Whistling Past the Graveyard (30 page)

Miss Cyrena was invited to Thanksgiving dinner. Even though our whole country was sad for our president getting shot, Mrs. White had said we still had to show thanks for our blessings and rejoice in being together.

I was glad for something to do other than be sad and watch the funeral on television and see how miserable our dead president’s kids were.

Miss Cyrena got to Mrs. White’s house at one o’clock. Me and Eula was happy as bees in honey to see her. Daddy shook her hand and thanked her for helping me and Eula. When she apologized for not easin’ his worry while I was missing, Daddy was real nice and said he understood and that I could be a tough nut to crack. I reckoned he meant it was hard to get me to tell when I didn’t want to. Miss Cyrena laughed. I think maybe her and Daddy might be friends, even though they was different kinds of bears.

Miss Cyrena had brung Eula’s picture of grown-up Jesus; it had been too big to fit in Eula’s grip when we’d had to run. Eula was real happy to have it back and went right away to hang it over her bed in the little room she had in Mrs. White’s downstairs.

After Miss Cyrena handed over grown-up Jesus, she got in her purse and pulled out a little brown bag. She handed it over to me with a smile. “Your friend sent this to you.”
“My friend?”
“The young man from the carnival. He came to my school a few

days after you left and wanted me to give it to you.”
“How’d he know you taught at the school?” I asked, taking the bag.
It wasn’t much bigger than the ones that hold penny candy. “Everybody in town knows I teach at that school.”
I unfolded the top of the bag and peeked inside. Something red and
fuzzy was in there. I reached down and pulled it out.
“A troll doll!” Patti Lynn had a whole collection of trolls; we made
clothes for them. I’d been hoping to get one for Christmas. Miss Cyrena said, “He said to tell you it wasn’t the same as winning
a teddy bear, but he thought you’d like it. He picked this one because it
had red hair and reminded him of you.”
Daddy looked at the funny little doll. “It does look a little like you!” “Daddy!” I nudged him with my elbow.
“Y’all come on now. Dinner’s ready,” Eula called.
All of us, except Mrs. White, who still had trouble walking, helped
Eula take the food to the dining-room table.There was a turkey, sweetpotato casserole and corn-bread dressing, giblet gravy and biscuits, and
a pecan pie for dessert. I’d never seen so much food at once. Mrs. White insisted all five of us, polar bears and regular bears together, eat in her dining room off her good china. I was so used to
eating with Eula that I didn’t think much about it, until I saw how
nervous it made her to eat with white grown-ups. But Miss Cyrena
seemed just fine with it.
Mrs. White asked Daddy to give the blessing. We all held hands
and bowed our heads. He asked the good Lord to continue to bless
us and those who couldn’t be with us today. (I thought of baby James;
Daddy might have been thinking of Mamie, who’d refused to come
out of spite. I was pretty sure nobody was thinking of Lulu this year.)
Daddy thanked God for his bounty and for his love. Then he asked
that the Lord help ease the grief of our president’s family, especially
his children.
“In Jesus’s name, amen.”
“Amen,” all of our voices said together.
As I sat there, looking from one face to another, I thought, This is
my family. These are the people who look out for me. The people I look
after.

Sometimes in the night, when my heart gets to hurtin’ over Momma, I pull out the memory of Thanksgiving dinner and it makes me feel some better.

I think that was the last piece of the good I was supposed to learn from my running away. I wasn’t never gonna run off again, no matter how bad things got. But I wasn’t gonna be too scared to love the folks that took the time to love me back, and I sure wasn’t gonna chase them that don’t. And I was gonna spend the rest of my life asking questions and looking behind everything that happened, so I could find the gifts I got tucked inside me.

Acknowledgments

If not for watching my feisty mother, Margie Zinn-Lynch, and hearing the stories of her youth, and for growing up alongside my red-headedthrough-and-through sister, Sally Zinn Knopp, I wouldn’t have been able portray Starla (a girl far, far from my own personality) as I have. Unbeknownst to any of us, over the years you two helped create this character.

Thanks to my family for their support and patience. To Bill for living with me when my mind remained with Starla in 1963 instead of returning to real life for dinnertime conversations. To Allison for “liking lunch” and the shopping therapy. To Reid and Melissa who each helped talk through story issues.

I’m indebted to the people who encouraged me to follow my instincts and take the risk to write a book that was a huge departure from anything I’ve ever written. Thanks to my fantastic agent, Jennifer Schober for believing in this book and guiding it to its final home. A huge hug of appreciation to both Wendy Wax and Karen White for their keen insight, tireless cheerleading, hours of critiquing, and multiple telephone conversations, even as you were both dealing with your own deadlines. Thanks to IndyWITTS, writing group extraordinaire.

I had to call on the help of an old classmate for details concerning the Nashville music scene in 1963. Thanks Terry (TK) Kimbrell for sharing your intimate knowledge on the subject.

And thanks to my editor, Karen Kosztolnyik, and the team at Gallery for loving this book as much as I do and for helping make it strong enough to go out in the world and stand on its own two feet.