All the Little Hopes

by Leah Weiss

  The crowd stretches clear down the block, past the Hollingston Pharmacy and Soda Fountain and the Mercer County Reporter. Grady and his best friend, Ricky Miller, got here early and bought enough tickets for Lydia, Cora, and me, so we head to the shorter line for folks with tickets. I walk past the Turner girls, and May Beth Johnson and Jeannie Branch, who live beside each other and gossip as much as old biddies. Today they shoot dirty looks at me because they’re jealous. I have a guaranteed seat when the first-run tickets sell out. Cora, Lydia, and I stand next to the boys, waiting our turn, but I’ll sit between my sisters so I’m not caught beside Ricky. In the lobby, Ricky buys popcorn and jujubes and a giant Sugar Daddy sucker because his daddy owns the gas station and makes more money than a farmer and beekeeper does. I buy one bag of popcorn to share with my sisters.

  In the low light, we find good seats, eat our popcorn one piece at a time to make it last, watch the seats fill, and wait for the velvet curtain to slide back. We watch the newsreel about the faraway war that rages, and like always, I look hard to catch a glimpse of Everett or Wade. We see our president riding in a car, waving to a crowd, and watch the next installment of Flash Gordon, where destruction of Earth is imminent. But today it’s Lassie we’ve come to see.

  I cry when that sweet dog gets taken way from Joe and sold to the Duke. I cry with happiness when the beautiful Elizabeth Taylor helps Lassie escape and begin the arduous journey home across rough and unfamiliar land. I cry when Lassie is finally reunited with the people she loves. Finding your way home is a good and necessary thing. I think I see Grady get emotional, but I don’t embarrass him. I don’t even look at Ricky.

  Later, back at the house, all us moviegoers sit on the porch with the rest of the family and retell the Lassie story and the magical marvel of Technicolor. Sugar Mayhew from across the way is there, too—she’s a year younger than me. My words and Grady’s overlap talking about the craggy landscape of Scotland and a dog as exceptional as Lassie. Sugar pretends she doesn’t care one whit about missing the movie, but she missed a good one.

  When we start repeating ourselves, Mama says, “Who wants lemonade?” and hands shoot up and I go inside and help her, and the others draw circles in the yard and drop to a knee to play marbles in the dirt because everybody loves marbles. Lydia and Cora divvy up their marbles so Sugar can play with them. Each of us Browns has a sack of marbles we usually carry in our pockets for playing plus our own mason jar full of well-used glass and clay marbles, but the best ones made by our German great-great-grandfather live in a padded box in Mama’s bedroom. She says, “Y’all shoot rough with marbles, and you’ve got plenty to play with. Leave the good ones alone.”

  I come out with a tray of lemonade, and right off, Ricky Miller vies for my attention. He tosses marbles in the air and deftly catches a dozen in his mouth and almost chokes on that many, but I turn my back on him and pay him no mind. He’s always desperate for me to notice him because I never do, but what he does next is excessive to the extreme: he injures my favorite mule when Assassin’s minding his own business.

  That rapscallion lights a dried corncob, and when the mule is drinking at the trough, Ricky holds the flame under Assassin’s tail. The hairs ignite, and the mule kicks Ricky into kingdom come, and Assassin takes off running across the field, tail on fire and me running after him, leaving sweet lemonade and marble playing, and running till my lungs almost burst. When the mule stops, the fire is out but his pitiful tail is scorched something terrible. I gasp for air, and the mule breathes heavy, too. I look around and get goose bumps.

  He ran to Trula Freed’s yard!

  What a strange and wonderful serendipity that the woman who is the pinnacle of my curiosity is in such close proximity. A voodoo goddess with unknown ancestry. A gypsy queen everybody reveres or fears. It was just two days back I was at Aunt Fanniebelle Hollingston’s mansion—she’s my rich relative who owns half the town and buys the newest Nancy Drew book for me. I was taking etiquette lessons Mama declared I needed, and I was the only one attending that day because Mildred and Peggy Turner said they were sick, but they fabricate excuses all the time. It was only Aunt Fanniebelle and me with Uncle Nigel off doing errands, and because my aunt is more open-minded than Mama, I took the liberty of saying Trula Freed’s name out loud to see what would happen. She said, “That woman is not of this world, Lucy. She might be the most important friend a person could have.”

  My skin tingled with anticipation. “You know her?” I said, pouring tea from a china pot to the appointed depth in our cups.

  “Known her all my life, child.”

  “Have you been to her place?”

  “Many times.”

  I dropped a sugar cube in my tea and placed a cookie on my Wedgwood dish and carefully said, “What’s she like?”

  My aunt leaned in and whispered though it was only the two of us there. “I’ll tell you a story, but you can’t tell your mama. She’s set her mind to dislike Trula Freed because the woman can’t be explained. You’re smarter than that, aren’t you?”

  I nodded my complicity but kept my composure.

  “Trula Freed wasn’t born around these parts. She was born in that other Carolina in the low country on a coast that’s hotter than here.”

  My aunt’s iridescent fan flipped open and fluttered like hummingbird wings.

  “I believe her bloodline is a wonderful concoction of gypsy, Cajun, or Lumbee but wouldn’t swear to any of that, because it’s not important. What is important is to know Trula’s mama found her way back to her own mama here in Mercer County, so at one time, three generations of women lived together off Davenport Road. There’s never been a man associated with the women, although one had to be involved now and again. It’s where Trula lives today, but it’s changed past recognizing.

  “That girl brought something unique with her, and that gift was revealed one day when she shocked unsuspecting folks and made a powerful friend. You see, the girl Trula had gone to town with her granny and was waiting in the mercantile store. With arms by her sides, she eyed the jars of penny candy when the judge’s wife, Mavis Beecham, came in to pick up special-order fabric. Miz Beecham said hello to Trula and told her she looked pretty in her blue dress. That was when Trula lifted her hand and laid it on Miz Beecham’s flat belly and said, You got two baby girls in there.

  “The judge’s wife near bout fainted and had to grab holt of the counter to stop from sinking to her knees. She gave Trula the strangest look and fled the store in a flurry. Miz Wilson, the store owner, said, Lord’a mercy, child, what a terrible thing to say, cause she knew Miz Beecham had birthed three stillborn babies and was out of hope of becoming a mama. The store owner took Trula by the shoulders and guided her out the door and told her not to bother the customers, then she ran after Miz Beecham.

  “After that day, Trula’s granny didn’t take her to town. The girl stayed out of sight while Miz Beecham loosened the seams in her dresses and Doc Parker confirmed she was with child. The nervous waiting began. Seven months to the day after Trula’s prophecy, twin girls were born. Mavis Beecham was overjoyed but also mystified at the foretelling.

  “On a chilly day, a month after her babies were born, a handsome horse and buggy pulled up to the shack where Trula lived. The rich woman knocked on the flimsy door. I’m looking for the girl, she said with arms full of packages and a small dress made from special-order fabric. Miz Beecham brought gifts that day, but more importantly, she brought respect to Trula. She saw the girl as a messenger from God, and their friendship saved Trula from being misunderstood. Instead there came knocks in the night and truth declared and payment received. The roof got new tin. Glass windowpanes and white painted boards set Trula’s house apart from other shacks. But it was her red door with a brass doorknob that locked that proclaimed this was the home of an important person.”

  Today, I’m looking at that red door. A yellow dog rests beside it. At my co
ming, he raises his head with mild curiosity. The door is partly open, and a voice I’ve only heard from a distance calls out, “Come in, girls.” It’s an accent different from soft Southern. It carries power. But girls? I hear the patter of running feet and turn to see Cora.

  I whisper harsh, “What in blue blazes are you doing here? Does Mama know?”

  I’m where I shouldn’t be, and Cora’s here, too.

  Cora is the sister we got at church eight years back when a missionary brought her before the congregation saying she was in need of a family. The baby girl was pale as an angel, pure as spun sugar. Today, after all that running from home to here, Cora’s face is as calm as the moon. There’s not a drop of sweat on her alabaster brow.

  “Come in, children,” the voice calls out again. “For medicine for the mule. My feet be swoll today.”

  Assassin turns his big head toward the door and ambles over like he understands. I take Cora’s hand and yank it hard because I’m miffed at her, and we follow behind the pitiful tail that hangs limp. The mule stops at the open red door, and I lean inside. I squint against the glow of yellows and melon and plank walls the color of pearls. The room appears to have its own light source.

  “Hey,” I say, shy.

  The skinny woman sits in a high-backed chair. She’s not wearing her usual turban, and her white hair is cropped short. Bare feet are propped up on a needlepoint footstool. Her ankles are indeed swollen, and her thin arm with those gold bracelets motions me inside, jangling like a wind chime. She points to a cupboard of polished wood.

  “He need help. Top shelf.”

  Cora walks in easy as punch while I go to the cupboard. I open the doors to a lacquered red interior the color of the Chinese music box in Aunt Fanniebelle’s curio cabinet. Out drifts lemon, mint, salt, vinegar, and the metallic whiff of blood. In the middle is a line of matching bottles labeled Stump, Ditch, Willow, Lightning, and Urine. Baskets of tiny silk bags tied with ribbons and dried roots are in orderly rows.

  “Darrrk honey,” the witchy woman says, rolling her r’s. “Top rrright.”

  Reluctantly, my fingers glide past the silk bags and clay pots with cork stoppers. Past bundles of dried herbs to the top shelf of honey jars that start on one end clear as spring water then darken to black. I stand on tiptoes and grab the farthest jar, careful to hold it tight. It looks more like molasses than honey.

  “Great healer, black honey. From wild carrot but not from here. Pour on his tail. Don’t be stingy, Lucy Brown.” My skin tingles hearing my name spoken by Trula Freed.

  I step out of the golden room with its own light, back into the soft Carolina pines that cast shadows on the smooth dirt yard. Assassin waits while I coat his injured tail. He doesn’t flick it or stomp his foot in impatience; only the skin on his back ripples in acknowledgment of my touch. It’s like he knows the honey will help. Some of the sweetness drips on the ground, and the yellow dog saunters over and licks it up. When the deed is done, half the black honey has been used. I rinse my sticky hands in the wash bucket at the door, wipe them on my overalls, and step back inside.

  “He need once more tomorrow. But come. Let’s visit like friends we can be.”

  Cora already sits relaxed in one of the silk-brocade chairs like I’ve seen at Aunt Fanniebelle’s. She swings her white legs beneath her red polka-dot dress that used to be mine. I pass a quick eye over the place I could never have imagined. A place filled with precious things as special as her name. The white open shelves hold delicate figurines and quartz crystals and a line of ancient books with gilded spines held upright by jade bookends. I read the name Plato on one end and Da Vinci on the other.

  The old woman says to Cora, “This for your eyes,” and pulls me away from my scrutiny. She has given Cora a tiny tube of ointment and a pair of child-sized tinted glasses. My skin crawls. This is plain spooky. How would Trula Freed know Cora would have a condition that makes her pale eyes sensitive? And how did she know Cora would arrive on her doorstep today? Is this black magic? Maybe Mama doesn’t like her because the woman intuits the impossible.

  “What’s in that stuff?” I take the ointment from Cora’s hand and smell.

  “Herbs to soothe. Castor oil, mint. Only good.” Her voice is as soothing as the herbs and the oil, and I look into her green eyes and tumble through space though I hold on to Cora’s brocade chair. The ten-dollar word for Trula Freed is arcane. The mystery of her can’t be easily understood. She is as rare as the balm of Gilead.

  But today, I don’t take this chance to know her better. I break the spell because I fear Mama’s consequences more than the answers I seek. “We gotta go,” I say and reach for Cora’s arm and pull her to standing, sad we can’t eat the sweet treats I see and hear our good fortunes told, but I’ve got to get Cora back home. Will Mama believe I came here by accident? Will she believe Cora followed me without invitation?

  In the dimming afternoon light, we march away from the cottage that tugs at me to Come back, don’t go, stay. My mule follows with his head hanging low. I’m in a tizzy thinking in two directions: how to understand the puzzle of Trula Freed that’s thicker than before, and what lie can I conjure to get out of trouble for coming here. I’m not a good liar and that’s my downfall. When I tell a lie, I stumble over words midway and look culpable—sometimes without good reason. On the walk back, I practice how to begin. Mama, you won’t believe what happened today, I might say and watch her face and hope for curiosity. Or maybe I’ll state the obvious. Assassin needed my help, so I didn’t have a choice and see if shifting the blame works.

  Cora wears her tinted glasses when we get home, but there’s nobody in the yard to bear witness. They’re all on the back side of the barn, looking at the litter of piglets the sow birthed at an auspicious moment. The next morning, I pour the rest of the black honey on Assassin’s tail, rinse out the jar, and hide it among our empties. Before the day is over, Cora loses her tinted glasses. She asks me where they could be, and I say What glasses? ashamed of my deception. She doesn’t ask again.

  Chapter 6

  Bert: Bus Ride

  I never been on a bus, and it scares me riding fast down roads I never seen before. How am I supposed to find my way back home? Me and my big talk bout going places, wanting different, wanting more. It’s hard to breathe with that strip of cloth wrapped round my middle. I sit on the edge of the seat and put my forehead against the cool window.

  The man beside me says, “You want the window open, miss? Let me help.” He reaches over, slides that window up, and fresh air rushes in with smells of rubber and gasoline and bread baking. It blows my hair back and dries my tears. I put my elbows on the window frame and watch people walking hither and yon on paved paths. A little boy on a bicycle waves at me and I wave back. A black dog chases the bus for fun, his tail up and his tongue out, loping along till he quits.

  We pass the stink of manure from cows and hogs grazing in fields, then the hills grow soft. The man sitting next to me taps my shoulders. “Want half?” He points to his biscuit with jam. When I nod, he breaks it in two. I missed breakfast this morning cause my belly hurt and my thinking wasn’t right.

  “My wife made it,” he says. “She always sends me off with a biscuit to make sure I don’t starve.” He grins and his teeth stick out, but he’s got nice eyes. I bet he’s got a nice wife.

  On most days, I can talk your ear off, but today I ain’t in a talking mood, and the man beside me lets me be with my thoughts. My spirit rises with the sun, and I start looking at the new world in a good way. I’m flying down the road to somewhere a long way from where I come. Part of my heart cries cause there’s only Pa and Ruth at the cabin now, but part of my heart flies high. “What day is today?” I ask the man, cause it’s a big day for change, and he says it’s June second. I’m gonna remember this day.

  Before the trip hardly gets going, the man says, “This here coming up is where I get off. Nice
meeting you,” and he stands and pulls his case off the top shelf, and when the bus stops he gets off. A pregnant lady with chestnut-colored skin gets on holding a cardboard box tied with twine. She struggles down the aisle, and I go to help her haul her things, half dragging it, and whisper, “You can sit with me,” but a man says, “Coloreds in back behind the white line.” The woman smiles sad and thanks me for my help.

  I’m looking out the window thinking bout that faded line painted on the bus floor when another man comes down the aisle jostling from side to side, and plops down next to me. “Hey, pretty lady. What’s your name,” he says and makes my skin itch. When I don’t say or look his way, he says, “You ever seen a two-headed coin?” and like the fool, I look, cause I ain’t never seen a two-headed coin.

  He’s got hairy hands, and the edges of his fingernails are black. “See, there’s a head on this side and a head on the other. Must have been an accident cause I never seen another one, have you? Want to hold it?” I shake my head. He says, “It’s your loss. I’m not gonna push you but I bet you’ll never see another two-headed coin.”

  And like a fool again, I hold out my hand. He presses it into my palm and holds it for too long, and my skin itches some more. I give it back to him and go to looking out the window. At the next stop, the driver tells us we’ll be here fifteen minutes, and we can buy lunch at the diner. I don’t have money, so I stay in my seat. The man with the two-headed coin gets off and goes in the diner and comes out carrying a paper poke. He sits beside me again and drops in my lap a sandwich wrapped in wax paper and a chocolate Moon Pie. “Hope you like egg salad,” he says. “Figured you were a Moon Pie kind of girl.”

  I let em stay there, not liking that he touched the paper but liking that it’s egg salad and Moon Pie. When he puts his head back on the seat, I think he’s sleeping, and I open the sandwich real quiet. Without opening his eyes, he says, “Thought you was hungry.”