The Friendship Doll (11 page)

“Sit here, Miz Junkins.” Willie Mae pulled over the stool Pap had made. Though she was dying to see what treasures those saddlebags held this visit, she minded her manners.

Ma took Miz Junkins’ patched wool coat and hung it over the open oven door. “We need to get you dried out and warmed up. Willie Mae, go fetch the rail fence quilt.”

Willie Mae ran to the bed she and Marvel shared, snatched off the quilt, and hurried back. She handed it to Miz Junkins, who wrapped it around her shoulders. Willie Mae plopped down at her feet.

“I finished this.” Willie Mae handed back
The Windy Hill
, the book she’d checked out two weeks earlier.

Miz Junkins took another sip of coffee, then set the graniteware cup on the table to take the book. “How did you like it?” She tucked it back in one of her saddlebags.

“I liked it fine.”

“That answer’s as thin as stone soup.” The librarian smiled. “The truth won’t hurt my feelings.”

Willie Mae hated to appear ungrateful when Miz Junkins traveled so far to bring books she thought Willie Mae would enjoy. But maybe they were good enough friends now to tell it straight. “I suppose some
would
like to read about living in fine houses with butlers and rich uncles, but that isn’t my fancy. I long to read about someone like me and my kin.”

“Well, Miss Willie Mae Marcum, that sounds like a mighty fine idea.” Miz Junkins smiled again. “Maybe
you
will have to write that book someday.”

“Sarah, do not put any more foolishness in that girl’s head.” Ma bit off another hank of thread. “It’s bad enough she reads them books. Heaven help us if she gets her mind stuck on writing them, too.”

Willie Mae ducked her head so Ma wouldn’t see her face. Because if she saw it, she might see that it was too late to stop the foolishness. Willie Mae dursn’t let herself think on it, but every story she read made two or three sprout up in her own head. She wrote them down on any spare scrap of paper she could find—the envelopes Theo’s letters came in, labels steamed off the lard pails, even the insides of saltine boxes—and hid them in an empty sugar sack under her mattress.

Miz Junkins finished her coffee. “I brought you
A Little Princess
today—but next time, I’ll see if I can round up a copy of
The Adventures of Tom Sawyer
. That might sit better with you.” She rummaged in her saddlebags. “Oh, and I brought a
Ladies’ Home Journal
for you, Marvel. Not even a year old!” She buckled up her bag. “I best be on my way. Thank you for the coffee and the quilt. I do believe the warmth will stick with me clear till I ride into my own yard.”

Willie Mae went out on the porch and watched while Miz Junkins buckled the saddlebags back on, untied Maisie’s reins, and pulled herself into the saddle. Since it was bad luck to watch a friend go out of sight, she turned back inside as soon as horse and rider were on their way.

After supper and chores were finished, Ma allowed Willie Mae to burn the kerosene lamp for ten precious minutes so she could commence reading the book Miz Junkins had brought. Willie Mae offered to read it aloud, but Ma said no thank you. “Seeing as both Marvel and Franklin are asleep,” she added. Willie Mae accepted Ma’s answer but wished she could understand why her mother had such a strong notion against reading and books.

Willie Mae was disappointed to find that
A Little Princess
—about a girl whose name was Sara Crewe—had a rich and loving father in India who sent her to a boarding school in London with orders to the headmistress to give Sara anything she wanted. It was all Willie Mae could do to keep from grinding her teeth at yet another
story about a girl whose life was different as different could be from hers.

“Time’s up,” Ma called softly. “That a good one?” she asked.

“It reads right along,” said Willie Mae, avoiding a direct answer. She didn’t want to do or say anything that might make Ma tell Miz Junkins to stop riding down Cut Shin Creek to see them. Because, truth to tell, even a book she didn’t like was better than no book at all.

When she came two weeks later, Miz Junkins looked about to burst with news. “I couldn’t get a copy of
Tom Sawyer
for you this time,” she said to Willie Mae. “But I believe you will forgive me when you hear what I have to say. First, I need to speak with your ma.”

The two women spoke in low tones at the far corner of the cabin. Willie Mae could not imagine what they were talking about. Nothing to do but wait. She went over in her mind the report she was going to give Miz Junkins about
A Little Princess
. The book wasn’t half bad, after she got it started. That Sara girl had spunk after all, which got her through some tough spots, especially after her pap died and all the diamond mine money was lost and she had to go to work as the cook’s errand girl. Willie Mae rubbed her bare legs to warm them. Course, things perked up plenty for Sara, what with the Indian Gentleman taking her in at the end of the book. But she’d had dark, cold times, too, like Willie Mae.

And speak of cold! December was knocking at the
door, carrying a heap of cold in its pack. Ma kept putting aside pennies each month from Theo’s check to get the girls some wool stockings. Marvel would need them first, as she was still sickly. Ma had dosed her with boiled molasses and kerosene but to no avail. Marvel couldn’t shake feeling puny. Willie Mae shivered.

“Willie Mae.” Ma shifted Franklin to her other hip. “Miz Junkins has something to say to you.”

“Ask you, really.” Miz Junkins’ eyes twinkled like she was Santy Claus hisself. “What would you say to a job?”

“A job?” This was the last thing Willie Mae expected.

“Mrs. Trent is looking for someone to read to her mother, keep her company. The lady who’s been doing it is needed at home to take care of her sister’s new baby. She can start up again in January. But till then, they need somebody.” Miz Junkins clasped her hands together. “They will pay you five dollars a week and room and board, Willie Mae! To read! And maybe a few light chores.” Her grin stretched nearly ear to ear.

“Who will help around here?” Willie Mae looked at Ma. “Marvel’s on the mend yet.”

Ma jiggled Franklin, who was rubbing his eyes and fussing. “She’s still a big help. We can manage.”

Five dollars a week. To keep someone company. To read aloud! The Trents lived in the finest house in the big town of Clearbrook and owned half of Lincoln County, to boot. Willie Mae guessed they would have more books than all of the traveling libraries put together. “If you’re sure you’ll be fine …”

Ma nodded. “It’s a Christmas gift, Willie Mae. A pure gift.”

Willie Mae glanced at the calendar Ma had tacked by the stove. It’d be four full weeks until January 1. Four weeks. She quickly did the sum in her head. Twenty dollars! That would buy wool stockings and then some. Maybe even real doctoring for Marvel. “I’ll do it.”

Miz Junkins waited while Willie Mae gathered up her few things in a feed sack. Careful not to let anyone see, Willie Mae slid her secret writings out from underneath the mattress. She felt a bit wobbly as she said good-bye to Marvel, and Franklin, and Ma. A few pesky tears even tried to push their way out of her eyes. She’d never been gone from home even one night, let alone one month. She swallowed hard. Could she do it? She thought of Sara Crewe, being sent off to that boarding school in London, far from her beloved papa. Time to put some steel in her spine. She kissed Ma’s cheek. “I’ll see you in a month,” she said, with as much cheer as she could muster.

“Mind your manners,” Ma said. “And don’t sweep after the sun goes down.”

“Don’t you think I know better than that?” Her mother’s advice made Willie Mae smile. Any fool knew that was a sure way to lure bad luck. “I won’t look in any mirrors at midnight, t’either.”

Outside, Miz Junkins mounted Maisie, then tugged Willie Mae up behind her. Maisie snorted once or twice to make her opinion about the situation known, but she plodded along regular. “She knows the way to town
blindfolded,” said Miz Junkins. “She’ll have us there in a few hours.”

Willie Mae shivered in her threadbare coat. Miz Junkins reached into her own coat pocket and pulled out a thin wool scarf. “Tie this over your head,” she told Willie Mae. “Helps to keep your head covered.”

Willie Mae obeyed. The scarf helped—and so did clinging to Miz Junkins, to share her warmth. Willie Mae got so comfy perched on Maisie’s back that she might have been sawing logs if she hadn’t been preoccupied with memorizing every inch of the ride so she could tell Marvel and Ma about it later. And write about it to Theo, too. They rode under the twisted arms of coffee trees, pods clicking as the wind swept through the branches. Willie Mae reached out to run her fingers across the scaly black bark of a bare persimmon tree, and she scootched closer to Miz Junkins when they passed a stand of chinkapin oaks, white trunks glowing ghostly.

After they’d been riding for some time, they came upon a glossy green holly tree, bursting with red berries. Miz Junkins stopped Maisie, slid off, and drew a knife from her saddlebag. She cut several large sprigs. “Won’t this make my house festive for Christmas?” she said.

“They’re good luck, too,” Willie Mae added, gingerly holding the clippings while the librarian remounted. Miz Junkins then took her treasures and balanced them in her arms the rest of the ride.

Willie Mae knew Miz Junkins had to be bone tired from all her riding and carrying. She didn’t mind that they
weren’t talking. It gave her mind time to spin stories. She was particularly fond of the one she was growing in her head about a possum that ate too many persimmons. She had done that once herself when she was younger and paid the price with many hurried trips to the necessary that night. Pap had laughed at her predicament. “Greed has a bitter reward,” he said. But he also plucked a few green persimmons and boiled them up to make her a tea that calmed her insides down considerable.

She was so tangled up in the tale she was weaving that she nearly missed the Clearbrook city limits sign. She shivered again, but not from the cold this time. “Do you think I’ll do?” she asked, her voice as thin as her coat.

“I wouldn’t have suggested you otherwise.” Miz Junkins eased Maisie to a stop in the road in front of a grand white house. “Here we be.”

Willie Mae slid off, her legs wobbly as licorice whips. She reached up for her feed sack. “Thank you for the ride, Miz Junkins.”

“I’ll walk you to the door.” Miz Junkins slid off Maisie’s back, handing Willie Mae a sprig of holly. “For luck,” she said. “Now come along.” She headed briskly for the house, across the sprawling lawn. Willie Mae hightailed it right behind her, feed sack in one hand and holly in the other. She wondered if they would go to that massive front door, black and glossy like Ma’s fresh-washed hair.

Halfway into the yard, Miz Junkins turned. They’d be knocking at the back door, it appeared.

Miz Junkins stopped at the stoop. “Go ahead,” she said, indicating that Willie Mae should knock.

Willie Mae summoned her courage and rapped at the door. A lady in a print apron soon appeared.

“Miz Trent?” Willie Mae asked.

The lady laughed. “Not me. But you must be that child from the holler. Thanks for bringing her, Miz Junkins. You-all had best come in out of the cold.” The door creaked open wider to allow them passage. Willie Mae took a small step into the warmth. One breath and she was practically slobbering like an old hound dog. This was heaven: all these good smells in one place. She sniffed again.

“I need to get home to my children,” said Miz Junkins, who had remained on the stoop. “I’ll check on you from time to time.” She scooped Willie Mae into a hug.

Willie Mae nodded. “I’d like that.”

Miz Junkins and the apron lady said their good-byes and the door shut. Willie Mae felt smaller than ever in that big, shiny kitchen.

“You hungry?” the apron lady asked.

Willie Mae put on her best company manners. “No, ma’am.”

The lady got a sad look on her face. “You mean I cooked you up a nice supper and you ain’t even going to taste it?” She clucked her tongue.

“I didn’t mean to be rude, ma’am.” Willie Mae licked her lips. “I could manage a bite, I suppose.”

“That’s a relief.” The lady held out her hands for Willie
Mae’s coat. “Here, I’ll take that. You go on and sit over there.”

The kitchen table was set with a covered dish. Willie Mae sat down and a full glass of milk appeared to the right of the plate. The lady in the apron lifted the cover and Willie Mae could not believe her eyes. Greens, mashed potatoes, and a whole pork chop! And there was a roll, and jam.

“Go ahead. Eat.” The lady laid a napkin in Willie Mae’s lap. “You’re going to need your strength.”

For the next twenty minutes or so, the only sounds in the kitchen were the ticking of the clock, Willie Mae’s chewing, and the apron lady chuckling here and there.

Willie Mae ate every bite of food on the plate, eating till her stomach felt like it might burst. She wished she could save some of this feast to share with Marvel and Ma. Thinking of them eating cushaw squash and soup beans made her feel bad. But with her gone, they’d each get a bigger share of the vittles. And when she went back, think of the groceries she could take with her! Maybe she could afford a whole ham.

The kitchen door swung open. “Olive?” a woman’s voice called out.

“Yes, ma’am.” The apron lady—Olive—hopped up.

A woman with curly white hair and a dress the color of a pawpaw flower stepped into the kitchen. “Has the girl—?” She stopped when she saw Willie Mae. “I see the answer to my question is right here, at the table.”

Willie Mae dropped her fork and took a run at her
face with her napkin. She stood up to introduce herself proper. “I’m Willie Mae Marcum, ma’am.”

The lady smiled, waving Willie Mae to sit back down. “Don’t stop eating on my account.” She fiddled with the gold necklace resting on her large bosom. “Lord knows, you’ll need your strength for Mother.” She paced around the kitchen, lifted the lid of one of the pots on the stove, and peeked in. “Oh, that smells wonderful, Olive. Not too much paprika?”