Faith, Hope, and Ivy June (6 page)

March 8

Well, we’ve got Ivy June unpacked and settled in, and so far things are going okay. We’re both writing in our journals at the moment, since that’s one of the requirements of the program.

She probably thinks we’re super rich, and I suppose we do have a big house for just five people. I hate to say it, but when Rosemary’s around, the house never seems big enough. I explained to Ivy June that Mom was really sick a couple of months ago, and I almost withdrew from the program. But she’s better now, and getting her strength back, and that’s why we have Flora helping out.

I’m not sure what I expected Ivy June to be
wearing but it’s nothing raggedy. No brand-name stuff, of course, but I still think she’d fit in better if she wore the uniform on Monday.

Peter embarrassed me to death explaining the toilet to Ivy June as though she’d never been in a bathroom. I could have wrung his neck. But she’s got a sense of humor, and I like that about her. She’s pretty quiet, though. It’s like she’s walking through a jungle and doesn’t want to make any sudden moves or noises.

She asked me about school and how much homework she’d be expected to do. I told her just what Mrs. Fields told me, that an exchange student is expected to do as much of each assignment as she can.

I’m hoping Ivy June will be more talkative tomorrow, and feel more comfortable around us. If Peter doesn’t try to teach her how to use the remote or something

Catherine Combs

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Ivy June drifted in and out of sleep, aware, somehow, that it was morning, listening for the sounds of crows bragging to each other in the dead oak down by the footbridge. Listening to hear whether the rush of water was louder now in Thunder Creek, whether there was rain on the tin roof, and whether Papaw was moving about the kitchen, pouring hot coffee into his thermos.

No
, she thought,
it’s Sunday
, but she heard nothing familiar. No mockingbird doing a warm-up, no sparrows arguing, no blue jay making an announcement … only the soft click of a battery-operated wall clock and a car on the street below. Then she remembered and opened her eyes.

Thin lines of daylight came through the slats in the shutters and lay horizontally across the covers. On the bed next to her, Catherine was still asleep, one arm thrown carelessly over her pillow, her head buried somewhere on the other side.

Quietly, Ivy June crawled out of bed, tiptoed to the bathroom, and locked both doors. She used the toilet, brushed her teeth, and filled the sink with hot water, washing up as she did at home when Mammaw poured water from the teakettle into the basin.

When her hair was combed, she remembered to unlock the door leading to Claire’s room; then went back to the bedroom and put on clean underwear, the good jeans she’d been wearing the day before, and a yellow knit shirt.

Catherine woke up and rolled over.

“Oh, you’re the early one!” she said, sitting up on one elbow. She yawned, then flopped down again. “We don’t have to be at church until eleven.” She studied Ivy June. “And you don’t have to go at all unless you want to. Flora will be here getting dinner, if you’d rather stay. We eat our big meal around noon on Sundays.”

Ivy June had already made up her mind that she was going to experience every possible thing she could, so she said, “I’d like to go. What church is it?”

“Methodist.” Catherine sat up again. “Are you … going to wear that?”

Ivy June glanced down at her shirt and jeans. “I don’t know. Shouldn’t I?”

“I always wear a dress, but … You’re fine, really. Unless you want to wear one of mine.”

“I’ve got a dress,” Ivy June said quickly, and went to her suitcase to retrieve the dress she hadn’t bothered to unpack. It was a two-piece hand-me-down from Jessie—dark blue polyester with tiny white flowers. It came halfway down to her ankles, the way it was supposed to, but her sneakers looked ridiculous beneath the tiered skirt. Ivy June hauled out the sandals she wore when she dressed up, which was almost never.

Rain slashed at the windows, and she knew that her feet would get wet.

Her stomach growled, but Catherine didn’t hear it because she was in the bathroom taking a shower. And after the water turned off, Ivy June could hear the opening and closing of drawers and cabinets, then the whine of a hair dryer.

Lord above, how does she ever get to school on time come Monday?
Ivy June thought. She decided to go downstairs, and found Mr. Combs in his robe, reading the Sunday paper at the table. Flora’s coat was on a hook by the back door, and she was busily breaking eggs into a bowl.

“Well, look who’s up! Good morning!” Mr. Combs said, pulling out another section of paper and sliding the rest toward Ivy June. “More rain, I’m afraid, but next weekend’s supposed to be better. What do you like to read at breakfast? Our kids usually start with the comics.”

“I don’t usually read anything. I’ve got to feed Grandmommy, anyway,” Ivy June said, and sat down.

“Oh. Really?” Mr. Combs said, and lifted his coffee cup again. “How old is your grandmother?”

“My great-grandmother. She was a hundred last month.”

“A
hundred
?”

Catherine’s mother came into the kitchen just then, her hair still loose about her shoulders.

“Did you know that Ivy June’s great-grandmother is one hundred years old?” Mr. Combs said.

“My goodness, she must have lived a healthy life!” said Mrs. Combs, easing herself onto one of the chairs.

“Yes, ma’am. If she wasn’t sewing quilts, she was out working the garden,” Ivy June told her.

“Was she a vegetarian?” asked Mr. Combs.

“She’d eat whatever was on the table,” Ivy June said.

“Imagine that.” Mrs. Combs accepted the basket of muffins that Flora handed to her. “You can start with these if you like, Ivy June,” she said. “They’ll be wonderful with the preserves you brought.” Then she called into the kitchen, “You did an excellent job with the muffins, Flora.”

Peter and Claire came next in their pajamas, just as Howard and Ezra and Danny would do back home, Ivy June thought. Mr. Combs complimented Peter for requesting the butter instead of reaching, and Claire for spreading her napkin on her lap. Catherine came to breakfast last, her hair blow-dried, wearing a thin lavender dress and shoes with a small sculptured heel. Ivy June tucked her own feet farther under her chair.

The church was a large limestone block building with curved arches over the doors. Inside, the stained-glass windows filtered the morning light over the mahogany pews, and beneath the towering gold pipes of the organ, the choir sat in their purple robes and satin stoles, waiting while the minister gave the welcome.

The congregation rose for the first hymn.

Back home in the little Buck Run Baptist Church, there were maybe a dozen hymnals; each had to serve three people at once. Ivy June hoped that the black hymnal she held now had some songs she knew—“Standing on the Promises,” or “Love Lifted Me,” her favorite.

This time it wasn’t a hymn Ivy June knew well, but she’d heard it before, and after mouthing the words to the first verse, she sang out on the second. She especially loved the refrain:

Silently now I wait for Thee,
Ready, my God, Thy will to see….

Mrs. Combs looked down at her and smiled, and Ivy June smiled back. But when she sang out the beautiful melody on the third verse,
“Open my heart, illumine me
…,” she noticed people on both sides of her smiling her way and Ivy June wondered if she was singing too loud. Nobody worried about singing too loud in Thunder Creek. Singing was something they loved to do. And if there was one thing Ivy June was sure of, she had a good voice. Papaw could play almost any note on his guitar, and except for the highest and lowest, Ivy June could match them, pitch perfect.

Peter and Claire were in Sunday school and didn’t attend the adult service, but Ivy June enjoyed the quiet of the sanctuary and the power of the choir’s anthem. She already had a dollar curled up in her hand when the offertory plate was passed, but Mr. and Mrs. Combs skipped over her and Catherine and passed the plate directly to each other. Ivy June would have put in a dollar just to have this quiet time—as close as she could get, perhaps, to the mountains.

The sermon was about giving and receiving—how the giver gets back more than he gives. When the service was over and the Combs family stood to leave, two women came over to remark on “the little songbird in our midst” and squeezed Ivy June’s hand. At home in the mountains, Ivy June thought, you weren’t a songbird; you just
were.
You weren’t complimented on your singing; you just sang. Up here, it seemed, everything you did had to be commented on. But she could get used to that in a hurry.

Flora had Sunday dinner waiting for them when they got back from church, and then she left for the day. It was something like Sunday dinner at home, Ivy June decided—the fried chicken and mashed potatoes—but at Mammaw’s, there would be biscuits in place of rolls, with sausage gravy to pour over them. And there wouldn’t be strawberries until they were collected wild; here they were bought frozen in a package.

Catherine’s friends, Mackenzie and Hannah, came over that afternoon in shorts and T-shirts.

“I like your hair,” said Hannah, whose own curly hair was pulled back straight, as though she was trying to get the curls to lie flat.

“Thank you,” said Ivy June. She was glad she and Catherine had been allowed to change into jeans after church. “Anything I should know about school tomorrow?”

“The headmistress is a dragon, and the teachers are all clones,” said Mackenzie.

Catherine poked her. “They are
not!
And she’s already met Mrs. Fields.”

“How does this program work?” Hannah asked. “You get to attend whatever classes you want?”

“I guess the Academy worked out the schedule with Thunder Creek,” Ivy June told her. “I have to do all the homework, only I haven’t started Spanish yet, so I can sit that one out. Go to the library or something.”

“We wear uniforms,” Catherine explained. “But you don’t have to wear one unless you want. Mrs. Fields left one here, if you’d like to try it on.”

Ivy June glanced at the others as Catherine retrieved it from her closet. “Why do you wear them?” she asked.

“So everyone will look the same,” said Hannah.

“Why would you want to do that?” Ivy June was puzzled.

“We don’t. We have to. It’s so some girls won’t try to dress better than anyone else,” Mackenzie explained.

Ivy June studied the short pleated skirt. “I’ll think about it,” she told them.

The doorbell chimed from below, and there were sounds of running feet as Peter and Claire hurried to answer. Voices. Greetings. Catherine put one finger to her lips and Hannah and Mackenzie exchanged glances.

“Uh-oh,” said Mackenzie.

“Is that who we think it is?” asked Hannah.

Catherine looked apologetically at Ivy June. “It’s Dad’s stepmother. Let’s go down so she can’t corner us up here.”