More than a few times a week I’d dream that Mama had never left. She’d be standing in the kitchen or the living room or looking into the mirror in her bedroom. Wherever I happened to find her in those dreams, she hummed a hymn and the light breeze from the open windows fluttered the fabric of her everyday dress.
That early morning dream found Mama setting the table. The dining room seemed to go on forever, a mile-long tunnel of a room. She moved along the table that was just as never-ending, placing plate after plate after plate. Somehow the stack of dishes in her arms never ran out.
“Mama,” I said, my voice high and light.
She turned toward me, her face full of sunshine and smiles. But then her expression changed, her eyes lost their sparkle, opened wide, as if something had surprised and scared her. Without lifting her feet she made her way behind the pushed-in chairs, floating toward me. She opened her mouth to speak but I couldn’t seem to hear her.
“What’re you saying?” I asked. “Mama?”
Opening her arms she reached for me, the plates magically gone. A wail swelled up out of her, so loud it hurt my ears. She sucked in breath and shook her head over and over so her hair fell from its clips, curling up beside her face.
“Mama,” I said again.
“I don’t want you,” she said. “All I’ve ever wanted was her.”
She pushed past me, gliding her way to where Beanie’s body was laid out. I called to her one last time but she didn’t turn toward me. She was too busy moaning, sitting at the edge of her bed next to the motionless body of my sister.
Gasping, I woke up, curled in a tight ball on my bed. My heart thudded and didn’t seem like to slow any time soon.
“It was just a dream,” I whispered, blinking hard against the image of Mama that didn’t want to fade from my mind. “It wasn’t real.”
Stretching out, I rolled onto my back and rested my hands on my stomach, feeling the way my breathing came in and out. In and out.
The morning was still too dark for me to get up but I knew I wouldn’t fall back asleep even if I tried. That was the way of things whenever I dreamed of Mama. Some nights they were good, those dreams, other times they were awful. I didn’t know which were worse, the bad ones or the good ones.
The dreams of Mama holding me or brushing my hair or smiling into my face made me fit to bust with happy feelings that steamed away just as soon as I opened my eyes.
At least the bad dreams never tricked me into having hope.
After a little bit, the darkness lightened and the sounds of the day beginning came from downstairs—the gurgling percolator and clomping of Daddy’s boots on the wood floor. Turning my head, I glanced out the window for signs of sunrise. Just a tiny glow of orange that I hoped might soon burst into a sun-shine day.
I swung my feet off the bed and let them hang just over the floor. It would be cold on my bare soles, I knew it. Holding onto the edge of the bed, I tried to work up the nerve to shock myself with the icy cold. Even if I didn’t have school for another week or so, I did have chores that needed getting done before I could go about my day.
Taking in a good breath I lowered my feet, then winced and cussed under my breath as a shiver traveled its way from my toes to the top of my head. I whispered a different curse word for every step I took to the closet.
Much as I tried, I couldn’t seem to quit swearing even if I did know how it grieved the heart of God. I hadn’t even managed to make it past the second full day of the new year with a clean mouth. At least I knew enough to do it in a quiet voice and never in front of any grown-up who might have a mind to make me taste a bar of soap for my language.
I got myself dressed as quick as I could, pulling on a wooly pair of socks before anything else. I buttoned up my everyday blouse and stepped into an old pair of overalls Ray’d grown out of. Last thing I wanted was to walk around in the snow wearing a dress and getting my legs frozen. Grabbing my warm and wooly sweater, I headed for my bedroom door.
I thought maybe if I helped Opal get breakfast together she might not make me do up the dishes afterward. It was worth a try, at least.
Mama had never been one for cooking big meals first thing in the day. She’d scramble a couple eggs if the hens gave or put out a plate of biscuits she’d baked the day before. Most of the time, though, she’d boil oatmeal to hold us over until noon. It never had bothered me, her simple breakfasts. She’d made do with what we had, just like all the other mamas in Red River.
Opal, though, was a believer in breakfasts of fried eggs and sausages, canned fruit and hash-browned potatoes. She’d fill the table with dishes of steaming food, all things we’d gotten from Uncle Gus and Aunt Carrie. Their farm meant we would never go hungry just so long as the hens kept faithful, the soil stayed good, and the seals on the canned things held tight.
I rushed down the steps and to the kitchen where I found Opal mixing up batter for pancakes, her griddle warming on top of the stove. Daddy’d given her New Year’s Day off and I was eager to ask her the questions I’d been holding on to for a couple days.
“I’ll set the table,” I said, going to the cupboard for a stack of plates.
“Good morning to you, too,” she said, looking at me over her shoulder. “Why are you up so early?”
I shrugged. “Couldn’t sleep anymore.”
“You’ll be tired later,” she said. “Didn’t you stay up until midnight on New Year’s Eve?”
“That was two days ago.” I rested the four plates on the counter. “I’ll be all right. I never do sleep all that much.”
“Maybe you should get a rest this afternoon.” She turned back to her work. “The mayor’s coming for supper tonight and I don’t think your daddy would like you being grumpy when you have company over.”
It was a good thing she had her back to me, otherwise she would’ve seen the stink face I made at the idea of taking a rest. I hoped she’d forget she even said it. There was nothing I hated more than Opal’s rest times. She wouldn’t allow me a book on account she said I needed my mind to be at ease. I’d end up staring at a wall, unable to sleep, and sore that I was wasting so much of my day.
“How was your New Year’s Eve?” I asked, hoping maybe if I changed the subject she’d forget about me resting.
“Fine,” she said.
“What did you do?”
“Don’t forget the forks and knives,” she said as if she hadn’t heard me.
I pulled the drawer, counting out four forks and resting them on top of the plates.
“I saw you at the dance,” I said, peeking at her out of the corner of my eye.
“Did you?” She didn’t so much as flinch. Instead she poured circles of pancake batter on the griddle. “What were you doing there?”
“Ray and I heard the music. We looked in a window.” I stood with my hip resting against the drawer after pushing it closed. “You dance good.”
“I dance well,” she corrected me. “And thank you.”
“Who was it you were dancing with?”
“You’ve got a lot of questions today, huh?” She shook her head. “If you’ve got to know, that was Lenny Miller. He goes to the high school.”
“Is he your boyfriend?” I asked, raising my eyebrows.
“You’ll need butter knives, too,” she said. “And, no. I don’t have a boyfriend. I don’t have time with all my life spent making sure you get the table set like you promised.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I counted out four knives, and spoons too for good measure. Then I rested my elbow on the counter, leaning my chin on my fist.
“Opal, how’d you learn to dance like that?” I asked.
She shrugged, taking the time to flip over a whole row of pancakes before answering me. “Just did.”
“Will you teach me?”
She turned, spatula held up like she meant to swat at a fly. I half expected her to take a swing at me with it.
“I’m fixing roasted chicken for supper tonight. Got a fresh one from Mrs. Seegert,” she said. “She said they got a little surprise when what they thought was a hen started crowing in the middle of the night and strutting around the yard.”
“Is it plucked?”
Opal nodded. “But I gotta dress it and all.” Then she nodded at the counter. “And I’ll be peeling until kingdom come to make enough potatoes to fill up Mayor Winston.”
“I’ll peel them for you,” I said. “And I’ll even chop them.”
“That would be nice,” she said.
“If you want, I can do up the dishes after breakfast, too.”
“Pearl Louise, I’m not teaching you to dance,” she said.
“Please?” I said, trying to give her my most polite voice. “Pretty please?”
“You best get the table set.” She nodded at me. “I’ll have breakfast ready in a minute.”
“I promise I wouldn’t tell anybody if you taught me.”
“It’s not for kids.” She turned back to the stove. “That kind of dancing is for grown-ups.”
“You aren’t that much older than me,” I told her.
She turned her head and pursed her lips at me, raising both her eyebrows. “I am too, miss,” she said. “A lot can happen in six years to make a girl grown.”
I wanted to tell her all that’d happened to me in one year that made me feel grown, but I didn’t because the last thing I wanted was her giving me a pity look just then. What I wanted was for her to give me a nod and tell me she’d start teaching me to dance that very afternoon.
“I’d help you with supper every night,” I said. “I’d even scrub the pans.”
“You don’t give up easy, do you?” she asked.
“No, ma’am.”
“I can see that.” She lifted a stack of pancakes, piling them on a plate before turning off the burner. “But I’m just as stubborn as you, little lady.”
There was a laugh riding along on her voice and I imagined she was smiling.
That was when I knew she’d teach me. Maybe not that day, but she would.
Bert Barnett lived in the house across the street. He sat on his front porch most mornings, waiting for Ray and me to come out. Really it was Ray he wanted to see. As far as he was concerned, Ray had hung the moon and stars.
Me, he could’ve done with or without, at least that was what I thought.
“Hey ya, Ray,” Bert called out from his front yard when we stepped out after breakfast. He crossed the street without even looking out for any cars driving through.
“Mornin’, Bert,” Ray said back, shoving his hands into his coat pockets. “Cold, huh?”
Bert scrunched up his face like he hadn’t noticed before. Then he put his hands in his pockets, slumping his shoulders the way Ray did. Ray was two years older than Bert, but he was nice to him anyhow.
“I’m gettin’ a dog,” Bert said.
“That so?” Ray said, kicking at a mound of snow.
“Well, I think so at least.” Bert toed a chunk of ice. “Dad said he was gettin’ some kind of surprise for me from a trade.”
Bert’s father was the only doctor in town. If anybody got sick or hurt, they’d call for him and he’d come, day or night, to help out. Problem was, most folks in Bliss didn’t have money enough to pay to get a tooth pulled or a couple stitches put in. Instead of paying cash, they’d trade something they thought was equal to how Doctor Barnett had helped them. There always seemed to be somebody over shoveling their walk or fixing a shingle on their roof. And they always had plenty of meat and vegetables off one of the farms on the outskirts of town.
“One of the Litchfield boys stuck a pea up his nose,” Bert said. “Dad had to help him get it out.”
“Why’d he stick a pea up his nose?” I asked.
“Beats me,” Bert said. “Their hound just had a litter of pups. I’ll bet my toe that’s what Dad’s gettin’ for me.”
“What if it’s not a dog?” I asked.
“What’s it matter to you?” Bert asked, pulling a face at me.
I raised one of my eyebrows at him and tried looking the way Opal did when I talked back at her. He didn’t seem to care.
“I’m gonna teach it tricks,” Bert said to Ray. He pointed at his mittened hand as if he was counting off a list. “Sit down, roll over, speak, and play dead. Might even teach it to climb a ladder.”
“Dogs can’t climb ladders,” I told him.
“I seen it in a newsreel once,” Ray said. “They can learn about anything if you teach ’em right.”
“I’m gonna,” Bert said. “My mother said I’m real good with animals.”
When Bert said that, I had to fake a coughing fit so he wouldn’t know I was laughing at him. He was the kind of kid to bring home some kind of critter he’d found while tromping through the woods or fishing in the river. Problem was, for as much as he loved all the creatures God had placed upon the earth, Bert couldn’t seem to keep one of them alive longer than a week.
I sure worried about that dog.
There was a back way to the library, one that followed a turning and curving road past a handful of houses and a wide-open field that in the winter was full of nothing but snow. That was where the boys sometimes played baseball or football when the weather was nice enough for it. It took longer, going the back way, but I didn’t mind so much, especially when I wasn’t in any hurry.
Aster Street was the name of it. Aunt Carrie’d told me an aster was the pretty purple flower that grew tall and wild along the roadsides all over Bliss. On that freezing, snow-covered day I had a hard time picturing what those flowers looked like. It would have been nice to see a little something colorful amidst the piles of snow.
Walking along, I stuffed my hands in the pockets of my coat and tipped my head down so the scarf around my neck covered my mouth and nose. It turned out the blue-sky, bright-sun morning had tricked me and the day was far colder than I’d expected. Every step seemed to pull me forward into chillier air.
We’d made the move away from Oklahoma so I wouldn’t choke to death on the dust. But the way the frozen air burned in my lungs I didn’t know that it was much better here in Michigan.
Good thing I was less than a block away from the library doors or else I didn’t know if I’d make it. I started counting my steps. One, two, three.
Squinting my eyes against the cold, I thought how before, when I was smaller, I might’ve pretended to be an eskimo in the frozen wilderness of Canada. I’d have pretended I wore a coat of seal skin with the fur of a grizzly bear sewed inside to keep me warm enough. If I was playing eskimo, I’d have imagined snowshoes strapped to my feet and a harpoon slung across my back just in case any wild animals had a mind to take a good bite out of me. Maybe I’d even have a wolf as a pet to keep me company. But I’d grown too old for such make-believe.
A powerful gust of wind blasted past, pushing the snow across the walk in front of me. So much like the dust back home in Red River. But the snow would melt come spring, unlike the dirt that wasn’t like to leave Oklahoma anytime soon.
I shook my head against the picture of Beanie standing between me and the duster, her arms spread over her head like she meant to hold it back.
If I could’ve wished for one thing, I’d wish to be able to go back in time. I’d go all the way back to Palm Sunday, to the hour right before the big duster rolled over us, crushing everything and everybody. I’d have stayed home that day, I wouldn’t have wandered off with Ray no matter how he begged. Me staying home would’ve meant Beanie did, too. She never would have gotten herself lost in the dust coming to find me. We’d still be in Oklahoma. Mama and Daddy would be together and happy because Beanie would be alive.
Maybe, if none of the bad had ever happened, I’d still be up for pretending. Instead of playing an eskimo, I’d imagine myself an Indian and instead of frozen wind whipping me in the face it’d be sharp dots of Oklahoma grit. Life never was perfect back home in Red River, but at least we’d stayed in one piece, dust and all.
Standing on the edge of the street with my eyes shut, I realized I’d stopped moving. The cold air scrubbed against the part of my face not covered by the scarf and I opened my eyes.
Turning, I looked at where I’d stopped. The only problem with me taking Aster Street was that I had to walk past that house, the one with white paint peeling and sad, off-kilter black window shutters. From what I could tell, nobody’d lived in that house for nearly a hundred years. All the kids in town said it was cursed, that house. They’d hold their breath when they had to walk past it, fingers crossed. They’d said if somebody did look, they’d be dead in a week.
I didn’t believe that for one minute. Even so, something about that place gave me the heebie-jeebies and I crossed my fingers. I figured it didn’t hurt to be careful.
Holding what little breath I could take, I walked away from it, fast as my body allowed me. I looked back at it over my shoulder and a shiver tingled up my backbone.
I walked faster still, trying to talk myself out of being afraid.
My favorite seat by the fire was taken by the time I stepped foot in the library and I only had myself to blame for it. If I hadn’t spent so much time missing Red River and getting spooked by that old house, I would’ve been in the cozy chair already, a book open on my lap and the warm flames flushing my cheeks. Just as well, I decided. It was as good an excuse as any to wander about the library to see if there were any corners I’d left undiscovered.
Holding my finger out to my side, I felt of the shelves as I passed them. There wasn’t so much as a speck of dust. My fingers came up clean at the end of the row. As long as I had lived in Michigan, I still wasn’t used to how clean things stayed with no fine dust seeping through the cracks all day long.
I wouldn’t let myself think of how Mama spent the better part of her days trying to get rid of the dust in Red River. I just wouldn’t allow it.
Around the corner I saw Mrs. Trask leading a young boy to the back of the library where I knew she kept the books for little kids.
“I believe I have just the book for you,” she said, holding the shelves for support as she walked.
If there was one place in that building I knew I hadn’t seen yet it was the upstairs. Whenever I asked Mrs. Trask if I could go up there, she’d just say it was full of old furniture and books that needed to be repaired. Then she’d say she didn’t think I better go up there.
I told myself I wouldn’t open a single door, but if there was one with the door pulled to, it wouldn’t do any harm to peek in.
“We could maybe read a story or two together,” Mrs. Trask said, her voice quieter as she took step after step away from where I stood. “I’d like that if you would.”
I had plenty of time.
I made my way to the front of the library, through the lobby, then toward the stairs. They were the kind that led up to a landing before breaking in two for a second set. Holding onto the railing to be sure I didn’t stumble, I rushed up that first set fast as my legs would go without my feet stomping on the steps.
Turning, I made to take the set of steps to the right, surprised by how out of breath I was. Doctor Barnett had called it asthma. Said it was just something that happens to some folks after they have pneumonia.
“When you get short of breath,” he’d told me, “I need you to slow down. All right? Just slow down and try to breathe in as deeply as you can.”
I didn’t trust myself to slow down when I was still on my feet, so I sat on the second step, breathing down as deep into my lungs as I could.
“Go slowly,” he’d told me. “You might feel like you’ll suffocate if you don’t breathe in fast, but it isn’t so. You’ll get better air if you take it slow.”
I tried remembering that. But still I was struck with the temptation to huff in and puff out short air that only reached the top of my chest.
“Pretend that you’re trying to fill up all the way into your stomach,” Doctor Barnett had told me. “You’ll be all right.”
And then he’d given me a breathing treatment with medicine that’d made me jumpy and twitchy all the rest of the day.
It took me more than a handful of minutes sitting on that step to start breathing regular. Even then it felt as if somebody’d filled my lungs with wool, scrubbing it around to rub my chest raw inside.
I heard Mrs. Trask’s voice at her desk, helping somebody check out a book most likely. Must’ve been a real short book she’d shared with that little boy.
She might’ve been an old woman with a breaking-down body and a thin memory, but she heard as well as an elephant. If I took one step up she’d know it. And if I tried going downstairs she might get sore at me for sneaking around. Last thing I needed was to have the librarian mad at me. I decided to stay put until she was off to help another kid find a book.
Turning, I rested my back against the banister and shut my eyes. I sure had a way of getting myself in a pickle. Darn curiosity of mine.
Opening my eyes I looked at a framed picture that hung on the wall. It wasn’t a large painting and the frame was nothing but a regular old wood one. The colors of it were those of just-after-sunset, blues and oranges and blacks. It looked like a town or city, with tall buildings sprouting up on either side of a river.
It was wide, that river, and made me think of the day we’d crossed over the Mississippi on our way to Michigan. Over the painted river were dots of stars. I wished we could have been at the Mississippi at night. How nice it would’ve been to sit there beside the river looking up at the nighttime sky.
We’d been happy that day along the Mississippi, Mama, Daddy, Ray, and me. I tried believing that at least.
Forgetting about Mrs. Trask’s sharp ears and the fact that I was someplace I wasn’t meant to me, I stood and stepped close to the painting. I let my eyes take in every inch of it. The sky and the spires of what I imagined to be fine places, the bridge that spanned over the water, and the tallest of the buildings with a round clock face painted in yellow.
So small I almost didn’t see them were four people. Their arms were spread wide like wings that helped them glide in the air over the river. A tiny glow of white dotted next to the boy in front.
Where were they going, I wondered. How was it they could fly without wings?
I imagined myself rising up from the ground, feet wiggling as I dangled in the air. I’d be sure to wear slacks that day so nobody below could see my underthings. Up, up, up nearly touching the clouds, reaching for them and barely grazing them with my fingertips. Then I’d take off flying to all corners of the earth, seeing the things I’d only ever dared dream of. The ocean where whales would spurt water out the tops of their heads. The mountains where I’d lower down to touch the tippy-top peak with my toes before zooming off to soar over valleys of green.
It seemed the very best kind of magic, flying wherever it was I wanted to go.
My daydream faded when I heard steps creaking from below me. I turned to see Mrs. Trask coming up slowly, holding tight to the railing.
“Hello, dear,” she said. “I thought I heard someone up here.”
“I’m sorry, ma’am,” I said.
“No.” She smiled. “No need.”
When she got to the landing she kept her hand on the railing to keep from toppling backward. My heart flipped a little when I saw how close she was to the edge of that top step.
“Oh yes,” she said, taking a step forward. “You’ve met Peter Pan.”
“What do they teach children these days?” she said under her breath.
Letting go of the railing, she pointed at the picture and stepped closer to it.
“This is Peter Pan.” She pointed, holding her finger over one of the flying children, showing me the boy at the front of the pack. “He’s taking them to Neverland.”
“Where’s that?” I asked.
“Oh, I could tell you, dear,” she said. “But I won’t.”
I turned to see her wink at me.
“What would be the fun in that?” she asked. “Follow me. We’ll find the book together.”
She took my hand and I walked as slow as she did down the steps, taking one last look at the picture.
I thought I’d like nothing better than to be friends with that Peter Pan.