CHAPTER 17
Rebecca
A week later, Rebecca sat at her desk, skimming this week’s paper.
All around her the newsroom bustled with noise—Dinah schmoozing with a customer on the phone, Millie chatting with a subscriber about tomatoes, Tiff’s stilettos tap-tapping in time with the click of her computer keyboard.
The smell of fresh coffee swirled, and reminded of the half-empty cup before her, she took a long sip.
Next to the cup sat a thin vase with one chunky blossom perched neatly above.
The rounded white and burgundy flower looked almost like a lollipop atop the long, skinny stem, but for the spiky, graceful petals.
A “Rebecca’s World” Dahlia, the older farmer had told her that morning, when he and his wife had popped by to renew their subscription and bring her the vase.
“Used to think they’d named it after my wife, here,” he’d said, gesturing to the white-haired lady with the soft smile and wispy bun who stood next to him, holding his arm like she needed the balance.
“But that’s just the name of it. Did you know they have forty-two different names for dahlias?
Why, there’s a Jessica Dahlia, and a Clara Marie, even a Bahama Mama Dahlia, if you can believe it! ”
“You’re doing a fine job, dear,” the older Rebecca had told her, looking straight into her eyes and smiling as she patted her husband’s arm. “Plucked this flower right from our garden, just for you. Welcome to Dahlia.”
Rebecca smiled at the memory, fingered the stem as she read this week’s “Voices from James Watkins” piece, made possible thanks to her new pal Devon Robinson.
Devon had lined up the interview, even helped her get three more this week alone.
The kid was like a goldmine, plus he was sweet, to boot.
She thought she’d enjoyed their second diner trip even more than he had, and they had another scheduled for tomorrow afternoon.
She reread the article now, remembering the little blond-haired girl she’d interviewed, Cheyenne, the way she’d swung her legs against the green hard plastic of the playground swing set as she’d told Rebecca her story, the thick Carolina accent lending a rhythm and cadence to her words.
Lisa’s Story
As told to Rebecca Chastain
Editor’s note: The following is next in a series of true stories from some of this community’s most struggling members: the children at James Watkins Elementary School.
James Watkins is one of the twenty-five poorest schools in the state, statistics say, with more students per total enrolled in the government’s free and reduced lunch program than most of the schools in South Carolina.
Names and identifying details have been changed to protect the storyteller’s privacy.
My name is Lisa, and when I heard about this series in the newspaper, I wanted to be a part of it, too.
I wouldn’t ever say this stuff if you used my real name.
Mama would kill me if I ever talked about our family business in public.
I don’t mean actually kill. She’d probably pull out Daddy’s belt and then lock me in the bathroom a good long while.
But this here is safe. It’s almost like the poetry I read in class last year, only this time I get to tell it.
Some things you should know about me: I’m poor.
I know this sounds dumb, but I just realized this recently.
Like maybe six months ago or something. I know, pretty dumb to be twelve and only now getting it, but that’s the plain truth.
None of my friends have much stuff, and I’m too busy taking care of what Mama calls “my responsibilities” to think much about it.
But now that I know, it’s hard not to think about it, hard not to wonder if it’s always gonna be this way.
It probably is. I don’t know if I mind that or not.
Anyway, I’m the oldest kid in the house, and I’ve got a lot to do, so I don’t worry about it too much. It is what it is.
My typical day is basically I wake up, get my little brothers and sisters dressed and out the door to school or the free summer camp they go to, at the Presbyterian church.
Mama’s usually still asleep. The baby’s been sick, or up at night, and he gets real fussy, so it’s my job to look out for the others so Mama and the baby can get a little rest. If she’d go to bed a little earlier maybe it’d be easier on me and her both.
But nighttime is her time, she says. Her friends come over and stay up late, and even though me and my brothers and sisters keep the door shut in our bedroom and the covers over our heads to drown out all the music, it can be a little hard to sleep.
I guess you can say my mom and I have “issues.” Whatever. Sometimes I wonder why she even had kids. But she loves us. I know she does. I mean, it’s not something we talk about, but she’s there. She cooks for us and asks us about our day. She’s just a regular mom, I guess.
After I drop the littles at school, I go my way.
By this time my stomach’s usually growling.
When we split ramen noodle soup the night before, or some of that canned stew, I usually have a real bad stomachache, but anyway, I get my breakfast at school and then do my school stuff all day.
Then I get the kids, get home, help fix them snacks and dinner and do homework, and then it’s another day.
Being poor isn’t so bad. Except when it’s your birthday, and you want a party and a cake like the regular kids so bad—a big store-bought cake with thick gooey frosting and some of those frosting flowers, the good kind that make your teeth hurt—but you know you’ll be lucky to get the homemade crooked small one Mama makes. If you get a cake.
Christmas used to stink, but then the local churches put our name on one of those angel tree lists or secret Santa-type things, and now we get some great stuff and food, real food like a turkey or a ham.
I don’t wish this on you, though. It’s hard being poor. Maybe one day I’ll get out of here. But then who’d take care of the little ones?
Rebecca finished reading and shuddered. The kid had broken her heart—that limp hair all pulled back in a ponytail like pretty was the last thing on her mind, those big blue eyes that should have been shiny and bright but were flat, like she knew what to expect from the world already. Even her teeth looked dull.
Twelve years old, all long limbs and hollow acceptance. It is what it is, she’d said again after the story was told and they sat there, Rebecca fumbling for the right words.
When Rebecca was twelve, she already knew she wanted to grow up as fast as possible and move far, far from home. Make straight As in college and land a killer job that involved travel and suits and great hair and fancy dinners, like Maddie Hayes on Moonlighting.
“Rebecca?” Tiff’s voice was hesitant. Rebecca looked up. “Nice job on the little girl story.”
Rebecca waved her hand. “Thanks, but I didn’t actually do anything except write down what she said.”
Tiff shrugged. “It was good. So,” she said, chewed her lip and tap-tapped her stilettos, “I wonder if maybe I could do something similar?”
“Write some of the kid stories? I don’t know—”
“No, I mean with a whole different angle. These local businesses.” Tiff gestured to the street outside.
Beyond the window, Rebecca could hear the sound of horns or revved engines from cars cruising by, and the blazing sun was already hot and bright even at this hour of the morning.
“I could go try a different business every week. Sit down with the owner, ask a few questions about why they started it.” Her words spilled out faster as Rebecca shook her head.
“I mean, these people are from Dahlia, most if not all of them born and raised. It’d be neat to hear their backstory. ”
Rebecca’s “no” was vehement. “Sorry, Tiff, but it’s called advertorial. We need to be selling the ads, not giving them free ads disguised as news. We’re already tight on space.”
“I was thinking it could help business a little. Maybe do a little package deal—you know, advertise with us, get a ‘how you got here’ story.”
Rebecca considered. The last thing these business owners needed was an ego trip courtesy of the Dahlia Weekly.
“I don’t know. Maybe in a few weeks.”
Tiff looked like she wanted to say more, then apparently thought better of it. She swallowed visibly and nodded.
“Okay,” she said quietly, and turned back to her chair.
Rebecca did her best to ignore her conscience, which was pricking. But business is just that—business. Still, Tiff’s tight shoulders bothered her, somehow.
“Thanks for the idea, though, Tiff,” she offered. “I really will think about it.”
Rebecca stood, gathered her purse. Fresh air and sunshine beckoned. “Going to scour some stories. Anyone need anything?”
The room was quiet. “No thanks, Rebecca,” Millie said from the front desk, her voice gruff. “Got your mail for you, though.”
Rebecca took the stack, Millie’s familiar blue sticky note right on top. “For I know the plans I have for you, declares the Lord, plans for welfare and not for evil, to give you a future and a hope.”
“Thanks,” she said drily, tucked the mail into her purse and headed out the door. She left the blue sticky note crumpled on her floorboard.
Joe Mama’s was packed when she arrived. Apparently, the whole town had precisely the same idea as she, though with the heat, why anyone would actually want a hot beverage was beyond her. The power of caffeine addiction, apparently.
But Joe Mama’s was cool and comfortable, the aroma of coffee beans thick and soothing, and Rebecca felt her shoulders begin to relax.
The lights were dim and cozy, making the coffee shop like a little midday oasis neatly tucked away from the hustle and bustle.
Someone’s perfume smelled really, really good, almost edible.
She scanned the menu, realized she was subconsciously looking around to see if Erik Wennerman was there.
Of course he wasn’t, he didn’t even work in Dahlia, but the thought had come nonetheless, unbidden.
She pushed thoughts of his tousled hair—thicker than Peter’s, even—and irreverent grin aside.
“Rebecca!” Someone was standing and waving from the back of the room, and she peered, took a step forward to see through the dimness. It was Josh Jamison, and he sat around a table with a handful of other people, all varying ages, a friendly smile on his face.
Her stomach gave a little tumble. Must be hungrier than I think I am, she told herself, and lifted her hand in a small half-wave.
“Hi, Josh,” she said from the line, realized she was smiling.
The others at the table—a slightly older black-haired woman with a vivid streak of white in her hair; a couple of men, one in a polo shirt, the other in overalls; an African-American woman in a long striped sundress and chunky earrings; two young people who looked to be college kids, one with a massive Afro—all looked over with interest. The woman with the black and white streaks smiled warmly.
“How’ve you been?” Josh asked, then without waiting for a response, “Want to join us? I’ve got extras.”
He held up a big floppy book and she suddenly realized what they were doing: Bible study. The diverse gathering now made sense.
“No, thanks,” she said automatically, smiled to soften the words as she motioned to the line before her. “Just grabbing a quick bite—have to get back to work.”
“Hey, that’s okay,” Josh said, eyes still friendly. “Listen, we usually gather Wednesdays at lunch. All of us work, too, so it’s just a quick little lunch group. If ever you want to join us, come on by. We’re doing Luke, and it’s really easy to jump in.”
Rebecca nodded and smiled as though it could happen, though she knew it wouldn’t. “Thanks!” She waved again at the little group, who smiled and turned back to their meeting.
She ordered an iced latte and a tomato-mozzarella Panini, ate quickly at a side table near the door.
She still couldn’t believe Josh was a widower.
Somehow, the thought of her superdad childhood friend and his little son in a house without a mom seemed horribly, unbelievably wrong.
JJ came to mind then, and then Devon, and she found herself wondering how in the world good people like them got such a bad deal out of life when all the jerks seemed to have it made—and how in the world God could let that be so.
If she turned her head just right, she could see the Bible group across the room.
The black-haired lady seemed to be the leader, but the others would jump in here and there.
At one point, one of the college kids said something, and she could hear Josh’s loud unmistakable laugh—his childhood laugh, a mix between a cackle and hoot, which had always gotten her rolling.
For a moment, she wished she’d joined them after all.
But what in the world would I do at a Bible study? She’d probably join the group and they’d be pressuring her to go to worship on Sunday and put money in the church offering plate so some pastor could buy a fancy robe or put in new stained-glass windows or something.
She shuddered, fiddled with her iced coffee straw. All of a sudden her stomach felt like she’d eaten a bowling ball. She stood, snagged the empty paper bag and, without glancing back at the Bible group, left.
In the car, she pulled out her cell phone, scrolled through the names until she found Sarah in the text messages list.
“Heard about any job openings yet? I’ve got to get out of this town,” she jabbed at the letters.
But then she stopped herself, deleted the text, and set the phone down.
She sat a moment in the sun, letting the warmth of the day wash over her.
Truth be told, she wasn’t sure she actually wanted to get out of town—at least not yet.
She’d made a commitment to Granny. And now there was Devon, and the new series, and she had to admit it was pretty neat to reconnect with her old pal Josh and his son, JJ.
She had some unfinished business to handle before she left Dahlia for wherever life would take her next, and she certainly didn’t want to leave before she’d turned this paper around and left on a high note.
And with that, she shifted into reverse and headed back to the office.