All the Little Hopes

by Leah Weiss

  “Thank you for thinking on us,” Ruth says and nods at the girls. “Where your manners. What do you say to your Aunt Bert?”

  Timid thank-yous come out of the girls, hugging their bunnies like they’ve always belonged in their arms.

  Ruth says it best. “You different, Bert. That fairy in your bunny book did a spell on you, too. She turn you real somewhere else. I love you, but you don’t belong to us no more.”

  Chapter 54

  Bert: Resurrection

  The bus ride back is familiar. Lu and I stay on our side of the faded white line on the bus floor, the mountains grow flat, sweaters get put away, and the wet heat of August climbs back on my skin. Lu hogs the window seat again and looks at the passing land. She’s likely surprised that a state she’s called home can be so different from one edge to the other. Like her and me. We both Carolina girls, but I come from jagged rock and dark hollers. Lu’s coated in honey, and sandy soil buffs her feet to pearly smooth. That sand’s got a ways to go on me.

  Mama and Daddy are at the station. When their eyes find us, they look happy at our coming. Like they worried the mountains won’t let us go, but I’m here where I belong. I don’t even mind going to school tomorrow to fill my head with stuff I don’t need.

  They say the war is over, but Riverton stays the same cept we don’t make sugar syrup every day and the bees get to fend for themselves. Our soldiers don’t come home right away. The Germans still work the fields. Tobacco market comes like always, and every Friday for six weeks the auctioneer comes to Mercer County to pull top dollar for hard labor.

  Then word comes that Aunt Violet’s puny patch of land got sold to a builder. He’s gonna put up kit houses. Every four-room house will be the same, with two bedrooms, a living room, a kitchen, and a inside toilet. Daddy says each one will use ten thousand pieces of wood that are numbered and delivered by train. The pieces will fit together like a jigsaw puzzle. Lu and me ride our bicycles out to see for ourselves. A sign at the road reads

  COMING SOON

  ALADDIN KIT HOMES FOR RETURNING HEROES

  It’s October of ’45, long after Aunt Violet went crazy. Gone is her garden fence, the chicken coop, and the plate that held the perfect cherry pie. Gone is the dry well Tiny Junior fell down six weeks back and give us a fright. The land is swept clean, and stakes mark where each house will sit on new roads. We count twenty-four squares sitting neat.

  “Got a mathematics problem for you,” Lu says.

  “Okay.”

  “If each of these house takes ten thousand pieces of wood to build, how many pieces of wood will it take to build twenty-four houses?”

  I figure that in my head easy cause I know the trick with zeros. “Two hundred and forty thousand pieces of wood,” I say, and that pleases Lu. Then I say to Lu, “How many trees you reckon they cut down to make them puzzle pieces?”

  She grins. “A lot.”

  The next day is Saturday, and Lu and me do the selling at the farmers market. We get back for noon dinner, when Aunt Fanniebelle telephones and shouts through the mouthpiece. “David, hold on to your britches, cause I got big news to tell.”

  Lu and me step closer to hear the news, and Daddy holds out the earpiece.

  “You know they been working at Violet Crumbie’s place, building cracker-box bungalows for our soldier boys. Heard tell they’re going to cost near bout six hundred dollars. What soldier boy is going to have six hundred dollars in his pocket to spend on a cracker-box house? They ought to give it to him is what they ought to do.”

  “The news, Aunt Fanniebelle…you were saying?”

  “Oh that. Well, this morning, they were setting up to dig a new well back at the woods. They use a drill that does the work of ten men, but they still need men with shovels. They don’t even get started good when they find bones.”

  “Bones? Animal bones?” Daddy says.

  “Human bones. In shallow graves.”

  It’s all everybody talks about. Human bones buried on poor Violet Crumbie’s farm. Some folks speculate that one body is likely the missing Terrell Stucky, cause they heard tell a bullet hole went through the skull. The next body wears scraps of white, so it might be the missing Frankie Tender. The last grave holds a square box crammed with pieces of bones. But not the head. The head is buried beside the box.

  All this news tumbles in on me. I don’t waste grief on the skull with the bullet hole or the box of bones with the head chopped off, but if the white cloth is Frankie Tender’s uniform, that’s different. I don’t tell Lu how much thinking I done since April a year back, remembering that night behind the warehouse and the feel of that man and what he done to light up my insides. If he’d only asked my name. If he’d only laid me down tender, I would have give myself to him, and he might be alive.

  Two weeks after the bones get sent to Raleigh, Irene brings news to the supper table. “Lord, what a mess out at the Crumbie place,” she starts, and Mama pinches her lips, not liking gory details when we eat. “The coroner’s office confirmed that it was three bodies buried. The bones in the box with the head beside it belonged to a six-foot-tall man. Larry Crumbie was six foot, wasn’t he?”

  Mama puts down her fork. “I thought Larry Crumbie left town years back.”

  Daddy rattles the ice in his glass, and Lu slides the pitcher of sweet tea to him. Irene goes on. “That’s what we thought, but we could have been wrong. The girls found his truck hidden in Mr. Otis’s barn, so we know he didn’t drive off. And without his truck, how would he get far? Hitchhike?”

  I feel a puff of pride at Irene giving us detective credit while Lu says, “A head weighs eleven pounds.”

  Grady grins and says, “With or without the neck?” He gets the look from Mama.

  Then Lydia says, “How much is eleven pounds?”

  But Mama puts up her hand. “Enough. Let’s talk about something else so we can properly digest our food.” But we don’t talk about something else. We turn quiet.

  I’m gnawing on a chicken bone when I remember what Trula Freed said: Larry Crumbie, he go nowhere. Weegee said Larry Crumbie was HOME and Frankie Tender was HOME, and I thought she meant Frankie’s hometown or the army barracks where he lived. I look at Lu and see she’s thinking the same thing. All clues point to Aunt Violet’s home. Larry Crumbie’s home. My first home and now shallow graves.

  Lucy and me stay quiet till the dishes get done, then we go upstairs, Lu closes the bedroom door and whispers, “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  I hold out my arm. “You see these hairs standing up?”

  “Trula Freed told us Larry never left home, but it didn’t make sense till now. I never thought he was dead and buried on his own farm, did you? I thought he was having himself a high time as a free man. But his head chopped off? Do you think your aunt had anything to do with that? And if the other bodies belong to the other missing men, why were they buried in the same place?”

  “Hold on, Nancy Drew. That’s a lot of questions. We don’t even know it’s Larry yet. It could be somebody else. But I wonder if the police are gonna talk to Aunt Violet? She used to blab all the time bout her missing husband I never laid eyes on.”

  “You want to see Trula or Weegee?” Lu whispers. “Maybe one of them can shed clearer light on who murdered three souls.”

  I shake my head. “I wanna go to Primrose.”

  “Primrose Mental Hospital? Why in the world? Your aunt doesn’t know diddlysquat about the other two bodies. She was locked up when those troubles came to town.”

  “I think Larry Crumbie is the key. He was the first missing man, and my aunt might know something. It might be the thing making her crazy. We’ve only been to see her once.”

  “I don’t think she hardly knows her name, Bert. And that’s a long drive over there, and if Mama goes, she’d put a stop to us upsetting your aunt with questions about bones. And you remember
how she was that day. She may not even know her name.”

  “That was then. This is now. We’re going, Lu. That’s settled.”

  Chapter 55

  Lucy: Violet Primrose

  The next day is the first Friday in November, and no matter what Bert says, I don’t think we’re going anywhere near Primrose. At breakfast, she says in her sweetest tone, “Mama, I got to thinking bout my poor Aunt Violet last night. It’s been a long while since we saw her, and I’m feeling neglectful. She don’t even know her brother passed. Can we go for a visit tomorrow?”

  Mama doesn’t look suspicious. She probably doesn’t think that box of bones and other bodies have a thing to do with Violet Crumbie. She says, “I’m up to my ears in work for the church raffle, but maybe Grady would take you.”

  My mouth falls open, and Bert says in all fake innocence, “That’d be great. Can you ask him for us? We’ll help with dinner, then be back by suppertime.” She links her arm in mine, pulls me from the room, and whispers, “Close your mouth before a fly gets in.”

  Saturday afternoon, Grady gets behind the wheel of the car. Bert and I sit in back, and we pull out of the driveway on a blue sky day with clouds like meringue. I say, “How did you know asking Mama directly would work?”

  “I didn’t.”

  “What would you have done if she’d said no?”

  “Think of something else.”

  “Like what?”

  “Why do you have to question everything, Lu? It worked, and we’re going to get answers.”

  “But what are the questions?”

  She giggles and looks embarrassed. “I hadn’t thought of that. Let’s make a list so we don’t forget anything important.”

  “Assuming your aunt hasn’t forgotten everything important.” I find a scrap of paper and pencil. “Okay. What’s the first question? Violet, do you remember Larry Crumbie?” I joke.

  Bert says, “That’s not a bad first question. If she don’t remember him, how could she know anything about his demise?”

  Demise. It tickles me to hear Bert use a ten-dollar word. It’s a far cry from her confusion over bibliophile.

  While Grady drives to Primrose, clouds thicken, and it begins to rain. Bert says, “Does it always rain at this place?” I think it’s an odd coincidence, too.

  Grady pulls into the parking lot. “I’ll wait here,” he says and pulls out the latest Popular Mechanics from under the seat.

  “Suit yourself,” I say, and Bert and I dash through the rain to the front door and slip inside and shake the water off our hair.

  “See what Grady’s reading?” Bert whispers.

  “Popular Mechanics.”

  “No, the other one. I bet it’s a girly magazine. He’s got it inside Popular Mechanics. I told you all the boys want to look at what we got.”

  “Where would he get such a nasty thing?” I whisper.

  “Pictures are everywhere. Under store counters, in back rooms, under featherbeds, in privies. Grady’s only doing what comes natural. How do you know it’s a nasty thing if you never saw one?”

  “I don’t need to see one to know.” I sound prim. I sound old.

  Bert shrugs.

  “You think Mama and Daddy know? About Grady?”

  “They not blind and they not stupid, and Grady’s not asking permission. If it won’t necked girls he’s looking at, it’d be necked boys.”

  “Ooh gross.” I wrinkle my nose and wonder how Bert knows about such unnatural things. Am I walking through life wearing blinders? Is my brain wrapped in cotton batting? And why am I defending Grady? Why do I care? I do find it curious that Bert and I walk the same road every day but see different scenery and come to different conclusions. And where is the truth about right and wrong in all this morality grown-ups preach? It’s ironic that we’re heading into a mental hospital deliberating truth as if it’s debatable. The poor souls inside debate truth every day. Are we all one tragedy away from crazy?

  The place looks the same and smells the same, and the nurses sound the same with squeaky shoes on bleached linoleum. Bert speaks to the lady at the front desk. “We’re here to see Violet Crumbie.”

  “One moment, please,” she says, then slides the sign-in sheet toward us and picks up the phone. She speaks in a chipper voice in the mouthpiece like we’re friends who’ve come for tea. “Two young ladies are here to see Miz. Crumbie. Is it okay for me to send them up to the fourth floor?”

  I thought she was on third.

  There’s a pause while the receptionist listens, and her mouth moves into a perfect O, and her eyes grow wide. She carefully hangs up the phone and says, “I’m so sorry, but it’s not possible for you to see Miz Crumbie today. Can you come back another time?” She adds a forced smile.

  Bert says with the voice of authority. “I’m Violet Crumbie’s niece, Allie Bert Tucker, her closest relative. We’ve come a long way to see her. Can I speak with somebody in charge? I need me some answers.”

  Bert plays her cards right, and the lady says, “Well, take a seat. Let me see who can talk to you.”

  We’re the only ones sitting on the plastic-covered chairs waiting. The lady shoots us a sad smile. As soon as she walks away from the front desk, Bert turns to me and whispers. “I think the police have been here.”

  “Why would you say that?”

  “What else could it be? It’s only been one day since we heard the bones belonged to a six-foot-tall man. The police would have known longer. They can put two and two—”

  The tap of footsteps grow near, and from around the corner a thin man in a gray suit walks toward us with his hand out and his voice well-oiled. “I’m Edsel Rutherford, the supervisor.”

  Bert stands and introduces us.

  “Miz Crumbie is not well today and is resting.” Mr. Rutherford’s tone is patronizing. “It’s best we not interrupt her. I’m sure you understand and don’t mind coming back another day.”

  Bert has one shot to fire, and she makes it count. “Mr. Rutherford, did you know the police found three bodies buried on Violet Crumbie’s farm? One of them is a box of bones from a six-foot-tall man with his head cut off.”

  The supervisor’s composure cracks, and his head bobs like a chicken. Nancy Drew would be proud of Bert’s surprise attack. “Heavens no. When did this come to light? She’s been here for years…” He’s come unsettled and drops in the chair.

  “So the police have not been to see her?”

  “I am certain they have not. I would have been informed of something that extraordinary.” He punctuates his words for effect, then calls out to the lady at the front desk. “June, have the police been to see Violet Crumbie?”

  June overheard the conversation and absorbed the shock. She is composed when she says, “No, Mr. Rutherford. Not on my watch.”

  “Please check with the head nurse. It might explain today’s episode.” And off June rushes to do his bidding.

  “What episode? Has something happened to my dear aunt?” Bert appears to be the loving niece.

  “Surely, you’re not suggesting that your sweet aunt is mixed up with…bones.”

  “I don’t know,” Bert says. “Maybe Aunt Violet knows more than we think. It was her property they were found on. Some of the bones have been there a long time. Back to when she lived there.” Bert stretches the truth further than we know for certain.

  Mr. Rutherford purses his lips and obviously struggles with how much to say. “Well, she has been acting strange.”

  “Is that why she was moved from the third floor to the fourth?” Bert says. “Who’s on the fourth floor?”

  “Now, I can explain, Miz Crumbie—”

  “Tucker. I’m Allie Bert Tucker. My pa was Violet Crumbie’s brother.”

  “Well, Miz Tucker…” Mr. Rutherford forgets Bert’s question. He needs prodding.

 
“The fourth floor?”

  “Oh, the fourth floor… It’s for people we need to watch closer.”

  “You mean the dangerous ones?”

  “I don’t like to put it like that. It’s for their own good.”

  I speak for the first time. “You mean Violet Crumbie is tied up? Chained?”

  “Chained? Heavens no. We don’t want her to hurt herself. That’s all” is his indirect answer.

  Bert straightens her back. “Mr. Rutherford, what is going on with my aunt?”

  “I can only tell you so much. Miz. Crumbie has been yelling the same word yesterday and today.” He looks off into space as if permission will come from beyond. He continues cautiously, “One word, over and over. The doctor has given her a sedative to calm her, and she’s sleeping. That’s why you can’t see her today. She’s resting.”

  “What was she saying?” Bert asks.

  Mr. Rutherford closes in on himself. He says more formally, “It’s not unusual for the mentally ill to fixate on one thing. I’m sure it’s nothing in Miz Crumbie’s case.” The gray man in the gray suit in this gray world stands looking composed once more, clearly having made up his mind not to share more with us. “I’m not at liberty to say, Miz Crumbie—”

  “My name is Tucker. Allie Bert Tucker. Violet Crumbie is…” She repeats the explanation in full to shame Mr. Rutherford.

  He doesn’t even look embarrassed about being a poor listener, but he is firm with his decision. “Excuse me. I have business to attend to,” and he disappears around the corner at an efficient clip, going somewhere else, when June returns to her desk.

  We stand in this drab place, confused about what to do next. It wasn’t how we planned the visit to end. Bert says in a voice loud enough to carry, “I sure wish we knew what Aunt Violet has been saying. The whole family is so worried about her.” Bert stretches truth again for sympathy.

  June takes the bait and calls to us in a low voice, “Psst, girls.” She motions us over conspiratorially. She has a glint in her eyes, being the holder of a secret that’s bursting to be released and giving her status.