Chapters 19 & 20

Juveniles [blue heron chicks] teeter on nearby branches squawking, and flapping their wings . . . Their [parent blue herons] return starts a riot . . . snoozing siblings begin to hop about on the nest edge; pushing, shoving, and squealing like hungry pigs.”

                                                            – Book of North American Birds, Readers Digest         

 

  Chapter Nineteen

   “Well, how did the Pearl Harbor project go?” Woody asked enthusiastically.

“What’s ya making?” I said sidetracking him (which was easy to do, because I’d discovered them old people forget easily).

“Oh . . . I’m whistling and whittling away, making a grand clock to sell at the Christmas Bazaar,” he answered cheerfully.

I watched Woody for a spell. He was hunched over, straining to see ’em tiny little pieces scattered across his cluttered workbench. His heavy wire-rimmed glasses had slid halfway down his thin nose, exposing his sunken, glossy-green eyes. His tired fingers moved slowly, like they forgot how to move. On his hands, bluish-purple veins had popped through his see-through, old skin. His arms was badly bruised with dark blue blotches from lifting hisself in and out of his scooter. Poor Woody!

In no time, I was spilling out the whole story about wrecking Victoria Vanguard’s project (“a hill of beans worth”, as Mama would say.) Woody kept sanding the wood of his clock; listening, shaking his head, and letting me do the learning on my own. That’s the best part about him. Before long, I was asking his advice.

“I’m thinking about writing my Daddy a second letter for Christmas. A letter back from him would be the best Christmas present ever. What do ya think, Woody?”

“Certainly can’t hurt any,” Woody said in a serious tone. Then added, “Remember Miss Emma June Blue, there’s always two sides to every story. Sounds to me like you’ve only heard your Mama’s side up to now. Don’t you think your daddy deserves the chance to tell his side of things?”

“If he is my daddy,” I said, fed up with the whole mess. “Mama claims he is. But that don’t mean nothin’. Mama’s lied before. And he ain’t sure until I take some kind of test.”

Woody was silent. Then glanced up at me with sad, puppy-dog-eyes – which pretty much summed up how I felt, too.

Back home, seated at the kitchen table, I began putting my thoughts together, writing. My hands was shaking so bad, I could barely hold the pen still. And my eyes were a blur of tears. Suddenly, I heard Mama’s keys jiggling in the door. My heart raced. In a panic, I hid my letter inside my Social Studies book; then wiped my eyes with my sleeve. Mama burst through the door, home from work, carrying fast food, fried chicken bags.

At least, it ain’t restaurant leftovers!

“Blue honey, you working on your homework? Trying to raise your grade?” Mama said all cheery.

I gulped. Nodded. Smiled, knowing full well I wasn’t getting no “A” in Social Studies.

“Fried chicken, Mama? Sure smells good!”

“Sure thing, sugar,” Mama said, turning her radio on to her favorite country station.

My taste buds was dancing right along with the music.

Hungry, we pigged out on that chicken, baked beans, and biscuits like there ain’t no tomorrow. While she was in a good mood, I figured I’d bring up that test.

“Maybe we could go to Turkey Creek for Christmas, Mama? And I could get that test done,” I said, bravely plunging ahead. “What do you think?”

“Emma June if you think I’m going down there, stirring up a heap of trouble with the past. . . well, I ain’t! Besides, Mr. Pratt said we could get that test done here if we had to.”

“BUT MAMA! I want to see Granny and Granddaddy Johnson!” I pleaded, my heart going whole hog for it.

“Emma June, I’m not discussing it,” Mama said walking away from the table.

“Mr. Pratt! Is that all you ever think about?” I yelled at Mama following her,

determined to make Mama talk.

“A trip to Turkey Creek would cost lots of money. You think your

Mama’s filthy-rich like your friend, Gabrielle?”

Mama had a mess of chicken bones to clean up, as well as her life, the way I seen it. Mad as a tick, I sure wasn’t helping her.

“I’m gonna go call “my rich friend, ”Gabrielle,” I announced, stomping away.

Then I was sorry I done it. ’Cause Gabrielle couldn’t stop gabbing about her father coming home for Christmas, which of course made me jealous as a jaybird. So I covered up the phone with the sleeve of my baggy sweater. Every now and then, I’d lift it up and say “awesome”. Then hung up, depressed.

I pretended to be asleep until I heard Mama snoring. After the coast was clear, I tiptoed out to the kitchen to finish my letter to my Daddy. It won’t take long to finish, I thought. I’ve been rehearsing the words in my mind my whole life! Afterwards, I dug around through Mama’s messy letter pile until I found the address on my Daddy’s letter and a stamp. Wonder why she saved it? I thought encouraged. But I didn’t seal my letter. I wanted to read it again in the morning, when my doggoned eyes weren’t a mist of tears.

Before the school bus arrived the next morning, I stood shivering in the frigid December air — at the mailbox in front of the Blue Heron Restaurant, — reading my shaky handwriting, debating about sending it.

Dear Daddy,

 

Mama says I’m a spitting image

of you. Lord, all you gotta do is look at me!

So we don’t need no test to prove it.

But I wouldn’t mind going to Alabama this

Christmas just to meet you, hear your side of things.

I’d like that more than anything.

It would be the greatest Christmas present

ever if we could get together. But you can’t

tell Mama I wrote you. Cause she done

hired herself a lawyer, Mr. Pratt.

And I’m afraid I ain’t ever gonna see

you with him around.

 

Love,

Emma June

 

 “Lord, I done it! My second letter was off to Turkey Creek!” I exclaimed triumphantly, breathing a heavy sigh into the frosty air as the school bus pulled up, cranking open its squeaky door.

 

 

 

If disturbed, the Great Blue takes off heavily and flies away with slow deep wing beats, often giving a deep throaty call as it goes. – A Guide to Birding/Forshaw, Howell, Lindsey, Stallcup

 

 

Chapter Twenty

 

 Things got crazy as soon as me and Gabrielle walked into that school building.

Mrs. Stankowski wasn’t there. Mrs. Feinstein was.

“Did you see the sub? I’ll be she retired ten years ago. I’ll give her ’til lunch.” I fussed to Gabrielle at our lockers.

But Gabrielle wasn’t listening a bit. Her eyes was glued to Josh, who was gaping all google-eyed over Victoria.

“You ain’t over him yet?” I asked.

“Don’t be ridiculous,” Gabrielle snapped back. “Josh Kingsolver is a nerd for giving Victoria the math homework answers. Stupid jerk! She’s just using him. Everyone knows she likes Billy Angel.”

“She uses everybody,” I snickered.

The class was ignoring the sub. So, I figured I’d be nice and talk to her.

“What happened to Mrs. Stankowski. Is she sick?”

“No dear, her mother is,” Mrs. Feinstein answered in a soft voice.

“Hope it ain’t nothing serious,” I said, worrying about roly-poly Bertie at the Lakeside. “Them old, fat people get heart attacks sometimes.”

“You know her, dear?”

“Oh . . . Mrs. Stankowski’s talked about her,” I stuttered, realizing that I almost got myself into another jam.

Then Mrs. Feinstein picked me to take the attendance, ’cause she didn’t know nobody else. So I done it.

“Can Gabrielle could go with me to run it up to the office?”

Mrs. Feintein nodded, busy trying to figure out them lesson plans.

“I mailed a second letter to my daddy this morning,” I said to Gabrielle on the way to the office. “What if Mama’s right? What if he ain’t no good?” I asked, having some major second thoughts.

“Emma, I told you he might be a criminal.”

“Lord, you think everyone’s a murderer. He ain’t no criminal, and I’ll bet Mama’s wrong about him, too.”

“He’s probably okay,” Gabrielle said, not convincing me at all. “Hey, maybe I could get my father to check him out on the FBI database.”
“Oh Gabrielle, could you?” I asked, hugging her right there in front of the principal’s office.

“For a YinYang sister, I’ll try. But I’m not promising anything.”

Somewhere in the middle of second period, it started snowing. Kids got all wild with hopes for an early dismissal and giving Mrs. Feinstein a hard time. Jason Alexander and “Crusher” Dearth had their own “snow ball fight” going on in the classroom, throwing spitballs. Mrs. Feinstein was clueless or blind.

The snow pelted down all morning until finally after lunch the principal announced:

“On the next bell, we will be dismissing early today . . .”

The halls sounded like a stampede: metal lockers banging, kids screaming, cheering, crashing into each other, and scrambling to get to their buses.

On the way out to the bus, Josh started throwing snowballs at Gabrielle. Then, darn, if he didn’t ask to sit with her on the bus.

“Are you going to sit with him?”

“I . . . guess,” Gabrielle said hedging.

“Well, go ahead. See if I care,” I blurted out trotting off by myself, only to regret it later.

Me and my stupid big mouth! Now Gabrielle probably won’t ask her “father” to do that FBI check. Lord, I was so close to finding out about my Daddy. Then I blew it.

“What was I thinking!” I mumbled to myself as I stomped home, swinging my backpack.

Opening the door of our apartment, I got the shock of my life.    

“Mama! What are you doing home from work?” I screeched. “You never come home early on a snow day before.”

Mama was standing in front of a full-length mirror admiring herself.

“Blue, honey how’s this look?” Mama said, smoothing out the wrinkles of her new shimmering red dress. “I’ve been out shopping. Your Mama’s going out on a date!” she chattered away.

My heart shriveled up. Froze. Gabrielle was right! She’s dating.

“In a blizzard?” I asked confused.

Mama wasn’t listening.

“Wilma covered for me at work. Is it too short?”

I didn’t say nothing. Just stood there staring saucer-eyed. Thinking, I hated her.

For the stupid way she was acting lately, for leaving me alone so much, and for keeping me from my Daddy.

“I’m nervous as a tick! It’s been a long time since I had a date. Jim’s taking me to a movie in Michigan City, and out to eat in a fancy restaurant overlooking Lake Michigan. Imagine that! And it ain’t the Blue Heron Restaurant,” Mama winked, wickedly.

“The lawyer? You’re dating Mr. Pratt?”

Mama cackled. Then said, “Don’t be so surprised, Blue.”

“Why are you dating him Mama?”

“Why not. He’s rich. Good lookin’. Neither of us is attached.”

I tried again.

“Mama! It’s snowing! I screamed, refusing to look at her, fluttering around the apartment in that doggoned skimpy red dress.

“Don’t you worry your pretty little head. Jim’s taking his four-wheel drive. I made your supper. All you have to do is microwave it, sugar.”

“I ain’t hungry,” I snapped back.

The doorbell rang. Mama rushed to the door, clomping in her high heels, letting in a tall, handsome man – dark hair slicked back, reeking with after-shave lotion, and carrying red roses.

“Ain’t you sweet!” Mama said blushing to match her dress and roses, and batting her pretty, lake-blue eyes.

“Don’t wait up, sugar,” Mama said giving me a wink and a hug. “I left you Jim’s cell phone number on the kitchen counter in case of an emergency. We’ll be alright.”

Soon as they left, I peeked out the window, seeing if I could make it to the Lakeside in the snow. Heck, I wasn’t staying in this boring apartment alone.