Dear Hank Williams (7 page)

Momma got five years. That was thirteen months ago. I will be fifteen years old when Momma gets out of prison. I'll have all kinds of things happen to me that she'll miss. And she has already missed a lot.

A few months after Momma arrived at the women's prison in Huntsville, Mr. Goree, the prison warden, heard Momma singing. He plucked her up and set her down right smack in a women-prisoners singing group.

You see, Mr. Williams, my momma is a Goree Girl. Not anybody can be a Goree Girl. You have to have committed a murder or stolen someone's money or maybe driven a car during a bank robbery like Momma did. You also have to have a voice like a honky-tonk angel so that you can sing on the radio. Momma lives at the women's prison in Huntsville, Texas. She is Number 000851. But when she is a Goree Girl, everyone calls her Pretty Miss Jordie June from Rippling Creek, Louisiana.

They sing at fancy parties, the prison rodeo, and on the radio. That's how they got known all over Texas. Some folks outside Texas know about them too because their radios can pick up stations from far away. Since Shreveport is near Texas, maybe you've heard of them.

Some nights I sneak out of bed and turn the dial trying to pick up a Texas station that's playing the Goree Girls. But the furthest station I ever reached was out of New Orleans, and that's in the opposite direction. So I lie in bed and listen for Momma's voice, and when the wind carries it to me, I sing along.

Now you know the real story about my momma, Miss Jordie June Ellerbee. I'm sorry that I have told such big stories about my momma and daddy. I'll understand if you never want to hear from me again.

Hoping Mr. Hank Williams will forgive me,

Tate P.

PS—The part about Momma's friends saying you were a living dream is true, only it was the Goree Girls who said it. That's what Momma wrote in her postcard.

 

November 26, 1948

Dear Mr. Williams,

H
AVE YOU FORGIVEN ME YET?

Hopeful,

Tate P.

 

November 29, 1948

Dear Mr. Williams,

T
HANK YOU
for another autographed picture of you! I knew it was your way of saying you'd forgiven me. On Thanksgiving Day, I prayed your heart would soften toward me. And Saturday while listening to you on the
Louisiana Hayride
, I hoped you might send me a sign of some sort. Then today here came that envelope with your photograph.

Don't worry. I'll never mislead you ever again. I'm a forgiving person too. I forgave Uncle Jolly for messing up the night of the Father and Daughter Potluck Banquet at Rippling Creek Southern Baptist Church. Uncle Jolly felt awful bad about it. In fact, here's a special news report: Uncle Jolly hasn't had a drop of whiskey since! And no, it's not because he has a girlfriend (he doesn't). Aunt Patty Cake says sometimes people have to hit rock bottom before they can start climbing up.

After Uncle Jolly's hangover went away, he drove to the hardware store in Lecompte and bought some screen to fix the porch door. He fixed it good and painted it. He asked me to choose the color.

“Pink,” I said, just out of meanness for what he'd done. I guess he knew why I said that, because then he apologized and asked how he could make it up to me.

Most people would say, “That's okay. I'm glad you're walking on the right path now.” But I'm not like most people. I told Uncle Jolly flat out, “I want to hear my momma sing on the radio.”

“Tate, we'd have to go all the way over to Texas to hear her.”

Aunt Patty Cake overheard. She stepped into the living room and kept drying the bowl while she spoke. “James Irwin Poche, you are not going to Texas. Bad things happen to this family in Texas.” She wasn't only meaning about Momma getting arrested. She was also talking about my grandma and grandpa.

Aunt Patty Cake was still drying the bowl even though there wasn't a drop of water on it. “No sirree. You are not going to Texas.” With that said, she walked back into the kitchen.

Uncle Jolly looked at me all shy like, but I didn't back down. I set my jaw in a way that meant business. Finally he said, “Let me think on it some.”

I believe good things are waiting around the corner for me—performing in the May Festival Talent Contest and hearing my momma on the radio. Until then, Mr. Williams, I'll listen to you.

Grateful that Mr. Williams is the forgiving sort,

Tate P.

PS—In case you're wondering, Uncle Jolly painted the screen door green. Now our house makes you think of Christmas all year long.

 

December 3, 1948

Dear Mr. Williams,

I
WANT YOU TO KNOW
that I have kept my promise to not share our correspondence (except for the pictures you sent me). Of course, I realize that's probably why you haven't sent me a real letter. Every time you sing, you're getting a little more famous, and famous people can't be talking and writing about their lives. They have to be private. One exception is Momma, who loves being a celebrity. The only problem is, I can't talk about her because Aunt Patty Cake thinks it's best that nobody is reminded about where Momma is. Then when she gets out of prison, it will be easier for her to get back to normal.

I know you don't have enough time to write a long letter, but have you ever thought about sending me a postcard? That's what Momma does. Momma's so busy with her singing and other duties, she hardly has time to write a long letter. But every few days, we can count on receiving a postcard. I could paper the walls in my bedroom with her postcards. Instead I tie them with ribbons and keep them in a cigar box. If you wrote on the back of a postcard, you'd only have to write a sentence or two, like Momma. It wouldn't take too much time, and I would treasure it forever.

If I did stick Momma's postcards on my wall, I'd hang them where the backs showed. Then I'd have Momma's words surrounding me—
Don't forget to brush your hair a hundred strokes every night. Mind Aunt Patty Cake all the time and Uncle Jolly some of the time. Say your prayers and say one for Frog and me. Do you ever think about going anywhere out of Louisiana? Let's go to Paris when I get out.

I wouldn't mind just going to a World Series game. But I'll go to Paris or anywhere else in the world with Momma when she gets out. Aunt Patty Cake wishes Momma wouldn't write on the back of postcards. “Everyone around here knows Jordie June's business.” Personally, I'll take a postcard or a long letter from her. Frog feels the same way, although it always makes him sad when I read them. I think he forgets about her being gone until we receive one. Sometimes I think he's mad at her for leaving us.

Theo Grace and Coolie are the only kids who share their pen pal letters. How could those other letters compare with the ones from the Japanese kids? They tell us all the things they eat, which may sound like that would be boring, but it's not. They seem to like rice as much as us, but they also eat raw fish. They call it
sushi
and
sashimi
. Of course Wallace had to blurt out, “We call that bait here.” Everyone ignored him because we were too busy listening to Theo Grace read about how they pull their shoes off at the door and sleep on mattresses that fold called
futons
.

All that stuff is interesting, but nothing could compare with having Mr. Hank Williams as a pen pal.

Luckier than I deserve to be,

Tate P.

PS—Now you know three Japanese words—
sushi
,
sashimi
, and
futon
. I guess I'm the next best thing to having an international pen pal.

 

December 5, 1948

Dear Mr. Williams,

Y
ESTERDAY
U
NCLE
J
OLLY
took Frog and me to see
The Count of Monte Cristo
in Alexandria. His truck was in the shop, but Aunt Patty Cake let us take her car. After the show he drove by City Hall, which was lit up like Mrs. Applebud's birthday cake. The building was covered in thousands of lights. Every corner has a huge sparkling Christmas tree and lights spell
MERRY CHRISTMAS
over each entrance. Just the sight of it all plopped me smack into the Christmas spirit. Even Frog was speechless.

On the way home, Uncle Jolly drove over to Hoyt Home Appliances in Lecompte. When we pulled up, the store went dark. We'd arrived right at closing. Frog had fallen asleep on the way over there, but Uncle Jolly and I hopped out to get a closer look at the Victrola in the window. Not only could it play phonographs, it also had an AM/FM radio. We were in such a trance, it took us a second to see the salesgirl waving at us from the front window. By the time we did, she'd moved away from the window and opened the front door.

“You want a closer look?” she asked. She was tiny, with black hair and blue eyes, and appeared to be about Momma's age.

Uncle Jolly didn't answer her. He seemed too busy taking in her beauty. I glanced at the lady's wedding band on her left hand. Sure enough, someone else had noticed her beauty before Uncle Jolly. He was always sizing up the wrong woman.

I nudged him in the side with my elbow.

Uncle Jolly blinked, but his mouth still hung open. I was afraid he'd start drooling.

“Uncle Jolly, the lady asked if we want to go inside.”

He stammered. “Uh, uh, uh, no … that's okay, ma'am. You're closing and all.”

I was glad Uncle Jolly didn't say yes. Frog could wake up and think we'd abandoned him.

The saleslady came outside and joined us in front of the window. “It comes in mahogany or walnut. Which would you like?”

“Ma-ma-ma-hog-gany,” Uncle Jolly said.

I had to step in before he bought a Victrola he couldn't afford. “How much does that Victrola cost?”

The lady pointed to the sign at the foot of the Victrola that somehow we'd missed. Now I could see it as clear as day—$209.50!

Uncle Jolly snapped out of his trance.

“That includes fifty phonographs,” the saleslady said.

Mr. Williams, you'll be happy to know what my next question was. I asked, “Are any of them by Hank Williams?”

“I don't believe we have any of those yet.”

“Then we wouldn't be interested, would we, Uncle Jolly?”

“Well, now…”

The lady laughed. “I never lost a sale over Hank Williams before. I guess we better look into getting some of his phonographs. Which song do you like best?”

“‘Move It On Over,' but Uncle Jolly likes ‘Lovesick Blues.'”

“That's my favorite too,” she said, smiling at Uncle Jolly.

“That a fact?” Uncle Jolly leaned against the wall and tipped his hat. That lady knew how to sell a Victrola to Uncle Jolly. He was settling in. I had to think quick.

“Uncle Jolly, we better go. Frog will be waking up and wonder where we're at.”

Uncle Jolly turned toward me like I'd snapped him with a rubber band. For a few seconds, he didn't say anything, just stood staring at me. Then he looked to the lady and said, “I'll come back when it isn't closing time.”

“If you do, I wish you'd ask for me. My name is Garnett.”

“Garnett,” Uncle Jolly said, “like the jewel. My name is James Poche.”

I'd never heard Uncle Jolly introduce himself with his real name.

Garnett held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, James.”

Uncle Jolly went to reach for Garnett's hand, but I grabbed his sleeve and tugged.

“Come on, Uncle Jolly. Remember Frog?”

Uncle Jolly glared at me but pulled the keys out of his pocket. He smiled at Garnett, tipping his hat. “Thank you, ma'am. I'll check back soon.”

“And what's your name, young lady?” she asked.

“Tate,” I said, walking away fast. “Maybe we'll be back when you get those Hank Williams phonographs.” See, Mr. Williams? I'm doing what I can to shoot your fame all the way to the moon.

Back in the car, Uncle Jolly started the engine and asked, “Tate, why'd you tell her Frog was asleep?”

“I didn't. I said he might wake up.” I glanced back at Frog stretched out on the back seat. Big Pete's boots had slipped off his feet and I could see his toe sticking out of a hole in his sock.

Uncle Jolly's eyes grew soft. Then he shook his head and looked straight ahead at the road. He didn't talk to me the entire drive back. His mind seemed elsewhere as he stared ahead while we moved down Highway 112. A few times I heard him whisper under his breath, “Garnett like the jewel.”

Here we go again.

Your fan and public relations person,

Tate P.

 

December 9, 1948

Dear Mr. Williams,

W
HEN
I
SAW
Z
ION
and her mother walking up our driveway yesterday, I told Frog, “Come on! Let's hide!” Frog, who runs faster than Superman, took off around the back of the house. I'm not so quick, so I slipped behind the barbecue smoker Uncle Jolly built. I had to squat behind it, since the smoker is only about three feet high.

My thighs burned from squatting so long, but when I heard the screen porch door slam shut, I thought I was safe and stood.

“Hi!” Zion said.

She caught me.

Zion was wearing a blue plaid coat. It looked like she got it from the Wellan's Department Store, but I knew she didn't, because that would cost a lot of money. “Are you hiding from me?” she asked.

Now, I almost said no but quickly changed my mind. Besides, how else would I explain why I was squatting behind a barbecue smoker? So I said, “Frog and me were playing hide-and-seek.”