Also Known As Harper (19 page)

Mama came to the door and motioned for me to come in.

“I
might
be back.” I ran up the steps and turned my head in Winnie Rae's direction. “So don't you go messing up the yard.”

Mama stood in the living room, in front of one of Dorothy's walls of books, and she had a tall stack on the floor next to her.

She pulled another one down and opened the front cover to show me something. “She was a professor, Harper. A professor of literature at a university.” She pointed down at the stack of books. “Her name's in all of these:
Dr. Dorothy Pine.
”

I tried to picture Dorothy in teacher clothes in front of a class, like Mrs. Rodriguez, but it was hard to imagine her without her wheelchair and clipboard, or without her dead husband's suit jacket. The part I could see in my mind was her face when she talked about books, and the way she looked when she read my poems. The part of her that loved words and stories had never gone out of her. That had hung right on and stayed when everything else had changed for her.

Mama stood in front of that wall of books with a look on her face that I hadn't seen in a good long while. The look she had was both calm and happy at the same time. I hadn't thought I'd ever see that Mama again.

She took down another book and held it close to her. The soft cover was practically worn off of it, it had been opened so many times.

It didn't take me long to figure out what book it was. Mama sat down on Dorothy's velvety brown couch and patted the cushion next to her.

“I've been a little out of sorts lately, haven't I?” She put her hand over the book on her lap. “I always get a little out of sorts when I haven't had a good solid dose of Maycomb County, Alabama.”

She smiled at me, but her eyes had a touch of
sadness in the inside corners. “I feel as if I have been away on a long trip.”

“You didn't go anywhere, Mama,” I said. “Your mind was working on other things sometimes, but you were right here with us.” I patted her arm and watched the worry lines on her forehead smooth themselves out.

I closed my eyes and thought about the thirty-six tally marks on the wall next to the refrigerator in our old house. I wondered if someone had painted over them.

Mama opened the front cover of
To Kill a Mockingbird
and traced Dorothy's name lightly with the tip of her pointer finger. Then she took in a deep breath and got ready to read.

“Hold on a minute, Mama.” I picked up a pencil from the table. That little table was the perfect size for writing on. And it had two chairs, one for me and one for Mama.

I leaned in toward Mama and opened my special notebook to the inside front cover. “You want to make the tally mark?”

I wondered how many times we'd get through Ms. Harper Lee's book before Lorraine and Randall got back.

Mama shook her head and smiled. “You do it, Harper.”

I heard the screen door slam, and Hem came in and settled himself on the couch next to Mama.

I made that first tally mark all careful and straight, and I went over it a couple of times, to make sure it was going to stay there.

Mama and Hem snuggled close on the couch, and I wished I had someone to take our picture. But then I knew I didn't really need one. Mama and Hem with that book would always be fresh and clear in my mind. The place might need to change once in a while, but the part that was the same was the three of us. Together.

“Okay, I'm ready.” I settled in on the other side of Mama. Then I closed my eyes and waited for the words.

 

 

 

 

 

The birth of a book is no small endeavor, and so many people have contributed, both knowingly and unknowingly, from start to finish. My sincere gratitude goes to:

• Andy, for that espresso you bring me every morning, for picking up the slack, and for being your awesome, sarcastic self;

• Jessica and Holly, who never cease to thrill and amaze me and, best of all, make me laugh;

• my incredible agent, Dan Lazar at Writers House, for his sense of humor, insight, and wise advice;

• the wonderful staff at Henry Holt, especially my brilliant editor, Reka Simonsen, for her gentle encouragement and uncanny ability to coax out the right words;

• my indefatigable critique group, Margaret Welch, Pam Farley, and Mary Jo Scott;

• Trish Nellermoe Byers, my first pen pal;

• Eileen Edwards, for always saying the writing was good;

• Pat Giff, for her time, kindness, and wisdom;

• Mary Rinear, who first called me a writer;

• my brother Tim Haywood, for making our childhood an adventure;

• my older brother, Tom Haywood, for so graciously/unwittingly appearing in my first book;

• Leslie Olson, who was there for the first novel;

• Rose Kent, who taught me perseverance;

• Johnny Kelley, my East Coast father, for his constant encouragement;

• Lorinda Haywood, who has so graciously dispelled the theory of the evil stepmother;

• the Village people on up to Roseleah, for their untiring friendships;

• Monique Johnson, Chris Pennenga, and the NEMAA people, who helped build the confidence that every writer needs.