tryin’ out. It’s a muffler.” She holds up the piece of chartreuse and puce knitting. It’s anything but muffled. Since she can’t see what yarns she’s combining together, her stuff is louder in color than a marching band. “Ya like it, Shenny?” she asks, waving it my way.
“Love it,” I say, getting more and more riled by the second. We don’t have time for a regular visit like this, but trying to get Beezy to hurry through polite talk is like pushing a mule up a hill.
“Speakin’ of work,” she says, back busy with hers. “Little Walter thinkin’ of gettin’ himself back to the courtroom any time soon?” That’s what she calls Papa. Little Walter . So what if he’s got to sit on a phone book to see over his judge’s bench, she doesn’t have to say so, does she?
“I’m sure after Mama returns, His Honor will be rarin’ to get back to his gavel,” I answer, because it seems too disloyal to tell her that I can’t picture his erratic self in a courtroom any time soon. Who cares when he gets back to work anyway? It’s not like we need the money. We’re the richest family in town and my grandfather owns half the county.
Beezy hears me yawn and asks, “Not gettin’ your eight straight?”
“Not even six. Woody spends most of the night . . .” I glance down at my sister.
Her coloring arm is back and forthing with the only crayon she’s uses anymore—funeral black. It really bothers me that she won’t write words. If she can’t talk—fine. But she’s got the paper, she’s got the crayons, would it kill her to jot down one of these times Hey Shen, I love you ?
“Have ya been takin’ her to visit the doc?” Beezy asks, sensing my upset the way she can.
“A course I have.”
Papa gave me permission to take Woody to Doc Keller’s office above Milligan’s Hardware every Sunday evening after the sidewalks get rolled up. Mostly all he does is ask lots of questions about what we think might’ve happened to Mama. I stonewall him, because what business is it of his anyway? “Can’t you just fix her?” I ask every time, hoping he’ll change his answer.
“I could. If there was something physically wrong,” he tells me when he’s done examining my sister’s throat. “Her vocal cords are in fine working order. She’s got hysterical muteness.”
Chester Keller may be Papa’s fraternity brother and oldest friend, but I think he’s gone over the hill and isn’t ever coming back. What’s so funny about my sister losing her voice?
Beezy’s forehead gets as furrowed as her knitting. “This lookin’ for Evelyn . . . it’s . . . it’s a lot to take on all by yourself, Shenny.”
I almost cry out, What am I supposed to do exactly? Papa’s threatening to send Woody away because she won’t talk. . . . We need to get Mama back more than ever. Beezy may be privy to a lot of what goes on around town, but she doesn’t know half of what’s happening up at Lilyfield. She knows that Papa is keeping us close, but has no idea how close. If I did clue her in to the root cellar and the interrogation sessions and all the other stuff, there’s not one thing she could do to help so there’s no sense in getting her worked up. That could be dangerous for her.
“Please don’t fret,” I say. “I’m not takin’ this on all by myself. There’s somebody else I’ve got in mind to lend a helping hand.”
Beezy knows exactly who I’m talking about and her lips are saying, “ Mmm . . . hmm ,” but she doesn’t mean it. If I could spend a minute more reassuring her, I would, but my sister has gone into a prey stance, rigid as a hound. If she had a tail, it’d be pointing.
“No . . . no . . .” I reach out for Woody, but she slips right through my fingers.
“What’s happenin’, Shen?” Beezy asks, always alert.
“It’s all right. It’s fine.” I pat her knee, which feels exactly like a glass doorknob.
“Woody’s just run off again. I’ll take care of it.” From the
“Love it,” I say, getting more and more riled by the second. We don’t have time for a regular visit like this, but trying to get Beezy to hurry through polite talk is like pushing a mule up a hill.
“Speakin’ of work,” she says, back busy with hers. “Little Walter thinkin’ of gettin’ himself back to the courtroom any time soon?” That’s what she calls Papa. Little Walter . So what if he’s got to sit on a phone book to see over his judge’s bench, she doesn’t have to say so, does she?
“I’m sure after Mama returns, His Honor will be rarin’ to get back to his gavel,” I answer, because it seems too disloyal to tell her that I can’t picture his erratic self in a courtroom any time soon. Who cares when he gets back to work anyway? It’s not like we need the money. We’re the richest family in town and my grandfather owns half the county.
Beezy hears me yawn and asks, “Not gettin’ your eight straight?”
“Not even six. Woody spends most of the night . . .” I glance down at my sister.
Her coloring arm is back and forthing with the only crayon she’s uses anymore—funeral black. It really bothers me that she won’t write words. If she can’t talk—fine. But she’s got the paper, she’s got the crayons, would it kill her to jot down one of these times Hey Shen, I love you ?
“Have ya been takin’ her to visit the doc?” Beezy asks, sensing my upset the way she can.
“A course I have.”
Papa gave me permission to take Woody to Doc Keller’s office above Milligan’s Hardware every Sunday evening after the sidewalks get rolled up. Mostly all he does is ask lots of questions about what we think might’ve happened to Mama. I stonewall him, because what business is it of his anyway? “Can’t you just fix her?” I ask every time, hoping he’ll change his answer.
“I could. If there was something physically wrong,” he tells me when he’s done examining my sister’s throat. “Her vocal cords are in fine working order. She’s got hysterical muteness.”
Chester Keller may be Papa’s fraternity brother and oldest friend, but I think he’s gone over the hill and isn’t ever coming back. What’s so funny about my sister losing her voice?
Beezy’s forehead gets as furrowed as her knitting. “This lookin’ for Evelyn . . . it’s . . . it’s a lot to take on all by yourself, Shenny.”
I almost cry out, What am I supposed to do exactly? Papa’s threatening to send Woody away because she won’t talk. . . . We need to get Mama back more than ever. Beezy may be privy to a lot of what goes on around town, but she doesn’t know half of what’s happening up at Lilyfield. She knows that Papa is keeping us close, but has no idea how close. If I did clue her in to the root cellar and the interrogation sessions and all the other stuff, there’s not one thing she could do to help so there’s no sense in getting her worked up. That could be dangerous for her.
“Please don’t fret,” I say. “I’m not takin’ this on all by myself. There’s somebody else I’ve got in mind to lend a helping hand.”
Beezy knows exactly who I’m talking about and her lips are saying, “ Mmm . . . hmm ,” but she doesn’t mean it. If I could spend a minute more reassuring her, I would, but my sister has gone into a prey stance, rigid as a hound. If she had a tail, it’d be pointing.
“No . . . no . . .” I reach out for Woody, but she slips right through my fingers.
“What’s happenin’, Shen?” Beezy asks, always alert.
“It’s all right. It’s fine.” I pat her knee, which feels exactly like a glass doorknob.
“Woody’s just run off again. I’ll take care of it.” From the
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