Read Precious Bones Online

Authors: Mika Ashley-Hollinger

Precious Bones

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Text copyright © 2012 by Mika Ashley-Hollinger
Jacket art copyright © 2012 by Blake Morrow

Delacorte Press is a registered trademark and the colophon is a trademark of Random House, Inc.

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Ashley-Hollinger, Mika.
Precious Bones / Mika Ashley-Hollinger. —1st ed.
p. cm.
Summary: In 1949 in the Florida Everglades, a ten-year-old girl called Bones, whose father is part Miccosukee Indian, tries to discover what really happened when he is accused of two murders and sent to jail.
eISBN: 978-0-307-97421-1

[1. Country life—Florida—Everglades—Fiction.
2. Fathers—Fiction. 3. Mikasuki Indians—Fiction. 4. Indians of North America—
Florida—Fiction. 5. Everglades (Fla.)—History—20th century—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.A8266Pr 2012

[Fic]—dc23
2011028581

Random House Children’s Books supports the First Amendment and celebrates the right to read.

v3.1_r1

This is dedicated to my mom,
who did not have the opportunity to write this story,
but without whose help I never would have been able to.
And to my dad,
for having the courage to walk on the wild side
.

Contents

The sweltering month of July was gradually melting into August. Baby alligators were busy pecking their way out of their eggs when the biggest storm of the summer of 1949 blew into our lives. I was standing in the middle of our living room floor, cool brown water swirling over my feet and reaching nearly to the tops of my skinny ten-year-old ankles. The morning sun was just peeking in through our picture window, painting shiny rainbows across the water’s dull surface.

My daddy, Nolay, paced slowly from one end of the room to the other. He was just as barefooted as me because there was no reason to be wearing shoes inside your house when it was full of water. Each small step sent ripples of coffee-colored water circling around the legs of what pieces of furniture we hadn’t stacked on top of each other. Nolay solemnly raised his arms in the air and declared, “We live in the womb of the world! It’s the womb of the world. Any fool can see it’s God’s womb of the world!”

Like a contented cat, Mama was curled up on the couch.
I don’t think she was really that contented, she just didn’t have any choice but to sit there. Her slender arms wrapped around her legs and hugged them close to her body. Her head rested on her knees; only her eyes moved back and forth as she watched my daddy’s every move.

Out of the corner of my eye I saw something dark and shiny slither along the side of the wall right behind the couch. I kept my mouth shut, because if there was one thing Mama didn’t like, especially inside her house, it was snakes.

I was not quite sure what a womb was, but if Nolay said we lived in one, then it must be true. My daddy was about the smartest man I ever did know. I hadn’t met very many men, but of the ones I had, he was about the smartest. He was a true man of vision.

He’d had the vision to nestle our house between a glorious Florida swamp and a long stretch of sandy scrub palmetto laced with majestic old pines. Although Mama often pointed out that his vision blurred when it came to the exact location. “If you had put this house a hundred yards closer to the county road we would have electricity. We would have a icebox and a sewing machine,” Mama would say.

Nolay would shake his shaggy black curls and reply, “Lori, Honey Girl, you know I don’t want to be any closer to that dang county road!”

Honey Girl was my daddy’s nickname for Mama because her blond hair dripped down her back and around her shoulders like golden honey.

“If I could, I would have put us on a float right out in the middle of the swamp. But don’t you fret, one day I’ll
buy my own durn electric poles and stick ’em in the ground myself.”

But Mama couldn’t deny that Nolay had had the vision to build our house on a strip of land at least a foot above water level. It only flooded when the heavy summer rains came. It really wasn’t that bad; sometimes the water just seeped in and covered our floor with a fine, shiny mist.

Our house also had a flat tar-paper roof because, as Nolay had explained, “No matter how big a storm comes through, this roof will stay put. You go puttin’ one of those pointed roofs on and sure as shootin’ the first hurricane will take it off. Same thing goes for puttin’ your house up on stilts.” Yes, sir, Nolay was a true man of vision.

At any rate, all the excitement had started the day before. Me and Mama had just returned from a Saturday trip to town and were inside the house putting away groceries when Nolay called us.

“Honey Girl, Bones, y’all come on out here and take a look at this.” He was standing in the yard looking east. That was where the Atlantic Ocean lived, and most of our storms came from that direction.

What I saw filled up the horizon. It looked like a massive black jellyfish. The cloud floated just above the ground and moved with fierce intent, heading directly toward us. The three of us stood like fence posts until Nolay said, “That’s a mighty big storm coming our way. Y’all get the animals inside the house.”

Me and Mama sprang to life, called the dogs, and looked for the cats. Half an hour later I made a final count: three
dogs, five cats, one raccoon, one pig, and one goat, everyone accounted for. As I ran out the door I yelled over my shoulder, “Mama, I’m goin’ out to help Nolay.”

Nolay had just closed the door to the chicken coop. Old Ikibob Rooster sensed something was up and already had his brood cornered in one end of the coop. By the time we headed for the house, that jellyfish cloud was nearly on top of us. It hungrily gobbled up the silver-blue day and turned it into gloomy darkness.

As it hovered above us, it looked as if God reached his long pointy-finger down from heaven and ripped a huge gash in the stomach of that jellyfish. Gray sheets of water fell furiously to the ground. Cannonballs of thunder crashed and rolled angrily over the swamps. Like gigantic knives, silver streaks of lightning sliced through the darkness and stabbed the earth.

Me and all the animals were wide-eyed and looking for something to crawl under. Except for the flashes of lightning and the soft flicker of our kerosene lamps, our house was as black as the inside of a cow. I had never been inside a cow, but I imagined this was how totally dark it would be.

Our summer storms usually dumped a ton of water in the swamps. Water was precious to swamps; they needed it to stay alive. Sometimes a thin layer of water would run through our house, but this storm was big, and it was angry. The swamp quickly filled and began to leak out over its shallow edges. The little sliver of land our house sat on was soaked up like a dirty dishrag. Swamp water, along with some of its inhabitants, seeped under doorways and through cracks and crannies.
Water came from every direction; it slid down the sides of our walls and dripped from the ceiling in endless streams.

Nolay began to bark out instructions. “Stack up them chairs, put a quilt on the table and get the cats up there, put the dogs in our bed, get the pig and goat into the washtub! Bones, do something with that dang crazy raccoon!”

When the three of us sat huddled together on the couch, Nolay murmured, “Don’t worry about nothing, it’s just a little water. It’s just a storm, a big storm, but it’s not a hurricane. The roof will stay on.”

It was too wet and too dark for us to make it to a bedroom, so we decided it was best to just stay put right there on the couch. Nestled between the two of them, I fell asleep with the assurance that Nolay knew about hurricanes. The one in 1935 had blown his family home clear down to the ground. That house sat not ten feet away from the very spot we were at right now. About the only thing left was a pile of bricks where the chimney had stood, the artesian well that we still got our water from, and a mammoth mango tree.

On occasion, when things would get out of hand, like they were right now, Mama would look over to Nolay and say, “Why did you build our house next to one that blew down in a storm? You could have put us on higher ground.”

But my daddy, with his vision and truthfulness, would reply, “Because this is where my home is and always will be. Don’t worry, Honey Girl, I guarantee this house ain’t gonna blow down.”

Nolay’s real name was Seminole, but no one ever called him that. His daddy, who was Miccosukee Indian, named him
in honor of their kindred tribe. Nolay lived up to the true meaning of his name, which was “runaway; wild one.”

All night long that storm pounded us with huge fists of water. At the break of dawn, as we waded through our living room, the first words out of Nolay’s mouth were “Well, am I right or am I right? I said the dang roof would stay on, and it did!”

Nolay was right about the roof staying on, and it wouldn’t be a concern any longer. Our real troubles would be coming all too soon.

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