Dear Hank Williams (13 page)

I guess it will come as no surprise to you that I won't be singing at the Rippling Creek May Festival. Can't see the point in it now. When a person's heart is breaking, the idea of getting onstage and singing seems like a lousy idea. I hope you don't take that personal, Mr. Williams. I guess that's how we're different. I can't sing because my heart is breaking, and you sing because yours is.

Waiting for Lovie with a big hole in my heart,

Tate P.

PS—Mr. Williams, if you do happen to see a leopard-colored Louisiana Catahoula dog with icy-blue eyes around Shreveport, please let me know. She's awful shy, but she knows her name. So all you'd have to do is call out “Lovie” in a sugar voice (the same tone you use when you sing “My Sweet Love Ain't Around”), and I'm sure she'd come to you.

 

April 27, 1949

Dear Mr. Williams,

T
HERE IS AN EMPTY CORNER
in my room that rips me to pieces whenever I look at it. I guess you know what that means. Lovie still hasn't returned. Aunt Patty Cake wrote Momma about it, and Momma wrote me a letter. I'll share it with you. It said:

D
EAR
T
ATE,

You're in my prayers and thoughts right now. We both know what it's like to lose someone special to us. And now you're having to go through it again with Lovie. I can't promise that Lovie will show up. I wish I could. I will say this, though. After Jolly told me about Lovie, I knew you gave her a better home than her last. That should make you feel proud. Lovie must have her reasons if she hasn't come back. Please don't give up hope, but don't give up getting on with things. It's hard to lose our loved ones, but they would want us to go on. You should reconsider singing at the May Festival. It will do you good to focus on something.

L
OVE,

M
OMMA

Mr. Williams, I know this sounds terrible, but that letter made me mad (and I'm still mad about it!). How could Momma compare Elroy Broussard and Big Pete leaving to Lovie's gone missing? I told Aunt Patty Cake how I wish she hadn't told Momma and how those two men don't have a thing in the world in common with a true-blue dog like Lovie.

Aunt Patty Cake said, “I don't think that's who your momma meant at all.”

Lonesome for Lovie,

Tate P.

 

April 30, 1949

Dear Mr. Williams,

A
S HARD AS THIS LETTER
will be for me to write, I know it's the best thing to do because I, Tate P. Ellerbee, am a loyal friend. When I tell it all, you might regret the day you ever heard my name.

Today has been a year long. You know how I've been in a slump, moping around because of Lovie taking off? She'd been gone nine days. I'd poured such loving into that dog, I couldn't for the life of me understand why she'd leave. We all looked for her—Uncle Jolly and Garnett drove the roads between here and Lecompte and then went the other direction, toward Glenmora, hoping to meet up with her or anyone who might have noticed a precious dog with icy-blue eyes and a tip of white on her tail.

Aunt Patty Cake seemed to take it almost as hard as me. Maybe she felt guilty because she'd seen Lovie go off, but she'd figured Lovie would come back like the other times. Aunt Patty Cake asked everyone in her territory if they'd seen Lovie. No one had. It's hard to find a dog that doesn't bark. Nobody seems to pay her any mind.

Today I was sitting on the porch licking my wounds about Lovie when I saw Mrs. Applebud come out of her house. If you guessed it was two o'clock in the afternoon, you're right. Mrs. Applebud cut the last of her purple azaleas, gathered them together in a bouquet, and put them in a mason jar. Then she began slowly crossing the street toward the cemetery.

I was so deep into my pity party, I almost didn't hear Rudy's convertible. It was too early for the paper, but I knew the sound of his car. His muffler grew louder. I took off after Mrs. Applebud.

My legs moved so fast they seemed to turn into wings. I felt like I was flying. My head pounded, remembering the times Rudy zoomed by our house. Frog would race after him, leaning over the handlebars, pressing Big Pete's boots against the pedals. I remember Rudy's arm stretched high into a wave as he left Frog behind. Frog could never beat him. But today I would.

Rudy's car appeared around the bend just as I reached Mrs. Applebud. His brakes screeched. I grabbed Mrs. Applebud's arm. She seemed startled, but her tiny feet met my pace as we rushed together to the other side.

I fell first. Mrs. Applebud collapsed on top of me. Rudy jumped out and rushed over to us. He pulled Mrs. Applebud to her feet with a jolt. Some of her hair fell from her tight bun as she wobbled, trying to catch her balance.

“Sorry, Mrs. Applebud. I wasn't paying no mind.” Sweat poured down Rudy's pimply face.

I hopped up and pushed against his chest. “You should have been paying a mind!” I shoved him, again. “You could have killed her!”

Rudy nodded nervously and slowly backed away.

“I'm sorry.” He looked over his shoulder, staring toward the road.

“Going fast ain't that important,” I told him. “Being the fastest doesn't mean a thing!”

Rudy asked Mrs. Applebud, “Can I help you home?”

Mrs. Applebud shook her head and tucked some of her hair behind her ear. “No, son, but slow down. Don't need to rush through life.”

“Yes, ma'am.” Rudy wiped his face with his sleeve. “I'm awful sorry.” He kept muttering “sorry, sorry” as he eased backward toward his car. Then he got inside and started the engine. He took off so slowly, I do believe Mrs. Applebud would have beat his car in a race.

We watched him in silence for what seemed like forever until he left our sight. Aunt Patty Cake's car appeared from around the bend. She was returning from her deliveries. She started down our driveway, then suddenly stopped the car.

Mrs. Applebud fixed her eyes on me. With a small smile, she held out her hand. “It's just a piece away,” she said softly.

Directly beyond her was the Canton Cemetery entrance. Headstones dotted the land. I froze, not wanting to step any closer. And that's when I caught a glimpse of brown. It looked like a dog. My dog.

I gasped. Words couldn't reach my tongue.

The dog moved quickly and disappeared into the woods that lined the edge of the cemetery.

My first impulse was to run toward her, but instead I surprised myself and took hold of Mrs. Applebud's hand. I let her guide me through the entrance and toward a grave under a big sycamore tree. Birds flew by, and a squirrel darted in front of us, then climbed onto a low branch. Canton Cemetery was not the scary place I'd imagined. It was peaceful and pretty. I stared at the place where I thought I'd seen Lovie. Now I was only a few yards away from the spot where she'd entered the woods.

Mrs. Applebud inched over and placed the few surviving azaleas atop the grave. Then she picked up a dried bouquet and stepped aside. Her gaze met mine.

I thought about taking off into the woods to see if that dog was definitely Lovie, but something was holding me there. Something so strong, I couldn't explain it for a million years. I just knew deep in my gut if I stepped away, it would have been wrong. My heart felt like it was trying to leave my chest. I didn't want to look, because then I'd know without a doubt it had happened.

Mrs. Applebud was waiting. I took a deep breath and read the words on the gravestone:
JAMES IRWIN ELLERBEE (FROG).

It had happened
.

Remember, Mr. Williams, how I told you I don't cry? Well, I wasn't lying about that. But right there in front of Frog's grave, seeing it for the first time, a lump gathered in my throat. It didn't let loose until I whispered, “Oh, Frog.”

For a long moment, a hush seemed to fall over us. Then I heard grass swishing. Someone was moving in our direction. My vision was blurry, but I could make out a tall figure with dark hair—Aunt Patty Cake.

When she reached me, she slipped her arm around my shoulders, offering her apron.

I buried my face in it.

“Let it all out, honey,” she said.

And as I began to remember it all, I did just what my aunt Patty Cake told me to do.

Mr. Williams, it happened last June, two months before you arrived in Shreveport and sang on the
Louisiana Hayride
. Momma had been gone for eight long months. Frog and me were riding our bicycles all around Rippling Creek. That day, when people waved at us, we ignored them. We were on a mission. We were going to find us some Reds.

We'd been riding all morning without a sign, and when we reached the fork I pointed to Sampson Road, telling Frog, “You go that way and I'll go down Fish Hatchery Road. Then let's meet back at headquarters.” Headquarters was the code name for our magnolia tree.

Frog took off fast. I watched him because I knew he'd lean back and raise his front wheel like he always did when I gave him an assignment. Then he pedaled like the wind. Those Reds couldn't outrace Frog.

I made my way down Fish Hatchery Road. I was busy scanning right and left, looking for a Red, when I heard the train. I remember thinking everything sure runs like clockwork in Rippling Creek.

Then I remembered the railroad crossing at Sampson Road. No one lived near that crossing, and Sampson Road wasn't traveled much. Frog would be crossing that track just about that time. Frog thought he could outrun everyone and everything, even the Missouri Pacific. I stared down at my watch. One o'clock. I turned my bike around so sharp that I fell off and skinned my knees. I quickly picked the bike up and hopped back on. I pedaled as fast and hard as I could. I could hear the train approaching—
chugga chugga choo, chugga chugga choo
. The whistle blew. When I reached the fork and turned onto Sampson Road, I saw a ribbon of steam rising above the longleaf pines.

The whistle blew and blew. I pedaled and pedaled. And when the train screeched to a slow halt, I slammed my brakes. I fell again, but this time I stayed down because somehow I knew I was too late.

The sheriff said the best he could gather was Frog had gotten his bicycle wheel jammed between the railroad cross-ties. He was probably trying to get it loose when the train approached. The sheriff said, “It was over before Frog knew what happened.”

But I figured out another part that no one had to tell me. You see, Mr. Williams, Big Pete's boots were to the side of the tracks. I knew how Frog loved those boots. He must have slipped them off and thrown them to the side before he tried to get the bicycle free from the track. I guess Frog thought he was saving our daddy by saving those boots.

Now you know it all, Mr. Williams. You probably believe I'm a bold-faced liar who has led you down a road of deception with my stories about Frog. But until today in Canton Cemetery, Frog was never dead to me. I didn't go to the funeral. No matter how much Aunt Patty Cake tried to shame me into it, saying, “Your momma can't go, and she'd want you to,” I wouldn't listen. And when I heard the screen door slam shut as she and Uncle Jolly left the house for the service, I saw Frog in the corner of my room. We had a good laugh about everyone thinking he was dead.

So when I told you those stories about Frog listening to me sing and pestering me, I really did believe he was here. I guess because I wanted so badly for him to be.

Here's the strangest thing about the longest day ever. Me who never cries was out there in the cemetery, breaking down. I sobbed so loud, it felt like the ground trembled. Just as I was blowing my nose into Aunt Patty Cake's apron I felt something licking the back of my knee. I looked down. Lovie was working on a scrape that I wasn't aware I had until that moment. I guess it happened when I fell with Mrs. Applebud.

But just as I went to pet my dog, Lovie took off toward the woods. I wanted to holler, “Don't leave me now when I need you most.”

“I think Lovie wants to show us something,” Aunt Patty Cake said. “Maybe she finally caught a squirrel.”

The three of us left Frog's grave site and headed to the spot where Lovie entered the woods. We didn't have to go far. She was just a few feet away, stretched out so all her babies could nurse, all three of them gray and plump.

“Puppies!” I restrained myself from grabbing up one. They didn't look anything like Lovie. But they were the spitting image of Mr. Rockfire's dog, Corky.

Aunt Patty Cake grinned. “Well, my word! It never occurred to me.”

“She didn't seem big enough,” said Mrs. Applebud.

The way Lovie licked one of her younguns, I could tell she was a good momma. “Maybe Uncle Jolly will have a squirrel dog after all.”

“One of them is bound to be like their daddy,” Aunt Patty Cake said.

Looking at those puppies nurse Lovie made me realize she hadn't run away from me. She was just trying to make sure her babies would be safe. In a way, finding Lovie helped me to finally find the truth about Frog.

At home, Aunt Patty Cake tucked her wedding quilt inside an empty Delightfully Devine Beauty Products box, and we moved Lovie and her babies to the back porch. As hard as it was, I kept my distance from them. I didn't want Lovie to run away again.

Mr. Williams, how do I explain a day like today? A day filled with lots of sad and happy, too.

Tonight I asked Aunt Patty Cake that very question. She said, “Baby, that's called life.”

Hoping you'll understand,

Tate P.

 

May 8, 1949

Dear Mr. Williams,

T
HE MORNING AFTER
I saw Frog's grave for the first time, I lay in bed, studying the ceiling, feeling like I could float up to it. Everything that had felt jumbled in my head now seemed so clear. I knew I had to write the judge about Momma. I wanted to write that letter. A moment later I was sitting on the edge of my bed with a pen and tablet. I told the judge Miss Jordie June Ellerbee was my momma and I needed her something fierce at home. I explained how I was proud that Momma had been a Goree Girl but that she had a bigger plan to share her gift with the world. She was missing out on important things like me singing at the Rippling Creek May Festival Talent Contest and I could have used some pointers.