Back to Blue

By Maggie Hinton

When Rainie McClaws learns of her daughter Madisons losing her leg in a freak shooting accident, she mutters disgustedly, Half-black and now only one leg? She doesnt stand a fin chance, does she? The year is 1995, and Madison is barely eleven years old. In between her latest waitressing job and/or running from her latest loser boyfriend, Rainie frequently brings her children back to the little farm belonging to her mother in Blue, Colorado. And it is at Blue that Madison finds respite and validation of her self-worth. Gramma Moona hippie, herbal-medicine concoctor, and well-known egg decoratorbecomes Madisons savior throughout her turbulent life. Madison proves through determination and courageand pure spunkthat she will make that chance happen for herself. She learns to embrace her dual ethnicity as she survives her disability and racial mistreatment and bullying. She overcomes her transient, wretchedly dysfunctional life with her mother. Along the way, she falls in love with Lucas Grant, former CNN correspondent and subsequent spy-thriller author. And eventually, despite her many challenges, Madison discovers her own destiny.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Trafford Publishing
• Release date: Jan 28, 2016
• ISBN: 9781490768168

Maggie Hinton

Hinton is a retired public school English teacher. Growing up, she attended eleven different schools as her traveling-salesman father moved the family from California to Arizona to Utah. She graduated from a small high school in Fort Thomas, Arizona, and went on to graduate from Arizona State University. She has been a counselor for students traveling abroad, accompanying groups of teenagers through nineteen different countries. She was also a volleyball coach for over twenty years. Presently, she tutors English to homeschooled children and helps dropout students either reenter high school or get their GEDs. She lives with her husband, James (third generation Arizona cattle rancher, teacher, and coach) in the little Northern Arizona town of Show Low.

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Copyright 2016 Maggie Hinton.

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted, in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without the written prior permission of the author.

ISBN: 978-1-4907-6814-4 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-6815-1 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4907-6816-8 (e)

Library of Congress Control Number: 2016901111

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Contents

First Prologue

Second Prologue (Is that even allowed?)

Part One

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

Chapter Twenty-Four

Chapter Twenty-Five

Chapter Twenty-Six

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Chapter Thirty

Chapter Thirty-One

Chapter Thirty-Two

Chapter Thirty-Three

Chapter Thirty-Four

Chapter Thirty-Five

Chapter Thirty-Six

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Part Two

Chapter Thirty-Eight

Chapter Thirty-Nine

Chapter Forty

Chapter Forty-One

Chapter Forty-Two

Chapter Forty-Three

Chapter Forty-Four

Chapter Forty-Five

Chapter Forty-Six

Chapter Forty-Seven

Chapter Forty-Eight

Chapter Forty-Nine

Chapter Fifty

Chapter Fifty-One

Chapter Fifty-Two

Chapter Fifty-Three

Chapter Fifty-Four

Chapter Fifty-Five

Chapter Fifty-Six

Chapter Fifty-Seven

Chapter Fifty-Eight

Chapter Fifty-Nine

Chapter Sixty

Chapter Sixty-One

Chapter Sixty-Two

Chapter Sixty-Three

Chapter Sixty-Four

Chapter Sixty-Five

Chapter Sixty-Six

Chapter Sixty-Seven

Chapter Sixty-Eight

Chapter Sixty-Nine

Chapter Seventy

Chapter Seventy-One

Chapter Seventy-Two

Chapter Seventy-Three

Chapter Seventy-Four

Chapter Seventy-Five

Chapter Seventy-Six

Chapter Seventy-Seven

Chapter Seventy-Eight

Chapter Seventy-Nine

Chapter Eighty

Chapter Eighty-One

Chapter Eighty-Two

Chapter Eighty-Three

Chapter Eighty-Four

Chapter Eighty-Five

Also by Maggie Hinton

Crossing Caine’s Road

Daybreak Again

The Road to Eagle Creek

For Cara,

who was my inspiration for the story of Madison.

Who, in many ways, is Madison.

And for Anthony and Adrianna.

(Because I promised to dedicate this book to them

If they’d go away and leave me alone so I could write.)

First Prologue

T he day I lost my leg is the same day my mother ran off with Buck Weaver on the back of his Harley Davidson. It was not unusual for my mother to run away. She disappeared every once in a while. However, it was the first time I’d lost a leg.

But before I take you back with me to that summer day in l995, I need to tell you a little bit about myself. And about Blue.

Second Prologue (Is that even allowed?)

Y ou should probably know right to begin with that I never aspired to be an author. And I am certain that this novel will be both my first and final endeavor. When I was in the first grade I wanted to become an astronaut. And then I was sure I was destined to be a rock singer. Or maybe a veterinarian? That was followed by my believing I had been truly called to be a social worker in Africa. (I chose Zimbabwe simply because I liked the taste of the word in my mouth.) I went to college to become an art curator at some prestigious museum. I ended up being none of those. Actually, what I did become … what I am now … Well, you’ll just have to read the rest of my story to find out what finally became my destiny.

I decided to try my hand at being a part-time, one-book author simply because I believe I have a good story to tell. Making the decision to write about my life wasn’t an easy thing to do. I found it painful to open my personal Pandora’s box and emancipate all those recollections from where they lay buried. When I first started gathering my memories into words, they seemed to hang suspended in the air between my Bic mechanical pencil and the yellow legal pad on my lap, dallying and wavering before they’d finally, grudgingly, commit themselves to perpetuity on paper.

And I guess you should know a few things about me as a writer: I use too many parentheses. (Despite some of my English teachers’ advice.) And … I am the first to admit … I am rather reckless with my ellipsis. Further, I believe strongly that the use of commas is purely at the discretion of the writer. (Only the author knows when he or she wants the reader to pause. And there should be no hard-and-fast rule for that choice.) Oh, one more thing: I have had some old school instructors who still strongly believe that to start a sentence with And or But is a Cardinal sin. But you will note that I ignored them. These same teachers would consider many of my sentences incomplete. But that’s the way I talk. And that’s the way I write. (My apologies to Mrs. Duncan and Mr. Folsom.)

And so I begin.

Part One

The road goes ever on and on … May your wings bear you where the sun sails and the moon walks. JRR Tolkien, The Hobbit

Chapter One

M y story begins on that hot summer day in Blue. That’s where we were staying that summer of ’95. Blue. Blue, Colorado. I had just turned eleven. We had moved around a lot with our mother—from one little town to another, with a couple of big cities thrown in here and there. We loved staying at Gramma Moon’s farm just outside Blue. We yearned for the security and peace we found with her. But those days were always a hold-your-breath chapter in our lives because we never knew how long we were going to get to stay before some whim of our mother’s would sweep us away again into the transient, turbulent life we were forced to spend with her. We were able to endure those weeks, those months we spent with Rainie, (our mother), wherever it might be, because we knew that we’d eventually get to find respite with Moon again. Our mantra was When we go to Blue … or When we get to go to Gramma Moon’s … Blue, Colorado was home.

The little rural community, nestled in the San Isabel National Forest in southern Colorado, had been founded in the early part of the century and was constructed one building at a time, right along the banks of the Blue River. Things haven’t changed much since that summer, but in l995, the town of Blue consisted of one main street that accommodated a couple of dozen little Mom and Pop establishments—all different colored buildings, all different sizes and shapes. From coffee shops to local artists’ and crafters’ consignment stores, from Stoney’s grocery store (that still boasts two fully-functioning, vintage, red gas pumps out in the front.) From an authentic home cooken’ café to candy and ice cream parlors. There were two bed and breakfast accommodations. And at the end of the street were three rural churches—Presbyterian, Catholic, and Mormon houses of worship. On the road going out of town there is the River Roost, an elegant restaurant, and, even further out, the Bordon brothers’ white river rafting and mountain climbing businesses.

For movies or malls or Walmarts, for medical attention other than Blue’s 9:00 to 5:00 urgent care clinic, you have to travel east on local road 78 to Edgewater. Or drive on until you reach Highway 25 and Pueblo. A little further north is Colorado Springs. Or you can travel all the way to Denver, which is only about 160 miles northeast of Blue.

Across the street from the quaint shops is the Blue River. The river itself flows with water all year long, fed by the tributaries of the Rockies to the north. A wide boardwalk runs alongside the river’s edge. Beside the walkway, every fifty feet or so, a wooden bench, or sometimes a pair of benches, provide places to stop and view the breath-taking woods and listen to the soft rush of the river. Old Victorian lamps behind each bench provide subtle lighting from dusk to dawn. Big baskets of flowers hang from an arm on each light post. And, if you have the stamina to walk the three miles to the end of the wooden trail, you’re rewarded with a breathtaking view of a modest, not-too-distant waterfall and the full majesty of forest peaks.

There is a cat-walk going on up the side of the mountain, with a narrow, antiquated board walkway chained to the side of the towering precipices, along with hanging bridges between deep gorges. The catwalk had been closed for as long as I can remember. There had been too many accidents, even a couple of deaths on it. So the city council voted years ago to put an end to the precarious walkway. But, of course, a few brave souls, mostly teenagers … or those who think they are still teenagers … know how to circumvent the fence and make the trip to the end of the dangerous trail. It still is a rite of passage, mostly for Blue’s males, to be able to brag that they’d walked the cat.

More often than not, passers-through passing through Blue fall in love with the ambiance of the picturesque little town settled amidst the woods, between the mountains and the river. And they decide to spend time there. Or vow to come back when they do have timel

Grandpa Ben’s house, a few miles out of town, had been built in the l940’s, just after the war, and stood pretty much as it had been then, except for the kitchen and bathrooms, which had been updated in the 50’s. It was a sandy pink color with forest green trim around the windows and doors. It had a wide, roof-covered porch across the front, one side, and the back kitchen side Two storied, with twin gables in both the front and back and a green shingled roof, it reminded me of whimsically illustrated houses in nursery stories. Sort of a combination of the gingerbread house and the three bears’ cottage. As if Nancy E. Burket had designed the house herself.

Still hanging from the ceiling of the living room is this huge, one-of-a-kind twig chandelier which Grandpa Ben had created, with intertwined tiny branches and plant shoots woven between a myriad of tiny light bulbs.

And what I remember in detail is Gramma Moon’s bedroom—which paid homage to her Hippie leanings. The dark and light blue curtains at the window featured zodiac designs. During the day, when they were pulled to one side, the breezes from the river would gently touch the sun, moon, and stars wind chime hanging in the window, and the pieces would tinkle delightfully. (Of course she told us that it was fairies wings making those sparkly noises.) Her bedspread was all smudges of pinks and purples and blues, with a golden Celtic star in the center. A black light poster—complicated designs in psychedelic colors—hung above her bed. There was a poster of Pink Floyd and another of a Grateful Dead Shakedown Street Sign on the wall. Along with a tapestry featuring a peace sign with Love and Peace written around its borders. Long beaded necklaces and leather head bands draped from the fold-out-mirrors of her antique dresser. A beautifully designed dream catcher hung from a hook on the back of the door leading to the hall.

Just before Moon went to bed at night, she would light her long sticks of incense. The wafts of fragrant smoke always mesmerized me … I imagined there was some kind of ancient magic in that smoke.

Chapter Two

G ramma’s farm is within a short rambling distance from the river itself. There is an apple orchard right across a wide field. The orchard belonged to my grandma so we could pick ourselves an apple to eat anytime we wanted to. (Well, when they were in season, of course.) (Well, sometimes before they were in season.) Grandma Moon told us from the time we were toddlers that the grove was inhabited by fairies. An herb and flower garden bordered the house to the west. There was the old tire swing hanging from a high limb in the ancient oak tree in the back yard, and we spent hours pushing each other on that raw rubber-smelling tube, reaching for the lowest boughs of the oak trees with our outstretched, bare, dirty-bottomed feet.

The woods are just across the unpaved road, and we consumed lazy hours roaming myriad trails and exploring ravines and deep, pathless thickets. And making forts out of the fallen trees and broken branches. One summer we were even quite ingenious at building a two-storied tree house in the high, thick branches of a maple tree.

We rode the old bicycles that had belonged to our mother and her two brothers when they were our ages. We learned how to repair oft’ patched tires, and replace handle bar grips and split pedals. We spent long hours on the dusty road leading to Blue, over shaded trails in the woods, and along the sandy paths down by the river. By the end of each summer, the history of our bicycle expeditions spread in crisscrossed, beaver-tailed patterns in the dust from one end of Blue to the other.

When I say we, I mean my brother, Ford, just two years younger than I am, and my little sister, Monroe, who had just turned seven that summer. And, for just a couple of weeks in June, Tucker, Uncle Easton’s eldest son, had come from Denver to spend part of his vacation with us. (I think now, as I did then, that Tucker’s mom and dad had just wanted to get rid of him for a while. I wanted to get rid of him myself after only a couple of hours.)

Sometimes, at the last light of day, we’d wander over to Gramma’s friend Sam’s little pond in the middle of his goat pasture and watch the bats diving down like World War II fighter planes, swooping to devour the enemies—bugs hovering in swarms, skimming just above the still water. From the distance, the bats look beautiful. Up close they are ugly as sin. (A truly deceitful phrase. Sometimes sin can be undeniably attractive.)

Tucker was obsessed with trying to locate where the bats holed up during the day. One moonless night he and Ford tried following them with a flashlight. But lost the flying creatures before they’d gone very far. (I knew that Ford was secretly relieved that he didn’t have to accompany Tucker into some damp, dark cave somewhere.)

On Tuesdays and Thursdays mornings, I took free gymnastic lessons, sponsored by the Blue Park and Recreation Department. Monroe chose to take the art classes. Gramma signed Ford up for archery but he admitted he sucked at it and quit after two sessions. (He confided to me that he had barely missed shooting an undisciplined arrow into a kid who was walking down the sidewalk east of the archery range. As it was, the arrow shot right between the boy’s legs, miraculously missing either one of them.)

Monroe proved to be a natural artist and Gramma bought her a fold-up easel to drag around and set up all over the countryside so she could paint her landscapes. Some of her water colors were even displayed in the local businesses’ windows.

I excelled in gymnastics. Our teacher, Sandi, told Gramma Moon that I was a natural acrobat. And that my skills on the uneven parallel bars were the best she’d ever seen. I was intensely determined to perfect my beam and mat routines, practicing on the front lawn of the house every evening. We were going to perform at the end of the summer and I determined to be flawless by then.

Ford and Tucker made fun of me while I back-flipped and cartwheeled across the yard. But I could tell they were really impressed by my skills but were just too cool to admit it. Gramma Moon told me over and over again how graceful and agile I was. She persuaded Rainie to come out to the yard and watch one time, and my mother did concede that I was pretty good at doing my thing. But she only watched that one time. (Back then, I was hungry for her approval. Even though I had already learned that her praise would be pretty much non-existent in my life.)

Rainie accused Gramma Moon of letting us kids run amuck when we were at the farm. But Gramma didn’t pay much attention to her daughter’s criticisms. Especially since it was she, not Rainie, who fed us, kept our clothes clean, and provided the activities to entertain us. Like monopoly marathon games played on many a long, hot, muggy night. A Crazy-8 or Gin Rummy game could last for hours. Some evenings were spent rummaging through an old trunk we’d drug thumping down the stairs from the attic and finding old clothes in it to serve as costumes to wear for the skits and one-act plays I authored myself. We’d perform the dramas for Gramma and her sisters and Sam.

Gramma Moon had a beautiful soprano voice. We found out later, from her two sisters, that as a teenager she’d sung with some of the local bands in cafes and bars in Blue and up and down the road to Pueblo. She’d given up her singing career when she got married.

There was a player piano in the dining room that had belonged to Grandma West, and during frequent summer, rainy afternoons, we’d spend hours pumping out timeworn tunes Gramma Moon had taught us to sing. Naturally we would quarrel about who got to pump the pedals. We learned all the words to Moonlight Bay, and Side by Side and I Love You Truly, to name just a few of our favorites. Not only was there the song A Bicycle Built for Two but there was actually a bicycle built for two out in the barn. Grandpa Ben had bought it right after he and Moon got married. The two of them had ridden it up and down the dirt roads around Blue. And showed off on it year after year in the Bodacious Blue parade. There are scrapbook pictures of them riding it, Grandpa in his black bowler and Gramma in her big straw hat. We kids never could get the bicycle built for two in running order. It had been crashed down a ditch by our uncles, the twins, and lay crumpled and useless in a corner of the barn. (Moon could not bear to have it hauled to the dump.)

We kids slept on the covered porch that ran along the back of the house. There were tall screened windows on three sides of the room, and the night breezes traipsed across the porch and kept us pleasantly cool all night long. Nearly every night, before lights out, Moon would read to us out on that porch. While we listened to her voice, we’d watch the soft, mesmerized moths gathering around the outside porch light. Until our eyelids got heavy and we’d listen with eyes closed, trying our best to stay awake so we wouldn’t miss one word. There was Black Beauty and Kidnapped for the boys. And Heidi and Anne of Green Gables for me and Monroe. The Cay was a favorite for all of us.

I read Little Women by myself at the beginning of that summer. And then I discovered Moon’s Pearl S. Buck’s books and hungrily swept through them after hours, using a flashlight to read by. And I will forever associate the sneak-reading with the taste of wintergreen Life Savers, because that’s what I’d suck on while I read. They were my choice on those rare occasions when we went to Stoney’s store with Sam instead of Gramma, and he’d give us kids quarters for candy. I’d save the tiny rounds of candy to enjoy until reading time. (I could make a single one last for fifteen minutes or more.) So with the sound of the river in my ears and the taste of wintergreen in my mouth, I became the clichéd under-the-covers reader that summer.

We never knew our great grandparents. They had died before we were born. Moon’s parents’, my great grandparents’, last name was West. They had named my grandmother, their eldest daughter, America. America West. My great grandparents must have had strange senses-of-humor. (Or should it be sense-of-humors?) because their next child, a son, was officially named Farr West. Farr, who would have been our great uncle, died when he was only fifteen years-old. From leukemia. Grandma West became this bitter, laughless, joyless woman and was that way until the end of her life. With Farr’s tragic death, she lost not only her son but essentially all her other children and grandchildren.

My West grandparents’ last two daughters came into the family six and seven years after Farr was born. They were baptized Dew West and Virginia West. You can understand the Dew. But the Virginia was a little more complicated. Here was their reasoning: On school rolls and on some legal papers, her last name would come first. Thus she would show up as West Virginia, (albeit with a comma in the middle.) Both of these women still live in Blue. They run a Victorian-style bed and breakfast right square in the middle of downtown Blue, with tall guest room windows overlooking the river itself. (The kids of Blue claim that the Dew Drop Inn is haunted by the first owner of the rambling old house, who died mysteriously while out riding his paint stallion along the river path one stormy night.)

Both our aunts are spinsters, both a little plump, both a lot jovial … chuckling or laughing three-fourths of their waking hours … (and I wouldn’t be surprised if they didn’t giggle in their sleep) … and played a big part in our days of contentment when we were in Blue. They were enthusiastic fans of our plays and programs and would applaud and praise all of our dramatic endeavors. The aunts helped spoil us and furtively sneaked us sweets and jerky, which Moon more-or-less forbid.

They were morally against television, but I think out of sheer boredom, finally bought a set. (After all, they’d lived all their lives sitting across the meal table from each other or spending night after night together in the parlor, looking up from their crocheting or knitting to see each other’s all-too-familiar faces.) Virginia and Dew got attached to their soap operas and watched them religiously. They talked about the programs’ characters as if they were old and dear friends … or mortal enemies.

Our Gramma Moon was a Hippie. She had embraced the cultural implications of that lifestyle back in the sixties, when she was just a teenager. That was when she changed her name from America to Moon.

She marched against the war in Vietnam. She was at Woodstock. She championed the legalization of marijuana. (And smoked it until she had our mother, her first child, and Grandpa Ben asked her if she really wanted their daughter to think it was alright to break the law.) She actively supported Civil Rights, Feminism, Gay Liberation, Environmentalism, and was con nuclear warfare and pro free speech. She had lived for a short time in a Hippie commune in Boulder. (I never dared ask her, but I wouldn’t be surprised if she hadn’t practiced free love before she married Grandpa Ben.)

Everyone in Blue still regarded Gramma Moon as a Hippie. But they’d say the word with affection. They had long become accustomed to her style—the long skirted dresses, her tattoos, (the peace sign on her shoulder, the feather with birds rising from it on her left hip, the rose with Ben’s name interlaced through the stem on her ankle), the long, straight hair, the Jesus sandals. She wore beaded bands around one ankle and interchanged numerous pieces of turquoise and silver jewelry around her neck and wrists. In some of her teenaged pictures, she’d displayed a small amethyst stone in a pierced nostril. That, along with the marijuana, had been lost along the way. Her house always smelled strongly, (but very nicely), of Luna or Moon incense.

Gramma was also known as the medicine lady. The herbs she concocted, her medicinal oil combinations were well known throughout the entire countryside. Customers would drive up to the house and find Moon, either in her garden or in the kitchen. They would drive away with little golden-brown bottles of her oils or small, handmade, dark leather sacks filled with her herbs. She was also an authority on and collector of crystals. She believed that they contained both healing and protective powers and used them herself for meditation. She told us, Crystals have the power to expand your mind so that you can actually touch the spirit world.

And on top of everything else, Moon McClaws did eggs. Beautiful, intricately designed, decorated eggs. And that was her primary reason for raising the chickens and the geese and the ducks. For their eggs.

Our Gramma Moon married Ben McClaws when she was just eighteen. He owned this prosperous farm and apple orchard just outside of town. My grandmother had seen the movie Picnic when she was about seven years old. She had fallen in love with William Holden and, likewise, the song Moonglow, which played in the background in that dreamy scene where Gramma’s lifelong crush and Kim Novack danced sensuously together. That dance sequence and the music had been coddled in her heart since the time she first saw the film. So she named her and Ben’s farm Moonglow as soon as she became legal co-owner of the place. And Ben pretty much let Moon do whatever she wanted to do. (He was crazy about her.)

Grandpa Ben had been over fifteen years older than Moon. They had three children, just as her mother and father had done. The eldest was my mother, Summer Rain, who changed her own name to Rainie when she was in the third grade. Three years later twin boys East and West were born.

East ended up being a successful businessman in Denver. He added an on to his name so it would have some dignity. So he became Easton. Easton married a Denver lawyer’s snotty, (as Moon put it) daughter, Adrianna, and they rewarded their own three sons with normal names: Tucker, Justin, and David.

The other uncle, West, is one of those soul-wounded Afghanistan War soldiers, who lives by himself in a make-shift cabin deep in the woods. He has isolated himself from civilization and still suffers the nightmares of his war experiences. He used to scare me when I was younger, with his long hair and full beard and camouflage clothes. But by the time I was twelve, we’d reached an understanding of sorts.

West never ventures into Blue. He gets really nervous around people. Moon refused to let him use food stamps. She disdained handouts from the government. She bought his groceries and took him leftovers from Moonglow’s kitchen on a regular basis. But she did tolerate his disability checks. She maintained her son had earned that money during his two deployments to Afghanistan. Which had left him pitifully brain-scarred, probably for the rest of his life. (She despised the war in Afghanistan and Iraq, and would have marched against it if she’d had the opportunity to do so.) His disability checks are still used to pay for his propane, his water and electricity. And his one vice—chewing tobacco. He neither desires nor owns a television set. He washes his clothes … rarely … by hand and hangs them clumsily over the top of his split-cedar rail fence.

I think West spends his time listening to heavy metal music on a small transistor radio. And playing his guitar, which he’s taught himself to play. No one ever hears him play. (Except for this one time …)

Chapter Three

T he three-to-a-family pattern in our family seems to prevail from generation to generation. When my mother had her traditionally allotted three children, Gramma Moon tried to persuade her to name us Hippy-appropriate spice names such as Sage or Pepper or Lavender. But Rainie had her own system for naming children. I, her first born, was named Madison, after the mermaid from the movie Splash. (Do you remember it? The one with Daryl Hannah and Tom Hanks?) If you know the story, you’ll recall that Madison chose her own name after reading it off a street sign. So I was essentially named after an avenue in New York City.

A couple of days after my birth, when my Negro heritage became absolutely undeniable, Rainie, for the first time in nine months, knew for sure who my father was. "I was drunk. Very drunk. And half of the f - - - en’ Beecher Junior College football team were at the party. And, believe me, they were all fighting each other to see who got to take me out to the backseat of their f- - - -en’ car. It’s not my fault that the only black player won the grand f- - - - en’ prize." And, regrettably, as far as my mother was concerned, I had inherited my father’s genes. Dusky skin and twisty onyx-black hair. Full lips and eyes the color of a crow’s feathers. When Aunt Dew once told me, lovingly, that the color of my skin was like coffee with lots of cream added, Virginia said no, my skin was more the color of cream with a splash of coffee stirred in. So in no way did I remotely resemble Daryl Hannah.

Okay. I just read that last paragraph and decided that I’d better prepare you right from the beginning that Rainie’s language is … well, every sentence is interspersed with the f word. A lot of the f word, actually. It’s really hard for me to write, much less speak that word. Gramma’s displeasure at hearing or reading it is ingrained in me. Time and time again she told me, Madison, real ladies don’t say dirty words. So, even now, even when I am years past becoming an adult, I still find it really hard to write my mother’s dialogue. So if you’ll just accept my reluctance to, even now, displease my grandmother and if you’ll put up with my cowardly f - - - and f - - - en’ substitutes, you’ll get the idea of Rainie’s conversational preference for that queen mother of swear words, as Ralphie referred to it in A Christmas Story.

My mother, Rainie, never allowed us to call her Mama or Mother or Mom. She’d always been Rainie to us. (I can remember Monroe once lamenting, I want a Mama. I don’t want a ‘Rainie.’)

My brother’s name is Ford. He was born two years after me and was named after Harrison. My mother was a big fan of Star Wars and had this big crush on the star. Which only intensified during the Indiana Jones series. To this day, my mother doesn’t know who my brother Ford’s father was. Is. But has it narrowed down to two men whom she knew briefly about the time Ford was conceived.

For most of his childhood, Ford was chubby. Later, I surmised that he substituted food for the attention he never got from Rainie. She never bonded with him as a baby, and showed him nothing but contempt nine-tenths of the time. He suffered from untreatable rashes. He’d been blessed with bucked teeth, which, adding insult to injury, had a wide gap between the two front ones. His hair was as unmanageable as his rashes. Straw in consistency. Straw in color. He was always squinting … probably needing glasses from a young age. The squint made him look mean, and he was exactly the opposite of mean. Rainie called him a girl repeatedly because he was so sensitive—cried at the least little sad thing.

And, almost two years after Ford was born, my little sister joined our family and became Monroe. In honor of Marilyn, of course. (Who was already dead but still, on occasion, tearfully mourned and revered by my mother. And because, in her younger years, before her lifestyle had pretty much wrecked her looks, Rainie had once been told that she looked just like the sex symbol.)

Monroe and I are as unlike as winter and summer, as different as salt and pepper. Like Rainie’s goddess, Monroe is blonde blonde with these big, see-through, cat-green eyes. People would always stare at Monroe and then at me, and try to keep their eyebrows from rising and their breath from quickly drawing in with surprise when they compared the two of us. That’s why I liked being in Blue. People there all knew about Rainie McClaw’s half-black daughter. And had more or less accepted me. Mainly out of respect for Moon McClaws. Monroe and I have always been as close as two sisters could ever be. Monroe was (and still is) the sweetest, forgiving, completely guileless sister anyone could ask for.

One of Gramma Moon’s favorite stories was when my mother took the three of us into the Blue library when we were just toddlers, and introduced us to the librarian. Gracie said to her, Why, Rainie, how patriotic of you to name your children after Presidents.

My mother said something profound like, Huh? She didn’t even remember, (or probably hadn’t ever known), that Madison and Ford and Monroe were all names of United States Presidents.

Chapter Four

I know what you’re probably thinking just about now. That I’ve been detouring and side-tracking all over these pages to put off having to relive my tragic accident. And you’d be right.

But now, I guess it’s time to take a deep breath and get to it.

So, where was I? Oh, yes. We were spending a glorious, free summer at Moonglow. We were living back in Blue until my mother could get on her feet. Which meant that she didn’t have a job, a house to live in, a car to drive, or a red cent to her name. Or, more importantly to her, she didn’t have a man. That is until she drove Gramma Moon’s old pickup to one of the bars up the river road one night and met Buck Weaver. But we weren’t too worried about him bringing our idyllic summer in Blue to a close. Buck Weaver had been born and raised in Blue and worked at the café in town. Rainie hooking up with him meant that we’d hopefully get to stay at Moonglow. At least until Rainie discovered something wrong with Buck. Or visa-versa. (Chances are it would be visa-versa.)

Rainie slept in her old room in the house. And she often slept in her old room until noon or later. We would gratefully let her sleep because Rainie wasn’t the most pleasant of persons in the mornings. (In fact, she wasn’t a real delight to be around any time of the day.) When she did finally drag herself out of bed, she’d grab her first of a dozen or so cigarettes of the day, and sit sullenly, feet tucked under her on one of the front porch wicker chairs. Miserable because she was stuck in Blue again. And if we tried talking to her, she’d reward us with caustic, bitter replies. We avoided conversations with her.

I never had to worry about waking Monroe, who slept with me in a big squeaky-springs double bed. She was a heavy sleeper. And that particular summer morning, Ford and Tucker, up late the night before catching frogs on the river bank by flashlight, lay in the other bed, legs tangled in the sheets, faces deceptively innocent-looking in the early morning light.

As usual, I was the first of the kids up that morning and after using the downstairs bathroom, went into the kitchen where, as usual, my Gramma Moon was sitting at the table. No matter how early I rose, Gramma Moon would always be up before me. She’d be waiting for me in the old, 50’s style kitchen, drinking her morning’s cup of instant coffee. She’d make me a cup, which was just hot milk with a couple of teaspoons of coffee added, along with a couple of teaspoons of our neighbor’s honey. We would sit at the Formica-topped, chrome-legged kitchen table, talking quietly together, content with each other’s comradeship. The oilcloth table cover, (I can still see it in my mind), was orangish with brown coffeepots and green coffee cups splayed across it. Sometimes we would plan our meals and discuss what groceries we needed from Stoney’s Mercantile in town. Or we’d talk about what plans we kids were hatching up for the day. Or she would ask me questions about the particular book I was reading.

After I was finished with my milk-honey-coffee, I’d always take Callie and Bruin for an early morning walk … mostly through the fields and into the apple orchard. The dogs loved me best. And that’s the truth. Ford and Tucker would tie ropes onto them and make the dogs pull them in the old Radio Flyer wagon. Or just be plain old ornery, teasing them by making them beg for a bone or a toy while they laughingly held it out of their reach. As for Monroe, she tormented them by dressing them in old clothes found in the ancient trunk, complete with old straw hats of Moon’s tied around their necks with ribbons. She would make them sit with her for tea parties of cookies and dog biscuits.

Me? I’d take them for walks and let them run wild through the fields and orchard and woods. They’d always be tickled to see me at the back door. They’d yip excitedly and twist and wiggle in anticipation. I can still hear their voices in my head. Callie’s bark was soprano while Bruin sang bass.

On that morning, I headed towards the orchard, anxious to finish Dragon Seed. I wanted to read the final two chapters in peace. But first, the three of us explored and I studied the tiny buds on the tree branches that would soon be miraculously transformed into prize Jonathan apples.

I was always barefooted, loving the feel of the rich, brown soil beneath my feet. The bottoms of my feet were so tough that I could run through rocky fields without feeling any pain.

Finally I heard, even from that distance, the back door swing shut, and I looked back the way I’d come to admire Moonglow sitting prettily in the early morning light.

I could see Monroe skipping across the porch and into the yard, headed in my direction. And I knew that my time of solitude was over. Even though I was sometimes tempted to ditch her, I couldn’t. The dogs, not understanding my desire to avoid someone, would invariably give my hiding place away.

The boys, ignoring both Monroe and me, came out the door and headed through the field for the dump yard, which was just up the road between Moonglow and Blue. Every day or so the boys canvassed the acre or so of old vehicles and doorless refrigerators or other assorted junk for prizes and bounty. Once they came home with some beat up old chaps and took turns wearing them, faking bow-leggedness as they walked around the house and yard. Another time it was a pit-rusted big tray, black backgrounded with over-bloomed pink and red roses painted across the black. The tray was big enough to act as a sled and they used it on one of the down-hilled, four-wheeler tracks that crisscrossed the mounds behind the house. Hollering with fear and excitement as it bumped and bounced down the rough path.

Now Monroe reached me and gave me her two-bottom-teeth-missing, shy smile. Whatcha doen’? She asked me like she always did. The dogs, relieved because she wasn’t carrying any clothes or tea party paraphernalia, greeted her eagerly, almost knocking her over. That summer, Monroe was still short and scrawny, (Virginia told her that she wasn’t any bigger than a humming bird), and still sucked her thumb.

All of a sudden we heard the sound of a motorcycle and saw Buck Weaver riding up to the front of the house. He’d been at Moonglow a couple of times and as far as I was concerned, he was just one in a long succession of bums my mom seemed to find wherever she went. But I didn’t care because I figured if she did hook up with him, at least we wouldn’t be going any place. So when, a couple of minutes later, I heard the bike start up again and saw my mother riding on the back of the Harley, her arms clutching Buck’s waist, her head thrown back in reckless laughter, I didn’t think too much about it, just relieved that we probably wouldn’t have to put up with her dark moodiness for the rest of the day.

Monroe and I spent about an hour in the grove. I sat cross-legged and read while she roamed aimlessly with the dogs and looked for insect tracks … or the tiny creatures themselves … in the dirt.

Tucker and Ford tried sneaking up on us, and might have been able to surprise us if it hadn’t been for the dogs barking at their sneaky appearance. Tucker was the leader of the pair, and Ford, unsure of himself, was willing to let his younger cousin lead them into whatever escapade Tucker dreamed up. I didn’t like my cousin very much. He was bossy and a know-it-all. I had caught him on several occasions swiping things out of the kitchen, when all he’d have to do is ask Gramma Moon and she’d probably have given them to him. And he also tiptoed around (I’m using the word figuratively now), the line of being mean to animals. Especially when he thought no one was looking. And I sure didn’t like the way he treated Ford. Ford was fat and slow and had been belittled so often by our mother that he was resigned to being put down. He’d just duck his head and get that resigned expression on his face. Tucker knew better than to treat Ford badly when I was around. But I dreaded thinking about the times I wasn’t there to protect my brother. I didn’t trust Tucker. Not one bit.

As soon as the two boys walked up to where Monroe and I were standing, I could see that Tucker was hiding something behind his back … something he and Ford had found at the dump, I guessed.

What have you got? I asked Tucker suspiciously.

Wouldn’t you like to know?

Yeah, Ford parroted … something he did a lot with Tucker … Wouldn’t you like to know?

I sighed. Let me see what you’ve got, I said firmly. Tucker was really eager to show his prize. He brought the gun out from behind his back and played like he was shooting Monroe and me with it. He made those shooting sound effects that only boys seem to be able to do. (I was never able to imitate that gun noise. And, even now, I can’t even begin to spell that sound boys make when they fire their imaginary guns.)

The gun was a 12-gauge shotgun.

Where did you get it? I demanded.

In the back of this old busted up pickup at the dump, Tucker said.

It was hidden under a bunch of junk.

Well, Gramma Moon is going to be madder than a stirred up hornet if you keep it. You know she doesn’t like guns unless they’re locked up in the gun case. And no one knew where she hid the key to get into it.

"Well, we aren’t going to show it to her."

She doesn’t need to know we’ve got it, Ford added.

Then what are you going to do with it? I noticed that the end of the barrel had been sawed off clumsily.

What do you usually do with a gun? Tucker sneered. We’re going to take it hunting.

Oh, sure! I countered. What are you going to do? Throw it at something? A gun isn’t much good without a shell in it.

The gleam in Tucker’s eye was unmistakable. Gramma Moon keeps the guns locked up. But not the shells! And we know where the boxes of shells are!

Yeah! from Ford. I saw them on top of the gun case.

Gramma Moon will skin you two alive if you take her shells without her knowing. I tried to talk them out of their intended hunting adventure.

Aw, Tucker said, looking down the top of the gun as if he were sighting something. All we’re going to do is kill us a rabbit or two.

And, Ford added eagerly, we’re going to build us a fire out in the woods and cook ’em.

Monroe had taken the thumb out of her mouth long enough to say in wonder, "You’re gonna eat ’em?"

Sure, Tucker said. Wild rabbit meat is real good.

Ford, I addressed him since I knew that, as his older sister, I had some influence on him. "You know building fires in the woods is not allowed. Besides, Sam says the rabbits in the woods have