Chapter Three Virginia Lee #2
I loved our neighborhood. We lived in the second house on the left on Rackley Road, just down the street from the Rackley family.
You might think that since our dirt road was named after them, they’d be sitting pretty on the nicest plot of land.
Instead, it seemed they’d sold off the best parcels around them, keeping the mangiest, muddiest piece for themselves.
By the time we moved in, the Rackley clan were what people called hillbillies—rough as guts, with a lot of barking dogs but no front lawn.
Our land had its own small pond with a tiny island in the middle of it, and after my father built a narrow bridge linking it to the nearest stretch of shore, the island was my spot.
I spent hours there reading, drawing, and daydreaming about how my life might turn out.
One day, while I was lolling about, I spotted an alligator snapping turtle, as big as a truck tire, stick his head out of the water.
I’d never seen a turtle that large, so of course I wanted to catch it.
Mom said I should ask the Rackleys. “They’ll know what to do,” she said.
And they did. One of their boys—there were several, including one set of twins—put a hunk of meat on a hook tied to a string with a bell on it.
Two days later, when the bell started ringing, I watched in awe as the Rackleys pulled the bloody turtle out of the pond, its jaws snapping.
Later that night, there was a knock at our door—yet another Rackley boy.
He said his mom had made turtle soup if anyone wanted to taste it.
I thanked him, but declined. I’d already decided I wanted to be a veterinarian—ever since I’d heard that taking care of animals was a job some people got paid to do.
So I didn’t want to eat the turtle. I was excited just to see the turtle’s sharp beak and scaly shell up close.
We kids never lacked for adventure. We’d build makeshift bike ramps out of boards and cinderblocks that sent us flying, but we somehow managed not to get too hurt.
We prided ourselves on being able to handle whatever Loxahatchee dished out.
One time, after Dad installed an electric fence on the property, we took turns seeing who could grab it and hold on the longest. Another time Danny fell through a rotten roof that we were not supposed to be climbing on and broke his arm.
If you’d asked, we’d have told you we lived in heaven.
Whenever Mom took us to visit her sister’s kids in their North Palm Beach housing development, we couldn’t believe our cousins had to live in such a boring place.
“What do you guys do for fun?” I’d ask, trying not to reveal how sorry I felt for them.
My tomboy ways were about to be interrupted, though, by the realities of starting elementary school.
Maybe it was a holdover from her own upbringing, but Mom had very clear ideas about how she wanted her only daughter to appear to the outside world.
Suddenly I was forced to trade my jeans for frilly dresses that I hated almost as much as the brightly colored ribbons Mom insisted on tying into my hair each morning.
Still, I loved first grade. My favorite teacher was Mrs. McGirt, who recommended I check out Charlotte’s Web, about a girl named Fern who, like me, lived on a farm.
Like Fern, I was an early riser, always eager to get a jump on the day.
Like Fern, my family had dogs and goats and chickens—though no pigs like the adorable Wilbur.
I loved that book. On the nights Mom tucked me in, I had her read it to me.
On the nights when my parents were drunk and I put myself and Skydy to bed, I practiced reading it aloud, especially the end, when Charlotte tells Wilbur about the wonderful life he will lead—“this lovely world, these precious days.” I adored the idea that Wilbur was so dear to Farmer Zuckerman that the little pig would never, ever be harmed.
Around this time, Mom made clear that being a girl meant more than dresses and hair ribbons.
I had never balked at my chores with the animals—feeding them, cleaning their stalls, putting them in their pens at night.
I’d spent hours teaching our goat, Cordelius, how to walk on his hind legs.
But suddenly my mother said I had to help her take care of the people in our family too.
My new jobs included setting and clearing the table every evening, then helping with the dishes, and vacuuming every room in the house once a week.
Neither of my brothers had to take a turn, but when I asked Mom why, she said girls needed to learn things that boys didn’t.
“You’ll have a husband someday,” she said, “and you’ll need to do this for him.
” It’s funny to think about now, because it’s not as if my mother was a very good housekeeper.
The inside of our house often looked as if a tornado had just torn through.
But the message was clear: we were both female, and I was going to shoulder some of her load.
My family had its rituals. Every night we’d assemble around our coffee table for dinner: fish sticks, chicken tenders, anything that was on “special” at the local Pantry Pride.
The TV was always on—usually M*A*S*H, which I hated, or The Simpsons, which I loved.
Every morning I packed my lunch (and, eventually, Skydy’s) before school, even though no one showed me how.
I’d just smear some grape jelly on white bread and put it in a brown paper bag, no baggie.
By lunchtime my backpack gave off a musty smell, as if something were fermenting inside.
I envied the kids who brought lunch money for a hot meal.
But without even asking, I knew that wasn’t an option for me.
In our house, what little money there was seemed always to get spent on my dad’s whims: his latest pickup truck or construction project. Either that or beer.
When my dad decided he wanted something, though, he went out and got it.
When I was about six years old, I stepped off the school bus one day and encountered Dad standing in the road.
“I’ve got something to show you,” he said, and the grin on his face said it was something good.
He turned toward our house, with me right behind him, and when we got within sight of the barn, I spotted her: a beautiful black-and-white paint.
“Her name is Alice,” Dad said, nodding to the horse who hadn’t been there that morning. “She’s all yours.”
I was stunned. I approached her as Dad told me to: slowly, with my hand extended so she could nuzzle it. Looking in her big brown eyes, I saw intelligence. I couldn’t believe I had my very own horse.
From that point on, Alice and I were inseparable.
I could have changed her name, I guess, but I didn’t because it reminded me of Alice in Wonderland, a book I’d adored.
My Alice was gentle, patient, and easy to get a saddle on, though usually I rode her bareback.
Skydy was jealous: I had to reassure him that Alice would never take his place in my heart.
But the truth was that my little brother—then barely a toddler—couldn’t expand my world like Alice did.
Every day when the final school bell rang, I’d hurry to the bus, counting the minutes until it dropped me off.
I had a longer walk home now; the school bus had been rerouted after a pig farmer drowned in the collecting canal at the end of our dirt road—the fourth person in a year whose car had rolled into the canal’s swampy water.
The county school board didn’t want to risk a bus full of kids meeting the same fate.
So now, instead of delivering me right to the end of Rackley Road, the bus dropped me an eighth of a mile away.
I didn’t care. I would run all the way home, sling a halter around Alice’s neck, and off we’d go.
Alice wasn’t fast, and she wasn’t slow. She was perfect because she was mine.
I delighted in the way she smelled, especially after a ride, and the way she’d wrap her head around me to hold me close as I brushed her mane.
I couldn’t wait to do the jobs that kept her happy: mucking her stall, putting fly spray on her.
When I taught her to swim in our pond, we’d float and paddle together, just a girl and her horse, enjoying the same cool water.
When we headed for the woods, she never startled or bucked.
She was sensitive as well as smart. On her back, I felt taller.
Stronger. I knew that she understood me, and I her, without words.
Alice was my ally, my protector—like Charlotte-the-spider was for Wilbur-the-pig.
With her I felt completely safe. I didn’t yet know there were reasons to be afraid.