We’d seen Hank and Cash drink enough that they threw up. Daddy had even thrown up in his sleep before, and if Mama hadn’t been there he’d have choked in his own vomit. Mama never drank more than a beer a day, and she said it was for her health—“to flush out her kidneys.”
“Well, feel free to move it, Minnie.” I gestured toward the man’s covered head. I didn’t know why I had to do everything. Minnie shook her head frantically.
“Fine.” I sighed. I hunched down and inched toward him, leading with my leg and keeping my upper body shifted to the side. Then I yanked the coat from off the man’s face and dropped it over his lower body.
His eyes were wide open.
He stared up at me unblinking, and I screamed and fell back on my butt.
“What the hell?” he slurred. Then he reached out and grabbed my ankle.
I pulled away, kicking my foot, and Minnie was there, helping me up. Our feet got a little tangled, and we tripped and fell and were up and running again immediately.
“Hey! Come back! Why you leavin’?” The man yelled behind us. “Did I miss all the fun stuff? I don’t remember nothin!’”
“Definitely not Jesus,” I puffed, and we ended up giggling all the way home.
“We smelled like burnt tires, and I kept seeing his pathetic penis in my head when I closed my eyes,” I told Finn, laughing. “But Minnie was back at her do-goodin’ the next day, and the next. She was convinced that behind everyone in need was an opportunity to make the world a better place. It was like she knew she had only a little while to leave her mark, and that’s the way she decided to leave it. It wasn’t a bad way to be. But I still hate the smell of burning tires.”
“There can’t be much money in burning tires.” Finn sounded skeptical.
“It’s something. We never did it, but lots of folks did. Daddy made money traveling around singing, and Gran went with him. When we were old enough, Minnie and I did too. We sang up and down the Appalachians at county fairs and churches and family reunions. Daddy took cash or trades, and never claimed any of it on his taxes so he could keep his welfare check. With the government money and the money we made under the table, we did better than most families in Grassley and better than all the other families in the holler.”
“What’s a holler?”
“A valley, you know. A hillbilly neighborhood. A hollow.” This time I said it like the rest of America said it, with “o” on the end instead of “er.”
“You realize when you say things like ‘holler’ you sound like you’re from the early 1930s talking about the Great Depression,” Finn said mildly.
“You mean I sound like Bonnie Parker? I guess I can relate to her a little, after all.” I could relate to her a lot. “Appalachia hasn’t changed much since then, from what I can tell. Up and down the Appalachians—Iowa, Kentucky, Tennessee, West Virginia, North Carolina—there are hundreds of towns just like Grassley. And most of America doesn’t even know we exist. They just fly over us, and from the clouds, everything looks pretty.”
Finn reached over and rested his hand on my leg, trying to soothe me, I supposed. And I stared for a minute at that big, strong hand resting on my thigh, wishing for a moment that I was small enough to crawl beneath his palm and pretend places like Grassley didn’t exist. But they did. And try as I might, they always would.
“Minnie’s doctor said the poverty of the mountain people, people in Appalachia, rivals the poverty she saw in places in India when she spent time there on humanitarian missions. Nobody talks about Appalachia . . . so nobody really knows. I built my parents a nice little four bedroom house and they have nice things, but I still dream about Grassley, and I wake up with the smell of burning tires in my nose. To me, that’s what despair smells like. Burning tires.”
“So is that the reason you have to put yourself out there for everybody you see? Stranded moms, homeless preachers, people on the side of the road?”
I shrugged. “That’s what Minnie did. I thought about her when William was preaching to us about angels in disguise and clothing the naked and feeding the hungry. I told you about that song we always sang. The one about the mansions? I believe in mansions in heaven, but it’d be nice if people stopped hoping and started doing.”
“Doing what?” he asked.
“Doing something more than just dreaming of mansions in the sky. Minnie and I started a foundation called Many Mansions. I was the money and Minnie was the manager. We wanted to help kids make a detailed plan to accomplish their dreams, and then help them carry out their plan. We wanted to make ‘many mansions,’ and not just in the sky.”
I felt tired just talking about the foundation. It was Minnie’s baby. Maybe I should change the name from Many Mansions to Minnie’s Mansions. The idea actually cheered me.
“You said Minnie was trying to improve the world before she left it. Is that what you’re trying to do? Improve the world before you leave it?” Finn’s eyes were intent on my face, his voice flat.
I guess I deserved questions like that, considering how Finn and I met. I didn’t know why I was compelled to do the things I did. I just got an impulse, and I went with it. Usually it served me well. Sometimes, not so much.
“I think I’m just trying to find what’s real. Dreamin’ of mansions isn’t a bad thing. But there’s got to be more to life than just enduring or dreaming. And too often, it feels like hope is the only thing most people have. Rich, poor, sick, healthy—we’re all just drowning in dreams and hoping someone else will make them come true.”