Every Day After (23 page)

Mrs. Butler emerged onto the back porch. “Six o’clock, dinnertime. Better hurry in. Don’t make me run behind.”

Everybody knew not to mess with Mrs. Butler’s schedule. Our four new boarders jumped up from the back porch rockers and darted inside. Only Mama remained. I waved. So did she.

“You know, boarders don’t grate on me the way I thought they would,” I said. “They’re really kinda fun to have around. Well, mostly, anyway.” I grabbed up a small rock and popped it into Ben’s backside with my slingshot.

“Hey, what’d ya do that for?”

“A loser, huh? I’m a better shot than you think. I let you win, that’s all.”

“Sure,” said Ben, his eyes crinkled up in a way that showed he wasn’t sure at all.

Mrs. Butler’s six Rhode Island Reds scattered across the backyard as we approached the house. They were allowed free range as long as they steered clear of Mama’s vegetable garden.

We walked inside through the splintered back door, and as always, it was like entering a whole separate world. The soft whisper of the breeze grew into the low roar of chattering voices. A quilt Mrs. Butler and Mama had been working on hung from hooks attached to the parlor ceiling. Needles, colored threads, and scissors lay in a heap in its middle. All four bedrooms were full, and pallets of quilts and pillows were laid on the floor in the parlor each night. The youngest boarders liked those best—sleeping on a thick bed of quilts beneath the canopy of a soon-to-be quilt.

“No shooting people, Elizabeth Hawkins,” said Mama, coming in behind us. She’d started talking more and more after Ben lost Mr. Reed. It was like Ben’s loss woke something up inside of her, and she decided she was gonna
be thankful for the people she had while she had ’em. With her fingers, she gently brushed hair off my sweaty forehead. “Remember, kindness is more persuasive than force.”

Mrs. Butler added, “Or, you can catch more flies with honey than with vinegar.”

Ben grinned at me. I knew what he was thinking.
Here we go again
. I suppose he thought I was thinking the same, but I wasn’t.

“Yes, ma’am,” I replied, wishing Mama had said that to me a whole lot sooner.

We all sat down to dinner, packed liked sardines around our table. Dinner was nothing but black-eyed peas and okra from our garden along with some dry corn bread on the side, but nobody seemed to mind.

I listened to the sharp clinking of spoons on plates and the low rumble of “please” and “thank you” being spoken and thought how lucky I was. For months I’d let fear and pride drive me, and it had nearly destroyed everything I loved. But once I let go of fear, life came much more easily. Dr. Heimler and I had even convinced Mama over the past months to slowly let go of her fear. She still wasn’t her old self, but she now had a self. I hoped Erin would let go of her fear too. But she wasn’t ready. Not yet.

That night I lay awake in bed.

Please, Lord, not again
.

Sleep laughed at me, poked at me, refused to come. I rolled over and squinted at the clock, trying to make out
the time. The soft white glow of moonlight lit its face. Ten till three.
Ugh!
It’d be another three hours before everyone else was up.

I’d been fighting all night. There wasn’t any sense in whipping a dead horse. I eased out of the covers and tiptoed over to Mama’s dresser. I pulled out my journal. Deep down I knew why sleep refused to come. There was something I still needed to let go. And so I did.

September 18, 1932

Dear Daddy
,

They say when it rains in Alabama, it pours. I believe it. It poured on me all through 1931, straight on into 1932. It was then that I lost something I never thought I would. It wasn’t a locket, my grades, or a friend. It wasn’t money or pride, though I lost those things too. It was you
.

It wasn’t death that took you from me. Maybe it would’ve been easier if it had. While I don’t have to face the death of your body, I must face the death of your spirit. A person I’d always believed to be strong and brave has proved weak and cowardly. But the loss of you, my daddy, wasn’t where my story ended; it’s where it began. In losing you I found myself. For that I’m grateful and, most of all, proud
.

I’ve succeeded at the number one most important thing you ever taught me—I played the terrible cards I was dealt; I turned some mighty sour lemons into lemonade; I worked with what I had, and what I had sure wasn’t much. I hope wherever you are, you’re proud of me too, not because of grades, or a blue ribbon, or a fish, but because I conquered the things you were too afraid to fight. You were too afraid to fail
.

I’m letting go of any hope that you’ll ever come home. As life unfolds a path before me, I’ll walk it with those who fill our home with smiles and love each day. But I know you won’t be here to walk beside me. You chose a different path, a path I couldn’t follow. And yes, I’m still too stubborn to try
.

Yep, like they always say, when it rains, it pours. But I hope, at least here in the South, that when the sun finally decides to shine, it beams
.

Love always
,    
Your Lizzie Girl

I laid my pencil on the dresser and read over what I’d written. It was truth—love-it-or-hate-it truth.

I flipped through the pages past my newest entry. There were many empty ones left, but the day would come when they’d be empty no more.

I closed the journal, placed it in the drawer, and crawled back into bed beside Mama. I slipped beneath the soft sheets. In the morning I’d pull out Daddy’s good-bye
note. I’d leave it folded; then I’d rip it apart and throw it away. I didn’t need to read it now. I wouldn’t need to read it ever again.

I curled up and closed my eyes. For the first time since Daddy had gone, sleep came easy and deep, bringing with it a dream.

Author’s Note

While Lizzie’s story is a fictional one, it was inspired by stories told to me and my family by my paternal grandmother, Nelda Posey Perry. After losing her mother at the age of twelve, she was left with a strict father who expected her to take on many responsibilities—cooking, cleaning, and caring for younger siblings. I’ve often wondered what that must’ve been like for her. Like me, she was a self-admitted dreamer. Like Lizzie, she was highly spirited. I feel that through Lizzie, a part of her lives on.

If Lizzie’s spirit belongs to my paternal grandmother, then Ben’s heart is my paternal grandfather’s. Like Ben, my grandfather dropped out of school to help support his family. He had not yet completed seventh grade when he went to work at a local mine. Unlike Ben, he never went back to school.

This was not uncommon for children growing up during the Great Depression. Mr. James Hubbard, a family friend, also temporarily left school to help out around the family farm. He was given the responsibility of plowing the field. His father showed him how to do it, then left him alone to get it done. Mr. Hubbard was nervous, but he
plowed onward—right over his big toe! As did Ben’s, Mr. Hubbard’s big toenail came off. He went to find his father and have a good cry. His father instructed him to man up and get back to plowing. He did.

Stories of kids being forced to grow up quickly during the 1930s seem endless. My husband’s paternal grandmother, Helen Bryant Golden, also lost her mother at a young age. She too was expected to cook for her family, and the first-try rock-hard biscuits Lizzie describes could have been Nanny Golden’s own. In real life, Nanny’s older brothers laughed at her. But she got the last laugh—her biscuits certainly are not rock hard anymore.

Fortunately, none of these people ever had to awaken one morning and discover that their father had left, though that was a shock many did endure. During the 1930s, men were considered their families’ breadwinners. When the stock market crashed in 1929, millions of men lost their jobs and were unable to find reemployment. Like Lizzie’s daddy, many fell into despair, feeling ashamed and humiliated that they could no longer provide for their families. Unable to bear the guilt, some men simply ran away. By 1940, 1.5 million men had abandoned their families.

In
Every Day After
, Mama becomes terribly depressed and withdrawn when Daddy disappears. Lizzie refuses to let Dr. Heimler examine Mama for fear that he’ll send her off to the hospital or mental ward. Lizzie had good reason to be afraid. Beginning in the mid-1800s and continuing well beyond the 1930s, people exhibiting signs of
mental illness were typically institutionalized. These patients were afflicted with maladies ranging from severe depression (like Mama) to epilepsy (like me) and were often mistreated.

The mentally ill weren’t the only unfortunates sent to state institutions. Children regularly ended up in grossly overcrowded orphanages. Parents struggling to feed and provide for their children opted to place them in state care with the intention of taking them back when times improved. Sadly for some of those children, their parents never returned.

When orphanages ran out of room, children were sent into foster care. Since people struggled so desperately with finances during this era, many families agreed to take in orphans just to receive money from the state. When foster parents tired of their responsibilities, the luckless children were sent back to the orphanage to await yet another foster home. Orphans were usually tossed hither and yon, unable to enjoy a stable, nurturing upbringing. Some ran away, choosing instead a life of hopping trains and begging for food.

I imagine that those children, along with most everyone forced to survive the harshness of the Depression, truly felt at their wits’ end, and when I first read the poem “Wits’ End Corner” by Antoinette Wilson, I knew I wanted to include it in the story. It sums up the despair folks must have felt during the 1930s, yet it conveys a great sense of hope.

Finally, Mama’s treasured book of proverbs is real. As Lizzie would say, it holds bragging rights for being one of the longest titles I have ever laid eyes on:
Curiosities in Proverbs: A Collection of Unusual Adages, Maxims, Aphorisms, Phrases and Other Popular Dicta from Many Lands
. Whew! It was published in 1916 and was arranged with annotations by Dwight Edwards Marvin. Most of the chapter titles in
Every Day After
are proverbs taken from this book.

Acknowledgments

The people I wish to thank are few, but they each played an indispensible role in the development and publication of this book. You know what they say: quality over quantity. I am extremely blessed by the quality of people who surround me every day.

First, to my husband, Michael. Without you, Lizzie’s story might never have been told. You have been my biggest cheerleader and my biggest fan since day one. Thank you for believing in me and for pushing me forward when everyone else, including me, thought I should turn back. This journey wouldn’t have been the same without you.

I struck editor gold with Michelle Poploff. Thank you, Michelle, for your wisdom, your insight, and your guidance. Your willingness to shepherd debut authors reminds me of another editor with the initials M.P.—the late, legendary Maxwell Perkins.

A thousand thanks to retired publisher Bud Flora and his gracious wife, Georgia, for taking the time to read an early draft of the manuscript and for your fervent insistence that it had potential. Most of all, thank you for your friendship.

A million thanks to my parents, Mark and Jackie Perry. Thank you, Mama, for reading version after version of the story, and thank you, Daddy, for celebrating with me when the good news finally arrived. You both mean more to me than you know.

This story would not have turned out the same without the personal experiences of the following: my late paternal grandparents, Jake and Nelda Perry; my husband’s paternal grandparents, Helen and John Golden; my maternal grandmother, Sue Lively; and Mr. James Hubbard. Thank you all for sharing your memories with me.

A heartfelt thanks to Chris and Ray Pelham for being kind enough to sift through old family photos with me.

To my two boys, Cade and Tanner, thank you for allowing me to take over the computer and for keeping my life interesting. I love you both!

And finally, because they are forced to put up with me, a big thanks to my sister and brother, Rebecca and Griff. You guys are the best.

About the Author

As a child, Laura Golden was a reader, a dreamer, and a listener. She loved to read everything from cereal boxes to C. S. Lewis (still does); she loved to dream of becoming everything from a figure skater to a fairy-tale princess (still does, but don’t tell anyone); and she loved to listen to older generations spin tales about the “good ol’ days” (still does, and she’s always willing to lend an ear).

Laura lives with her husband and two sons on a lovely piece of Alabama countryside just east of Birmingham. This is her first (but hopefully not her last) novel.