Staggerlee had come to the barn to pack up his brushes and saddle and say good-bye. And Buck had looked at her with milky eyes. Each time Staggerlee slid the heavy door open and stepped into the empty barn, she remembered him.
When she was ten, she found a litter of motherless kittens in the barn. For weeks the family nursed them, with tiny bottles and kitten formula her father had gotten in town. Staggerlee sat in the dim barn remembering them all sitting in a semicircle, each with a kitten in their lap. They had kept one—Mamie, a calico. Staggerlee pressed her harmonica to her lips and remembered people calling to adopt the others, until one by one, they were gone.
She sat cross-legged in the center of the barn now, Buck’s scratchy blue blanket pulled across her shoulders, and played softly. When she was eleven, she would come here late at night and stare through the barn’s cutout window up at the moon. She dreamed of flying Daddy’s planes and making enough money to buy more harmonicas. Enough to last her forever. Staggerlee smiled, remembering. She used to imagine traveling around the world and finding all the people in it who loved to be alone, who loved the sound of music. And she would start a small band and build lots of barns far apart from each other. And she and the other musicians would sit in the darkness of their individual barns and play, listening to each other, and the music would travel up through the windows and meet the moon.
Staggerlee blew softly into the harmonica. She licked her lips and started playing, her eyes half closed, her head moving slowly from side to side. She remembered the feel of Trout’s shoulder pressed against hers and the way Trout’s lips moved when she spoke. But out here playing, Staggerlee wasn’t afraid of Trout. She felt far away and safe. She felt free.
Chapter Ten
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, MAMA AND TROUT MOVED carefully around each other. Sometimes, sitting at dinner, Trout would say something that made Mama smile. In those moments, Staggerlee felt like her heart would break open. Her mother didn’t smile much, and the scarce times when her face lit up were amazing. Maybe Trout felt it too. She started talking more and more after a while, telling funny stories about Baltimore and her family. One night, Staggerlee caught Trout staring at Mama, watching the way she lifted a slice of corn bread to her mouth, and she knew in that moment that Trout had begun to look past all the mean things Ida Mae must have said about them.
“Did our grandparents love you?” Trout asked one evening at dinner.
“What kind of question is that?” Dotti asked, nearly choking on her rice.
Trout glared at her, then turned back to Mama. Staggerlee smiled.
“We never met,” Mama said. “Ida Mae never told you?”
Trout shook her head, not taking her eyes off Mama.
“Elijah and I had planned to come at the end of the summer of sixty-nine. He had written them about us and they had written back saying they were looking forward to meeting me.”
“They died that summer,” Trout said.
Mama nodded and pushed some peas around on her plate.
“They would have loved you,” Staggerlee said.
Mama smiled. “I like to think so.”
Her father had been sitting quietly, his hand pressed against his mouth, his thick brows furrowed.
“That’s what they lived for,” he said. “They would’ve gotten to know you.” He smiled. “I’m sure my mother wouldn’t have thought anyone was good enough for her baby boy, but she would’ve given anyone who tried to be a chance—black or white.”
Trout was staring down at her plate. “I try to think about how they were regular people,” she said. “That’s what everybody seems to want to forget.”
Staggerlee swallowed, wanting to reach under the table, take her hand, and squeeze it hard. She knew what Trout was talking about. Everyone had gone and made their grandparents heroes. There was a statue of them up in town. Her grandfather
When she was ten, she found a litter of motherless kittens in the barn. For weeks the family nursed them, with tiny bottles and kitten formula her father had gotten in town. Staggerlee sat in the dim barn remembering them all sitting in a semicircle, each with a kitten in their lap. They had kept one—Mamie, a calico. Staggerlee pressed her harmonica to her lips and remembered people calling to adopt the others, until one by one, they were gone.
She sat cross-legged in the center of the barn now, Buck’s scratchy blue blanket pulled across her shoulders, and played softly. When she was eleven, she would come here late at night and stare through the barn’s cutout window up at the moon. She dreamed of flying Daddy’s planes and making enough money to buy more harmonicas. Enough to last her forever. Staggerlee smiled, remembering. She used to imagine traveling around the world and finding all the people in it who loved to be alone, who loved the sound of music. And she would start a small band and build lots of barns far apart from each other. And she and the other musicians would sit in the darkness of their individual barns and play, listening to each other, and the music would travel up through the windows and meet the moon.
Staggerlee blew softly into the harmonica. She licked her lips and started playing, her eyes half closed, her head moving slowly from side to side. She remembered the feel of Trout’s shoulder pressed against hers and the way Trout’s lips moved when she spoke. But out here playing, Staggerlee wasn’t afraid of Trout. She felt far away and safe. She felt free.
Chapter Ten
OVER THE NEXT FEW DAYS, MAMA AND TROUT MOVED carefully around each other. Sometimes, sitting at dinner, Trout would say something that made Mama smile. In those moments, Staggerlee felt like her heart would break open. Her mother didn’t smile much, and the scarce times when her face lit up were amazing. Maybe Trout felt it too. She started talking more and more after a while, telling funny stories about Baltimore and her family. One night, Staggerlee caught Trout staring at Mama, watching the way she lifted a slice of corn bread to her mouth, and she knew in that moment that Trout had begun to look past all the mean things Ida Mae must have said about them.
“Did our grandparents love you?” Trout asked one evening at dinner.
“What kind of question is that?” Dotti asked, nearly choking on her rice.
Trout glared at her, then turned back to Mama. Staggerlee smiled.
“We never met,” Mama said. “Ida Mae never told you?”
Trout shook her head, not taking her eyes off Mama.
“Elijah and I had planned to come at the end of the summer of sixty-nine. He had written them about us and they had written back saying they were looking forward to meeting me.”
“They died that summer,” Trout said.
Mama nodded and pushed some peas around on her plate.
“They would have loved you,” Staggerlee said.
Mama smiled. “I like to think so.”
Her father had been sitting quietly, his hand pressed against his mouth, his thick brows furrowed.
“That’s what they lived for,” he said. “They would’ve gotten to know you.” He smiled. “I’m sure my mother wouldn’t have thought anyone was good enough for her baby boy, but she would’ve given anyone who tried to be a chance—black or white.”
Trout was staring down at her plate. “I try to think about how they were regular people,” she said. “That’s what everybody seems to want to forget.”
Staggerlee swallowed, wanting to reach under the table, take her hand, and squeeze it hard. She knew what Trout was talking about. Everyone had gone and made their grandparents heroes. There was a statue of them up in town. Her grandfather
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