Dear Hank Williams by Kimberly Willis Holt

“Heads.”
    Elroy tossed the quarter, caught it, and checked. “I’ll be. Looks like you’re going to an early dinner with me tonight.”
    Whenever Momma told that story, she ended it the same way. She looked up at the ceiling and shook her head. “It was like Elroy Broussard dropped plumb out of the sky and landed in front of me and the popcorn machine.”
    The first time Aunt Patty Cake heard it, she said, “Jordie June, you think the silliest moments are romantic.”
    To me, Momma is the most romantic person I know. Some people with good singing voices around here claim, “God gave me this gift,” and they won’t sing anywhere but church. Only church folk hear them Sunday after Sunday.
    Momma wanted to share her gift with the world. She drove all around Rapides Parish with Lulu Swenson, singing in places where people could hear her. Aunt Patty Cake never said anything, although the way her mouth twitched every time Momma went, I could tell she didn’t like it. Every Friday and Saturday night, Momma grabbed her purse, headed out the front door, and slipped into Lulu’s car. Lulu’s and Momma’s voices harmonized like sisters. Which some say makes the best harmony. But personally I think a mother and daughter do.
    I know because Momma and I sang together late at night when she’d get back. She’d try to be real quiet so as not to wake me, but I was always waiting to see the headlights of Lulu’s car pull up in front of our house. I kept my window cracked just in case I fell asleep. When I heard Momma say “good night” in her hushed tone, my eyes popped wide open.
    The front door squeaked and then our bedroom door. While Momma changed into her nightgown, I stayed quiet. After she slipped into bed, I’d whisper, “Momma, let’s sing.”
    She’d sigh. I knew she was bone-tired, but she always asked, “What are we going to sing, Tate?”
    â€œâ€˜Keep On the Sunny Side,’” I’d say, or “‘My Darling, Clementine.’”
    Momma would start out singing soft so that she didn’t wake Aunt Patty Cake. Her voice moved through the lyrics as if she was on a big stage. Like someone sticking their toe in the water, I’d join in the middle. Singing with her made me feel like I’d hitched a ride on a cloud. We’d finish with Momma saying all dreamlike, “Thank you, very much.” Then she’d fall sound asleep. That’s what I miss most about her. Lying in the dark, side by side, singing together, oh so sweetly, until Momma found her way to dreamland.
    I don’t know why Mr. Broussard came all the way from Crowley to the Glenmora picture show. I wish he wouldn’t have. The first time he came around here, Uncle Jolly said he looked like a gangster with his fancy suit, shiny shoes, and tilted hat. He gave Aunt Patty Cake a bouquet of roses, Frog a slingshot, and me a Little Orphan Annie doll.
    Frog immediately ran to find a rock outside and practice. Me, I don’t play with dolls. Never have. But I said thank you just the same because I saw Momma giving me her three-two-one look. That’s her countdown look, meaning if she had to start counting, I would be in trouble by the time she reached “one.”
    So I said, “Thank you, Mr. Broussard. You shouldn’t have, sir.”
    Momma smiled and winked at me.
    They left in Mr. Broussard’s black Mercury. Aunt Patty Cake, Uncle Jolly, Frog, and I stared as the car rode past the Applebuds’ place and disappeared around the bend.
    â€œHighfalutin nonsense,” said Uncle Jolly. Then he spit on the grass. (I guess Frog gets that nasty habit from him.) Aunt Patty Cake didn’t say anything, so I followed her into the house and said, “Those sure are nice roses.”
    She was filling a vase with water. “Mm-hm” was all she said.
    â€œI’ll bet Mr. Broussard is rich.”
    She