Hope in the Holler Read online

  I shook my head.

  Samantha Rose shrugged. “Suit yourself. I’m taking a nap.” She lumbered out of the kitchen and down the hallway.

  When I heard her bedroom door close, I picked up a spoon from the table and held it so that I could see my reflection. My right cheek was beet red but other than the lone tear, I’d managed to keep from bawling. I wasn’t sad anymore. I was E-N-R-A-G-E-D—ANGERED, DERANGE, GRENADE. I may have been poor, and possibly stupid, but when my mama was alive I was loved. She would have gone crazy on anyone who’d hit me. She once made a salesperson at Target cry because they said orange wasn’t my color!

  I shoved out of my chair and went to the sink. I ran a cloth under cold water and placed it on my cheek. I could see Convict Holler through the window. It wasn’t a bad place; Mama and I could have been happy here. We could have been happy anywhere, but I wouldn’t stay with Samantha Rose if she lived in the middle of Disney World. And as soon as my face stopped throbbing, I was going to make a plan and get as far away as possible.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

  At school the next day, Mrs. Rivers gave me the same high five, but this time it came with a side of disappointment. “I missed you and Gilbert yesterday.”

  “Influenza,” Gilbert said. “It’s a killer.”

  Mrs. Rivers crossed her arms. “I’m amazed that you’ve recovered so fast. Do I need to quarantine you two in detention to make sure it doesn’t spread?”

  “No, ma’am,” I said. “It won’t happen again.” Conversing with the principal about skipping school was a new one for me, but I was too distracted by the bank statement in my notebook to give it the concern it would normally warrant.

  Camille had an appointment this morning, so her dad was bringing her to school. I was dreading showing her the statement. I still didn’t know how I felt about the Bowmans. One minute I was ready to dig out the hateful letter I’d written and mail it to them. The next I was remembering how happy Mama and I had been at the pizza parlor on my birthday. The hundred dollars they sent must have made Mama’s Christmas a lot easier, so it was hard to despise them completely.

  Since Camille was late for school, she had to take her lunch in the library and do a makeup test. By the time we finally saw her on the bus heading home, Gilbert was bobbing up and down like he was riding a pogo stick. “You’ve got to tell her before I bust!”

  “Tell me what?” Camille asked. Her hair was pulled back in a shiny ponytail. In fact, everything about Camille looked shinier. She was even wearing a skirt and it looked expensive, like it had come from Sears or JCPenney.

  I pulled the statement out of my notebook and handed it to her. “Gilbert and I found Mama’s box. Stinkin’ Hoyt and Zane dumped it on the side of the road.”

  Her eyes got big. “Wow. And it wasn’t ruined?”

  “Hasn’t rained in forever,” Gilbert said. “We got all kinds of good trash.”

  Camille read it quickly. “So here it is. You’ve got their address. Now what?”

  “Now I’m considering my options.”

  “What do you mean?” Gilbert asked. “Before, you thought it might be your daddy.” He slumped over the bus seat. “Finding him would have really been something. We could have called the Farley Gazette,” he said. “They are always running photos of soldiers and their families reigniting.”

  “You mean reuniting,” Camille said.

  Gilbert shrugged. “Same thing.”

  Camille looked at me. “Are you going to get in touch with the Bowmans?”

  “Yes. No. I don’t know. What do you think?”

  “What for?” Gilbert asked. “Because of the money? Even if they did keep sending you checks, Samantha Rose would just get it.”

  “Only if she found them.” I turned to lean in closer to them and whispered, “I’m not staying here, not with Samantha Rose. Yesterday, she slapped me.”

  “Wait. What?” Gilbert said. “She slapped you? Live and in person?”

  Camille rolled her eyes. “No, Gilbert, virtually.” She grabbed my hand. “Are you okay?”

  A hot rush of shame swept over me, but I said, “I’ll live. It only stung a minute.”

  Gilbert punched the seat with his fist. “One of these days I’m gonna get off my leash and Samantha Rose will be my first dog biscuit.”

  “Down, boy,” Camille said. “Why did she hit you?”

  “She said she was trying to wake me up to the reality of my situation, but I’m going with she’s the devil.” I pushed my bangs out of my eyes and clipped them to the side with a rusty bobby pin I’d tucked in my pocket.

  “Can you call Mrs. Chipman?” Camille asked.

  “Samantha Rose would lie her way out of it, you know she would. If I only had a little bit of money.” I stopped.

  “Wavie,” Camille said. “What are you planning?”

  I crossed my arms. “Coal trains go by every single day. One of these times I might just hop on one and ride it to the end of the rail.” I looked out the window. “Mama said to find a life. Anywhere is better than Convict Holler.”

  “Oh, there are worse places to be,” Gilbert said. “Besides, running away always ends bad. Don’t you watch those detective shows on television?”

  “Well, I can’t stay here,” I said. “Every time I look at Samantha Rose or Hoyt, I want to scream.”

  Camille pressed her shoulders back against the seat. “You’re right. But you’re not going to write the Bowmans and ask for money.”

  “I wasn’t going to just blurt it out. But if they offered . . .”

  “No. Gilbert’s right, asking for money and running away is a horrible idea. But contacting them isn’t.”

  I had a sick feeling that I knew what Camille was going to say before I asked, but I asked it anyway. “If I’m not writing for money, why bother?”

  She smiled. “To see if they want you back, of course.”

  A paper airplane soared overhead and Gilbert knocked it out of the way. “What can it hurt?”

  “Seriously? You two are nuts!” I said. “I wish I had a cell phone just so I could text LOL to the both of you.” I put my hand against the back of the seat and pretended to write. “Dear Anita, hey, remember me? You changed my diaper for eight days? Good news, I’m available again!” I threw my pretend pen down. “See. Y’all are insane.”

  “Now you’re acting as silly as Gilbert,” Camille said.

  “Hey!” Gilbert said. “I resemble that!”

  “Resent,” Camille said.

  “That too,” said Gilbert.

  I couldn’t help but laugh. Gilbert and Camille might have crazy ideas, but at least they were on my side.

  Punk Masters yelled from the back row, “Frank and Beans, gave me gas.”

  “Shut up, Punk, I can’t hear!” Gilbert shouted.

  “You shut up!” Punk yelled back.

  “You two are forgetting one thing,” I said. “What if it wasn’t Mama’s idea to stop the adoption? What if they decided parenting wasn’t all it was cracked up to be?”

  “You were a baby,” Camille said. “Everybody loves babies.”

  “I don’t,” Gilbert said. “They’re loud. God should have made a way to put them on vibrate.”

  “Most normal people love babies,” Camille corrected. “Your mom probably got cold feet. Besides, why would they send you money if they didn’t want anything to do with you?”

  “Guilt?” I turned to look out the window. “I was their kid for eight days, so technically I’ve had two moms and two dads and lost them all. I’d be better off running away. At least I’d know what to expect.”

  Camille frowned. “Yes. A whole lot of trouble.”

  “Unlike the Disney sitcom life I’ve been living,” I said. “Until I know for sure that it wasn’t their idea, I’m not writing a word.”

  “Argh,”
Camille said. “We’re going in circles! We need to get more information. What if we ask someone who was around back then?”

  Gilbert rubbed his head. “What someone? Samantha Rose?”

  “No, but maybe a friend, or the lawyer that handled the adoption,” Camille said.

  “Oh!” Gilbert said. “So all you have to do is find the person that handled Wavie’s almost-adoption eleven years ago. Yeah, that’s gonna happen.”

  I hugged my backpack. “You are going nuts.”

  Camille raised one eyebrow. “My mother always says, ‘If you want the fruit you must climb the tree.’”

  “Maybe I don’t want the fruit,” I said. “Maybe it’s poisonous.”

  “Or maybe you’ll get your hopes up and be disappointed?” Camille answered. “I get it.”

  Gilbert frowned. “I don’t know what fruit trees have to do with anything, but y’all are making me hungry.”

  Mr. Vic pulled the bus off onto the road’s shoulder and opened the door.

  Camille grabbed her backpack and stood up. “If it was their idea to stop the adoption, then you can do whatever you want. Deal?”

  I sighed, then reluctantly nodded. My mama had a saying, too. Beggars can’t be choosers.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

  Finding out about the adoption and why it fell through would require help. Grown-up help.

  Mrs. Rodriguez set a dish in front of Gilbert. “Try this. My husband claims my guacamole is the best in the world, even better than his.”

  Gilbert sniffed. “It’s green.”

  “Yes, and the most delicious thing you’ll ever put on a chip, I promise,” Camille said.

  I picked up a chip. “I’m ready if he’s not.”

  Mrs. Rodriguez passed out napkins.

  “Gracias,” I said.

  “De nada. Now, everyone, dig in,” Mrs. Rodriguez said. She sat on the stool next to Camille and put her elbows on the table. “Tell me again about this lawyer?”

  Camille explained as best she could.

  “Almost adopted? And you want to know why?” Mrs. Rodriguez asked.

  “I know it’s crazy,” Camille said. “But Wavie’s afraid giving her back was their idea.”

  “I doubt that,” she said. “But there’s no one else to ask? A friend of your mom’s maybe.”

  I shook my head.

  “Edgar,” Mrs. Rodriguez called into the living room. “Pick up your toys, please.” She turned back to the table. “Well, Camille has a cousin in Texas that was adopted.”

  “Oh, yeah!” Camille said. “I forgot about Petra.”

  “A few years ago, Petra decided to try and find her birth family. She used one of those websites where adoptive children can look for their birth families, and vice versa.”

  I slathered a chip with more guacamole. She was right; the dip was awesome. “But I already know my birth family.”

  “Yes, but you could put in the town and the dates. Perhaps someone knows the names of lawyers around here that handled those types of cases.”

  “Wow,” Gilbert said. “There ain’t no slack in your rope, Mrs. Rodriguez. I’m impressed!”

  Mrs. Rodriguez smiled. “I don’t know what that means, but thank you, I think.”

  “I’ll work on it tomorrow while I’m in the library.” Camille stared at Gilbert. “And you don’t need to come. No more number-two issues.”

  “Gilbert?” Mrs. Rodriguez said. “Are you all right? Do you need prunes?”

  She looked confused when all three of us burst into laughter.

  • • •

  SAMANTHA ROSE KEPT me so busy cleaning the house over the next few days that I didn’t have time to think about what would happen if Camille really did find the lawyer.

  My favorite job was dusting the pictures in the hallway. I was still mad at Mama for leaving me with so many questions, but one look at that familiar face would send all ill feelings scattering. I wiped the photo of Samantha Rose and Mama in their Christmas dresses. “You’re way cuter,” I whispered to Mama. “And about a zillion times nicer.”

  I pulled down the photo of my grandpa on the porch and wiped the frame. Something fluttered from the back and landed on the floor. It was a newspaper article. I leaned down and picked it up. Underneath a grainy photo read:

  MARLEY H. SAVAGE MISSING AND PRESUMED DEAD

  The Farley County Sheriff’s Department called a halt to the search for Marley Savage yesterday after a torrential rainstorm. “It’s been three weeks,” said Sergeant Grundy, “and any trace has been lost now to the weather.”

  Mr. Savage was reported missing on February 17 by his friend Hap Conley when he didn’t return home from hunting. Mr. Conley said Mr. Savage had been despondent at the death of his wife, Alma Savage, several months before.

  Searchers have combed the mountain for days, but no trace has been found.

  A fund has been set up for the Savages’ two daughters at Farley First Union.

  I kept the newspaper article to show Gilbert, and rehung the photo. There were two men in the shot. One that Samantha Rose had said was my grandfather Hap Conley, so the other one had to be Marley Savage. He looked vaguely familiar, but it could have just been the sad look on his face. There were a lot of those around here. I looked at the other frames hanging on the wall. Several held the same man. He must have been a good friend of my grandfather’s.

  “What are you doing standing around?” Samantha Rose said. “You don’t have enough to do?”

  “I was just looking at this picture of my grandpa.”

  “Well, quit looking.” She moved in front of the picture. “Go outside and knock back some weeds. It looks plumb snaky.”

  “You want me to garden?”

  “Yeah, and today would be nice. And don’t be jaw jacking outside with your friends. Your uncle Philson is trying to sleep.”

  • • •

  I DIDN’T HAVE to worry about keeping my friends quiet. Camille was studying for a test, and Gilbert was out looking for Marley’s bones. Even Frank and Beans were nowhere to be found. I was on my lonesome.

  Samantha Rose had said to garden, but she hadn’t said where, so I headed to the cemetery.

  The iron gate squawked as I pushed it open. A blue jay complained loudly about it from a nearby tree.

  “Sorry!”

  I looked around. The grave sites of my grandmother and aunt were a little bit better from my earlier weeding, but Hap’s and the rest, except for Delmore’s, were still a tangled mess.

  I’d brought an old pair of scissors, and I sat down to hack everything within reach. It was slow going, but after an hour, I’d cleared the tallest weeds from Hap’s and Alma’s graves. My hands were aching and there was a big blister on my thumb.

  I lay out on the grass and stared up at the oak leaves. If Mama hadn’t left Convict Holler, she’d be buried right here. And if I’d stayed with the Bowmans I’d have never met her. Loneliness and grief hit me like a steamroller, pressing me into the grass. I felt like I was about to sink underground and mingle with the bones of my grandparents.

  Find a good life—Mama might as well have just told me to grow wings and fly to the moon. Maybe her list would have been different if she’d known I was headed for Convict Holler. Stay in your room, be quiet, and when you can, go far away.

  I sat up. Something was different. A twig snapped on the other side of the clearing where the path disappeared into the woods.

  I peered into the shadows. “Gilbert,” I called, hoping.

  Angel Davis stepped out from behind a tree. He shuffled forward and peered through his long gray strands of hair. “Spring beauty.”

  We hadn’t talked since the last time we’d met in the cemetery but he didn’t look any better. “That’s right. It was one of my mama’s favorites.”

  Angel came closer to th
e fence. He was so tall it barely hit his knee. “I thought you were dead.”

  I shook my head. “Nope, just lying here on the grass in front of a headstone.”

  His Adam’s apple stuck out like he’d swallowed a small bird. It bobbed up and down as he spoke. “No one comes up here anymore but me and you. Nobody else remembers.” His watery eyes looked straight through mine. “That’s not right, is it?”

  “No,” I said softly. “Everybody ought to be remembered.”

  “You’re not dead?”

  I stood up and dusted off my jeans. “I feel like it sometimes, but no.” I walked over to the gate and pushed it open. “You coming to visit your son’s grave?”

  He nodded.

  The wind shifted and I caught a good whiff. He didn’t smell any better than last time either. “I’m leaving now but if you want, I’ll plant some flowers over there when I do the others.”

  The bird in his neck bobbed again. “That’d be all right.”

  I waved bye and left the cemetery. Angel was crazy and sad but I’d take that over mean any day.

  Once I’d asked Mama what made people so mean.

  It’s the hardness of life you’re seeing, Wavie. That’s what makes people act that way.

  But you’re not hard, I’d said. Life hasn’t made you like that.

  That’s because I fight it, honey. Sometimes it’s like walking up a muddy hill in slippery shoes, but you have to keep trying. Once you let yourself go down to the bottom, it’s hard to ever recover. Don’t ever stop fighting.

  That’s what it felt like now, like I was sliding down that muddy hill fast, and Samantha Rose was waiting at the bottom.

  I looked past Samantha Rose’s tired, old house toward the highway. I’d never been far, but I knew the road led to homes with two-car garages and fenced-in yards and moms that were still alive.

  Why did some people seem like they were born with mountain climbing shoes on and nothing but flat, green grass in front of them while I had two dead parents and a house full of hard-faced kin?