taken from

—Chapter One —

I sprawl on my back like a lazy scarecrow and stare through the barn’s rooftop windows. A cloud shaped like a mule’s head wiggles long, white ears, and I feel the strong pull of the canal. Across the yard, Ma’s in a tizzy, sweeping and dusting, getting our boarding house ready for his royal highness, Abner Manning, the dump’s owner. Ma’s in an all-fired pucker because I’m not swinging a mop or waving a rag. Beany and her ma are sweating their skin off in the kitchen, cooking up a fancy feast. The smell of chicken frying drifts across the yard and up to my loft. I don’t want to sit on command for a big bug like Manning, but if I don’t show for dinner Ma’s boarders will swallow every piece of chicken right down to the necks.

“Beany! Get your skinny butt in here! BEANY!”

Dread covers me like a blanket. Pa’s tipping the corn juice early and starting in on the runt. I roll off my bed, slide down the ladder, run across the yard and get to the kitchen in time to hear Beany whine, “Comin’, Mr. Riley.”

There she is, the ninny, hopping on one bare foot then the other, squeezing soap from her hands and wiping them on her raggy dress. No wonder he picks on her. Pa leans on the kitchen table close to Beany’s ma—too close, as usual. Beany sucks in her lower lip and starts that funny wiggle she does, when she doesn’t know whether to yell or run.

“Yeah, Mr. Riley?”

“What you doing?” Pa turns slowly. “Stop prancing and help your ma.” He sways and catches the back of a chair. “And keep that mop of hair out of the food. Mr. Manning’s coming to dinner. Gonna check us out, and I don’t want no mess-ups. We’re gonna be picture perfect, ain’t we, August?” Pa leans across the table to poke at a bowl of peas, and his bony chest brushes August’s shoulder. She doesn’t flinch.

“These good?” He paws at the fresh peas with dirty fingers and my stomach rolls, picturing the month’s worth of snot under his nails.

“Just picked, Mr. Riley,” August says, her potato-peeling knife sliding smooth, like a sled over ice.

Pa straightens up and drags his hand across August’s arm. Beany flicks her long, curly hair behind her shoulder, bites her lip and takes a deep breath. I ease into the kitchen and don’t take my eyes off my old man.

“Good. Everything’s got to be perfect for Mister Manning. Big shot new owner. Big shot Mister Manning.” He grins like there’s a joke in there somewhere.

“Everything be fine. Don’t you worry.” August lifts the corners of her mouth like she sees some humor in him. I don’t see nothin’ ’cept a weasel huntin’ lunch.

Pa throws me a bleary glance, feels his way along the kitchen wall to the back door, stumbles down the porch steps into the weeds and flops down under the big willow tree.

“There he goes, insulting Mother Nature.”

I watch the willow’s long, green leaves swing shut behind him. “Whew! That man’s corned again.” I slam the door and sit down at the old sawbuck table.

“Yeah, he stink with drink!” August wipes her forehead with the back of her hand.

Beany crosses her skinny arms and cocks her hip—like she’s seen me do. “And I hate the way he yells BEANY! BEANY! Like I’m deaf or something, and he knows I’m in the washroom scrubbing his dirty drawers!”

I roar like a muleskinner. August giggles and picks up another potato.

“Yeah, but you don’t say boo to him, do you? ‘Comin’ Mr. Riley.’” I ape Beany’s whine.

She frowns. “Everybody knows I hate that name Beany. Why does he have to yell it to the world?”

August drops her peeling knife. “That your name, girl. Everybody call you Beany.”

“I hate it!”

“Honey, I give you that name!”

“But it don’t mean nothin’. What’s a beany?”

“I tell you that story time after time.”

“Don’t tell me again, Mama.”

“When you born, out you come, all wet, long and skinny like a string bean. ’Cept you ain’t green!”

I poke Beany with my finger. “Long, wet and stringy. So name her after a beany!” The little squirt swats at my hand, but only because her ma’s here to protect her.

August pushes the bowl of peas. “Here, honey, run some cold water on these. Give ’em a good rinse.”

“And wash his snot off ’em.” If I show up for supper, I’ll be darn sure to pass on the peas.

Beany fills the bowl with icy pump water, swirls the hard, round little beads with her hand, pours the water off then starts washing the dirt off some spinach.

“Who’s this Mr. Manning, Mama? Mr. Hurley owns this house.”

“That old coot croaked,” I say. “This house went to his daughter, Manning’s wife.”

“So why’s the wife not coming to see it?” Beany asks, shrugging her skinny shoulders.

August stops peeling. “What she got to do with it?”

“She’s the owner, right?”

“Honey, she ain’t the owner. She’s the wife!”

Chuckling, August chops the last potato into a heavy black kettle, wipes her knife carefully with a cloth, folds it—strokes the deep blue stone that covers the blade with a sweet touch, like it’s precious—and puts it in her torn pocket.

Beany shakes her head. “Mama, your dress is falling apart.”

“And yours is over your knees! You growing too fast.”

“Hey, Beany, maybe my ma can find you some old lady clothes in the church basement.” The kid drops her head and stares at the floor.

“Tessie, don’t be mean,” August says. “Here, Beany, fill this kettle with water. Put it on the stove. Tess, I hear your mama say he got a daughter.”

“Who’s got one?”

“Mr. Manning. Maybe she come to dinner.”

“What if she does?” I hear rustling in the dining room and keep my eye on the door.

August laughs. “You listen for your mama? You think she gonna come snag you for chores?” She laughs again.

I ignore her. “What about Manning’s girl?”

“She a fine young lady.”

“What makes her fine, Mama?”

“She rich!”

Beany snorts. She picked that up from me. “Bet she’s stuck up. Snooty. All those rich gals got their noses in the air.”

“Who says?”

“Tessie.” A smile tickles Beany’s lips.