Velva Jean Learns to Drive

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A PLUME BOOK VELVA JEAN LEARNS TO DRIVE

Jennifer Niven’s first book,
The Ice Master
, was named one of the top ten nonfiction books of the year by
Entertainment Weekly
, has been translated into eight languages, has been the subject of several documentaries, and received Italy’s Gambrinus Giuseppe Mazzotti Prize. Her second book,
Ada Black jack
, was a Book Sense Top Ten Pick and has been optioned for the movies and translated into Chinese, French, and Estonian.
Velva Jean Learns to Drive
is the author’s first novel, and in 2009 Simon & Schuster will publish a memoir about her high school experiences. Niven has conducted numerous writing seminars and addressed audiences around the world. She lives in Los Angeles.

PLUME

Published by the Penguin Group

Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A. • Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3 (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.) • Penguin Books Ltd., 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England • Penguin Ireland, 25 St. Stephen’s Green, Dublin 2, Ireland (a division of Penguin Books Ltd.) • Penguin Group (Australia), 250 Camberwell Road, Camberwell, Victoria 3124, Australia (a division of Pearson Australia Group Pty. Ltd.) • Penguin Books India Pvt. Ltd., 11 Community Centre, Panchsheel Park, New Delhi - 110 017, India • Penguin Group (NZ), 67 Apollo Drive, Rosedale, North Shore 0632, New Zealand (a division of Pearson New Zealand Ltd.) • Penguin Books (South Africa) (Pty.) Ltd., 24 Sturdee Avenue, Rosebank, Johannesburg 2196, South Africa

Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Plume, a member of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, August 2009

Copyright © Jennifer Niven, 2009

All rights reserved

Photo of truck interior courtesy of Brian Griffin. Photo of Mama McJunkin on p. 401 courtesy of Jennifer Niven.

REGISTERED TRADEMARK—MARCA REGISTRADA

 

LIBRARY OF CONGRESS CATALOGING-IN-PUBLICATION DATA

Niven, Jennifer.
Velva Jean learns to drive : a novel / Jennifer Niven.
p. cm.

eISBN : 978-1-101-05779-7

Without limiting the rights under copyright reserved above, no part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise), without the prior written permission of both the copyright owner and the above publisher of this book.

PUBLISHER’S NOTE

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

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For Mom, who first gave me the keys and taught me how to drive, and who showed me that I could go anywhere

 

And for John, who was with me on the journey

 

 

 

For Granddaddy Jack—gentleman, magician, hero, friend—who gave me the mountains

 

And for his parents, Samuel Jackson McJunkin,
one-eyed buck dancer,
and Florence Fain, player of the autoharp,
who filled those mountains with music

—Words and music by Velva Jean Hart

Acknowledgments

Thanks to all the folks who believed in Velva Jean, in the story, in me, and who hopped aboard that yellow truck. Velva Jean has found a wonderful home at Plume with some amazing people: Clare Ferraro, Kathryn Court, Cherise Fisher, John Fagan, Liz Keenan, Joan Lee, and the fabulous sales team. Thanks to Eve Kirch for designing such a beautiful book, and Melissa Jacoby for creating the perfect cover. Thanks to Everett Barrineau for his enthusiasm, and the superb Norina Frabotta, for all her work in helping Velva Jean take shape. It was a joy to work with my fantastic editor, Carolyn Carlson, who enabled Velva Jean to make her journey. My agent and friend John Ware remains one of my greatest supporters, and his guidance and wisdom are invaluable. Huge thanks to my family, especially my mom—sage editor, best friend, all-knowing mentor—who first gave me the story, and John Hreno, who drove miles and miles to see that it was told. To all my McJunkin relatives, who shared laughter, pictures, and tales of my daddy’s people. And to my friends, too many to name, but particularly Joe Kraemer, Angelo Surmelis, and Scott Berenzweig who, along with the Jonas Brothers, Disneyland, snacks, and BGS moments, helped me stay sane, and Sheryl Monks and Valerie Frey, who swapped stories and cheered me on from the outset. Further thanks to literary kitties Lulu, Satchmo, and Rumi; classic truck wizard John McClellan; photographers Stephen Hunton and Brian Griffin; the Foxfire Museum & Heritage Center; the Blue Ridge Parkway and the U.S. National Park Service; the Southeastern Railway Museum; Bit Creek Primitive Baptist Church (for Sacred Harp singing); Brushy Mountain Prison; and gold panning champion Johnny E. Parker, buck dance champion Thomas Maupin, and wood carver Charles Earnhardt for inspiration. Lastly, I’ll always be indebted to the American Film Institute, where Velva Jean made her debut, and to Jack Angelo, Yoram Astrakhan, Larry Chew, Beth Shea, and Lars Wodschow, original passengers in the truck.

~ 1933 ~

—“Saved”

ONE

I was ten years old when I was saved for the first time. Even though Jesus himself never had much to do with religion before he was twelve, I had prayed and prayed to be saved so that I wouldn’t go to hell. Mama had never mentioned hell to me, but the summer after my tenth birthday, on the night before the yearly Three Gum Revival and Camp Meeting, my daddy told me that I might have to go there. He said that’s where sinners went, and that everyone was a sinner until they were saved.

“Have I been saved?” I asked him.

“No, Velva Jean.” He was polishing the handheld pickax he sometimes used for gold mining. The front door was open and a faint breeze blew in off the mountain. It was still hot, even at ten thirty at night. Somewhere, far away, there was the high, lonesome cry of a panther.

“Why not?”

“I don’t know. Maybe you ain’t opened yourself up to the Spirit.” Daddy’s face was quiet and blank so I couldn’t read it. His one good eye—the one that wasn’t blind—wasn’t dancing like it normally did. It was always hard to know if he was mocking or serious on the subject of religion.