Billie Girl

By Vickie Weaver

"Honestly strange and strangely honest. . . . Remarkably compelling and powerful. Weaver's authenticity of characters, situations, and bygone eras emanates from sheer originality of style. This amazing novel is a stellar achievementgritty, funny, fresh, and bold. It will make your eyes bug out and your pulse race. And how it shines, shines with humanity!"Sena Jeter Naslund, author of Ahab's Wife

"Southern Gothic to the core, suffused with a humor as dark as the bottom of a Georgia well. . . .Weaver has stepped forward for the benefit of anyone who reads American fiction."Kirby Gann, author of Our Napoleon in Rags

"Savagely funny, wildly ambitious. . . . A bawdy, brutal, and beautiful meditation on identity, sex, and mercy. Weaver has a fiercely distinctive vision."K.L. Cook, author of The Girl from Charnelle

"Darkly comic, deeply poignant. . . . Billie Girl is the adventurer through a long, strange trip that is life itself."Roy Hoffman, author of Chicken Dreaming Corn

Abandoned as in infant because of her incessant crying, Billie Girl is raised by two women who are brothers. Her life, a gender-bending puzzle filled with dark humor, is a series of encounters with strangers who struggle along with what they are given: a bigamist husband, a long-lost daughter named after a car, a lesbian preacher's wife, a platonic second husband who loved her adoptive father. Twin themes of sexuality and euthanasia run throughout. In a journey from hard-dirt Georgia farm to end-of-life nursing home, Billie Girl comes to understand the mercy of killing.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Leapfrog Press
• Release date: Aug 31, 2010
• ISBN: 9780979641503

Book preview

1900

Easter Sunday,

the baby girl slipped out of the womb bleeding like a woman. She bled and cried for ninety days. The first week, the midwife helped the new parents, Mr. and Mrs. Ash, but after that returned home to her own family of six children (aged ten to sixteen, the ten-year-olds being twins). She was sore relieved that she lived miles away, out of earshot of the screaming baby. There was nothing to be done for it, the midwife said: this one had been born with the hysteria, and perhaps prayer would help.

By the first of June, Mr. and Mrs. Ash were at their wits’ end, but they did not pray. Neither of them believed in prayer, because if prayers were answered, Mrs. Ash would have birthed a boy to help on the small Georgia farm her unmarried brother had rented for them all, then deserted. He had moved to the edge of a far-away ocean, to a place called San Francisco.

Having recently arrived on the farm, Mr. Ash was overwhelmed. He went out every day to work in unfamiliar fields, but kept looking back over his shoulder, hounded by his daughter’s cry. The only time she paused her wailing was when she nursed, but exhaustion soon dried up Mrs. Ash’s milk, and piping cow’s milk into the howling mouth became an ordeal of its own. Each of the parents slept in snatches and fits, and became short-tempered with each other, themselves, and a little yellow dog they found on their stoop one morning, a hungry stray who was nothing if not good-natured.

The Ashes were burly, red-faced Northerners, who had convinced themselves they were tired of cold and snow. They had followed Mrs. Ash’s brother to Georgia, but after weeks had passed, they found themselves uncomfortable with the intensity of Southern weather. Maybe the baby was too warm, they reasoned, as they sat at the table one evening, eating the overcooked beans and dry cornbread that had become the staples of their diet. Mr. Ash had not gone hunting since their daughter was born, and Mrs. Ash had been unable to put in a kitchen garden, so their canned goods were running low. He mopped his forehead with a homemade handkerchief, and his wife poured him another cup of boiling coffee.

Let’s fix a bed for her outdoors, they agreed, and Mr. Ash fashioned a sling out of a bolt of muslin and hung it from a stout branch in a warty silver maple tree that was settled all by its lonesome near a family of oaks. They thought that the maple’s location, a hundred feet from the house, would guarantee a nice breeze.

The baby girl continued to cry night and day, swinging from the tree, but a time or two Mr. Ash could lean against the plow horse’s flank and close his eyes. Mrs. Ash was able to take a nap one afternoon, and felt so rested that she made a two-egg cake for their supper that night. Diapers were changed twice a day, and daily baths were given in the close, dark kitchen, because the Ashes were not cruel folk. Though Mrs. Ash washed the slings every other day, urine stained them. At least the hard Georgia heat dried wet clothes in minutes. Though the baby was rained on a time or two in the night, her parents, dozing in their bed, convinced themselves it could not be raining. They yawned and rearranged themselves in their cornhusk mattress instead of bringing their prickly daughter into the house.

Friday, July 13, Mr. and Mrs. Ash decided they should move back North where they had come from, and packed with haste only what would fit in one wagon. The next morning, Mrs. Ash fed and changed the disagreeable baby. While Mr. Ash tethered the cow to the back of the wagon, his wife climbed onto the wagon seat. When he jumped up beside her, he set the whip to motivate the horses, and the Ashes left the South behind.

The dog dutifully scampered alongside for a while, then disappeared. Mr. and Mrs. Ash were half the day down the road before they let themselves remember they had left their baby hanging in the tree. No matter. They had gone too far to turn back. Knowing that the midwife’s husband trotted by their house on the way into town every Saturday afternoon (he howdy-ed them but never stopped), the Ashes traveled on with no misgivings about their daughter.

Late that morning, the baby smiled—it looked like a smile. She was hungry, her bottom was wet, and mucky with shit, but she was getting used to that. The hand in the wind gentled her back and forth, and she calmed a bit, alternating between loud bawls and pathetic whimpers. She was tired, after all, but stuck in a certain pattern of behavior. Cry, cry, cry.

She could only see up, and everything was green and leafy, though blue rips of sky showed now and then. Suddenly a face appeared close to hers. Her pink baby fingers poked it in the eye.

Goodness, if it ain’t a baby! the woman said, rubbing her injured eye. She turned to the man beside her, and said, Trettor, help me git this baby out of here!

The man and woman, husband and wife, were not young, but not gray yet either. It took both of them to separate the child from the sling without dropping her on the ground. Though the bundle was sodden and smelly, the woman did not seem to notice her dress being wetted by the diaper when she carried the fussy baby to the little square house.

Ain’t somebody to home? she asked at the front door of the two-room house, while her husband looked in the small, leftover barn behind the house. They had only stopped for him to pee under the maple tree, but found the baby, so he relieved himself in a corner of the barn. A little yellow dog padded into the barn and sat down to watch the stream of urine disappear into a fistful of straw.

Ain’t nobody around here as far as I can tell, Trettor said, stepping into the house. Feels like somebody lit out in a hurry. Which is what we got to do, Lucy. We’ll be needing to get along. What are we going to do with that baby?

Well I ain’t a-leaving it here! Lawdamercy, what do you suppose happened to its folks? Bring in a pail off the wagon, and get me some water. I’ll clean up this child and we’ll be on our way. Trettor obeyed her bidding, and she hollered at his back, Bring a quilt, too, and some rags.

The panting dog came into the house with Trettor, and kept his eyes on the man as he set the pail of water down and folded the quilt in quarters. When he spread it on the slatted wood floor, Lucy placed the fretting baby there and undressed it.

Look! It’s a girl! she exclaimed. And I wager she’s hungry.

Don’t you go getting any notions, Trettor warned.

Notions is about all I got left, Trettor. Lucy’s chin trembled as she smoothed the black peach fuzz on the baby’s soft round head.

I got to get you out West, Trettor said, squatting to put his arm around Lucy’s shoulders. You got to be where it’s hot and dry, the doctor said.

Lucy did not answer, because there was no satisfactory way to address the truth. Instead, she wiped the tiny face, torso and fleshy arms with a wet rag. Help me, she said, and when Trettor saw that she meant to dip the baby’s bottom into the pail to clean her, he did help by rubbing his calloused fingers over the baby’s buttocks and around its cleft while Lucy gripped her under the armpits. Though it was oven-like in the house, the little girl shivered.

That should do it, Lucy said, pulling her out of the dirty water as if she had been scrubbed on a washboard. The timid dog nosed at the water until Trettor dumped it outside in polished dirt by the front door. He told Lucy he should see to the horses, but she paid him no mind, busy settling the baby on the quilt to dry her off.

The Ashes had also forgotten the few clothes Mrs. Ash had sewn in preparation for the son they did not have. Gowns, diapers and receiving blankets were spread out on a small table near the bedstead built into one corner. While Lucy looked at the gowns, squinting at the even stitches in them, the little yellow dog side-stepped its way back into the house, over to the naked baby, and lapped its cautious tongue over her bleeding place. Lucy was studying what someone had penciled on a torn scrap of paper (Billie Girl, b. Easter Sunday, April 15, 1900) when there was a squeal.

Shoo! Bad dog! Lucy stomped her feet and chased the dog out the open door. She picked up the wet rag and wiped the dog’s slobber off the wide-eyed baby before she fastened a diaper on her, then slipped a doll-sized gown over her head. Hello, Billie Girl, she whispered.

Lucy hurried to unbutton her dress from the top before Trettor came back inside. Her own daughter had died only days before. She dragged a left-behind ladder-back chair to the door, for better light, and sat down with Billie Girl snug in her arms.

Latch on, honey, try, Lucy cooed, rubbing her cracked nipple against Billie’s perfect lips. Billie did latch on. Her throat was dry, but being less than a hundred days old, she had nothing to compare that feeling to, though it seemed more like hunger than thirst. She worked and sucked and pulled on the nipple, and when Lucy cried out, Billie looked up into her eyes and paused for a moment. But only for a moment. As liquid filled the tiny mouth, Trettor blocked the light coming in the door.

Lucy, I told you, he started, but her look stopped the argument already forming on his tongue.

We can’t keep her, I know. Lucy kissed the top of the baby’s head. But she needs me. I’m going to see she’s fed until we find someone to take her, that’s all.

Trettor convinced Lucy to nurse from her pallet in the wagon so that they could be on their way, even though they weren’t quite sure of their destination—somewhere along the way to California, or maybe California itself, someplace hot and dry, with mild winters. Someplace not Virginia. Earlier that day, Trettor had been told to follow this red dirt road to a fork, and take the west one. There was only one planned stop along the way, to see Lucy’s sister in Memphis. Just before Trettor slapped the reins to stir the pair of horses, the little yellow dog hopped into the back of the wagon, under the makeshift canopy, and curled up near Lucy’s feet. His stomach did not growl, because Trettor had thrown him the brick of cornbread left on the back of the cook stove.

Billie Girl emptied both of Lucy’s breasts and fell asleep. She and Lucy were still sleeping when Trettor reached the fork in the road, but the dog woke up and stuck his head out the front of the wagon, nosing Trettor’s right shoulder. A boy with slumped posture was standing in the middle of the north fork, watching the wagon approach. He hailed the wagon and Trettor reined in the horses.

Heading north? the boy hollered, his bare feet shuffling.

Trettor shook his head. West.

Oh, well, it don’t matter to me, the boy said, coming alongside the wagon seat, nodding his head toward the back of the wagon. You got anything in here worth having?

Trettor secured the reins and jumped off the seat before the boy could look around on his own.

My name’s Mosey. What’s yours? the boy asked.

I need to check on my wife, Trettor said by way of answer, and crawled into the back of the wagon. The baby was sleeping, and so was Lucy, but it was more than sleep for his wife. He had seen her this way twice before; she was out for a day and a night the last time. His chest squeezed when he thought Billie Girl had taken Lucy away from him, but relaxed when he saw the heartbeat in her neck. He picked up Billie Girl, gripping her doll-sized shoulders as if he might shake her, but instead, pressed his lips against her perfect, smooth forehead. That’s when he noticed her birthmark: a tiny cross on the crown of her head. It would soon disappear under straight, dark locks.

Trettor looked back over his shoulder at the sun. It was slip-sliding away, and he was sinking along with it. He carried Billie Girl out of the wagon. So, Mosey, he asked, do you think you could find this baby a home? My wife is too sick to care for her, and we’ve got to get to Memphis.

Mosey expected to run across a town in a mile or so, so he continued north. The soles of his feet were worn thin and his stomach growled. He had walked days on lonesome roads since his daddy had showed him the door, said he was old enough to be out on his own. I got too many mouths to feed, he’d shouted, to feed you, too. Mosey’s legs still bore raised scars and oozing scabs from the Jesus belt hanging by the back door. Worse than that, every day Mosey recalled how empty his mother’s eyes had been when she said nothing in his favor and watched him leave. He had to learn to go to sleep at night without her goodnight kiss, and, at thirteen years of age, was ashamed that he still craved her kiss.

In minutes, Mosey came to an ugly two-story house shaped like a cube, sided with muddy brown shingles. A dark porch was overhung by a top-heavy second story. The roof was slick, hot tin. In contrast to the plain house were the flowers planted around the porch, red flowers that someone had labored to water in the Georgia heat. He did not know the names of flowers. Pausing to shift the load of the sleeping baby and her clothes, he noticed lace curtains at the open front windows on both stories of the house. He stepped onto porch floor boards painted a soapy blue, and knocked on the screen door. When he looked back at the flowers, he saw poison ivy growing along the steps.

A short, low-bellied woman answered his knock. Her face fuzzed yellow, as if sawdust had blown onto her cheeks. Patting the unruly knot of blonde hair at her nape, she bellowed, not unkindly: What do you want? In spite of the warm evening, she was wearing a long-sleeved black dress buttoned up to her neck. She swiped her sweaty forehead with her right sleeve, something Mosey had seen his own daddy do.

Hello, Ma’am, Mosey said. I was wondering if you might have some milk for this here baby, and he turned a bit so that the woman could see Billie Girl’s peaceful, symmetrical face. I found her along the roadside.

You found a baby? She opened the screen door to take a closer look. That most certainly is a baby. The woman took Billie Girl from Mosey without asking. Come on in, boy. She followed him, shouting, Carla! We have a guest, Carla! She let the screen door slam behind her.

I’ll be right there, Edith! the woman called Carla shouted from another room. The baby did not wake up when Edith put her down on the tapestry Brussels carpet.

This here paper was with her, Mosey said, handing a brown scrap to Edith. Says her name is Billie Girl, borned April 15. He set down the sack of baby items.

I can see that, Edith said, removing Billie Girl’s wet clothes, then putting a clean diaper and gown on her. She’s beautiful, isn’t she? The woman, not young, close to old, kissed the baby’s cheek.

Hello, Carla greeted Mosey, stepping into the room as she wiped her hands on a white cloth. Her dress was the same style as the other woman’s, but she was tall, and her black braid was streaked with gray. I’ve got supper on the table—why don’t you join us, young man? We’ve got plenty. And—what is that, Edith? A baby? Carla dropped to her knees beside Edith. She whispered, Is this the baby we’ve been praying for? Her long-fingered hands hovered over the slumbering infant.

Edith leaned her head on Carla’s shoulder. It could be, sister. Look! She’s got a fuzz of your dark hair.

It’s a girl? Carla’s eyes misted over, and it seemed she tried not to cry, the way she wrinkled up her

Reviews for Billie Girl

[bookratmisty · Rating: 5 out of 5 stars]

Billie Girl was an interesting ride. I have to start by saying that I don't think this book is for everyone, by any means. But I also have to say, if you should really be able to tell from the synopsis above whether it's the right book for you, so it shouldn't be too much of an issue. Me, I read that little bit of oddness up there and thought, yes, please. And I loved it.The story Vicki Weaver has crafted is in some ways reminiscent of Flannery O'Conner and William Faulkner. Now, I'm not saying that she's at their level -- yet -- but there is a similar feel of the rich, dark Southern Gothic about it, and she has the ability to get to the core of things in a way that's shocking and bizarre and horribly and perfectly human. The characters that populate Billie Girl's life are oddities that will stay with you. As far-fetched and strange as they can be, they are always relatable and real at their core. They all have things they are trying to hide or overcome or pretend away, and they Weaver makes you connect to them through these things.There are some really deep, complicated issues at the heart of Billie Girl (like gender, sexuality, and euthanasia), and I have to commend Weaver for her handling of them. This isn't a didactic piece aimed at converting people to a particular way of seeing things. It's more an exploration of these deep issues, and of love and humanity, and it's done with love and humanity. It's by turns funny, tragic, heartwarming and painful. It's unflinching, and Weaver is really good at knowing when not to hold back. Even as you're wishing things could be different and happy, you know they can't and won't be, and I respect Vicki Weaver and authors like her who don't go for the saccharine and the easy way out. I'm eager to see what she does next.[Note: I received a review copy of Billie Girl from Leapfrog Press at my request.]

[shelleyraec · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

Billie Girls is a story of both unrelenting tragedy and ordinary humanity. Abandoned at birth, Billie Girl is sold for a silver coin to Mama Edith and Big Mom. Raised with care, if not love, by the unusual pair, their deaths again leave Billie Girl at the mercy of Fate. As Billie Girl grows to adult hood and then old age we are witness to her difficult existence and the rare moments of relief of her experience.I chose Billie Girl from the NetGalley catalogue because I was intrigued by the sypnosis. I wasn't sure what to expect, but thought it was worth taking the chance, and I am glad I did.Billie Girl combines some very confronting themes in an uncompromising and unsentimental way. These themes encompass societal hot buttons - sexuality, euthanasia, child abandoment, adultery and as such have the power to make the reader feel uncomfortable particularly if these are subjects you have specific views on. Loss though, is the universal theme that weaves itself through out this novel, loss of love, identity, family, self respect, inhibitions and life.Weaver has created deeply flawed characters who are in the main disturbing, yet oddly ordinary. You can empathise with the "two mother's" need to keep their secret but not condone some of their actions, Dove is probably the only truly noble character in the entire book, but his influence comes too late for Billie Girl. There is little redemption or joy to counter balance the depressing realities of Billie Girl's life, yet strangely you get the feeling that Billie Girl is mostly content. The characters are difficult contradiction to explain and I think it speaks to the skill of the author's writing style that they are so complex and ambigious. For me, Billie Girl is a book I am glad I had the opportunity to read. It is undeniably thought provoking, if not exactly likeable. It has taken me four days to write this review because it's been so difficult to articulate my thoughts, I'm not sure I have been able to do that successfully anyway. Billie Girl is a complex story that will not appeal to all readers but is strangly compelling and powerful reading.

[roses7184_1 · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

It was interesting to see life through Billie's eyes. Growing up in the South in the 1900's, she has to fend for herself often. If graphic descriptions of bodily functions and sexual exploits bother you, this may not be a book for you. However I can honestly say that I found it a necessary part of the novel. How else would Billie learn about her body than through self exploration? It isn't as though there were sexual education classes in her lifetime. In a way, it does make sense. This story is just so dark. I completely understand why, since Billie's life is never easy, but it is a challenging read. A big part of this book is euthanasia which can be uncomfortable at times. Billie learns at an early age about "killing for mercy" and doesn't seem at odds with it in the least. The reader will soon realize that Billie never catches a break in this story. Each time something devastating happens you hope for the best, but it just never seems to make a difference. I was impressed with Billie's ability to just accept her fate and move on. Put in her shoes, I would be quite a mess. My biggest issue with this story was how mundane it is at times. Granted we are following a character through her day to day life, but I feel as if there could have been more character development during these times. There were portions of the story that just lagged. I also never really felt that I knew Billie and her counterparts, even as I was turning the last page. Good writing, difficult story material, okay characters. With all that combined, this book falls into my "just okay" list.

[bookwormygirl · Rating: 3 out of 5 stars]

I've been holding off on this review for a while now. I always find that if you let your thoughts on a book simmer for a while, you eventually are able to put your feelings down into words.With that said, this was a weird book for me. That necessarily isn't a bad thing. I truly enjoyed reading about the time it is set in (early 1900s). But since the book really is the story of Billie's day to day life it just sort of lagged for me. I had the hopes that with the introduction of various characters throughout the story something MORE would happen, but it just always went back to the same mundane existence. I had several issues with how detailed some of Ms. Weaver's descriptions of bodily functions and sexual exploration were. I really don't see how they were vital to the story and on more than one occasion I found myself uncomfortable reading it. I understand that for a young girl living in this time, the only way to learn about her body was through self-exploration but, I think the way it was written was a bit too graphic for my tastes (and I'm no prude).The story deals with some dark subjects - euthanasia and killing for mercy - and to be quite honest, poor Billie never gets a break. Just when you think things might be looking up for her, things take a nosedive. This is not a happy story - on the other hand, I found myself feeling depressed when done with it. But I must say, aside from the dark subject matter, I found the story rather engrossing. I knew what I was getting into when I started reading it so I wasn't expecting a happy, cheerful story, and I have to say that I read it rather quickly. I was intrigued to see what would happen to Billie and the other characters that you meet along the way. My final thoughts are that this is not a book that will appeal to everyone, but for those who are interested in learning more about life in the early 1900s, euthanasia/mercy killing, and delving into the mind of a character willing to practice it, then this might be a book that interests you. For me it was just okay.

[brainannex · Rating: 2 out of 5 stars]

An odd little book. Interesting as a character study and the sacrifices that one woman can make for all of the different types of men in her life. However, I was disappointed that what seemed like the natural next step of the character never happened and was only barely discussed, and even then with a note of disgust. (Purposely vague for possible spoilers.) Engaging and good turns of phrase but not a stunner.