Stella by Starlight Page 15

  “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

  Two Small Puncture Wounds

  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!”

  Wipin
g 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?”

  Stella first poured the cold water on the wound, watching as the oozing blood turned pale pink. Mama’s eyes opened wide, registering shock, but Stella just kept rinsing the holes in her mother’s leg.

  “The next thing I’m gonna pour might hurt a little more,” she whispered, “but I got to clean it best I can.” Stella had no idea if she was doing the right thing or not. She was pulling from a gut instinct she didn’t know she had.

  She opened the bottle of whiskey, and as she sloshed most of it on her mother’s ankle, her mother cried out in pain. Stella simply said, “Sh-sh-sh. It’s gonna be all right.” Mama stilled.

  Stella held the pale-blue dress up to her face. Mama had made it for her when she was six. The cotton had been worn soft from dozens of wearings and washings. Without a second thought, Stella ripped it into wide strips, which she wrapped loosely round and round her mother’s leg. She secured the bandage with her father’s necktie, then bundled her mother in the blankets.

  Stella soaked a piece of the torn dress with the last of the water and placed it gently on her mother’s forehead.

  There was nothing else she could do. So she snuggled under the blanket, wrapped her body close to her mother’s, and held her tightly. It would be dark soon. Where was the doctor? Where was Papa?

  She began to pray.

  43

  White Patients Only

  “Oh God, Georgia!” her father exclaimed as he raced toward them at last. Jojo was not far behind, his face tight with worry. It was almost dusk.

  Stella scrambled to her feet. “Papa! Mama’s been bit. It’s really bad.” She looked around. “Where’s Dr. Hawkins?”

  “He ain’t here,” her father said, desperation in his voice. “He had to go out to Raleigh—medical conference. He’s not due back for three days.” Even as he spoke, he lifted his semiconscious wife into his arms, blankets and all, and strode back toward the house.

  Stella grabbed the water bucket and hurried after him.

  “Musta been a rattler,” her father declared, moving faster than Stella ever dreamed possible for someone carrying another full-grown person. “Canebrakes like to hide under wet wood in the fall.”

  “Mama wasn’t positive,” Stella told him, worry making her mouth dry. “I didn’t see it. But maybe it was a copperhead,” she added hopefully. “They’re not so poisonous, right?”

  “Still very, very dangerous,” her father replied as he bounded onto the porch. Rather than try to carry her to the loft, he gently laid his wife on Stella’s bed. Jojo ran to stoke the fire without being told.

  “I didn’t know what to do, Papa,” Stella said, feeling her calm disappear and frenzy setting in.

  “Girl, you done so good,” her father said as he checked Stella’s makeshift bandage. “I couldn’t have fixed her up better myself!”

  Stella hoped she’d done enough.

  “Water,” her mother whispered. “Water.”

  Jojo grabbed the bucket from Stella, ran to pump fresh water, and hustled it right back in. Stella carefully held a dipperful to her mother’s parched lips, again and again, until Mama fell asleep.

  “Jojo,” Papa called out. “Run tell Mrs. Bates and Mrs. Winston what happened. They’ll know more than us what to do about snakebite.”

  Once Jojo rushed off, Stella turned to her father. “What are we gonna do, Papa?”

  “I been thinking on exactly that. Your mother needs antivenom. Doc Hawkins is not gonna get back in time. I don’t want to risk taking the wagon to Raleigh—you gotta keep a snakebite real still. The bumps and thumps could kill her, I believe.” He stared at his work-worn hands. “I can build or fix anything with these hands,” he said, his voice breaking. “But I can’t fix this. Lord, I hate to say this, but we need Dr. Packard.”

  “Oh, Papa! There’s no way he will come . . . is there?”

  “Well, I doubt he would even answer the door if I knocked,” her father said. “But you, he might just possibly listen to you. He’s got a daughter about your age, don’t he?”

  Stella bit her lip, hard. “Yes, but he might be head of the Ku Klux Klan. Why would he help us?”

  Papa dug his fingers deep into his hair. “He’s got a wife he cares about. He’s got a child he surely loves. He’s gotta know what it feels like to be crazy with worry for them.” He placed his hands on Stella’s shoulders. “Will you go, child? Will you try? Your mama’s got maybe twenty, twenty-four hours.”

  Stella had never seen such desperation on her father’s face. “Papa, I’ll go. Don’t worry. I’ll go get Dr. Packard to come here and tend to Mama.”

  She headed up the road. That mile and a half to town never seemed so far away. She didn’t run. Nobody would listen to a sweaty girl, she figured. The town square, almost deserted this late, looked very different at night. Buildings cast long shadows, and familiar shops looked foreign. She gazed up at the moon, which hung like a fingernail in the night sky. Light against dark. A sliver. A sliver of hope?

  She did pick up speed as she passed the bench near the general store, even if no one was in it.

  Dr. Packard’s office, just around the corner, stood between the undertaker’s office and the bank. Stella smacked her forehead. What if he’s gone for the day? She hadn’t considered that most shops closed up around four o’clock. She wondered if she dared go to his house. But then she saw with relief a light in the front window. An older white woman Stella didn’t recognize, walking heavily on a cane, was just leaving the building.

  “Thank you, doctor,” she was saying. “I’m feelin’ better already!”

  Stella hurried to the door before it could close. “Good evenin’, M’am,” she said to the woman as she passed her.

  “Humph,” was all Stella heard in reply as the woman hobbled off.

  Stella looked down and tried to smooth her wrinkled dress, suddenly regretting that she had not taken the time to change her clothes. She smelled of leaves and dirt and. . . she sniffed . . . and whiskey!

  She had no choice. Just as Dr. Packard was closing the door, Stella pressed her hand up against it. “Uh, excuse me, sir,” she began.

  “What you want, gal?” the doctor said.

  Stella hesitated. The doctor’s eyes were such an odd color green—cold like fish scales. He was the only person she’d ever encountered with eyes just that color. She remembered those eyes peering from behind that hood on the day of the Spencer fire. She remembered those ey
es from that afternoon so long ago when she’d been only five.

  Stella blinked fast and shook her head. Then she blurted out, “My mother has been bitten by a rattlesnake! Copperhead, we think. . . .”

  “So?”

  “Please, sir, she needs a doctor. She needs antivenom. And she needs it fast.”

  “Y’all got a colored doctor down there. Don’t be bringin’ all this botheration to me.”

  “Dr. Hawkins is in Raleigh, sir.”

  “So go to Raleigh.”

  Stella bit her lip to quell her rising panic. “Mama can’t be moved, sir. Papa says it would make the venom travel faster in her bloodstream.”

  “So now your pappy’s a doctor? You don’t need me.” He laughed.

  “Oh, yes, we surely do. I have a daddy and a little brother who love her very much. She’s my mother, sir.”

  He shrugged. “She ain’t my mama, so I don’t rightly care.”

  Stella thought quickly, then dared. “I know your daughter, sir. We’re the same age.”

  “Paulette don’t know nobody the likes of you!” he sneered.

  “But what if . . . what if it was Paulette or your wife that got snake-bit?” Stella asked, trying to reason with him.

  He leaned toward her. “They got better sense than to get bit by a snake. Only stupid people let snakes bite them.”

  “Please sir. Please. Her leg is swelling. It’s hard for her to breathe. She’s barely conscious. Won’t you be kind enough to come take a look at her? Please?” Stella implored.

  “No! Now leave my property before I call the sheriff!”

  Stella was stunned.

  “But she might die!” she pleaded, blinking back tears.

  “I told you—I don’t care.”

  “Please,” Stella whispered once more.

  “Read my sign!” Dr. Packard said. Then he slammed the door in Stella’s face.

  Tacked on his door was a wooden plaque, neatly painted in red block letters. It said WHITE PATIENTS ONLY.