Dear Hank Williams Read online

  LOVE,

  MOMMA

  Mr. Williams, I know this sounds terrible, but that letter made me mad (and I’m still mad about it!). How could Momma compare Elroy Broussard and Big Pete leaving to Lovie’s gone missing? I told Aunt Patty Cake how I wish she hadn’t told Momma and how those two men don’t have a thing in the world in common with a true-blue dog like Lovie.

  Aunt Patty Cake said, “I don’t think that’s who your momma meant at all.”

  Lonesome for Lovie,

  Tate P.

  April 30, 1949

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  AS HARD AS THIS LETTER will be for me to write, I know it’s the best thing to do because I, Tate P. Ellerbee, am a loyal friend. When I tell it all, you might regret the day you ever heard my name.

  Today has been a year long. You know how I’ve been in a slump, moping around because of Lovie taking off? She’d been gone nine days. I’d poured such loving into that dog, I couldn’t for the life of me understand why she’d leave. We all looked for her—Uncle Jolly and Garnett drove the roads between here and Lecompte and then went the other direction, toward Glenmora, hoping to meet up with her or anyone who might have noticed a precious dog with icy-blue eyes and a tip of white on her tail.

  Aunt Patty Cake seemed to take it almost as hard as me. Maybe she felt guilty because she’d seen Lovie go off, but she’d figured Lovie would come back like the other times. Aunt Patty Cake asked everyone in her territory if they’d seen Lovie. No one had. It’s hard to find a dog that doesn’t bark. Nobody seems to pay her any mind.

  Today I was sitting on the porch licking my wounds about Lovie when I saw Mrs. Applebud come out of her house. If you guessed it was two o’clock in the afternoon, you’re right. Mrs. Applebud cut the last of her purple azaleas, gathered them together in a bouquet, and put them in a mason jar. Then she began slowly crossing the street toward the cemetery.

  I was so deep into my pity party, I almost didn’t hear Rudy’s convertible. It was too early for the paper, but I knew the sound of his car. His muffler grew louder. I took off after Mrs. Applebud.

  My legs moved so fast they seemed to turn into wings. I felt like I was flying. My head pounded, remembering the times Rudy zoomed by our house. Frog would race after him, leaning over the handlebars, pressing Big Pete’s boots against the pedals. I remember Rudy’s arm stretched high into a wave as he left Frog behind. Frog could never beat him. But today I would.

  Rudy’s car appeared around the bend just as I reached Mrs. Applebud. His brakes screeched. I grabbed Mrs. Applebud’s arm. She seemed startled, but her tiny feet met my pace as we rushed together to the other side.

  I fell first. Mrs. Applebud collapsed on top of me. Rudy jumped out and rushed over to us. He pulled Mrs. Applebud to her feet with a jolt. Some of her hair fell from her tight bun as she wobbled, trying to catch her balance.

  “Sorry, Mrs. Applebud. I wasn’t paying no mind.” Sweat poured down Rudy’s pimply face.

  I hopped up and pushed against his chest. “You should have been paying a mind!” I shoved him, again. “You could have killed her!”

  Rudy nodded nervously and slowly backed away.

  “I’m sorry.” He looked over his shoulder, staring toward the road.

  “Going fast ain’t that important,” I told him. “Being the fastest doesn’t mean a thing!”

  Rudy asked Mrs. Applebud, “Can I help you home?”

  Mrs. Applebud shook her head and tucked some of her hair behind her ear. “No, son, but slow down. Don’t need to rush through life.”

  “Yes, ma’am.” Rudy wiped his face with his sleeve. “I’m awful sorry.” He kept muttering “sorry, sorry” as he eased backward toward his car. Then he got inside and started the engine. He took off so slowly, I do believe Mrs. Applebud would have beat his car in a race.

  We watched him in silence for what seemed like forever until he left our sight. Aunt Patty Cake’s car appeared from around the bend. She was returning from her deliveries. She started down our driveway, then suddenly stopped the car.

  Mrs. Applebud fixed her eyes on me. With a small smile, she held out her hand. “It’s just a piece away,” she said softly.

  Directly beyond her was the Canton Cemetery entrance. Headstones dotted the land. I froze, not wanting to step any closer. And that’s when I caught a glimpse of brown. It looked like a dog. My dog.

  I gasped. Words couldn’t reach my tongue.

  The dog moved quickly and disappeared into the woods that lined the edge of the cemetery.

  My first impulse was to run toward her, but instead I surprised myself and took hold of Mrs. Applebud’s hand. I let her guide me through the entrance and toward a grave under a big sycamore tree. Birds flew by, and a squirrel darted in front of us, then climbed onto a low branch. Canton Cemetery was not the scary place I’d imagined. It was peaceful and pretty. I stared at the place where I thought I’d seen Lovie. Now I was only a few yards away from the spot where she’d entered the woods.

  Mrs. Applebud inched over and placed the few surviving azaleas atop the grave. Then she picked up a dried bouquet and stepped aside. Her gaze met mine.

  I thought about taking off into the woods to see if that dog was definitely Lovie, but something was holding me there. Something so strong, I couldn’t explain it for a million years. I just knew deep in my gut if I stepped away, it would have been wrong. My heart felt like it was trying to leave my chest. I didn’t want to look, because then I’d know without a doubt it had happened.

  Mrs. Applebud was waiting. I took a deep breath and read the words on the gravestone: JAMES IRWIN ELLERBEE (FROG).

  It had happened.

  Remember, Mr. Williams, how I told you I don’t cry? Well, I wasn’t lying about that. But right there in front of Frog’s grave, seeing it for the first time, a lump gathered in my throat. It didn’t let loose until I whispered, “Oh, Frog.”

  For a long moment, a hush seemed to fall over us. Then I heard grass swishing. Someone was moving in our direction. My vision was blurry, but I could make out a tall figure with dark hair—Aunt Patty Cake.

  When she reached me, she slipped her arm around my shoulders, offering her apron.

  I buried my face in it.

  “Let it all out, honey,” she said.

  And as I began to remember it all, I did just what my aunt Patty Cake told me to do.

  Mr. Williams, it happened last June, two months before you arrived in Shreveport and sang on the Louisiana Hayride. Momma had been gone for eight long months. Frog and me were riding our bicycles all around Rippling Creek. That day, when people waved at us, we ignored them. We were on a mission. We were going to find us some Reds.

  We’d been riding all morning without a sign, and when we reached the fork I pointed to Sampson Road, telling Frog, “You go that way and I’ll go down Fish Hatchery Road. Then let’s meet back at headquarters.” Headquarters was the code name for our magnolia tree.

  Frog took off fast. I watched him because I knew he’d lean back and raise his front wheel like he always did when I gave him an assignment. Then he pedaled like the wind. Those Reds couldn’t outrace Frog.

  I made my way down Fish Hatchery Road. I was busy scanning right and left, looking for a Red, when I heard the train. I remember thinking everything sure runs like clockwork in Rippling Creek.

  Then I remembered the railroad crossing at Sampson Road. No one lived near that crossing, and Sampson Road wasn’t traveled much. Frog would be crossing that track just about that time. Frog thought he could outrun everyone and everything, even the Missouri Pacific. I stared down at my watch. One o’clock. I turned my bike around so sharp that I fell off and skinned my knees. I quickly picked the bike up and hopped back on. I pedaled as fast and hard as I could. I could hear the train approaching—chugga chugga choo, chugga chugga choo. The whistle blew. When I reached the fork and turned onto Sampson Road, I saw a ribbon of steam rising above the longleaf pines.

  The whistle blew and ble
w. I pedaled and pedaled. And when the train screeched to a slow halt, I slammed my brakes. I fell again, but this time I stayed down because somehow I knew I was too late.

  The sheriff said the best he could gather was Frog had gotten his bicycle wheel jammed between the railroad cross-ties. He was probably trying to get it loose when the train approached. The sheriff said, “It was over before Frog knew what happened.”

  But I figured out another part that no one had to tell me. You see, Mr. Williams, Big Pete’s boots were to the side of the tracks. I knew how Frog loved those boots. He must have slipped them off and thrown them to the side before he tried to get the bicycle free from the track. I guess Frog thought he was saving our daddy by saving those boots.

  Now you know it all, Mr. Williams. You probably believe I’m a bold-faced liar who has led you down a road of deception with my stories about Frog. But until today in Canton Cemetery, Frog was never dead to me. I didn’t go to the funeral. No matter how much Aunt Patty Cake tried to shame me into it, saying, “Your momma can’t go, and she’d want you to,” I wouldn’t listen. And when I heard the screen door slam shut as she and Uncle Jolly left the house for the service, I saw Frog in the corner of my room. We had a good laugh about everyone thinking he was dead.

  So when I told you those stories about Frog listening to me sing and pestering me, I really did believe he was here. I guess because I wanted so badly for him to be.

  Here’s the strangest thing about the longest day ever. Me who never cries was out there in the cemetery, breaking down. I sobbed so loud, it felt like the ground trembled. Just as I was blowing my nose into Aunt Patty Cake’s apron I felt something licking the back of my knee. I looked down. Lovie was working on a scrape that I wasn’t aware I had until that moment. I guess it happened when I fell with Mrs. Applebud.

  But just as I went to pet my dog, Lovie took off toward the woods. I wanted to holler, “Don’t leave me now when I need you most.”

  “I think Lovie wants to show us something,” Aunt Patty Cake said. “Maybe she finally caught a squirrel.”

  The three of us left Frog’s grave site and headed to the spot where Lovie entered the woods. We didn’t have to go far. She was just a few feet away, stretched out so all her babies could nurse, all three of them gray and plump.

  “Puppies!” I restrained myself from grabbing up one. They didn’t look anything like Lovie. But they were the spitting image of Mr. Rockfire’s dog, Corky.

  Aunt Patty Cake grinned. “Well, my word! It never occurred to me.”

  “She didn’t seem big enough,” said Mrs. Applebud.

  The way Lovie licked one of her younguns, I could tell she was a good momma. “Maybe Uncle Jolly will have a squirrel dog after all.”

  “One of them is bound to be like their daddy,” Aunt Patty Cake said.

  Looking at those puppies nurse Lovie made me realize she hadn’t run away from me. She was just trying to make sure her babies would be safe. In a way, finding Lovie helped me to finally find the truth about Frog.

  At home, Aunt Patty Cake tucked her wedding quilt inside an empty Delightfully Devine Beauty Products box, and we moved Lovie and her babies to the back porch. As hard as it was, I kept my distance from them. I didn’t want Lovie to run away again.

  Mr. Williams, how do I explain a day like today? A day filled with lots of sad and happy, too.

  Tonight I asked Aunt Patty Cake that very question. She said, “Baby, that’s called life.”

  Hoping you’ll understand,

  Tate P.

  May 8, 1949

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  THE MORNING AFTER I saw Frog’s grave for the first time, I lay in bed, studying the ceiling, feeling like I could float up to it. Everything that had felt jumbled in my head now seemed so clear. I knew I had to write the judge about Momma. I wanted to write that letter. A moment later I was sitting on the edge of my bed with a pen and tablet. I told the judge Miss Jordie June Ellerbee was my momma and I needed her something fierce at home. I explained how I was proud that Momma had been a Goree Girl but that she had a bigger plan to share her gift with the world. She was missing out on important things like me singing at the Rippling Creek May Festival Talent Contest and I could have used some pointers.

  The last part of the letter was the hardest because it was about Frog. I spilled my true feelings all over that page. I told him how I’d been so upset that Momma wasn’t here last summer when Frog had his accident. I’d needed her then more than any time in my life, and when she didn’t show up I didn’t answer any of her letters or postcards. What happened to Frog wasn’t Momma’s fault or mine. I know that now, but we needed to see each other through that hard time. And in closing I told the judge I didn’t see how a person making one mistake like driving a car for someone like Elroy Broussard should be kept from being a momma to me.

  By the time Mrs. Applebud’s rooster crowed, I knew I was going to sing in the talent show. And never mind that I’d been practicing “Wildwood Flower” for months. I was going to sing Frog’s favorite song, “You Are My Sunshine.” This was the right song. I knew it all the way down to my toes.

  At breakfast I announced my decision to Aunt Patty Cake. She was so happy I’d changed my mind about dropping out of the talent show that she said, “Come on. Let’s go to the Kizers’ and make a telephone call.” The Kizers had the only phone within a mile from us. Sure enough, Mr. Kizer was doing his crossword puzzle, and Mrs. Kizer was listening to Queen for a Day. But they seemed more interested in what Aunt Patty Cake was saying to Miss Mildred. “Tate has decided to sing ‘You Are My Sunshine,’ so please bring that sheet music instead.”

  I don’t know what Miss Mildred said, but it sure made Aunt Patty Cake mad, because she told her, “Mildred Dupree, I don’t care what you think about Tate’s new song, I expect you to play it. Unless you don’t know how to play that song. If you don’t, then I’ll arrange for another accompanist.” And then Aunt Patty Cake said something I never thought I’d hear her admit. “My niece, Jordie June, the lead singer of the Goree Girls, has a lot of connections. I’m sure she knows every talented pianist in the parish.” Well, that’s all Aunt Patty Cake had to say.

  The next day, at the talent show, wouldn’t you know, Verbia Calhoon went first. Mrs. Calhoon probably arranged it so that the judges would forget how bad Verbia’s singing was and only remember her golden curls. I was glad I wasn’t first, but I sure didn’t want to be last, which was exactly when I was scheduled. Though I did get to move up a spot because Lenny Robbins locked his knees during his harmonica performance and fainted a minute into his song.

  When I walked onto the stage, I stood behind the microphone, gazed out, and spotted Mrs. Applebud. She’d dozed through Verbia’s song but now was wide awake. From her bench she gave me a small nod. Aunt Patty Cake sat to her right, straight as an ironing board. Next to her, Uncle Jolly and Garnett held hands, watching me. Then those lovesick hounds turned to each other at that exact moment and smiled. Seeing my family in the audience, I knew I’d make it through the song. And even though Frog wasn’t sitting out there, I felt like he was near me.

  Funny, I don’t remember hearing the words when I sang. Does that ever happen to you? All that was going through my head were the good times—Momma and me singing in bed, Uncle Jolly taking me to the circus, modeling for Aunt Patty Cake, getting Lovie, and riding bicycles with Frog. I reckon you could say the best of my life was wrapped up in that song. Now, standing on that stage, I knew exactly what Zion meant about singing from the heart.

  I’m almost forgetting to tell you—I won first place in the singing category! And that wasn’t the best part of the day.

  Your fan and First-Place Winner of the Rippling Creek May Festival Talent Contest,

  Tate P.

  PS—The best part of the day was when they called my name as the first-place winner and Verbia Calhoon got all confused. She stood like they called her name. Why, she beat me to the stage! You should have seen her face w
hen she realized it was Tate P. Ellerbee’s name they announced.

  PPS—The second-best part was Mrs. Calhoon’s face when she learned it too.

  PPPS—And Miss Mildred’s.

  May 15, 1949

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  AUNT PATTY CAKE continues to surprise me. Yesterday she told me to get into the car, as we needed to make one more delivery.

  “Whose delivery?” I asked.

  “We’re going to see Constance.”

  Without saying a word, I hightailed it to the car.

  We drove up the road and crossed the bridge that stretches over No-Name Creek. Then the gravel road turned into a dirt one that winded through the woods until it met up with a cleared piece of land with about a dozen wood-frame houses. A couple of little girls were drawing in the dirt with a stick, and a few people sat on their porches. Aunt Patty Cake drove up to a white house with blue curtains hanging in the windows.

  Constance and Zion came outside to meet us. “I’ve been looking forward to that bottle of jasmine bubble bath,” Constance said.

  Aunt Patty Cake laughed, but I knew she was a little uneasy. She’d looked around after stepping out of the car.

  Constance motioned her into the house, and I stayed outside with Zion.

  I felt nervous myself, not because we were in Pine Bend, but because I needed to set Zion straight about Frog. I wasn’t sure how to do it. I stalled some, telling her about Lovie’s puppies and winning first place in the contest. Then I took a big breath and blurted, “Frog is in heaven.”