Every day until Christmas – a favorite Christmas carol of mine –
A longish drive to Goliad Saturday morning in the wee hours – well, somewhat wee hours, starting at 7 AM – and a somewhat longish drive back, after all of us in the Author Corral began packing up at 3 PM. The doggie Christmas costume contest at 3 PM pretty well means that a lot of the roving shoppers are over at the bandstand watching the dogs, and the day would end at 4 PM anyway. Once three or four authors began packing up, the day is done and dusted.
I looked back in my archives and FB, and it seems that I have been going to Goliad for the Christmas on the Square for ten years – my, how the time flies when you are having fun. I’ve been at it long enough that Estelle Z. was in charge of wrangling authors for the corral; the first one we had a pavilion next to the stage, then for a couple of years in the little courtyard off the Chamber of Commerce building, then – upon that disastrous year when it was 20 degrees with a strong gale blowing – we were in a disused restaurant premise in one of the Square buildings. I think I sold one book that year, to the author at the next table, as we all huddled miserably in overcoats and blankets and waited for some intrepid and chilled to the bone customer to find us by accident and wander in. Christmas on the Square was deserted that year; most of the vendors bagged it early, and we headed off home at about 1:30, upon looking at a weather forecast which predicted ice and sleet. Eventually, the Author Corral moved into the courtyard at the Mustang Cantina, and this year, a lot of the booths were set up along that side of the square – and I did moderately well with book sales, which is very pleasing. This is where the Edwardian author drag paid off; going out and circulating among shoppers along the square, telling them about the Author Corral and handing out cards. A good few of the other authors did this, so we collected up some more business than we might have otherwise.
I am quite inordinately fond of Goliad – it is the modal for Luna City’s famed and historic Town Square, less the grandiose courthouse in the middle. Because, of course, Luna City lost out on being the county seat, on account of losing their certain chance of being a stop on the San Antonio & Aransas Pass Railway when … long chain of circumstances here … and the founders of Luna City (which was a 1885 real estate project to begin with) had to make lemonade out of the blasted hopes for local civic prominence. A lot of the pictures which serve as chapter heading illustrations in the Luna City books are of places in Goliad. (A lot of them are not. I should run a contest, for Texas readers guessing the source of those illustrations.)
This be the name of the game, for independent authors – it’s only half the job, writing and publishing The Book. The other half is marketing that book; and an event where people are generally shopping and looking for good gifts? Work it, Author! Work it! Be charming, engage with people, talk to them about your books, about other authors’ books! Hand out postcards, business cards, bookmarks and flyers about your books! In one of those author discussion groups, I vaguely remember reading that for an indy author the key is to have two dozen or more super-fans; readers who love your books so extravagantly and deeply that not only will they rush out and buy everything that you put out there, but they will talk you up to everyone they know, in real-life and on-line … and the ripple effects move outwards. Another theory has it that having a certain number of books out there creates a multiplier effect. Every book you have out there is an advertisement to the casual reader for every other book you have written. Again, another ripple effect.
Le sigh deep.
Still working it. And I committed to a Third Thursday in Seguin, for July, 2020. The organizer of these is another indy author and member of the Texas Author’s Guild, whose project is to eventually open an indy author bookstore in Seguin. I believe the long-term goal is to turn Seguin (which has a charming old-fashioned main street and is an easy commute from any point along the San Antonio-Austin axis) into a sort of Texan Hay-on-Wye; a veritable mecca for bookstores and the readers who love bookstores. This gives me an absolute deadline for completing the next Luna City installment, and That Fateful Lightning both, so that one or the other can have an official launch. This will be a change from my usual, which is to kick them out there, after notifying a couple of biggish weblogs that my next book is available. Sitting at a table in a relatively deserted bookstore, glumly watching casual shoppers avoiding my eye just has no appeal anymore. Another author for company and a coffee shop in the late afternoon/early evening has a lot more appeal!
(From One Half Dozen of Luna City – a short story for the anniversary of the Pearl Harbor attack of December, 1941)
Adeliza Gonzalez-Gonzales – who was never called anything but ‘Adi’ back then – was just thirteen when her older brother Manuel – Manolo to the family, Manny to his Anglo friends – came to Papi and Mama and said to them, “Papi, I want to see more of the world than Karnes County, an’ at the Navy recruiting office, they say that I’ll get a paycheck nice and regular, and I can work on ship engines that are bigger than this house. Besides, everyone says if America gets into a war, then they’ll be drafting men my age, an’ I don’t wanna be a soldier, marching around in the mud and all that. The Navy lives good, and they say that the food is great. Can I have your permission, Papi?”
Mama got all pinch-faced and weepy, because Manolo was her favorite and oldest child. Papi sighed and looked solemn and grave, saying, “Manolo – mi hijo – if this is what you truly want, I will sign the papers.” To Mama, he added, “Do not cry, Estella, can you see your boy as a soldier, following orders?”
“But he still must follow orders – the Navy is as military as the army,” Adeliza piped up, and Manolo jeered and replied, “Nothing like the same at all, Adi!”
Manolo packed a few things in a cheap cardboard suitcase, and climbed aboard the bus to the city, and in time over the next three years the postman delivered hastily-scrawled letters and postcards; letters with odd postmarks and postcards of splendidly colored landscapes and exotic places. Manolo came home on leave once, in the summer, splendid in his white uniform and round white cap, carrying a heavy duffel-bag over his shoulder with apparent ease, seeming to have expanded from a boy into a man. Manolo was greatly excited. His ship was being transferred from the West Coast to the Hawaiian Islands. He brought presents for the family, a breath of fresh air and tales of travels in exotic far lands. Later, he sent his little sister a scarf of silk gauze, printed with a map of the Hawaiian Islands and pineapples and exotic flowers. Adi put it in the chip-carved box where she kept her handkerchiefs and her most precious small possessions. From that time on, a tinted picture-portrait of Manolo in his uniform sat in pride of place on the cabinet radio and Mama kept a candle burning before it always, a candle dedicated to Saint Peter, who had the particular care of sailors.
A winter Sunday morning, when the breeze from the north promised chilly nights, and the frost in the shade had not yet melted in the sunshine; Papa came to fetch Mama and Adi and the other children after morning Mass. Adi sensed that there was something wrong, even before Papi spoke. There was a peculiarly grim expression on Papi’s face, a hush among the congregation scattering to their houses after Mass, silence broken only by the tinny sound of the radio in Papi’s car.
“The Japanese have dropped bombs on the harbor, and our bases in Hawaii,” Papi said. “The war has begun, whether we wish it or no.”
“What of Manolo?” Mama demanded, her hands to her mouth in shock and horror. “Where is he? Is he safe?”
“I have no idea,” Papi replied, his eyes shadowed with fear. Adi said nothing. She was sixteen now, almost grown. She met Papi’s gaze with a silent nod of understanding.
Two days later a card came in the mail, from Manolo, a card on which Mama fell on with tears of joy. “You see!” she exclaimed. “He is safe! This letter is from him! All will be well, you will see!”
“Mama, the letter is postmarked the week before last,” Adi said, to Mama’s unheeding ears. A week later, a parcel bound in brown paper arrived, addressed in Manolo’s handwriting.
“Christmas presents!” Mama exclaimed, “From Manolo, of course. You see, he is safe! It is only rumors that he is missing, that telegram was mistaken.”
“Yes, Mama,” Adi agreed with a heavy heart and a show of cheer, for the telegraph office messenger boy had brought that small envelope at mid-December. The telegram from the war office was followed in short order by Father Bertram, then the priest at St. Margaret and St. Anthony, who had seen the messenger boy’s bicycle pass the priest’s residence while Father Bertram was pruning the pyracantha hedge around the tiny garden. Everyone knew that telegrams meant bad news, now that the war had well and truly come to them, but Father Bertram’s intended consolation and comfort were misplaced, for Mama was not distressed in the least.
“In the government telegram, it says only that he is missing,” Mama insisted, over and over again. “Missing – not dead. In my heart, I know that Manolo is safe.”
In the end, Father Bertram was the most sorely grieved of them all. He departed shaking his head and saying to Adi, “Your poor dear mother – I can only think that the enormity of your loss has affected the balance of her mind.”
Father Bertram’s Spanish was very bad, afflicted as he was with a very strong accent, reflecting many years as a missionary in the Argentine, so Adi was not entirely certain of what Father Bertram meant. She only smiled uncertainly. No, Mama had merely decided that Manolo was safe, and doing what he needed to be doing for the war effort and would not hear any word to the contrary. Never mind that Manolo’s ship – the great battleship Arizona, whose engines Manolo had tended lovingly – had blown up with a roar that could have been heard halfway across the Pacific. There were pictures of the battleship, half-capsized in billowing clouds of black smoke in the weekly English newsmagazine. Poof! Like that, a candle blown out in a single breath and a thousand and a half lives snuffed out with it. It made Adi’s heart ache to think of this, and she wept, but not where Mama could see.
That Christmas and many Christmases afterwards were not happy occasions for Adi’s family. They were not happy again until Adi married and had children of her own, to bury the memory of that first wartime Christmas.
She did not even cry when Cousin Nando, and Cousin Jesus Gonzales and a half-dozen of the other teenage boy cousins came to Adi after Mass on Christmas Day, 1941, announcing that they had all sworn a blood-oath to avenge Manolo. Cousin Jesus had already had his orders to report to the Army, but the other boys were intent on volunteering for the Army, the Navy, the Marines even.
“So … we meant to ask you as Manny’s sister – if you would give us all a token,” Jesus Gonzales affirmed solemnly. “We pledge to avenge him by killing a dozen Japs each. Our solemnest promise, Adi!”
“Don’t be ridiculous!” Adi snorted. Yes, of course she was angry at the Japanese for killing her gentle brother Manolo, who only lived to get grease all over his hands and work on his engines until they were tuned and vibrated like the beating of a human heart. And they had attacked without warning, without a declaration of war, which to Adi’s understanding, was sneaky and unfair. But Jesus Gonzales, who was dark-eyed, lean, and handsome like a movie star, looked at her soulfully and begged again, until she relented. “Give me a moment.”
She went into her parent’s house – the house in the oldest part of town, into her room, and took out the chip-carved box with her most precious small things in it, considering a sacrifice of the scarf printed with that map of the Hawaiian Islands, the pictures of a tower and exotic flowers, and blue waves crashing on a white-sand shore; the scarf which had been a gift from Manolo. No, not that. She took instead another of her handkerchiefs, a pretty white cotton gauze handkerchief, printed with little blue flowers and green leaves, and the sewing shears from Mama’s sewing basket.
Out on the front porch, she met the cousins – dark-eyed romantic Jesus, hot-tempered Nando, and the others. “My token, that which you have asked for,” Adi said, as she crunched the scissor blades through the crisp-starched handkerchief; producing a dozen smaller squares, and struggled for something to say as she put them into the hands of that boy or this, thinking that this was absurdly like something from the old legends, or the movies on a flickering silver screen. She struggled for the right words. “Not in hate … Manolo didn’t hate, for he didn’t want to be remembered that way. But for the right, for justice and freedom, and for our people. For Manolo …” she lost the thread of her thoughts entirely, for Jesus and Nando reverently kissed the scraps of handkerchief as they were handed to them, and so did the other boys.
“Write to me?” Asked Jesus, at the last. “Promise, Adi!”
They all went off, in the following weeks, all with their small cheap suitcases packed, taking the weekly bus that was the only public transport then from Luna City to the wider world, and to the duty and colors which called them. Cousin Nando became a pilot, Jesus a cook with the Army, the others to service mundane or heroic as chance and temperament led them. Adi Gonzales was certain that every one of them took that little square of cotton handkerchief, printed with blue flowers.
Jesus Gonzales certainly did, for it was one of those small things which she found at the end in sorting out his things, after half a century of faithful marriage; a cotton scrap, discolored with age, so fragile that it practically fell apart in her hand as she took it out from his wallet.
But Mama … No, Mama never accepted that Manolo was gone from the world of the living. Against all evidence to the contrary; the telegram from the government, that Manolo never came home again, she insisted that he was alive and well, doing his patriotic duty for the war, still working in the engine-room of the battleship Arizona. Mama was first to the telephone – the telephone that was almost the first in Luna City in the household of a Gonzales or Gonzalez, certain every time that it was Manolo calling, long-distance. The war dragged on.
Even when it ended and the next began, Mama smilingly assured Adi and the family, their friends that Manolo was fine and happy in his work. For she had seen him frequently – or his likeness, in pictures of sailors on one ship or another, on shore leave, or in the newsreels in the movie theater in Karnesville. Mama did not allow the star on the flag which hung in the front window of their house to change from white to gold, and there was a wrapped gift on Three King’s Day for Manolo for many years to come. Now and again, Mama claimed that that she had talked to someone who had seen Manolo. In her later years, Mama even insisted that she had spoken with Manolo, on the telephone. In her final illness, she had opened her eyes one afternoon, and said to Adi – perfectly clear, “There is nothing to worry about, mi hija. Manolo has left insurance, to take care of us all.”
Some years after both Mama and Papi passed away, Adi’s nephew Roman and his wife celebrated their twentieth wedding anniversary with a trip to Hawaii. Roman and Conchita went to the Arizona Memorial, and surreptitiously left a bouquet of fragrant white plumeria flowers floating on the water; water still streaked with oil leaking from Manolo’s ship, iridescent streaks which the locals said were the tears of the ship, crying for her lost crew.
Roman and Conchita also went to the Punchbowl Cemetery. They brought back pictures. Adi is certain that Manolo is buried there, among the unknowns from the Arizona. After all this time, it hardly matters, really. But she likes to think of him, the strong young sailor in his white uniform, with his hands and fingernails from which the oil and grime that came from working engines would never quite be cleaned. She likes to think of him walking among the palm trees, plumeria and frangipani scenting the tropic air, the blue water and white foam, crashing on a sugar-white strand.
Now and again, Adeliza Gonzales-Gonzalez, who has not been called ‘Adi’ in years thinks she has seen Manolo, in a magazine picture accompanying some story to do with the Navy, or a sailor half-glimpsed in a television newscast. She is very careful not to say anything about this, of course.
Yes, we’re sort of traditionalist – Christmas doesn’t really start for us until the day after Thanksgiving. And yes, I spent a lot of years overseas where the Christmas presents for the family had to be purchased early, packed and mailed home in early October … yay for prior planning preventing piss poor holiday performance … but otherwise; the decorations and all went up on the day after Turkey Day.
And no, dear ghod, none of that lining up at the doors of some big-box outlet for the chance to engage in some full-body scrum with other shoppers in the wee hours for the opportunity to purchase some marked up to be marked down bit of electronic or toy tat. Just … no. I’ve maintained the habit of picking up items throughout the year, intended as gifts for specific family members. So Black Friday for us – at least the morning thereof – was spent hitting a couple of stores for specific things; some specialty foods at Ikea, Tuesday Morning for a set of flannel sheets for Mom, HEB for assorted groceries and a Collin Street Bakery fruitcake for my brother (who adores their fruitcake) … and the post office for one of their priority boxes to fit all of this and the above in, for posting to the family in California. The Daughter Unit spent some few minutes ordering items from Amazon – and there we are; sorted! Leaving the afternoon free to put up decorations; this program of putting up the seasonal ornaments will continue this weekend.
As for … book and market stuff; Christmas on the Square in Goliad is on for this weekend, and we’ll be in Miss Ruby’s Author Corral on Saturday – this year the corral is again in the courtyard of the Mustang Cantina, just off the Square by the awning over the enormous Bull Durham sign. There’s another couple of markets the weekend and week after that. I hope to be able to roll out the print versions of the Luna City compendium volumes in time for the Third Thursday in Seguin. As for status on the works in progress; I am about halfway through the first draft of my Civil War novel, “That Fateful Lightning” – getting to the point that actually deals with the Civil War and Miss Minnie Vining’s work as a hospital nurse. Also, starting on Luna City #9 – yes, an explanation of what Xavier Gunnison-Penn saw on the town Christmas tree, and what on earth will happen when Clovis Walcott returns from the Dubai job … and comes to the Café for a talk with Luc about what his intentions are with regard to Belle Walcott. Among other interesting developments in Luna City. I could do with some more stories about small-town shenanigans to fill out this volume, so hope that I hear some more in Goliad and at the remaining market events.
And that’s my Thanksgiving weekend plans…
(From the next book to be titled That Fateful Lightening, the story of Miss Minnie Vining’s adventures as an activist for abolition, and as a Civil War battlefield nurse. In support of this, my daughter and I are going to Liendo Plantation’s Civil War reenactment weekend, to see what I can see, and to take pictures…)
“Minnie dear, there is a telegram just this last hour delivered for you,” Lolly Bard hovered in the ladies’ parlor of the rooming house in Rochester on the lake. “I haven’t opened it, I assure you. Things like this are private … but …” Lolly handed Minnie the envelope, and fussed with the sleeve of her wrap – it was cold, now that it was winter where the wind blew off Lake Ontario, even colder than Boston where the wind came from the Atlantic. Minnie and Lolly had just returned from a lively lecture and discussion upon the topic of the necessity for good citizens of abolition sympathies to resist and nullify the Fugitive Slave Acts; those which commanded that citizens of the North cooperate in the capture and detention of escaping. “I pray that it is not bad news although it is my sad experience that sudden telegrams usually are…”
Lolly’s voice trailed off as Minnie ripped open the telegram envelope and read the brief contents.
Mother A dying stop. Return home soonest stop. Richard sends.
“I … we have to return to Boston,” Minnie felt the world around her suddenly jolt, and then return to its customary place. “This is from Richard Brewer. Annabelle is … she is desperately unwell. Never mind – we must return to Boston at once.”
“Oh … my dear Minnie!” Lolly looked as if about to burst into useless tears, but then recovered herself. She had been traveling with Minnie as companion, adjutant and secretary for some five years now, as the second-most-dedicated woman of abolitionist sympathies in the Beacon Street Congregationalist Church. Minnie had to admit, against considerable prejudice that Lolly had an unparalleled gift at making railroad connections and finding friends and sympathizers to offer hospitality, in all their travels across the North in support of the cause. Also, for organizing church bazaars in support of suffrage and abolition. Minnie had never been able to work out how Lolly accomplished such miracles of connection and courteous compliance; mild-speaking, silly, fluttery Lolly, who blinked apologetically when asked to explain such successes.
“I am just persuasive, Minnie, dear.”
Over those years, Minnie warmed to Lolly as a traveling companion, although the other woman was and would never be as close and dear as Annabelle was. Now Minnie’s heart turned over again. Not Annabelle, dear sweet Lord, do not take my sister in all but blood from me, she pled silently. She sank into the nearest chair, the telegram crumpled in her hand. She sensed Lolly’s hovering presence, the quiet rustle of her petticoats and day dress, as Lolly put a handkerchief into her other hand, saying,
“I will arrange it all, for our journey – Miss Anthony will understand perfectly that you cannot appear tomorrow. She and Mrs. Stanton and their friends will understand perfectly that you need to be at home with your dearest ones. As for the train arrangements; do not fear. I have many connections among my husbands’ friends, and I will call upon them and request their favor and courtesy. I will even go to the State Street Depot this very moment and see what I might arrange through an interview with Mr. Corning’s agent; he is the major shareholder of the New York Central, you know. He and Mr. Bard were good friends. He will take the time to meet with me, if he is in town. I fear, though – that we will not be able to commence a return to Boston until tomorrow – midday at the latest.”
“Do what you think best, then,” Minnie replied, as Lolly quietly took her leave from their apartments; a comfortable one, Minnie had to admit. She had been a guest in many such, since embarking on a career as a lecturer in the great cause – the cause which loomed over her life, took hold of her every thought, thoughts and emotions reinforced by the fellows she associated with in that great endeavor. There were so many friends and fellow warriors for the cause which she had encountered over a decade in the lecture circuit; men and women alike, passionately devoted to the abolition crusade, many of whom had become fond friends and valued correspondents; the ascetic Miss Anthony and the comfortable and matronly Mrs. Stanton, who had very kindly invited Minnie to Rochester to appear in a lecture series with others of sympathy to the cause of abolition and female suffrage. The cause had drawn Minnie into friendship with many others; with Miss Dix, who was also from Boston and scribbled improving stories for children between her inscrutable concern for the indigent and insane, the elegant and suave Mr. William Still, a man of color from Philadelphia who fearlessly organized the escape of slaves from the South and saw to their safety and welfare afterwards. Minnie had made many generous contributions to Mr. Still’s crusade from her own purse over the years, feeling as Miss Van Lew had done; while many slaves still languished in the vilest of servitude, being of assistance and encouragement to those sufficiently bold and reckless to grasp at freedom by their own efforts – meant everything to that few.
At this present moment, all of that was a momentary distraction, for which Minnie now felt some small guilt. Family, dear friends – that was all! Dearest friend, sister in all but blood – now Annabelle was dying. And Richard Brewer was not a man given to pointless drama; he would not have sent the telegram worded otherwise. Annabelle, dear ‘Belle – she had never been blessed with the same robust constitution as Minnie, had hated to travel, sworn herself to be devoted to hearth and home, to the care of Sophie and Richard’s small son, a child produced after so many tragic disappointments.
Minnie did not know Little Richie well enough to have any established opinion of him, other that he was a handsome lad, a small version of Richard Brewer, and superficially charming. Annabelle’s daughter and Richard Brewer were the younger generation which she thought the world of – and Richard honored her with his friendship and respect. An advantage of age, Minnie had come to see. Once past the age of blooming youth and primed to see every untied bachelor as an object of courtship, and well into what was presumed to be the arid age of spinsterhood – the boundaries of friendship expanded. When the presumption of flirtation was off the table, then honest friendship and respect between men and women was possible. Minnie found that to be a rewarding prospect. Once removed from the marriage market – how many other possibilities for friendship opened before a woman! And all of that had distracted her over the last decade from those first close ties!
She wanted to pace up and down, to rage against the fates – yea, even to begin walking east; but that would be silly and pointless, as she very well knew upon a moment’s consideration. Would that she had wings, and to fly!
At least, she could pack; might Lolly return, breathless within minutes, with the welcome news that she had procured tickets on the train-cars leaving this very instant! Minnie set to work; but this distraction took only a few minutes. Both she and Lolly traveled with very little but two small trunks between them. They were in the habit of wearing their heaviest and most bulky garments for travel … she accomplished that small task and took up the novel she had brought along to read, not expecting to think very much of it; Mrs. Stowe’s dramatic opus Uncle Tom’s Cabin. Minnie had first read it as a newspaper serial. Both Papa-the-Judge and Tem would have condemned it for containing too much sentimental Christian flummery, and contrivances of plot – and honestly, a slave-master beating a fit and useful slave to death, out of pique over defiance? Well, really, and with that slave being worth at least fifteen hundred dollars at auction? Minnie had learned much about the lamentable trade over the previous years; one of those being that the owner of a valuable slave would be as likely to kill that slave as a good Boston ship-owner would be to willfully sink one of his own clippers.
But it made a touching element in the story, and the book was being read avidly across the North. Minnie had to admit that the silly and sentimental yarn had likely brought at least as many to Abolition sympathies as had ten years of herself giving lectures and writing articles. She thumbed through the chapters of Mrs. Howe’s opus in the spirit of a duty and distraction. Soon she would have to admit honestly that she had read it and say something laudatory should she ever be asked. Although she had concluded that the saintly Little Eva couldn’t die any sooner for her taste, by the time that Lolly Bard came through the door of their rooms, announcing with an air of triumph,
“We have tickets through to Albany and beyond tomorrow, on the morning train, Minnie! Mr. Corning’s agent gave me every consideration! It’s all arranged! He has even promised to send a carriage for us, and for our trunks … oh, excellent – well, I shall pack my own things, and I think we should have a quiet supper and retire early. Oh, you have finally been reading Uncle Tom’s Cabin! Is it not the most engaging account of the horrors of slavery?”
“And the most sentimental tripe I have read in years.” Minnie replied. “I disliked the good characters, could not care any less for the bad, and wish they would have all drowned together. I think that Twelve Years a Slave was a much more truthful narrative.”
“Minnie, you are so unruly!” Lolly giggled. “No – really, I expect that you will encounter Mrs. Howe sometime, and you simply must say something nice about her novel.”
“The print was easy to read, and the paper was of good quality,” Minnie replied, acerbically. “Which is what my brother Tem used to say when pressed. No, I expect that I will say something like ‘Your efforts for the cause are so warmly appreciated,’ and leave it at that. Perfect literary flummery, but if it brings more sympathy to the cause … it is what it is.” She closed the volume and laid it aside. Her head ached, with the effort of reading in dim lamplight, once that daylight had fled. She closed her eyes.
“Has there been any further news from Boston?” Lolly asked, in swift concern.
“No, no further news,” Minnie replied. “But I was not expecting such.”
“Mr. Turner was kind enough to send a telegram for me, to my son; that we are returning with all haste. I am certain that Arthur will send word to your family – he has always been so terribly responsible and considerate …” Lolly continued chattering as she repacked her own trunk and carpetbag, and Minnie let it pass over her as water passes over stone; not that Lolly ever seemed to notice when she was being ignored.
Tomorrow. Nearly six hundred miles. Three days, maybe four or five – more if there were delays on the track. Anything could happen in that time.
Anything.
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