Pieces of Joy
(Authors's note: You can get back to clutching your pearls - it's just fiction. Or is it?)
As usual, editing was haphazard.
ELEANOR JOYLYNN "JO" FUGATE hated herself. Indeed, whoever had told her momma to put "joy" into any part of her name must have been a real idiot. There was no joy in being any part of Joy. She hated it all; the way her face made her look like her dad "Mouse" Fugate, especially when she looked in the mirror only to see her dark brown eyes that peered out over her small impish nose. She hated her arms, which she thought were too short, and her hands, which she thought too big. She always hid her funny little ears and hated her legs, thinking they were too thick and strong to ever be considered pretty. Not that she wanted to be pretty. She hated it too when Momma would try and dress her up in girly clothes from the Goodwill for some rare day at Sunday school or a special event at the county fair. Man, she hated that stuff.
They'd tell her, "Oh, Jo, you'll grow out of this awkward stage." Couldn't anyone see that maybe she wouldn't ever grow out of it? Heck, maybe she didn't even want to. From the day Eleanor Joylynn "Jo" Fugate was born, she never felt comfortable in her skin. The truth of it was, she knew she wasn't a girl. Yes, she'd been born that way, but she sure as heck didn't feel like some "girl." She just couldn't figure out why nobody else saw that too. It was sad to say that at only ten years old, "Jo" Fugate hated her life.
Mostly, she hated her name.
Who the heck calls their kid "Eleanor Joylynn"? Fortunately, when she was about four years old, folks started calling her just plain "Jo," and she was pretty content with that. At least when they called her Jo she didn't feel like some "girlie girl" or somebody's grandma. She did, however, know why Momma had named her "Eleanor" in the first place — even though Momma never really did tell the whole story.
Momma had been young and gotten involved with her daddy, Skipper "Mouse" Fugate. Now Skipper didn't look like a mouse. Skipper Fugate was actually a pretty good-looking mook of a guy and was, as they say, a bit of "all that and a bag of chips." Nah, her daddy was called "Mouse" because Skipper would squirrel away with his computers and coding books (and a whole lot of really strange cyberporn) and never come out of the room in his momma's basement. (How her momma had ever hooked up with him Jo never could quite figure out.) It didn't matter much anyway, as "Mouse" ended up hacking into one of those riverboat casinos up in Kansas City trying to steal "a boatload" of money and getting caught. All of this happened right before Jo'd been born. Growing up, Momma told Jo that she had a real "smart daddy." It was just that her daddy wouldn't be coming around to see her for a long time. Didn't much matter to Jo. To Jo, "Skipper" or "Mouse," or whatever he was calling himself these days, was still just a damn rodent anyway.
Momma had named Jo "Eleanor" after Mouse's mother, Eleanor "Dolly" Fugate. "Dolly" Fugate was a widow and a traveling nurse who worked up north out of the Osawatomie State Hospital and at various points beyond. Momma's family, (being who they were) hadn't been much support to her when she'd gotten pregnant with Jo. By then, Mouse had already been "installed" over at Tipton Correctional (and would be for a long time). Momma thought that if she named the baby girl "Eleanor" after Mouse's mother, that well, she'd gain sympathy if not some financial support from the Widow Fugate. It sure didn't work out that way.
Grandma Fugate wanted nothing to do with her momma or the "Baby Jo." Dolly Fugate pitched a shit-fit when she found out that her Skipper/Mouse had "supposedly" fathered a baby with Momma. Dolly didn't believe it was Mouse's baby and told everyone that Momma was nothing but a "two-bit whore" looking for money and who'd sleep with anyone along the way. Dolly Fugate even went so far as to say that Momma had probably slept with some disabled boy and that there was no tellin' whose baby it was or how special it'd turn out to be. Dolly told Momma that if she knew what was good for her, she'd take her bastard and get the Hell out of Kansas. Momma protested, saying the baby was indeed Mouse's and that she'd be happy to take a DNA or paternity test for little Jo. However, Mrs. Eleanor "Dolly" Fugate just stormed off saying she didn't need "no damn DNA test" to tell her anything. There was no way that baby girl was a child of her Skipper's.
Jo guessed that this was how Momma had ended up south of there and over in the next town. She guessed too that this was how Momma'd met her half-brother Rory's dad somewhere along the way. (Jo remembered Rory's dad better than her own.) She'd been such a little kid and it was hazy in her memory. Jo thought he worked at the truck stop on 400 Highway, but she didn't know anymore. She remembered he was a sad feller, usually stoned with some faraway look in his eyes. She remembered that Rory's daddy wasn't any "looker" like Mouse was. (She'd seen a picture of Mouse one day when Momma tried to go back and talk to Grandma Fugate about money again.) But she did remember that for the most part, he was a nice guy with a really bad drug problem. She remembered him always telling Momma that they were all gonna run away and get the Hell out of Kansas. He said that he wanted to take them all to the coast, out to maybe Oregon or to California. He said he had relatives in California who owned an RV store in Sacramento. Maybe they might give him a job.
It didn't matter.
They never made it to California. About the time they tried to leave, Momma gave birth to Little John- a baby boy that'd end up getting called "Rory" but that's another tale as to why. It wasn't like Little John's birth was unexpected. It just messed with the California dreamin' spell that he'd put them all under. He soon enough got back into dopin', and then he and Momma started fighting worse than ever. Things never got better even after Little John was born. Momma tried working at Grapevine's Novelty in town, but she couldn't keep up with raising two kids and the baby's father's drug habit. Momma kept telling him that he had to get some professional help. She told him that there were places up in Kansas City or even as close as Joplin that could take him in.
For all his foolish pride, he wouldn't commit to anything. He kept saying that he didn't have "no drug problem." Then he'd yell at Momma, and then Little John would start squalling. He'd tell Momma to stop comparing him to Mouse and say, Well, at least my ass ain't in no Missouri jail. Jo just hid when all this started to happen. She'd usually go into the other room and try to talk to the baby to calm him down. It didn't work. For Jo, this was another reason why her life sucked. Looking back, she wasn't sure what night it was that it all came crashing down.
She remembered that they'd all been in the car weaving through town and that he'd wrecked it outside Lankershim's Hardware Store on Fifth Street. Jo remembered him getting out of the car puking all over himself and pounding on the hood. She can still see Momma getting out of the passenger's side bleeding from her head and hear Little John screaming from his car seat. It all seemed like something that was happening to somebody else. If Eleanor Joylynn "Jo" Fugate hadn't hated her life before that night, it was certain that after that crap she did now.
Of course, Sheriff Roger Dick had been called. The sheriff then called his deputy, Maudine Meadows, who dispatched an EMT. They hauled Little John's dad kicking and screaming up to the State Hospital. Jo guessed that they had a better place up there for him to dry out off the dope, but whatever their intention was, it didn't work. His arraignment followed, and even though Momma had bailed him out, he was right back to doing dope not twenty-four hours later. He told Momma that the folks at the State Hospital had assaulted him (how, Jo never did know) and that he would get off the drugs if she'd just take him up to some private rehab in Overland Park. Momma agreed, though how she had planned to pay for it Jo didn't have a clue. Again, it didn't matter, because he overdosed and died the following Tuesday, leaving Momma a note that simply said, I tried.
She thought it was about then that Momma moved the three of them into the Parkside Motel. She guessed Momma must have paid a week or so in advance, because, well, at first, nothing happened. Mr. Hammurabi, who owned the place, and his wife just let them alone. She guessed this because they had been at the motel for about a week before she and Little John had started to wonder if Momma was ever coming back. Momma had left some hot dogs and cheese in an old ice chest, and there were some chips and candy bars on the table by the bed, but nothing more. She told them she had a job over in Jasper County and that she wouldn't be long. At first, they believed Momma wasn't coming back. After all, their momma loved them. Momma was the one true constant in both her and Little John's lives. What happened to her? Where had she gone? But still, she and Little John sat there and waited, keeping as quiet as they could and telling the maid lady who came around that their mother was just out for a few minutes.
Then it happened. They got hungry. Little John kept whining and telling Jo his belly hurt. Couldn't they please get something to eat? She solved this by playing a game with him to see how much ice each of them could eat out of the motel machine to help make the hunger go away. The winner would get to pick the cartoon on the television. Momma had left behind some loose change near the bathroom sink. It all totaled a little less than two dollars, but it was enough that she could head over to the Sonic and buy a cheap burger to split with Little John. She made that burger last two days. But the hunger didn't go away, and Momma still didn't come back. They got hungrier.
It was about then that Jo noticed people throwing out half a burger and fries and parts of milkshakes into the Sonic trashcans. She watched the Sonic guy haul all that food out to the dumpster that backed up to the backside of the Parkside Motel. Late one Thursday, and with no sign that Momma was coming back, she told Little John to stay put so she could go dumpsterin' for food at the Sonic. Well, Little John wouldn't have it. He started throwing a fit, saying that Jo was trying to leave him too. In the end, she didn't have any choice but to take Little John with her.
It was evening, and the fluorescent lights at the Sonic hadn't come on yet. Going all the way around the Parkside to not be noticed, she managed to lift Little John enough that he could pull himself into the dumpster. She lifted herself up and over the edge too. There were advantages to being a tom-boy. There was so much half-eaten food. It was amazing! She and Little John sat on the floor of the dumpster and rummaged about and ate and ate. Not all of the food was good, but when you're as hungry as all that, not all of it was bad. Looking back, Jo figured that they must have made too much noise. Before she knew it, she could hear the Sonic guy yelling loudly to his boss that there were a couple of kids eating out of the back dumpster.
Jo had grabbed Little John by the back of his shirt, giving him a stern big sister look and saying, "Run, John, get back to the room!" They both scrammed out of the dumpster, heading again around the backside of the motel, and made a mad dash back to their room. At first, it seemed like it would be okay. At first, it felt like they'd gotten away from the folks yelling over at the Sonic. Jo kept the lights and the television off in the motel room. Then, through the curtains, she could see the flashing lights. She could hear Mr. Hammurabi chattering about two kids, and she could hear Sheriff Roger Dick. Suddenly, but not unexpectedly, the door to their motel room opened. Life as they knew it was about to change.
As the sheriff entered their motel room, Jo could see some old man speaking to Mr. Hammurabi and to a heavy-set woman with a clipboard and a briefcase. What the heck did that mean? Who the Hell were they? She could hear the woman introduce herself as Mrs. Clyde Barker of the Kansas Children's Home. She heard her say to the crusty-looking old guy, "The children will not be broken up," and something about relatives in California. She watched the old man suck in his spit and wipe his nose with two fingers onto the back of his sleeve. She could tell the old man thought it was funny, like he was playing a game and trying to figure out his next move. Jo heard the sheriff call him "Uncle Keith" and say something about him being her daddy's brother. Bullshit was all she could say.
She watched the man they called "Uncle Keith Baptiste" kneel to look at Little John. Uncle Keith kept calling Little John by the name of Rory. What the heck did he call him that for? Jo watched as he turned his attention to her. As she looked back at him, it felt like she was staring into a giant hole in the ground, one that she was about to fall into if she wasn't careful. It was about then that he scooped them both up and put them in his pick-up truck. Life wasn't the same anymore. Momma was gone. It was just her and Little John now. Yes, Eleanor Joylynn "Jo" Fugate hated her life.
"JO" FUGATE was a survivor. She'd survived the crap her daddy "Mouse" Fugate had fed her and Momma from day one. She'd survived being disowned by her Grandma "Dolly" Fugate and even survived her brother "Rory's" drug-addicted, hood-punchin', pukin' dad. She knew ultimately she could "survive" living with "Uncle Keith," whoever he was, and whatever the Hell he did to her. She hated her life anyway, so one more round of things to get through didn't register in her little boy's brain. She was, after all, just a dumb boy inside, and she knew it. Why doesn't anyone see me as I am? There were no answers though, and as she and "Rory" moved in with Uncle Keith and into his way of life, mostly she just endured. She had to.
"Jo" did sort of like school. It was the one place where life made sense. She liked it when she and "Rory" could get away from the trailer house, and she secretly enjoyed it when she excelled in her mathematics class. "Man, these other kids are just plain dumb," she'd think, though she didn't mean it. Sometimes the principal and a flouncy lady in high heels from the Public School Board would come by and watch her in math class. She's so gifted! they'd say. They never said anything directly to her, but one day she overheard them saying, "Her test scores are off the chart." Whatever that meant. Then they'd mumble and say something about Uncle Keith, and then they'd frown and say that someone really ought to ring Mrs. Clyde Barker, age 56, of the Kansas Children's Home. Afterward, they'd walk off laughing like the sixth-grade girls always did when talking about cute boys and gossip about the terrible potato salad Maudine Meadows brought to the last school board meeting. Had they seen her? Nothing ever changed. Then, just a few days short of her twelfth birthday, her stomach began to cramp.
She and Rory had been living at Uncle Keith's for a little more than a year now, and making sure that Uncle Keith was either asleep from too much of his "sweet booze" or damn tuckered out from his pushing and pulling on himself seemed to be her biggest job. The whole deal with Uncle Keith was just to give in to him. She learned right quick not to fight him if she didn't want to get smacked upside the head. It was all over real quick anyway. Then she'd have to clean up his sticky mess and try to make sense of what had just passed on the bed sheets in that back room cot. Sometimes the cleaning up part was the worst of it. She just couldn't get that smell off her, and the sticky stuff never seemed to wash itself free. It didn't help much that the water in the trailer house was rank and "yella," or that she'd have to sneak outside to use the pump water to wash herself when no one was watching.
At first, she just cried when Uncle Keith took her to the back end of the trailer house. He'd make her strip down bare and put on woman's underclothes that were way too big for her while he shook his private parts till they spit, all the while screamin', "Oh, Peoria!" Who the heck is Peoria anyway? Gradually, he took more freedom with her, getting himself all gooey. She thought she could remember the first time he'd turned her over and put himself inside her girl hole. She'd screamed something fierce, but Uncle Keith had smacked her and said, "Be quiet, you little flat-titted whore." Rory hadn't been home that day, and nobody'd come to help or get her. She'd been so raw and bloody afterward. She even stayed home the next day from the Public School and told Rory she had a stomach bug. He could tell she was lying. He always knew.
The days and weeks went by with Uncle Keith doing his pushing and pulling on her. She got to where she didn't think much about it. What the heck did it matter anyway? No one was gonna come to help her or Rory. Nobody gave a shit. While it was happening, she'd just stare at the mud tarp over the window or try to do math problems in her head. Sometimes she'd stare at the grit on Uncle Keith's dirty hands as he held her down or watch the sweat pop off his brow. Anything to not feel anything. Most of all, Jo hated the smell of "it." She hated when Uncle Keith dragged his breath out all over her, his body smelling like dead stuff and his breath like sweet booze and dried mud. The whole mess was just a bunch of gruntin', stinkin', and cleanin' up if you asked her. She didn't realize it then, but all that business with Uncle Keith killed something inside her. It confused the little boy she knew she was. Yet she also knew that for all of Uncle Keith's pushing and gruntin' over her, it was way better than getting locked outside in the cold or having him beat on her or Rory.
The cramps that day had come on all of a sudden. They weren't the usual ones. Jo knew what her courses were like; they'd come on a year or so ago. The first time was at the Wash-a-rama after Uncle Keith had dropped them off. They'd made her crumple against the Mega-dryer that day, and then the blood had come in her underwear. She hadn't known what it meant or what to do about it. Was she gonna die? Maybe dying would be better than living with Uncle Keith. Rory had been with her, and he'd yelled when she doubled over. Fortunately, Old Dessie, who worked the laundromat, was there that day and seemed to know what was happening. Dessie'd told Rory to start a new load of wash and then hustled Jo off into the washroom. Rory said later on that both she and Dessie were sure in there a long time. Jo guessed that maybe they had been. The good news was that she learned she wasn't gonna die anyway. What a mess though. I'm a boy, so why do I have to deal with this?
This, however, was different. Her belly roiled, and a mess of clots kept coming. This doesn't feel right, she kept on saying to herself. This ain't my normal courses. She lay on the floor of the trailer house bathroom, hurting too badly to move around all that much. She tried doing math problems in her head or watching the earwigs come and go out of the faucet or out of the crack in the wall next to the shower tub. It didn't work. The pain was just too much. Uncle Keith wasn't around, but Rory was, so she yelled out to him that she needed some help and that things weren't right. Rory blanched, looking at her, unsure of what to do. He was just a little boy. She told Rory to run and find Old Dessie, and so Rory left, running barefoot into town.
Old Dessie did come. Rory found her there at the Wash-a-rama. Rory had done his best to tell Dessie what was happening with Jo, and Dessie seemed to understand. She loaded Rory up into a blue and mostly rust-covered Belvedere that belched smoke and cranked over hard to start. The old car had eventually started, and she and Rory hurried, chugging black smoke out to the bottomlands and toward the trailer house. Rory noticed the bottle of sweet booze on the seat next to Old Dessie and that Dessie's car smelt like a three-day-old chew, but he didn't care at that moment. He knew he had to help Jo. Dessie didn't say much of anything. She hummed to herself real low, and there was a faraway look in her bright blue eyes. It was a look that said she'd been down this road before, but it was more than this too. It was a look that said, Don't mess with me, Keith.
Pulling up to the trailer house, Rory quickly showed Dessie where Jo was. She helped Jo up onto the divan and had Rory bring in some fresh water from the pump outside. She took some root slips and dried flowers out of a pocket in her housecoat and told Rory to put a kettle on the stove. After a bit, she fed some of that thin broth that smelled like licorice to Jo. Dessie said it was nothing but chicory root and would help with the pain. Jo drank it down like a greedy sailor looking for fresh water. After a bit though, the cramps came back again, and Jo felt a dropping feeling like her innards were trying to bleed themselves out of her. Dessie started to look worried, and Rory watched as the old woman chewed something on the inside of her lip like she was figuring out what to do. Finally, she bundled up Jo in an oil-stained blanket she took out of the Belvedere and helped Jo down the steps of the trailer house. Jo didn't fight her on this, as she was too weak to care. Rory knew well enough to stay out of the old woman's way.
About the time Jo was making her way with Dessie to the Belvedere, Uncle Keith's truck with its wide mouth of a missing front bumper squeaked angrily up into the drive. Dusty mud and rock blew off the back of the truck, and Uncle Keith got out, slamming the door with an ire Rory had never seen before. Uncle Keith was furious.
"Get your hands off that girl child, Dessie," he screamed, shaking his better hand up in the air while thrusting and pointing its middle finger in her direction. "The State of Kansas says she belongs to me, and you ain't got no right pulling in here and stealin' what ain't yours." Uncle Keith shook, dark green and white spittle snot flew out of his nose and mouth as he screamed expletives with increasing fury. "This ain't about that girl of yours no more. The courts done settled that years ago, you dumb so-and-so. Nobody could prove nothin'."
Uncle Keith's anger only grew larger, and he moved towards Dessie and Jo, preparing himself to strike Dessie and to wrestle Jo away from her. Rory cried out, unsure of what he should do. Uncle Keith just screamed at him, "Get in the house, cissy-boy. None of this concerns you." Rory moved toward the house and out of Uncle Keith's sight, hiding behind the porch stoop. There was no way he would leave Jo if he didn't have to. Then Rory saw Dessie's eyes nearly shoot laser beams out of her head at Uncle Keith. Jo shook in Dessie's arms, crumbling inside that old blanket like them tongue-speakers on Sunday morning over at the revival tent. A fever began to take over Jo's body, but she could still feel the power in Dessie's ancient frame. "You'd best get away from me and this here girl, Keith Baptiste. I will slit your throat in the middle of the night if you come near either one of us. I knows what you are."
Keith Baptiste seemed to crumble at the words, "I knows what you are." All of a sudden he was quieter, still angry, but more like a little kid throwing a fit over some favorite toy he'd messed up or broken. He still shook, and the spittle still flew in Dessie's direction. Jo watched through her fever and cramps as Uncle Keith took a step back. "You'd best bring her back here, Dessie," he drawled on. "Ain't nobody in these parts likes an uppity know-it-all, and Sheriff Roger Dick ain't no different in that regard."
His threats fell on empty ears, as by then Dessie had shuffled Jo into the car and the old Belvedere churned back to life as it puked smoke backing out the drive. Jo could tell that Dessie and Uncle Keith had drawn lines in the sand between each other years ago. Jo could feel that whatever had transpired between them was more than just some old-as-time dumbass race war — it was personal. However, Jo was too sick with a fever and bleeding too badly to care about them. She worried a bit about leaving Rory behind as the old car sped toward town, but even thoughts of Rory fell away from her as such exhaustion like she never knew spread over her.
Jo did not realize how much time had passed. She woke up alone but could hear the chattering of women echo nearby. She was in the room of an old building and in a place she did not recognize. The ceilings were very tall, and the room's walls had scratched-up dirty boards that went mid-way up where they met strips of well-worn wallpaper from another time. Against one of the walls, two high-reaching narrow windows looked out against a dignified backdrop of tree tops and buildings. Am I on the second floor? The windows were open, and a breeze blew in and against threadbare stained curtains.
There was a small sink at one end of the room, which led to a hallway. There was a single electric light that hung from a cord that went someplace up into the dark ceiling. On a wooden table by the bed was an unguent mixture of some sort and a cup of some leftover broth that felt familiar to her. Further away, near the door, were two bags of clean rag cloth, and a bit further away she could see that someone was storing potatoes and onions and dried meats in a makeshift larder of sorts. Two faded housecoats hung on the back of the door, and a mud-covered pair of what looked like men's boots were tucked away in a corner. The room was worn and sad. It was shadowed dark, save for the light that came in from the north side of the tree tops across the street, and was quiet save for the chattering voices outside its doorway. It was clean, however, and she felt safe.
Sweat still covered her, but the cramping had gone, and she did not feel like her lady parts were trying to spit some other self or part of her body outside itself. Still, she was weak as she pulled herself up to look out the window. As she looked around and got her bearings, she could tell that she was in town, and, if not mistaken, on the second floor of an old building across from Lankershim's Hardware Store. In the distance, she could see the neon from the Parkside Motel's sign.
What she didn't see in all of this was the wall directly behind her. As she turned her head to survey more of where she was, she saw it, or rather she saw them. Attached to the wall behind her were lots of old maps. There were different kinds of them, from county maps to maps that showed all the creeks of Eastern Kansas and Southern Missouri. Taped alongside were hundreds of yellowing newspaper articles. Most all had bold headlines, and some of them had pictures of two little girls. The girls in the pictures were young, maybe about six or seven, and the pictures in the yellowed newspaper were dark, making both of the girls' features hard to see. Past this, or along with it, were strings and small bent nails stuck into the old wallpaper, connecting one piece of newspaper to any given spot on one of the maps. There were notes in hard-to-read words mouthed together and written down as they'd been heard. Beyond this, and in the middle of it all, was a single picture of one small girl. The picture wasn't large; it was a crinkled black and white snapshot, but the little girl's bright eyes showed through. Underneath, someone had scribbled in poorly written letters, Eloise.
It was about then that Dessie returned. She came through the door quietly as Jo settled into the small bed, too tired to make much more sense of her surroundings. Dessie checked Jo's blankets, pulling them up and looking under the large shirt that covered Jo to briefly check for more bleeding. Jo could have told her that there wasn't any, that the worst of whatever had happened seemed to be over. Couldn't Dessie see that she was no cissy? She was a tough boy. But Dessie didn't ask. In this regard, Dessie just went about her business of nursing Jo back to health, not troubling either of them with any conversation. Dessie's blue eyes were somewhere between vacant and sad, and her mouth twisted up sometimes like she was gonna scream, as if someone had stabbed her in the heart. Jo could tell that Dessie was strong though, and that this was the same woman who'd taught her how to use the machines at the Wash-a-rama and explained her courses to her and was also the woman who'd come to rescue her when she needed someone the most. Jo'd nearly forgotten what a mother's hand felt like. As Dessie washed her up with a quick spit bath, and for a quick moment, Jo remembered her momma.
"It was too weak and it didn't hang on, Lawd be praised," mumbled Dessie. "It was none but the devil's anyways, girlchild, so be glad that it done flushed itself out and went back to Hell with its demon brethren. Miss Phillis and Mother Kauchee helped me get the rest of it out of you and get you cleaned back upright. I 'spect that you'll be fine by the next time your red river comes callin' on you. You got to come round here again if things don't seem right. You hear me, chil'? If not, you'll need to get a ride over to the clinic in Joplin." Jo's head swam. What? I'm not even twelve years old. What hung on?
"I'm tellin' ya too, girl, if that sonnabitch comes at you again you got to close them parts of yours up and keep his damn diddling outta your cooch. Don't think this can't happen again, and next time youza might not get the grace of Baby Jesus. He'll spill his seed quick enough outsidda ya, so you gotta be quicker and get him to do juz dat. If he still won't let you be, you'd best call on Sheriff Roger Dick and take your chances with the county folks at the children's home. I s'pect he'll behave for a while though, as that bastard don't like no 'tention on his guilty ass self. Chil', don't you end up like our darlin' Eloise none, ya hear me?"
The following day, Dessie put Jo in the Belvedere and drove to the trailer house. Rory was overjoyed to see her and ran to hug her, even as Dessie told him just to let her be for now. Uncle Keith stood far back on the stoop. His hat was pulled down, and he didn't say a word. He grunted at Jo, telling her she looked like crap and mumbling that she'd best not get no blood on the divan. Other than this, there wasn't much of an exchange. Dessie spat on the ground and told Rory to come to get her again if need be. Then she got in the car and slammed the door on the Belvedere, which fired up another round of black smoke. Jo and Rory watched as Dessie pulled out onto Pollard Road and was gone.
No one said anything. Five minutes later, a nondescript tan Chevrolet with a sunflower decal and the letters KCH pulled into the drive. Uncle Keith swore under his breath as it pulled in, but this time it had nothing to do with him. A tall skinny man in a dingy suit got out of the car. Uncle Keith seemed to recognize the man. "Why, Daddy Shook, what you doing out this far?" Uncle Keith said. "Ain't you s'pose to be over to Topeka?"
The skinny man Uncle Keith called "Daddy Shook" took out an envelope from his coat pocket. The envelope wasn't smooth but had a bump in it like the treasure in a Kracker Jack box. "This ain't got nothin' to do with y'all, Keith. I'm here to see the girl Eleanor Joylynn, Keith," he said. Daddy Shook looked vaguely anxious. He had the familiar look on his face of someone who was used to being uncomfortable with uncomfortable things. Both Jo and Rory watched from the side of the pyracantha bush, but neither moved.
"Joylynn, get on out here, girl." Uncle Keith drawled in his put-on official and unctuous manner. "This here's Daddy Shook. He come all the way out from Topeka to see you special. Show him some manners, girl." Jo stepped forward, not knowing what to expect. Oddly, Daddy Shook began gripping the envelope tighter as he passed it over to Jo. As he did so, he said, "I'm sorry to tell you that your father Skipper Fugate is dead, girl. He was killed in the Tipton Correctional Prison Yard." Eleanor Joylynn "Jo" Fugate's brain just spun.
She was twelve years old today. She felt her soul swimming down inside her. She stepped off the porch, brushing past the pyracantha bush. She stopped. Near the stoop she realized she, Jo, was yet again, nothing more than the pieces of someone else's life.
And, finally, she screamed.
END
