Dear Hank Williams Read online

  “If you do, I wish you’d ask for me. My name is Garnett.”

  “Garnett,” Uncle Jolly said, “like the jewel. My name is James Poche.”

  I’d never heard Uncle Jolly introduce himself with his real name.

  Garnett held out her hand. “Nice to meet you, James.”

  Uncle Jolly went to reach for Garnett’s hand, but I grabbed his sleeve and tugged.

  “Come on, Uncle Jolly. Remember Frog?”

  Uncle Jolly glared at me but pulled the keys out of his pocket. He smiled at Garnett, tipping his hat. “Thank you, ma’am. I’ll check back soon.”

  “And what’s your name, young lady?” she asked.

  “Tate,” I said, walking away fast. “Maybe we’ll be back when you get those Hank Williams phonographs.” See, Mr. Williams? I’m doing what I can to shoot your fame all the way to the moon.

  Back in the car, Uncle Jolly started the engine and asked, “Tate, why’d you tell her Frog was asleep?”

  “I didn’t. I said he might wake up.” I glanced back at Frog stretched out on the back seat. Big Pete’s boots had slipped off his feet and I could see his toe sticking out of a hole in his sock.

  Uncle Jolly’s eyes grew soft. Then he shook his head and looked straight ahead at the road. He didn’t talk to me the entire drive back. His mind seemed elsewhere as he stared ahead while we moved down Highway 112. A few times I heard him whisper under his breath, “Garnett like the jewel.”

  Here we go again.

  Your fan and public relations person,

  Tate P.

  December 9, 1948

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  WHEN I SAW ZION and her mother walking up our driveway yesterday, I told Frog, “Come on! Let’s hide!” Frog, who runs faster than Superman, took off around the back of the house. I’m not so quick, so I slipped behind the barbecue smoker Uncle Jolly built. I had to squat behind it, since the smoker is only about three feet high.

  My thighs burned from squatting so long, but when I heard the screen porch door slam shut, I thought I was safe and stood.

  “Hi!” Zion said.

  She caught me.

  Zion was wearing a blue plaid coat. It looked like she got it from the Wellan’s Department Store, but I knew she didn’t, because that would cost a lot of money. “Are you hiding from me?” she asked.

  Now, I almost said no but quickly changed my mind. Besides, how else would I explain why I was squatting behind a barbecue smoker? So I said, “Frog and me were playing hide-and-seek.”

  “Can I play?” she asked.

  We played for the next twenty minutes. I wish Frog hadn’t left. I think he would have liked playing too. We got hot and sweaty, playing so hard. I threw off my jacket, and Zion unbuttoned her coat. She didn’t take it off, though. I think she was proud of it, because she told me her momma made the coat from leftover fabric she had after sewing Mrs. Calhoon’s curtains. I sure would hate to match anything in Verbia’s house.

  Later, when it was time for her to go, Zion joined her momma on the driveway. She turned and cupped her hands around her mouth. “Tell your brother I said hello.”

  Mr. Williams, you wouldn’t believe what happened next. Her momma gave her a good slap on the behind. Zion rubbed at the spot all the way to the car. My momma would never have popped me for hollering out to someone. Zion was only being friendly.

  Aunt Patty Cake didn’t see what happened because she was already in the house, going on and on about how Constance placed her biggest Christmas order. I didn’t tell her what she did to Zion, but I did tell Frog. He asked, “Whatcha think her momma did that for?”

  I said I had no earthly idea but that he should have come back sooner. In a way, what happened to Zion was his fault.

  Never staying hid for long,

  Tate P.

  PS—I’ve started my New Year’s resolution early. I am now practicing my song for the talent show every single day, no matter how cold it is outside. I’m a professional like you and Momma. I show up and sing.

  December 15, 1948

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  COOLIE’S PEN PAL, Keinosuke, sent him a samurai sword guard. That’s a fancy piece of metal with a slot where the sword goes through. Coolie stood in front of our class holding it up. “Now imagine,” he said, “that I’m a real samurai and I’ve got a long samurai sword that would go through this guard when I wore it.”

  Those were the most words strung together Coolie had ever said in class. He is the shortest boy in sixth grade and is usually quiet, but not today. Keinosuke had turned him into a samurai. Wallace seemed impressed too. I could tell by the way he was leaning forward over his desk and trying to take a good look at that samurai sword guard. Then he mouthed off and said, “I’ll bet one of our soldiers has the sword after he used it on Keinosuke’s dad.”

  Mr. Williams, you will not believe what happened next. Little shy Coolie charged across the room toward Wallace. He held the holder out as if it was a sword. When Coolie reached Wallace, he pushed him back. Wallace lost his balance and fell to the floor. The desk turned over, making such a clatter. Then the students closest to the action pushed their desks away and spun them around with their feet so they could have a front-row view. The rest of us ran over and formed a circle on the outside. It was more exciting than listening to Billy Fox and Jake LaMotta box on the radio, because this fight was happening right in front of our eyes.

  Coolie straddled Wallace’s belly and took turns punching each cheek, one with his fist, the other with the holder. “That’s my friend you’re talking about,” Coolie yelled.

  Mrs. Kipler rushed over and pulled Coolie off Wallace. She grabbed hold of the back of both boys’ collars and dragged them to the principal’s office. Big ole Wallace’s face was bleeding, but he was yelling, “He didn’t hurt me!” the whole way.

  Mr. Williams, if someone ever said something that mean about you, I’d curl up my fists and fight in your honor. I wonder what Keinosuke would think if he knew sending that samurai sword guard started World War III in our class today.

  Ready to defend your honor,

  Tate P.

  December 20, 1948

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  I HOPE YOU AND MRS. WILLIAMS are enjoying your first Louisiana Christmas. With Momma and Uncle Jolly away, it’s quiet around here. You already know where Momma is, but Uncle Jolly has gone to Dallas, Texas, with a load of Christmas trees. He won’t be back home until after Christmas. Aunt Patty Cake, as you can probably imagine, is not happy about that. The trees come from Jeter Hopkins’s land. Jeter told Uncle Jolly that if he would haul them over to Texas and sell them, he’d split the money. Mr. Hopkins had heard there was big money in Dallas and that it was amazing what those city folks would pay for a pine tree.

  Our Christmas tree has dozens of stories on it. We have a tradition in our family where we pull an ornament off the tree each night for the ten nights leading up to Christmas. Each of the ornaments is homemade and represents a story.

  Last night, we were stringing popcorn for the tree when I pulled off the moon-shaped blue satin one. Aunt Patty Cake sighed when I handed the ornament to her. In a flat tone, she said, “That was made from the dress I wore the night I met a boy at a fais do-do in Ville Platte.” In case you don’t know, Mr. Williams, a fais do-do is a Cajun dance party.

  She handed it back to me as she pushed her eyeglasses into place and returned to pulling the needle through a popped kernel.

  “Well?” I asked. “Is that all?”

  “Afraid so.”

  I wasn’t going to let the story stop there. Aunt Patty Cake had always been just Aunt Patty Cake to me. Kind of like a grandmother. I couldn’t picture her as a girl.

  Aunt Patty Cake shrugged. “Not much to tell. There was a fais do-do at my cousin Callie’s house. All the furniture had been removed from the front rooms of their house in order to make room for dancing.”

  I’d seen that around Rippling Creek, too. Last week, we passed the Colfa
xes’ house, where they had such a big dance that even the beds were in the yard. Folks were dancing on the porch. Mr. Williams, have you ever played at anyone’s home? When I’m sixteen, I plan to have a big birthday party. Maybe you could play at it? If you keep your schedule that far in advance, that will be March 12, 1953.

  My thoughts returned to Aunt Patty Cake’s story when I heard her tapping her foot to the music on the radio. “Did you dance?” I asked her.

  “Of course I danced. My daddy was French.” She said it as if Cajuns popped into life doing the two-step.

  “You only dance when Uncle Jolly is goofy and spins you around the floor.”

  “He hardly gives me a chance to object. When I get good and ready to dance, I will.”

  “So you were good and ready back then?”

  She looked up at me, but I knew my question kept her at that fais do-do in Ville Platte. Then she gazed across the room and smiled. “He was a good-looking boy.”

  “As good-looking as Hank Williams?” I asked.

  “Better!” she said.

  Now, Mr. Williams, remember this is Aunt Patty Cake, who was only married for about half a minute and probably never, ever had a kiss. And she has to wear glasses to see anything three inches in front of her face.

  Aunt Patty Cake studied the wall, smiling, as if she was looking out at the fais do-do in Ville Platte. “The house was so crowded with couples bumping into each other as they shimmied across the floor, he suggested we dance outside.”

  “Was he a good dancer?” I asked.

  “He was French.”

  “Guess that explains it, then.”

  “All the songs were upbeat, and we were twirling around the furniture so fast, I kept wishing for a slower tune to catch my breath.”

  I’ll bet breathing wasn’t the only reason Aunt Patty Cake wanted a slow tune. Slow songs meant you held each other close.

  She continued. “Then, finally, the fiddle player played a waltz. But it was a short dance. The clouds had rolled in and let loose of the rain. Even though the music stopped, he wouldn’t quit dancing. He held on to me, and we glided around the couches and chairs as the rain poured down on us. When the men rushed out to rescue the furniture, he still wouldn’t let go of me.” Aunt Patty Cake chuckled and shook her head.

  “Guess he was breathless too,” I said, but Aunt Patty Cake didn’t hear me.

  “I haven’t thought about that dance in years.”

  “What happened next?” I asked her.

  “The rain ruined my blue satin dress. It was never the same.”

  “I meant what happened with you and the boy.”

  “I never heard hide nor hair of him again.”

  “Why don’t you ask someone about him?”

  Aunt Patty Cake raised her left eyebrow. “Why don’t you go sweep the kitchen floor?”

  Frog is smart. He never is the least bit interested in the Christmas-tree-ornament stories. Curious people seem to have more chores. Once, I had to scrub this house from top to bottom when I asked Aunt Patty Cake about an old picture of her and a man. Later, Momma told me it was Aunt Patty Cake’s wedding picture. Back then, I didn’t know Aunt Patty Cake had been married.

  “Only for about two months,” Momma had said. “Then they divorced. She keeps the picture to remind herself of her bad judgment in selecting men.” That’s something Momma, Uncle Jolly, and Aunt Patty Cake all seem to have in common—their pitiful partner picking. I sure hope Frog and me don’t suffer from the same affliction.

  Still, the ending of Aunt Patty Cake’s fais do-do story was the saddest I ever did hear. And it didn’t have to be. She could find out what happened to that boy. I don’t understand folks that could have a happy-ever-after ending but have no gumption to try. I can tell you’re not that way, Mr. Williams. You’re living an exciting life, and in no time at all the whole world will know the name Hank Williams.

  Hope you and the Mrs. have a Christmas tree filled with happy ornament stories.

  Holiday wishes from your #1 fan,

  Tate P.

  PS—Be on the lookout for a Christmas card with glittery stars all over the envelope. It’s from me.

  Christmas Night, 1948

  Dear Mr. Williams,

  YOU’LL PROBABLY RECEIVE the Christmas card I sent yesterday the same day you receive this letter. That’s why I wrote Read this letter second! on the back of the envelope. I couldn’t wait to write you because of all the good news.

  First, we received a Christmas card from Momma. Inside she wrote, Wishing my family a Merry Christmas filled with love! And I’m sending an extra hug to Tate! Ask her to write me, please. Love and kisses, Jordie June. (She forgot to mention Frog, and I know that hurt him something awful. But Momma can be the forgetful type.) She wrote, PS—The Goree Girls are going to sing at the warden’s house for Christmas Eve, and we’ll get to eat all kinds of delicious food, but I know none of those dishes will beat Aunt Patty Cake’s Holiday Maple Sugarcoated Ham with Pineapple Rings.

  Momma hopes being a Goree Girl will help her get out of prison quicker. A lot of fans of former Goree Girls wrote letters to the judge, begging him to let them out early. Some of them did get released sooner. The judge called their singing an act of good behavior. Momma is the most popular Goree Girl, so I expect her fans will write a bunch of letters.

  Aunt Patty Cake thinks I should write one. But here’s what I think—if the judge knew that my pretty momma had two children she seemed to forget about when she drove the getaway car, I think the judge might make Momma serve more time. He’d think she must not be a very good momma if she put a man like Elroy Broussard before her children. Right now, everything looks like it could go Momma’s way—her singing for the Goree Girls, making all sorts of people so happy that they write letters on her behalf. No reason to unravel all the good things they are doing with a letter from me. It’s funny how Aunt Patty Cake wants me to write a letter for Momma but she acts like she’s ashamed of Momma being a Goree Girl. Imagine that. Her own niece is famous, and she won’t mention it to anyone.

  Back to what else happened tonight—Mrs. Applebud came over for dinner. It was nice to have her sitting at our table, since Momma and Uncle Jolly couldn’t be there. Mrs. Applebud brought a platter of deviled eggs with paprika sprinkled over their whipped yolks. The way those eggs melted on my tongue, I could have gobbled down a dozen of them.

  Of course Frog headed for the Vicks VapoRub at the first whiff of Mrs. Applebud’s deviled eggs. Thank goodness Aunt Patty Cake baked yams and biscuits, too.

  Mrs. Applebud had some news. Her son got married last week to a Japanese lady named Yuki. I asked, “Do they eat sushi and sashimi?”

  “I’m not certain, dear,” Mrs. Applebud said. “Why don’t you find out? She has a ten-year-old daughter named Keiko. You could be her pen pal. That would help her learn English.”

  “I already have a pen pal,” I told her. “I’m writing Mr. Hank Williams.”

  Aunt Patty Cake probably thinks I didn’t hear her sigh, but I did. (If you could just write me one letter, she could see what good pals we are.) But I was afraid I might have sounded rude to Mrs. Applebud. So I quickly said, “I guess this means you’re a grandmother.”

  Mrs. Applebud’s smile lit up her face. “Yes, it does. It’s the best Christmas present ever. And it will be official as soon as Albert can adopt her.” Then she pulled a picture out of her purse. Albert was in his navy uniform next to Yuki, a lady with the creamiest skin I ever did see. Keiko, her daughter, was holding a Shirley Temple doll.

  I wonder what Wallace would think about Mrs. Applebud’s news. It’s probably a good idea they live over in Japan, because judging by the response to Mrs. Kipler’s offer for Japanese pen pals, I think they might feel unwelcome here.

  After dinner Aunt Patty Cake turned on the radio to KALB, and we listened to Christmas music. She’d started to cut the pecan pie when who do you reckon drove up? It was Uncle Jolly! All the way back, safe and sound, from Te
xas.

  Aunt Patty Cake sighed long and hard. I guess she was relieved that someone finally broke the Texas curse on our family.

  “Ho, ho, ho!” he yelled from the screened porch.

  And then I heard a whimper. It sounded like it came from a dog. I sprung from my chair and beat Frog to the door.

  When I opened it, Uncle Jolly stood there holding a Louisiana Catahoula cur. Most folks around here call it a cur dog. She was full grown but as sweet as a puppy. Her hair was spotted like a leopard with a big dose of white that spread from her belly all the way up to her neck, and on the tip of her tail, which pointed toward the sky. Her icy-blue eyes reminded me of Frog’s marbles.

  “Is she ours?” I asked, locking my hands together. I was falling in love fast and I couldn’t bear to touch her if she was going to the pound or to someone else’s family.

  Uncle Jolly offered her to me. “She’s all yours, Sweet Tater.”

  My hands parted and made their way clear to that dog. I held her next to me as close as I could, and if I was the type of person who cried (which I’m not), I would have cried a mountain of happy tears. She lowered her head, but I could tell she liked me. She didn’t wiggle to get out of my arms.

  “Thank you, Uncle Jolly! This is the best Christmas present ever.” I glanced over to Aunt Patty Cake, remembering her no-dogs rule. She was smiling too.

  Uncle Jolly rubbed the top of the dog’s head. “You’ll let me have some squirrel-hunting rights with her, won’t you?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Uncle Jolly took off his coat. “Cur dogs are some of the best hunting dogs.”

  The dog licked my fingers like she was cleaning me real good. Aunt Patty Cake and Mrs. Applebud came over for a closer look.

  “She’s pretty for a cur dog,” Aunt Patty Cake said. “Of course she’ll have to be an outdoor dog.”

  I guess she saw my disappointment, because she quickly added, “She can stay inside until bedtime tonight. Only because it’s Christmas.”