Stella by Starlight (25 page)

A week later, just before Thanksgiving, Stella's classroom buzzed: A large box of books had just been donated to Riverside from Mountain View School. Tony, his bruises nearly healed, had insisted on helping carry the box to the center of the room. It was huge, and Stella could hardly imagine how many books were in there.

Excited, she picked out the first book, but she grew quiet as she saw how raggedy it was—the binding frayed, even missing pages. “I guess the Mountain View children got new books,” she murmured.

Jojo, whose cough had finally faded, leaned over and picked out another book from the pile. “Oh, brother,” he said with dismay, “this one's got scribbles all through it.”

“What should we do with it?” Carolyn asked Mrs. Grayson, who was cutting out paper feathers for a turkey art project.

She sighed. “Let's make a pile of all the ones that can't be used. We can at least use them for kindling.”

“Look here, though—a bunch of Hardy Boys books,” Tony exclaimed, pulling a stack out of the box. “There's even a couple I haven't read yet.”

“You see any Nancy Drews in there?” Stella asked, her excitement returning.

Tony dug a bit deeper. “Nope,” he said. “Most of what's in here is”—he paused and opened the book in his hand—“outdated textbooks. Publication date on this one, 1919. Gee.” He tossed it back in the box.

Stella's heart sank for a second time as she glanced out the window. The sky was like liquid steel. Heavy rain pelted against the tin roof of the school building. It was as if the weather was mimicking her mood.

A knock on the schoolhouse door broke up her dark thoughts—it was unusual for anyone to come in the middle of the day. Mrs. Grayson swung it open to find Mr. Stinson, the postal delivery man, standing
there, water dripping from the wide-brimmed hat and dark-gray rain slicker he wore.

“Mornin',” he said, touching his brim.

“Come in, come in, Mr. Stinson, and get dry by the stove for a minute.”

“That's mighty kind of you,” he replied. “Too bad I can't bring in old Clyde,” he joked, stepping in front of the potbellied stove. “He's not lovin' this weather one whit!”

Jojo, out of his seat once more, asked, “You like delivering the mail?”

Mr. Stinson placed a medium-size brown-paper package on the floor, peeled off his coat, and nodded. “Yep, I truly do, son. I'm probably the only person around here who knows just about everybody in Bumblebee.”

“My mama loves when you bring us the Sears catalog,” Claudia told him shyly. “Me too.”

“My bag gets pretty heavy on catalog days. And around Christmastime, I guess.”

“Don't you hate getting wet?” Randy asked.

“It comes with the job, son. But most days me and Clyde just take our time and enjoy whatever weather
we get.” He held his hands out toward the warmth.

Stella eyed the package. “We hardly ever get mail delivered to the school.”

“Must be a special occasion then,” Mr. Stinson replied with a wink. “Y'all wanna know something? I dropped a box full of shiny new textbooks to Mountain View School earlier this morning. But they didn't give me the royal warm-up treatment like you all. No sirree!” He picked the parcel back up and handed it to Mrs. Grayson.

“Thank you!” she said, fingering the twine circling it. “I have been waiting for this.”

The postman wiggled his fingers in front of the fire once more, then picked his coat back up. “Well, I suppose I best be on my way. I ain't got no hankering to interrupt any more learning!” With that, he put his hat on, opened the door, and disappeared into the rainy morning.

“Is . . . is it what I think it is?” Carolyn asked, hovering beside Mrs. Grayson.

“It's simply the mail. That is all. Now sit down, Carolyn. In fact, everyone back to your desks,” Mrs. Grayson said firmly.

Stella gnawed on her pencil as Mrs. Grayson put on her reading glasses, slid away the twine from the package, and snapped the wrapping open. One typed sheet of paper and several newspapers fell out; they looked like the
Carolina Times
. Stella watched the teacher read the letter, then pick up one of the papers. Mrs. Grayson read each page with careful deliberation, even stopping to take notes on an article she seemed to like. She allowed a hint of a smile to show on her face as she turned to the last page of the paper. Even though she knew she was not part of this competition, Stella switched to chewing on her fingernails. She glanced at Carolyn with a smile, with what she hoped was a look of encouragement.

Finally, finally, to Stella's immense relief, Mrs. Grayson looked up and took off her glasses. “Class, I have an announcement to make,” she called out. But she hadn't needed to. Every one of Stella's classmates had been watching their teacher just as closely as she had.

“So, do you have the contest results?” Tony asked the question that screamed in everyone's head.

Mrs. Grayson smiled broadly. “I have some good news—something that honors us all.”

“So what did they say?” Carolyn asked, raising her eyebrows at Stella.

“Here, I'll read you the letter,” Mrs. Grayson replied, the corners of her eyes crinkling with pleasure. “ ‘Dear Madam,' ” she began. “ ‘We would like to thank you for submitting the writings from your classroom. We feel that it is vitally important to support our Negro children in their educational endeavors. So, after reading selections from Negro schools all over North Carolina, we are pleased to announce that one of the winning contestants is from Riverside School!' ”

Mrs. Grayson paused. The only sound was the steady patter of rain on the tin roof.
Why am I nervous?
Stella thought.
My essay wasn't even good enough to send in.

Mrs. Grayson continued, “ ‘The winning piece for the entire state is awarded a cash prize of twenty-five dollars and publication of the story.' ”

Stella bit her pencil so hard it snapped right in half. Twenty-five dollars!
Oh, how Papa could have used that money!

“ ‘And first prize this year goes to”—the teacher paused again, beaming—“ ‘Helen Spencer for her
delightful story, “Bucky and the Beaver.”' ”

Helen shrieked with joy.

The class hooted with celebration.

Stella looked over at Carolyn, who shrugged, then they both stood up and led the class in extra cheers for Helen.

“Wait! There's more,” Mrs. Grayson said, shushing them. “ ‘Thank you for letting us share her story. Please tell her parents that they should be very proud of Helen. We are enclosing several copies of the
Carolina Times
to share with the families in the Bumblebee community. Again, congratulations.' ”

Stella blinked. She truly
was
glad that Helen would get the prize money—her family needed it for sure.

So why did she feel so low?

42

The rain had stopped by the time school let out, but the road was a muddy mess. The bigger boys tossed wet dirt balls at each other, while the younger ones made mud snakes and threw them at the girls.

Stella dodged a slithering hunk of sludge. “Quit, Jojo!” she cried. “You throw one more thing at me and I swear I'll tell Mama!” She had taken off her new shoes and was walking carefully along the side of the road.

“I was sorta hopin' you coulda won that contest,” Jojo said, falling into step with her. “I been wantin' a red-eye marble I seen at the general store.”

Stella gazed down at her muddy toes. “My paper wasn't even sent in, Jojo,” she reminded him. “Mrs. Grayson only submitted the best ones.”

“Didn't you tell me you wrote about the Klan?” Jojo smoothed a huge dirt ball in his mucky palms.

“Uh-huh.”

“You think maybe she didn't send your essay because it was too, too—I don't know—uh, dangerous?” he asked.

Stella stopped short and looked at her brother. “Gosh, I never even thought about that! You're pretty smart for a kid, you know.”

“I know.” Jojo made as if to fling the mud ball at his sister, but aimed for the third graders in front of him instead.

Stella looked up at the dark clouds still scudding across the sky. “More rain tonight,” she commented.

“Good. More mud!” Jojo replied.

Dusty came tearing down the road to meet them, his sleek black fur mud-spattered. When he stopped, he shook his whole body from head to tail. Stella and Jojo jumped out of the way just in time to avoid a muck shower.

“Hey, boy!” Stella cried happily. “You come to meet us?”

The dog barked as if he understood, then ran ahead of them, urgency in his yelping and the rapid wagging
of his tail, in the way he kept looking back to make sure they were following him.

“Dusty's acting peculiar,” Jojo said, glancing over at his sister. At that, Dusty barked again and broke into a trot. Stella and Jojo jogged behind him. Once home, Stella leaped onto the front porch and flung open the front door. “Mama? Papa?” No answer. The house was empty.

“This morning Papa said he was taking the mule and going apple pickin',” Jojo remembered.

“Yeah, me and Mama are gonna start canning this weekend,” Stella said.

“But where
is
Mama?” Jojo asked. The dog, his barking more insistent now, ran past the children and around to the back of the house.

“C'mon, Jojo,” Stella said, dropping her shoes and following the dog. “Something's not right.”

They chased after Dusty through the backyard, through the woods, and toward Kilkenny Pond. Bald cypress nodules and cattails hugged the water. Rocks and small sticks cut into Stella's feet as they ran.

Jojo spotted her before Stella did. “Mama!” he shrieked.

Their mother lay curled on the rain-soaked ground, not far from the jumble of dead willow branches, a mess of vomit beside her. Several dark-brown honey mushrooms spilled from her herb-collecting basket. As Stella approached, something moved in the undergrowth. Earth-colored. Was that a snake?

Stella felt an eerie calm come over her. She rushed to her mother and squatted beside her. She saw what had happened immediately. There were two small puncture wounds on her mother's left ankle. They bled just a little.

Stella turned to Jojo, who had started to cry. Slowly, carefully, she told him, “Go get Dr. Hawkins and tell him Mama's got a snakebite. It's
bad
. Then go find Papa—fast. You know where the apple orchard is. Run!”

Wiping his nose on his sleeve, Jojo dashed off.

Stella turned back to her mother, who was blinking slowly. Her breathing was uneven, raspy.

“I'm here, Mama,” Stella said softly. “I'm gonna take care of you, you hear?”

Her mother's head moved imperceptibly. Then she licked her lips and murmured, “Rattler. Copperhead. Not for sure.”

Stella looked back to the house. There was no way she would be able to carry her mother that far. She leaned close to her mother's ear and whispered, “I'll be right back, Mama. Don't worry.”

With that she darted back to the house. She grabbed a couple of old towels, her father's Sunday necktie, a half-full bottle of whiskey that she knew her father kept hidden under his bed, a faded dress she'd outgrown, two blankets, and a pillow. Then she filled a bucket full of clean water, pumping that handle up and down so hard it was a wonder it didn't snap in half.

It took longer to get back, because the load was clumsy, the bucket was heavy, and she didn't want to spill. Her mother was lying just as Stella had left her, but she was trembling now. Her ankle was beginning to swell.

“Mama, I told you I'd be right back. I'm here now,” Stella crooned as she lifted her mother's head and placed the pillow under it. “Did you know it's almost Thanksgiving, Mama? You were lucky to find mushrooms today, but you know all the secret places where the best stuff hides, don't you? You forgot what you
told me about where snakes hide, I bet. I know I'm babbling, Mama, but I'm just tryin' to keep you awake till the doctor gets here, you hear?”