Fly Like a Bird E-Book

Jana Zinser

• Herausgeber: BQB Publishing
• Kategorie: Für Kinder und Jugendliche
• Sprache: Englisch

Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2019

Beschreibung

A coming-of-age story of a young white girl who discovers racism and betrayal as she tries to unravel the truth about her parents’ deaths and escape the town that lied to her.

"Fly Like a Bird presents plot and subplot lines compelling enough to keep the reader turning the pages, and heart racing at times. . . Those who populate the story are colorful, loving, hateful, sad, evil, heroic and courageous, but never stereotypical . . ." - Verified Reviewer

Ivy, a young girl growing up in a small town in the 70s where everyone knows everything, discovers her family and the people in her town are keeping secrets about the night a car crash killed her parents.

The secrets she uncovers and her efforts to leave the town that lied to her, force Ivy to confront betrayal, death, racism, and the meaning of family.

"I actually lived this book. Took me 8 hours to read it. Couldn't put it down. I'd recommend it to everyone. It doesn't matter where you were born and raised, home is really where your family lives, related or not." - Verified reviewer.

"This was a great read! The author really dived deep into topics of racism, domestic violence, sexuality and the impact of family secrets via a young girl that loses her parents. This was well written and an enjoyable read" - Goodreads review.

". . . I am pleased to recommend this noir-style Iowa historical to friends and family. It is an interesting read, telling tales of what it takes to make-or-break a family . . ." - Bonnye, Netgalley and Goodreads reviews

". . . I really connected with this book. I found it hard to put down. It resolved too quickly and perfectly in my opionion, and that felt rushed. . . I would have liked a cliff hanger and a follow up book . . . it was THAT enjoyable. I will definitely read more from this author and would recommend this book highly." - Colleen - NetGalley review

"I love family stories, especially about grandparents. And this is a good one. Ivy has lived with her grandmother for as long as she can remember, ever since her parents were tragically killed. Theirs is a small town in the 70s, rife with racism and prejudice and suspicion and secrets. Seems like everyone knows those secrets except for Ivy. The older she gets, the more driven she becomes to find out the truth about what really happened that night so very long ago." - Shawna - NetGalley review

Leseprobe

Fly Like a Bird

© 2019 Jana Zinser. All rights reserved.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, digital, photocopying, or recording, except for the inclusion in a review, without permission in writing from the publisher.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Published in the United States by BQB Publishing

(an Imprint of Boutique of Quality Books Publishing Company)

www.bqbpublishing.com

Printed in the United States of America

978-1-945448-24-9 (p)

978-1-945448-25-6 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2019940447

Book design by Robin Krauss, www.bookformatters.com

Cover design by Rebecca Lown, www.rebeccalowndesign.com

Author photo by Amy Stephens Photography in Castle Rock, Colorado.

First editor: Caleb Guard

Second editor: Pearlie Tan

DEDICATION

My love for Iowa knows no bounds.

As a child, my small Iowa town offered me the freedom and safety of riding my bike all over town, the joy of the gently rolling hills, and the music of the colorful birds. It provided the comfort of a community that knew my name, the thrill and competition of sports, and the close-knit bond of friends and family who knew what I was up to at all times. Iowa gave me a great education and an expectation to succeed, access to the arena of state and national politics, and the ability to accept and appreciate the uniqueness in all of us.

We all see the world from our own limited perspective, but I remember as a child trying to understand racism and beyond that, the inequities of the world, sometimes right in front of me. I’m not sure I understand it any better today.

In Fly Like A Bird, I wanted to explore the awakenings of a young girl and her struggles to make sense of the artificial unfairness placed upon many of us with the invisible bars of race, sex, poverty, and family circumstances that frequently restrict our choices and our successes.

In this story, as in real life, it is often the cruelty of just a few that stops the freedom of many. We all shelter self-doubt and insecurity within our hearts, but if we could stand up for each other when we see injustices, we might find we end up accepting ourselves as well. We should not shy away from differences, we should embrace them.

In Iowa, if you listen, you will hear the melodious songs of so many different birds and they all belong in that glorious state that I love. FLY LIKE A BIRD means finding your freedom to be who you are, to stand up for yourself and others, and to soar to great heights on the winds of the Iowa prairie.

AUTHOR’S NOTES

Although Fly Like A Bird is inspired by musings told to the author, this is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental or incorporated in a fictitious way.

CONTENTS

Prologue (1959)

Part I: A Family of Sorts (1966)

Chapter 1: Best Left Unsaid

Chapter 2: The Sandwich War

Chapter 3: The Cookie Jar Violation

Chapter 4: Spooks

Chapter 5: Eavesdropping Isn’t Polite

Chapter 6: Thrasher’s Pond

Chapter 7: The Dump

Chapter 8: The Devil’s Pictures

Part II: Finding Her Way Home (1970–1971)

Chapter 9: The Garden Hoe

Chapter 10: The Doll Baby on Mulberry Street

Chapter 11: Another Holiday Tainted by Discord

Chapter 12: The Barbershop

Chapter 13: The Rosie Project

Chapter 14: Mushroom Hunting

Chapter 15: The Supreme Court Said You Could

PART III: Mischief, Trickery, and Disappointment (1975–1976)

Chapter 16: The Coffey Shop

Chapter 17: The Dusty Library

Chapter 18: The Corn Quicksand

Chapter 19: Where the Buffalo Roam

Chapter 20: Deadman’s Woods

Chapter 21: The Lawn Creatures

Chapter 22: The Great Purple Dog

Chapter 23: The Rain Stopped

Chapter 24: Leaving Coffey

Part IV: Hearts Have No Skin Color (1979–1980)

Chapter 25: Losing Touch

Chapter 26: The Woman at the Window

Chapter 27: The Betrayal

Chapter 28: The Death Grip of Love

Chapter 29: Every Ending Creates a Beginning

Chapter 30: Patty’s Day Out

Part V: The Great Hereafter (1984–1985)

Chapter 31: Preparing for Death

Chapter 32: Ivy Visits Her Past

Chapter 33: A Child is Worth Some Trouble

Chapter 34: The Rescue

Chapter 35: Play the Hand That’s Dealt

Chapter 36: Rose Hill

Chapter 37: Sentimental Journey Home

Chapter 38: Will the Night Ever End?

Part VI: The Return of the Birds (1985–1986)

Chapter 39: The Geriatric Scuffle

Chapter 40: The Benches

Chapter 41: The Vanishing of the Ghosts

Chapter 42: The Halloween Heist

Chapter 43: Finding Your Spirit

Chapter 44: Nothing Worse Than Being Caucasian

Chapter 45: The Pies

Chapter 46: The Wings of Hope

Recipe for Angel Pie

About the Author

PROLOGUE (1959)

The violent December wind whipped the pelting rain and turned it to ice on the roads of southern Iowa as Robert Taylor pulled into the driveway of his mother’s white Victorian house. He stepped out of the blood red Pontiac and into the storm, shielding his shivering baby in his arms. The moon lay buried deep behind the storm clouds and lightning flashed in the dark Midwestern sky, startling the baby. The crashing thunder and howling wind drowned out the little girl’s cries. Robert was twenty-six and overcome with fear and panic.

Robert’s tears mixed with the pouring rain as he kissed his daughter’s cheek and handed Ivy into his mother Violet’s waiting arms. Violet grabbed his arm as he turned back into the storm, but Robert pulled away. Her frantic warning evaporated into the thunderous night.

Violet Taylor tucked Ivy against her body inside the front of her big coat. The baby calmed and peered out from her Grandma’s lapel. They huddled together on the front porch and watched Robert’s car back down the driveway past the big maple tree that swayed and groaned in the storm. The old tree had survived many decades of Iowa storms by holding fast to the earth with its deep roots and bending with the power of the wind.

Cold rain poured from the porch eaves as Robert drove off. Fifty-four-year-old Violet pushed her short, wet hair out of her face and kissed the top of Ivy’s little head. She stared into the darkness for a while as if she thought her son might reappear, but he didn’t. Ever.

Later that night, someone reported that Robert’s car briefly stopped outside the Coffey Shop then hurriedly drove back into the freezing rain that coated the roads with an invisible sheet of black ice.

The new Deputy Sheriff, Charlie Carter, said the car carrying Robert and his wife, Barbara, skidded and swerved as it approached the two-lane Highway 69. He reported their new 1959 Pontiac Bonneville did not stop in time to avoid the oncoming tractor-trailer. The truck’s giant headlights must have appeared in the blackness of the storm-ravaged night, hazy through the cascade of freezing rain on their windshield. Bright-colored sparks exploded on the highway as the big truck dragged the mangled car beneath its belly.

And Ivy was left an orphan.

PART I

A FAMILY OF SORTS

(1966)

Chapter 1

BEST LEFT UNSAID

Iowa’s late sunset showered bright colors of red, gold, and orange across the broad horizon like an explosion of fire in the summer evening sky, and the Iowa sun bowed behind the prairie skyline.

The hot summer night in 1966 produced only a slight breeze as eight-year-old Ivy put on a thin summer nightgown and pushed her sweaty strawberry blond hair off her neck. Grandmother Violet pulled back the yellow daisy-printed quilt and Ivy jumped into her antique sleigh bed.

“A little bird told me that you rode your bike out past the Thrasher place today,” said Grandma. “I’ve told you not to go out there. If you do it again, you will be in deep, dark trouble with me. Do you hear me, little missy?”

“Why?”

“Never you mind. You need to do what I say because my job is to protect you.”

“Okay, Grandma, but I don’t—”

Grandma shook her head. “Uh. Uh.”

The crickets serenaded outside Ivy’s bedroom window and the glowing fireflies danced. Ivy kissed the black-and-white picture on her bedside table and snuggled into her bed. The old photo showed her father with curly hair and dark eyes. Beside him stood her mother, wearing a silver heart necklace engraved with a rose, the only possession of her mother’s that Ivy owned. She never took it off.

In many ways, Ivy’s parents only existed through Grandma’s stories and a few photos. Most of Ivy’s newly created images of her parents drifted thin and fuzzy, like half-remembered dreams, and the hazy thoughts of their tragedy haunted her.

Ivy held her Grandmother’s hand and floated away on her dreams.

A few hours later, a nightmare of exploding colors, crashing metal and terrifying screams jolted Ivy straight up in bed. She felt the cold wetness of the sheets and her urine-soaked nightgown clung to her skin. She crawled out of bed and crept down the dark stairs to find Grandma.

She padded lightly down the expansive stairway of the old Victorian. When she reached the bottom of the wide stairs, Uncle Walter’s voice boomed from the kitchen where he and Grandma played cards.

“She’s just a little girl, but don’t you think she has a right to know what happened? There’s a few in town that have their suspicions. Someone might tell her.”

Grandma muffled a growl in her throat. “Now, Walter, you know some things are best left unsaid. Even if anyone suspects anything, they’ll stay quiet because I know too much about them. Everyone’s got family secrets. Now that’s the last I want to hear of it.”

Uncle Walter mumbled something Ivy couldn’t hear. She turned and tiptoed back up the stairs, and crawled into her wet bed. The pungent smell of urine pierced the humid air as she huddled in a dry corner of her bed. Her wet nightgown stuck to her skin. Grandma’s words inflamed Ivy’s worst fears. Were they hiding something horrible about her parents’ accident?

The headlights of passing cars moved around the walls of her room as she picked up the picture beside her bed. Having no parents made her feel empty. She needed to find out what Grandma and Uncle Walter were talking about.

Ivy could hear Grandma’s heavy steps climbing the stairs. She hurriedly set the picture down on the table just as Grandma peered in.

Ivy sat up. “I wet the bed again.”

“Why don’t I change your bed while you get on a new nightgown?”

Ivy pulled a clean nightgown from her drawer. “How come nobody ever talks about my parents’ accident?” she asked as she changed her clothes.

Grandma finished tucking the clean sheets under the mattress and Ivy climbed back into bed. Grandma patted Ivy’s cheek and sat down beside her, her weight making a deep dent in the mattress. “Too painful, I suppose. Time often stands still in families.”

Ivy fingered the silver chain around her neck and Grandma shifted on the bed, making the old bed springs creak. Ivy tucked her hair behind her ears. “Tell me about my mom.”

“Well, she grew up in Stilton and she was beautiful. You look a lot like her, you know.” She patted Ivy’s freckled cheek. “She liked to have her own way. Your father loved your mother more than life itself. Your mother had that effect.”

Ivy fiddled with the ring on Grandma’s finger. “How come my mother isn’t buried in the cemetery with my dad?”

“Guess it just wasn’t meant to be. You’ve always liked this ring, haven’t you?”

Ivy nodded. She picked up the framed photo of her parents and lay it on the daisy-printed pillow next to her. Grandma pulled her soft housecoat around her ample lap and stared into the distance as if looking into the past.

“On my wedding day Sam Taylor gave me his ring and a bottle of lilac perfume. I’ve worn that fragrance ever since, and I’ve never taken this ring off.” She sighed. “Sam Taylor and I thought we would always be together. But life changes your plans. When he died, he left me three grown sons and 4120.” That was the nickname she gave to her big Victorian house on 4120 Meadowlark Lane. “But families survive tragedies. You have to go on.”

Grandma touched the tip of Ivy’s freckled nose. “Your Grandpa would have adored you. Now go to sleep. You promised Uncle Tommy you’d take the birdseed over to his place early tomorrow.”

With no brothers or sisters, Ivy spent a lot of time with her two uncles who lived in Coffey, a small farming community in southern Iowa. She loved being with her Uncle Walter. And, at Grandma’s insistence, she reluctantly spent time with Uncle Tommy.

Ivy’s uncles hadn’t spoken to each other since 1959. No one quite remembered the incident that started the silent treatment, except that a pastrami sandwich at her father’s funeral was to blame. Ivy felt drawn to her uncles’ feud, and she was driven to find out what had started the long-standing sandwich war.

Ivy nodded, clutching Grandma’s hand. “You’re not going to die tonight, are you, Grandma?”

Violet Taylor, who was sixty-one, gave the same response she had given every night since she had a breast removed because of a cancerous lump. “No, I’m not prepared for death. I’m only prepared for life. Death can’t touch me. I have you to raise. God won’t take me until you’re ready.” Grandma covered Ivy with the sheet and kissed her forehead. “I love you more than the great blue sky.”

During the previous winter of 1965, Grandma had discovered a lump in one of her breasts. Two weeks later, the cancer specialist in Des Moines removed one of Grandma’s breasts without much contemplation or concern. “As if it was just a moldy piece of bread,” Grandma said. “Maybe he thought a fat old woman wouldn’t miss her sagging breast. Fool. But life can’t wait for breasts. My brassiere will never know the difference.” She shook her head and rearranged the miscellaneous stuffing in her bra.

Grandma soon adjusted to the change. Loss was nothing new to Violet Taylor. She stuffed her large, vacant bra with socks, kitchen tea towels, or anything she could find, and went about her business.

That night, Grandma sat on the bed and sang the old Western cowboy song, “Red River Valley” like she did every night. The crickets outside chirped along in chorus. Ivy’s sun-streaked hair spread tangled on the pillow. Her eyelids closed.

“Goodnight, Grandma. I love you, too.”

Pushing the floor with her feet, Grandma bounced the bed until Ivy’s breathing slowed and she floated on the edge of sleep. “I pray I’m doing the right thing and that you will have a forgiving heart, for all of us,” Ivy heard Grandma say as if from a million miles away.

Grandma brushed the stray hair off Ivy’s face, so much like her mother’s, and put the photo back on the bedside table. The crickets’ rhythm thumped like the heartbeat of the night. The fireflies played hide-and-seek, flashing in the darkness of the woods. The wild birds settled in the trees. But the squirrels never slept. Neither did Grandma. She cooked, cleaned, or watched TV at all hours. Ivy worried about Grandma dying, but hearing Grandma’s constant sounds in the night, gave her the comfort to finally drift away into that deep sleep.

Chapter 2

THE SANDWICH WAR

The air hung thick and heavy a few hours after the sun rose. Ivy, dressed in a yellow sleeveless shirt and peddle-pusher shorts, came downstairs ready to ride her bike to Uncle Tommy’s house to deliver the bag of birdseed.

She found Grandma in the kitchen. “Can I go over to Uncle Walter’s after I drop off Uncle Tommy’s birdseed?” she asked Grandma. “Luther Matthews is building him a cookie jar shelf today.”

Grandma stirred a huge pot of red raspberry jam, cooling on the stove. A row of Mason jars stood ready to be filled. “Okay, but stay out of Luther’s way, you hear? He’s got enough on his mind, poor man.”

Grandma scooped red raspberry jam into the first jar. She tilted her head and wiped the sweat off her forehead with a tea towel. “Best not to tell Uncle Tommy about Uncle Walter’s shelf.” She raised her eyebrows. “You know how he can be.”

Ivy dipped her finger in the jar of jam and licked it. “Why do they hate each other?”

Grandma bent down and rummaged for the jar lids in the bottom cabinet. She set them beside the jars on the counter. When the jars were filled, she would take them to the canning room in the darkest corner of the cold basement where they also kept the pop for game nights. She placed her hand on her thick waist and slowly straightened. “They don’t hate each other. They just tend to hold a grudge.”

“You always say that, but why don’t they talk to each other?” Ivy dipped her finger into the raspberry jam again and licked it, then pointed to the backyard. “I bet your bird friends would tell you if you asked.”

The woods surrounding Coffey were full of hawks, eagles, owls, goldfinches, and other wild birds and Violet Taylor knew them all. She believed that if a person loved birds, he couldn’t be all bad. Ivy was always on the lookout for the glimmer of a goldfinch, the Iowa state bird, because according to Grandma, it brought good luck.

“Well, the birds talk a lot, but they don’t tell me everything.” Grandma smiled and absentmindedly arranged the stuffing in her bra. “Something changed between the boys when your father died, but sometimes, we’re best off not knowing. You see, some secrets are safe in the telling, and some secrets are safe in the keeping.”

Goosebumps tingled on Ivy’s arms. Her throat felt dry. Grandma guarded the secrets of her family very well.

“Now, go on,” Violet smiled. “You better skedaddle. You’re going to eat all my jam before I get it put away. Uncle Tommy’s expecting you.”

Ivy stole one more lick of jam before she rushed outside, hoisted the bag of birdseed into her bike basket, and pedaled the few blocks to Uncle Tommy’s house.

Uncle Tommy, a big gruff man, worked at the Coffey Sewage Treatment Plant. He lived with his wife Hattie and their two children, Angela who was fourteen and Russell who was thirteen. Ivy tried to fit in, but she shared little in common with her older cousins.

That morning, Ivy greeted Uncle Tommy and Aunt Hattie on the back porch as they ate breakfast by themselves. Her cousins weren’t there, probably still asleep. She sighed with relief as she dropped the birdseed on the porch by the door, biding her time before she could go to Uncle Walter’s trailer.

Ivy pointed at Uncle Tommy’s breakfast. “Why do you eat the same thing every day?”

Uncle Tommy slumped in his chair. He wore a sleeveless white undershirt, jeans, and black cowboy boots. He set his coffee cup on the metal TV tray next to him on the porch and clicking his tongue against his teeth, he sucked out bits of food. He pushed up his black-rimmed glasses. “I guess I’m just a man who knows what he likes.”

“But don’t you get sick of having an egg sandwich and black coffee every morning?”

Uncle Tommy tapped the pointed tips of his black cowboy boots on the worn porch floor. He scratched his chest. “Heck, no. I like my coffee naked.” He grabbed the crotch of his jeans. “And my eggs covered.”

Ivy grimaced and looked away.

Aunt Hattie slapped the arm of her chair. “Tommy, for the love of Pete.”

Laughing, Uncle Tommy pulled a bag of salted sunflower seeds still in their shells from his pocket and popped a few in his mouth. He shucked them with his tongue and spit out the soggy, empty shells.

Aunt Hattie was a short, intense woman, with reddish-brown, frizzy hair that framed her round face. The buttons on her ragged housecoat stretched across her soft middle and she nodded her round chin. “Your uncle is a man of ungodly habits.” She tipped her face heavenward. “Lord, have mercy on his dark soul.”

Uncle Tommy turned to Aunt Hattie and stopped tapping his boot. Sunflower seed shells catapulted out of his mouth. He stuck two fingers in his mouth and whistled loudly like a bird, trilling low and high. Aunt Hattie put her hands over her ears, pressing her curls to her head as she gritted her teeth until he stopped his shrill whistling.

Uncle Tommy pointed to his disapproving wife. “That’s bird-talk for ‘Shut up, holy lady.’”

“You’re as useless as those stupid birds you feed,” Aunt Hattie said as she crossed her arms. “And now you’re talking to the birds like your mother and you’re almost as goofy as your brother.”

Uncle Tommy snorted. “Nothing wrong with birds.” He started tapping his cowboy boot again. “And no one’s as goofy as Walter.”

Ivy sat down in the chair next to Uncle Tommy. “Do you hate Uncle Walter because my dad died?”

Uncle Tommy’s head jerked toward Ivy. A sunflower shell shot out of his mouth, just missing her. “Why’d you say that?”

“Because Grandma said that’s when you stopped talking to each other.”

Uncle Tommy sighed and settled back in his chair.

Aunt Hattie sniffed and twitched her little ski-jump nose. “Why don’t you ask your . . .”

Uncle Tommy sat up and whistled his shrill bird call again, drowning out Aunt Hattie’s words. Aunt Hattie’s eyes narrowed to two angry slits.

Uncle Tommy leaned back and shook his head. “I just got dadburn tired of Walter’s view of life, that’s all. It was the last straw when he stole my pastrami sandwich at Robert’s funeral potluck. Haven’t missed the conversation none neither.”

A slight breeze blew the sickly scent of Uncle Tommy’s aftershave across the porch. Ivy sniffed and turned away, breathing in fresh air.

A black cat, trying to sneak across Uncle Tommy’s backyard, drew their attention as it danced on its paws hurrying across the yard. Uncle Tommy grabbed the gun leaning against the porch wall. “Dadgum cats scare the birds.”

He raised his gun and shot. Ivy cringed and looked away. She hated when he did that. Uncle Tommy reached into his jeans and got out his pocketknife. “The best way to stop a varmint is to shoot him in the head before he knows what hit him. Got ten points for that one because it was big and black, like Miss Shirley.”

He laughed and cut a mark on the peeling back porch post. The pockmarked post proved Uncle Tommy’s shooting accuracy.

Ivy fumed. She liked Shirley Roberts, the flamboyant black woman who cleaned houses for many of the wealthier families in town and lived next door to her friend Maggie. “Why don’t you like black people?”

“Because they’re black.” Uncle Tommy scratched his head. His hairline showed signs of a surrendering retreat.

“The Bible says their skin was turned black to punish them,” Aunt Hattie said. “The word of God brings me great comfort.”

Uncle Tommy rolled his blue eyes. “Jack Daniels brings me great comfort.”

Aunt Hattie made the sign of the cross with her stubby fingers and held it out at her husband. “I’m tired of trying to live a holy life with God, while you live an ungodly life with your friends. Mark my words, your day of reckoning is near, Thomas Taylor. Jack Daniels won’t save you from the end of the world.”

Uncle Tommy tipped his head back and pretended to guzzle out of a bottle. “No, but I’ll have a heck of a going-away party.” He mimed, wiping his mouth.

“This November when the Holy Rapture comes and me and all the other truly righteous souls ascend to heaven, I’m leaving you with nothing.” Aunt Hattie snatched up the empty breakfast dishes and marched inside the house.

“What? You plan on taking all this with you?” Uncle Tommy gestured around the porch.

Aunt Hattie slammed the door behind her.

“That ought to wake up the kids and ruin my peace and quiet this morning.” He spat a shell into the backyard, then looked up at Ivy and made a clicking sound with his tongue. “Hasn’t been all that quiet anyways, I reckon.”

“But what’s wrong with being black?” Ivy asked again.

“Oh, for crying out loud. Not again. Why you asking me? I don’t know. They’re just black, that’s all. Okay?” Uncle Tommy peered down at Ivy over the top of his glasses. “Why don’t you go bother somebody else? Go have your little touchy-feely talks with your Uncle Walter. I don’t have time for your silly questions.”

Ivy stood up. She’d rather be at Uncle Walter’s anyway. “Okay.” She jumped down off the porch, forgetting Grandma’s earlier warning. “I got to go anyway. Luther’s building Uncle Walter a shelf for all his cookie jars today.”

“Crazy Luther’s building Walter a shelf for his cookie jars? Now, that’s a good one.” Uncle Tommy leaned back and laughed.

Ivy hopped on her bike and started pedaling, relieved to get away from Uncle Tommy and Aunt Hattie. She couldn’t wait to get to Uncle Walter’s place.

Uncle Walter was two years younger than Uncle Tommy. He lived in the Prairie Hills Trailer Park. A collection of cookie jars in the shapes of vegetables filled his trailer and an odd assortment of lawn ornaments, including a deer, a turtle, a chipmunk, and an ugly gnome sitting on a mushroom, guarded the narrow strip of lawn between his and Bertha Tuttle’s trailer.

Uncle Walter loved the tidiness of having everything he needed within the confines of his small trailer, and since he lived alone, nothing was ever out of place. Uncle Walter’s need for precision and order gave him satisfaction and pride in sorting the mail which made him good at his job as a letter carrier at the Coffey Post Office. He delivered his route on foot because he liked to walk—in fact, he didn’t own a car—but his knees often ached by the time he got home.

Uncle Walter worked every weekday and every other Saturday. On that particular Saturday, he had hired the local handyman, Luther Matthews, who had been in the same class at school as him, to build a shelf around the top of his trailer’s living room and kitchen to display his favorite vegetable-shaped cookie jars and relieve the clutter on his counter.

Ivy rode the few blocks over to Uncle Walter’s trailer. She knocked, and she could hear Uncle Walter unlocking the many locks on his door. She hurried inside and followed her uncle to the kitchen counter where the cookie jars sat side by side next to a neat line of Dr. Pepper bottles. Uncle Walter was much smaller than his big brother, Tommy. He hummed “Sentimental Journey” as he lined up his cookie jars on the counter.

Ivy handed him the carrot cookie jar. “When’s Luther coming?”

“Hard to tell. He sort of works on Luther-time.”

“I don’t think Uncle Tommy likes Luther very much.”

“Well, your Uncle Tommy’s not much of a judge of character. Luther’s suffered some hard knocks. His father was a mean drunk. He basically raised himself after his father was poisoned by mushrooms. You know they can be dangerous if you don’t know what you’re doing. After that, Conrad Thrasher tried to get the county to take Luther away and put him in the county home for boys. If you ask me, Conrad just wanted to get his hands on Luther’s land. It was your grandmother who promised to look in on him. She talked the county folks into letting Luther live by himself and finish high school. Eventually, Luther found a way to get by. He learned to fix things.”

A short knock announced Luther’s arrival. He entered the trailer wearing an old sweat-stained handkerchief on his head like a cap, tied in knots at the four corners. His long, uneven hair jutted out like stubby cornstalks beneath his homemade hat.

He got to work quickly and began cutting the boards. His worn-out Levi’s jeans fell below his waist as he sawed a board on Uncle Walter’s patch of lawn. The sawdust flew as Luther talked to his saw. “Okay, Old Toothless Joe, do your stuff.”

Ivy pointed in front of Luther. “Hey, look out for the gnome.”

Luther jerked and looked up. Uncle Walter’s decorative garden gnome rode motionless on top of a brown mushroom. “That’s not a gnome. That’s an evil pixie.”

Ivy nodded. The gnome’s tiny painted, disapproving face looked as if it accused the mushroom of unknown atrocities.

“You know, I’ve never liked mushrooms much,” Luther said.

A thud sounded. Ivy looked up at the trailer next door. Bertha Tuttle, a secretary at a law office and the town snoop, watched them from her window. Bertha lived alone in the doublewide trailer next to Uncle Walter ever since her husband ran off with the dime store clerk.

Luther followed Ivy’s gaze and pointed with his chin toward Bertha, who was an old classmate of Uncle Tommy’s. “Looks like Bertha’s nose is stuck to the window again.” Luther turned his head and winked at Ivy. “That’d hurt, don’t you think?”

Ivy covered her mouth and giggled. She kicked the sawdust on the ground. “Hey, Luther. Did you know my mother?”

“Not much. She moved here after high school to work in the office out at the packing plant, I think.”

“You mean where they kill the cows?”

“Yeah, you know down by the sewage plant where your Uncle Tommy works.” He scratched his neck. “Yeah, she sure was pretty though. You look a lot like her.”

Ivy blushed. She lifted her sweaty hair off her neck for a second. “I wouldn’t like a job at the packing plant.”

Luther rested his hands on his tool belt which held a hammer, screwdriver, nails, knife, and a tape measure. “Knew your father though. Nice guy. Real nice guy. Too bad what happened. Tommy used to be pretty decent himself in the old days. I remember one day, your mom’s dad, that’d be your grandad I guess, came to the plant and dragged her out of there. Wanted to take her back home. But she didn’t want to go. Put up quite a fuss, they say.”

“What happened?”

“Well, I heard Tommy came out of the sewage plant and told him to leave. There might have been a skirmish, but whatever happened, the guy left, and your mom went back to work.”

Ivy bit her lip.

Luther nodded. “Your Grandma, she’s good people. Don’t come much better. I’d do anything for her. She saved my life when Thrasher tried to have the county take me away. Now, Thrasher, there’s a bad guy.”

“But he’s the mayor and he goes to church all the time.”

“The Good Lord ain’t fooled. You know, I think your mother used to be friends with Mildred, his wife. Would see her going over to the Thrasher place from time to time.”

Ivy kicked at the grass. “You know his son, Weston? He’s mean, too.”

Luther blew sawdust from the board. “Mean dads are kind of hard to live with. Might make you do mean things.”

When Luther finished the job late that afternoon, Uncle Walter examined the completed shelf. “It looks great, Luther.”

“I’m here to help. But you better thank Old Dan Tucker here.” Luther tapped his hammer in the palm of his hand and slid it back into his tool belt. Then he pointed at the new lock he had just installed on Uncle Walter’s front door. “Hopefully that’ll keep your brother out.”

As Luther gathered his tools, Uncle Walter and Ivy placed his cookie jars in alphabetical order on the new shelf. “Wait. My eggplant’s gone. Why is Tommy always messing with my cookie jars? He knows how hard it is to find a purple vegetable and that one already had a broken lid.”

Ivy looked at Uncle Walter. “Is he still mad about the sandwich?”

Uncle Walter stared at Ivy. “It wasn’t his sandwich.” He turned away and began straightening the cookie jars on his new shelf.

“That must have been a really good sandwich.”

Uncle Walter didn’t answer.

Chapter 3

THE COOKIE JAR VIOLATION

That night, Uncle Tommy and Reuben Smith, a local farmer, bowled and drank rounds of beer at the Blue Moon Bowling Alley and Bar. The corrugated tin structure with a flickering blue neon crescent moon included a bar, ten bowling lanes, and three pool tables against the wood-paneled wall by the snack bar. Charlie Carter, the deputy sheriff, joined them. There wasn’t much of a need for police in such a small town as Coffey and since Charlie lived there, he became the only law enforcement in town. At Conrad’s insistence, the town gave Charlie an office in the bottom of the courthouse with a couple of cells.

Uncle Tommy put down his beer mug and rubbed his balding head. “I heard Walter had Luther build him a new shelf for his dang cookie jars today. He’s over at my mother’s playing cards tonight.” He stood up and slapped his hands. “Let’s go mess up his veg-ta-bles.”

Reuben Smith drank the rest of his beer and wiped his foamy mouth on the short sleeve of his green and yellow bowling shirt. He wound up, hiking his leg up like a pitcher on a baseball mound, and threw his bowling ball down the lane. It hit the center pin.

“STEE-RIKE!” he shouted. His sunburned ears stuck out beneath Reuben’s John Deere cap. “I’m right behind you.”

Charlie Carter, who was an old high school buddy of Reuben and Uncle Tommy waved them off. “You go on. I think I’ll stay put and keep your seats warm for you at the bar.” He sniffed. “Can’t be involved in such mischief, considering I am the deputy sheriff and all.”

“You never cared about the law when you were a kid,” Tommy said.

Charlie’s jowls lifted in a smirk. His bristly dark hair showed an unusual solitary patch of white hair starting at his forehead like a thin streak of lightning through the middle of his head. Aunt Hattie called Charlie’s patch of white hair “the mark of the devil.” The sheriff scratched the snowy patch of his crewcut. “Well, come back and let me know how it all comes out.”

When they got to the trailer Reuben took out his pocketknife and picked the lock that Luther had installed on Uncle Walter’s door that very morning. The drunken intruders staggered into the tidy trailer. As Reuben stumbled toward the shelf of cookie jars, he tripped on a mousetrap concealed under the skirt of the avocado-green recliner.

He hopped around the trailer trying to shake off the mousetrap snagged on his boot. His wild jumping made him dizzy. The mousetrap flew off and he fell into Uncle Tommy, who fell into the flimsy paneled wall. The bump shook the small trailer. The zucchini cookie jar tumbled from the newly built shelf and shattered into tiny shards of green vegetable ceramic.

He shook his head and pushed his glasses back up his nose. “Walter’s got so many dadburn vegetables, he won’t notice if one’s missing.” Uncle Tommy flipped his finger at the broken cookie jar and wrinkled his nose. “What was that green thing supposed to be anyway?”

Reuben hooked his thumbs around his overall straps and kicked at the broken pieces with his big farmer’s boot. “Zucchini. My zucchinis won first prize over at the county fair two summers ago.”

Reuben liked to tell Ivy how he’d been a farmer all his life. He grew abundant crops of corn and soybeans and had a big garden with all kinds of exceptionally large vegetables which won blue ribbons every year at the McKinley County Fair. The extraordinarily large crops grew in the fertile fields directly behind his house. He swore his high-yield crops resulted from his expert farming methods, but many local people believed that his crops grew so large because dead bodies lay buried beneath his fields. The fact that the Weeping Willow Cemetery at Deadman’s Woods was a short distance away only added to the spooky rumors.

For decades, he had farmed the acreage that belonged to his family. But the family line stopped with Reuben. As much as he wanted them, he and his wife had no children.

The two tipsy friends swept up the remains of the ceramic zucchini and buried the evidence of their crime in the trailer park dumpster so Walter wouldn’t be tipped off to the zucchini murder. Then they headed back to the Blue Moon to tell the sheriff and their drinking buddies about their latest hilarious prank.

As they snuck past the window of Bertha Tuttle’s doublewide trailer next door, the red gingham curtains moved a little.

Later that night, Uncle Walter and Ivy came back to his trailer to get more bottles of Dr. Pepper for their weekly Saturday game night at Grandma Violet’s house. As soon as they walked in the door, Uncle Walter stopped.

“Ivy, my trailer’s been violated again.” He pointed to his green recliner, which was never out of place. “Somebody moved my chair.”

Ivy grabbed Uncle Walter’s arm and looked up at him with her blue eyes. Her nose twitched. “It smells like Uncle Tommy in here. It was him and Reuben again, wasn’t it?”

Uncle Walter pursed his lips. He sniffed the air. “Yep, that’s the stink of Old Sage.”

After a quick roll call of Uncle Walter’s cookie jars, they discovered the zucchini, the last vegetable in the alphabet, was missing.

“First my eggplant and now my zucchini. Cookie jars aren’t safe in this world anymore and no number of locks can keep Tommy from his mischief.”

Uncle Walter picked up a small ceramic fragment off the floor. He showed Ivy the broken bit of zucchini, resting it in the palm of his well-manicured hand. “Evidence of foul play.”

Ivy hugged him. “I’m sorry, Uncle Walter. Why can’t Uncle Tommy and Reuben just leave you alone?”

Uncle Walter ran his hand through his thick black hair. “It’s hard for Tommy to let a good rivalry die.” He shrugged with a heavy, exasperated sigh. “And Reuben, well, he’s just Reuben.”

Chapter 4

SPOOKS

The next weekend, Grandma asked Uncle Tommy to take Ivy over to Reuben Smith’s place to deliver one of Grandma’s burnt-sugar cakes.

Reuben and his wife, Patty, lived in an old white weathered farmhouse on the way to Hawks Bluff. Conrad Thrasher’s farm was a mile down the road and the house after that belonged to Luther Matthews.

Ivy followed Uncle Tommy to the paint-peeling front porch. He opened the rusty-hinged screen door without knocking. No one locked their doors in Coffey except Uncle Walter, but he was justified because of Uncle Tommy’s constant troublemaking and thievery.

Buckshot, Reuben’s high-spirited golden retriever, came bounding toward Ivy, wagging his tail. When Buckshot howled, it sounded like he was wailing the words, “oh, no.” Ivy laughed and stroked him as they entered the living room.

A clothesline strung down the middle of the living room displayed a load of drying laundry. Reuben’s wife, Patty, didn’t like to leave the house unless absolutely necessary. Uncle Tommy ducked under Patty’s huge underwear and extra-large pink nightgowns dangling on the line. He picked up an open bag of Doritos on the couch and stuffed a handful in his mouth, pointing his Dorito-dusted fingers at Patty’s drying underwear.

“You know, that reminds me. Ivy, did I ever tell you about the time Reuben and I got suspended from high school for stealing Edna Jean Whittaker’s underwear from the girl’s locker room and hoisting it up the library flagpole on Halloween?”

Ivy nodded. “Yeah, you’ve told me that like a hundred times.”

Reuben came in from the kitchen as Uncle Tommy scratched his armpit. “Well, Edna Jean’s eyesight was so bad she couldn’t even tell the underwear-flag was hers. It wasn’t hardly worth the dang trouble.”

Reuben smiled, took his John Deere cap off and scratched his short hair. “The week off from school sure was nice though.” “Only Coffey would have a librarian that’s blind as a bat and looks like one, too,” said Uncle Tommy.

“But don’t forget,” Reuben imitated Edna Jean’s high-pitched voice, “she’s got a developed sense of smell.” He tapped his ear. “And exceptionally keen hearing.”

Edna Jean Whittaker, almost forty, had become the persnickety town librarian. She cleaned the books and furniture until the drab library smelled of lemon furniture polish and the books slid off the waxy tables and shelves. She kept cleaning because she couldn’t see that it was already spotless. The lemon scent of the polish covered up the dusty smell of the old books which was important because Edna Jean had a sensitive nose.

Miss Whittaker did kind of look like a bat. Her dark wig looked like unkempt fur, and her thick glasses enlarged her tiny bat eyes. Edna Jean lived in a small house with a big front lawn only a few blocks from the library. She walked to and from work, opening the library before the sun rose and closing it after the sunset. During the day she lurked among the shadowy stacks of books. The darkness of the library made reading difficult for the town’s patrons, but Edna Jean worked best in the dark. The light hurt her eyes.

Ivy stood up and peered around one of Patty’s pink nightgowns. “What’s wrong with Miss Whittaker?”

Uncle Tommy shoved more Doritos into his mouth and wiped his dusty fingers, making Doritos tracks across his white undershirt.

Reuben looked at Ivy. “Well, nothing really, I guess. She’s just mad at life. Her high school boyfriend married her best friend and they moved away. Edna Jean stayed in Coffey.”

Uncle Tommy reached into his mouth to dig out the Doritos stuck to his teeth. “I need a beer,” he said, going into the kitchen.

Ivy dodged the hanging laundry and walked across the room to where Buckshot stretched out in front of the couch. The dog nudged her and she scratched his ears. She looked up at Reuben. “Why do you help Uncle Tommy play tricks on people like Edna Jean and Uncle Walter?”

Reuben rubbed his sunburned neck. Sprigs of hair grew out of his large ears. “I guess it’s just something to do.”

“Cause you’re mad at life?”

Uncle Tommy came back into the living room with the bag of Doritos and a beer. “Walter deserves it. He’s always looking down his nose at me.”

Heavy thuds coming down the stairs announced Patty’s arrival. Although it was late in the summer afternoon, Patty Smith still wore a pink flannel nightgown, identical to the ones drying in the living room. Ivy remembered a time when Patty didn’t wear her nightgown during the day. But Grandma had told Ivy that as Patty grew larger and sank deeper into her sadness, she stopped dressing. Since she rarely left the house, changing out of her nightgown didn’t seem necessary.

Grandma often urged Uncle Tommy to take Ivy to visit Patty and Reuben. She explained to Ivy that Patty hadn’t always been so withdrawn. Barely eighteen years old when she married Reuben, Patty used to love running in the fields behind their farmhouse. She had helped Reuben wrestle the calves to the ground for ear tagging. She desired nothing more than to raise a family with Reuben on their small farm. Patty planned on six children, just for starters. But each year she didn’t get pregnant, she sank deeper into a depression. All Patty wanted was a baby, and when no baby came, Grandma explained, all she wanted was food. Patty couldn’t get filled up.

Reuben tried to soothe his sad wife the only way he knew how. He filled the shelves with groceries from the Hy-Vee store. He brought home pizzas from the Pizza Shed and fried tenderloin sandwiches and French fries from the Coffey Shop.

Ivy understood Patty’s emptiness. She wanted parents.

Patty snatched the bag of Doritos away from Uncle Tommy. Reuben helped her over to the couch where she slumped into her well-worn seat and stuffed Doritos into her mouth. “I agree with Ivy. You shouldn’t make fun of people. Nobody should have to endure torment.”

Reuben waved his hand high in the air. “Tell that to the spooks.”

While forty-year-old Patty was heartbroken over not having any children, Reuben understood why they remained childless. It was the ghosts.

Reuben held the spooks responsible for every power outage, roof leak, door slam, missing sock, cold draft, creaky floorboard, and broken furnace in the house, and when Patty didn’t get pregnant, he blamed them for that, too. The spooks became a daily part of Reuben’s life. He spoke about them as if they were a commonplace occurrence. Reuben constantly talked about the spirits to his friends as they drank coffee or ate lunch at the Coffey Shop. His friends enjoyed hearing Reuben’s ghost stories as much as he enjoyed telling them. The only difference was that Reuben believed them.

Patty licked Dorito dust from her chubby fingers. Reuben patted his wife’s shoulder and sat down beside her on the couch. “It wasn’t your fault. Those ghosts made my seed unfruitful.”

Ivy shivered every time Reuben talked about the spirits roaming the hallways and filling up the empty spaces of his small farmhouse. It didn’t help that the tombstones of Weeping Willow Cemetery loomed eerily in the distance across Reuben’s fields.

Ivy held onto Buckshot for comfort, but he stretched his legs, gripping the carpet with his paws and howled his signature “oh, no” dog-sound before sauntering upstairs.

“Why are the ghosts here?” Ivy asked.

Reuben tucked his hands in the pockets of his overalls. “I don’t know. I remember the ghosts came right after my little brother died. I was just a kid. Can’t remember the funeral or where he was buried, only the cold spell that winter and not having my brother. I reckon the ghosts came to get my brother’s soul and take him to the world beyond. But the spirits never left. Must’ve gotten stuck here among the living. Anyhow, something got real messed up, and no new souls can come to our house.”

A loud thump sounded upstairs, and Ivy jumped. She looked up at the ceiling and then back at Reuben.

Reuben raised his eyebrows. “See?”

“Probably just Buckshot’s tail banging against something,” Uncle Tommy said.

“Why didn’t you move?” Ivy asked Reuben.

Reuben stood up and walked to the back door. “Come here.”

Ivy followed Reuben onto the small back porch with Uncle Tommy trailing behind them. Patty stayed on the couch eating Doritos. She’d heard him talk about this many times.

Reuben swept his arm across his acreage. “This place is my home. Lived here all my life. I know it. It knows me. I reckon, sometimes, your home is worth the sacrifice.” He cleared his throat and spat over the side of the porch, barely missing a chicken pecking in the dirt yard.

Ivy looked at Reuben’s fields and the weathered red barn that had stood there since Reuben was a little boy. The Weeping Willow Cemetery appeared on the horizon as if waiting for something. The cemetery was in no hurry. Everyone came to it eventually.

“You know my dad’s buried over there,” Ivy said, pointing to the cemetery.

Reuben nodded. Uncle Tommy stared at the cemetery in the distance.

“But my mother isn’t. Do you know where she is, Uncle Tommy?”

Uncle Tommy shook his head. “Nope.” Then he hurried into the house.

Reuben patted Ivy’s shoulder. “Anyway, sometimes you got to stay to keep your home. The ghosts be danged.”

And although Ivy saw Patty’s empty spirit, she hadn’t seen any ghosts—yet.

Chapter 5

EAVESDROPPING ISN’T POLITE

In Iowa, the seasons are distinct and certain. Summer brings a humid, sweet-smelling heat. Fall carries a cool misty breath of frost. Winter blows cold and blustery. Spring grows a windy fresh rebirth. Each season creates its own beauty in its own time. But as soon as one season arrives, the earth yearns for change and a new season emerges.

Ivy grew up with that same intense yearning for change.

The air hung heavy on that hot summer day in 1966. Rivers of sweat left eight-year-old Ivy’s sleeveless white shirt and blue shorts damp and sticky. She couldn’t wait for fall. She parked her bike in the metal rack outside the library. She’d come to see if her best friend, Nick Jerome, was hanging out at his father’s law office on Main Street.

Nick’s mother, Ellen, who was thirty-three years old but looked much older, had suffered from what Grandma told Ivy was a nervous breakdown. She kept mainly to herself while her husband Peter and son Nick took care of her. She refused to talk to anyone else. But she was often seen out walking the streets of Coffey alone, sometimes at night. Ivy and everyone else in town got used to her adventures on foot and began calling them “Ellen’s walkabouts.”

Ivy would often see her walking by 4120 in her layered, mismatched clothes and unkempt hair. She looked extremely lonely sometimes, yet other times she seemed determined and bold like a lone explorer on an important mission. Nick seldom mentioned her except to say he needed to go home to check on her.

She had spoken to Ellen late one summer night when Ivy was in her front yard, catching fireflies in a mason jar. The fogger, a tractor that sprayed huge billows of bug spray throughout the town to get rid of mosquitoes and other insects, headed down Meadowlark Lane.

Ivy watched Ellen stride onto Meadowlark Lane in the path of the oncoming fogger, but what Ellen didn’t see was a huge poisonous timber rattlesnake, coiled up and enjoying the warmth of the road.

To avoid breathing the toxic fumes, Grandma always made Ivy run into the house and shut the windows and doors when the fogger came. But that night, frightened for Ellen, Ivy ignored the fogger and ran toward Nick’s mother, pointing and yelling, “Snake!” The loud fogger was nearly upon them and Ellen didn’t hear.

Ivy grabbed a stick. “Snake!” she yelled again. She hit the snake until it slithered away just as the fogger arrived and Ellen looked up. When the smoke cleared, Nick’s mother was gone but saved from the snake. Ivy could see her continuing her walkabout down the road. Ellen turned and waved her thank you. Ivy waved back. Then Ellen had continued her solitary exploration into the night like a ghostly apparition.

On that hot summer’s day, on her way to find Nick Jerome, Ivy saw the usually homebound Patty Smith shuffle down the sidewalk toward the Hy-Vee grocery store. She stared at her friend, who was wearing a pink nightgown beneath a long stretched-out sweater in the thick summer heat. What was Patty doing out of her house?

Before Ivy could call to her, she heard someone yell. Weston Thrasher, the mayor’s son, was leaning against the dime store wall. “Fatty Patty, her big butt’s sore, ‘cause she can’t get through the bathroom door.”

Ivy flushed with embarrassment for her. The heartbroken Patty turned and glanced at the young taunter for a moment before lumbering on alone. Ivy dashed after her and threw her arms around the women’s soft, sweaty middle. She buried her face in Patty’s old sweater, which smelled faintly of Doritos and her dog Buckshot.

“Weston’s mean and hateful to everyone,” Ivy said.

Patty bent down and cupped Ivy’s freckled face in her hands. “Don’t worry about Weston Thrasher. I don’t care if his father is the mayor. That boy is nothing but a backwoods hooligan.”

Ivy glanced over at the thirteen-year-old boy across the street. “My grandma says Weston’s soul left with his mother when she died.”

“Well, in that case, I’m sure we’ve got an extra soul floating around our place he could use.”

Ivy giggled. “What are you doing in town?”

“Reuben’s in the fields and I was out of Doritos.” She breathed heavily. “Oh my, I’m not used to walking. I need to keep going. Goodbye, dear. Stay away from those Thrashers, if you can.”