Chapter 12: Her Old Room

Joanna said, "Saturday."

Her voice was steady, and I don't know where she found it.

"Saturday," Boyd repeated.

"The anniversary Saturday. Thirteen days from tonight. The same day as your vote, Uncle Boyd. We'll marry that evening at the farm."

Marjorie looked up, startled.

"Here?" she said.

"Here, if you'll have us."

"Joanna Marie."

"Is that a yes?"

"It's a yes," her mother said, and she got up to put the kettle on, mostly so we wouldn't see her face.

Boyd studied his niece for a long moment.

"Saturday," he said. "All right."

He pushed his chair back and put on his Stetson.

"I'll see the lawyers in the morning," he said. "Miss Crowell, welcome to the family. God help you."

He left, and the screen door banged behind him.

I stared at the table.

Joanna had just said a wedding date out loud, with her mother crying into a dish towel, and it was a lie.

Wasn't it?

I could not remember anymore which parts were the lie.

We stayed for pie, and I ate two slices.

Marjorie wouldn't let us drive back that night.

"The roads are dark," she said. "Your old room is made up, Joanna. Take Callie up."

"Mother, the bed is a single."

"Then you'll be close," said Marjorie.

Her face was perfectly innocent.

Joanna's old room was at the top of a narrow stair, under the slope of the roof.

It had a white iron bed, a desk with a radio on it, and a shelf of trophies from a speech contest.

A poster of a long-dead country singer had faded on the wall.

Joanna turned in a slow circle in the middle of it.

"I haven't been up here since I was twenty-two," she said.

"Where did you listen to the radio?"

"There." She pointed at the little desk. "Under the covers, after bedtime, with the volume at one. My father's station came on at ten."

"You were listening to your own family's station."

"I was listening to my father on the air. He did the late show on Saturdays."

She touched the dial, and the old radio crackled.

Then she turned around and put her back against the door.

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