Read Online Velva Jean Learns to Drive by Jennifer Niven - Free Book Online
Authors: Jennifer Niven
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took in washing and sewing. She never asked where Daddy wandered to.
Whenever he came home, I searched his pockets for the gold dust that always seemed to be there, and even though Mama never did, I always asked where he had been. He started telling me: “I’ve just come from London, England, where I talked with the king,” or “I’ve just got back from Constantinople, where I met with the prince.”
Afterward I would pull out the map of the world that Daddy Hoyt had given Beachard on his tenth birthday and look up the places Daddy had been. I put my finger on North Carolina, right toward the very bottom left corner of the state where I knew we lived, and then followed the route to England or France or Egypt or wherever it was with my other hand. I tried to picture my daddy in those far-off countries, doing important work that kings and whole governments needed him for.
“Do you think Daddy is in Africa by now?” I had asked Sweet Fern one day when Sweet Fern was seventeen and I was seven. I’d been lying on the ground, trying to see pictures in the clouds. I was supposed to be helping Sweet Fern with the wash but I’d gotten sleepy because me and Johnny Clay had stayed up all night catching lightning bugs in a jar and watching them till their lights went out.
“What on earth are you talking about, Velva Jean? Daddy’s not in Africa.”
“Oh yes he is. He told me so.”
“Daddy is over in Copperhill or Waynesville.”
This made me mad, and I thought Sweet Fern was mean for saying so. “He is not. He told me he’s in Africa. He’s going to bring me back a real live nose tusk like the natives wear.”
“Well, he isn’t. He’s right over there on the other side of the mountain or in Hazel Bald or somewhere else around here that he can get to by walking.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Velva Jean,” Sweet Fern had bent over and looked me straight in the eye. “Sometime you got to learn that what folks says and what’s the truth ain’t always the same.”
That was when I learned that Daddy didn’t go anywhere far or interesting or important when he left us. He barely even went past our own mountain. And all those things he brought me back from his trips—from Africa or China or Ireland—were just things he’d picked up over the hill or down in Georgia or across the line in Tennessee, things that suddenly had no meaning once I knew where they were really from.
Daddy was still crying when he walked in the door. He sat down next to me and took my hand and gathered me close, and for a few minutes we cried together. Then he wiped his eyes and stood up and ran his palms down the fronts of his pants to dry them. I watched him as he walked to the front door, just as calm and quiet as you please, and went out into the night. He took off faster and faster, his long, buck-dancing legs pulling him down that hill. Sweet Fern followed after him, yelling, “Where do you think you’re going?” But he didn’t answer. We all knew he was going to get his hands on the meanest third-run sugar liquor he could find, the kind that made you drunk fastest and hardest.
Hours later—along about three o’clock—Sheriff D. D. Story came up to the house from Hamlet’s Mill. He said, “We found Lincoln Sr. down in town, liquored up and causing trouble outside Baskin’s Bar. He got into an automobile with a woman he didn’t know and scared the wits out of her.”
Johnny Clay said, “You can keep him.”
Sweet Fern said, “Johnny Clay.”
He said, “I mean it. Let him stay overnight and sleep it off. It might do him some good. One of us might come for him tomorrow. Or we might not.”
Beach said, “I think Johnny Clay’s right. Leave him in there.” Beach was already on his way back to bed.
The rest of us looked at Johnny Clay. He said, “We’ll most likely see you tomorrow, Sheriff.”
The next day, sometime after lunch, Johnny Clay rode down to town with Linc in Linc’s old farm truck. It took
Whenever he came home, I searched his pockets for the gold dust that always seemed to be there, and even though Mama never did, I always asked where he had been. He started telling me: “I’ve just come from London, England, where I talked with the king,” or “I’ve just got back from Constantinople, where I met with the prince.”
Afterward I would pull out the map of the world that Daddy Hoyt had given Beachard on his tenth birthday and look up the places Daddy had been. I put my finger on North Carolina, right toward the very bottom left corner of the state where I knew we lived, and then followed the route to England or France or Egypt or wherever it was with my other hand. I tried to picture my daddy in those far-off countries, doing important work that kings and whole governments needed him for.
“Do you think Daddy is in Africa by now?” I had asked Sweet Fern one day when Sweet Fern was seventeen and I was seven. I’d been lying on the ground, trying to see pictures in the clouds. I was supposed to be helping Sweet Fern with the wash but I’d gotten sleepy because me and Johnny Clay had stayed up all night catching lightning bugs in a jar and watching them till their lights went out.
“What on earth are you talking about, Velva Jean? Daddy’s not in Africa.”
“Oh yes he is. He told me so.”
“Daddy is over in Copperhill or Waynesville.”
This made me mad, and I thought Sweet Fern was mean for saying so. “He is not. He told me he’s in Africa. He’s going to bring me back a real live nose tusk like the natives wear.”
“Well, he isn’t. He’s right over there on the other side of the mountain or in Hazel Bald or somewhere else around here that he can get to by walking.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“Velva Jean,” Sweet Fern had bent over and looked me straight in the eye. “Sometime you got to learn that what folks says and what’s the truth ain’t always the same.”
That was when I learned that Daddy didn’t go anywhere far or interesting or important when he left us. He barely even went past our own mountain. And all those things he brought me back from his trips—from Africa or China or Ireland—were just things he’d picked up over the hill or down in Georgia or across the line in Tennessee, things that suddenly had no meaning once I knew where they were really from.
Daddy was still crying when he walked in the door. He sat down next to me and took my hand and gathered me close, and for a few minutes we cried together. Then he wiped his eyes and stood up and ran his palms down the fronts of his pants to dry them. I watched him as he walked to the front door, just as calm and quiet as you please, and went out into the night. He took off faster and faster, his long, buck-dancing legs pulling him down that hill. Sweet Fern followed after him, yelling, “Where do you think you’re going?” But he didn’t answer. We all knew he was going to get his hands on the meanest third-run sugar liquor he could find, the kind that made you drunk fastest and hardest.
Hours later—along about three o’clock—Sheriff D. D. Story came up to the house from Hamlet’s Mill. He said, “We found Lincoln Sr. down in town, liquored up and causing trouble outside Baskin’s Bar. He got into an automobile with a woman he didn’t know and scared the wits out of her.”
Johnny Clay said, “You can keep him.”
Sweet Fern said, “Johnny Clay.”
He said, “I mean it. Let him stay overnight and sleep it off. It might do him some good. One of us might come for him tomorrow. Or we might not.”
Beach said, “I think Johnny Clay’s right. Leave him in there.” Beach was already on his way back to bed.
The rest of us looked at Johnny Clay. He said, “We’ll most likely see you tomorrow, Sheriff.”
The next day, sometime after lunch, Johnny Clay rode down to town with Linc in Linc’s old farm truck. It took
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