The Friendship Doll by Kirby Larson Page A
Authors: Kirby Larson
the name sounded important. She did wish President Roosevelt hadn’t sent him so far off. Seemed to her there were trails could be built and trees planted in Kentucky, same as in Oregon. Theo said his six months away would slip by, but to Willie Mae even one day without her big brother was too long. She couldn’t wait until his time was up and he’d come home.
Last night, this ol’ Tennessee boy commenced to playing on his guitar, and the next thing I knew, a bunch of us was singing ‘Pretty Polly,’ and ‘It Rained a Mist’ and ‘Old Smokey.’ It made me feel like I was back home, all of us singing together like we used to
.
Your loving son and brother, Theodore Wilson Marcum
The twenty-five-dollar allotment check that had come with the letter was already spent. Thanks to it, there was a ham shank simmering in the pot with the soup beans.
“I bet Theo sings circles round those other boys,” said Marvel.
“I bet he does,” agreed Willie Mae.
Ma didn’t say anything and Willie Mae couldn’t read her face. For a long time now, Ma had been a mystery, not giving one clue as to what was going on in her thoughts.
Willie Mae folded up the letter and put it back in the sugar bowl. The house grew so quiet, the only thing she could hear was the baby snuffling in his sleep and the hiss of the kerosene lamp. “Shall I start some corn bread?”
“That’d be a help.” Ma didn’t look up from her stitching. “The wood box need filling?”
Willie Mae peeked at the box beside the stove. Marvel had taken over the job of keeping it filled since Theo had gone away, but seeing as she was still puny from the grippe, Willie Mae would take a turn. She pulled a shabby coat from a peg by the front door. “Back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Ma nodded absently. Marvel’s head bobbed as she rocked the baby, asleep now herself, by the looks of it.
Willie Mae jumped over the puddle at the bottom of the steps and allowed herself one longing look down the road. She wished so hard to see Miz Junkins and Maisie coming along that she conjured up their images. Then she looked again—this was no daydream. It was real.
“Miz Junkins!” Willie Mae waved her arm till it like to fall off.
When horse and rider drew near enough for conversation, Miz Junkins said, “I couldn’t disappoint my best customer.” She slid off Maisie’s back, threw her reins over the front porch rail, and undid her saddlebags.
Dripping, Willie Mae clomped back up the steps and pulled open the front door. “Ma! Look who’s here!”
Ma’s brow wrinkled, but she set her quilt aside. “Marvel, you get on up and let Miz Junkins have a seat. Willie Mae, see if there’s coffee left in that pot.”
“Don’t stop stitching on my account, Laralee.” Miz Junkins set down her saddlebags to take the cup of hot coffee from Willie Mae and swallow a grateful sip. “And, Marvel, you stay put.”
“Sit here, Miz Junkins.” Willie Mae pulled over the stool Pap had made. Though she was dying to see what treasures those saddlebags held this visit, she minded her manners.
Ma took Miz Junkins’ patched wool coat and hung it over the open oven door. “We need to get you dried out and warmed up. Willie Mae, go fetch the rail fence quilt.”
Willie Mae ran to the bed she and Marvel shared, snatched off the quilt, and hurried back. She handed it to Miz Junkins, who wrapped it around her shoulders. Willie Mae plopped down at her feet.
“I finished this.” Willie Mae handed back
The Windy Hill
, the book she’d checked out two weeks earlier.
Miz Junkins took another sip of coffee, then set the graniteware cup on the table to take the book. “How did you like it?” She tucked it back in one of her saddlebags.
“I liked it fine.”
“That answer’s as thin as stone soup.” The librarian smiled. “The truth won’t hurt my feelings.”
Willie Mae hated to appear ungrateful when Miz Junkins traveled so far to bring books she thought Willie
Last night, this ol’ Tennessee boy commenced to playing on his guitar, and the next thing I knew, a bunch of us was singing ‘Pretty Polly,’ and ‘It Rained a Mist’ and ‘Old Smokey.’ It made me feel like I was back home, all of us singing together like we used to
.
Your loving son and brother, Theodore Wilson Marcum
The twenty-five-dollar allotment check that had come with the letter was already spent. Thanks to it, there was a ham shank simmering in the pot with the soup beans.
“I bet Theo sings circles round those other boys,” said Marvel.
“I bet he does,” agreed Willie Mae.
Ma didn’t say anything and Willie Mae couldn’t read her face. For a long time now, Ma had been a mystery, not giving one clue as to what was going on in her thoughts.
Willie Mae folded up the letter and put it back in the sugar bowl. The house grew so quiet, the only thing she could hear was the baby snuffling in his sleep and the hiss of the kerosene lamp. “Shall I start some corn bread?”
“That’d be a help.” Ma didn’t look up from her stitching. “The wood box need filling?”
Willie Mae peeked at the box beside the stove. Marvel had taken over the job of keeping it filled since Theo had gone away, but seeing as she was still puny from the grippe, Willie Mae would take a turn. She pulled a shabby coat from a peg by the front door. “Back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail.”
Ma nodded absently. Marvel’s head bobbed as she rocked the baby, asleep now herself, by the looks of it.
Willie Mae jumped over the puddle at the bottom of the steps and allowed herself one longing look down the road. She wished so hard to see Miz Junkins and Maisie coming along that she conjured up their images. Then she looked again—this was no daydream. It was real.
“Miz Junkins!” Willie Mae waved her arm till it like to fall off.
When horse and rider drew near enough for conversation, Miz Junkins said, “I couldn’t disappoint my best customer.” She slid off Maisie’s back, threw her reins over the front porch rail, and undid her saddlebags.
Dripping, Willie Mae clomped back up the steps and pulled open the front door. “Ma! Look who’s here!”
Ma’s brow wrinkled, but she set her quilt aside. “Marvel, you get on up and let Miz Junkins have a seat. Willie Mae, see if there’s coffee left in that pot.”
“Don’t stop stitching on my account, Laralee.” Miz Junkins set down her saddlebags to take the cup of hot coffee from Willie Mae and swallow a grateful sip. “And, Marvel, you stay put.”
“Sit here, Miz Junkins.” Willie Mae pulled over the stool Pap had made. Though she was dying to see what treasures those saddlebags held this visit, she minded her manners.
Ma took Miz Junkins’ patched wool coat and hung it over the open oven door. “We need to get you dried out and warmed up. Willie Mae, go fetch the rail fence quilt.”
Willie Mae ran to the bed she and Marvel shared, snatched off the quilt, and hurried back. She handed it to Miz Junkins, who wrapped it around her shoulders. Willie Mae plopped down at her feet.
“I finished this.” Willie Mae handed back
The Windy Hill
, the book she’d checked out two weeks earlier.
Miz Junkins took another sip of coffee, then set the graniteware cup on the table to take the book. “How did you like it?” She tucked it back in one of her saddlebags.
“I liked it fine.”
“That answer’s as thin as stone soup.” The librarian smiled. “The truth won’t hurt my feelings.”
Willie Mae hated to appear ungrateful when Miz Junkins traveled so far to bring books she thought Willie