A draft of my novel, Fossil. This is chapter 2. Several final revisions are needed.
One of Alba’s brothers gave her a shiner. She wailed with pain and hissed a word that would earn her another shiner courtesy of her father.
“Who did it?” She asked into the darkness. There were crickets. The window was open and the sound of bugs enjoying the heat of summer filled the nearly empty bedroom. The only light came from the slit of the moon peaking from behind a mostly cloudy sky. It was enough to see Abel beside her, lying on his back. His hand lay near where she had been sleeping. Needing to get even, she balled her fist and drove her knuckles into his belly’s soft, fatty swell.
He whimpered, then rolled away like nothing had happened.
“Damn you,” she sneered. She thought about punching his face but decided it could wait until she found him in the fields.
A tired voice behind her said, “I didn’t mean to.”
“Rufus?” She guessed which brother spoke. One pubescent, cracking voice sounded like another. “Where are you?”
“Here.”
She felt his fingers on her back and turned in his direction. She realized the normal mass of thirteen male bodies that shared the bed was not there. “Where is everyone?”
Rufus did not say anything. He only giggled.
“What is it?” She asked, her voice coming awake.
“You are in such big trouble.”
“Tell me.” She thought they might be playing a joke at her expense. Why should they not? All she wanted was one night of peaceful rest, not dealing with someone bothering her. Between the heat of summer, her long list of chores, and knowing she would not see Shirley all week, she was getting agitated.
“Samson said not to wake you,” Rufus explained. “I was shocked by it.”
“Yea-huh, so why are you still lying here. Did they pay you to hit me?”
“That was an accident. But I wasn’t going to risk getting into trouble. It really is that bad.”
She did not know what it could be. Disobeying her mother and father was not anything new. But she always stopped before she got into serious trouble. “You are just teasing,” she said, unsure who she was trying to convince. “Just tell me the joke, or I’m going to put cow shit in your mouth while you sleep.”
“You are the joke.” He said and rolled over to get back to sleep.
She let a quiet minute pass. She tried to think up a reason why she might get into trouble. This week she had been good, finishing all of her chores on time and helping mom when she asked. Finally, she pleaded, “why am I the joke?”
“You want to know?” He teased, drawing out the reveal. “Really and truly?”
“Tell me now.” She was sat forward, hands tight on his shoulder and shaking him.
“They found your magazine,” he said.
Alba was on her toes, gliding through the house to the kitchen window. She dared not risk using the front door – the hinges creaked. The floors creaked some, but the crickets were so loud she took the risk. She got into the counter and slid out the window. She landed softly in the weeds. She bound off to where her brothers went between chores. They used the spot to goof around or share a cigarette or alcohol. What she had done would probably be worse than her father catching her smoking or drinking.
At the edge of their field was a small mound of dirt piled around a slab of limestone jutting from the ground. A large tree grew up the side of the hill. Mature honeysuckle shrubs surrounded the tree and obscured anyone hidden beneath the limestone.
She pushed her way through the shrubs and saw a lantern’s glow and thirteen boys’ silhouettes. They were hunched over, squatting together in a circle, making noises like frustrated animals locked up in the barn on a stormy day.
Nobody noticed Alba sneak up behind them. She leaned over one of her brothers and looked down at the ground where the lantern revealed the Cosmopolitan magazine.
Her brothers gawked at a woman wearing leotards that clung to her chest.
Alba felt her stomach sink. She was in more trouble than she could ever explain to anyone who did not grow up in her family. She lunged for the magazine, but Samson shoved her away. She hit the ground and lost her breath.
“These are some sexy ladies.” Samson laughed. He dangled the magazine at Alba.
Gasping for air, she stumbled to her feet and tried to snatch it back.
“Where can we see more of her?”
“I get a turn with it, right?” Jacob asked. Her brothers got loud and demanded private time with the magazine.
“Shut up,” Samson said. “It’s mine now.” He grinned, his snaggle tooth sticking forward out of his top gum.
Alba got to her feet and then lunged at Samson. They fell over, struck the lantern, and dowsed the magazine with oil. Fire engulfed the magazine and spread to the ground. She grabbed one end of the magazine and Samson held the other. They both pulled. The burning pages ripped. Bits of singed paper floated around in the air.
Many hands went thrusting in the air. They fought and argued, fists started to fly, and several of her brothers landed with sobbing cries.
Mom’s voice echoed across the farm, “what is happening here?”
Alba felt her blood drain. Her brothers froze and tried to hide the magazine pages.
The lantern mom held cast a menacing shadow across her wrinkled face, sunken eyes, and fraying hair. “What are you trying to hide?” She snapped her fingers for them to hand over the evidence. “I want all of it.”
She examined what remained of the charred and torn pages. A look of disgust and shame washed over her face. “Where did this come from?”
Eleven eyes fell on Alba. Her brothers gave her up without a second thought. She did not resent any of them for that. All familial allegiances broke when a beating was guaranteed.
“Everyone back to bed, quietly,” mom said. “Do not wake your father. Except you, Alba. You stay here.”
When her brothers were out of earshot, mom asked, “did Shirley give this to you?”
Alba met her mother’s gaze but did not speak.
“Are there more?” Mom asked.
“Yes.”
“Do your brothers know about those?”
“No.”
Alba had wrapped the magazines in the paper they used to wrap raw meat. She stuck each issue under the house between the cross members and the floor. She had been careful to check over her shoulder when going under the house. But when sixteen people shared a two-bedroom shack, secrets were hard to keep from prying eyes.
“Tomorrow, you will take them into the forest and bury them. But I’ll have to keep this one. Your father will see it.”
Alba looked at her mother with pleading eyes, but she knew there was no escaping what was coming to her. Mom might have kept it secret had her brother not seen the magazine.
Alba hung her head and returned to the bedroom. There was no order to how they slept. Each brother found a spot and collapsed. Following a sixteen-hour workday, you did not fuss about sleeping space. Dad said that the bedrooms in the house were for rest and nothing else. Not that they could afford much more. The house had started with a single room, where the kitchen is now. But the house grew as the family grew. Each wall had been hastily erected with whatever scrap was available. The floorboards were rickety, with large gaps that let in bugs and mice. In the summer, you sweltered, and in the winter, you froze.
Alba stepped over her brothers until she found a spot next to Samson. She wanted to spit right in his face.
“Made space for you,” he said with an undertone of glee. His hand patted the gap behind him.
She fell into the gap, surrounded by three of her brothers. She groaned when her hand felt the wetness of the sheets between them.
“Gross,” she cried, “who pissed the bed?”
“That’s for spoiling our fun,” Samson said.
Being the only girl sleeping in a brood of thirteen boys was miserable except when it got cold. If someone peed when it reached zero, you were almost grateful because of the warmth. But tonight, she was deeply upset with Samson. Pissing intentionally where she was meant to sleep was taking it too far.
She straddled Samson and raised her fist. She wanted to make it count. If she broke his face and he died from blood loss, she might actually be happy.
“To bed, Alba.” Mom snapped from the doorway.
Alba held her fist cocked. She turned and whined, “Samson peed in the bed on purpose.” Her voice broke slightly, but she held back tears. They would make fun of her for a week if she let them see her emotions.
“You’ll wash the bedding in the morning.” Her mom said.
“Why me?” She asked, a single tear escaping down her cheek. None of it felt fair.
“They are your chores.” Her mom turned off the gas valve of the lantern, and that was the end of it.
Alba lay where she had been told. On any other night, mom might let her sleep underneath the kitchen table or in the barn’s loft. But mom could not be seen doing her any favors. Not if her mom wanted to avoid dad’s scorn.
Alba finally fell asleep, but she woke a short time later. Her eyes were irritated and heavy. Her stomach felt sour. Her legs ached from the hard sprint across the farm.
Sunlight filled the room. From the open window, she heard the bells on the cows clanking and the bleating of the goats. The smell of summer grass and manure lingered above the soiled mattress. Her father stood outside the bedroom door, tapping his feet and clapping his hands. His song carried through the house.
Come awake flock
Give us your riches
Get outside, my boys
Girls scrub this floor
Hard work for a living
This life is grand
Up here in these hills
God is watching
Come awake
Come awake
For these mountain riches
School had been let out early, only four days before the summer break. Alba was sad that she never said goodbye to anyone. With so many chores in the summer, there was little chance of seeing her friends until the start of the next school year.
Dad was thrilled that he had the extra four days of help. They would get ahead of repairs and weeding before the first harvests began next week. The family’s normal schedule was to wake at four-thirty and complete two hours of work before school. After school, they worked again until at least eight.
Dad believed that a person only needed reading and math during wartime. With no new wars on the horizon, he argued the best education came from hard labor and the bible.
Mom came into the bedroom and yelled for the boys to get a move on. Abel, Cyrus, Daniel, Isaac, Isaiah, Joel, Lucas, Noah, Paul, Rufus, Samson, Timothy, and Zachariah lined up and stripped. They all had farmer’s tans between their ankles and collar bone. Pajamas went into the wash bin, and mom handed them washed underwear, shirts, and overalls.
Alba helped with scrubbing the clothes clean every other day. She was always sickened by the dried blood, pit stains, and odor that never came out with soap unless you intended on taking the clothes back to threads.
Lining up behind the boys, she did not get overalls. She wore a puffy yellow dress that fell to her ankles. The hem, neck, and wrists were decorated with lace. During summer, she was only allowed to show her hands and face. She sweated profusely and had to take care not to exert herself to not get heat stroke. Ditching the boots helped her keep that much cooler since she had nothing less oppressive to wear.
The dress was finished with a pair of old leather boots two sizes too large, but she rarely wore the boots. She did everything barefoot, much to the dismay of her mother and father.
She went to the kitchen and stirred the ground oats into the boiling water. Then she ran to the barn to collect eggs. They enjoyed an abundance of eggs most days. Two dozen were cracked into a cast iron pan that sat over the wood-burning stove.
While the eggs were cooked, mom went to the drying shed for the bacon jerky. Dad lifted the cellar door in the middle of the kitchen floor, and he climbed down into the storage room. He brought up buttermilk biscuits and goat’s butter.
“Come get it,” mom announced.
The boys formed a prison line with their wooden bowls. Mom slopped in a little of everything. Her family kept the eating tables stored away during breakfast. There was too much activity and urgency for anyone to sit and enjoy their meal. Instead, each brother tilted the bowl to their mouth and slurped down everything. On their way out the door, they tossed their bowl and spoon in the wash bin.
Mom and Alba ate last. Alba took baby bites. Her lack of sleep and frustration from the night before left her stomach sensitive.
“When you finish,” mom said, “if that moment ever comes, I need you to check for morels.”
“Too dry for morels,” Alba replied.
“Don’t come back without them and say they weren’t there. I’m not forgetting your disruption last night. So be mindful that I’m watching you while I wash the dishes. Then you have errands at the Sundollar General.”
Mom took a pencil and pad from her apron and scribbled something. With mom’s attention elsewhere, Alba dropped her half-full plate into the wash bin and ran off to search for morels.
She ran diagonally across their farmland, passed the pump jack that drew water from the ground to irrigate the crops, and disappeared into the young corn stalks. She emerged on the other side and danced around the ripening tomatoes. She stopped before she reached the squash to wiggle her toes into the soft and dewy dirt. It felt heavenly.
She ran on, losing her breath halfway to the thick tree line surrounding their farm. She hiked up her dress and crawled around for the prized mushrooms you might find beneath felled trees and old logs. Her knees and palms dirtied as she grabbed blindly into dark places. Her hunch that the morels were still little spores was correct. After the first muggy summer night, they would be everywhere.
After a half hour of searching, she crushed a slug accidentally, found a grasshopper that she dealt death upon with a smile, ran from a spider that fell onto her arm when she grabbed at some old tree bark, and uncovered six morels that were not impressive in size. But that did not matter. It would be enough to earn the extra money they needed so badly.
She strode into the kitchen, her feet caked in mud, the white lace of her dress soiled, and her hair messy with twigs and leaves. “Got more than you bargained for,” she stated with a mischievous grin.
“Good Lord above, help me,” Mom replied.
“Got six babies.” Alba showed mushrooms proudly.
Mom nodded approvingly. “Go get the harvest sheets from dad and wipe up your face. I won’t have you going into town looking like this. Let me hold onto some hope that you will one day be a proper lady.”
Alba curtsied. “Absolutely, mama. I’ll do better.”
Mom grabbed a large wooden spoon and chased Alba out of the house. With the inventory sheet in hand, she headed to the barn.
The barn had once been pearly white with a sturdy roof. Now it was grey, and the roof had buckled at one corner. Passing through the large barn doors, she found dad sitting beside the family cow, Toaster.
She named the cow Toaster because she was trying to learn all the different appliances Shirley’s family had in their home. Her favorite chickens were named Vacuum and Ceiling Fan. She named a goat Air Conditioner. One of the geese was called Refrigerator. A barn cat, she wasn’t sure which one, was named Mixer.
The metal pale under Toaster was half full. Dad was humming a song while he milked Toaster.
Little lamb
Soft lamb
Wary the wolf
Momma lamb
Baby lamb
Trust your Shepard
Beyond the pasture lies –
“Mom needs the inventory sheet filled out,” Alba interrupted.
Dad stopped singing. He sat up and remained silent long enough that it made Alba uneasy. He motioned her to his side. His face revealed nothing. “Did she ask for chicken?” He asked.
“No.”
“We have some older chickens we will need to butcher soon. You will do it.”
She wanted to bark at him that she would never kill a chicken. But she stilled her lips. She could not figure out his mood. If mom had told him about the magazine, he did not seem upset.
He said calmly, “If mother doesn’t need them today, they can stay alive. You will do it tomorrow.”
Mom liked to grip the neck of the chicken and spin it until its neck snapped. Dad preferred to stretch the neck over a stump and use a hatchet.
“Just the inventory,” he said.
Alba handed him the paper.
He stood and towered over her. His height was matched by his strength. His confidence carried him between tasks. He never dawdled. Between the killing he did in the army, finding God in a trench somewhere along German lines, and his working on farms his entire life, there was little he had not experienced and little that caught him off guard. The trouble was you also never knew what he thought. He struck like a snack that did not hiss or rattle. To Alba, he appeared relaxed. But the hairs on the back of his neck told a different story.
He signed his name and then creased the paper three times. He slipped the folded paper into the pocket of her dress. “You are a mess,” he said.
“Molly mooching.” Alba grinned through the filth around her face.
He furrowed his brow. He said on many occasions that he despised her playfulness.
“My sisters set about their chores quietly,” he said, slipping into the history of his upbringing. “From morning to night. Always polite and minding the cleanliness of their skin and dress. A girl like that finds a man easily and keeps him happy for his entire life.”
Alba had never met anyone on his side of the family. When dad turned sixteen, he was turned out to find his own way in life. Going back home was not an option. As he was the oldest, he never saw what became of his younger siblings. When he enlisted in the war, he wrote that he had no family. He had said that it would be improper for anyone to send his body back home if he had lived or died – they would either reject the body or take it into the woods and bury whatever was left of him in a shallow, unmarked grave.
Dad dipped a rag in the water trough and wiped her face and hands. She hissed when he pressed the skin around where she had been hit in the face by Rufus. She had not looked at the mark, but it hurt like it had already been the color purple.
“Best can be done,” he said.
“Thanks,” She murmured, then started to leave. Dad’s hand snapped around her wrist. His calloused and strong fingers tightened around her forearm. He inhaled with the start of his fury.
“I heard you were making a fuss last night,” his voice came low and harsh. “Woke all of your brothers. Your mother too. I have warned each of you about stealing rest with immature games.”
“Bad dream is all,” she said with a slight, devious grin. She was not sure why her attitude bubbled to the surface at this moment. It had been rising more often. The truth was that she hated farm life. Her dreams became about running off and never looking back. Part of her thought she was near the right age to hitchhike.
His voice grew in volume. “You play games, Alba. Mom tells me it’s that Shirley girl. Is that it? Answer me, child.” He backhanded her across the other side of her face.
She slunk to the ground, but he yanked her back to her feet. Alba was on the edge of tears but refused to give up Shirley’s name.
“You hide it, but I know she puts ideas into your head. You promised me you weren’t going to see her anymore. Mom says you still see her. I got it out of her finally. God in Heaven. My wife lying to protect her daughter. Damn shame when a wife hides things from her husband. I might even blame you for that too.”
Alba flinched away from another strike, but it did not come. She wondered if the worst was over.
“She showed me the magazine. I burned it this morning. I only needed to see a few pages. Trite filth.”
“It isn’t that bad,” she whispered. She felt that it was true. It wasn’t anything more than innocent curiosity. She wanted to know how other people lived. The article she spent so much time reading and rereading was all about flirting and being attractive – making men want you. Other articles were about living in New York and Paris and going to the beach. It was all so exciting and made her mind alive with ideas.
Dad did not want to hear anymore. She wondered if Mom had reminded him about chores in town. It would be no good if she had to spend the remainder of the day in bed. Maybe the slap would have been the end of things. But she had just made it worse.
He dragged her to the workbench and dug out his favorite leather strap. It was useful for keeping the boys on schedule and taming the animals. He took her back to Toaster and forced her over the stool. Toaster glanced at her with vacant black eyes. Dad worked over her backside, from calves to shoulders. He kept going until his breath came heavy and her screams became hoarse.
He tossed her off the stool onto the ground and stood over her. The strap rested on her face. “Will you see that girl again?”
She shook her head that she would not, but the truth was in her eyes – she would just be more careful the next time.
He seemed willing to go at her again, but then he found his composure and acted like nothing had happened. He sat back down and continued milking Toaster.
“Your mother makes me go easy on you,” he said. “Now go finish your chores, but not another word out of your mouth for the next week unless it is respectful.”
“Yes, sir.” She managed to say before hobbling out of the barn. Once she was away from him, her feet picked up speed. She moved unsteadily, but skipping helped. The welts would heal in a few days. Not that they were too bad. Dad was being truthful when he said he held back, especially once she got really loud with her crying. She wiped her eyes and let the air dry the rest.
Part of her had hoped dad would just give up on her. Let her go about her own business and do the things she liked. But she understood there would be little hope of that. He would only let her go when her mom no longer put up a fight about marrying her off.
Several men in the area were single. Dad paraded her around in front of them. The oldest prospect was starting to grey. She would have to run from the altar and escape deep into the hills if it came to that. Perhaps throw herself off a cliff if she was cornered.
She handed the inventory sheet over to her mom.
“Dad spoke with you?” Mom asked. She studied Alba’s face and seemed pleased that he had not added to the purple mark caused by Rufus. She did not bother to lift her dress.
“He told me not to be disruptive at night.”
“Your brothers and father work hard and don’t need you waking everyone. Nor do we need those pictures – slutty women and trashy ideas. Read the Bible. It keeps you right. You hear me?”
“Yes, momma.”
Mom glanced over the inventory sheet and added what they needed to order from Sundollar General. Giving the sheet back to Alba, mom set about finishing the dishes from the morning before getting to work on lunch.
Alba untied Chrome, the family donkey, from his grazing post and tied him to their rickety old wagon. Dad had built it to carry crates of jars, preserves, and anything else they might need to sell when they did not have a truck. She had been in charge of taking the wagon into town for two years.
“Don’t break anything,” mom said from the window, eyeing the wagon worryingly.
This was the time of year when mom panicked about whether they would have enough money for winter. If the wagon broke and the jars crashed all over the road, they would have to go without something during winter.
Dad performed regular checkups of the wagon. He tightened the nuts on the wheels, applied grease to the axles, replaced the screws that had the warped and splintered wood together, and occasionally touched up the areas that were missing paint. All of it did enough to ease some of mom’s burden.
She walked beside the wagon, down the dirt road to Route Thirty-Nine, and then north towards the main street of Fossil. Chrome required no guidance. He kept a steady pace and stuck to the shoulder.
The pressing summer heat came with the rising of the sun. The trees no longer offered enough shade, and the road began to swelter with hazy ripples. Her dress stuck to her skin. Hair matted in her face. Hand wet and slippery around the leather reigns. She guessed it would be close to ninety degrees in less than an hour.
She stopped to put on her boots. Her feet no longer burned, but the sweat made her feet slide forward and back as she walked, irritating her toes and heels. They also made a loud clopping sound like a house.
To the right of the road, the Gauley River ran steady. The weather had been dry, so rocks that were usually difficult to see broke above the surface. The white froth of the rapids was now tame and only whispered.
On either side of the water, beneath the shade of trees hanging above the river’s bank, a cool spot to sit and rest. Birds and insects buzzed and chirped, already enjoying the miraculous garden of nature. Before returning home, she would stop and soak her feet.
People heard her arrive in town before they saw the familiar sight of the little Campbell girl walking beside the donkey. Her trusty cart creaked, thudding over cracks in the road, and the jars inside crashed against one another.
She reached main street. On one side of the street was the bar, the clinic, and a small restaurant with a motel attached to the back – there were no tourists in Fossil. Hence, families used it to escape during times that dad said were caused by “a woman’s foul mood.”
Across the street, the houses were built up the hillside with tall, narrow stairs. Mrs. Delling sat under the awing of her porch, her arthritic knees making it impossible to get down the road. Some yards were maintained, but others were overgrown with thistles and brambles. Windows were broken, roofs missing shingles, and paint fading.
Misses Shaffer appeared from her house and yelled to Alba, “any pickled turnips today?”
“Yes,” Alba replied. “About a dozen right now. More at home, but we don’t have the jars until this weekend.”
“I’ll be right behind you with my money,” Misses Shaffer said before disappearing into her house.
She stopped Toaster in front of the Sundollar General Store that had been converted from a small army surplus warehouse used during the Civil War. It had been built from brick and steel, so it still stood after so many years.
Mr. Berkley ran the store now. He sold groceries downstairs and clothing, fabrics, and home goods upstairs. Around back were farm supplies, tractor parts, tools, and scrap metal. If you needed gas, he had that too. But few people had cars, and only the occasional truck stopped to top off with diesel.
Alba went to the counter and slid the inventory sheet to Mr. Berkley. “I have the inventory requests,” she said.
“Early with the first harvest,” Mr. Berkley noted with a smile. “People have been happy with the corn. Big and sweet. Tell your father I will drive up with Otis and pick up everything Friday.”
He went outside and reviewed the jar and other items she brought to sell. He transcribed every into a large book.
He didn’t give her any money. Whatever they earned was deducted from the family’s tab. Farmers opened a tab for seeds, fertilizer, jars, and equipment at the beginning of summer and paid it back when the harvest finished. If you paid off your tab early, you knew you would stay fat and warm during the cold season.
“Will I be seeing your family at the vigil tonight?” He asked while continuing to transcribe the order.
“What vigil?” During the summer, she learned very little about the lives of people who lived in Fossil. That kept her excited about the new school year. It was like a big box of goodies being opened. Her classmates would look a little older, their hair changed, and new clothes. Some people would have died or moved away. Others got new farm animals.
Mr. Berkley signed a receipt and slid it into the pocket of Alba’s dress. “It is for the miners,” he explained. “Father Michael and the choir group are organizing it. Patrice came in this morning and told me about it. As it happens, I spoke with Margret the other day, and she said you had quite the guitar skills. She said you play at home on Sundays when your father holds mass in the barn. And you know what I did, my sweet doll? I said you could do it. You know Miss Gunther would normally play, but can’t since her husband’s sickness is getting worse, and she is all worn down. Poor old thing. They have plenty of singers, but they wanted something special. And what is more special than my sweet little doll? I never knew you had musical talent. I’ve heard your father humming and singing softly to himself. Must get it from him. Lucky man. Alba, I wouldn’t mind some music around my house. Maybe I will hire you. Come over and entertain a few of my friends one night.”
“Too busy around the farm,” Alba slunk away from the counter.
“Got most people from Fossil and some from Summersville and Richwood coming.” Mr. Berkley said, leaving that hook for her. “A lot of people would appreciate it.”
The idea of playing for what could be hundreds of people would be the most grande debut of her lifetime. It might even be her big break. If the newspaper was there, they could do a story about her. Then someone would offer to take her away to a music school in a big city.
But mom and dad would refuse. Dad kept the guitar locked away. That left Shirley, who had many nice things, including a very good guitar.
“Who would I talk to about playing?” She asked.
“I will call Mayer Winslow for you. We are old pals. He will ring Father Michael and make the arrangements.”
She grinned up at him, flashing her crooked teeth. “Thanks, Mr. Berkley.” She did not hear Mr. Berkley’s last words when she ran outside. She found Otis removing the last of the jars. “Hurry up,” she said, hopping from side to side, more excited than she had ever felt. He told her to settle down unless she wanted to do it all. When he finished, she yanked Chrome’s reigns, encouraging him to a faster pace. The donkey snorted and shook his head. She found a tree and considered tying him there, but she feared he would get loose or someone would stop and shoot him for the meat.
The afternoon dragged on. Her mother and father would be ready to tear into her now. She might have to take another beating for missing chores. She put a lot of faith into the idea that if she promised to behave the rest of the summer, they would excuse her for being late to return home and still let her play at the vigil.
The sun had left its high position when she reached Shirley’s driveway. The driveway was long and wound between freshly cut grass, manicured shrubbery, and trees. On top of the hill, the two-story victorian with its high-pitched roof poked out above the tops of the oak trees.
Alba pushed her sweaty face against the window to see if anyone was home. All seemed quiet. They might have been napping, so she pounded on the door.
A shadow moved along the wall of the stairs. Shirley’s mom appeared with a big smile. White straight teeth filled the space between the soft-pink shade of her lips. Shirley’s teeth were straight too. She had what was called a retainer. One day, Shirley’s teeth would be straight and perfect, the same as her mom’s. Except for now, all the metal filling her mouth hurt terribly, and she could not even take it out because they used cement to make it stick to her teeth.
Alba’s teeth would always be ugly until she had money to fix them. Her baby teeth were especially bad, but her adult teeth were coming in mostly fine. Some of her brothers had fared worse, and the daily pain of a wrong-way tooth was something that only hard work would distract you from.
Dad was missing a few teeth. Several were rotting, and he would take them out with pliers when they got bad enough. Mom had molars that came in slanted, and after so much wailing, Dad finally got her to see a dentist. This caused them to pick up some debt that continued to rack up interest.
All the talk about debt helped Alba write a song about a debtor. It was the first song she had ever tried to write. She was not a great speller or reader.
The song was about how some people run off to avoid paying their debts. The debtor thinks he can start a new life, but the bounty hunter finds them, takes their clothes then breaks their nose. That gets you another thirty days. The debtor goes on the run again, but a bounty hunter finds them again and is there to take a finger. And on and on it goes until the debtor pays with their life.
Shirley’s mom thought the song was morbid but did not discourage her from working on it. Shirley scrunched her nose up at the part about losing a finger.
The big and beautiful white front door opened without any creaks. Cool air rushed out, carrying the smell of flowers. “We haven’t seen you in a while,” Mrs. Bird said. “Is your family working the farm today?”
“Yes, and daddy is happy to have us home for the summer.”
“No days off for farmers. You all got to keep us fed.”
Alba agreed this was true, but it did not increase her interest in being a part of farm life. She had a feeling that tonight would be the start of something wonderful.
“Were you running errands?” Mrs. Bird asked while pointing down to Alba’s dirty boots.
“Sorry, ma’am.” Alba forgot all about having put them on. “Mom said not to step inside your house being dirty.”
“Oh, it’s fine. I picked up this vacuum. They call it a Hoover. It looks like a little planet. It doesn’t leave a trace of dirt. I’ll get a wet rag and help you get cleaned up.” Mrs. Bird returned and did her best with the old boots. “Shirley mentioned you would be busy all week and most of the summer. It is a welcome surprise to see you around these parts. Good to take breaks, I am sure.”
“I’m glad to be out of the sun. I only got a break because I heard about the vigil for the miners. I wanted to look through your sheet music. Maybe also borrow your guitar.”
“Isn’t that nice of you. We are so sorry for all those families who are suffering. All those kids at the school with a father in the mine. What they must be going through.”
Mrs. Bird led Alba through the foyer, down the hall, and into the music room that doubled as a library. Shelves of books, the piano, and the vintage guitar all had a place around the bookshelves built into the walls. A big ornamental area rug filled the center of the room. Underneath was a polished wood floor. If Alba and her brothers slept here, they could stretch out comfortably.
“What would you like to sing?” Mrs. Bird opened a trunk near the piano and brought out music books. Below these were rows of records. When the Bird family went into Charleston or drove to Pittsburg, they always returned with the newest books, records, new appliances, and sometimes fancy paintings of flowers or boats.
Alba wanted something hopeful but still with a bit of style. She had memorized many church hymns and would play those, but she would already try to sneak in at least one song you might hear in a big city club.
“Let me go get Shirley to help,” Mrs. Bird said. “While I am up, can I get you something?”
“I could go for anything cold.”
“Well, we have cola, juice, or water. I have yogurt too. Some apples are starting to ripen on the trees out back.”
Shirley’s family had everything, and whenever she came over, a glass of something cold meant a full meal.
“That all sounds good.”
“We’ll set up a blanket and have a little picnic in here while we help you find something just perfect.”
They sat and snacked while looking through the records. Alba did not spend too much time on any one vinyl. She glanced at the clock and began feeling the sting of regret. When she got home, she would be in for.
Then a song name caught her attention. “Peace in the Valley,” Alba said. “it’s by a man named Thomas Dorsey.”
Mrs. Bird, Shirley, and Alba sat and listened.
“What a beautiful song,” Ms. Bird said when the record stopped. “Let me see if we have the sheet music.” She checked the publish date of the vinyl and found a corresponding music book. The Bird family was meticulous about organization. It also helped that this song was popular and played on radio stations in some parts of the country. Mrs. Bird found the section for Thomas Dorsey and turned the page to find the sheet music. She tugged on the page, and it tore it from the book.
With the guitar and sheet music, she still had to go and confirm with Father Michael and her family about playing at the vigil.
“Then you girls need to get moving,” Ms. Bird said. “Go to the church and remember to be kind and tell Father Michael what you would like to do. It is nothing to get upset over if he says no, but still press that you know this will help. After that, get home and sort everything out. Shirley and me will find you a dress you can wear. We’ll bring it to the church this evening, and you can change into it there. Sound good?”
Alba said it sounded great.
“Before you go, take these.” Ms. Bird went to the kitchen and wrapped several brownies in foil. “Offer them to Father Michael. He has a sweet tooth.”
Alba hugged Mrs. Bird before leaving with Shirley and Chrome.
Shirley asked, “what can I help with?”
“You helped a lot. I just need to practice the sheet music a little.”
“Everyone seems to be doing something.”
“My parents aren’t doing anything. They can’t afford it.” Alba saw that this response did not help. Then she had an idea. “You are helping me, and I am helping everyone. It is like a music producer who helps the musicians with concerts and gets them their instruments and food, and then they both become famous and rich.”
“I am your producer?”
“You could be if you wanted to.”
“What do I have to do?”
“Keep letting me borrow your guitar and sheet music. Next time you are in Charleston, tell everyone you know me, and if they need anyone to play music, you say that I can do it.”
“I don’t mind letting you use my guitar. Even if I’m not your producer.”
“Great!” Alba hugged Shirley until her friend shook her loose. “I never imagined that I would have a team.”
“Best friends too?”
“Pinkies.” Alba held out her hand. They twisted their smallest finger together.
During the walk, Alba studied the music and hummed along as they went. She was happy as could be. Ahead of her, the door to her future was unlocked. She simply needed to turn the knob. She never thought about the magazines she forgot to bury like she had promised, the shiner on her face, or that she was never supposed to see Shirley again. To Alba, that is how it should be – defining life on her terms, doing what she wanted, and living without consequence.
