Unbroken Bonds

By D.W. Hogan and Dawn Hogan

In 1956 the worst thing a teenage girl could do was to become pregnant. Joanna, Prissy, Jessie, and Mary become lifelong friends when they are incarcerated in the Frances Weston Home for Unwedmothers in Knoxville, Tennessee. Together they endure the culture of shame and soul crushing tactics dispensed by the Catholic Nuns who coerce the teenagers into relinquishing their illegitimate babies. The four young womens' vow of friendship bonds them as they rebuild their lives in the Deep South during the turbulent 1960's, while the roles of women and single mothers evolve in the decades that follow. When tragedy strikes, they must decide whether to keep their past secrets or discover the fates of the children they were forced to give away.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Woodhall Press
• Release date: Oct 5, 2021
• ISBN: 9781949116540

Book preview

Chapter 1

The look on her father’s face was one she’d seen far too often. Without warning, he lunged across the kitchen, crashing into the light bulb that hung from the ceiling by a cord and now swung wildly. He pounded his fist on the table. She hated that light. She hated that kitchen, but most of all, she hated her father.

So you got yourself knocked up, aye, Joanna! Harris Wilson’s words spat anger.

Joanna’s brown eyes blinked back the tears she wouldn’t allow. She set her jaw to subdue her anger. A wave of nausea swept over her, caused by the bitter aroma of the coffee.

Who’s the father? Harris’s booming voice carried through the two-bedroom apartment and assured he’d wake the adjacent neighbors.

I’m not gonna tell you, she said through gritted teeth.

You little tramp!

Shhh, Harris, please, you’ll wake the babies, her mother started with a fearful visage.

Don’t shhh me, woman! Harris raged at his wife.

Irene kept her voice low. It’s time for decisions. What’re we gonna do?

She can’t stay here!

Maybe she could go to Aunt Vanda’s, in Murfreesboro, Irene suggested. Sitting at the far end of the table, Irene frowned. Taking a sip of coffee, she smoothed her gray-brown hair.

No, that’s no good. How’s it acceptable for you to bring a bastard into this world?

I don’t know. How many bastards of yours are out there? Joanna’s words no more than left her mouth when her father’s forceful fist struck her. Joanna glared at him. Salty blood warmed her tongue as she licked her broken lip. He tightened his fist as if he might hit her again; instead, he turned and stared out the window at the converging pink hues of the early morning.

Irene ran a rag under the cold-water tap. Hesitant, Joanna accepted the cloth along with the sting it inflicted as she held it to her mouth. Irene returned to her chair and shot Joanna a look begging her not to antagonize Harris. Joanna’s last comment alluded to her father’s constant philandering. Aside from his drinking, it was the primary source of disharmony within the family.

I know of a place, the Frances Weston Home, in Knoxville, Harris announced.

No! Don’t send me away! Joanna begged. Her father was referring to one of those horrible places families hid their pregnant daughters and took away their babies. Joanna intended to keep her baby and raise it with Jack. As soon as Catherine was well, Jack promised he’d leave his wife and marry Joanna.

We can’t afford it! Irene panicked.

We ain’t payin’ for it. I hope the father of your illegitimate brat isn’t a deadbeat. Harris drank his paycheck more often than he brought it home. Joanna found his hypocrisy laughable. He’ll be payin’ the tab.

His icy tone sent a queasy wave through her stomach and Joanna bolted to the bathroom. Her parents’ angry words resonated louder as the argument escalated. At last, she recovered from dry heaves. She rinsed her mouth under the cold running faucet of the porcelain sink, then watched the diluted red swirl vanish down the blackness of the drain.

This is all your fault! Her father’s hateful words echoed in the hallway. The green flickering of the fluorescent lights on either side of the mirrored medicine cabinet gave a strobe light effect as Joanna examined her swelling split lip. Her jaw ached. Suddenly a crash came from the kitchen. The back door slammed and her mother’s footfalls approached.

The woman handed her daughter a piece of ice. Tucking the girl’s brown hair behind her ear, she examined the injury.

You’re lucky ya don’t have a black eye to go with it. Honestly, Joanna, ya don’t wanna provoke him right now.

I’m not givin’ my baby away. You can’t make me. With Harris gone, Joanna let the tears come. The girl winced as she put the ice on her lip.

Ya ain’t thinkin’ clearly. Ya can’t keep it. Ya’d better talk with the man responsible. If he’ll give ya the money for a stay in Knoxville, this whole thing’ll blow over, Irene bargained. She placed her hand softly on Joanna’s shoulder. Aren’t you curious how Daddy knows about a place like that?

Irene diverted her eyes and withdrew her touch. Joanna caught sight of red marks on her mother’s wrist; taking hold, she inspected the ripening bruises left by Harris.

One of these days he’ll kill you. This family makes me sick! she cried with disgust.

Dew glistened on the October grass as Joanna jogged down the deserted street. Lights were coming on in the homes she passed; the clomping of her saddle shoes kept time with her stride. Too soon, she moderated to a walk, due to the stitch in her side and her ever-present nausea.

She hoped he’d be at his filling station when she arrived. By habit, Jack opened at 6:00 a.m. He was passionate about cars. He loved to work on them, and he loved to race them. Joanna caught racing fever the first time she watched Jack compete at the local amateur track.

She turned the corner onto Delmar; the lights in Jack’s Service Station were off. Disappointed, Joanna walked behind the garage with its huge bay doors and sat on the wooden crate where Jack smoked his Camel cigarettes, far away from the gas tanks. The minutes dragged as she wondered what he’d say concerning her parents’ decision. Then she felt silly for worrying; he’d fix her dilemma. Next she became uneasy, speculating why Jack was late.

Around six fifteen, Joanna startled at the roar of a car coming around to park at the rear of the station. Jack eased out of his ’54 Ford Fairlane, scowling as he approached her.

You’re late, I was worried. Joanna smiled, but was grimacing at the throbbing in her lip.

Catherine had another episode this morning. I needed to wait for her mother to arrive before I could leave her. The strain on Jack’s face made him look older than his twenty-nine years. What happened to your mouth?

My mama told my father about our baby. With the added drama of being a pregnant teenager, Joanna proceeded to describe the earlier confrontation. She trailed behind him as he turned on the lights in the three-bay shop of the garage. The smell of motor oil didn’t bother her as much as coffee. By the time she finished her story, she was sobbing. Jackie, please take me away. Let’s go somewhere no one knows us.

Joanna, Jack Wyatt said with a sigh. Catherine’s in a deep depression right now; I can’t leave her. If she learns about you and the baby, she’ll kill herself.

Joanna heated with outrage. Let her! It’d solve a lot of problems.

I don’t want that on my conscience. A vein throbbed at his temple.

How does your conscience feel about bein’ a father? Joanna crossed her arms. Jack brushed past her to his office and flipped through a 1957 calendar, noting the upcoming race data he’d penciled in. Joanna followed. You said we’d be together. Joanna pushed aside Jack’s grease-stained rolling chair and sat on top of his cluttered desk.

This is the worst possible timing. What’s the place in Knoxville cost?

No! You’re not considerin’ sendin’ me away. You sound like you’re on their side.

This isn’t a matter of sides; this is a matter of being practical. If things work out, I’ll get the details arranged before the baby’s born in March and I’ll come get you.

Joanna’s heart pounded at the thought of living in a home for wayward girls. She took a deep breath. His reassurance and calmness quieted her fears. He’d pay for her disappearance. They’d get married. It’d all work out.

Chapter 2

Jack Wyatt sat behind the worn desk in his gas station. Spread before him were his bankbooks and a scratch pad with columns of numbers. He’d made an anonymous phone call and hyperventilated when he learned they charged $500 for an enrollment at the home beginning in the fourth month of pregnancy. Considering his annual income was $3,000, the cost was a small fortune. The administrator went into detail to justify the fees. She’d used the word incarceration, labeling residents felons. Joanna wasn’t a criminal; he was the guilty party.

Jack let out a groan. He hated the idea of sending Joanna away, but his first instinct was to protect Catherine. Jack underlined the $500 with enough force that he snapped the pencil lead. Opening the drawer to retrieve another, his eyes locked on a picture of him and Cat, knotted in a hug. It was taken the day she’d learned she was pregnant. They looked outrageously happy.

Oh, Cat. If only I hadn’t accepted Alex’s challenge for a drag race, he whispered. He closed his eyes tight. The image of Cat’s car wrapped around the tree burned in his memory like a scar. He’d walked away with a few bruises. The case for Cat was far more tragic. When the doctor told him his son was stillborn, Jack wished the accident had taken his own life. When he signed the forms for Catherine’s hysterectomy, his hand shook so violently he could barely scrawl his name. According to the doctor, she’d bleed to death without the emergency surgery.

Their baby died, with no future hope for another. The doctors kept Cat heavily sedated after the accident. She never saw her lifeless son. Jack had spent fifteen minutes in a dimly lit private room with the infant he’d all but murdered, but he couldn’t bring himself to hold the child. Daniel Aaron Wyatt’s interment in the Langley family plot took place with only his grandparents and father attending, while Cat lay unconscious in a hospital bed.

Three years had passed and she was no better emotionally than when she first regained the lucidity to understand what happened. As a couple, their lives changed dramatically. His beautiful wife had died along with their child, leaving a sad shell of a woman unable to connect with him on any level.

Jack leaned back in his chair and raked his grease-stained fingers through his blond hair. After Catherine’s two failed suicide attempts, the doctor put her on antidepressant drugs, which diminished her desire to die but left her zoned out.

This morning, when he found her at the kitchen counter, staring at the scars on her wrists, holding a butcher knife, he panicked. He rushed across the room and grabbed the knife from her, yelling, Dear God, Cat! What’re you doing?

She’d burst into tears. He gave her a pill and called her mother. Flora Jefferson, their housekeeper, would need help with her today. The doctor agreed to come by to talk to Cat this afternoon. He’d have a better idea what he might be facing then.

Jack grabbed the phone receiver to call Flora and check on Cat. She’d be straight with him, as always. Cat was never without supervision. Flora kept an eye on her while Jack worked. The thin, middle-aged black woman’s employment with the Wyatts began one month after the accident. Jack hung up the phone. Flora would call him if Cat was in a bad way. He jumped when the phone immediately rang loudly.

Jack’s Service Station, he answered.

What the hell’s going on? the caller barked. Jack recognized the voice of his father-in-law, Wendell Langley. He was a powerful man who came from old Nashville money and tolerated little when it came to Jack.

I sent you a check last week. You should’ve gotten it by now. Jack thought he was referring to his loan payment. Wendell had insisted on financing Jack’s service station; at least he could say his son-in-law was in oil.

I’m not calling about your loan payment. Why’d you call my wife before sunup and worry her sick over Cat? I’ve talked to my daughter; she assures me everything’s fine! Wendell grew more agitated with each word. Fiercely protective of Catherine, he’d endowed her with every advantage reserved for the cream of society. She’d attended the best schools. Her friends were the daughters of the affluent men in the southern upper class.

If you’ve talked to her, why’re you calling me? Jack shot back, defensively. The mutual distain between the two men had begun with Jack’s courtship of Cat and worsened over the last ten years. Her father didn’t understand what had drawn her to fall in love with a race-car-driving mechanic, nor did he approve.

You’d better not’ve done something to set her off again… Wendell threatened.

I haven’t done anything. If there’s nothing else, I’ve got work to do.

His father-in-law slammed his hang-up.

Always a pleasure, Jack muttered to the dead air. He checked the balance of his emergency account. He had the money, but if he used it for Joanna and then needed to institutionalize Cat, his savings couldn’t cover both. He shuddered at the thought of the cold tile walls and echoing screams from distant wards at the Havenwood Asylum, where she’d been committed following each attempt on her life.

At least with Joanna in Knoxville she’d be away from her abusive father. Anger welled inside him regarding Joanna’s latest injury. He shook his head; he wasn’t in a position to confront Harris Wilson, but the notion of beating him to a pulp, in a dark alley, appealed to him.

Jack put away his bankbooks and forced himself to the service area where old Mrs. Mallory’s Buick waited. Even work didn’t distract his troubled mind.

Joanna strolled past the Rich, Schwartz & Joseph store windows, clutching the $5 that Jack had given her. The dress on the mannequin was pretty, but she preferred to sit in a dark movie theater where no one would stare at her swollen lip.

Joanna arrived at the Crescent Cinema as it opened and purchased a matinee ticket. She sat in the back row, alone, in the darkness and waited for the movie to start.

She closed her eyes and laid her head on the back of the auditorium chair. She thought of Jack: his smile; the way he looked the first day they met, when he’d driven up in a blue tow truck, with JACK’S SERVICE STATION painted on the side doors.

He’d looked so handsome as he’d climbed out and asked her, What’s the trouble, miss?

It overheated, Joanna explained, watching his every move as he examined the engine.

It’s a leaking water pump. he informed her. I’ll have to tow it to the garage to fix it.

I wish my father’d get rid of this hunk of junk! Harris couldn’t afford to replace it, and he’d be furious about the repair. She extended her hand. Joanna Wilson.

Courteously, Jack wiped his hand on his jeans before taking hers. Jackson Wyatt.

With teenage awkwardness, she responded, Nice to meet you, Mr. Wyatt.

He smiled. Most people call me Jack.

As she rode next to him in the tow truck, the windows open, a cigarette in his hand, he told her about his racing hobby and encouraged her to come out to watch. She blushed at his interest in her. She made a habit of stopping by his station after school, using the excuse she wanted a coke from the soda machine. She’d stay to talk to him.

Enamored by his charm, she took the bus to the track one Friday night. To her elation, Jack won first place in a race so exciting, she felt tingly. Afterward, she hung back while Jack chatted with his pit crew.

Joanna surprised him when she stepped out of the shadows as he made his way to the parking lot. That was excitin’! Congratulations on first place.

Joanna! He looked around. Only a few cars remained. Are you here with someone?

No. I came alone, on the bus.

I’ll give you a ride home, if you want. She gladly accepted. It started a pattern that went on for weeks. She continued to stay at the back of the crowd, not wanting anyone to see her with Jack. She’d be punished severely by her father for even talking to a guy. On the rides back to her neighborhood, she loved to listen to Jack’s stories. Her heart fluttered whenever he looked at her. She had him drop her at the corner, embarrassed by her slummy home.

He asked her about herself, and she played coy, her indirectness turning into a game. Joanna didn’t tell him that her bookkeeping and shorthand courses were at Cohn High School.

The playful flirtation with Jack was the highlight of her existence. Things changed the night she impulsively leaned over and quickly kissed him on the cheek. Jack reacted by kissing her lips so tenderly she felt light-headed. Thereafter, Jack made the first move when they said good night. Joanna mooned over those intimate moments when they were apart. This eventually led to parking at Lover’s Lane, and ultimately to the two having sex.

A couple came down the aisle, hand in hand. Joanna sulked jealously. She and Jack didn’t go to the movies; it was too public. As the newsreel played, Joanna hardened with anger toward Jack’s wife’s ability to hold him with guilt.

When Jack finally disclosed the details regarding Catherine and the baby they’d lost in a car accident, he moved Joanna to compassion. The trembling in his voice brought Joanna to tears. She’d promised she wouldn’t interfere.

Joanna spent the whole afternoon at the movies; she watched Love Is a Many Splendored Thing three times. As she walked slowly home, she dreaded facing her mother. Irene’s ultimate betrayal of telling Harris widened the abyss, making it impossible for either mother or daughter to reach out to the other. Fear pulsed through her as she got closer to home, sick to her stomach again. She wondered why they called this morning sickness when she felt sick all day, every day.

Chapter 3

Catherine Langley Wyatt sat in the window seat of the guest bedroom in the stately seventy-five-year-old house she’d inherited from her grandfather. She loved this house, with all its childhood memories. She thought of the time her granddaddy gave her roller skates and let her try them out on the hardwood floors in the hallways.

Cat circled her arms around her knees, pulling them to her chest. The full skirt of her dress rustled with her movements. When Jack had discovered her with the knife this morning, he’d misunderstood. She’d been hungry and wanted grapefruit to tide her over until Flora arrived. Looking at her scars, she’d remembered the first time she tried to end it all and how much she’d distressed everyone. She regretted the attempt afterward but surviving fixed nothing.

Catherine blamed herself for the accident that killed their baby. She’d encouraged her husband to race. It wasn’t until they hit the dangerous curve and started spinning that she screamed, Jack, slow down! The car smashed through the guardrail, and Cat’s recall ended there.

The guilt she bore overwhelmed her. She tried to kill herself again on the one-year anniversary of the accident. Catherine withdrew to her bed all day and faked sleep when Jack came to check on her. When she heard the shower running, she locked herself in the nursery, took a handful of pills, and swallowed them with whiskey. She wanted to die.

She woke at the asylum, disappointed she’d failed. It crushed her to see Jack sitting by her bed, face in his hands, crying. Cat promised she’d never make another attempt. She didn’t want to cause him any more pain; if only she could be rid of her own torment.

Catherine moved the yellow fabric of the curtain; the view overlooked the garden where her mother and Flora were discussing the rosebushes. She cringed, ashamed Jack had called her mother to babysit. Hearing people talk behind her back, seeing them tiptoe around her like she might break, and feeling as if she were sleepwalking through her life had to stop.

Catherine detested taking her antidepressant pills. She wanted her life back, but no one except Flora thought her capable. She’d have to convince her overachieving mother, Millicent, a well-known member of the Nashville elite. Even before the accident, Cat found it difficult to keep track of her mother’s schedule. Now she only half listened when her mother chattered about her charitable projects. When it came to her own daughter’s depression, she dismissed discussions in her staunch, businesslike manner by saying, Hush now, you needn’t dwell on such sad things. You should get out more. Come with me to a luncheon. Cat always declined the offer.

In truth, Cat hated to go out in public. The few times she did, all she saw were young mothers strolling with their baby carriages. She experienced actual pain when she saw a pregnant woman shopping in a store. To her, it was the same concept as riding in a car after you learned of a loved one’s death and suddenly being hypersensitive to how many cemeteries you passed. They’d always been there, but she hadn’t noticed them until it became her emotional focus. She chose the easier path and avoided going out.

Dr. McMahon’s car pulled onto the circular drive. He joined the women by the roses; their muffled voices traveled as they entered the house. Her mother’s steps and the heavier ones of the doctor thumped up the stairs. Millicent knocked softly.

Come in, Cat permitted, still sitting by the window.

The doctor entered the room. How’re we feeling today? Without a word Millicent closed the door and disappeared downstairs.

I’m fine. Really, Catherine told him. I wasn’t going to hurt myself, I promise. She went on to tell her side of the story. The doctor studied her as she spoke.

When she finished, he assured her, I believe you.

Can we try a different medication? I wish I could get off pills altogether!

Do you think you’re ready?

Remember, a couple of weeks ago, we talked about different ways of coping with grief and acceptance? The doctor nodded. I’ve reached acceptance. I’m ready to move on.

You could begin by joining activities involving children; say, become a Sunday school teacher. You have abundant love to give to children, even if they’re not your own.

That’s true, she agreed. The other day you mentioned adoption. I know I didn’t want to talk about it then, but I’ve been thinking on it a lot.

He smiled at her. You’re getting better.

I haven’t talked to Jack, yet, but I think I’d like to explore the option. What do you think my chances are given my… condition? She hid her wrists in her sleeves.

I’m sure a private adoption could be arranged. It’ll require more work on your part, but I think you’re taking the right steps.

I’ll do whatever it takes. Where do we start?

Let’s reduce your current medication, see how you feel. Try getting out more. Reach for the goal of having a child in the house.

Thank you. Cat smiled at him.

That’s the first time I’ve ever seen you smile. It’s pretty; you should do it more often.

Upon returning home, Jack met Dr. McMahon in the kitchen, enjoying a piece of peach cobbler. Flora served the doctor a fresh cup of coffee.

How’s Cat? Jack asked anxiously.

She says you misread what you saw and overreacted. The doctor raised his brows and relayed Catherine’s version. Jack glanced at the counter; next to the cutting board sat a bowl with grapefruit. Jack turned back to the doctor, who stood and gathered his black bag and hat.

Actually, Jack, I think Catherine’s making good progress. I’m reducing her medication, with the goal of getting her off it completely.

Is that wise?

This is at her request. Your wife seems determined. She needs your love and encouragement more than ever. Jack thanked the man and went upstairs.

He paused at her bedroom door, knocked gently, and called, Cat? Honey, it’s me.

I’m in the nursery. Her soft voice came from the end of the hall. Jack’s heart quickened as he approached. The last time he’d seen her in the nursery, he called an ambulance. This time, he leaned against the doorjamb and observed his wife standing next to the empty crib, as she folded a blanket. Meeting his eyes, she said, Hi.

Jack gave a slight nod. How’re you doing?

I’m good. I need to talk to you. Fatigue showed, but she seemed more lucid than usual.

Okay. He stepped into the room, supported his hands on the back of the rocking chair.

I’m sorry for everything I’ve put you through. I understand why you reacted the way you did this morning. I promised I’d never do that again, and I meant it. Sometimes I think if you’d been anyone else, you would’ve found yourself a girlfriend and run off by now. She was attempting a joke; Jack swallowed hard. She came to his side. I guess I’m trying to say, I miss you, Jackie. She slipped her arms around him and laid her head on his chest, surprising him. He hugged her lightly. He hadn’t embraced her since the accident; at first, because of her soreness. Later, her constant pulling away discouraged him. Eventually, he stopped trying. I don’t want us to be this way anymore, she whispered. I’m going to get off the pills and start living again. I have work to do, but what would you think about adopting a baby?

I hadn’t thought about it before, Jack answered honestly, stunned.

I truly believe adopting a child will help us get back to a normal life, she reasoned, still hugging him. He could smell the sweetness of her hair, recalling how it used to feel to hold her.

It’s a big step. If she’d come to him a year ago with this, he would’ve jumped at the idea. Now he paled with guilt.

We can take one step at a time. Let’s both think about adoption and see how we feel. She looked at his face. Will you at least think about it?

Yeah. I will. In the meantime, like you said, you have work to do. Feeling on overload already, he feared this latest bit of news might blow the fuses in his brain.

Joanna eased the back door open. She’d planned on sneaking into the apartment, but her mother was elbow-deep in soapsuds, washing the dinner dishes.

I didn’t see Daddy’s car. Where is he?

Who knows; who cares? Irene answered and dried her hands on her apron. Have a seat. Joanna sat at the kitchen table. Where ya been? I know ya skipped school.

I was at the movies.

Did ya talk to your young man? Irene placed a piece of paper on the table.

Yes, I did, Joanna snotty-toned. He promised to take care of it. She looked at the numbers added in her father’s handwriting. Jesus Christ, Mama! It’d be cheaper to send me to a fancy hotel in Florida until this baby’s born!

Is he gonna be able to shell out the money?

I don’t know. Joanna shrugged.

This home takes charity cases, but ya got to work off your bill before ya can leave.

Joanna switched topics. I’m goin’ to Birmingham this weekend with a friend.

What friend? Irene challenged with her hands on her hips.

Mary Atherton, Joanna lied and stomped to her room. In a moment, Irene knocked. Leave me alone! Joanna shouted, hugging the pillow, wishing it were Jack.

You’d better not be runnin’ with that fella. Irene’s warning came muffled through the door.

It’s not like I’ll end up gettin’ pregnant this weekend, Joanna shouted back.

Instead of continuing the argument, Irene went into the small living room to make alterations on a dress commissioned by Mabel’s dress shop. She’d taken in sewing when they moved to Nashville, fearing her family wouldn’t eat otherwise.

Tonight Irene assumed her husband was at a bar. Glad he hadn’t come home, she only regretted there wouldn’t be much left of his paycheck. He’d probably picked up a woman, too. Better he find someone else than to bring his slobbering drunk ass home and want her. Sometimes she’d imagine the police at her door, telling her he’d died in a drunk-driving accident. She wouldn’t cry. She’d be relieved. How he hadn’t accomplished it yet was beyond her. Oh, he’d wrecked plenty of cars, totaled several, but always walked away with barely a scratch; drunken, stupid, lucky bastard.

For Irene, a devout Catholic, divorce was unthinkable. Women from her lineage married young and suffered with abusive husbands until one of them died. Mostly the men died first. She wished Harris would hurry and get on with it.

Chapter 4

At 8:00 p.m., Joanna came skipping into the station, a valise in hand. She wore blue-jean pedal pushers and a white, short-sleeved blouse; a red bandanna was tied around her neck.

Hey, Frankie, she greeted Jack’s employee. In his forties and bald, Frankie had the mentality of a ten-year-old. He was simple, but good at pumping gas and ringing up sales.

Hey, Joanna, Frankie replied, smiling.

So you got all that, right, buddy? Jack said, double-checking with his employee.

Sure, Jack. Put the money and receipts in the bottom drawer and lock it with this key. Frankie showed the key on his lucky-rabbit’s-foot keychain. Open at seven a.m.; close at six at night. Lock the door with this key. And don’t take any wooden nickels. Frankie laughed.

Jack smiled. You’re a good man, Frankie.

In high spirits on the long ride to Birmingham, Alabama, Joanna snuggled at Jack’s side while the top love ballads of 1956 played on the car radio. She’d be alone with Jack for two