The Book of Bright Ideas Read online

  Aunt Verdella’s eyes lifted then, and she said, “Sorry, Jewel, honey. Button and I are doing our best, but that boy is a handful!” Aunt Verdella did that often, talking to Ma as though she was standing right next to her.

  “Did I tell you what he did when I dozed off watching TV last night?” Aunt Verdella asked. “He wrapped me up like a mummy in a good three, four skeins of yarn—my two new avocados, to boot! I woke up because I had to tinkle, and almost peed my pants trying to get my ankles free so I could get to the bathroom. My bladder isn’t what it used to be, you know. That boy had the yarn so tangled that Rudy had to get the scissors and cut me loose. Course, all that little stinker did was laugh.”

  “That’s what you get for telling him that bite on his leg this spring was a spider bite,” I teased. Aunt Verdella chuckled and lifted her palms as if to say, Well, what you gonna do about it now?

  “While they’re fishing, how about I give you a hand unpacking?” Aunt Verdella didn’t wait for me to answer. She just linked her arm with mine and headed me across the road.

  “My little Button,” she said, pulling me so close that our sides bumped. “All grown up and moving out of her childhood home … living right across the road from me.” She got quiet suddenly, and stared down at her feet as we headed up my drive. No doubt, because she was thinking of how my move meant Dad would be living alone, with no one to make sure he ate, and to keep him from feeling lonely—as if I had the power to do either.

  Aunt Verdella reminded me of a baby, the way her moods could go from sad or scared and circle back to happy again as quickly as a head turn. And that’s exactly what happened when we stepped inside Grandma Mae’s house.

  “You know,” she said, her whole body smiling, “after your grandma Mae passed, I couldn’t come in here without getting all tensed up, remembering her with that frown pickled on her face. But when I brought over Rudy’s tomato starter plants—I hope you don’t mind. I don’t have the window space at home—I just smiled, thinking of Freeda and Winnalee and the life they brought to this house. I was sorry, when after they left, your ma said she didn’t want any more renters in here. I always thought having a young family across the street again would be nice. But now you’ll be here.” She wrapped her arms around her fat middle and shimmied gently.

  Aunt Verdella followed me upstairs and took the shirts I’d flung on the bed, heading for the closet. “I’ll bet every piece of clothing you own is something you sewed!” she called, her voice so loud that I swear I could see the windows vibrating. “Your ma would be so proud of you, Button.”

  Would Ma be proud of me? I wore that question at the back of my head like a ponytail. It was there when I’d packed Dad’s lunches with store-bought bread instead of homemade because my crust always chewed like taffy (not that Ma was a good cook. She wasn’t. But I knew she wanted me to be), and the question was there on nights Aunt Verdella and I tucked Boohoo into bed with sand in his hair and streaks on his legs, because time had gotten away from us and we were too tired to wrestle him to the tub. Sometimes, like when my English teacher complimented me on my latest essay, or when someone said what a sweet girl I was, I knew Ma was smiling down on me with pride. But other times, I knew better.

  Like the night my friend Penny convinced me to lie to Dad that I was going to her house to help her paint her bedroom, and she told her mom the reverse. Instead we slipped off with a twenty-year-old guy Penny had the hots for, and his friend, even though both of us had a few weeks to go before we turned sixteen and neither of us was allowed to date until then. And certainly not guys that old.

  That night, Penny talked me into rolling the waistband of my skirt like hers, making them minis that barely covered our butts. I didn’t want to because of my skinny legs, with knees lumpy and big as cauliflowers, but she lifted a copy of her Teen Beat magazine to show me a picture of Twiggy, the model whose doe-eyed face and string-bean body was plastered everywhere. “She only weighs ninety-eight pounds,” Penny said. “Girls are starving themselves to get as skinny as her—be glad you don’t have to!” I could almost feel Ma’s eyes burning two holes into the top of my head as I cuddled in the backseat with Trevor, who was cuter than I had ever imagined one of my dates could be, and drank the bottle of Pabst he shoved into my hand. He thought I was just chilly when I asked to wear his sweatshirt, pulling the hood up over my head so that it drooped down over my eyes, before letting him run his hand up my shirt and stroke my breasts a couple of times before I pushed him away.

  No. I didn’t think Ma was all that proud of me.

  “How about this drawer for your socks?” Aunt Verdella asked.

  I looked up and nodded.

  “You tie your socks together. Now ain’t that interesting,” she said. “I always make balls. But then I guess your ma tied socks, too, didn’t she? Course, she would. Balls make the tops stretch out, and your ma had those skinny ankles. Isn’t it something how many things we learn from our mothers, though? I do all sorts of things like mine. Like cutting the ends off of bread when I bake it, and eating them while they’re still hot. Even if I make four loaves!” She giggled. “And the way I can’t throw nothing away. My ma was just like me. A real clutter-bug.”

  Aunt Verdella had always slipped little things about her parents into our conversations, but until Ma died, I never paid all that much attention to them. Now I looked at things differently. It did me good to see her remember times without tears, because although I didn’t cry every time Ma’s name came up anymore, I’d still feel that horrible ache pooling in my center.

  I smiled at Aunt Verdella as I picked up a box of my personal things, wanting to put them away myself. “I’m so glad your ma was good to you,” I said.

  Aunt Verdella pushed down the mound of socks and closed the drawer with her hip. “Oh, she treated me like a little princess. And Lord knows, it wasn’t because I was so cute she couldn’t take her eyes off of me, either! Though to her, I probably was.”

  Aunt Verdella noticed the leaning stack of sweaters I’d left on the window seat, and she hurried to grab them. “I’ll put these on the shelf in the closet. How about that? The dresser’s already full.” I told her that would be fine, then opened the box of mementos I had wedged between my feet. Winnalee’s Book of Bright Ideas was on top, alongside the empty urn Winnalee had left behind. I took the urn out of the box and set it on the floor, then picked up the book and sat down, smoothing my fingers over the embossed letters: Great Expectations by Charles Dickens.

  Aunt Verdella was still chattering about my sewing when she stepped out of the closet and spotted the urn. “Oh my,” she said as she crossed the room and picked it up. “I didn’t know you had this, Button.” She turned the urn in her hands, her eyes puckering with empathy. “I’ll never forget the sight of that sweet little thing pulling this out of their truck and telling us her dead ma was in it.”

  Aunt Verdella looked like she might cry, so I lifted the Book of Bright Ideas to show her.

  “Oh, I remember you two toting that book around! You girls were what, eight, nine years old?”

  “Nine.”

  Aunt Verdella sighed wistfully. “I remember the day you found it in the bottom of the tree the two of you used to play in. You were so touched that she’d left it behind for you.” Winnalee’s “bright ideas” were written in chubby, irregular letters, the i’s dotted with circles and sometimes hearts. Aunt Verdella gave one long awwwwww at the sight of them.

  Aunt Verdella sat down on the bed beside me, the urn cradled in her arms. “Now refresh me Button, ‘cause my memory only holds things about as long as my bladder. Where’d she get that book from? And the things she’d write … what exactly was that about, again?”

  So I reminded her of how Winnalee had swiped the book from a rich lawyer’s house where Freeda cleaned. How he had a whole collection of the classics in his library, all of them leather-bound prop books with blank pages.

  “Now why would he have books like that?”

 
“For looks, I guess.”

  Aunt Verdella shook her head. “He must have been a little goofy in the head,” she said.

  I started to explain the notion Winnalee had that launched the bright ideas, then decided to just read the first entry, because it said it all: “Bright Idea number one: If you don’t want to keep making the same mistakes over and over again like Freeda says big people do, then you should find a book with nothing inside it and write down the things you see and hear that you think might be the secrets to life, because nobody’s going to tell you shit. By the time you get to 100 you’re probably going to know everything there is to know about how to live good.”

  “Ohhhh, isn’t that precious,” Aunt Verdella said, her hand warm on my arm.

  My stomach suddenly got that hot sensation in it. The same one you feel when your eyes warm before you cry. “Aunt Verdella? Do you ever wonder why we think of the Malones so often, and still miss them? They were our friends over one summer. That’s all. Penny was my friend for six years before she moved, and though I missed her for a time, I hardly ever think of her anymore.”

  “Oh, Button. It’s not the length of time we knew someone that makes them so special. It’s what they brought to our lives.”

  Aunt Verdella rested her head against mine. “You know, when the picture on your TV screen starts rolling. Or when your bread’s coming out of the toaster with only one side brown, you admit the dang things are broken, and you either fix them, or you get a new one. But when your life is broken, you’ll let that misery roll by for years, and ignore the side of you that isn’t finished. Your uncle Rudy, who is, as you know, smart as a whip about most everything, says that’s just human nature. And I suppose it is. But still …”

  Aunt Verdella straightened up and stared across the room at nothing. “When Freeda and Winnalee pulled into town— Freeda with that fiery red hair and temper to match, and Winnalee, cute as a bug’s ear in that big mesh slip and ladies’ blouse, carrying this urn and that book—I brought them back to rent your grandma’s place because I saw something in them that was broken that I wanted to fix. I don’t know that I fixed even one thing in their lives, but what I do know, is that they fixed plenty in ours. Without even tryin’.”

  She made a soft hmmmm in the back of her throat. “I don’t like thinking about those times, back before Freeda and Winnalee came and changed our family for the better—we were so broken then—but I can’t help it sometimes. Your ma and dad’s marriage had gone sour so long ago, that I doubt they even tasted the bitterness anymore. And your ma, so judgmental and jealous, and cold to you and your dad. I told myself that’s just how she was made, because nothing ever seemed to change it. It broke my heart, though, the way she had you so scared of doin’ something wrong, that you couldn’t stop scratching yourself. Remember how you used to chew the insides of your cheeks until they bled?” I slid my tongue over to cover the jagged, tender skin in my mouth, as if she’d see the damage right through my cheek if I didn’t.

  “Auntie tried to help you loosen up—you were such a serious little thing. Like a little old lady in a child’s body. But I couldn’t do nothing to change that, any more than I could change Jewel’s behavior. All I could do was love you both. But Freeda? She knew what to do.”

  “Yes,” I said, remembering how, after Ma accused Freeda of having an affair with Dad, Freeda had flown into a rage and yelled at Ma for her jealousy, and for how she treated her family. Ma had cried so hard Freeda had to help her to a chair. That’s when it came out that she felt ugly and undeserving of Dad, and Freeda helped her understand that she was putting those feelings about herself onto me. “But after Freeda took Ma under her wing, helping her fix up, loosen up, and feel better about herself, Ma turned butterfly bright and wasn’t so hard on herself—or us—anymore.” Of course, she never became as vibrant or as much of a free spirit as Freeda—nobody probably could—but she started giving Dad back rubs and me hugs. And when Boohoo came along, she cuddled him just like Aunt Verdella did, melding his little curled body against her every time she held him.

  “Yep. Your ma was like a new person, after Freeda got done with her … and you got happier and more outgoing after Winnalee got done with you, too.”

  Aunt Verdella sighed. “That’s why I got my heart so set on buying Hannah Malone a final resting place, like Winnalee wanted her to have. So that sweet little girl could set down this urn, and we could show the Malones how much we appreciated them. Remember when you and me went to Hopested, Minnesota, to buy the plot and stone, and how shocked we were when the funeral director told us that Hannah Malone was still alive? Lord, I couldn’t hardly believe my ears! And then a few days later, after the funeral director told Hannah Malone that we’d come and why, there she was on our doorstep, wanting Winnalee back.”

  I flinched at the memory of Aunt Verdella and me learning—along with Winnalee—that Freeda was not Winnalee’s sister after all, but her mother, and that she’d returned to Hopested to take Winnalee, only after she’d learned that her uncle Dewey was back living with Hannah. Freeda didn’t want Dewey molesting Winnalee as he had her, and she was going to get her out of there even if she had to lie to Winnalee and tell her that their mom was dead, and put woodstove—fireplace, cigarette—whatever kind of ashes they were—in an urn for Winnalee to carry so she’d go willingly, or not. And that night, after the secrets came out, Freeda and Winnalee pulled out of town. Without saying goodbye.

  “I just wanted to do something nice for those two, you know?” Aunt Verdella repeated.

  I nodded.

  “We were so broken then,” she said with a sigh.

  I stared down at the Book of Bright Ideas. Then I asked in a whisper, “Do you know that we’re broken now?”

  Aunt Verdella put her arm around me and rested her head back against mine. Then she said, “Yes.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My love and appreciation to all of you who made my first year as a published novelist so endearing. To Lynn, Sylvia, Brenda, Sheilah, and Eric, who carted me to my readings, knowing I’d still be lost if they hadn’t. To my wild and crazy friends at the Brantwood Literary Society—Deon, Frances, Nadine, Sylvia, Lynn, Susie, Brenda, and Sariah—who remind me often of the value of old friends. Also, to my newfound friends at Curves, who so generously share their laughter and lives with me, and who never fail to ask me how my writing is coming along. And, of course, to the readers who wrote to tell me how much they loved Carry Me Home, and those who invited me into their book clubs, their homes, and their hearts.

  My thanks also to the talented writers in my life who continually root for my success, even as they strive for their own. To Jerry, Abe, Kelly, Darlene, Sachin, and most especially, to Vikas, my “bestest,” who has cheered me on every step of the way and repeatedly gives me reminders of my resoluteness, as well as the pleasure of reading some of the most beautiful writing imaginable. My thanks to each of you. May your writing dreams come true soon.

  My heartfelt gratitude, also, to those who helped make my work on this book so pleasurable. To my agent, Catherine Fowler, whose trust in me as a writer helps me better trust myself. To my editor, Shannon Jamieson Vazquez, whose patience and attention to detail have been invaluable, and to my publisher, Nita Taublib, as well as those at Bantam Dell who so aptly captured the spirit of this story in its design. And to Kerry, who eagerly shared his knowledge of nature with me whenever I asked, and who helped me proofread for errors.

  And of course, to dear Gerta; my MM; my littlest angel, Sophey; my children, Shannon, Natalie, and Neil; and to Vishal Kochhar, who didn’t have a thing to do with the writing of this novel, but who wanted to be mentioned so badly that I couldn’t refuse him!

  Thank you all for loving what I do.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR SANDRA KRING lives in the north woods of Wisconsin. She has run support groups and workshops for adult survivors of trauma. Her debut novel, Carry Me Home, was a Book Sense Notable pick and a 2005 Midwest Booksellers’ Choice Award nomin
ee. Visit her on the web at www.sandrakring.com.

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  AND DOUBLEDAY BOOK CLUB

  Praise for Sandra Kring’s debut novel

  CARRY ME HOME

  “Touching…surprisingly poignant…builds to an emotional crescendo…The book becomes so engrossing that it’s tough to see it end.”

  —Washington Post

  “Heartfelt…Strong characters, a clear community portrait and a memorable protagonist whose poignant fumblings cloak an innocent wisdom demonstrate Kring’s promise.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  “Sandra Kring weaves an intricate and heartwarming tale of family, love, and forgiveness in her sensational debut novel…. Kring’s passionate voice is reminiscent of Faulkner, Hemingway, and Steinbeck…. She will make you laugh, have you in tears, and take you back to the days of good friends, good times, millponds, and bonfires. This is a piece destined to become a classic and is a must-read for devotees of the historical fiction or the literary fiction genre.”

  —Midwest Book Review (Rating: five stars)

  “Sandra Kring writes with such passion and immediacy, spinning us back in time, making us feel the characters’ hope, desire, laughter, sorrow, and redemption. I read this novel straight through and never wanted it to end.”

  —Luanne Rice, New York Times bestselling author of

  Dance With Me

  “Simpleminded Earwig Gunderman will capture your heart and challenge your conscience…. Carry Me Home is a plainspoken, nostalgic account set in the 1940s, but the story of a brother’s love, and the healing powers of family and community in the aftermath of tragedy, is timeless.”