Me & Emma Read online

  “Don’t cry, honey-bear,” he says. I guess I’m just so happy about the jelly. “We just cleaned you all up. You cry it’ll get all gooey and messy.” He smiles at me like he’s trying to convince my mouth to do the same and sure enough it works.

  “Can you fix Emma up, too, like you did me?” I ask him.

  “I sure will, honey, I sure will,” he says. “But I want you to lie down for a bit while I work on her. Looks like you haven’t done a whole lot of resting lately, so you just come on into my office and I’ll fix a nice spot for you to stretch out on. I’ll bring Emma in to do the same when I finish up with her.”

  I follow him back into his office, which I’ve never been in before, but I’m too tired to look around now so I crawl onto a blanket he’s rolled out for me on the floor behind his desk and I don’t even hear the door click shut when he leaves.

  I wake up once to feel Emma curling up at my back a few minutes later (I think) and then it’s back to sleep.

  Even though it’s still dark in Mr. White’s office I have a feeling we’ve slept for a while ’cause when I open my eyes I feel better altogether. I guess the sound of Momma’s voice on the other side of the door is what pulled me out of sleep. I shake Emma awake, too, so she can be ready, ’cause I’m certain Momma came to fetch us on home.

  Sure enough, a triangle of light slices into the room when the door opens and the shape of Momma is standing right in the middle of it, outlined in yellow.

  “C’mon, let’s go,” she says, her hand feeling up on the wall alongside the doorway for the light switch, which she flips up and the light blinks on above us. I can’t tell from the three words what the ride home’s going to be like but I know we better hop to. I don’t even stretch when I stand up, but I’d like to. Emma does and it looks like she feels better for it.

  “Libby, you sure about this? It’s no trouble at all,” Mr. White is saying off from the side. “I’ve got plenty of room in that old house of mine. Plenty. I can drive over first thing in the morning tomorrow….”

  Then I catch sight of Momma’s mouth, which tells me it’ll be a quiet ride home, for sure. Her lips are tight. When they’re in a straight line like that I know at least I won’t be hollered at. She waves us over to her and steps to the side of the door so we can march through.

  “We don’t need charity, Dan,” she says over her shoulder while she holds the door to the outside open, meaning we’re supposed to go straight out to the station wagon running out front.

  “Of course you don’t. I just…” But Mr. White’s sentence is cut off by the jingling shut of the door with the bells attached. I wish I’d known this would be the last time I’d ever see Mr. White or Miss Mary.

  The car door is barely shut when she puts the car in reverse and backs out onto Front Street and points the car to Murray Mill Road. At the light she taps a cigarette out of its box and pushes in the knob lighter on the dashboard. She waits until she’s held the bright red coils to the tip of her cigarette and inhaled before stepping on the gas—it doesn’t seem like she cares Mr. Jackson’s behind us waiting on us to move ’cause the light’s turned green.

  “I’m sorry, Momma,” I say from the back seat.

  If I hadn’t of talked Emma into running away none of this would’ve happened. Momma doesn’t look into the rearview mirror, she just stares at the road ahead of her.

  “I’m real sorry,” Emma says.

  It doesn’t matter that she doesn’t answer us back. In my head I promise her I won’t be any more trouble ever again. I’ll keep Emma from being trouble, too. She’ll be so proud of us. Also, she doesn’t know it yet but I’m going to give her all the money I’ve saved from working at White’s. She can buy herself something real nice for once. I’ve saved twelve dollars and fifty-seven cents. I wish I hadn’t of bought those stickers like I did…then I’d have even more to give her. But twelve dollars and fifty-seven cents can at least buy something. She’ll see. She’ll be so happy.

  Chapter Seven

  Richard’s truck is all packed up and Momma’s calling from downstairs so I take one last look around the Nest. Emma’s already downstairs but I told them I’d forgotten something so I could come back up. Goodbye, fan. Goodbye, leaning ceiling.

  Momma gave me a scowl when I started to cry earlier so I gulp twice and it works.

  “Caroline, you as slow as a crippled turtle!” she calls up from below. “Get yourself down here and let’s go!”

  Momma doesn’t like to think about things too hard. I wish I could be more like that. Seems like all I do is think on things and pretty soon they’re worn out in my mind.

  “Comin’, Momma,” I call back to her.

  Goodbye, Nest.

  Richard’s riding in his truck all by himself, we’re in the station wagon with Momma and the day looks promising. Momma turns on the radio as she pulls us on past the mill barn. Emma’s looking out one window, I’m looking out the other, trying to memorize what all we had here. I s’pose the next family to live here will enjoy the flowers in Richard’s boots but that’s about the only thing I’m happy to leave behind.

  Richard’s arm is hanging out the side of the window and he points when he’s going to make a turn ’cause his signal light’s broken. Momma’s is, too, but she doesn’t bother to point.

  “Momma?”

  “Yeah?” She looks at me from the rearview mirror.

  “Why didn’t you and Daddy ever move away from Toast?”

  She turns the radio down a speck and thinks on my question. “We didn’t ever have to,” she says, flat like a pancake.

  “Why do we have to now?” Emma asks.

  “Why you asking all these questions all the sudden? You know why we’re movin’,” she says. “Richard’s found a good job at a lumberyard out by Murchison and we got to go. Now, I don’t want y’all all sad like fallen cake. You got to look forward, not back,” she says, but I bet she doesn’t realize she’s looking from side to side as we pass through town like she’s trying to burn it onto her brain, too.

  “I got handed lemons, too, y’know—” she keeps talking “—but I learned how to make lemonade with them.” She slows for a second while we go by Mickey’s and then keeps on going. “No one ever told me I had to add sugar but that’s life for you. It ain’t sweet.”

  This must explain why Momma always has that look on her face like her jaw’s tanging up from the sour lemon taste.

  “We ain’t stepping in high cotton,” she says, “so we got to go where the money is.”

  “Is the money in Murchington?” Emma asks.

  “It’s Mur-chi-son and don’t you sass me after what all you’ve put me through these past twenty-four hours.”

  The radio goes back up. I shoot Emma a drop-dead look. She always has to go and ruin Momma’s mood.

  Day turns to night and just before it turns back into day again we see a sign that reads “Welcome to Murchison…Timber!” It reminds me of Bugs Bunny sawing down a tree and calling out “Tim-berrrrr” before it falls to the ground. I guess that’s the point.

  It’s hilly here and I keep waiting for us to roll through town, but after the timber sign we haven’t seen a flea on a dog.

  Out of nowhere and for no real reason there’s a flashing yellow light and Richard’s truck pulls to a stop so we do, too. He gets out and comes up to Momma’s window. It feels strange to be stopped right in the middle of the road but there’s no one around to mind, I guess.

  “It can’t be too far longer,” he says, pulling the smoke out of his cigarette. “They said turn right at the yellow light, but ain’t no right turn to make.”

  His arm is propping him up to the roof above Momma’s head. She looks at her map.

  “I don’t know what you’re ’specting to find on that map, Lib.” She folds it back up and turns off the radio.
Nothing was coming in, anyway…just static and talk.

  “Let’s just keep on, and if you see it sound your horn,” he says over his shoulder ’cause he’s walking back to his truck.

  “What’re we looking for again?” I ask Momma.

  “Turn River Road,” she says, picking up a little bit of speed. “Keep your eyes peeled like onions.”

  A few minutes later the trees clear back from both sides of the road and we see an old gas pump with a food stand right next to it. It’s boarded up, but at least there’re signs of life. A bit farther and the roads start coming: Gumberry Road, Sunnyside Road, Downtown Road. Lottie’s General Merchandise sits right on the corner of Downtown Road and…let’s see…it’s a handwritten sign so it’s a little harder to make out…Turn River Road!

  “There it is!” I call out just as Momma taps on the horn twice to alert Richard, but it’s too late…he’s passed it. He slows down and turns his truck around by pulling into the gravel space on the side of Lottie’s. Momma’s pulled to the side of Turn River Road so Richard can be the first to drive down our new road to our new house. I bet there’s no Nest, though, so I’m not getting my hopes up.

  My stomach’s in knots and I can tell Momma’s getting ready for whatever we’ll find ’cause she shimmies up in her seat nice and straight. Richard’s truck slows and then crawls along past houses that get smaller and smaller and farther and farther apart so that soon all you see are numbers on rocks or wooden boards tilted into triangles alongside dirt paths that barely look big enough for cars to fit on. Finally we stop in front of a piece of wood with number twenty-two painted on it. Emma scoots over to my side so she can get a good look.

  “Here we are,” Momma says, almost smiling. “Home sweet home.”

  The scrub branches take turns tickling then whipping the sides of the car as we inch past them. All I can tell about where we live now is there’s a whole lot of green. We don’t dare put our heads out the window for fear of getting our eyes poked out. The trees themselves have wide trunks, like the kind Mr. Grimm writes about. The kind fairies dance in rings around. The branches don’t start till halfway up the trunk, about as high as all the trees I’ve ever seen grow to be altogether.

  Soon the hill gets too crowded with bushes and fallen branches to drive on—a whole tree is upended a ways up, its roots tipped sideways like a giant mistook it for a weed—so Richard and then Momma come to stops right there, with barely enough room for us to open car doors and get out. I look up and can hardly see the blue in the sky, for the canopy the branches are making. Under our feet, sand mixes with moss and pine needles, and it feels like I’m standing on a trampoline.

  “All right then,” Richard says, reaching into the back of the pickup for a load we can hand carry the rest of the way. “We’ll do it on foot. Man ain’t meant to travel farther’n he can walk anyhow.”

  Emma takes hold of a pile of blankets from the wagon, I grip both ends of a box, and we start picking our way over rocks, tree roots, and needles, springing our way up the slope to number twenty-two Turn River Road.

  “Listen? You hear that?” Richard stops a bit up the trail. “That’s a hawk if I ever heard one. You hear that, girls?”

  I didn’t hear a thing but our own feet crunching broken branches, but I answer yes all the same. Emma does, too.

  Right about when my arms start to shake from the weight of the box I hear a whistle let out from ahead of us. Richard’s found the house.

  “Woo-ee,” he calls out.

  The trees and shrubs clear back to make room for the house, but just barely. They look like bullies waiting for the house to crumble so they can move back to their spots. By my guess they won’t have to wait long; the house looks like it’s about to give in. The roof sways low on one side like a horse that’s halfway to laying down. The tall, pointed part of the roof rises over the front door, above four or five steps and after a few planks’ worth of a front porch. There’re windows on both sides of the door but they look like they’re made of wood, they’re so dirty. I’m sure that’ll be chore number one if I know my momma. “Clean them windows, clean them windows” is all we ever hear.

  The bowed part of the roof looks like it’s missing a board or two, but that’ll keep Richard out of our hair for a while so I’m not worried. The door scrapes along the floor when Momma pushes it open. She ends up having to shove it with her shoulder to make it wide enough for us to carry boxes through. Richard’s dumped his stuff and is headed back to the pickup for another load and I expect we’ll be doing the same before long, but I’m dying to see where Emma and me’ll build our new Nest. Also, if it’s two sides of the room we’re picking between I want to call the good one before she can. I’m no dummy.

  After my eyes adjust to the dim light, I see there’s dirt everywhere—on an old wood table left behind in the middle of the room we walked straight into, which, I think, is the living room, on the walls and, most of all, on the floor. All over the floor. There’s more dirt in here than outside the house, for crying out loud. Mixed in are leaves and pine needles and I wonder how they could’ve found their way in until I look up and I see a big old hole in the ceiling right above the living room and then it all makes sense. Up by the ceiling are what looks to be a couple of bird’s nests and a dead tree branch that accounts for the hole in the first place.

  Momma is still. She’s holding on to her box like she doesn’t want to get it dirty on the ground. There’s no way of knowing what she makes of our new house that’s not so new after all.

  “It’s nice here,” I say. “I’ll clean it up, Momma. You’ll see.”

  “Yeah, we’ll make it look brand new,” Emma says.

  Momma doesn’t even blink.

  “I’ll take that box and go look upstairs,” I say to her after I put mine down. But when I go to take Momma’s off her hands I find she’ll have no part in it; she’s gripping it like it’s a floaty round life preserver.

  “Okay, well,” I say, taking Emma’s hand so she can see we need to clear out of Momma’s way, “we’ll be back.”

  The stairs have holes in them, too, so it takes some doing to get upstairs. We walk on the sides, hugging the wall, as we make our way up to the second floor. I have to turn my head to the side so I don’t get cobwebs up my nose or worse, in my mouth, while I’m gripping the wall. The light’s real bad on account of the dirty windows so it’s hard to find a place to hold on, there being no banister and all. At the top there are two openings that look like they used to have doors, and sure enough when we get up close I can see where they jimmied the old doors off their hinges. The room on the right is a big square with a single window and a shred of fabric hanging on to the top corner of the window frame for dear life. The room on the left is tiny, like a sewing room almost, and I know that’s the new Nest. Emma does, too, ’cause she goes right in it and spreads her arms wide for measuring. If we’re lucky we can fit our old mattress in it. It’ll be cozy in here. There’s a bitty half window that starts higher up the wall than we are tall—once it’s cleaned we’ll have light in here, no problem.

  The other room’s where Momma and Richard’ll be and that’s all that’s up on the second floor so we go back down.

  Momma’s still standing in the front room so we go around her and back outside to the car to fetch our stuff. Richard’s pile is growing so we better get a move on.

  Each trip back and forth I’d notice something new I hadn’t picked out before. Like that the walls in the living room (where Momma’s growing roots) still have patches of faded rose paper on them. And the left-behind kitchen table was probably left behind ’cause it was too wide to fit through the doorway. Richard says likely it was homemade right inside the house; the maker didn’t figure on its going anywhere. And there’s a fireplace on the far wall in the living room that’s made of smooth rocks Richard says were likely pulled from the river—the water�
��s what polished them. They’re so big it must’ve taken years for the river to do its work. They fit perfectly on top of and to the side of one another. “You gonna move your ass or’m I gonna have to move it for you?” Richard spits right onto the floor of the house and swats Momma’s backside good and hard.

  Momma stays quiet the rest of the day. She just put her box on down where she’d been standing and she set to work cleaning, like I knew she would. She hands me and Emma a bucket and tells us to go find water. We don’t bother to ask where to look, she doesn’t know any better than us.

  “What about down that way?” Emma points to the left of the house.

  Around the side of the swaybacked roof we discover a narrow opening of beaten-down earth, so we aren’t the first to walk this way and for some reason knowing this makes me feel better.

  “Who d’you think lived here before, letting it get all broken like it is?” Emma asks me.

  “How should I know?”

  “I’s just asking.”

  “Probably some old people who couldn’t do the work that had to be done,” I say.

  We’re walking single file ’cause the trail isn’t big enough to go side by side. Emma reaches out every once in a step to brush branches or touch leaves. It’s hard to look straight up ahead or to the sides since we’re not used to the ground yet, and we don’t know when a root or rock’ll trip us up. So for now we’re both studying each step we take. That’s why we’re moving slower than molasses.

  “You think we can get a dog?” she asks, skipping over a fallen branch that’s covered in moss.

  “I wish.” The rocks are just big enough to twist up your ankle if you don’t step square onto them.

  The sound of trickling water gets louder and louder and pretty soon the rocks sparkle with water.

  “We have our own stream!” Emma calls out. “Look!”