All the Little Hopes

by Leah Weiss

  My mountain folks back home and Pa’s sister in Riverton is broke in two. They can’t give comfort like the Browns. If left on my own, I’d turn to dust and blow away. But I’m saved for no good reason I can figure. I don’t fit. I ain’t smart or mannerly. But I am good at one thing. I’m good at tending bees.

  Lu says to me when I start learning, “You got a quiet touch and a gentle voice, Bert, and the bees like you. Do you know their wings beat two hundred times per second?” My mind can’t grapple with figures that big or time that small, but if I’m gonna be good at something, I’m glad it’s working bees, for they are holy creatures. The hum of their wings sounds like angels gathered round. So when I listen, I hear a tribe of angel wings beating in a hive.

  Lu says worker bees are girls and drones are boys. They make our food grow and only live forty-five days and never sleep, then they die. The queen lives five years and lays three million eggs, and none of em whine bout their lot in life like I do. I can learn from bees. I give thanks to them every day. When the sun sets and the bees come home for the night, I go to the hives and lay my ear down and listen to them telling secrets.

  I think they whisper bout me.

  Chapter 15

  Lucy: The Plot Thickens

  Through the summer heat, Bert and I wash jars, harvest beeswax, and steal time to read in the hayloft. But it’s Larry Crumbie who still intrigues us. We know how many shirts hang in his closet (three) and how many bottles of half-filled liquor we find around his farm (seven). We know he smokes Lucky Strike cigarettes and only uses Dapper Dan pomade on his hair. These are small things I mark in a notebook until the day we find something big.

  We’ve ridden our bikes to the bait shop on the river many times and questioned Mr. Otis, the owner, because our biggest clue is that Larry was a fisherman. Today, I lean on his counter, chewing bubble gum, and say, “What kind of truck did he have?” because I really don’t know.

  Without looking up from cutting worms in half—likely thinking they’ll become two worms when they won’t—he says, “Model A, wood slats, wide whitewalls, and a crack in the windshield on the passenger side.”

  “How do you remember it so well?”

  “Cause I sold it to him.”

  “When was that?”

  “Bout seven months back.”

  “Did he buy it on time?” Bert thinks to ask.

  “Yeah, he was buying it on time. Till he stopped paying on time.”

  “What did you do?” Bert says. When Mr. Otis doesn’t answer, she says, “Weren’t you upset bout a truck you sold not getting paid for?”

  Mr. Otis looks up and says, “That’s enough. I want you nosey busybodies to skedaddle. Both of you. Don’t come round again with questions less they’re fishing questions.” He picks up his knife, shakes it at us, and gets back to cutting bait with a vengeance. We hit a nerve but we leave.

  Outside the shop, Terrell Stucky—Tiny Junior’s evil uncle—sits in his folding chair in the shade of a sycamore tree and cuts on a piece of pine. We ignore him like usual till he throws his pearl-handled switchblade at my foot and comes close to cutting off my toe.

  Bert snaps, “You crazy old coot, watch where you throw that thing.” He cackles and his open mouth shows rotten nubs black from chew. Bert leans back in the door to Mr. Otis. “Did you see what Terrell Stucky did?”

  But Mr. Otis shrugs. “The world’s a dangerous place. You little girls take care. Run on home to your mommy and daddy.”

  We leave the dock vexed at the men for their rudeness and disdain, ride a short distance, hit the brakes, and stop on the side of the road. I say, “I got an idea about that missing truck.”

  Bert grins, “I got one, too. Bet it’s the same one.”

  I’ve never been to Mr. Otis’s farm before, but I know the road it’s on, and I’ve seen his mailbox. We’re going to look for a missing truck because we feel inspired, righteous, and justified, like Nancy Drew would be if she had heard Mr. Otis’s answers today and deduced his guilt. I feel her bold spirit guide us to a dented mailbox with Otis crudely painted on the side, down a rutted drive I’ve never traversed before, into the dark interior of a barn, to the dusty tarp covering a Model A Ford pickup with a crack in the passenger side windshield.

  “Well, I’ll be.” Bert’s whisper sounds small in the big barn. “We did it. We found us a real honest-to-god clue.”

  This lead feels significant, because no man leaves town walking when he could drive. Our backs are to the barn door when Mr. Otis’s voice slices the air. “What in sam hill are you nosy girls doing? I thought your daddy raised you better than this, Lucy Brown. This here is private property. I could shoot y’all for trespassing, and nobody’d blame me one whit. I’ve answered all your crappy questions bout a crappy man who owes me money.”

  Bert raises her chin in confidence. “Then how come his missing truck is here?”

  “Cause it was his truck. It was on his farm with the keys in it. I took it back to pressure him into paying what he owes me, but he never come for it.”

  Bert says, “Save your talk for the sheriff, Mr. Otis. If you ain’t hiding anything, why’s his truck under this tarp?”

  Good question.

  “The sheriff? Good grief. Why would you go bothering Cecil? And I don’t need to drive this truck when my other one drives better.”

  “Let’s see what the law has to say.” I grab Bert’s arm and pull her toward the door, but Mr. Otis steps in front of us, his silhouette dark and menacing.

  “Answer me one thing: What’s Larry Crumbie to you? He’s a nobody who don’t live up to his word. A liar, a cheat, and a lousy fisherman who beats up on a crazy wife. Why do you give a rat’s ass bout what happened to him?”

  The truth is I don’t much care about him, but I love our very own Mystery of the Missing Man. My best friend delivered that delicious mystery at the same time she told me six things that captivated me:

  One, Bert proclaimed she killed her ma and the unborn baby.

  Two, she was exiled and sent away on a Trailways bus.

  Three, she rode that bus solo across the expanse of North Carolina.

  Four, she found traces of a nasty man who beat her pregnant aunt.

  Five, that aunt went crazy and was committed to a mental asylum.

  Six, Larry Crumbie has the glorious audacity to go missing and stay missing.

  So it’s with prideful determination that Bert and I ride into town to tell the sheriff what we uncovered in Mr. Otis’s barn and nobody thought to look for. We ride hard and are winded when we rush into his office. He glances up from his desk, listens politely, then only halfway thanks us for bringing this clue to his attention. But he doesn’t grab his hat. He doesn’t head out the door to see for himself.

  Bert flings one last thought his way. “If you dawdle too long, Mr. Otis could get rid of that truck. You might lose your first real clue.”

  Sheriff Cecil leans back on his chair legs. “You don’t really think Mr. Otis or that truck is going anywhere soon, do you?” Before we can answer, he says, “Appreciate you coming by,” and stands and walks us to the door while I fume, thinking no officer of the law would ever ignore Nancy Drew’s important clue served on a silver platter. We head home downcast. We ride up to Mama and Daddy sitting on the front porch, rocking in unison. Their faces are hard. They’ve been waiting.

  Chapter 16

  Bert: Big Change

  Without a hello or howdy-do, Miz Brown starts. “What made you think it was your right to trespass on a neighbor’s property and enter his barn?”

  Mr. Brown takes the toothpick out his mouth and says, “You were lucky you didn’t get shot. A man’s got a right to protect what’s his. Lucy, I thought you were smarter than this.”

  Miz Brown dives back in. “Is it those Nancy Drew books? Are they putting dangerous ideas in your heads? Is that why you gi
rls are taking foolish risks?”

  We look at the ground, not upset at snooping but upset we got caught.

  Mr. Brown decides, “You’re grounded. Both of you. You’ll harvest beeswax then stay in the yard. No gallivanting. No fishing. No heading into town. No visiting friends. No exceptions.”

  “For how long?” Lu whines.

  He says, “Till school starts. For now, go to your room. We’ll call you for supper.”

  We march upstairs, slam the bedroom door, drop across the bed on our backs, and stare at the ceiling while I fume about school. Lu starts. “You’d think they’d be proud of us. Mr. Otis hiding evidence like that. If it wasn’t for us, everybody would forget Larry Crumbie when a crime has undoubtedly been committed. You’d never hear Mr. Drew criticizing Nancy for doing the right thing.”

  My insides are riled. I say, “Stop saying dumb stuff like that. You talk like your pretend Nancy Drew and her daddy are real folk. They ain’t real. You told me they was made up. They don’t live in a real town. She don’t drive a blue roadster, so she don’t get grounded and get sent to school with the little kids so she looks stupid.”

  Lu turns away from me. I turn the other way. We stay like that for the longest time till Lydia comes in and says supper’s ready and stands there waiting. I get up and start to leave, but Lydia says, “Wait for Lucy,” like there’s some rule bout us going downstairs together. I wait. Lu finally gets up. Her hair’s smushed flat on one side. We go downstairs.

  After Mr. Brown says the blessing and food starts getting passed, I say, “I won’t go.”

  Everybody keeps passing food, but nobody talks till Lu says, “I’ll be going to high school since I finished two grades in one a few years back. Bert won’t be going to high school yet.”

  I want to claw her eyes out and spit poison in her face.

  Miz Brown says, “That’s true, Lucy, and we all know that, but that sounded rude and unkind to your friend. Vanity doesn’t suit you.”

  I say again, “Won’t go.”

  “We’ll talk about it after supper.”

  “Won’t change my mind neither.”

  Mr. Brown butters another biscuit and asks Irene to pass the apple butter please, and Lydia eats her peas one at a time like usual, but I’m in a hurtful place and have lost my appetite. I don’t eat cept to nibble at a biscuit. Lu picks at her food, too.

  Helen holds her hand on her pregnant belly and surprises me when she goes to talking cause she’s usually like a stupid bump on a log. “I’ll be glad when this baby comes. It won’t let me get a decent night’s rest and nothing settles on my stomach right. Sure wish Wade would hurry home to work bees and be a good daddy.”

  I glance quick at Miz Brown. Nobody’s heard diddlysquat from Wade Sully. Does Helen know something we don’t?

  “Dear, it will be wonderful when he comes home, but we have to be patient and say our prayers.”

  Them words make Helen slap the table, and our eyes fly wide at her upset. Her water glass turns over, she pushes herself to stand, and her arms tremble. “I am sick and tired of being patient and saying stupid prayers God doesn’t hear and feeling fat and out of sorts and scared of what I don’t know. I am sick and tired of being afraid and mad at everyone and everything.”

  Miz Brown stands and guides poor Helen to her bedroom.

  Irene wipes the spilled water and starts cleaning off the supper dishes while Mr. Brown and Grady leave the table and head to the barn where they go when Brown girls throw a tizzy fit. The cuckoo clock ticks loud. Lydia and Cora go outside, then it’s Lu and me sitting there with Irene doing dishes.

  “I’m sorry,” Lu whispers.

  “Bout what?”

  “Everything. Getting you in trouble. Bragging on being in high school.”

  “What’s gonna happen to me? I’m dumb as dirt.”

  Irene butts in and says, “Bert, you are smart and beautiful.”

  I’m puzzled cause she’s never said a kind word to me.

  “You’re a quick study, and you have as bright a future as any of us.”

  Miz Brown comes out of Helen’s room, catches Irene’s words, and adds, “And I’m going to homeschool you for a while. You and I will study together in the mornings, and you’ll do homework with the children at night. Your reading has already improved but I was wondering if you’d like to read The Velveteen Rabbit at this year’s birthday party.”

  “Is it hard words?”

  Lu says in her know-it-all way, “Yes, it is hard words. Too hard for her. How could she learn to read that in three weeks? And to be a reader is an honor, Mama. I thought Bert and I were being grounded and punished for trespassing and endangering ourselves.”

  “It would be a lovely incentive.” Mama moves to help Irene with the dishes. “We’ll all help.”

  Lu storms out of the room, saying over her shoulder, “Suit yourself if you want to witness a colossal failure.”

  Chapter 17

  Lucy: The Wrong Side of Right

  Bert and I avoid each other this cataclysmic evening: first, for her having the audacity to argue whether Nancy Drew was real, and second, for her getting an honor for no good reason I can think of. After supper, Bert’s gone to the beehives doing God knows what, and I find Mama on the front porch braiding Lydia’s hair before story time. I stand and watch Mama’s nimble fingers and wait for her to say something, but she doesn’t. She makes me talk first.

  “Mama, why are you doing this?”

  “Because Lydia asked me to.”

  “I’m not talking about her hair. I’m talking about Bert reading.”

  “As I explained: It’s a good goal. It will stretch her faster than anything can. You want her to succeed, don’t you?”

  “I guess.”

  Mama puts her hands on her hips. “Lucy Brown, what kind of weak answer is that? She’s your friend. Someone who has not had your blessings in life.”

  “But you don’t even correct her when she uses that atrocious mountain talk. Ain’t and he don’t. You get after the rest of us with a vengeance if we have one slipup. Why is she allowed to talk white trash?”

  Mama turns livid eyes on me. “Girl, what has gotten into you being so hurtful toward Bert? She has had everything disrupted in her life. The last thing I want to do is have her think she needs to change for us. Better grammar will happen over time, but I will not put pressure on her. And you won’t either, you hear me? Go. Take a walk and find a better disposition to bring to story time. It’s your turn to read.”

  I whine, “But she’s going to read The Velveteen Rabbit.”

  Oma brought more than horror stories, unnatural creatures, and sauerkraut to Riverton. She also brought us The Velveteen Rabbit¸ a cherished story for the ages. On the third Saturday in every September that I can remember, we throw the book a birthday party. Twice I’ve been the reader. Two years back, Miz Elvira, the librarian, was given the honor. Everybody in the family has had a turn reading except Lydia and Cora. For that celebration, we bake Oma’s German marble cake, light candles, and sing “Happy Birthday.” This year, the book turns twenty-one years old, and the party will take place on September eighteenth at three o’clock. Front and center is the family’s velveteen rabbit passed down from child to child. Lydia is the current guardian. And now we know Bert will read.

  Oma made the rabbit from scraps of rich velvet and brocade. She made him years ago to honor the book that she loved for its wisdom. She made him for her grandson, Everett, when he turned six. He was a kind boy long grown into an army man who loves riddles. Oma brought the stuffed rabbit we love and the wolpertinger we fear.

  After she died that last Thursday in May and we cleaned out her bedroom so Irene could have her own, the wolpertinger came down from the top of the armoire and was put away. It moved to the attic in its wooden box locked in Oma’s carved trunk, out of sight.


  Weeks went by, then Lydia and Cora began hearing things above their beds, in the attic. They said someone was crying when they were trying to sleep. They believe it’s Oma’s creature crying because it’s lonely. They aren’t afraid as much as they feel sorry for the thing buried in a trunk. I tell them the noise isn’t the wolpertinger. The feathered and horned creature died sixty years ago, so how can it make a noise? One night, I set out to prove I’m right and the little girls are wrong.

  Since the crying happens only at night, we wait until dark, then we unlatch the door to the narrow stairs that lead to the attic. A rush of stale air pushes out, and we stare into the gloomy cavern, into the shadowy peak of rafters. Bert says she won’t go up there. She’s afraid of the dark and doesn’t care whether somebody’s crying or not. So Lydia, Cora, and I stand at the bottom of the stairs and listen. We hear the wireless in the parlor turned low. We hear the wind whistling through the chimney flue. We hear squirrels skitter across the tin roof. But nothing cries. I carry the Eveready flashlight I got from Daddy’s bedroom.

  “Ready?” I whisper, and the little ones nod. I’ve never been in the attic at night, and I feel a moment’s trepidation because the dark changes things. I climb the narrow stairs first. The flashlight pierces the shadows and the slanted eaves and washes across the dusty planks. Stored things loom tall. The three of us huddle and walk the line of light past a dress form, a rack of Oma’s clothes, a stack of empty suitcases and carpetbags, and wooden crates of pots and dishes and empty jars. We move as one toward that darkest corner that holds the carved trunk that sits mostly forgotten. The light beam finds the trunk. The lid is propped open. The wolpertinger stands in front. Its eyes burn with fire. Shit.

  I scream and struggle to breathe and grab Lydia’s hand and push at Cora, and we knock over the dress form and the pile of suitcases and scramble down the steps to the safety of light. The noise brings Mama and Daddy upstairs where they find me shaking.