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Authors: Diane Chamberlain
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nobody around who’d yell at me. Not the boy, who I knew from seeing him at school. Not the colored woman, who wouldn’t yell at no white child. And Mrs. Gardiner wasn’t no yeller. “She’s a saint, that one,” Nonnie always said to me and Mary Ella. “A real fine Christian lady. We can all learn a lot from her, girls.”
I carried the Pepsi Cola to the counter and she had a box of Nabs all ready to go. My mouth watered looking at them cheese crackers. Seemed like dinner was forever ago.
“Things going good at the barning today, Ivy?” Mrs. Gardiner asked as she put the box in a paper sack. She was so pretty. Real white skin you didn’t hardly ever see around a farm. Shiny, soft dark hair in a bun at the back of her head. Blue eyes, like Henry Allen’s. The only thing that kept her from being beautiful was a mean-looking scar that ran from her temple to her chin. It was a thing that was hard to look at, but you could sometimes forget about it when she smiled.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “A little short in the field today, but it’s going okay.”
“That’s good to hear.” She handed me the bag, then leaned toward me. “Sometime you need to cool off, you just come over here and put your head in that icebox.” She smiled at me, and I smiled back.
“I will. Thank you.”
I walked out to my bike and fit the bag into the basket. I finished my drink, then climbed on the bike and started pedaling back to the farm, thinking about what she said and how sweet she was. You’d think she would of treated me and Mary Ella mean, but she never did, even though she sure had a right to. No one would blame her if she did, because that scar across her cheek? Our mama was the one who put it there.
7
Jane
Charlotte Werkman’s car was a surprisingly dusty 1954 Chevy, and we rolled the windows down as we headed out of Ridley. It was my first day of work and I’d been twenty minutes late, because I got lost. I never would have guessed the Grace County Department of Public Welfare would be above a Laundromat, but that’s where it was. Four small rooms, and a floor that vibrated with the hum of the washing machines below.
I would share an office with Charlotte for my two weeks of orientation. She introduced me to the director, Fred Price, a big, balding man who looked happy about his upcoming retirement, as well as my fellow caseworkers—a dour older woman named Gayle, who seemed very tired of the work, and an effervescent girl named Paula. I thought Paula and I actually looked a bit alike, with our blond pageboys and brown eyes, and I was excited to find someone closer to my age. She seemed equally thrilled, peppering me with questions: Where did I live? Was I married? Was my degree in social work? Hers was in English, which she called “utterly useless!”
Gayle was probably around Charlotte’s age and her smile looked bored as she greeted me, as though she’d seen many staff changes over the years and this was nothing new. She was very pale, made more so by her short jet-black hair, and she wore red lipstick that was creeping into the fine lines above her lips. She was telling Paula and me about one of her clients, a newly widowed woman who wanted to put her five kids in foster care, when Charlotte called me into her office. She handed me a thick department manual full of rules and regulations. “For the nights you can’t get to sleep,” she said with a smile.
Now I sat in her car, my new briefcase at my feet and my purse in my lap, hoping she’d turn west and not east on Ridley Road.
She turned east, though, and my heart gave a thud. It’ll be fine, I told myself. Charlotte was talking about the different regions I’d be covering, but I barely heard her. I remembered an earlier time on this road, a happier time when Teresa and I were kids, driving to the beach with my parents. I remembered my mother saying, “This is where Ava Gardner’s from,” and Teresa, next to me in the backseat saying,
I carried the Pepsi Cola to the counter and she had a box of Nabs all ready to go. My mouth watered looking at them cheese crackers. Seemed like dinner was forever ago.
“Things going good at the barning today, Ivy?” Mrs. Gardiner asked as she put the box in a paper sack. She was so pretty. Real white skin you didn’t hardly ever see around a farm. Shiny, soft dark hair in a bun at the back of her head. Blue eyes, like Henry Allen’s. The only thing that kept her from being beautiful was a mean-looking scar that ran from her temple to her chin. It was a thing that was hard to look at, but you could sometimes forget about it when she smiled.
“Yes, ma’am,” I said. “A little short in the field today, but it’s going okay.”
“That’s good to hear.” She handed me the bag, then leaned toward me. “Sometime you need to cool off, you just come over here and put your head in that icebox.” She smiled at me, and I smiled back.
“I will. Thank you.”
I walked out to my bike and fit the bag into the basket. I finished my drink, then climbed on the bike and started pedaling back to the farm, thinking about what she said and how sweet she was. You’d think she would of treated me and Mary Ella mean, but she never did, even though she sure had a right to. No one would blame her if she did, because that scar across her cheek? Our mama was the one who put it there.
7
Jane
Charlotte Werkman’s car was a surprisingly dusty 1954 Chevy, and we rolled the windows down as we headed out of Ridley. It was my first day of work and I’d been twenty minutes late, because I got lost. I never would have guessed the Grace County Department of Public Welfare would be above a Laundromat, but that’s where it was. Four small rooms, and a floor that vibrated with the hum of the washing machines below.
I would share an office with Charlotte for my two weeks of orientation. She introduced me to the director, Fred Price, a big, balding man who looked happy about his upcoming retirement, as well as my fellow caseworkers—a dour older woman named Gayle, who seemed very tired of the work, and an effervescent girl named Paula. I thought Paula and I actually looked a bit alike, with our blond pageboys and brown eyes, and I was excited to find someone closer to my age. She seemed equally thrilled, peppering me with questions: Where did I live? Was I married? Was my degree in social work? Hers was in English, which she called “utterly useless!”
Gayle was probably around Charlotte’s age and her smile looked bored as she greeted me, as though she’d seen many staff changes over the years and this was nothing new. She was very pale, made more so by her short jet-black hair, and she wore red lipstick that was creeping into the fine lines above her lips. She was telling Paula and me about one of her clients, a newly widowed woman who wanted to put her five kids in foster care, when Charlotte called me into her office. She handed me a thick department manual full of rules and regulations. “For the nights you can’t get to sleep,” she said with a smile.
Now I sat in her car, my new briefcase at my feet and my purse in my lap, hoping she’d turn west and not east on Ridley Road.
She turned east, though, and my heart gave a thud. It’ll be fine, I told myself. Charlotte was talking about the different regions I’d be covering, but I barely heard her. I remembered an earlier time on this road, a happier time when Teresa and I were kids, driving to the beach with my parents. I remembered my mother saying, “This is where Ava Gardner’s from,” and Teresa, next to me in the backseat saying,
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