Franny Parker Read online

  “Lucas is a bird expert, too, Daddy!” Ben announced. “He had barn swallows at his old barn, too.”

  Dad looked up. “Really? You must’ve had the violet-green swallows in New Mexico. Never seen one myself.”

  Lucas looked puzzled. “Violet-green?”

  “Yes, that’s the variety of swallow that lives in the more western regions,” Dad explained. “They winter in New Mexico.”

  “I thought you were from Georgia,” I said.

  “Georgia? You mean New Mexico,” Sidda said, gazing at Lucas.

  Lucas coughed and popped a potato in his mouth, looking suddenly uncomfortable.

  “No, no, no,” Ben corrected Sidda. “Lucas is from Georgia. He told me so!”

  “No, no, yourself, Ben. Lindy was just telling us about their old house in New Mexico,” Sidda insisted.

  Everyone looked up in confusion, first at Lindy, then at Lucas, who both seemed to be just as lost as the rest of us.

  Finally, Lindy cleared her throat. “Well, we moved here from New Mexico. But we also lived in Georgia, uh, some time ago,” she tried to explain, looking at us hopefully.

  “You certainly are well traveled,” Mama said.

  “I’d love to see a violet-green,” Daddy said dreamily, still stuck on the birds. “Tell me, are they the same size as our barn swallows?”

  “Um, I’m not sure.” Lucas looked helplessly at Lindy.

  “Mr. Parker is a bird-watcher,” she told him, eyebrows raised pointedly. “He knows about birds, from all over.”

  Lucas shifted uncomfortably in his seat. Something wasn’t right. “I don’t really remember, sir.” He shrugged apologetically.

  “Well, you sure know your local birds,” Dad said, his eyes crinkling with admiration. But the Dunns grew oddly quiet.

  “What other critters did you have in New Mexico?” Mama asked.

  “Um . . . I don’t really remember,” Lucas stammered.

  “Crocodiles?” Ben asked.

  “Don’t be ridiculous!” Sidda said.

  “Prairie dogs?” Ben continued.

  “Something like that,” Lucas said. He looked to Lindy again.

  “You must remember some,” Ben pressed.

  “Ben!” Mama scolded.

  Lucas looked like a cornered animal. It made my stomach flutter.

  “Well, this sure is good chicken!” Lindy said, changing the subject suddenly. “I’d love the recipe.”

  “Want to share?” Ben asked, waving his half-eaten drumstick at Lindy. Everyone laughed, and comfort filled the room again. I looked around the table. Daddy sipped his wine. Sidda poked at her plate, still sulking. But Mama was looking at Lucas, her expression soft and worried. Just like I felt.

  The Library Contest

  As you know, the first prize is a trophy and one hundred dollars,” Miss Thorn reminded us the following morning, smiling down at the kids crowded around her feet in the children’s section of our library. It was a few weeks into our summer reading contest, and Miss Thorn felt a little reminder of the prize money might prove motivating.

  “Not to be squandered on junk!” Mrs. Tibble added, yanking a book cart to a sudden halt behind Miss Thorn’s chair, like a dark shadow. She leaned ominously over the cart. “Personally, I find it’s bad enough you kids think you ought to be paid for reading. A good book should be reward enough!” She slapped the top of the cart for extra emphasis.

  Miss Thorn cleared her throat delicately and said, “I’m sure the winner will use the money wisely.”

  Ben raised his hand. “What about worms?” he asked. I elbowed him.

  “What about them, dear?” Miss Thorn asked.

  “Speed Bump eats worms. Could I buy a hundred dollars’ worth of worms?”

  “Who eats worms?” Miss Thorn looked puzzled.

  Mrs. Tibble threw up her hands in disgust. “Oh, for Pete’s sake!” She turned to go, shoving her book cart with a giant heave, the back wheel wobbling crookedly in protest.

  Soon a frantic sea of hands was waving and everyone was inquiring how the money could and couldn’t be spent. Ice cream? Skateboards? An iguana? It was exhausting. As far as I could tell, none of the kids with the silly questions were likely winners in the first place.

  “What book are you on?” Pearl asked, as we hopped down the library steps. I was so tired from waking up every few hours to feed the mice that I wasn’t in the mood to have this talk.

  “My third,” I lied. I was really on my seventh.

  “Oh,” Pearl said and sighed. She fingered her Nancy Drew book. It was the second in the series.

  “Hurry, girls, hurry,” Mrs. Jones ordered. She was parked in front of the library, squished into the driver’s seat of her red convertible, her pearl necklaces spilling over the steering wheel. Mrs. Jones was large. Her car was not. I shimmied into the tiny backseat, pressed tightly against Pearl’s baby sister, Mable, who was already sandwiched behind her mother in a car seat.

  “Woof!” Mable barked, waving a soggy Cheerio at me.

  “You mean hello,” corrected Mrs. Jones. Not even the baby was allowed to enjoy baby talk.

  I sank into the seat, pulling a Cheerio off my shorts.

  “Hurry, Pearl, I’m burning up!” Mrs. Jones wailed again, fanning herself with her long sparkly nails. Her red hair was drawn back severely, and her pasty skin glowed sharply against the red car wrapped around her. Mrs. Jones looked like a peeled, hard-boiled egg stuck behind the wheel.

  The car was hardly practical for a family of eight, and so two or three kids were always being left at home. Although Mrs. Jones said she liked the wind in her red hair, I suspect she didn’t mind a few missing kids from time to time either.

  “So give me the update! Who’s in the lead?” she asked as we spun away from the curb.

  “Julie Mills,” Pearl shouted above the roaring engine.

  “Again? She won last year!” her mother shrieked. In front of me, Pearl sank a little in her seat.

  “So how many? Don’t tell me. Three, four?”

  Pearl sank lower. “Twelve.”

  “Twelve?” Mrs. Jones almost swerved off the road. She tore up Main Street, past Harland’s Market and the feed store. Pedestrians fled the crosswalks as we blazed by the post office, the Methodist church, and Tweedy’s Bakery. We passed Grafton Tractor Supply and the firehouse at warp speed, then swerved left at the hospital, heading out of town to the farms. Moments later, we roared down my dirt road like a red rocket, halting in a cloud of dust in front of my house.

  “Franny, what about you?” Mrs. Jones glared at me, her forehead wrinkling in the rearview mirror.

  “Um, three books,” I lied again.

  Her forehead smoothed out, and she said, “Well, Pearl, that is just one more than you. Franny’s no threat. But twelve? That Mills girl is lying. I’m calling her mother!”

  I climbed out of the car and shrugged apologetically at Pearl, who looked like she might break free and run with me into my house. But there was no chance.

  “Buckle your seat belt, Pearl. We’ve got books to burn through!” her mother yelled.

  The Sewing Bee

  That’s a fine stitch,” Grandma Rae said, peering approvingly over Sidda’s shoulder.

  Sidda beamed, tilting her part of the quilt up for everyone to admire. I didn’t see what was so great about it.

  “And you?” Grandma eyed me. I showed her what I’d been working on. “Oh dear. Better give it here.”

  I sighed and surrendered my square. Sewing just wasn’t my thing. The Busy Bees, as Grandma Rae called them, came most Fridays. Daddy called them the Busy Bodies. They’d been at it for years, making quilts for new babies, donating shawls to the cancer wing at the hospital, wrapping each family member in their work. But it was more than just the sewing. Those ladies could spin a story. Every Friday afternoon I got to know a lot of people, most of whom I’d never met. There were second cousins from back east, rich uncles in California, even a runaway bride with a broke
n heart. Each of Grandma’s friends had family, and family makes for good stories. When those ladies filled the room, our creaky old farmhouse felt solid, as if the party of chatty women inside made it stand up straighter on its ancient foundation. There was something about that group of women gathered around our kitchen table that made the walls nearly hum.

  So far it was Sidda who showed the most promise in the family. I don’t know who was more pleased by this useless bit of news, Sidda or Grandma, but both seemed to get great pleasure from informing me and Mama of their sewing superiority. Despite the fact only one girl in our family showed any talent or interest, somehow the Busy Bees had set up hive at our place. Mama, being a free spirit, didn’t mind a bit. She dragged her easel in from the living room and painted right alongside them at the table. And I liked seeing Izzy, Dotty, Faye, and Grandma tottering up our porch steps with bags full of fabric and mouths full of stories.

  The latest project was a patchwork quilt with a giant oak tree growing out of the center and into the sky, leaves and birds sprinkling the branches. So far it was just an ugly brown hulk of a trunk. The tree had a lot of growing to do.

  “Today’s hotter than a flapjack,” Izzy said, pushing her giant straw hat back on her head. Grandma’s friend Izzy was as wild as her hats. She was known to decorate the wide brims with just about anything, from green bananas to lightbulbs. When Ben was a baby, just the sight of her crazy hats used to make him cry. But he got over that. Today’s hat was covered in tiny plastic dinosaurs that swung around each time she turned her head.

  “How are the fields?” Grandma Rae asked Faye, ignoring Izzy’s dinosaurs.

  “Not so good,” said Faye. “We lost most of the wheat back in June. Cotton’s due for harvest in August, but it doesn’t look much better. We may have to apply for government aid this year.”

  “It’s turning out to be a bad drought,” Mama said, planting a glass of lemonade in front of me. “I saw the state trucks over at Larsons’ farm last week. They were inspecting the south fields. Apparently they’ve already declared their sorghum crop a total loss.”

  I’d seen the state trucks around town, too. Red pickups with Oklahoma government stickers on their sides. They only came out during disasters: floods, drought, dust storms. The sight of those red trucks meant farmers were asking for state money.

  “Isn’t there something we can do?” I asked, thinking of the low river in our yard, the yellowed fields behind Snort’s barn.

  Faye shook her head sadly. “Not unless you can bring my two hundred acres back to life.”

  “We’ve done stranger things,” Izzy replied, swatting at a T. rex that swung dangerously close to her left eye.

  “Don’t remind us,” Dotty Knox said.

  “What kinds of things?” I asked.

  “Oh, you know, prayed at church, made casseroles, helped irrigate fields. It’s always something each season.”

  “That’s not all we do,” Dotty whispered.

  “What are you talking about?” I asked them.

  Mama swirled some red onto her palette and adjusted her canvas. It was a new one, a portrait of a woman in a red coat. “These girls have all kinds of powers, Franny. They can conjure up the rain.”

  A hush fell over the group.

  “You’re just joking,” Sidda said. “No one can do that.”

  “Oh no?” Izzy’s eyebrows went up and down, up and down.

  The ladies set down their quilting, and spoke a rhyme together, their voices soft and light in the afternoon heat.

  Dance in a field to the crickets’ tune,

  a full-moon sky in the afternoon.

  Sidda and I looked at each other, then at the ladies, who resumed their stitching quietly.

  “That’s just silly,” Sidda said.

  No one disagreed.

  “If it is true, why didn’t you bring the rain for Faye’s crops? Or Blue Jay’s apple orchards?” Sidda said. She had a point. I looked around the table to see how they’d handle that logic.

  “The time has to be right,” Dotty whispered.

  Outside, there was the sudden crunch of gravel in the driveway, and the spell was broken. The blue truck rounded the corner to the little cabin.

  “New neighbor?” Izzy asked.

  “Lindy Dunn,” Mama told them. “She moved in last week. Has a boy Sidda’s age.”

  Izzy winked at Sidda, who fluttered her eyelashes.

  “What’s the husband like?” asked Dotty.

  “Doesn’t seem to be one,” Mama said with a shrug.

  “No husband?” Dotty pressed.

  “Not our business,” said Grandma Rae, but she, too, waited for Mama to answer.

  “Husband or not, I’ll tell you what she has got. Talent. She set up a pottery studio in the garden shed,” Mama said.

  Faye nodded in agreement. “She brought some of it down to Harland’s just yesterday. Bowls and vases, all sorts of colors. Real pretty.”

  I’d been in that potting shed myself. Tucked behind the back of the house like a little secret, it was a small garden shed that Lindy had done up like a cottage. She’d hung plaid curtains in the windows, planted flowers in the boxes, and squeezed her worktables neatly into each corner. She often worked late into the night, and I always knew when she was done because the wind chimes would ring through our open window as she slid the heavy door closed. I liked the thought of the shed windows glowing in the darkness, and Lindy working her hands over the clay inside it. I pictured her at her wheel, humming softly, while the night unfolded outside. In no time at all, she’d become as much a part of the night as the river gurgling behind our house and the peepers beneath our window.

  “We should meet her, girls. How ’bout next week?” Izzy asked.

  Mama shrugged. “I’m not sure if she sews, but I’m happy to invite her.”

  “Next Friday,” Izzy said, yanking the T. rex from her brim. “She’ll come.”

  Bug Cakes

  Ouch!” Ben yelped as Sidda swatted him with the wooden spoon.

  “Hands off, it’s for my guest!” Sidda said. She was elbow deep in a bowl of pancake mix.

  I couldn’t tell which looked worse, our kitchen or Sidda. Batter splashed the countertops and floor. I wondered what the fuss was about. After all, Marilee had eaten breakfast with us hundreds of Saturday mornings.

  I watched as Sidda turned her attention to the refrigerator. It was a doozy, crowded with all sorts of animal concoctions for the patients. You had to be real careful what you reached for when you stuck your hand in there. More than once Daddy had accidentally poured the mouse formula in his coffee.

  Crickets were the most gourmet item on the patients’ menu, loved by Speed Bump and the birds alike. So I stored a big old bowlful in the fridge. Right next to the bowl filled with blueberries. And that’s just what Sidda was reaching for. Gabbing away on the phone to her friend Amanda, she stuck her arm in and grabbed the bowl of crickets.

  Before we knew it, she’d dumped those crickets right into the pancake mix. She couldn’t figure out why it was so lumpy, so she just kept stirring. Ben and I covered our mouths in horrified delight. Sidda just kept on talking; stirring and talking, flipping and talking. Soon, she had herself a whole stack of cricket pancakes and was buttering them up good when there was a knock on the kitchen door.

  “Come in, Marilee!” Ben shouted. But it wasn’t Marilee joining us for breakfast this Saturday. Instead, Lucas Dunn poked his head in the back door and smiled.

  “I got a call about some pancakes,” he said.

  “You’re here!” Sidda shrieked, swiping at the pancake mix on her cheek and smoothing her hair with her sticky fingers.

  What was Sidda up to? I looked over at Mama’s fine blue china, the table set for two in the adjacent dining room, and it all walloped me in the head.

  Ben and I exchanged looks. This called for a change in plans. It was one thing to watch Sidda eat cricket pancakes, but Lucas? It hardly seemed fair.

  “Can
I help with anything?” Lucas asked, starting toward the counter.

  “Oh no, no.” Sidda laughed nervously, directing him to the dining room table. “You sit yourself down and I’ll be right out. It’s almost ready!”

  Sidda hurtled back into the kitchen with a pitcher. “Make yourself useful, Franny,” she hissed. “Pour us some juice.” She dusted herself off and picked up her pancake platter with a flourish.

  “Sure,” I whispered, watching as she scooped up the pancake platter. “But perhaps you should try your special pancakes before you serve them. You know, to be sure they’re perfect.”

  Sidda stared at the pancake platter before her. “Yes, of course. They do have to be perfect.” Then she looked at Ben and me. “But don’t you dare sneak a bite for yourselves!”

  This was too much for Ben, who giggled himself right off his stool. “We wouldn’t dream of it!” he yelped.

  Ben and I were about dying as we watched Sidda pour the syrup over the platter and pick up a fork. She cut herself a tiny bite and dipped it in the syrup. It took forever. By then Mama had joined us in the kitchen, and Ben and I tried to look as innocent as possible.

  “Sidda, how lovely to make breakfast for Lucas,” Mama said.

  “Blueberry pancakes,” Sidda said, her fork poised in midair. “Fresh from the garden.”

  Mama opened the refrigerator. “Did you forget the blueberries?” she asked, holding up the bowl just as Sidda popped the forkful into her mouth.

  It didn’t take long. Sidda looked at the empty cricket bowl, at the empty fork in her hand, and then at me. I would bet ten dollars that you could’ve heard the scream clear into town. I didn’t mind. Lucas ate cold cereal on the porch with me and Ben, while Sidda recovered in her room under a cold washcloth.

  Poor Sidda. Never again would she even look at a pancake.

  Mailboxes

  It still hadn’t rained. Not in May, June, or even now, going on the third week of July. Each day dust clouds fluttered around our feet, settling between our toes, covering our skin in gray layers. The drought dragged on. “The worst in over thirty years,” people whispered at the post office, on the library steps, and in line at Harland’s. I felt like I was wilting.