Read Online The Hollow Ground: A Novel by Natalie S. Harnett - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Natalie S. Harnett
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Gram had told us numerous times to ignore.
“What’s she up to now?” Gram said, stepping behind an aspidistra plant and peering between its large leaves.
“Who cares?” Ma said, not even glancing toward the window.
The old lady was staring at the house and slowly shaking her head from side to side. Her hair looked like she’d cut it herself and its uneven gray locks were crushed where she must have slept on them. Her dress appeared to be stained with gravy, or something worse.
Brother and I knelt on our chairs, hands on the windowsill, leaning forward.
“Go away!” Brother shouted.
“Shhh,” Gram commanded from where she stood frozen behind the plant. “Don’t go ’couragin’ her. Woman’s crazier than a loon. Her son goes killin’ himself and she blames us. When people can’t find nobody else to blame they blame us. You kids remember that. We’re what’s called escape goats.”
Brother’s face went red with anger but I found myself studying the old woman with newfound fascination. I’d always known about our own bad luck, but I couldn’t get over other people blaming us for theirs.
Ma tapped me on the shoulder and waved at me to follow her into the kitchen. From her purse she pulled out a folded page of newspaper. She sat down at the table and whispered, “Here’s our sign. Right here we got one. This is it.”
“What are you whisperin’ about?” Gram demanded, clomping into the kitchen. The hump pushed her weight forward and made her heavy on her feet.
“Don’t you worry about it,” Ma said. “Don’t concern you.”
But of course those words taunted Gram into peering over Ma’s shoulder to see what was going on because as far as Gram was concerned anything happening under the roof of that house did concern her.
Ma pointed at a photo of a man and boy above a caption that read BOY HIT BY CAR SURVIVES UNSCATHED. I looked from the photo to Ma’s face, which had turned as shiny and pinkish as a pearl. The tip of her tongue sawed her chipped eyetooth. You could feel the expectation all bristly on her.
“Can’t you tell?” she asked.
“What on earth there to tell?” Gram said.
Ma raised her eyebrows at me, doing her best to pretend that Gram wasn’t there.
I looked back at the photo again and said, “I guess the little boy looks like Brother.”
Ma nodded, all justified by my answer. Then she pointed at the kid’s daddy and said to Gram, “Know who that is? That’s my little brother. Told you I’d find him. You said I never would but I told you.” Ma said this like it was Gram herself who sent Ma to the orphanage all those years ago, and not Ma’s daddy’s new wife.
Ma pointed at the name, JEROME CORCORAN , below the photo and her voice got hushed like she was pointing at something sacred that belonged in the church. “And that’s my real last name. The way it was before the orphanage changed it to Coran. Can’t believe I forgot it. All these years it was right there, at the tip of my brain.”
Ma’s eyes turned golden, like the creek water with sun on it. Her gaze swerved up and around my face, searching for something.
“Cors-or-ran,” I said, feeling Ma’s real name settle inside us.
“Cork-run,” Ma corrected.
Gram leaned further over Ma’s shoulder and squinted. “Just ’cause he looks like John Patrick don’t mean he’s your brother.”
When Brother heard his name, he tromped over, looked at the photo and said the boy looked “runty” which was a word he’d picked up from Mr. Williamson, our neighbor across the street, who’d drowned the runt of his basset hound’s litter.
“I tell you I remember the name,” Ma said. “Now that I seen it, I remember it. Corkrun,” she said and then carefully repeated, “Cork-run.”
“Well, so what if it is him?” Gram said, stepping back and eying Brother who had his arm elbow deep in the cookie jar. “What you ’spect to happen if you find him?”
Ma didn’t answer. She pushed back her
“What’s she up to now?” Gram said, stepping behind an aspidistra plant and peering between its large leaves.
“Who cares?” Ma said, not even glancing toward the window.
The old lady was staring at the house and slowly shaking her head from side to side. Her hair looked like she’d cut it herself and its uneven gray locks were crushed where she must have slept on them. Her dress appeared to be stained with gravy, or something worse.
Brother and I knelt on our chairs, hands on the windowsill, leaning forward.
“Go away!” Brother shouted.
“Shhh,” Gram commanded from where she stood frozen behind the plant. “Don’t go ’couragin’ her. Woman’s crazier than a loon. Her son goes killin’ himself and she blames us. When people can’t find nobody else to blame they blame us. You kids remember that. We’re what’s called escape goats.”
Brother’s face went red with anger but I found myself studying the old woman with newfound fascination. I’d always known about our own bad luck, but I couldn’t get over other people blaming us for theirs.
Ma tapped me on the shoulder and waved at me to follow her into the kitchen. From her purse she pulled out a folded page of newspaper. She sat down at the table and whispered, “Here’s our sign. Right here we got one. This is it.”
“What are you whisperin’ about?” Gram demanded, clomping into the kitchen. The hump pushed her weight forward and made her heavy on her feet.
“Don’t you worry about it,” Ma said. “Don’t concern you.”
But of course those words taunted Gram into peering over Ma’s shoulder to see what was going on because as far as Gram was concerned anything happening under the roof of that house did concern her.
Ma pointed at a photo of a man and boy above a caption that read BOY HIT BY CAR SURVIVES UNSCATHED. I looked from the photo to Ma’s face, which had turned as shiny and pinkish as a pearl. The tip of her tongue sawed her chipped eyetooth. You could feel the expectation all bristly on her.
“Can’t you tell?” she asked.
“What on earth there to tell?” Gram said.
Ma raised her eyebrows at me, doing her best to pretend that Gram wasn’t there.
I looked back at the photo again and said, “I guess the little boy looks like Brother.”
Ma nodded, all justified by my answer. Then she pointed at the kid’s daddy and said to Gram, “Know who that is? That’s my little brother. Told you I’d find him. You said I never would but I told you.” Ma said this like it was Gram herself who sent Ma to the orphanage all those years ago, and not Ma’s daddy’s new wife.
Ma pointed at the name, JEROME CORCORAN , below the photo and her voice got hushed like she was pointing at something sacred that belonged in the church. “And that’s my real last name. The way it was before the orphanage changed it to Coran. Can’t believe I forgot it. All these years it was right there, at the tip of my brain.”
Ma’s eyes turned golden, like the creek water with sun on it. Her gaze swerved up and around my face, searching for something.
“Cors-or-ran,” I said, feeling Ma’s real name settle inside us.
“Cork-run,” Ma corrected.
Gram leaned further over Ma’s shoulder and squinted. “Just ’cause he looks like John Patrick don’t mean he’s your brother.”
When Brother heard his name, he tromped over, looked at the photo and said the boy looked “runty” which was a word he’d picked up from Mr. Williamson, our neighbor across the street, who’d drowned the runt of his basset hound’s litter.
“I tell you I remember the name,” Ma said. “Now that I seen it, I remember it. Corkrun,” she said and then carefully repeated, “Cork-run.”
“Well, so what if it is him?” Gram said, stepping back and eying Brother who had his arm elbow deep in the cookie jar. “What you ’spect to happen if you find him?”
Ma didn’t answer. She pushed back her
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