didn’t know there was no post
office at Gordy’s Branch, but does she have to be so mean about it? I
want to ask her where is the closest post office to Trula. It’s her job
to tell people things like that. But I’m afraid to open my mouth
again. Besides, she wouldn’t say. She hates Trula and she hates me.
“And
another thing,” Mrs. Call says, poking her long, thin nose into the air, “we
don’t need your eggs no more.”
“Ethel!”
Mr. Call says her name, like he’s put out with her. “You don’t have to do
that.”
“Yes,
I do have to do that!” she hollers.
“Why?” I ask her, even though I know the why of it is pretty plain.
“We’ve
found another supplier,” Mrs. Call says, and turns her back to me.
Somebody
in the store giggles.
Mr.
Call is looking at me with something like pity, but then he turns away too and pretends
to be busy. The memory of my first trip to this store flashes into my
head. I was a little bitty girl, and Mr. Call gave me a red ribbon for my
hair.
Who
are these little barefooted gals?
Without
another word, Charles, Jewel and I go outside. The Calls’ house is at the
back of the store, and behind the house is a clothes line, where a big washing
has been hung out to dry. At sight of it, Charles darts away from me and
Jewel, goes to the string of clothes, yanks a big pair of old-timey bloomers from
the line, and stomps them into the ground. Instead of fussing, I act like
I don’t see a thing.
I
dread breaking the news to Dad that Mrs. Call does not want our eggs
anymore. When I finally do it, he gets mad like I knew he would, and
almost blames Trula, but he stops the words just in time. He will not
forget his vow to never mention her name again.
He
sits thinking for awhile, then says, “We don’t need Calls’ dadblamed money,
Lorie. Now we got too many layin’ hens, we’ll sell us a chicken now and
then. Will that take care of your school stuff?”
I
nod my head, thinking what a relief it is having a grown-up for a change solve
a problem for me.
October, 1921
When
Mommie goes into labor, things look real bad for her. Aunt Sue finally
convinces Dad to send for a doctor. Dr. Wayne is new to the hills, and a
very handsome man. He arrives late in the evening on a fine black horse
named Raven that makes Luther and Charles and Daniel giddy. They feed
Raven, pamper him, rub him down, and put him up in the barn like they are
tucking in a royal baby.
Clint
Starr is born at four a.m., and the doctor says all he can do for Mommie now is
to give her pain medicine to make her last hours easier. At nine a.m. he
calls Dad and Roxie, Jewel and me up into the girls’ sleeping loft where he is
with Mommie and the baby. Aunt Sue is there too. The boys are
playing with the horse and we let them be.
Dad
sits on the side of the bed and takes Mommie’s hand. Roxie asks her if
she needs anything, but she does not answer. I know Mommie is only
thirty-eight years old, but when I look at her hands and face and hair, I think
she could be an old, old woman. She turns her head on her favorite pillow
case, the one with the ocean waves on a far off shore, and looks at the open
window where the golden maple leaves are floating on the breeze under a perfect
blue October sky.
“I’m
glad it’s a boy,” she says and closes her eyes. Then her face goes soft
and smooth like somebody has ironed all the wrinkles out.
“She’s
gone,” Dr. Wayne says, and Roxie begins to bawl.
Luther
goes down to Call’s and sends a telegram to Samuel and a letter to Nell.
Of course Nell will not be allowed to come to the funeral. He also sends
a letter to Mommie’s people over at Stormy Ridge.
I
beg Dad to let us notify Trula, and he roars. “NO! And she is not
welcome at the burial.”
The
next day Samuel comes home, all broken up. Dad also cries, and my sisters
and brothers cry, and my aunts and uncles and
office at Gordy’s Branch, but does she have to be so mean about it? I
want to ask her where is the closest post office to Trula. It’s her job
to tell people things like that. But I’m afraid to open my mouth
again. Besides, she wouldn’t say. She hates Trula and she hates me.
“And
another thing,” Mrs. Call says, poking her long, thin nose into the air, “we
don’t need your eggs no more.”
“Ethel!”
Mr. Call says her name, like he’s put out with her. “You don’t have to do
that.”
“Yes,
I do have to do that!” she hollers.
“Why?” I ask her, even though I know the why of it is pretty plain.
“We’ve
found another supplier,” Mrs. Call says, and turns her back to me.
Somebody
in the store giggles.
Mr.
Call is looking at me with something like pity, but then he turns away too and pretends
to be busy. The memory of my first trip to this store flashes into my
head. I was a little bitty girl, and Mr. Call gave me a red ribbon for my
hair.
Who
are these little barefooted gals?
Without
another word, Charles, Jewel and I go outside. The Calls’ house is at the
back of the store, and behind the house is a clothes line, where a big washing
has been hung out to dry. At sight of it, Charles darts away from me and
Jewel, goes to the string of clothes, yanks a big pair of old-timey bloomers from
the line, and stomps them into the ground. Instead of fussing, I act like
I don’t see a thing.
I
dread breaking the news to Dad that Mrs. Call does not want our eggs
anymore. When I finally do it, he gets mad like I knew he would, and
almost blames Trula, but he stops the words just in time. He will not
forget his vow to never mention her name again.
He
sits thinking for awhile, then says, “We don’t need Calls’ dadblamed money,
Lorie. Now we got too many layin’ hens, we’ll sell us a chicken now and
then. Will that take care of your school stuff?”
I
nod my head, thinking what a relief it is having a grown-up for a change solve
a problem for me.
October, 1921
When
Mommie goes into labor, things look real bad for her. Aunt Sue finally
convinces Dad to send for a doctor. Dr. Wayne is new to the hills, and a
very handsome man. He arrives late in the evening on a fine black horse
named Raven that makes Luther and Charles and Daniel giddy. They feed
Raven, pamper him, rub him down, and put him up in the barn like they are
tucking in a royal baby.
Clint
Starr is born at four a.m., and the doctor says all he can do for Mommie now is
to give her pain medicine to make her last hours easier. At nine a.m. he
calls Dad and Roxie, Jewel and me up into the girls’ sleeping loft where he is
with Mommie and the baby. Aunt Sue is there too. The boys are
playing with the horse and we let them be.
Dad
sits on the side of the bed and takes Mommie’s hand. Roxie asks her if
she needs anything, but she does not answer. I know Mommie is only
thirty-eight years old, but when I look at her hands and face and hair, I think
she could be an old, old woman. She turns her head on her favorite pillow
case, the one with the ocean waves on a far off shore, and looks at the open
window where the golden maple leaves are floating on the breeze under a perfect
blue October sky.
“I’m
glad it’s a boy,” she says and closes her eyes. Then her face goes soft
and smooth like somebody has ironed all the wrinkles out.
“She’s
gone,” Dr. Wayne says, and Roxie begins to bawl.
Luther
goes down to Call’s and sends a telegram to Samuel and a letter to Nell.
Of course Nell will not be allowed to come to the funeral. He also sends
a letter to Mommie’s people over at Stormy Ridge.
I
beg Dad to let us notify Trula, and he roars. “NO! And she is not
welcome at the burial.”
The
next day Samuel comes home, all broken up. Dad also cries, and my sisters
and brothers cry, and my aunts and uncles and
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