The Reverend and his wife walk through the door wearing their shiny church shoes and their shiny church smiles. But I want nothing to do with their act.
“You can’t make me go with them,” I say to a redheaded nurse. “They don’t care about Mama. They don’t care about me.”
“That’s enough,” says the Reverend, a warning for me to shut my trap. The nurse has more freckles than sense. She cocks her hip and says, “Of course they care, Millie. They’re your grandparents, aren’t they?”
There is no point arguing, so I grab the sack of Mama’s and Jack’s stuff and bolt out the door. The redhead chases after me, yelling, “You better get back here, you little twit! I’ll have the cops on your tail in no time flat!” I keep running. As fast as I can go. I don’t think about where I am headed. And I’m not surprised to see that my grandparents don’t try to catch me.
I run all the way home before I realize where I am going. The air is so cold my teeth hurt. I stand on the front porch of Cabin Two and think about the empty house. Mama, no longer there waiting for me to bring her a fresh batch of library books or a new handful of yellow flowers. Jack, never coming back to share the prize money with Mama. Now, without his prize money, without Mama’s clients delivering linens, how will I survive?
It is Wednesday. School is out for Christmas break. I have always done my homework and made good marks, but I have never felt like other kids. I have always felt more like the teachers. An adult. Grown up.
“You’re an old soul, Millie.” That’s what Mama used to say. She’d read stories to me from her bed and tell me I was born with wisdom and strength beyond my years. What I wanted to say was how all I really wanted was to be a kid. To have someone take care of me. Of course, I didn’t tell her that.
I consider my options: nearly six months left before high school graduation, no income, the rent due soon, no truck because I’ve promised that to Mr. Tucker. Hardly any groceries in the house, a winter garden barely hanging on, and Mama’s secret jar with only $5.64 left. That will not get me by for very long.
Who would hire a sixteen-year-old? People are fighting over jobs, even in Iti Taloa, with the Depression lingering, and now with the war, more qualified women are looking for work.
It’s been a while since I sought shelter in Sweetie, but that’s exactly what I do. I set the bag of my parents’ belongings down on the porch and climb my tree, up past my usual spot. The high, narrow branches yield to my weight. I let them sway me back and forth, more than thirty feet high, in the chilly afternoon breeze. The bare branches, cold and hard inside my hands, don’t hide me much, but most folks don’t think to look up in trees. I sit, watching the world below me. I stare out at Mr. Sutton’s land. He has thousands of acres of rolling hills, the prettiest in the county.
A rusty plow sits next to his barn. Two paint mares relax in the pasture. For years I have dreamed of how it might feel to pull myself up onto one of his bareback ponies and gallop away. I’m thinking of doing just that, when the sound of the neighbors distracts me.
Outside Cabin Three, the barefoot Reggio kids throw rocks at something in the dirt. Their scaly legs are covered with scabs and scars, and they keep scratching their heads. Lice from head to toe.
One time, when the Reggios first moved in, I asked Mama, “How come they don’t even wash themselves?” Mama kind of got a sad look, like I had said something really mean. “People do the best they know to do, Millie. You have to believe that.”
Mama never talked bad about anybody. She always taught me not to judge other people. Once, when I said my classmate Vera Tazman was an ugly old goat who smelled like rotten cheese, Mama made me wash my mouth out with soap every morning for a month. She made me write the entire passage of Matthew 25:42–45 over and over again. I must have written that passage ten thousand times. I still have a big bump on my middle finger from the force of the pencil.
Mama said that the bump would be a way for me to remember what Jesus wanted me to know:
For I was an hungred, and ye gave me no meat: I was thirsty, and ye gave me no drink: I was a stranger, and ye took me not in: naked, and ye clothed me not: sick, and in prison, and ye visited me not.
Then shall they also answer him, saying, Lord, when saw we thee an hungred, or athirst, or a stranger, or naked, or sick, or in prison, and did not minister unto thee?
Then shall he answer them, saying, Verily I say unto you, Inasmuch as ye did it not to one of the least of these, ye did it not to me.
I think of that verse now, as Mrs. Reggio waddles around the corner of her house holding a rusty bucket of slop for the hog she keeps pinned up in the back corner of their yard. Mrs. Reggio is all of five feet tall, but she has a voice that can reach the other side of town when she lets it go. “Get on over here and feed this hog!” she yells at her kids. They run to her side, fighting over who gets to carry the slop. “And don’t y’all be spilling it, neither!”
I feel kind of sorry for the hog. He has gotten bigger and bigger. I figure they will butcher him for Christmas. Since I have no earthly idea where I’ll be for Christmas, I almost envy the Reggio family, lice and all.
Carl Reggio, the youngest, looks up and spots me in the tree. He waves. I sit perfectly still, hoping he really hasn’t seen me. But he waves again, this time with a great big naive smile, like he has seen a secret fairy. I halfway grin and wave back. He returns to his rock throwing and waits for his brothers to rejoin him.
Church bells ring. In the distance, the town’s streets fill with workers going home for lunch. Buggies. Babies. Mothers. Fathers. Cars and trucks. People spill out of office buildings and factories like a dropped can of marbles, scattering in every direction at once. They hurry off to their homes and restaurants, eager to carve the roast or slice the chicken.
It’s clear that nothing is going to slow down for me. Not the people. Not the wind. Nothing seems to care that I am cold and hungry and afraid and alone. Jack is dead. Mama is gone. People just keep right on walking and eating and talking and feeding their hogs and living their lives as if nothing at all has happened. As if Jack is still king of the rodeo and Mama is still singing from her bedroom. But no matter how much I try to believe that things beneath me are intact, I can’t help feeling that the entire universe has been knocked absolutely out of whack.
I am just about to climb down to grab a pickle and some cheese and make my way to East to check on Mama when my grandparents’ black sedan pulls onto the gravel lane. I freeze, hoping to heaven they won’t see me in the tree.
The driver’s door creaks open, and my grandfather walks around to open the passenger door for my grandmother. “You think she’s here?” she asks.
“Where else would she be?” he snaps.
He slams the car door and leads the way up the rickety porch steps to the front of my house. Three solid knocks. Pause. Three more. Pause. I don’t dare breathe. The Reverend walks from one end of the porch to the other, peeking in windows and rattling the panes. “Living out here with dagos and niggers.” He spits in the grass with disgust and then notices the hospital bag on the porch. “She’s been here all right.”
My grandmother walks around to the back of the house, calling my name.
The Reverend jiggles the knob and finds the door unlocked. He walks right on in. His voice booms, “Young lady? You come out here right now.” I hold back giggles, both from the absurdity of it all and from nervous jitters.
Now my grandmother comes back around the yard and hollers for my grandfather, “She’s not here. Let’s go check the library. I’ve heard she spends a lot of time up there.”
I haven’t even thought of turning to Miss Harper, the librarian, which is a good thing. Miss Harper has always been nice to Mama. After Mama stopped joining me on library outings, Miss Harper helped me choose books she’d enjoy, and she never once complained if Mama kept a book past its due date. If I had gone to Miss Harper, she would have let me sleep in the library and read all the books I wanted. She probably would have brought me home with her for supper.
Thankfully, my grandparents leave to find Miss Harper, the timid librarian who probably doesn’t even know about Mama being taken away.
No sooner have my grandparents gone when a big farm truck pulls into the drive. Out pops Mr. Cauy Tucker and his secretary, Janine, with her screech-owl voice. “I’m certain this is the house, Mr. Tucker. Jack showed it to me once.”
This thought makes me sick. The very idea of Jack showing Janine our home. What else had he shown Janine is what I wonder.
She and Mr. Tucker take their time examining the property, peering under the porch, peeking through the windows, traipsing through the yard, and finally exploring the house itself. I wonder why all these people think they have the right to just make themselves welcome in Mama’s home.
“She has to be around here somewhere,” Mr. Tucker says.
Janine wanders into the Reggios’ yard. She is talking to the boys, but I can’t hear her tiny voice, and the next thing I know that Reggio kid is pointing up in the tree, straight at me, yelling, “There she is! You see her? Way up there!”
I panic. I let go of my grip and tumble from my perch more than thirty feet up the tree. Limb after limb after limb of the sweet gum slams against me. I hear branches break with each collision. I taste blood pooling on my tongue. I watch the fall happen from another place, like it isn’t really happening to me but to somebody else. I hear Death laughing, and the swift sound of him racing in to collect my soul. But then someone else appears. He comes out of nowhere. He pushes Death aside. One minute I am falling, the next, I am cradled in his arms, in the warmest, safest place I’ve ever known. He places me on the ground, all soft and gentle-like, as if I’ve landed on a bin full of cotton, and then he disappears.