Kentuck Indian and her face had been brown and broad, with wonderful black eyes that usually sparkled and laughed. If it hadn’t been for her I couldn’t think of what might have happened to me. More than likely I’d be sitting around somewhere feeling sorry for myself—the one thing Granny wouldn’t ever let me do.
My father had never cared anything about me, nor my mother either for that matter, but Granny had adored me. Every time my father lost his job or leftthe house I was sent to live with her, and I couldn’t wait to get there. I’d sit on the train coach overnight with my cardboard suitcase on the seat beside me and I could barely sleep for being so happy. She had a little farm in Deepwater, Missouri that had hardly any kind of a house on it at all, just a little ramshackle place in the backlands, but I thought it was wonderful. It made me smile just to think about it now. All the house had was one tiny bedroom that, even though it was three feet above the kitchen, had no stairs to it. Whenever Granny and I went to bed we had to shinny ourselves up. She must have been close to seventy the last time I was there, but she was able to scramble up almost as fast as I.
Living with her had been like living with another little girl who was just older and smarter than I was. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t do, except maybe handle a plow. At home my father had never let me help him because he said that I couldn’t do anything right, but Granny had let me help with everything—milking the cow, tending the chickens, cooking and baking. She even let me help plant the vegetable garden, another thing my father wouldn’t let me do. I couldn’t keep the rows straight, he used to tell me. But Granny said she didn’t give a hoot about straight rows. The potatoes I planted in her garden grew all over, sometimes crossing into the spinach, which curved around behind the tomatoes. It was less of a garden than a living salad, but when it all came out of the ground Granny couldn’t get over how smart I was to have performed such a miracle, or so she told me.
I’d lived with her for a whole year that last time, and I’d never forget how terrible I’d felt when my mother finally wrote me to come home because my father was working again. Granny couldn’t read, so I’d even thought of not telling her what was in the letter, but I couldn’t He to her. She felt as bad as I did, but there wasn’t anything we could do.
That last night we’d spent together we tried to pretend that it was just like any other night. We went to bed right after supper the way we always did and I read to her from the Bible for a while. I knew the Bookof Psalms was her favorite, so I was reading from that. Granny had decided she couldn’t abide beds after my grandfather died, so we were lying on thick patchwork quilts on the floor. It was warm enough so that we didn’t need a blanket, and she was curled up beside me, her knees pulled up and poking at her cotton nightie, her hair done in a long braid down to her waist. Her eyes were closed, and after a while I thought she was asleep, so I put the Bible away.
Before I leaned over to turn down the oil lamp I looked at her face, seeing the deep lines in it. It was so dark and looked so Indian that I could almost imagine her living in a tepee, sewing hides and things like that. She wasn’t asleep, though. Her eyes popped open and she smiled at me. She was a tiny little thing, thin in the shoulders and heavy in the waist. Even though I was only eleven I was bigger than she was.
“You fooled me,” I said.
It was a game we played sometimes. If she fell asleep while I was reading I could go without washing my hands and face the next morning. But if she caught me I had to wash my neck and my ears.
“No, I jus’ dozed off. I really did.”
She took my hand and squeezed it. I could feel the calluses on hers. “I’m gonna miss you, Annie.”
I’d tried hard not to whine or cry up to then,
My father had never cared anything about me, nor my mother either for that matter, but Granny had adored me. Every time my father lost his job or leftthe house I was sent to live with her, and I couldn’t wait to get there. I’d sit on the train coach overnight with my cardboard suitcase on the seat beside me and I could barely sleep for being so happy. She had a little farm in Deepwater, Missouri that had hardly any kind of a house on it at all, just a little ramshackle place in the backlands, but I thought it was wonderful. It made me smile just to think about it now. All the house had was one tiny bedroom that, even though it was three feet above the kitchen, had no stairs to it. Whenever Granny and I went to bed we had to shinny ourselves up. She must have been close to seventy the last time I was there, but she was able to scramble up almost as fast as I.
Living with her had been like living with another little girl who was just older and smarter than I was. There wasn’t anything she couldn’t do, except maybe handle a plow. At home my father had never let me help him because he said that I couldn’t do anything right, but Granny had let me help with everything—milking the cow, tending the chickens, cooking and baking. She even let me help plant the vegetable garden, another thing my father wouldn’t let me do. I couldn’t keep the rows straight, he used to tell me. But Granny said she didn’t give a hoot about straight rows. The potatoes I planted in her garden grew all over, sometimes crossing into the spinach, which curved around behind the tomatoes. It was less of a garden than a living salad, but when it all came out of the ground Granny couldn’t get over how smart I was to have performed such a miracle, or so she told me.
I’d lived with her for a whole year that last time, and I’d never forget how terrible I’d felt when my mother finally wrote me to come home because my father was working again. Granny couldn’t read, so I’d even thought of not telling her what was in the letter, but I couldn’t He to her. She felt as bad as I did, but there wasn’t anything we could do.
That last night we’d spent together we tried to pretend that it was just like any other night. We went to bed right after supper the way we always did and I read to her from the Bible for a while. I knew the Bookof Psalms was her favorite, so I was reading from that. Granny had decided she couldn’t abide beds after my grandfather died, so we were lying on thick patchwork quilts on the floor. It was warm enough so that we didn’t need a blanket, and she was curled up beside me, her knees pulled up and poking at her cotton nightie, her hair done in a long braid down to her waist. Her eyes were closed, and after a while I thought she was asleep, so I put the Bible away.
Before I leaned over to turn down the oil lamp I looked at her face, seeing the deep lines in it. It was so dark and looked so Indian that I could almost imagine her living in a tepee, sewing hides and things like that. She wasn’t asleep, though. Her eyes popped open and she smiled at me. She was a tiny little thing, thin in the shoulders and heavy in the waist. Even though I was only eleven I was bigger than she was.
“You fooled me,” I said.
It was a game we played sometimes. If she fell asleep while I was reading I could go without washing my hands and face the next morning. But if she caught me I had to wash my neck and my ears.
“No, I jus’ dozed off. I really did.”
She took my hand and squeezed it. I could feel the calluses on hers. “I’m gonna miss you, Annie.”
I’d tried hard not to whine or cry up to then,
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