Chapter 6

Nellie Finch

“We best stop by Nellie’s,” Aunt Freddie says. Nellie Finch’s house is an hour down the hill from our ridge. The post carrier leaves the Charleston newspaper at her place for us every week. He’d leave our mail there—if we ever got any.

     Mama read the paper to me when I was too young to realize people lived in places outside these hills. I wasn’t seven yet when she read about an earthquake in San Francisco. Nearly five hundred people were killed, something hard to imagine since I haven’t seen five hundred people in my whole life.

     Now Mama and I read the news together. Some stories burrow under my skin like chiggers. When I was eight, we read about a mine explosion in Monongah, right here in West Virginia, scarcely a thumbnail away in Mama’s atlas. That was the first chigger.

     Mama said sometimes bad things can bring about good things, if folks pay heed to the dead. She said mine owners might make things safer on account of all those dead miners.

     Last year, we read about the Titanic. Mama says folks will demand new rules for ocean vessels now. Voices of the dead begging to be heard.

     We come into sight of Nellie Finch’s place. She’s a body you never forget—even if you try right hard. If she were a real finch, it’d have red-purple plumage. She wears bright colors and puts color on her cheeks and mouth.

     Her voice is thick-sweet like maple syrup, but without anything substantial like flapjacks underneath. She’s older than Aunt Freddie, but without my aunt’s common sense. Like as not, real finches are smarter than Nellie. And don’t stick their beaks into other folks’ lives.

We grab the newspaper quick-like and start up the hill. But Nellie puffs after us. Waving an envelope, she tries to catch up.

     “I ain’t seen hide ner hair’a the Crutchers in nigh on a month,” she says, trying to catch her breath. “This letter come fer the mister more’n two weeks ago. If I was sprier, I’d tote it on up ta their place. Might be Ginnie Lee could take it fer me.”

     “Be happy to, Miz Finch.” I reach for the envelope.

     The Crutchers live just over the rise from us, and on clear days we see smoke from their chimney. Now and then, I come across one of Mr. Crutcher’s young’uns gathering herbs or nuts. Mrs. Crutcher died last winter, and Aunt Freddie says the mister has his hands full with six young’uns. Toting the letter to Crutchers will give me a chance to tell them about my trip.

     When we’re well past earshot of Nellie, Aunt Freddie says, “She’d be spry enough if she didn’t bind herself up in finery that’s too tight. If’n Hank Crutcher’s wise, he’s keepin’ clear on purpose.”

     By the time we get home, dark settles in around the edges of the yard, and supper smells fill the kitchen. I’ll have to tote Mr. Crutcher’s letter tomorrow.

                          *    *    *

     Aunt Freddie and Grandpa take supper with us. One-Thumb Willoughby’s words resound in my head, but I can’t talk about his warning. The mention of his name can send Grandpa into a rage, and I’ve been careful to mind my tongue since Mama gave in about the trip.

     Aunt Freddie plows right in. “We seen Thaddeus Willoughby down to Pender’s,” she says.

     Grandpa grunts.

“Is his family well?” Mama asks.

“We didn’t speak,” Aunt Freddie says.

He spoke to me, I want to shout, scary words about devils, dark places, and flames! What I say out loud is, “A body can’t help but wonder how he lost his thumb.”

     “Seen it happen,” Grandpa says.

My mouth drops open. “You did?”

“We was jist boys. Him and Fred was settin’ traps. I traipsed after ‘em like I al’ys done with Fred. Fred showed ‘im how ta set a trap, but the trap was smarter’n the boy. Thad tripped it hisself and snapped off ‘is thumb.”

     My mouth opens even wider. “Folks say he’s crazy.”

     “Not crazy,” Grandpa says, “jist dumb.”

     “Might be the Good Lord stuck all his brains in his thumb,” Daddy says with a chuckle.

     “Tom,” Mama tries to say firmly, but she struggles not to laugh. “Thaddeus is our neighbor. Ought to treat him as such.”

     “No Willoughby is a fittin’ neighbor,” Grandpa says. “Nary a one of ‘em worth the weight of a broom straw.”

     I best not break a breath on the old man’s warning. Grandpa would call it hogwash, but Mama might call it reason to keep me home.

     After supper, Daddy gives me a lesson on my flute, but I can’t concentrate. My mind is full of One-Thumb’s words.