Prologue
The sky was a pale blue background with a bright mix of green leaves shimmering amongst tree branches whirling in a kaleidoscope of verdant hues over her head. She breathed in the sweet smell of fresh-mown grass in the dazzling light of the late afternoon spring day. She relished the breathless feeling of inhaling deeply, relaxing and losing herself in the whirling sensation of the merry-go-round when you lay back on the decking, reflecting on the world as it goes by around you. But, too, she knew if she did it for too long, she’d get that queasy feeling in her stomach and potentially lose everything she’d eaten that day. So she quickly sat up, got to her feet and climbed off the machinery, stumbling slightly to right herself to the equilibrium of the steady world, before collapsing on a nearby bench.
This was truly fun: basking in the joy of still technically being a child, not quite a teenager. Moments like this would be harder and harder to steal as she grew older. Beaumont had such a nice playground in the little squareblock park kitty-corner from her grandmother’s house with its white picket fence. She loved coming here when her family was visiting. But it was far more fun when there were other kids in the small-town park. And her “playmate” seemed like a nice girl, although she was a few years younger.
“Etta, the tire swing is free now! Do you wanna come and swing with me?” The younger girl in the park called out to her.
“Sure. I’m coming.” She ran quickly over to the 4-foot wide tire suspended by 4 lengths of chains, which hung from an overhead pully.
“My uncle made this tire-swing for the park. I think it’s the best thing here.” Peggy, her friend for the afternoon, tucked her feet up inside the rim of the tire and kicked off to start the tire spinning. Oh, no, not spinning again so soon. Maybe this wasn’t the best idea.
“It’s a pretty nice tire swing, Peggy, but I think I might have had too much spinning for a while. Can we maybe try something that doesn’t go around? Wanna play in the sand awhile?”
“Sure. That’s fine. You’re not gonna puke, are you? You okay?” They both slowed the tire from revolving.
“I’m okay. Just need to get off this for a bit. Maybe later?”
Yeah, that’s okay. I can come back tomorrow too. I’m staying with my aunt and uncle all week. Are you going to be at your grandma’s for a while? It’d be fun to play with you.” The girls stepped over to the nearby sandbox.
“Nope. We’re headed back to Minnesota after dinner. My dad has to work tomorrow and it’s a long drive.”
“Oh, I know what you mean. We come here all the time to see my grandma too. But she lives on a farm where there’s nothing to do. I like it when I stay at my uncle’s in town where there’s at least a playground in the park.” Hmm, this girl certainly was a chatter-box.
Etta nodded, totally understanding. Seemingly out of nowhere Peggy asked, “Hey, wanna be pen pals, Etta? My mom is your grandma’s cousin. I’m sure she has your address. We can write to each other. Wouldn’t it be fun to get a letter in the mail that comes to you and not some dumb old bill?”
Etta laughed heartily. “Yeah, that would be a lot of fun. I’m in if you are.” The two girls, one age nine and one age twelve, sat quietly in the sand, making castles and tearing them down again in a kind of building war. When they grew tired of that game, they imagined sticks as Hollywood actresses walking down elaborate staircases in dazzling ball gowns and similar childhood fantasies for almost an hour.
Peggy looked up from the sandbox to peer across the park. “Uh-oh. I see my mom and your grandma coming out of the house and my mom’s waving. You know what that means.”
“Yeah, time to break up the fun.” Etta let out a deep-sigh, dreading the 4-hours of monotonous boredom on the ride from Northern Iowa until she, sleepily, would walk up the sidewalk of their suburban Minneapolis home. “So much for more time to play, Peggy.” Etta had a heavy heart. “I wish you lived closer to me so we could hang out all the time. You’re a nice kid.”
“Yeah, me too. But we can be pen pals. You will write to me, if I write back, won’t you?”
“Yeah, I suppose so. I know I’m a little older than you, but its okay. I won’t use cursive so you can read it, okay?”
Genevieve, Etta’s grandmother, and Martha, Peggy’s mother, leisurely walked across the quiet, home-town street to the now almost dusky garden-like park to stand at the edge of the playground area. “It’s time for you to clean-up for dinner now, Etta, and get your things ready to head home.” Genevieve spoke in a peaceful, loving tone.
“We’ve got to get going, too, Peggy. It was nice of Etta to play with you, wasn’t it? Did you two girls get along okay and have fun?” Peggy’s mother tousled her daughter’s hair.
“Oh yeah, Mom. Etta is swell! We’re going to be pen pals! Is that okay?” The little girl was all smiles, clearly quite happy.
“Hey, that’s a good idea. You two girls can be life-long pals like that, just like Gen and I.” Martha leaned over and gave her cousin, Genevieve, a heartfelt, tender hug and kiss on her cheek. “I’ll write you next week with that recipe for Mildred’s microwave cinnamon rolls, Gen. You won’t believe how easy they are. We’ll talk again soon. Love you.” The little girl and her mother walked away from the other duo. Peggy skipped nonchalantly beside her mother. “I’ll write you,” she shouted back. They strolled to the opposite kitty-corner of the park and disappeared down the street.
Genevieve called out, “Goodbye. Drive careful.” She took Etta’s hand and patted it. “Looks like you two girls are going to be good friends for a long time, huh?”
“I suppose. She’s really nice and a lot of fun for a little girl. She seems really smart. I like her. And she lives in Minnesota. I never knew there were other relatives in Minnesota. Is her mom really your cousin? She’s so much younger than you.”
As Etta stepped up into the back porch of Gen’s house, her grandmother held the screen-door open. “I am quite a bit older than Martha. Our daddies were brothers in a big Irish family.” She took out a clean washcloth from a drawer, ran it under water and wrung it in the sink and handed it over to her granddaughter. “Clean off all that sand now. Martha’s my dearest, sweetest friend out of a big, big bundle of cousins, Etta. One day you’ll learn that friendship and family go together.” She caressed her granddaughter’s cheek with her palm. “I hope you two girls do become pen pals. I’m sure she’d be a good one. Now run along and get things ready for your trip home.”
* * *
Etta had been home for six days before the first letter from Peggy arrived in the mail. She stopped at the end of the driveway to grab the mail from the mailbox when her neighbor dropped her off after swimming lessons. It was a peculiar feeling, but it was, indeed, exciting to flip through the envelopes to find one in a young girls’ printed letters with her name as the addressee. Peggy had spoken of the thrill of getting mail and darn it, if it wasn’t true. Now she couldn’t wait to sit down to read what her new-found pen pal had sent.
She dropped the rest of the mail on the dining room table, walked into the kitchen of the middle-class rambler, opened the fridge and grabbed a Fresca. She popped the top and drank deeply. Swimming always made her thirsty. She took her pop can and letter and ran up the stairs to her bedroom.
Etta’s room was decorated much like any other pre-teen girl her age: the walls a dusky shade of pink, a poster of David Cassidy adorning the back of her door, a poster of wild horses running along a sunset-colored sky somewhere in the western U.S. above her dresser and above her bed, a trio of young women, sexily holding guns and staring a sultry glare at the camera, as the rough-and-tumble Charlie’s Angels were likely to do. Strong, sexy and independent. That’s how Etta wanted to be someday. Well, maybe not so much of the sex part. Not yet anyway. Maybe when she got older that would be something she’d care about, but not so much right now.
Etta picked up her favorite 8-track and popped it into her portable 8-track player and listened to the mellow sounds of Linda Ronstadt singing “Desperado”. The silky, smooth voice instantly relaxed her. Sometimes that’s what she felt like. A loner, riding through the world alone. Not that her father didn’t care about her. She knew he loved her, but she usually kept people, even those closest to her, at arms’ length. Her mother’s death in a car accident almost two years earlier had a strong effect, still leaving her a bit shell-shocked. But, as in the song, it probably wouldn’t work to walk through the rest of her life lonesome forever. She wasn’t sure just why she felt some kind of kinship with this little girl, Peggy, but she did. And it wouldn’t hurt to write her letters once in a while. It might even be somewhat fun.
She hopped up on her wire-frame twin bed, crossed her legs, leaned back against her big, fluffy pillows and took her letter opener to the pretty envelope with a lily-of-the-valley design. The stationary was really nice anyway. The letter opened with:
Dear Etta,
This is my first letter to you as a pen pal. I asked my mom for some help on how to have a pen pal - you know, what to write about and stuff. She said because we’re pen pals, we really can write about anything we want and even share secrets and things. Nobody will read your letters except me when they come to my house and, if everybody in your house agrees, then nobody but you will read the letters you get from me.
I live on a farm in a big, old farmhouse. I have a room all to myself because I’m the only girl in my family. I have two big brothers. Someday, when I’m a little older, mom says she’ll decorate my room all “girly” for my birthday. We’ve lived in this house for almost 3 years, which is an all-time record for us. We’ve moved 8 times since I was born, so we don’t stay for very long before we have to move again. I guess we move so much because my dad has to get a job. I’m not really sure. The last time was because my brothers broke a window in the barn. We’re renters and that’s just not allowed. I don’t know what really happened. All I know was there was a lot of yelling and then we had to move.
My real name is Margaret. I don’t like the name Margaret much. It’s too long and sounds really stuffy. But nobody calls me that except my mom when she’s angry. Then she uses both my first and middle name and I know I’m in serious trouble. Haha!
So why did your mom choose Etta for your name? Is that your nickname too? What is it short for? What kind of things do you like? Are you into horses? My best friend, Lisa, is nuts about horses and during recess we play “horse” all the time. I get sick of it. I like horses too, but not nearly as much as the other girls. They need to get over it I think. Most horses on a real farm are just big and poopy and smelly.
I know you’re older than me, so maybe you have a boyfriend and stuff. You can write me back and tell me all about the boys in your class. My mom says as girls get older they start to like boys. My friend, Lisa, is always talking about boys. She’s just horse and boy-crazy! Ha-ha! Hmmm …. Maybe you’re boy crazy too, ‘cause you’re older. Don’t worry. You can tell me all about boys. I won’t mind.
Well, write me back and tell me what you think of being pen pals. I don’t have a lot of secrets. I just live on a farm and mainly do chores (I have chickens) and play piano all day, when I’m not going to school. What do you do living in the city? I’d love to live in a city and ride the bus to the library and stuff.
Okay. I gotta go do my chores. I’ll write you back when I get your letter. I hope you send one soon. If you don’t have time, I can wait for a while too.
SWAK
Peggy
The letter had a lip-shaped lipstick mark on the bottom, so apparently she really had sealed it with a kiss. How cute! She really is a cute, little kid. But for a little girl this was a pretty good letter. And Etta found herself smiling at so much of what Peggy had said, both in the park and in this letter. She was a straight-shooter, to borrow the cowboy analogy again. She called ‘em like she saw ‘em and that was a good thing in a friend. “Okay. I’ll write back,” Etta mumbled to herself.
* * *
Tommy stood at the top of the ten foot wall made of pressure-treated lumber and scraped the piles of mud off of the bottom of his shoe as he waited for his friends to make their way through the obstacle course. This was a beautiful day to be outside, even with the mud. He was truly enjoying the wilderness survival camp the scouts were doing for this week, even if they did have to drive to the lost land of Iowa to get there. It would help him make Eagle Scout, hopefully before he graduated. It is important to have goals and stick to them.
He looked down to see his buddy, Brian Donovan, struggle to make his way over the log abutment just past the water hole. “You can do it, Donovan! Give it some oomph!” Brian looked up at Tommy, breathing hard, his white Irish skin all pinked from the excursion of the course and flipped his buddy a single finger salute. Tommy chuckled and smiled. Then he looked back towards the start of the course, towards the bend that had been more mud than dirt and saw the guys from Edina mish-mashing their way through the muck. Yeah, they were seriously behind, but making up ground fast. “Come on guys, haul ass! We can beat them. I know we can!”
One by one the four scouts from Duluth made their way to the wall, Tommy reached his arm as far down as he could to help haul them each to the top. In this one barrier, Donovan excelled because he had such a long arm span. He didn’t even need Tommy’s help. Then Tom saw the “city kids” coming up fast. “I’ll stay to help them up too, I guess. At least we know we beat them.”
Donovan said, “Okay. It’s your funeral, you know that Randall guy hates you.” He slapped Tommy on the back as he jumped to the ground.
“Yeah, that’s just ‘cause I outskated him at the state tourney last year and got that game-winning goal. If he wants to make Eagle, he’ll get over it.” He shrugged his shoulders. The Edina guys started coming up to the wall, and one at a time, Tommy reached down to help them to the top, as he’d done for his friends. Then Owen Randall, shorter in stature, with well-defined pecs and an arrogant attitude came up to the wall as well. Tommy reached down his hand. “Come on. I’ll help you up,” he said, trying to seem nonchalant. Owen defiantly shook his head. “Aww, come on. I helped them,” tilting his head in the direction of Owen’s friends.
“That’s ‘cause they’re pansy-asses. I don’t need any help from you, ya monkey from the sticks!”
“Looks like you’re the pansy ass. Okay. Have it your way.” Tommy stood up, wiped his palms against each other. “My job here is done.” He jumped down off the wall and strolled over to catch up to his friends. From around the corner of the wall, Owen marched with a red face. “You arrogant fucking prick! Who the hell are you, you lowlife wanna-be, to call me a God-damned name!?” Owen ran and jumped on Tommy from behind, pulling his forearm against Tommy’s throat.
Tommy spun around quickly, knocking Owen off of his back, as Owen struggled to remain upright. The boys both from Duluth and Edina now were forming a circle around the two fighting boys, urging them on, each for their own schoolmate. Tommy leaned down, ran towards Owen and shoved his head into Owen’s mid-section, knocking the wind out of him, ending up laying on top of him. Fists from both boys started flying. Tommy took a jab to the right eye, then grabbed for Owen’s earlobe, dragging him by the appendage one or two feet to the center of the circle. Tommy then leaned down, using the difference in his height as leverage, to get his knee on top of Owen’s shoulder and shoved Owen’s face into a muddy hole in the ground. He put his palm on Owen’s head. “Next time pick on someone your own size and don’t punch like a girl.” With that comment, he gave Owen’s face an extra shove and wiggle, rose up and walked quickly away, solitary towards the campsite filled with tents of scouts from all over Minnesota.
Donovan rushed to catch up with his friend. “You’ll lose your magic de-coder ring for that.”
Tom shrugged. “I’ll walk ten more old ladies across the street to make it up. Get off my ass.”
“Listen, he’s a punk, for sure. But he’s a rich punk, so try to play nice, Gracie. Did you have to shove his face in the dirt?”
“Yes, I really did. And I’d do it again. All the money in the world won’t buy him the state title when we kick their asses this year. And who knows? Maybe I’ll get Mr. Hockey and make his brain bleed.” Tom chuckled. “God knows he’ll never make Eagle Scout. Come on, us country bumpkins need to find us a fiddle and chaw some tobacco.” Tommy grabbed Brian’s head in the crook of his elbow and gave him a noogie.