The Friendship Doll (16 page)

Pop did odd jobs—mostly for Aunt Miriam, who was practically the only person in Goodwell who hadn’t gone bust—for a month or so to earn the money to fix up their Model A for the trip. Lucy and he spent hours poring over maps of Route 66, the “Mother Road,” which would take them to California. “Wouldn’t it be something to see the ocean?” Lucy asked. She dreamed of scuffing her bare feet on wet sand, chasing after waves, filling her pockets with shells.

“Don’t think we’ll make it that far west,” said Pop. He had it all planned out—they’d cut down through Texas and pick cotton around about Amarillo. “That should fit us up to get to someplace in Arizona for the lettuce and
carrots. I might could earn some real money that would carry us through to California.”

“I’m a good picker,” Lucy said. She pumped her right arm to show her muscles. She’d helped in the fields at the farm since she could walk.

“You are, at that,” Pop agreed. He lit his pipe and moved out to Aunt Miriam’s front porch to smoke. She had fussed at him something awful after that cinder from his pipe had burned a hole in her settee.

“Can I go see Gloria Jean?” Lucy followed him out, holding the map. “And show her where we’re going?”

Pop nodded.

That was the best thing about having moved off the farm and into town to live with Aunt Miriam. Gloria Jean was now only two streets away. Lucy was a fast runner and was knocking at Gloria Jean’s front door in no time. The two girls plopped on the parlor floor, studying the map.

“It looks like a long ways,” Gloria Jean said in a small voice. “Farther than I thought.”

“That’s why you have to talk your daddy into coming, too.” Lucy traced her finger along Route 66. For her, it wasn’t so much a road as a magic carpet that would carry them far away from dust and despair to a place where it was warm and sunny and she’d eat oranges until the juice ran down her legs and filled her shoes. Because she
would
have shoes in California. Everybody did.

“Where should we live when we get to California? Bakersfield? Wasco? Lamont?” Lucy’s pointer finger jumped around on the map.

“ ‘Lamont’ has a nice friendly sound,” Gloria Jean said, twisting her pigtail around her finger.

Lucy nodded in agreement. “It does, doesn’t it?” She drew an imaginary circle around the town of Lamont. “That’s it, then. Lamont. We’ll get there first and check it out so that when you come, we can show you all around.”

Gloria Jean was as still as the air before a storm. Then she rolled off her stomach and onto her back. “It’s a nice dream, Lucy. I sure hope it comes true.” Her words wobbled a bit, as if they were having to work their way around some tears.

“It’s got to, Gloria Jean. It’s just got to.” Lucy rolled onto her back, too, tapping her left foot against Gloria Jean’s right. Then she sat straight up. “Let’s make a pact. A friendship pact.”

Gloria Jean wiped her eyes, then nodded. “Okay. But what shall it be?”

Lucy bit her lip, thinking. “I’ve got it.” She began to untie the ribbon from her pigtail and motioned for Gloria Jean to do the same. “I’ll always wear one of your ribbons and you always wear one of mine. That way, every morning, no matter how far apart we are, we’ll think of each other.”

They made the switch, then stood in front of the mirror, studying two sets of pigtails, each set with one green ribbon and one blue.

“We’ll be friends forever,” said Gloria Jean, touching the new ribbon in her hair.

“This old world isn’t big enough to keep us two friends
apart.” Lucy tilted her head so it touched the side of Gloria Jean’s. “Sister Gloria Jean, can I get an amen to that?”

Gloria Jean sniffled and laughed at the same time. “Amen, Sister Lucy. Amen.”

There came a time when the old woman’s room was quiet, empty. I was bundled up into my trunk, along with my belongings. And there I slept until yesterday, when I was brought into the light again. Before I knew Willie Mae, it would have been mortifying to hear the list of my shortcomings as I was lifted from my trunk: “Look how worn this kimono is” and “Can we get that mark off her obi?” and “I don’t know if we can fix that dirty spot on her cheek.”

Now I wear such scars with pride.

With Pop already behind the wheel and raring to go, Lucy jumped out of the car. “I forgot something!” She ran back inside Aunt Miriam’s house for her tablet and pencil. How would she have kept up with her letter writing if they’d been left behind? She grabbed them and hurried back to the car.

“You finally ready?” Pop asked her, double-clutching, and easing the gear stick into first.

Lucy hugged her tablet to her chest. She kept her eyes focused straight ahead and didn’t let them veer anywhere near the direction of Gloria Jean’s house. “Yes. I’m ready.”

Pop pushed old Betsy’s horn.
AAOOOGAH!
AAOOOGAH!
“And they’re off,” he said, mimicking the horse race announcer he sometimes listened to on the radio.

“And
we’re
off,” Lucy corrected.

Pop answered her by launching into a rousing rendition of “California, Here I Come”: “That’s why I can hardly wait, Open up that Golden Gate, California, here I come!”

After they’d sung the song through three times, Lucy scrunched around in her seat and peeked over the boxes and bedding in the back to try to catch a glimpse of Goodwell out the rear window. She couldn’t see anything. Anything at all. It was almost as if Goodwell were only a place in her imagination. That it never existed, that wonderful place she was born, grew up in. The place she’d always be from.

Mixed-up feelings bounced around in her belly as the car bounced over the rough road. She’d wanted to move west, especially after Mama passed. It was their chance for a real home again, not living with relatives. Even if they had to live in a town, not on a farm, she thought it might help her and Pop to heal over their big sore. Not that they’d ever get over losing Mama. That was impossible. But Lucy’d got it in her head that California would soothe their hearts a bit. Now, driving away, all she could think about was Mama’s little grave, lonesome back there in the Goodwell Pioneer Cemetery, with only a cross made from the staves of an old feed bucket to mark it. Pop had told Reverend Parker that as soon as he got the money together, he’d send it along for a proper stone. She and Pop
had already picked out what it would say:
Lila Lucille Turner, A True Prairie Flower, May 10, 1907–August 5, 1939
.

Lucy said the words aloud: “A true prairie flower.”

“What’s that?” Pop asked. It was hard to carry on a conversation, as the Model A had developed a cranky cough that Pop couldn’t fix.

Lucy shook her head. “Nothing,” she said, louder. She didn’t figure Pop needed a reminder of Mama now, the very moment they were headed west.

Pop nodded, then took off his hat and tossed it in the back. They drove and drove and drove. Lucy fell asleep and woke up and fell asleep and woke up again as Pop eased old Betsy off onto the shoulder.

They ate the lunch Aunt Miriam had packed—hard-boiled eggs and biscuits and oatmeal cookies—washing it down with a thermos of sweet tea.

Pop wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. “I’m going to make this swallow last. It’s going to be some time before we can spring for sugar in our tea.”

Lucy sipped her tea from a dented tin cup. She would’ve preferred lemonade. Or sarsaparilla, which she’d had only once in her whole life. “How much longer till we cross the state line?” she asked.

“Now, if you’re going to start that up, this trip will take an eternity.” Pop unrolled his tobacco pouch and made himself a pipe. He puffed on it to get it going once it’d been lit, and then his face softened. “I expect it’ll be close to suppertime.”

Lucy nodded, then set about tidying up after their picnic while Pop finished his pipe. She visited the bushes on one side of the road, and Pop did the same on the other side. Then they were ready to start off again.

Settled back in the car and under way, she pulled out her tablet.

Pop glanced over at her. “You’re not writing another letter to Mrs. Roosevelt, are you?”

Lucy grinned. “Gloria Jean,” she said, hollering over the engine noise. It was tricky to write at first, but then she learned that if she just eased up all over her body and rode out the jounces and bounces like she was riding Pop’s old horse, Ace, she could manage. She had just finished writing the words “Dear Gloria Jean” when a powerful jolt threw her clean off the seat onto the floor. “What was that?” She scrambled back up.

Pop fought to settle Betsy off to the side of the road. When she was stopped, he got out and took a look. “Tire,” he said. He kicked at the flat. “Might as well get out and get yourself comfy while I patch it.”

Lucy found a small clump of grass to sit on and picked up her tablet again.

Lucy chewed on the end of her pencil. There wasn’t much else to tell Gloria Jean about the trip so far. It’d only been a few hours.

She watched Pop wrestle the tire off the rim and pull out the inner tube. “Hand me the patch kit, will you?” He leaned his cheek close to the tube, to feel where the air was escaping. “Grab the pump, too.”

Lucy shifted a box of potatoes, a lard can filled with sugar-cured bacon, and the small pasteboard box with her clothes. “Here you go.” She gave the supplies to her father, who pumped and pumped until he was satisfied. He pulled a tire gauge from his shirt pocket and checked the pressure. “I’d say we’re ready to saddle up again.” While he put the tire back on the rim, she put the tools away. It was well past suppertime when they rattled into Amarillo.

Lucy checked with the farmer’s wife, Mrs. Foley, one last time before they left Amarillo. Mrs. Foley shook her head. “Sorry, Lucy. There was no letter today.” She jiggled baby Vernon on her hip. Vernon reached out his hands to Lucy.

“Show your mama ‘Pat-a-Cake,’ ” Lucy said, putting her hands over Vernon’s chubby ones. “Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man. Bake me a cake as fast as you can. Pat it and roll it”—here she turned his little hands in a circle—“and mark it with a
V
, and throw it in the oven for Vernon and me!”

Vernon laughed and held out his hands. “Agin,” he said.

Lucy cooperated.

“Hang on to him a minute, will you?” Mrs. Foley handed over the baby and hurried off. Lucy and Vernon
got through “Pat-a-Cake” two more times before Mrs. Foley came back with a lumpy flour sack. “Here’s you some sandwiches and raisins and an onion and some beans. That’ll take the crinks out of an empty stomach when you’re down the road a bit.”

Lucy took a step back. “Oh, I better not. Pop don’t take charity.”

Mrs. Foley clicked her tongue. “ ’Tisn’t charity. It’s your pay! For all them times you helped me with the baby.” She pushed the sack at Lucy, who hesitated only a moment longer.