Otherwise Known as Possum Page 13

  I walked MG almost all the way back to her door. Grudging myself for goin’ soft. As my feet made their own way down the path to home, I thought about Mary Grace and her momma. In some ways, she had really lost her mother too, except she could still smell her and hold her and that still seemed way better than talking to the damp cold ground.

  And going the places Mary Grace had gone, living in so many towns. Yet she seemed as interested as a cat in a string that me and Trav never get lost in the woods.

  I wouldn’t care to say that I thought Mary Grace was pretty brave, always moving to new places with big buildings and or new people she didn’t know from a litter of coons. And then again yet, she’s scared of bugs with no stingers or pincers.

  Far as I could see, that bundle of brindle alone made Mary Grace closer to interesting and not so crazy stupid after all.

  Maybe Tully was right. Maybe if the two of us quit trying to slap each other to the ground, we might figure we weren’t so different. Then again, maybe a magpie is just a magpie.

  I asked Momma about it later, but if she had any answers for me, I couldn’t hear them.

  ALL THAT LONG NEXT DAY at school, I waited for a sign that Teacher had found the book or an announcement that the contest was on again. From the ants in her pants, I guessed Mary Grace was waiting just as hard.

  At the same time, there seemed to be no evidence that Tully was in any (new) kind of trouble yet. For one, he seemed to be walking just fine, which told me he had not been whooped to within an inch of his life, which for sure would have happened if his pa had caught wind of what had gone on.

  At the end of the day, Teacher asked Tully to stay behind. His face turned red and got twitchy like with poison ivy, but he would not look at me.

  Mary Grace and I tried to take our sweet time leaving. For one thing, I hadn’t told her, but I had decided to write my own essay anyway, on top of the one we wrote together. I didn’t want Mary Grace to go off half-cocked and write her own dumb essay, so I was looking for a chance to leave it for Miss Teacher when Mary Grace wasn’t looking. Thing is, she was hanging on me like a shadow. So I dawdled with my books at my desk, dropping this and that. Still, Mary Grace seemed even slower than excuses.

  Finally, Miss Arthington shooed us to the door and out. Mary Grace said, “I got to get home, to, you know—”

  “I’ll stick around,” I said, “see if anything interesting happens.”

  Not five minutes later Tully came outside. His face was still red, but he didn’t look at all like he’d been whipped. He made one quick look at me, muttered, “Gotta get home,” and took off running. I let him go.

  The next day, Miss Arthington announced to the class that the essay contest was back on, with winners to be read at parents’ night the following week. The room erupted in buzz.

  Mary Grace elbowed me, and I kicked her under the desk, but we didn’t look at each other. I was watching Teacher to see what she’d say next. Maybe we’d be heroes. ’Course, it was my idea, the essay …

  Ruthie raised her hand.

  “Yes, Ruth?”

  “Does this mean you found the stolen book and caught the thief, ma’am?” Her voice was full of excitement bubbling over, like a fizzy drink you shake too much.

  Miss Arthington smiled. She did not look our way; I am sure she did not. She simply said, “Let’s say for now that I am feeling somewhat alleviated of my concerns of the past few days. I would prefer to say nothing more on the subject. Is that understood?”

  A dozen stunned heads nodded slowly and said, “Yes, Miss Arthington.” Then Conrad Harris raised his hand. “Miss Teacher, does this mean we won’t never solve the mystery of the burgled book?”

  “We will never solve.”

  Everyone groaned.

  “No, class, listen,” Miss Arthington repeated. “The question should be, ‘Does this mean we will never solve the mystery of the burgled book?’ I’m glad to see your visits to the matinees are paying off for you, Mister Harris.”

  Kids giggled, and he blushed. “Yes, ma’am. But will we never learn, you know?”

  Again Miss Arthington gave us a secret kind of smile. “Let’s say, perhaps more will be revealed.”

  On the night of the parents’ program, I arrived early. I looked for faces I knew but didn’t see Jump. Or June May. Or any other Justices. Or Tully.

  I tried to quiet the bustle in my stomach by paying attention to things around me. The program was about to start when June May arrived and set the room whispering like wheat in wind. She led Miz Newcomb by the hand. Miz Newcomb made herself small but proper and sat in June May’s little chair; June May sat cross-legged at her feet.

  One look at Mary Grace up front, batting her eyes at all and sundry and primping those curls, told me she didn’t know yet her loony momma was loose. I wondered what Mary Grace would do when she noticed.

  I gave no thought to why June May was with Miz Newcomb. Maybe June May found her wandering and helped her in. June May had a knack for any living thing that wasn’t right, probably didn’t make any difference whether it was mind or spirit or body.

  When Mary Grace went white as bedsheets, I knew she’d spotted her momma; of course, the girl was horrified. Her daddy must’ve been too because he suddenly materialized alongside his wife.

  Crowds of parents, kids, and other relatives and townsfolk mingled, looking at the dioramas and drawings and maps placed all around the room. Most didn’t seem to have noticed Miz Newcomb yet, but Mary Grace pressed her way through the crowd. Only God knew what kind of scene she might make if she got there first, and nobody deserved that, least of all Miss Arthington.

  I had to head her off at the pass. Crunching toes, ducking elbows, I was able to grab Mary Grace by the back of her starch-stiff, navy-blue pinafore. “Psst!” I hissed, though no one could’ve heard us over the chatter of grown-ups.

  Her eyes put me in mind of a trapped animal. “Leave me be, Possum. I need to get Mother home before someone sees her. Before she does something.”

  I took her hand and squeezed. “Mary Grace, you stay right here. Don’t you care about Tully? We need to stay put and stay quiet and see if our plan worked.”

  At the sound of Tully’s name, some of the wildness left her eyes, but I kept hold of Mary Grace’s hand as Miss Arthington called for attention. I was itching to know if my school days were over. If I had won, for surely I wouldn’t need to be learning more stuff I didn’t need to know. ’Cept my eyes kept slipping back to the beautiful books in the bookcase. Never mind, I thought. In a toad’s leap I would have my own beautiful book.

  I hate to say it, but I could not have been more surprised if Traveler had won the essay contest when Miss Arthington announced the winner. Of course, I was that proud too.

  “I am so pleased with the results of our essay competition. As most of you no doubt know, the theme was ‘an important person in my life.’ And our prize is to go to the student I felt has shown the most improvement since the beginning of the school year.”

  It felt as if half of the room leaned forward slightly. My fingers were crushed white where Mary Grace squeezed them. Even the clock seemed to hold its tick-tock breath.

  “Tonight I am proud and honored to announce that our great admiration—and this beautiful book of stories—go to … Miss June May Justice. Would you come forward, please?”

  A buzz went around the room, with not a little clapping and a few squeals from the younger girls. Ruthie ran to June May and grabbed her in a bear hug, beaming like she’d won herself and met the queen of England to boot.

  I shot a look at Mary Grace. She appeared as perplexed as I felt.

  I looked back at June May in time to see Ruthie, with more hug obviously left in her, put her arms around Miz Newcomb’s waist and hop a little jig into her skirts.

  I turned my attention back to Teacher.

  “Now June May will read her award-winning entry. June May is without question our most-improved student thus far in the school year
. Her essay was chosen for her use of the topic—the children were asked to write about an important person in his or her life—and her use of language. It’s a poem as lovely as—”

  Teacher blushed fierce as fever. “Well, I suppose you might say it’s as pretty as a nickel postcard. June May?”

  Applause filled the room to the rafters. I listened to June May’s words with wonder and pride.

  MORE APPLAUSE. JUNE MAY CURTSIED two, three times. Where on God’s green did she learn that? Never mind where did she learn to read and write so pretty. As the shouts and whistles swarmed around her, June May held up one nearly clean little hand, much like Teacher might do.

  “I just want to say ‘thank you’ to Miz Newcomb, the momma of Mary Grace Newcomb, for helping me so much.” She paused like she was looking into the eyes of each person there. “Not everybody’s good right off at everything.” June May’s voice was clear and strong, not whispy-dreamy like usual.

  “For the longest time I couldn’t make no, I mean, any, sense of the squiggles and marks on pages. It got so I didn’t even want to try. But Miz Newcomb showed me how it’s better to expect something good, like a visit from Mrs. President Rosebelt, than to fear something bad. And I want to make sure my friend Possum remembers that.”

  June May curtsied again and went back toward her seat, with parents and kids alike clapping her on the back and grinning like they were all winners.

  Not a few people stared at me too.

  I let go of Mary Grace’s hand. For once, I was glad when she acted the cotton queen. She made her way over to her folks, looking pink as punch and twice as pleased, as if she’d taught June May herself. A few kids grinned at Mary Grace that I knew had never looked at her but cross-eyed all year.

  Mister Newcomb smiled and shook hands with some parents I bet hadn’t said ten words to him since he took over the store, but he kept his left hand on his wife’s shoulder.

  As the happy hive sounds of the room finally quieted, Teacher spoke once more. “I have one more essay I’d like for you to hear tonight. Although it is not the prizewinner, it is an essay that shows a great amount of personal improvement and growth on the part of two of my students. Although this is rather unusual, I will have a third person read the essay. Afterward, as we enjoy punch and cookies, I am sure ‘more will be revealed,’ if the players choose to share their tale.” She cleared her throat.

  I thought she winked. I don’t suppose a person in the room had any idea what she was about to say. “Tully Spencer!”

  I hadn’t even seen him till he made his way forward. It looked like he’d had a bath, but I couldn’t read anything else about him. I didn’t think he’d written an essay, and I for sure didn’t think he deserved to win a prize after what he did, so I was triple-double surprised when he turned to us.

  What he read sounded familiar.

  Real familiar. For a reason.

  It was the essay me and Mary Grace had written and turned in with the “found” book.

  I looked around for Mary Grace. We shared surprise between us, like a pair of woke-up winter badgers. I couldn’t see my own face, but hers was beetier than beets.

  I realized something else too. Mary Grace Newcomb had called me “Possum.”

  IT TOOK A GREAT DEAL of explaining all around—and every sip of punch in the bowl—for the full stories of Tully, June May, Mary Grace, me, and Miz Newcomb to be told and retold.

  Mary Grace and I admitted to writing the essay that Tully read. Mary Grace, as usual, trying to hog all the credit for the idea and the work. To hear her tell it, we acted like detectives to solve the mystery and like missionaries to save Tully’s hide.

  Wasn’t how I might have told it, but I had to admit she had a certain way with a yarn.

  Tully admitted he had taken the book to quit us girls quarreling. “I never wanted to lose you as my best friend, Possum,” he said. He handed me a grimy, folded sheet of paper before taking Mary Grace’s hand and slipping off to talk to Miz Newcomb.

  I went looking for June May to find out more about those secret lessons of hers and to take a closer look at her prize. I guess it should not have surprised me that June May could find a way to get at Miz Newcomb.

  I sidled up to get a closer look at Miz Newcomb as she spoke with Tully and Mary Grace. She didn’t seem nearly as crazy as that first time I saw her. Seeing Miz Newcomb so happy and lively made me realize that most likely she suffers from the sadness at times. Sadness is a grief that can make a person sick or crazy, and don’t I know it.

  Who would’ve thought Miz Newcomb and I might have something in common?

  What’s good to be reminded is sickness can get better. Seeing Mary Grace with her momma, I hoped that was true for them.

  Who else did I know who was sick to unrecognition with the craziness of grief? Thinking of my own sweet daddy, I prayed there was hope for him too.

  Plus, I realized June May’d also found a way to touch Mary Grace, which had to be harder even than talking to a sick cow. Mary Grace had good reason now to be proud of her momma, rather than ashamed.

  Too bad she could not do anything for Daddy. Or me. Not even June May could find a way to reach those places that, at least until now, I could not.

  Mary Grace and Tully had wandered off so she could talk at Miss Arthington. Good grief—clearly not everything else was changed to perfect.

  Just then I heard June May calling me over and saw her swinging on Miz Newcomb’s arm. I felt shy and wordless. I tried to think and came up with, “Thanks for helping June May. I bet you’re real proud of her.”

  I was church-truth glad June May had won and also knew she’d loan me the book so I could read to Momma on spring nights to come.

  With a screech, June May left us to go barrel over a bunch of her brothers and left me and Miz Newcomb alone.

  Miz Newcomb looked a little confused and panicked for a second, like a doe that hears a tick tock, but then smiled real big at me and waved a lacy little fan in front of her face. “As my friend Eleanor has said so often, there is something to the notion that, more often than not, one gets what one expects.”

  Then she winked at me, I swear, and leaned in to whisper: “But I best get home now. I’m gonna fix up some tea and—Well, who’s to say the future First Lady might not be stopping by sometime soon.”

  WHEN THAT NIGHT WAS OVER and I lay in bed, my eyes were full with the shine of the evening. I rolled over and whispered, “Trav?”

  He had looked asleep, but right away he lifted his head and thumped his tail.

  “Good boy. Grab my coveralls, Trav.”

  He looked at me like he wondered where I thought I was fixing to go in the middle of a cold night, but that good dog did like he was told.

  I fished into the pocket for the paper Tully had given me—his essay. In the moonlight from the window, I read it two, then three times.

  As I fell asleep, I heard June May’s words: “It’s better to expect something good than to fear something bad.”

  What good, I wondered, could I expect?

  Christmas Eve seems made to be full of possibility.

  I fetched carrots from the sand barrel under the porch and left them washed on the sideboard for Daddy. I’d hoped to catch a whiff of summer in their bright color but was disappointed. They smelled a bit earthy, like the last of autumn.

  I had something to talk over with Momma, so I went out to the pecan tree.

  Back to the kitchen, Daddy was chopping up those carrots to bake with honey; it was the dish Miz Justice agreed we could bring, on account of how much her boys like carrots. After supper, we’d all go on to church.

  “Daddy,” I said, “I’ve thought about it long and hard, and I think we should give Baby’s clothes to Miz Justice for their new little fixing-to-be-a-baby-soon.”

  Daddy stopped chopping but kept his back to me.

  “You hear me, Daddy? The clothes Momma made.”

  He still didn’t turn. “What makes you think that’s you
r decision to make, girl?” His voice was rough, and that was not what I had expected, not in the spirit of Christmas at all.

  I had thought he’d be glad to be shed of the reminders of Momma and Baby, since he was so intent on acting like we never even had two people that we loved and lost and could go on missing for forever, which was about how it seemed.

  Still, what I said was, “Don’t be that way, Daddy. We don’t need that tin of sweet things. It’s not doing us any good except maybe to make us sad remembering better times, and you know well as me the Justices haven’t got but two rags to tie together to put that baby into.”

  Daddy turned and leaned against the counter, hugging himself so each orange-tinted hand slipped under the opposite arm. He squinted like seeing me for the first time. “You know how many hours your momma put into them tiny things, sittin’ out back under that tree?”

  I swallowed hard and stood up straight. “Yes, sir,” I said, “so many that she’d want them not to go to waste.”

  I had to keep going.

  “Daddy, as much change as we’ve had around here, maybe you’d like to forget there ever was a Momma or Baby. If it would make the hurting stop, I maybe would too, but I can’t. I can’t turn around without feeling Momma because she’s in me, in us. She’s part of us. We don’t need a biscuit tin to remind us who she was. We don’t need it.”

  “Possum!” Daddy picked up the chopping knife and threw it into the dishwater with a dull plop. “How can you have any idea what I need when I don’t know myself?”

  I wanted to run to him, but my feet rooted. Trav came to stand by my side; surely he did not know this white-faced, whiter-lipped man staring me down. I certainly did not.

  My hand brushed Trav’s neck, and I felt his hair up.

  “I don’t know myself,” Daddy repeated, voice so low I could barely tell his from the growl coming up deep in Trav. He turned, stiff as a lead soldier, and went out the door. I heard the door of his shop open and close.