Girl Gone North

By John McIlveen

Shortlisted for the Wilbur & Niso Smith Foundation Award.

Sisters Emma and Thalia Holden are raised in a home of limited means, reasonable happiness, but abundant love, and life in the Lower Ninth Ward is good to their youthful eyes despite vicious battles for and against segregation

• Language: English
• Publisher: Haverhill House Publishing
• Release date: Jul 20, 2023
• ISBN: 9781087949567

John McIlveen

John M. McIlveen is the bestselling author of the paranormal suspense novel HANNAHWHERE (nominated for the Bram Stoker Award for a first novel and GIRL GONE NORTH, shortlisted for the Wilbur and Niso Smith Foundation Award. He has also authored three collections, A VARIABLE DARKNESS, INFLICTIONS, and JERKS and Other Tales from A Perfect Man.He works at MIT's Lincoln Laboratory and is CEO of Haverhill House Publishing LLC. He has fathered five beautiful daughters and lives in Massachusetts with his wife, Roberta Colasanti.

Book preview

Also by John McIlveen

Jerks And Other Tales By A Perfect Man

Inflictions

Hannahwhere

A Variable Darkness

GIRL GONE NORTH

A novel by

John McIlveen

A close up of a building Description generated with high confidence

Haverhill House Publishing LLC

This book is a work of fiction. All characters, events, dialog, and situations in this book are fictitious. Any resemblance to actual people or events is a product of the author’s imagination or is used fictitiously purely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced without the author's written permission.

GIRL GONE NORTH

© 2023 John McIlveen

978-1-949140-44-6 Hardcover

978-1-949140-40-8 Paperback

Cover art and design © 2023 Errick Nunnally

Haverhill House Publishing LLC

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Haverhill MA 01830-2420

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For my sisters

Donna & Cathy

A sister can be seen as someone who is both ourselves and very much not ourselves – a special kind of double.

~Toni Morrison

I smile because you are my sister, I laugh because there is nothing you can do about it!

~Author Unknown

Until the philosophy which hold one race superior and another inferior is finally and permanently discredited and abandoned, everywhere is war.

-- Bob Marley

Blackbird singing in the dead of night

Take these broken wings and learn to fly

All your life

You were only waiting for this moment to arise.

-- Paul McCartney

PART 1

A GIRL AND HER FAMILY

I’m looking forward to a better past.

-- Nash Rambler

Wood makes a house – love makes a home.

-- Nash Rambler

STRINGING VINES

Thalia Rose Holden

Lower Ninth Ward – New Orleans

Saturday, May 6, 1961

If someone had told Thalia at that moment, on that idyllic day, that stringing vines with her father as a breeze from the Mississippi cooled the sweat on their backs would be among the most cherished memories of her life, she wouldn’t have believed them. But, if she were told at that moment on that idyllic day the following six months would turn their lives inside out, she wouldn’t have believed that, either.

Thalia looked at Daddy, kneeling beside her on the freshly turned earth, directing a tomato stake into the ground. She watched his arms, his biceps traveling up and down as if something living was beneath his skin, looking too busy for the simple task of twirling that little stick into the tilled earth.

Daddy, in turn, watched as his daughter mimicked his example, but the stake was having none of it, penetrating the soil only six inches before coming to a dead halt.

You hit a rock, Daddy said. "Twist back and forth when you push, and it’ll go where you send it. He cupped his great hands over hers and gently directed the stake, which shifted over whatever hindered it and settled in place.

To Thalia, Daddy appeared highly polished. Not in the sophisticated sense – Robert James Holden was a moral, wise, and modest man, but he was not cultured – but physically polished. The toned skin of his arms, face, and body was solid and always shined like waxed mahogany. He was a contradiction in size and spirit, both of which he had plenty. At nearly six-foot-seven, he had arms that could have challenged a Morgan’s hind legs in girth, yet he was a quiet man who moved like mercury: smooth, gentle, but always with purpose. He didn’t waste motion or words. He spoke much in the way he moved, controlled and patient, in a voice so deep she felt it rumble in the pit of her stomach.

If eyes are the windows to the soul, Daddy’s were plate glass panes. They were unique but characteristic of the rest of him. The outer rims of his irises were nearly black but lightened with gradual progression to a warm caramel where they outlined the pupils. No matter his mood, the enduring softness in his eyes revealed the kindhearted soul residing behind them.

One of the things Thalia loved most about Daddy, seemingly incongruent for such a giant man, was his gentleness and how he held them, his children. He would wrap them within the iron-like firmness of his arms and chest yet make them feel as if they were swathed in satin and wool. Enveloped in his arms, they were safe. Fear or cold did not reside there, only love, safety, and the everlasting smell of saddle soap and hay, a pleasant reminder of his job at Hollsworth Manor.

Bretton Hollsworth was a fair and honest man whom Daddy had grown to respect and even love. Hollsworth had hired Daddy for a weekend in 1932 when he was thirteen years old and already bigger and stronger than most twice his age. By the time Daddy made twenty-two, Mr. Hollsworth had entrusted the wellbeing of his livestock to him in its entirety. Nearly thirty years later, Daddy was still employed by him. He treasured his job and was proud of his self-taught ability. He knew the nature of those beasts better than his own reflection, and he tended to them as if they were his own.

Daddy was also twenty-two when he married a charming but fiery little seamstress named Alice Jeannine Wasson, who - when she wasn’t behind her sewing machine - waited the counter at Hymel’s Hemstitching on Bourbon Street. He would often drop the Hollsworth’s clothing off for mending and cleaning during his grain and feed runs into the city. Although it took him a few miles out of the way, it was a detour he was more than willing to take. Once Daddy set his eyes on her, he was a fish on the hook. A willing fish, he didn’t fight it at all.

Momma loved her children no less than her husband did, but where Daddy protected, Momma directed. She taught them to interact socially with pride, respect, honor, and humor. Never short in smarts, charm, or compassion, Momma was also sly, playful, sexy, severe, loving, sensual, righteous, and utterly cross-eyed and drooling goofy, all rolled into one. She operated with textbook efficiency regardless the task. Be it peeling apples, folding clothes, sharing a smile, lending a hand, or voicing her opinion, she did it better and faster than most anyone. No one put a bend in Alice Holden’s road without getting an earful and woe to anyone who had a mind to harm her children or set their sights on her man with more than an appreciative eye.

Momma’s own eyes were gorgeous but lethal. Feline, intense, and set above razor-sharp cheekbones, the right slant of light would set the gold flecks in her mocha irises aflame; one knew right where they stood simply by looking at her.

Momma was the first line when it came to discipline. Transgressions were usually short-lived and quickly defused by a simple glare that could freeze a spine to ice, but she had a touch that could thaw it back. Daddy once said he’d go head to head with one of Mr. Wordsworth’s bulls before challenging Momma when she got the look in her eyes. Thalia, her sister Emma, and her brother Henry were prone to agree. They took extra care not to make her cross; her love was tremendous and complete, but her passion ran deep.

Daddy’s belt was the second line of discipline, but Henry was the only one ever to cross that line after stealing a still warm Po-Boy from a Leidenheimer Bakery van on a dare. Daddy loathed stealing and dishonesty, a message he only had to emphasize once. In Daddy’s eyes, no one had the right to steal a man’s bread, figuratively or literally. Henry got the what-with, but they all got the fear.

Momma and Daddy were quality and quantity people, and they were generous with both beyond measure. They taught their children to Honor with The Holden Golden H Rule: honesty, humor, heart, hugs, and helping hands, all of which cost the giver nothing except time, but they made the best gifts, and they made the givers better people - so long as they offered them without regret. Momma and Daddy always gave every bit of their best. They couldn’t afford much when it came to material things, but they shared it whenever they had extra.

Of all the qualities that defined Thalia’s parents, their capacity for love was the most evident. Their love for each other, for humankind, and most of all, for their children, was boundless.

By the time Thalia reached her fifteenth year, Momma and Daddy had been married near about twenty, but she and Emma would still catch Momma, wrapped in her apron and elbow-deep in sink water, watching her husband through the kitchen window with wistful eyes, his muscles huge and dynamic as he worked in the yard or on the house. Emma and Thalia would tease her like school kids, and they’d say, ‘what you looking at, Momma?’ She would shake her head and go mmm-mmm-mmm as if she had sampled Louisiana’s best jambalaya. It wasn’t one-way admiration, either. Momma had this sundress made of bleached cotton that glowed white like angel wings. When she wore this dress, it fit her spot-on in all the right places, accentuating the smooth curve of her hips, the fullness of her breasts, and the gentle swell of her tummy. Her tummy was what Daddy liked the most - or so he told them - but the real focus of his admiration was evident on those days when Momma, whether being playful or simply wanting to drive Daddy crazy, would ‘forget’ to put on her brassiere. And that’s precisely what she was – and was not – wearing when she sashayed from the house and across the yard to where Thalia and Daddy were stringing tomato vines.

She was a vision, a dream wrapped in radiant white. Sunny as the day was, Momma’s eyes shined even brighter. Her honey fawn skin, nearly the color of Daddy’s eyes, hinted through the sheer fabric of her dress. As she walked, the full bounty of her breasts swayed slightly and pushed firmly against the cotton. Her freshly washed and still-damp hair fell a little past her neck, tied back with a strip of simple white linen. The tantalizing aroma of honey and lavender swept over them when she stepped beside them. Thalia swore she heard a low growl leave Daddy’s lips. When he caught an eyeful of Momma, Thalia knew the tomato stringing was done for the day. She doubted Mr. Willie Mays could have knocked the appreciation out of Daddy’s eyes with his best swing.

I ran you a hot bath, baby, Momma told her husband. Even though baby was a name she used with all of them, it was Daddy’s exclusively that day. He knew what language she was speaking, and nothing short of Earth hopping off its axis could have diverted his attention.

That so? he asked.

Un-huh, ‘less you plan on stringing straight on ‘til nightfall.

Daddy straightened, took a deep breath, and offered one slow blink as if contemplating his options, but it was clear there was only one thing in his world right then.

We worked Thalia Rose enough for today, he said, but Thalia was dead sure her workload was not his primary concern.

Don’t know, Momma, there’s more tomato plants needing stringing, Thalia teased. Daddy and I maybe should tend to those.

No, we’ve worked long enough, he said, bending to gather the sticks and the spool of twine from the dirt. He looked ready to leap clear out of his skin to get to Momma.

It’s hardly six o’clock. We have a few more hours of proper daylight to work by, for sure. Thalia looked at the sky and put an exaggerated hand to her forehead as if to block the sun.

You hear that child of yours? Daddy said. She’s barely thirteen and already got your knack for tormenting a man.

He knew her actual age, but he jiggled the bait, and she couldn’t resist. It was his turn to do some teasing.

You know well enough I’m fifteen-almost-sixteen-going-on-seventeen-soon-to-be-eighteen, said Thalia, her usual response in this game they played.

He held the bundle of sticks under one arm and wrapped a length of twine around them. He yanked at a knot, and everything fell from his anxious hands to the ground. Daddy groaned, and Momma and Thalia giggled. Looking at his daughter sheepishly, he picked up the bundle, he looked at Momma, and the sheep turned wolf.

Better fetch your bath before it gets cold, Thalia said, taking the bundle of sticks from him. I’m sure Momma don’t want no dirty ol’ man fussing over her.

Listen to you, girl, Momma said and laughed. Devil will bite your tongue for spitting out words like that.

She looked to Daddy, but he was already on the porch and heading through the door. Bacchus, their three-legged German shepherd, moved with reluctance from where he lay outside the doorway.

Momma raised her brows, looked at Thalia, and they both laughed. The man’s got focus, she said.

They walked to the porch steps, up, and into the house. Bacchus, who had already reclaimed the sunny patch at the entrance, again moved away from the doorway, looking perturbed. Thalia would have sworn he rolled his eyes at them.

Why do you insist on lying smack-dab in the middle of the road? If you didn’t, you wouldn’t have to keep on moving, Momma said and scrubbed her knuckles on the dog’s head.

Bacchus endured the lecture with tongue-lolling tolerance, his expression seeming to say, I have my reasons. Now, how about letting me get back to my spot in the middle of the road.

I put some cornbread for Hainey and her father in your night bag and put it on the Joseph chair, Momma said.

Momma named it the Joseph chair because, like Saint Joseph, it wore a coat of many colors, evident by the multiple nicks and chips that ran along its edges. Daddy brought the squat and solid office chair home after Mrs. Hollsworth dubbed it a monstrosity and told him to dispose of it. He didn’t see the chipped and dented eyesore Mrs. Hollsworth saw but a sturdy oak chair of admirable quality that had weathered fifty or more years of service with nothing worse than a few lousy paint jobs. He had asked Mrs. Hollsworth if he could claim it for home, and she approved without hesitation.

Daddy had once told them Mrs. Hollsworth was like a newborn baby, sweeter than canned peaches but pampered to tears. The notion that the chair could be revitalized with a good dose of elbow grease was outside her realm of thought or experience, a fact that frustrated the frugal but easygoing Mr. Hollsworth.

Daddy chose not to repaint the chair because he believed there were both honor and a certain beauty in its scars. Like wounds on a noble soldier, they were a testament to service, not emblems of worthlessness. He said the difference between trash and treasure could be as thin as a coat of paint. Daddy’s sentiment and philosophy often bordered on sappiness, but it was sincere.

The chair was well suited to their home, which was a small, scarred treasure. Originally a shotgun cottage, Daddy and Momma had built it from meager means, often salvaging and refining what others considered rubbish and transforming it into a pretty double-shotgun cottage. Theirs was the only home with a brick walkway and steps in their neighborhood of similar weatherworn shanties. Daddy had salvaged the bricks from an old foundation of Mr. Hollsworth’s he’d helped dismantle.

The Holden house had decorative trim work Daddy and Momma had cut by hand, and theirs was one of few homes that maintained a decent and somewhat uniform coat of paint. In their world, they were wealthy.

Thalia lifted her overnight bag from their beautiful-ugly chair and reached for her baseball bat, leaning against the wall behind it.

Where you going, girl? asked Momma. She stood with her hand on her jutting right hip, her left foot tapping away like she was heating rhythm to start the band. Well on its western course, the sun shone through the window, intensifying the disapproving look on her pretty face. Thalia was confused.

You know I’m set to sleep by Hainey Mills’ house tonight. You packed my bag.

Thalia had finally swayed her parents into allowing a sleepover at Hainey’s, a first concerning the Mills. Hainey was born on February 22, 1946, which made her Thalia’s senior by two months and seven days. Hainey’s momma had died unexpectedly in her sleep late in 1959, fading with the evening sun, never to rise again. Hainey said that after that night, her father spent the best part of his time either working or drinking away his blues - more of the latter than the first, was the impression Thalia got. It was never clear to Thalia what Hainey’s mother died from, and Hainey didn’t speak of it much. Some people said she caught the fever, but Momma insisted Mrs. Mills died of heartbreak from losing her son Gregory to the Korean War. That was in late 1952 when Hainey was merely six. Momma said it would have broken her heart, too.

Life at the Mills’ house sounded gloomy but safe enough for fifteen. After a healthy amount of deliberation, Momma and Daddy had spoken with Mr. Mills and had come to that same conclusion. Thalia had conveniently disregarded mentioning Mr. Mills’ bottle-tipping tendencies. If they’d known that little bit of information, Thalia doubted she would have been heading to the Mills’ that night.

Did they find out? she wondered. It didn’t make sense, especially after Momma got Daddy all worked up and in a flap the way she had. Thalia sensed a healthy measure of what Emma called the ‘shit-damns’ coming on. She stared at Momma with vacant eyes, figuring playing dumb – something she thought she might be a little too good at for bragging rights – was her best avenue.

You ain’t going anywhere, girl, ‘til you wash those dreadful hands, Momma said, pointing to the sink as if Thalia had no clue where hands were washed. That sink was another of Daddy’s rescued treasures, far grander than its dented and tarnished predecessor.

Relieved, Thalia obeyed. Momma said ain’t, she teased, thrilled she had caught her saying ain’t, something Momma forever hounded them about.

I most certainly did not, Mamma said with the challenge and a smile sitting pretty in her voice.

Uh-huh, Thalia challenged right back.

Girl, your hearing ain’t right.

Thalia stared at her, mouth agape as if Momma had cussed. Momma went slack-jawed, parroting Thalia’s expression. Thalia figured she must have looked smart as a bag of beets, judging by the expression on Momma’s face. They both started laughing.

Momma was right; her hands were filthy. Dirt swirled over white porcelain and down the drain like the blood in Psycho, the movie that made Emma fuss so much. Thalia hadn’t seen it, but she’d heard plenty about it at three o’clock that morning when Emma woke up all sweaty and in a tizzy. Thalia wiped her hands and displayed them for Momma to inspect.

I packed your ems, she reminded Thalia. "Don’t forget to take them. You don’t want none of that happening over there."

Yeah, Thalia said, rolling her eyes. She wished she could forget them. That referred to her seizures, and ems was their code name for Ethosuximide. Pharmaceutically and acronymically called EMS, Ethosuximide was a relatively new AED – and that stood for ‘anti-epilepsy drug.’ Seizures (especially public) were painfully embarrassing for Thalia – hence the code word.

She first seized for no apparent reason when she was five years old. As Momma and Daddy too often explained it, there she was, blabbing along as usual, then she flopped over and proceeded to rattle across the floor, drooling and frightening the sludge out of everyone in the house.

Momma called it jangling since every part of Thalia’s body did precisely that. Daddy said a seizure was the only thing mighty enough to stop Thalia mid-sentence. They both saw the humor in it; Thalia didn’t share their views.

She continued seizing without rhyme, reason, or schedule about five times a year. By her fifteenth year, everyone - well, at least Momma, Daddy, and Henry - was long accustomed to her seizures. Their fear had been replaced by resignation, coupled with announcements like, Momma, Thalia’s jangling again, or an enthusiastic and she’s off!

Then there was Emma, who regarded Thalia’s jangling akin to demonic possession. She had said Thalia’s seizures were disturbing and nauseating, and it horrified her how her eyes rolled back in her head as her body curled back on itself like a cutworm. She would retreat as if Thalia were giving out doses of botulism. Fortunately, Thalia never remembered her episodes or the reactions people had to them, but she would spend the following hour or two with a low-grade headache and drifting in a gauzy haze.

With Emma heading off to Boston in two days for school and work, Thalia figured she wouldn’t have to see them anymore.

She had worked her way through the ranks of AEDs, from Dilantin to phenytoin, to sodium valproate (also known by the non-phonic VPA), and the most recent offering, EMS, the latest and greatest interpretation of the be-still-pill. Some revolutionary, mood-altering wonder tab always awaited her as soon as her tolerance to the last one wore off. If nothing else, she became well versed in acronyms.

You go easy on my Daddy, Thalia said to Momma as she shouldered her night bag.

You should have soaped up that tongue while you were at it, Momma teased. You got a week of filth all over it.

Thalia hugged her, Momma kissed her on the cheek, and Thalia walked out the door. She turned to wave as Momma closed the door, the sparkle in her beautiful eyes shining bright as a promise.

HAINEY’S HOUSE

Thalia

Lower Ninth Ward – New Orleans

Saturday, May 6, 1961

"A friend is one who knows you

and loves you just the same."

- Elbert Hubbard

Hainey Mills had been an enigma from the day Thalia met her. In school, she spent most of her time existing in the peripheral of awareness, an almost presence, an oddity people – Thalia included – either didn’t understand, feared, or both. Most did not associate with her and only acknowledged her as the strange girl whose brother died in Korea. Thalia’s initial impression was that she merely coexisted with people and had no evident desire to befriend anyone. She seemed oblivious to others, withdrawn, dismissive, and standoffish, yet she would fire off blunt and often angry observations at random, unanticipated moments. On those rare instances Hainey did speak, she held back her tongue much as a screen door held back the wind.

Gemma Harris was a loud girl with a high, nasally voice she employed to excess. She had an unreachable threshold for shame, or so most thought, until the day she tried to lure Thad Lipton with a wiggle that would have dislocated most hips. Her seduction failed, unnoticed by her targeted love interest but not by Hainey Mills.

Girl, you look dumb as a hubcap, swingin’ that fat behind like that, Hainey said, lambasting Gemma right in front of the formerly unaware young man. You think making an earthquake will get Thad Lipton wanting on you?

That earned some good laughter from other students and humiliated Gemma to tears. Gemma’s juvenile display irritated and embarrassed Hainey. She hadn’t meant to be so mean-spirited, but she lacked the delicacy to say it more kindly.

That incident had piqued Thalia’s curiosity, but what truly got her noticing the peculiar girl was her response to a comment their history teacher Mr. Phelps had made. About a month into their freshman year at George Washington Carver High School, Thalia couldn’t recall what Mr. Phelps was lecturing about, but he had said something to the effect of We are a nation formed under God, the Father. Hainey had snorted with contempt, and Mr. Phelps paused, a fusion of irritation and curiosity furrowing his brow.

Did I say something to upset you, Ms. Mills? Mr. Phelps asked. All in the classroom turned to watch Hainey’s down-turned head.

He’s a joke, Hainey said. She didn’t look up or reveal her face, not that she could have through her tangled fall of hair.

God is a joke? the teacher asked, a new glimmer of interest sparking his ordinarily tired eyes.

"God the Father is a joke," she spat, her tone venomous.

Those are heavy words, Hainey. What would—

You’re a father, Hainey interrupted. "If a parent - a supposedly almighty parent with supposedly infinite love – truly loves their child, would they let that child die at war? Would you let your child’s momma drown to death in her grief if you could stop it by willing it? Would you let your children suffer from disease and hurt so badly that the only way their real flesh and blood parents can deal with it is by drinking themselves numb? If you infinitely and unconditionally love your child and supposedly had the power to protect them, wouldn’t you, Mr. Phelps?"

Well, Mr. Phelps said. He looked shaken beneath his professional exterior. God has His reasons for—

Hainey’s head jerked up, stopping the teacher in his vocal tracks. That’s a coward’s answer, Mr. Phelps, she said sharply, "a diversion to a question you can’t or won’t answer – a cop-out. I don’t have children yet – I never may – but I know I, or any decent parent, would give their arms, eyes, heart, and last dying breath to protect theirs. Wouldn’t you, Mr. Phelps? What ridiculous reason could God have not to?"

Hainey’s eyes glinted with anger and tears through her unkempt mane, challenging and paralyzing the defenseless teacher. Thalia could feel her heat clear across the classroom.

"God the Father is a joke we play on ourselves," Hainey scoffed with disgust.

Hainey, maybe you should go see the nurse until you settle down, Mr. Phelps suggested, unsuccessfully trying to appear calm and in control.

I’m done, she said contemptuously. And she was. She sat back in her seat and returned her attention to the floor, once again a barely present entity.

Flustered, Mr. Phelps declared the remaining ten minutes of class ‘study time’ and left the room. Students chuckled, whispered, and regarded Hainey as either a loose cannon or just plain nuts. Still, something intriguing about her demanded Thalia’s attention. Despite her wildly unkempt hair and worn, ill-fitting clothes – although most children in the school had those –Thalia perceived Hainey as aware and intelligent, and she didn’t miss a beat. If she didn’t like someone or something, she’d be out with it fast as a rattlesnake, as if holding it in too long would make her a part of it. It also meant she paid more attention to her surroundings than she led on.

Also, some part of Hainey’s outburst had struck a chord with Thalia. There were observations and questions Thalia herself had considered, including questioning the benevolence of God, and Thalia suspected there was more to Hainey than met the eye. Sure, her words to Mr. Phelps were challenging and almost blasphemous, but they were the words of someone who had deeply contemplated what she was speaking of, who had experienced pain and was concerned about the pain others suffered.

Hainey was a mystery, which was captivating but gave her a threatening aura. More feared than disliked, people avoided her like Malaria. She was a ghost in a world of ghosts. She seldom acknowledged anyone and was acknowledged even less. Yet, Thalia noticed a tiny shift of Hainey’s head or an ever-so-slight drop of her shoulders when Hainey thought everyone had turned away from her. Thalia believed her manner betrayed loneliness and a desire to be seen, so she figured she would challenge it. Thalia greeted Hainey with a simple hi whenever they’d pass in the hallway, then stepped it up to a cheerful Hello Hainey, which invariably went ignored. Thalia was aggravated but not deterred, nor did she submit to her dismissal.

Hainey always sat alone in the lunchroom with at least a four-seat buffer around her. Thalia usually sat a few tables away with her friends Danette Lewis, Jewel Crews, and their favorite boys-of-the-week, but on this particular day, she set her lunch bag on Hainey’s table and took a seat directly across from her. Thalia could see Danette and Jewel’s questioning glances from where they sat, but she ignored them.

Hi, I’m Thalia.

Hainey chanced a fleeting peek at her and immediately redirected her attention to her sandwich. She said nothing, so Thalia kept smiling and looking at her, appearing daft in the process, but she wasn’t backing off that easily.

What you looking at? Hainey finally asked, trying to sound put-off, but she failed. She was too curious to be convincing.

You, Thalia replied amiably.

Then you ain’t looking at nothin’.

Thalia pondered Hainey’s response. Was she referring to herself as nothing? Was she saying Thalia had no chance of befriending her? Was her use of a double negative a deceitfully clever show of arrogance? But Hainey slipped a bit. She risked another lightning-quick glance that made Thalia believe she was being assessed.

I see more than you think, and I see more than they do. Thalia made a general motion with her head, referring to the students around them.

Then you should see I want to be alone.

Nobody wants to be alone, Thalia challenged.

Baited by Thalia’s audacity, Hainey finally looked at her face to face. Thalia was stunned by what she saw and gasped.

What? Hainey asked. The word was so heavy with threat Thalia could almost hear it hitting the floor.

You’re beautiful, Thalia said, unable to keep the astonishment from her voice.

Hainey’s eyes shifted quickly toward the table where Thalia’s friends sat, thinking she was the brunt of some adolescent game. A string of expressions from mistrust to confusion, anger, and right back to suspicion crossed Hainey’s face.

Right. And Hitler ate kosher, she said.

I mean it, Thalia insisted. You might have the prettiest face I ever seen. Why you go hiding it under all that hair?

And how is that your concern, Thalia Rose Holden? she asked.

That Hainey knew her full name surprised Thalia. The girl clearly paid attention. Just stating the truth is all, Thalia said.

They ate quietly for a few minutes until Hainey broke the silence. You play baseball. It wasn’t a question.

When I can, but the field’s hot property. Daddy says the big and mean get the green. He was talking about money, but it’s a good fit for the field, too. Thalia figured she might be talking too much, so she went quiet. Hainey said nothing for a few minutes, and Thalia couldn’t resist breaking the silence. How’d you know I play ball?

You carry a bat and glove to the field. Spells baseball to me.

That’s right. You live on the Ward, too.

Hainey looked at her as if she had spewed out the most foolish words to leave human lips and used a foul breath to push them. Again, she said nothing; she just sat slowly chewing her sandwich.

I’m a little thick sometimes, but why don’t you ride the bus? Thalia asked.

My father drives me. They sat in silence for another three or four minutes until Hainey said, I like to throw the ball. I can throw pretty hard.

Come down the field and throw around some.

I dunno, Hainey mumbled. After another pause, she shrugged and said, Maybe.

Hainey and Thalia started spending time together after school, tossing a baseball around and hitting to each other. They bonded quickly and were soon inseparable. Under the wild hair and behind the caustic mouth, the young woman had warm compassion that would have left anyone at school slackjawed. Thalia became Hainey’s only female friend, not that she fared much better. Outside of Hainey, she had only Danette and Jewel to claim as close friends.

A few weeks into their friendship, Hainey, still distrustful, hesitantly accepted an invitation to Thalia’s house for dinner. Hainey timidly nodded when Thalia introduced her to Momma, Daddy, and Emma.

You … follow me, Emma said, pointing at Hainey, who shot a glance towards Thalia and warily complied. Little did she know Emma and Thalia had conspired.

Emma sat Hainey down in the Joseph chair and gave her a pampering that must have rivaled the ones Dorothy Dandridge or Audrey Hepburn received. Hainey loved the attention, and a heartbreaking comprehension struck Thalia; with Hainey’s mother gone and only her father at home, such attention likely didn’t exist.

Emma combed the tangles from Hainey’s jumble of hair and convinced her to let her trim it a little here and there. She worked in a concoction of castor oil and Momma’s oil made from lavender she had grown herself. Momma said lavender grows as good in The Ward as anywhere else if you plant it deep enough. Emma combed Hainey’s hair again, and then she, Thalia, and Momma braided her up in twenty-two perfect cornrows, complete with beads of various colorful shades.

When they had secured the final beads on the last braid, four hours later, Emma stepped back and regarded Hainey with a satisfied smile.

You are gorgeous, she said.

Thalia, you’re right, Momma said, Hainey has one of the prettiest faces ever.

Daddy stopped in the doorway when he came in from working on his truck and raised a single appreciative eyebrow. It was Daddy’s way of saying he was honestly surprised. There ain’t no way that’s the same young lady who came through this very door, he said.

Sure is, Emma said. Isn’t she beautiful?

Amen to that. Beautiful indeed, he concurred, which pleased Hainey, who beamed like a beacon. Although Thalia was happy for her, she couldn’t deny experiencing a pang of jealousy.

Half the George Washington Carver High School population nearly threw vertebra when double-taking at the ‘new’ Hainey Mills. The boys started looking at her in a new way, making the girls at GWCHS see her as a new and different threat. She was still out of her element at school and in social situations but gradually started letting her guard down.

When Hainey was with Thalia, she was an entirely different person, which opened the door to a wagonload of mood swings, some of which were rather extreme. Hainey could switch from being as upbeat and animated as a kitten to sadder than a wartime ballad in the blink of an eye. Considering the doses of hard-luck life had force-fed her, Thalia figured she was allowed a few quirks.

Spending that first night at the Mills’ home half a year into their friendship turned out to be not at all what Thalia had envisioned. Mr. Mills, whom she had only encountered briefly before that night, was a short and solid man who turned out to be surprisingly animated and talkative. His face bulged and contracted with soft elasticity when he spoke, a jovial countenance reminiscent of Ray Bolger’s Scarecrow in The Wizard of Oz. His eyes were compassionate and humorous but overly moist. Veiled behind his cheeriness was a melancholy evident to those who knew his story. He looked as if he could cave in and cry at any moment.

Mr. Mills betrayed nothing of the morose drinker Hainey had described so openly. He seemed genuinely happy to have a fresh face in the house and even cooked up an excellent batch of what he called Randolph’s Backfire Chili to serve with the cornbread Momma had sent with Thalia. He was a top-notch host.

After dinner, Hainey and Thalia helped her father clean up in the kitchen then the three sat at a long pine-board table and played a round of Parcheesi.

Thalia won, but Mr. Mills didn’t try very hard. Afterward, he retired to his rocking chair, a tough-looking maple relic that protested each forward rock with a yelp like a stick-beaten dog. He smiled contentedly without direction, pulling on an aged corncob pipe and sending aromatic clouds billowing to meet the water-stained ceiling. Hainey and Thalia played a second round and then turned to checkers. Thalia conceded by the end of their fifth game, four of which she lost.

Mr. Mills softly snored in his chair, his chin tucked to his chest and his long-expired pipe still trapped in his lips. Hainey gently took the pipe from her father’s mouth and placed it in a coffee-can-turned-ashtray set atop his side table, made from two sturdy Big Shot soda crates stacked one upon the other. She softly shook his arm and said, Daddy, you best set for bed.

Studying their interaction, Thalia realized she had never fully appreciated their connection and the enormity of Hainey and Mr. Mill’s losses until that moment. To lose your brother and your mother – or your son and your wife - in six years. The sheer hideousness of it was hard to comprehend. Emma would be leaving for Boston in two days, and Thalia was near crazy with distress because she feared she wouldn’t see her until Christmas, maybe later.

Hainey and Randolph Mills had lost half of their family forever. All they had left was each other. Thalia tried to imagine herself in a similar scenario with two of her family dying; it stole her breath like a punch to the belly. She looked at her newly rediscovered friend with different eyes and couldn’t stop the tears that welled in them.

Mr. Mills rose from the chair, his knees snapping in loud rebellion. He looked at them and shared a sad but friendly smile. Them old bones sure love to complain, he said. Good night, ladies.

Good night, sir, Thalia choked out.

Still shrouded in sleep and a little unsure on his feet, Hainey assisted her father to his bedroom. Thalia averted her gaze and excused herself to Hainey’s room.

Hainey entered the room a few moments later and looked at Thalia, concern digging ruts over her eyes. What’s got you acting all funny? she asked. "Remember, I’m supposed to be the emotional one."

Thalia sat on Hainey’s bed with her back to the wall. She couldn’t look Hainey in the eyes, afraid it would get the tears running again. She hugged her knees to her chest, shrugged, and looked away.

What? Hainey persisted.

Your dad, Thalia said, he’s a good man.

I ain’t ever said different.

It’s just that after all your huffing and fussing about his drinking and drearies, I was figuring he’d be drunk and ugly-mean.

No, there ain’t a bit of mean in him, just a whole bunch of sad, said Hainey. "I can run off at the mouth sometimes. Why’s it got you all sniffed up?"

Thalia feared maybe she overreacted but reconsidered and said, I never really got to thinking about all you and your Daddy’s gone through. I thought about what it’d do to me, and I don’t know if I could carry it. That’s what got to me. It’s terrible beyond saying.

Move them skinny ol’ hips over, she said. She sat beside Thalia, employing the wall as she did. She looked at Thalia, and a small sheepish smile came and faded. She looked at her hands and picked absently at a nail.

Me and my Dad didn’t get much say in it, but it sure ain’t anything we want to go through again. I know my lips keep flapping about him, She gave a slight head tilt in the general direction of her father’s room. but that’s because I’m scared, Thal. He’s all I got left, and he sure gets the blues sometimes. When those blues come knocking, he tries to scare them away with the bottle. He ain’t too bad yet, but I can see what could be, and I don’t want to lose my Daddy, too.

Thalia realized Hainey’s complaining about her father’s utter sadness and drinking wasn’t contemptuous. She was mourning the deaths of her mother and brother and the potential loss of her father, a third essential part of herself. Hainey had confided in her; spilled her guts. Her angst was a self-protective cloak. The shiver that ran through Thalia turned her nerves nearly inside out.

It’s past midnight, Hainey said.

Yeah, Thalia agreed, figuring she was tired.

Today is Mother’s Day. Hainey’s pretty face contorted, and a single, large tear fell. Thalia pulled her friend into her arms, and the dam burst. Hainey latched onto her desperately, buried her face against Thalia’s neck, and broke into powerful sobs.

She wondered if she was the first person Hainey had been able to confide in while remaining strong for her father. Who had her back?

It had never occurred to Thalia the colossal difference between one and zero and how easy a step it could be to go from something to nothing. She now had a much better understanding of this enigma named Hainey. They sat that way until Hainey was spent.

Thalia thought Hainey had fallen asleep, but she swiftly sat up and ran her arm across her damp eyes.

Okay, all better, Hainey said, a humorous offering of false bravado.

Wow, you needed that.

You think? No idea I had all that blubbering buried inside me. Sorry about your shirt, she said and plucked at the darkened, tear-soaked shoulder.

Pajamas? Thalia suggested.

Hainey smiled, nodded, and retrieved a white and blue cotton nightie from a hook behind her bedroom door. Laughing, Thalia pulled a surprisingly similar one from my bag.

Damn, girl, look at them apples hanging on you, Hainey blurted as they undressed.

What are you talking at, Hainey? Thalia asked but knew clear well what she was discussing.

You. Where’s the fairness here? I might be older, but you’re at least two sizes better blessed than I am. Thalia shushed her. She had said it so loudly Thalia feared Mr. Mills might hear them.

"You’re doing fine, Hainey, and I ain’t that much bigger."

Heck, you ain’t! She looked at Thalia as if she said the Mississippi ran north. You nearly got what your mama’s got, and my bra fits me better backwards.

This struck Thalia’s funny bone especially hard. Laughing made pulling on her pajama top so awkward that her arm became entangled, and her nightie snagged firmly on the particular objects of which Hainey remarked.

See that? she continued. They so big they won’t even let you get dressed.

While Thalia wasn’t particularly large on top or Hainey particularly small, Thalia’s development had virtually happened overnight, while Hainey’s was gradual. Thalia was tall, already five-eight and thin as wheat, with long, gangly legs like a foal. It gave the impression she was bustier than Hainey, but they were built differently. Hainey was compact and solid; the fullness of her hips and legs balanced the weight scale between them. If her father were any indication, she would probably stay about five-foot-three for the long run. Hainey also tended to curl protectively inward, her back rounded as if expecting a blow or ashamed of her womanliness. It made her appear even shorter.

They were two fifteen-year-old girls, neck-deep in puberty and growing and changing in the new and exciting ways young women do. Thalia didn’t know if she would ever develop Momma’s voluptuous physique, but a girl could hope.

Besides, two months ain’t much older, and didn’t you say you were five weeks premature? Thalia said as a consolation to Hainey, who hadn’t appeared too comforted by the observation.

They squandered the night away, giggling, tickling each other’s feet, and talking dirt about other girls at school. They debated whether Cody Benson or Marvin Reese would be better at kissing, although neither had ever really kissed any boy beyond a peck on the cheek. Hainey explained that she sided with Marvin because his dreamy eyes could melt the clothing right off of a woman. Thalia argued that Cody had better lips, and Marvin’s two front teeth could nearly pry a lady’s jaw free if she weren’t careful. That had them both laughing like loons. Red-eyed and sleep-deprived, they finally settled face-to-face on that oddly comfortable bed.

I’m glad you stayed over tonight, Hainey said. "It’s not often additional life comes in the house, and Daddy seemed to like that. I saw some of my old Daddy, the one from before the dark ages before my brother and mother died."

What was your mother’s name? Thalia asked.

Tawni.

That’s a beautiful name.

She was beautiful, Hainey said.

You look like a Tawni.

Hainey offered a gentle smile. Thalia saw the softness in her eyes and understood why she carried her thick-skinned, rough-talking persona outside her home. How easily someone could damage her if she entrusted them. Hainey was like an egg, a hard shell on the outside and pliable inside. Thalia was flattered to be allowed in, but it made her nervous.

As long as I don’t look like a Henrietta, she said.

"You surely do not look like a Henrietta," Thalia assured her.