual-like. Humbugs—if I was to guess. It’s been a dog’s age since I’ve had any.
“No thanks,” I say, flopping down on my bed like it’s no big deal. I’m not giving Nessa the satisfaction of seeing me reach into her paper bag, no matter how much I might be drooling for a taste.
I can sense Nessa standing over me even with my eyes shut. There’s nothing worse than knowing you’re being gawked at even if you can’t see the person doing the gawking. I got my fill of that back in Tanner. Her breath draws in and out about as loud as old man Harvey back home, only he’s up in his nineties and had TB when he was young. What’s Nessa’s excuse?
Keeping my eyes closed, I hope she’ll scram. I’m tempted to let out a snotty comment, but I restrain it due to the fact that she’s got something on me. I’m not much for tiptoeing around people’s feelings. Even though I’m dying to know why she hasn’t opened her trap yet, I’m not about to ask. Let sleeping dogs lie, Evelyn Merry would say.
“I was just trying to be nice,” she says, kind of huffy.
I open my eyes a teeny crack when I hear her walking away. She goes back to where the other girls are, the paper bag rustling all the way. When Amy and Tammy start squabbling over the humbugs, I jump off the bed and head toward my locker. The door’s stuck again so I give it a quick thump with my fist—a trick I learned the other day from Mary Louise; for a pint-sized girl she can sure pack a punch. It pops open.
Evelyn’s letter is right on top. Grabbing it up, I head off to find some quiet place for myself. Some things are too precious to share with anyone. Fourteen girls living in the same dormitory, the second someone leaves a fart everyone knows it. The only things in the recreation room are tables and chairs—not a soul to be found. Suits me fine. Sometimes all you need is a little time to roll ideas around in your head. Times like this I miss Evelyn Merry the most. All the letters in the world can’t take the place of hearing his voice. No one can hatch a scheme like Evelyn. These days I’ve got no one to count on but myself. A hard knob swells in my throat until I put my thoughts on other things like that sloop ox of Evelyn’s.
A Lefty Frizzell song is playing real low in the background. Lefty and Hank, that’s all some of the girls here chatter on about. Aunt Millie always thought Hank Williams was the bee’s knees. As soon as one of his songs would come on she’d rush over to the radio and crank it up a notch. Sometimes she’d dance. Always she’d sing. I bet if good old Hank could have seen her in action he’d have busted a gut for sure. I go to turn the music off, but change my mind.
“I Love You in A Thousand Ways” is playing. The song’s kind of mushy, but what’s honky-tonk music without the mush? Someone’s either leaving or loving or dying. It seems to me it’s a matter of wanting everyone to be as unhappy as you are. Misery loves to have company, so they say. There’s plenty of misery in life without people singing their hearts out over it.
“I hate you in a thousand ways,” I sing. Changing the words gives me a smidge of satisfaction as I pretend to sing to Nessa. Carefully, I take Evelyn’s letter out. Something inside the envelope catches my eye—a four-leaf clover, dried and pressed. I didn’t see it the first time round. I can’t help but smile. It never hurts to have luck on your side. Leave it to Evelyn Merry to know what I need. This four-leaf clover might just come in handy. Finding my mother in this big old monster of a city will be as challenging a job as any I’ve ever done. I’ll take all the luck I can get.
Laying my glasses on the table, I hold Evelyn’s letter up close to see. Pictures pepper my brain as I read about the day Spark got out of the fence, and how his pa had to round him up. I bet it would be funny to hear Evelyn tell it. Three times I read through the letter, each time adding a little extra to the picture that’s already in my head. If I have to be here and Evelyn there, at least he’s got that steer he always wanted. A brockle-face one at that. Having seen the brockle-face cow in Jim Merry’s pasture makes it a whole lot easier to picture what Spark looks like. Thinking about Evelyn teaching his steer to lead, yelling out “Gee” and “Haw,” pulls a smile on my face every time. What I wouldn’t give to see that. Most of all I picture his pa standing back watching, maybe even smiling himself because, now that he doesn’t drink anymore, he isn’t such a bad man after all.
Figuring Nessa’s candy is a thing of the past, every last piece gobbled up and swallowed, I mosey on back to the dormitory. The bell’s about to ring for bedtime anyway. Going to bed with the chickens is taking some getting used to. Aunt Millie let me stay up as late as I wanted so long as I kept to my room after nine.
As I’m about to pull back the covers on my bed and climb in, I catch sight of something on top of my pillow. I go in for a closer look. Jawbreakers, three of them, round and smooth. Nessa runs on over. I pause, look up to see her smiling like a goon, and scoop the jawbreakers up off my pillow in one slick movement. I climb into bed and roll over. When something comes your way without you having to go bumming for it, I say it’s one of those things that was meant to be. No thanks required.
Chapter Eight
Faith can move mountains—that’s what Mae Cushion said one day in her store. It was right after me and Evelyn had blown up Hux Wagner’s moonshine still and Evelyn landed in the hospital. Even Aunt Millie nodded her head that day, and her agreeing with Mae was as unlikely as her throwing her arms up into the air and praising God in all his glory—an honest-to-goodness miracle by my calculation. While I didn’t see any mountains being moved when Evelyn was in the hospital, I knew faith had to be powerful. Evelyn got to go home when most everyone said he wouldn’t, and that’s all I care about.
Thinking about what Mae Cushion had to say about faith moving mountains, I make my way down to the dining room in the middle of the night. The school puts plenty of faith in us, expecting we’ll stay in our beds all night long. But I’ve got a bit of news for them—they’ve never come up against a Turple before.
My stomach is having a spree for itself, rumbling and thrashing about. It’ll probably wake up everyone in the dorm. I pop the last jawbreaker Nessa left on my pillow into my mouth. No wonder I’m having trouble falling asleep. Before chasing me off to bed, Aunt Millie would spread me some bread and honey. The gang sitting around the kitchen would stop talking and watch. I used to think they were jealous, me with bread and honey when all they had was some of Hux’s moonshine to drink, until the night Aunt Millie barked out at them, “Cammie isn’t some circus sideshow. Now drink up.” A jawbreaker isn’t going to fill the empty spot in my stomach. What I wouldn’t give for a piece of Aunt Millie’s homemade bread and honey right about now.
There’s always a bit of light in the hallway at night here. Nighttim
e comes and my mind gets the wandering fever. The strangest thoughts won’t get out of my head, like me wondering what Aunt Millie’s really up to or imagining Evelyn leading Spark around the dooryard. Does Miss Muise miss me being in school back in Tanner? Once you’ve tossed and turned in your bed enough times there’s no way possible to settle down for a good sleep. Until now I haven’t got up the courage to go exploring on my own. It’s easy to get to the dining room when you’re following the supervisor.
Realizing that no one checks in on us after lights out, my mind’s been conjuring ways to get out of here and find my mother. Even if I was able to sneak out in the middle of the night, I’d have no idea how to go about finding Burnham Street. It’s not like you can go knocking on doors after midnight. Sneaking off to the dining room is one thing; Burnham Street is a whole other story.
The sweetness from the jawbreakers haunts the inside of my mouth as I tiptoe along. The thought about sneaking down to the dining room wormed into my head as I lay in bed rolling one of the jawbreakers around in my mouth. Waiting for everyone to stop cackling and start sleeping took forever. I couldn’t risk telling anyone what I had up my sleeve. Hard to say who can be trusted around this joint. I could tell anything to Evelyn Merry. They’d have had to take a crowbar to pry his lips open. When it comes to keeping secrets, Evelyn’s a real crackerjack. I don’t much expect these nattering girls to hold my secrets anytime soon. I’m waiting for Nessa to let the cat out of the bag to prove that point.
I’m still getting a feel for things here. Everyone seems friendly enough, but who’s to know? Hal Perry seemed friendly, too, until he grabbed me on my way to the outhouse one night in the dark. Aunt Millie came running, put him in his place right smartly, and told him to never come back. That was the one and only time she told someone to hit the road and actually stuck with it.
My insides make a mountain-size rumble. Maybe I should go back to bed, wait out the hunger, hopefully fall asleep without having another crazy dream with Aunt Millie in it. That thought lasts about as long as a snowball in a pot of boiling water. I keep on going. I don’t have much choice, seeing as how I’m about to faint away from hunger right here on the spot.