The Best Bad Luck I Ever Had
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Chapter 52
Chapter 53
Chapter 54
Chapter 55
Chapter 56
Chapter 57
Chapter 58
Chapter 59
Chapter 60
Chapter 61
Acknowledgements
G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS
A division of Penguin Young Readers Group.
Published by The Penguin Group.
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Penguin Books Ltd, Registered Offices: 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England.
Copyright © 2009 by Kristin Levine.
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data
Levine, Kristin (Kristin Sims), 1974-
The best bad luck I ever had / Kristin Levine.
p. cm.
Summary: In Moundville, Alabama, in 1917, twelve-year-old Dit hopes the new postmaster
will have a son his age, but instead he meets Emma, who is black, and their friendship
challenges accepted ways of thinking and leads them to save the life of a condemned man.
[1. Race relations—Fiction. 2. Prejudices—Fiction. 3. Friendship—Fiction.
4. Country life—Alabama—Fiction. 5. Family life—Alabama—Fiction.
6. Alabama—History—1819-1950—Fiction.] I. Title.
PZ7.L57842Bes 2009 [Fic]—dc22 2008011570
eISBN : 978-1-440-69940-5
http://us.penguingroup.com
To my grandfather,
the real Harry Otis
1
THE NEW POSTMASTER
I’VE BEEN WRONG BEFORE. OH, HECK, IF I’M being real honest, I’ve been wrong a lot. But I ain’t never been so wrong as I was about Emma Walker. When she first came to town, I thought she was the worst piece of bad luck I’d had since falling in the outhouse on my birthday. I tell you, things were fine in Moundville before Emma got here, least I thought they were. Guess the truth is, you’ll never know how wrong I was till I’m done telling and explaining—so I’d better just get on with the story.
My real name is Harry Otis Sims, but everybody calls me Dit. See, when I was little, I used to roll a hoop down Main Street, beating it with a stick as I ran along. One day, two older boys tried to steal my hoop. I hit them with my stick and told them, “Dit away.” They laughed. “You talk like a baby. Dit, dit, dit.” The name stuck.
There are ten children in our family: Della, Ollie, Ulman, Elman, Raymond, me, Earl, Pearl, Robert and Lois. That’s just too many kids. There are never leftovers at supper, and you never get new clothes. We don’t even get to go to the store for shoes: Mama just keeps them all in a big old barrel. When the pair you’re wearing gets too tight, you throw yours in and pick out another one. With so many kids, sometimes I think my pa don’t even know my name, since it’s always, “Della, Ollie, Ulman, Elman, Raymond, uh, I mean Dit.”
We all live in a big old house that Pa built himself right off Main Street in Moundville, Alabama. Most of the people in Moundville are farmers like my pa. Just about everything grows well in our rich, dark soil, but especially corn and cotton. Before I even had my nickname, Pa taught me how to count by showing me the number of ears of corn to feed the mule.
Most evenings my whole family, and just about everybody in town, gathers in front of Mrs. Pooley’s General Goods Store to wait for the train. Mrs. Pooley is the meanest old lady I’ve ever met. She smokes, spits and has a temper shorter than a bulldog’s tail. But her store has a wide, comfortable porch and a great view of the train depot, just across the street. The evening Emma came, Mrs. Pooley sat in her usual rocker, smoking a pipe with Uncle Wiggens.
Uncle Wiggens ain’t really my uncle, everyone just calls him that. He’s over eighty and fought in the War Between the States. He only has one leg and one hero, General Robert E. Lee. Uncle Wiggens manages to work Lee’s name into pretty much any old conversation. You might say, “My, it’s cold today,” and he’d reply, “You think this is cold? General Lee said it didn’t even qualify as chill till your breath froze on your nose and made a little icicle.” He had about five different stories of how he lost his leg, every one of them entertaining.
That night I was listening to the version that involved him running five Yankees into a bear’s den as I wound a ball of twine into a baseball. Course if I’d had the money, I could have bought a new ball at Mrs. Pooley’s store, but if you wind twine real careful, it’s almost as good as a real ball.
The new postmaster was coming to town, and the grown-ups were as wound up as the kids on Christmas. The postmaster was in charge of sorting and delivering the mail, but he also sent and received telegrams. This meant he knew any good gossip long before anybody else. The last postmaster had been a lazy good-for-nothing: everyone had gotten the wrong mail two days late. He and his family had finally skipped town for refusing to pay their debts at Mrs. Pooley’s store.
I was excited too. The new postmaster, Mr. Walker, was supposed to have a boy who was twelve, just like me. I sure hoped he liked to play baseball. It was June 1917, and my best friend, Chip, had just left to spend the summer with his grandma in Selma.
My ball of twine got bigger and bigger till there was a small light, far off in the distance. We all jumped up and ran across the street to the train depot. There was a flash of copper as the golden eagle on the top of the huge locomotive flew out
of the night sky. The whistle howled, white steam poured out of the engine and the train came to a slow stop in front of the station.
A few local men who worked in Tuscaloosa got off first. Next, a couple of townspeople who had been visiting relatives climbed down the steps. Finally, a thin girl nobody knew appeared in the doorway of the train.
The girl looked about my age and wore a fancy navy dress. Her hair was carefully combed and pulled back into a neat braid, tied with a red ribbon. She clutched a small suitcase of smooth leather. She was also colored.
2
THE GIRL FROM BOSTON
THE GIRL STOOD IN THE DOORWAY OF THE train as the whole town looked her over. My little sister Pearl stared at her shoes—shiny, black patent leather without a scuff on them. Pearl’s ten years old and ain’t never had a pair that ain’t been worn by two sisters before her. The girl’s mother stepped into the doorway right behind her. She was colored too and wore a yellow dress made of a gauzy material—Mama later said it was organza.
The girl and her mama stepped carefully down onto the platform. Her daddy got off last. He wore a tailored suit, walked with a limp and was just as black as the rest of them.
The man looked around and in a crisp, Northern accent asked, “Is there a Mr. Sims here?”
“I’m Mr. Sims,” said Pa, looking a bit confused.
“I’m Mr. Walker,” said the man, holding out his hand. “The new postmaster.”
It got real quiet for a moment. Everyone stared at Mr. Walker.
“They is niggers,” said Uncle Wiggens, just as loud as could be.
Pa stepped forward then and shook Mr. Walker’s hand.
“The boy’s a girl,” I mumbled. Mama poked me with her elbow, then went to speak to Mrs. Walker.
I scowled at the girl. “What’s your name?”
“Emma,” she said, and scowled right back.
Mama made me carry home Emma’s trunk in my old wagon. We had a cabin on our property that we always rented out to the postmaster and his family. I didn’t understand how one little girl could have more stuff than me and all my brothers.
“You play baseball?” I asked as we walked.
“No,” Emma said. She shook her feet as she walked, trying to keep the dust off her fancy shoes.
“I got a real glove.” I tugged at the wagon. “The only one in town.”
“Maybe down south girls play baseball,” she answered, “but we’re from Boston.”
I didn’t say nothing.
She pulled at the ribbon in her hair. “You probably don’t even know where that is.”
“Kentucky,” I answered. “I ain’t stupid.”
Emma slowed down to walk beside her mama. “Mama,” Emma said, loud enough for me to hear. “Why’d we have to come down south?”
“Emma,” Mrs. Walker said softly. “I’ve already told you. Daddy can’t protest where they send him. There aren’t many Negroes in the postal service.”
Emma glanced at me, then back at her mama. “I don’t think I’m going to like it here.”
“It’s only for a year,” Mrs. Walker continued. “Then Daddy can ask for a transfer.”
A whole year, I thought. That was a long time to wait for another postmaster. But maybe then we’d finally get a boy.
Next morning at breakfast, I sat down next to Ulman. He’s four years older than me and real smart. I leaned over to him and asked, “Boston’s in Kentucky, ain’t it?”
“No,” he said. “It’s in Massachusetts.”
“Oh,” I answered. I was suddenly mighty interested in my scrambled eggs.
3
DOING THE WASH
AFTER BREAKFAST, I DID MY CHORES. ALL of us kids have jobs ’cept little Robert and Lois, who are only four and two. Mine are to bring coal into the house, chop wood, drive the cows to pasture in the morning and bring them home in the evening. We always have at least three cows so we’ll have enough milk and butter. Our main pasture is across the railroad tracks, and those stupid cows always stop right over the iron rails. I have to beat the cows with a switch to get them to move on. Raymond is our main milker. He’s fourteen, and everybody says I look just like him ’cept my hair is red and his is brown. He’s a bit taller and his nose is bigger and I’m much better looking, but other than that, we could be twins.
The morning after Emma came, I had finished my chores and was getting ready to go off hunting when Mama asked me to come help with the washing. Course it wasn’t a request, it was an order, but grown-ups like to pretend they are being all reasonable even when they ain’t. Washing was usually Della and Ollie’s job. They’re nineteen and seventeen and just about all grown up. Mama said they were both in bed ’cause their friend had come to visit. Now, I don’t get to stay in bed when my friends come over, but when I told Mama that, she told me to stop being fresh and go outside.
Ten-year-old Earl and Pearl had been drafted into helping too. They really are twins, but are as alike as a chicken and a chipmunk. Earl’s the chipmunk, quiet and watching everything, while Pearl’s the one poking her beak into everybody’s business. I felt a little better when I saw them helping because I hate doing the washing. Stirring that stupid old pot till your hands go numb. Rubbing all the water out on the wringer till your fingers are as wrinkled as the wet sheets. It’s almost as bad as churning butter, and even Mama agrees that is the worst chore of all.
The wash pot is huge, and we have to pull up every bucket of water from our well. Pearl was pulling as fast as she could, but it would take forever if I let her do it. I grabbed the rope and began to yank it like the halter of a stubborn mule. The bucket came up over the lip of the well and sloshed a mouthful of water all over Pearl. I laughed as she wiped at her face with her skirt.
Earl was trying to keep the huge fire going under the big black pot. It took a lot of heat to boil all that water. It seemed like I had pulled up about a hundred buckets (and spilled two more of them on Pearl) by the time Mama came out of the house. She was balancing a huge load of sheets on her hip. Even after ten kids, Mama’s long hair was still brown—mostly—and though her hands were wrinkled, her eyes were sharp. I thought she was real pretty, even if she wasn’t skinny like Mrs. Walker.
While we were working, Emma was sitting on her front porch, lazing about. This irked me no end. So I came up with a plan. “Traveling, you sure do get dusty,” I said in a loud voice.
Mama ignored me.
“Remember how you used to share the washing with the last postmaster’s wife? Be nice to do that again.” I admit, I was sassing her a little. But I didn’t care who helped, long as it wasn’t me. “Bet the new neighbors have a whole mess of clothes to wash.”
Mama glared at me and threw the sheets into the pot. Earl stirred them with an old broom handle. Pearl whispered, “They is Negras, Dit.”
Mama glanced over at the cabin. Emma sat in her rocking chair, watching us.
“Your mama home?” Mama called over to Emma.
“Yes.” Emma glided back and forth in her chair like she was bored.
“Tell her I’d like to speak to her.”
Took Emma a minute to get up, as if she was thinking of disobeying Mama, but finally she disappeared into the house. Pearl’s eyes got as big as a hoot owl’s. “Our clothes are gonna end up all black and dirty,” she said.
“Hush, child,” said Mama.
Mrs. Walker came out of the house, drying her hands on a white starched apron. “Did you want something, Mrs. Sims?”
Mama rubbed her hands on the front of her own dirty dress. Earl forgot to stir. Mama said, “I was wondering, Mrs. Walker, if you wanted to do some laundry.”
“Excuse me?” Mrs. Walker arched her eyebrows.
“Thursday’s wash day around here,” Mama explained.
“Mrs. Sims, I am not your maid.”
“What?” asked Mama.
“Just because we’re renting this house from you does not mean you can order me around.” Mrs. Walker sounded like she was talking to a
small child.
Mama rubbed a soapy hand across her forehead. “But . . .”
“Why’s this so hard for you to understand? I’m not doing your wash!”
I started to laugh. “My mama ain’t asking you to do the washing,” I said.
Mama turned as red as one of the tomatoes in the garden. “Hush, Dit! If Mrs. Walker don’t want to wash her clothes with ours, that’s fine. Just more work for her.”
Mama walked back toward the pot, grabbed the broom handle from Earl and began stirring furiously.
Emma took a step forward. “You mean, you wanted to do it together?” she asked.
“That’s what I said, ain’t it?” Mama answered. She continued to stir.
Mrs. Walker pursed her lips. “Our clothes are rather dusty from the trip,” she admitted.
Mama gave a weak smile. “Dit, you can go now.”
I grinned. My plan had worked.
“But why don’t you show Emma around while me and Mrs. Walker wash the clothes.”
Not quite as I had expected. “But Pearl . . .”
“Pearl’s got to change her clothes,” Mama said without looking at me. “Someone got her all wet filling the laundry tub.”
Now Mama looked at me, and I knew I was stuck with Emma.
Emma didn’t seem too pleased either. She folded her arms across her chest. “I didn’t play with white boys in Boston.”
“Well, darling,” Mama said, “things is a little bit different down here.”
4
THE MOUNDS
WHEN MAMA TOLD ME TO GO PLAY WITH Emma, I decided to take her to the top of my favorite mound. See, Moundville gets its name from the huge mounds of dirt that are spread out among the trees, twenty-six mounds in all. Pa says they were built by Indians carrying baskets of dirt and dumping them out, one on top of the other. Some of our mounds are over sixty feet high, so that’s a lot of dirt.