Stella by Starlight (10 page)

“She says you are the best thinker in the school.”

“Really? I guess she also told you how I been messin' up.”

Mama stroked Stella's hair. “You remember when I planted those strawberries a few years back? You must been about Jojo's age.”

“Yeah.”

“The first year they came up sour and pink.”

“I remember. I tasted a couple, and I couldn't spit them out fast enough—so sour my tongue wanted to shrivel up and leave!”

Mama nodded. “The next season I had enough ripe red ones to fill a pail and make a pie—long as I added sugar!” She paused. “But this past season—I
know you remember, 'cause I couldn't keep you away from them—they were so sweet and thick they made ordinary sugar be 'shamed.”

“Yes, but—”

“Your time to blossom sweet is comin', Stella. But I don't want you outside at night anymore, you hear? It's just not safe.”

“Yes'm.” After a bit, Stella said, “Tonight was fun. It was kinda nice having the whole neighborhood around. And nobody seemed too scared.”

“You know, back in slavery times, our people told stories and sang songs to pass on information when it was dangerous to say things out loud.”

Stella considered that—she'd been told that before, but she'd actually never
really
thought about it. “Kinda like Papa's newspapers, huh?”

“A little. There's an unseen river of communication that forever flows—dark and powerful. Tonight was about food and laughter, yes. But it was also about navigatin' that river.”

A dog barked in the distance. Stella listened close, but all else was quiet, so she said, “You know what I've been thinkin' about, Mama?”

“What's that?”

“I really liked Spoon Man's story, but I kept thinking about stuff like why chickens can't fly or why eagles live on mountaintops. I'd love to go the library in Spindale and read a book about how
anything
flies—that would be incredible.”

“I'm sure books like that exist . . . ,” her mother said carefully.

“But I'm not allowed to use the library.” Stella's eyes flashed as she finished her mother's sentence. “I know. And it's just not fair!”

Her mother brushed her lips against Stella's ear. “Perhaps one day things will change.”

“Not if the Klan has anything to do with it,” Stella replied, twirling the new bracelet on her wrist. “I really like the bracelet, Mama. I know you could have used that money for something more important.”

“Every girl needs something pretty in her life, something special to make her smile,” her mother said. “But far more important than a glass trinket, Stella, is the joy you already got in you.”

“I got something else special, Mama. . . .” Her mother waited, and Stella reached down and pulled
out the cigar box full of clippings. “Did you know about this, too?” she asked, opening it up.

Sounding amused, her mother told her, “I've wrapped quite a bit of garbage recently in newspapers with holes cut out of them. But I know the value of a secret.”

Stella gave Mama her school notebook, the one that held the paper marked with a F, the incomplete assignments that sat there like half-plowed furrows, the jumble of scribbles and thoughts.

Mama flipped through it all, squinting as the clouds continued to obscure the stars.

Stella held her breath.

“Gertrude is right,” Mama said finally.

“I'm a dunce?” Stella said, fear clutching her chest.

“Quite the opposite. You are an amazing thinker—a gemstone hiding inside a rock.”

“So how come all I can feel is the rock?”

“What I'm reading here is thoughtful and beautiful, just like you are.”

“More like thick and tangled, like my hair,” Stella mumbled. She did, however, take the notebook into the house with her. “Would it be all right if I try to
write a little something before I go to sleep?” she asked. “Maybe I can scribble some ideas while my brain is not feeling so fried.”

Mama touched Stella's cheek. “Sure, baby. But not for long. We got church in the mornin'.”

Stella plopped down by the embers of the fire. She smiled. Because words were starting to make sense. Bright, perfectly formed ideas smoldered in her mind. She opened her notebook.

16

UP IN THE AIR

I don't know how airplanes stay up in the air and fly. It must really be something to sit inside an airplane, then look out the window (I guess they have windows!) and see clouds underneath you instead of above like they are
suppozd
supposed to be.

I don't know how birds fly either. How can a clump of feathers with legs and wings take off and just float on a breeze? Their brains are much smaller than mine, but they know how to fly, and I don't.
I guess birds know more than I do about what clouds look like up close.

Spoon Man talked about eagles and what their wings look like when they fly. Sometimes they are brown with white tips on the end. The pastor wears wing-tipped shoes every Sunday. That's the first time I understood why folks call them that!

17

Mama was already stoking the fire, sweeping the floor, and warming up a few leftovers from the potluck meal when Stella woke up. She reached under her pillow and touched the notebook she'd tucked there before she fell asleep. She got up and dressed quickly, hurrying to help.

Spoon Man knocked on the door, jarring Jojo awake. “I come to bid you good-bye, Mills family,” he said. “Much obliged for your hospitality, your friendship, and your food.”

“And thank
you
for the stories, Mr. Oglethorpe. How about a cup of coffee and a biscuit for the road?” Stella's mother asked.

“Why, yes, M'am. That'd be right nice,” Spoon
Man replied, easing himself into a chair.

As she poured his coffee, Mama asked, “You're gonna stop by church services before you get on the road, aren't you?”

Stella smirked. Despite the late night, she knew that her mother would be extremely upset if
any
of them even thought about missing church this morning.

“Well, now that you mention it, I suppose I will do exactly that, Miz Mills. Nothin' better than a good sermon to send a man safely on his journey.” As her mother went to get the bread, he winked at Stella. “I shoulda left before dawn!” he whispered.

Though the church was almost within walking distance, Papa always hitched Rudie, their mule, to the wagon for the trip to New Hope Church. It had been built some fifty years back, hidden in the woods, right near the river just in case somebody needed baptizing. About three-quarters of the colored families went to New Hope. The rest went to the Galilee Mountain Church, on the other side of town.

Stella's father helped her mother climb onto the seat up front, and Stella smiled. She loved it when her father was gallant like that.

Jojo sat in the back with Stella, busying himself with a bag of marbles, sorting them by color and importance.

“I will not see one single marble during the service, is that clear?” Mama warned without even turning around.

“Yes'm,” Jojo said, putting the sack into a pocket.

Stella felt especially dressed up this morning wearing the new glass bracelet. She turned her wrist in the air, the purple jewels glinting in the sunlight.

Even from a distance, Stella thought their church was the prettiest in the county. It had been freshly whitewashed that summer, and flowers circled the wooden cross that stood in the front. The cross was mighty unusual—it was crooked. It had been struck by lightning a few years back, and the pastor had said it was a sign from heaven, like a blessing, and that they ought to leave it just like that. And so they did.

Stella waved as they passed her friends. Most of the families were either walking or riding in wagons. Only one had a car—Mrs. Odom and Claudia. But Mrs. Odom rarely drove it, not even to church. She kept it in her barn, covered with blankets.

The Spencer family were walkers. The line of them stretched down the road for what seemed like a mile as all fifteen ambled toward the church. Mrs. Spencer carried Hetty, the youngest. Hannah, the oldest, who was eighteen, held the hands of the three-year-old twins Horace and Harold. The rest, in stiff-starched dresses and trousers, marched behind. They filled up two entire pews. The Mills family usually sat directly behind the Spencers.

The thing Stella liked best about church was that it was not quite perfect. There was, of course, the cross out front. But also, the piano was always just a little off-key. The ladies in the choir weren't always in tune. The building was too hot in the summer and too cold in the winter. The floorboards sagged, and the wooden pews had been rubbed smooth by all the bodies that had slid across them over the years. The pastor usually preached too long, and the hallelujahs sometimes got too loud.
Well, amen anyhow,
Stella thought.

She spied Spoon Man at the far end of the very back pew and smiled to herself, pretty sure that he would be gone before the first song was over.

After the songs and the prayers, Pastor Patton
finally went to the pulpit to preach. His long white robe swirled around him, and the morning sun shone through the front window, so he almost appeared to glow. Stella giggled and whispered to Jojo, “He looks like he just floated down from heaven or something.”

Jojo laughed. “I saw him eat last night. That man can throw down some food—angels don't burp like that!”

Their mother shushed them with a finger to her lips, her eyes never leaving the preacher, who was talking about Moses and the Hebrew slaves. Stella had heard sermons about Moses so many times before that she thought
she
could give a Moses sermon. She slouched down in the pew and fiddled with the beads on her bracelet.

Pastor Patton rattled on. “You know, church, we've been using the story of Moses since before slavery times to talk about freedom for our people. And yes, we are no longer slaves. But are we really free? How many of us still owe money to the owner of the general store? How many of us still sharecroppin'? How many of us are
truly
our own men?”