was abandoned and those who could leave left and those who could not (the black ones because they had no hope, or the white ones who had no prospects) lolled on, marrying one another, sort of, and figuring out how to stay alive from day to day. They built their own houses from other people’s scraps, or they added on to the workers’ cabins left by the jute company: a shed here, a room there, to the cluster of little two-room-and-a-stove huts that wavered on the slope or sat in the valley. They used stream and rain water, drank cow’s milk or home brew; ate game, eggs, domestic plants, and if they hired out in a field or a kitchen, they spent the earnings on sugar, salt, cooking oil, soda pop, cornflakes, flour, dried beans, and rice. If there were no earnings, they stole.
Unlike the tranquillity of its name, the Settlement heaved with loyalty and license, and the only crime was departure. One such treason was undertaken by a girl with merged toes called Junior. Her mother, Vivian, had meant to name her right away. Three days had passed after the hard delivery before she could stay awake long enough to make a decision—during which time the baby girl’s father called the newborn “Junior,” either after himself—Ethan Payne Jr.—or after his longing, for although Vivian already had four boy children, none of them was Ethan’s. Vivian finally did choose a name for the baby and may even have used it once or twice after Ethan moved back to his father’s house. But “Junior” stuck. Nothing more was required until the child entered District Ten and a last name was demanded of her. “Junior Vivian,” she murmured, and when the teacher smiled into her hand, the girl scratched her elbow, having just realized she could have said “June.”
Settlement girls were discouraged from schooling, but each of Junior’s uncles, male cousins, and half brothers had spent some time at District Ten. Unlike any one of them, she was seldom truant. At home, with no one or anyone in charge, she felt like one of the Settlement dogs. Fifty strong, they swung between short chains and unfettered roaming. Between fights and meals they slept lashed to trees or curled near a door. Left to their own devices, hounds mated with shepherds, collies with Labradors. By
1975
, when Junior was born, they were an odd, original, astonishingly handsome breed instantly recognizable to folks who knew as Settlement dogs—adept at keeping outsiders out, but at their brilliant best when hunting.
During years of longing for her father, Junior begged relentlessly to visit him.
“Will you hush up?” was all Vivian said, until one day she answered, “Army. That’s what I heard.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“Oh, he weren’t nothing, baby. Nothing at all. Go play now.”
She did, but she kept on looking out for the tall, handsome man who named her after himself to show how he felt about her. She just had to wait.
Bored at last with the dogs and her mother, faster and slyer than her brothers, afraid of her uncles and unamused by their wives, Junior welcomed District Ten, first to get away from the Settlement, then for itself. She was the first Rural to speak up and make a stab at homework. The girls in her class avoided her and the few who tried to sprinkle the seeds of friendship were quickly forced to choose between the untidy Rural with one dress and the crafty vengeance little girls know how to exact. Junior lost every time, but behaved as though the rejection was her victory, smiling when she saw the one-recess friend retreat to her original fold. It was a boy who succeeded at befriending her. The teachers thought it was because he fed her Yodels and Sno Balls from his lunch bag, since Junior’s lunch might be a single apple or a mayonnaise sandwich stuffed in the pocket of the woman’s sweater she wore. The pupils, however, believed he was playing dirty with her down in a ditch somewhere after school—and they told him so. But he was a
Unlike the tranquillity of its name, the Settlement heaved with loyalty and license, and the only crime was departure. One such treason was undertaken by a girl with merged toes called Junior. Her mother, Vivian, had meant to name her right away. Three days had passed after the hard delivery before she could stay awake long enough to make a decision—during which time the baby girl’s father called the newborn “Junior,” either after himself—Ethan Payne Jr.—or after his longing, for although Vivian already had four boy children, none of them was Ethan’s. Vivian finally did choose a name for the baby and may even have used it once or twice after Ethan moved back to his father’s house. But “Junior” stuck. Nothing more was required until the child entered District Ten and a last name was demanded of her. “Junior Vivian,” she murmured, and when the teacher smiled into her hand, the girl scratched her elbow, having just realized she could have said “June.”
Settlement girls were discouraged from schooling, but each of Junior’s uncles, male cousins, and half brothers had spent some time at District Ten. Unlike any one of them, she was seldom truant. At home, with no one or anyone in charge, she felt like one of the Settlement dogs. Fifty strong, they swung between short chains and unfettered roaming. Between fights and meals they slept lashed to trees or curled near a door. Left to their own devices, hounds mated with shepherds, collies with Labradors. By
1975
, when Junior was born, they were an odd, original, astonishingly handsome breed instantly recognizable to folks who knew as Settlement dogs—adept at keeping outsiders out, but at their brilliant best when hunting.
During years of longing for her father, Junior begged relentlessly to visit him.
“Will you hush up?” was all Vivian said, until one day she answered, “Army. That’s what I heard.”
“When’s he coming back?”
“Oh, he weren’t nothing, baby. Nothing at all. Go play now.”
She did, but she kept on looking out for the tall, handsome man who named her after himself to show how he felt about her. She just had to wait.
Bored at last with the dogs and her mother, faster and slyer than her brothers, afraid of her uncles and unamused by their wives, Junior welcomed District Ten, first to get away from the Settlement, then for itself. She was the first Rural to speak up and make a stab at homework. The girls in her class avoided her and the few who tried to sprinkle the seeds of friendship were quickly forced to choose between the untidy Rural with one dress and the crafty vengeance little girls know how to exact. Junior lost every time, but behaved as though the rejection was her victory, smiling when she saw the one-recess friend retreat to her original fold. It was a boy who succeeded at befriending her. The teachers thought it was because he fed her Yodels and Sno Balls from his lunch bag, since Junior’s lunch might be a single apple or a mayonnaise sandwich stuffed in the pocket of the woman’s sweater she wore. The pupils, however, believed he was playing dirty with her down in a ditch somewhere after school—and they told him so. But he was a
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