Dear Hank Williams by Kimberly Willis Holt Page A

turned toward me with raised eyebrows. “Why do you say that?”
    â€œHe bought all this stuff for us.”
    She turned back to the sink. “Could be.”
    That was as far as I could get her to go on the subject. Aunt Patty Cake loved to give her opinions, but when she didn’t want to, her lips could be as tight as Dolores’s girdle squeezed over her lumpy rear end.
    Momma went out with Mr. Broussard almost every night. But Mr. Broussard stopped coming around our house. I don’t think he liked how Uncle Jolly gave him the three-two-one look. Instead Mr. Broussard picked Momma up at the picture show, and she didn’t get in until late. She stopped singing. The only reason we know was because a couple of weeks later, Lulu drove up and said, “Tell your momma that I wish she’d let me know if she doesn’t want to sing together anymore. Mr. Lacombe is threatening to replace us if she doesn’t come back.”
    Momma got fired from the picture show in Glenmora. For weeks, she’d called in sick and gone on dates with Mr. Broussard instead. And since she wasn’t singing with Lulu anymore, she wasn’t making any money.
    She used to talk about getting a big break and being discovered like Lana Turner at a drugstore soda fountain. But now she seemed to be more interested in Mr. Broussard’s big break.
    â€œWhat is it that man does all day besides strutting around like a proud rooster?” Uncle Jolly asked.
    â€œHe’s a businessman,” Momma said.
    Uncle Jolly snorted. “I reckon I know what kind of business he’s in.”
    Momma rolled her eyes and left the room.
    â€œWhat kind?” I asked Uncle Jolly.
    â€œThe no-good kind.”
    Nobody around here seemed to explain things where I could understand. Aunt Patty Cake with her talking about Daddy’s tomcat ways, and Uncle Jolly with his griping about Mr. Broussard’s no-good kind of business. A person could go crazy dreaming up things about what that means. That day, I thought I’d never know what Mr. Broussard’s no-good business was. But then, two weeks later, I found out. And oh, how I wish Momma had never seen the likes of him.
    Mr. Williams, this sad story has plumb worn me out. I’ll finish telling you about Momma tomorrow.
    In a sleepy and sorry state of mind,
    Tate P.

 
    November 22, 1948
    Dear Mr. Williams,
    B RACE YOURSELF FOR a dramatic ending to Momma’s story. One day Momma had been gone longer than usual. We heard from Mrs. Ronner before the sheriff called us. That’s how fast news travels in Rippling Creek. Mrs. Ronner’s son’s best friend’s cousin works at a Shreveport bank. His bank got a call because a Texas bank near the Louisiana state line had just been robbed. After holding up the bank, the man ran out to a car that was being driven by a young woman. The driver took off fast and lost control. The car hit a fire hydrant, and water spewed everywhere. Momma never could drive good. The car backed up quickly and didn’t stop until it hit the front door of the bank. By that time, I imagine, the alarm was going off.
    Momma got five years. That was thirteen months ago. I will be fifteen years old when Momma gets out of prison. I’ll have all kinds of things happen to me that she’ll miss. And she has already missed a lot.
    A few months after Momma arrived at the women’s prison in Huntsville, Mr. Goree, the prison warden, heard Momma singing. He plucked her up and set her down right smack in a women-prisoners singing group.
    You see, Mr. Williams, my momma is a Goree Girl. Not anybody can be a Goree Girl. You have to have committed a murder or stolen someone’s money or maybe driven a car during a bank robbery like Momma did. You also have to have a voice like a honky-tonk angel so that you can sing on the radio. Momma lives at the women’s prison in Huntsville, Texas. She is Number 000851. But when she is a Goree