and the cold and snow had settled in on Sweet Gum. She walked slowly along the river, picking up shards of ice that had formed along the bank and gazing into them where rainbows shot through in every direction. She stopped walking and turned slowly, full face toward the river. Where would it take her? she wondered. She wished the river were time itself and could take her back to someplace before now. Maybe before last summer. Back to the beginning of her own time. And maybe she could start over there.
And the letter from her cousin, Trout, when it finally arrived late in January, its edges smudged and bending. And the way her legs buckled when she got to the part about—about Trout and . . . Yes, that had made her want to remember. She wanted to make sense of it all, of that summer, of what happened with Trout.
Creek turned and ran back toward her, barking. She reached down to pet him.
“Do you remember it, Creek?” she whispered. “If you could tell the story, what would you say?”
The tiny brown patches above the dog’s eyes twitched, and Staggerlee smiled. It always made him seem to be thinking.
“What do you remember, dog?” But she wasn’t looking at Creek any longer, she was looking out at the river and beyond it—to her own beginning. The river wind blew hard and cold around her, whipping her hair up over her face. It was longer now, and the brown-gold ringlets felt wild in the wind. She closed her eyes and smiled. This was her hair. And her mother’s. And her father’s.
But her name, Staggerlee, that was her own. A name she had given herself a long, long time ago.
She was born Evangeline Ian Canan at Sweet Gum General, the third of five. Fourteen years ago. Pretty baby. In the baby pictures, she is smiling or reaching up to hug someone. Her hair was red then, and straight. And her eyes were blue like her mother’s but had changed over time. Now they were brown. Her mother said she didn’t cry often as a child. Staggerlee had gone through the pictures over and over. There were photos of Charlie Horse—her older brother—crying as a baby. Now Charlie Horse was eighteen. When he came home from college at Christmas, Staggerlee showed him the pictures and he laughed. He had a sweet laugh, her brother did. And now Staggerlee smiled, remembering how he’d hugged her and said, “You were just the prettiest of us, girl. That’s why there’re so many smiling pictures of you.” Charlie Horse was older now. College had changed him; he seemed more thoughtful. When he was home, he spent long hours at the piano, practicing right through lunch and dinner. He had always been able to go for hours and hours without eating. Now he seemed able to go days.
And there were crying pictures of Dotti too. Dotti, who was sixteen now. Smart and popular Dotti. In town, boys and men stared at her, their mouths slightly open. Staggerlee watched them. They were dazzled—as much as she hated that word, it was the only one she could find to describe how people reacted to her sister. But Dotti seemed unaware—almost as though she was looking away from it because she didn’t want to see it. Maybe it was because of this—of how beautiful she was—that she worked so hard at school. “My brain’s going to be here,” she once said to Staggerlee, “way after my looks are gone.” And Staggerlee had laughed and said, “Not if you lose your mind.” Dotti. Born with Daddy’s lips and Mama’s eyes. In the baby pictures of her, she looked as though her heart was breaking.
There were even crying pictures of Battle, who was two now, and one or two of Hope—the baby, who still cried and cried.
Again and again she had searched through the photo albums. Again and again she saw the pictures of Evangeline Ian—pretty, smiling baby. As she grew older, that smiling baby girl became her own tiny burden. She was the good child—the happy one. The one that never needed, never asked for anything, never caused any trouble.
It was
And the letter from her cousin, Trout, when it finally arrived late in January, its edges smudged and bending. And the way her legs buckled when she got to the part about—about Trout and . . . Yes, that had made her want to remember. She wanted to make sense of it all, of that summer, of what happened with Trout.
Creek turned and ran back toward her, barking. She reached down to pet him.
“Do you remember it, Creek?” she whispered. “If you could tell the story, what would you say?”
The tiny brown patches above the dog’s eyes twitched, and Staggerlee smiled. It always made him seem to be thinking.
“What do you remember, dog?” But she wasn’t looking at Creek any longer, she was looking out at the river and beyond it—to her own beginning. The river wind blew hard and cold around her, whipping her hair up over her face. It was longer now, and the brown-gold ringlets felt wild in the wind. She closed her eyes and smiled. This was her hair. And her mother’s. And her father’s.
But her name, Staggerlee, that was her own. A name she had given herself a long, long time ago.
She was born Evangeline Ian Canan at Sweet Gum General, the third of five. Fourteen years ago. Pretty baby. In the baby pictures, she is smiling or reaching up to hug someone. Her hair was red then, and straight. And her eyes were blue like her mother’s but had changed over time. Now they were brown. Her mother said she didn’t cry often as a child. Staggerlee had gone through the pictures over and over. There were photos of Charlie Horse—her older brother—crying as a baby. Now Charlie Horse was eighteen. When he came home from college at Christmas, Staggerlee showed him the pictures and he laughed. He had a sweet laugh, her brother did. And now Staggerlee smiled, remembering how he’d hugged her and said, “You were just the prettiest of us, girl. That’s why there’re so many smiling pictures of you.” Charlie Horse was older now. College had changed him; he seemed more thoughtful. When he was home, he spent long hours at the piano, practicing right through lunch and dinner. He had always been able to go for hours and hours without eating. Now he seemed able to go days.
And there were crying pictures of Dotti too. Dotti, who was sixteen now. Smart and popular Dotti. In town, boys and men stared at her, their mouths slightly open. Staggerlee watched them. They were dazzled—as much as she hated that word, it was the only one she could find to describe how people reacted to her sister. But Dotti seemed unaware—almost as though she was looking away from it because she didn’t want to see it. Maybe it was because of this—of how beautiful she was—that she worked so hard at school. “My brain’s going to be here,” she once said to Staggerlee, “way after my looks are gone.” And Staggerlee had laughed and said, “Not if you lose your mind.” Dotti. Born with Daddy’s lips and Mama’s eyes. In the baby pictures of her, she looked as though her heart was breaking.
There were even crying pictures of Battle, who was two now, and one or two of Hope—the baby, who still cried and cried.
Again and again she had searched through the photo albums. Again and again she saw the pictures of Evangeline Ian—pretty, smiling baby. As she grew older, that smiling baby girl became her own tiny burden. She was the good child—the happy one. The one that never needed, never asked for anything, never caused any trouble.
It was
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