A Life of Bright Ideas Read online

  But Winnalee came around, and when we took the gown to the cleaners in Porter, she looked peacock proud when she plunked the dress box on the counter and said, “This is my best friend here, and she’s a virgin, so you’d better get this dress white as snow. And hurry about it, too, because I’ve gotta update this butt-ass-ugly thing, and that’s gonna take some time.”

  Needless to say, Winnalee didn’t make the same comment about the need for a snow-white gown for Freeda, when she and Dad announced that they were getting married a year and a half later. In fact, she suggested a dress in the color of my cheeks when she made her comment to the dry cleaner. If I remember correctly, Freeda called her a “little shit,” and tossed a hair comb at her.

  Epilogue—1978

  Winnalee and I are going to meet at Aunt Verdella’s a half an hour earlier than usual. I pull into Dad’s yard on my way and honk to let Freeda know I’m here. I often pick her up on the way, because she says it does her good to start her day with Aunt Verdella’s ha-has.

  Wood smoke is curling from the chimney in Dad’s garage, telling me that he and Boohoo are inside, working on the 1934 Ford that Dad started restoring years ago, but never finished. I zip up my jacket and Boohoo’s dog, Knucklehop, tags me to the garage.

  Dad turns down the radio when I come in. He makes a bit of small talk, and I smile. Not over anything he says, but because when I look in his eyes, I see happiness there. And because he doesn’t turn away.

  Freeda barges into the garage. She’s in her forties now, and her hair sits just below her shoulders. Because, like she says, if she’s going to have hair down to her ass when she’s old, she’s got to get a good start now. She kisses on Dad like he’s Uncle Rudy and she’s Aunt Verdella, and reminds Boohoo to make his bed or there will be hell to pay. “Okay, gotta go,” she says.

  Freeda and I surround Boohoo. “Love sandwich!” I shout. Boohoo winces and says, “Come on, are you guys gonna still be doing that when I’m thirty?”

  Aunt Verdella is at the stove dropping bunny pancakes on the griddle when we get there, and the kitchen is toasty warm and swaddled in breakfast smells. Winnalee is lifting browned sausage links from the fry pan onto a paper-towel-lined plate.

  “I wonder how many of those things you’ve made over the years?” I say, as I prop my chin on Aunt Verdella’s shoulder and watch her drop in the raisin eyes. Her hair—a light reddish brown, because that’s what Freeda gave her—tickles my cheek. She laughs. “Oh Lord, I don’t know. Lots of them!

  “You two have time for coffee?” she asks, as she gives Freeda her morning hug. I glance up at the clock, decide we have time for a half a cup, and tell her I’ll get it.

  “Oh, you’ll never guess who Rudy and I ran into in Eagle River over the weekend,” she tells us. “Marls Bishop. Well, she’s not Marls Bishop anymore. She married a nice guy named Allen, and they’ve got three more little ones. She said her boy’s doing real good. Brody gave up custody so Allen could adopt him. Did you know that?”

  Aunt Verdella takes the platter of pancakes to the table and reaches for a sausage link. Before she gets it to her mouth, Freeda taps her hand. Aunt Verdella groans. “Look at that. I was gonna stuff that thing in my mouth without giving it an ounce of thought. I’m never gonna get below a hundred and eighty again if I keep pickin’ like this. I didn’t even know I was doin’ it.” Her eyes get huge then and she turns to me. “Speakin’ of not knowing what you’re doing, did Ada tell you what happened with Fanny on Monday?”

  “I haven’t seen Ada in a couple of days,” I tell her.

  “Well,” she says. “Ada had to call Fanny’s son in Indiana and tell him something has to be done with her, because she ain’t in her right mind.”

  “Was she ever?” Winnalee asks, and I stifle a giggle.

  Aunt Verdella continues, like she didn’t hear the comment. “Ada said Fanny came into The Corner Store, and she was shuffling in these tiny baby steps, like her feet were having trouble moving. Ada was afraid she’d go crashing into the bread rack, so she hurried around the counter to help steady her. And then she saw the problem. Fanny’s bloomers had slipped right down from under her dress, and were all tangled around her ankles!”

  “Maybe she finally got too warm,” I say. And Winnalee adds, “And decided to do the naked lady dance to cool off.” Freeda laughs. But then, because Aunt Verdella looks serious, I say, “She didn’t even notice?”

  “No. Not even when Ada told her. Ada didn’t have any choice then but to coax her to step out of them before she fell.”

  “I bet she was wearing long, wool underwear,” Winnalee says.

  Aunt Verdella’s eyes are round. “Well, that’s the strange part. I came in right after it happened, and there was Ada, holding this pair of these red, silky underpanties! I thought she was pulling my leg when she said they’d just dropped off of Fanny.”

  As Winnalee and I roar, Freeda shouts, “Fanny Tilman. Wool on the outside, silk underneath! Who would have guessed?”

  “Her son is coming up today and putting her in the nursing home. I’ll have to go see her tomorrow.”

  I smile, because that’s Aunt Verdella for you.

  Upstairs, there is a scurry of footsteps, followed by an “Ouch!”

  “Oh lordy, what are those kids up to now. Rudy?” Aunt Verdella calls. She turns to us. “You wouldn’t think he could still be sleeping with all that racket,” she says. Then she belts out, “Breakfast!”

  The same fluttery footsteps join the heavy, slow ones descending the stairs.

  “Lookie what came jumping on my bed to wake me up this morning,” Uncle Rudy says as he comes into the kitchen. “Two pretty little dancing fairies.”

  Winnalee and I squeal with delight. “Our old tu-tus!” we yell in unison, and we barrage Aunt Verdella with questions.

  “Well, I don’t really know how they ended up here. But you know me, I’m a pack rat. I found them last night and laid them out for the girls to find this morning. Oh, don’t those two look darling!”

  The girls giggle as Uncle Rudy lifts their hands and twirls them in circles, one at each side. Eight-year-old Evalee, pudgy-bellied and beautiful with her sugar-cookie skin, silky straight blond hair, and angelic face, holds out the pink mesh skirt delicately as she slowly spins, while Jewelee—a year and a half younger, but already nearly as tall—dances, her skinny free arm whipping in circles like she’s winding up to throw a lasso. She’s wearing an impish grin, and her long hair—lighter than mine, but every bit as curly as Tommy’s—bounces.

  Uncle Rudy lets go of their hands, and while Freeda asks them if they had fun at their pajama party with Aunt Verdella, Jewelee twirls in high-speed spins around the table, her arms above her head, her hands clasped. She bumps into Aunt Verdella’s belly and Aunt Verdella ha-has as she catches her with a hug, then warns her to be careful because Uncle Rudy’s got hot coffee.

  Evalee comes to me, her head half bowed, her mouth pouty. I grab her and she melts against me. “Auntie Button,” she says. “Jewelee pulled my hair when we were putting on our dancing dresses. All because she wanted to wear this one. But that one was littler, like her.”

  I can feel my lips pull tight like Ma’s used to, even if I don’t want them to, and I call Jewelee to me. “What did we tell you about being naughty?”

  Jewelee juts out her chin. Her neck is every bit as wrist-skinny as Boohoo’s used to be. “That if I don’t stop it, Aunt Freeda is gonna sit on me.”

  “Don’t think I won’t, either,” Freeda says, and Winnalee adds, “Ask your uncle Boohoo.”

  “I swear,” Aunt Verdella says, looking first at me, then at Winnalee. “If I didn’t know it was impossible, I’d say your daughters were switched at birth.” We’ve all said this a thousand times already.

  I pull a ponytail holder out of my purse and pat my lap. Jewelee hops up and caps her knobby knees with her hands. “Speaking of your uncle Boohoo,” I say, as I gather handfuls of her wild curls, “he’s stopping over here
with Grandpa today.” The girls cheer, and Aunt Verdella smiles.

  “Soon?” Evalee asks, and I tell her no. “He and Grandpa are going to help Uncle Tommy put up snow fence as soon as he gets back from the hardware store.”

  “Andy’s gonna help do snow fence, too,” Jewelee says, and Aunt Verdella marvels out loud over how attached my five-year-old son is to his daddy. I tell her how Andy had his little tool set strapped around him when I left home, even though I told him that the hardware store wouldn’t be opening for another two hours.

  “Hey,” Evalee says, her voice soft with thoughtfulness. “Where is Uncle Boohoo’s home, anyway?”

  “At Grandpa and Freeda’s,” Jewelee pipes up. “ ’Cause that’s where his toys are.” She’s talking about the model airplanes that hang from the ceiling with twine in my old room.

  “But he’s got a room at my house. And your house, too,” Evalee reminds her. “Even one upstairs here. And there’s old toys up there, too.”

  Aunt Verdella and I exchange smiles because even at fourteen, Boohoo remains tied to us all.

  The straps of Jewelee’s costume slip down her shoulders and while Aunt Verdella comments that she’ll have to take them both in, I lift the straps above Jewelee’s head and crisscross them. A strap catches on her perfect little ear, and she yelps. I give her a kiss, ask her if she apologized to Evalee, and she hops down and scoots onto the same chair as Evalee. Jewelee puts her arm around her and kisses her cheek. She says she’s sorry, and just like that, they’re best friends again.

  “I’m glad you don’t have to go to school today, Cupcake,” Jewelee says. “We can play in our house now.” Their “house” is Winnalee’s old, broken-down hippie van that’s parked alongside Grandma Mae’s house, where Winnalee and Bradley, her fiancé, live. Bradley—the guy she loves to kiss, who came after her five-year live-in relationship with Craig, a miscarriage, then a quick romance with a guy named Darrin, followed by one with a guy named Kevin—installed a little heater in the van for the girls, and now it’s filled with dress-up clothes, a pink plastic kitchen, Community Sale toys, and memories to last them a lifetime.

  Jewelee’s left arm still looks bleached where her cast was until last week, and I remind her to keep her feet on the ground today.

  “I didn’t climb on anything high the last day we played,” she said. “Did I, Cupcake?”

  Evalee shakes her head, her blue eyes bright with innocence. “She didn’t, Aunt Button. I saw her not do it.”

  I glance at the clock and tell Winnalee that we’d better get moving. Winnalee digs in her tote bag and pulls out our Book of Bright Ideas. I grab a pen, and we start for the door.

  “Sit. We’ll be right back,” Winnalee tells Freeda, who is trying to down her coffee quickly.

  It’s late fall, and leaves crackle under our shoes as we step off the back porch. Above us, the clouds are dropping a soft, cold rain.

  We are twenty-six years old, but we giggle like little girls as we unlatch the fence that encloses the side yard. Winnalee kicks a lopsided beach ball out of the way, and we sidestep a doll stroller. We slip off our shoes and put them in Boohoo’s old wagon. We leave our socks on, though, because it’s chilly. Winnalee climbs up first. The pen jabs my hip as I swing myself up.

  We shuffle our feet to wedge them in the platform between the three sturdy trunks, and the bare wood is cool and slippery against our socks. I look up once we’re situated. The leaves are mostly gone now, sitting in a scattered heap across the yard, but for a few that still cling, their color a blaze of orange.

  Winnalee strokes the leather-bound cover of our book with fingers that are already pinkening at the tips. I reach over and pull her hood up over her head, and her long loops waver in the breeze. “I can’t believe it’s been seventeen years since I started this book,” she says. I tell her that I can’t believe we’re just now going to write our one hundredth idea, and she reminds me that we needed that long to find it.

  Winnalee looks off in the distance, and I know she’s thinking of all the things that happened in those years, just as I am: the urn, the book, the lies, the love, the losses, and suddenly we’re not in our special tree anymore. We’re in that place called “bittersweet.” That place, I reasoned when I was a girl, that if you could find it on a map, would be the mountain that sits between happy and sad. The place where you can almost feel God’s hand on your head and just know, deep down inside, that there was a good reason for every single thing that happened.

  We’re quiet for a time, then Winnalee’s mouth slowly drops open. “Oh my God, Button. You and me are older than Mom was when we pulled into town the first time. Unreal.”

  I smile, not at the revelation, but because I never tire of hearing Winnalee call Freeda Mom (which she switched to after Evalee said Mama for the first time). I don’t think Freeda ever tires of it, either.

  We become thoughtful and silent again. Winnalee gently pats the cover of our book, and the diamond in her engagement ring glitters like fairy wings. We look at each other with smiles made soft from our thoughts, then Winnalee holds out the book.

  “You go first,” she says.

  As I write, a raindrop lands on the page to dot an i, and Winnalee puffs warm breath into her cupped hands. She reads my entry when I’m finished, and tilts her head and smiles.

  I hand her the pen, and slip my stiff hands into my pocket while I wait.

  Winnalee finishes, and hands me the book so I can read it. I laugh. We share a hug made awkward by our fear of falling, then Winnalee asks, “Where to?”

  I grin. “The Magic Tree!”

  Winnalee makes the same engine noises she used to make, and we jump down. We slip our shoes back on and race back to the house, as the rain changes to snow.

  Bright Idea #100:

  If you don’t want to keep making the same mistakes that you, or your parents already made, find a book with nothing inside it and write down the things you think might be clues to the secrets of life. It won’t keep you from making every mistake, and you won’t have all the answers by the time you reach 100, but it will keep you mindful and help you not make as many. And when you read it years later, you’ll see just how much you’ve grown. Past that, just love yourself, and others. And on bad days, when you feel like you’re stuck on a rock in the middle of nowhere, with no earth beneath you to sink your roots in, and no breeze to push your life forward, reach out to all those who ever gave you love, and believe with the faith of a child.

  And revisit your favorite childhood places (if only in your mind) and remember catching fireflies, and eating bunny pancakes, and playing dress-up. Then call your best friends together and have a pajama party, share stories, eat good food, paint your faces, and dance naked in the rain. And never, ever be afraid to believe in things that others say don’t exist.

  For the readers who would not let me rest until I went back to Dauber to find out what happened next

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  My heartfelt gratitude to the following people, each of whom played a vital role in helping to bring the Peterses and Malones back to life:

  To my new publisher, Jane von Mehren: Thank you for your enthusiasm. To my former editor, Kerri Buckley, who lovingly took this book near to its completion, then handed it with confidence into the apt hands of my current editor, Jennifer Smith, whose depth and skill nurtured it to fulfillment. To my agent, Catherine Fowler, who guides me with wisdom and love. My thanks to each of you for being champions of my work.

  To pilots Joe Sanfilippo and Cade Lowell Woodward, whose knowledge of the Piper PA-12 Super Cruiser allowed Tommy to take to the skies, and to seamstress Sandy Swenson, whose skilled hands and love for what she does became Evy’s. To Dr. Sytinderpal Judge, who patiently imparted his expertise on bee stings and allergic reactions, and who takes such good care of my allergy-prone daughter. To Patricia Martini, who gave me the inspiring photograph that ended up on Button’s nightstand, and to Kerry Kring who answered my endless questions on the natur
e of trees. To Dan Jendrzejewski, who clued me in to the fact that Spider-Man does not wear a cape (Boohoo didn’t listen, but I did). To my daughter Shannon Kring Buset, who offered valuable feedback on grown-up Button’s voice, and to my daughter Natalie Kring who edits my punctuation when I need it (and I need it often!). To my son, Neil, who drags me away from the computer for an occasional movie or basketball game when I need a break but don’t know it, and to my writing bud and friend, Christopher Pimental. Our endless conversations over the most minuscule aspects of writing provide an outlet for my love of the craft, and keep me—and those who come into contact with me—sane.

  To the wonderful people at “my office,” who not only hand-sell my books with zeal, but welcome my almost daily visits and my chatter, and who share their stories with me. I appreciate each one of you and am happy to call you my friends.

  And last, but not least, to the many booksellers, librarians, book clubs, and individuals who read my books and recommend them to others. None of this is possible without you.

  A LIFE OF BRIGHT IDEAS

  A NOVEL

  SANDRA KRING

  A Reader’s Guide

  A Conversation with Sandra Kring

  RANDOM HOUSE READER’S CIRCLE: What made you decide to write a follow-up to The Book of Bright Ideas?

  SANDRA KRING: At least 98 percent of the readers who wrote to tell me how much they loved The Book of Bright Ideas pleaded with me to write a sequel. They wanted to know if Button and Winnalee were ever reunited, if the changes in the Peters family lasted, where the Malones went, and if Freeda and Winnalee made their peace. Each time I replied, I had to explain that I only knew the story to the point where the book ended. In time, though, I started asking myself these same questions, and realized that I could not turn my back on these characters, nor on the readers who came to love them like family.