“Let me hear what she says,” I said. Then I closed my eyes tight, ’cause this couldn’t be anything good.

The Letter

Aug 25, 1972

Dear Family (that means you momma and little Winston)—

I done run aground here in Vegas.

The traveling is good but has started to sour. Seems there is no more money to be made out here in the wild, wild west. I’ve done dancing and singing and even a bit part or two. But what I need is my girls.

Yes, you 2.

The money jar, though, has run dry and there aint a red cent in it.

What do you 2 say about comming to git me?

We could be home by Winston’s birthday.

Hows the Blue Goose? Still running good? I had to sell the Lemon. I better go.

Signed,

Skye Harper (who used to be known as Judith Lee Fletcher)

PS Come git me.

The Letter, Part Two

If Nanny knew I was reading the letter again, the fourteenth time, this time in bed with a flashlight, she would have shouted, Do you know how much batteries cost?

I don’t know, though you’d think so the way my grandmother is always quoting me prices. “Don’t you waste that cereal milk. It’s running almost a dollar a gallon.” “Eat the crust of that jelly sandwich, girl. That loaf a bread cost me thirty-seven cents.” She even knows egg prices, and we got thirteen chickens (sixty-two cents for a dozen large, white eggs—“Though anyone in her right mind knows brown eggs’re better.”).

I read the letter once more, then folded it and slid it under my pillow. I snapped off the flashlight, sighing. Again.

Bothered.

Ruffled like Denny.

Outside a late-night storm drew near. If I waited, I could go over Momma’s words when lightning struck close by. But I wouldn’t. Fourteen readings was enough. And anyway, I’d memorized the line that mattered most. What do you 2 say about comming to git me? And the other was stuck in my brain too. But what I need is my girls.

So what did we say about it?

I folded my arms underneath my head and stared at the ceiling.

Nanny hadn’t spoken a word when I’d said, “She wants to come back? Back here? To live? In this house? With us? Here? Momma? I mean Skye Harper?” No, Nanny just sucked on the cigarette and looked off over my shoulder at the TV that wasn’t even on. Maybe she wanted to watch Let’s Make a Deal, though that wouldn’t show again until tomorrow.

Now the lightning snapped and thunder crashed. Damp air blew in my room, pushing the curtains out like the skirt of an old-timey dancer.

I rolled on my side.

What do you 2 say about comming to git me? That was the last thing I wondered as I fell asleep.

Thelma Dog

Momma wore a curtain for a skirt.

“Couldn’t get a job,” she said. Cigarette smoke filled the room. It was hot in here. Hot like an electric blanket and itchy like the blanket was wool, too.