Read Online Velva Jean Learns to Drive by Jennifer Niven - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Jennifer Niven
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mountains we live in. It’s going to be the greatest scenic road in the world. A road of unlimited horizons.”
I listened until I couldn’t listen anymore. I stood up and said, “A road across the mountains? From Virginia to here? Does it take you to Africa or England too?”
Daddy stared at me.
Granny walked onto the porch. She said, “Velva Jean.”
I said, “Did you bring me something from the mountaintops? From the horizon?”
Daddy said, “I brought money. I worked hard to get it, to bring it back.” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. He said, “There’s something for you in my bag.”
I said, “I don’t want it.”
And then I pushed past Granny and walked straight upstairs to my room and shut the door.
When we got up the next day, Daddy was gone and so was the sack of Mama’s things. But Daddy had left an envelope, fat with money, and he had left me something as well—an emerald, big and uncut. Johnny Clay whistled. He said, “You can’t get that kind of rock down here. Only place you can find emeralds is up there at Linville or Little Switzerland, up in the Black Mountains. What was Daddy doing up there?”
I didn’t say anything. I was turning the rock around and around in my hand so that it caught the light and made the green come alive.
Sweet Fern said, “A gem that size is probably worth some money.”
Ruby Poole said, “You ought to have Uncle Turk cut and polish it for you. He could turn it into a pretty ring or necklace.” Uncle Turk was Mama’s brother who lived down on the river banks like an Indian, cutting and polishing gems and camping along the river, living off the game he caught.
I looked at the rock as I turned it around, and I liked the feel of it—rough and raw, so sharp it could cut my hand. I thought I just might keep it that way.
I took the emerald upstairs and slid my hatbox out from under my bed. The hatbox was left over from Sweet Fern’s wedding hat and was where I kept all my treasures, little things I’d collected and that Mama and others had given me—a painted thimble, a silver whistle, my Little Orphan Annie secret decoder ring, some pretty stones, my fairy crosses, and clover jewelry me and Mama made. I had papered the insides with pictures of Buddy Rogers, the handsomest man I had ever seen, and Carole Lombard, swearing that I would one day be that glamorous. When I told Mama, she said of course I would, that I could do anything I put my mind to and not to forget it.
I opened the hatbox and set the emerald inside it, and then I closed it back up again. Then I went downstairs for breakfast. No one ate or talked, and when I walked outside afterward to give the leftovers to Hunter Firth, I saw Beachard’s stone—the one he had brought from the woods after Mama’s funeral. It sat, large and blank, still completely bare and empty—which was somehow worse than any message he could have written. Up on the hill, at the head of Mama’s grave, sat the enormous cross our daddy had carved. It was so heavy that it had started to lean a little, tilting forward over the earth as if it was bowing to Mama.
That night I lay in bed thinking about my daddy’s note—the one he’d left for Mama—until my face grew hot and my chest felt dull and heavy, like someone was sitting on it. When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed about my daddy and the little slip of paper he had left behind for Mama. He would hold it over my head, just out of reach, and wave it back and forth, laughing.
“Where you reckon that note is now?” I asked Johnny Clay, but he said it didn’t matter, that Mama was gone now and finding the note couldn’t bring her back. But I wanted to find it. I had to know what it said.
The next night, when everyone was sleeping, I got out of bed and went into Mama’s room thinking I would go through her things till I found it. But when I walked in and shut the door behind me, I forgot why I was there because everything was just the way Mama
I listened until I couldn’t listen anymore. I stood up and said, “A road across the mountains? From Virginia to here? Does it take you to Africa or England too?”
Daddy stared at me.
Granny walked onto the porch. She said, “Velva Jean.”
I said, “Did you bring me something from the mountaintops? From the horizon?”
Daddy said, “I brought money. I worked hard to get it, to bring it back.” His voice caught, and he cleared his throat. He said, “There’s something for you in my bag.”
I said, “I don’t want it.”
And then I pushed past Granny and walked straight upstairs to my room and shut the door.
When we got up the next day, Daddy was gone and so was the sack of Mama’s things. But Daddy had left an envelope, fat with money, and he had left me something as well—an emerald, big and uncut. Johnny Clay whistled. He said, “You can’t get that kind of rock down here. Only place you can find emeralds is up there at Linville or Little Switzerland, up in the Black Mountains. What was Daddy doing up there?”
I didn’t say anything. I was turning the rock around and around in my hand so that it caught the light and made the green come alive.
Sweet Fern said, “A gem that size is probably worth some money.”
Ruby Poole said, “You ought to have Uncle Turk cut and polish it for you. He could turn it into a pretty ring or necklace.” Uncle Turk was Mama’s brother who lived down on the river banks like an Indian, cutting and polishing gems and camping along the river, living off the game he caught.
I looked at the rock as I turned it around, and I liked the feel of it—rough and raw, so sharp it could cut my hand. I thought I just might keep it that way.
I took the emerald upstairs and slid my hatbox out from under my bed. The hatbox was left over from Sweet Fern’s wedding hat and was where I kept all my treasures, little things I’d collected and that Mama and others had given me—a painted thimble, a silver whistle, my Little Orphan Annie secret decoder ring, some pretty stones, my fairy crosses, and clover jewelry me and Mama made. I had papered the insides with pictures of Buddy Rogers, the handsomest man I had ever seen, and Carole Lombard, swearing that I would one day be that glamorous. When I told Mama, she said of course I would, that I could do anything I put my mind to and not to forget it.
I opened the hatbox and set the emerald inside it, and then I closed it back up again. Then I went downstairs for breakfast. No one ate or talked, and when I walked outside afterward to give the leftovers to Hunter Firth, I saw Beachard’s stone—the one he had brought from the woods after Mama’s funeral. It sat, large and blank, still completely bare and empty—which was somehow worse than any message he could have written. Up on the hill, at the head of Mama’s grave, sat the enormous cross our daddy had carved. It was so heavy that it had started to lean a little, tilting forward over the earth as if it was bowing to Mama.
That night I lay in bed thinking about my daddy’s note—the one he’d left for Mama—until my face grew hot and my chest felt dull and heavy, like someone was sitting on it. When I finally fell asleep, I dreamed about my daddy and the little slip of paper he had left behind for Mama. He would hold it over my head, just out of reach, and wave it back and forth, laughing.
“Where you reckon that note is now?” I asked Johnny Clay, but he said it didn’t matter, that Mama was gone now and finding the note couldn’t bring her back. But I wanted to find it. I had to know what it said.
The next night, when everyone was sleeping, I got out of bed and went into Mama’s room thinking I would go through her things till I found it. But when I walked in and shut the door behind me, I forgot why I was there because everything was just the way Mama
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