Dear Hank Williams by Kimberly Willis Holt Read Free Book Online Page B

saying, “Still waiting?”
    It was eight thirty before Uncle Jolly drove up. By then the banquet was halfway over. Remember I told you what else Uncle Jolly was addicted to? Well, it was clear he’d been at the Wigwam partaking in that addiction. He eased the car door open, but he lost hold of it. Then he leaned way over, trying to grab at the door to catch his fall. Lucky him, he caught it. He swung his legs out of the car and carefully stood. Still gripping the door, he hollered in a slurred voice, “I’ll be ready directly, Sweet Tater.” Then he rocked back and forth on his feet while he held on. Finally he straightened and swaggered toward the house.
    Frog spit on the ground. That’s how you know he’s good and mad. I scooted over and let Uncle Jolly stumble up the steps. This time he forgot to open the door. He fell plumb through the screen and knocked the door off its hinges. Now it’s good and broken.
    Aunt Patty Cake rushed out to the porch, where Uncle Jolly lay facedown on top of the door. She opened her mouth a few times like she was going to give him a big ole speech, but all she managed was to shake her head and say, “Just leave him be.”
    She turned, and we followed her into the house, making giant steps over Uncle Jolly’s body like he was a muddy rug we didn’t want to wipe our feet on. Aunt Patty Cake set the table with sliced ham, leftover turnip greens, and my Secret Agent Yam Mash, but I didn’t want to eat. I had a big hole inside me. Nothing could fill it. And here’s the thing of it all—Uncle Jolly is not my daddy, and Big Pete might as well not be too.
    When I was little, I would ask Aunt Patty Cake, “Was my daddy a bad man?”
    â€œNow, baby, you have asked me that question a hundred times before.”
    â€œWell, maybe I need to know again,” I’d say.
    At breakfast, a while back, I asked Uncle Jolly about him. He told me, “Tate, your daddy wasn’t a bad boy in the breaking-the-law sort of way. Let’s just say he was a tomcat.”
    â€œBut you never tell me what that means.”
    Aunt Patty Cake placed a plate of fried eggs and a slice of ham in front of me. “It meant he went a-creeping and a-crawling where he shouldn’t have been.”
    â€œIs that why Momma ran him off?”
    Aunt Patty Cake sighed. “Yes, ma’am, it is. Now stop asking your questions and eat.”
    Here is all I know about Big Pete:
    â€“ He is not a photographer, although he did leave behind a bunch of pictures he took when he and Momma went to Grand Isle on their honeymoon, and a pair of boots that I hate and Frog loves.
    â€“ He is not married to my momma anymore.
    â€“ He is not anywhere I know, and probably anywhere he wants me to know.
    â€“ The only thing I know about my daddy is his name, which he gave to me.
    Sorry for the shameful lie,
    Tate P. (which I wish stood for Patricia)

    PS—I’ll tell you the real story about my momma tomorrow.

 
    November 21, 1948
    Dear Mr. Williams,
    I KNOW YOU MUST THINK I’m the biggest liar in the great state of Louisiana, but Aunt Patty Cake told me to lock my lips about my parents’ real lives. She says, “No use inviting trouble.” Before I knew it, my little white lie grew and grew. Because Momma really is famous, and she did work in the picture-show business. But just not quite how I told it.
    After Big Pete left, Momma started working at the concession stand, popping popcorn before the movies, dipping up ice cream cones after the shows ended. The way she tells it, Elroy Broussard the Third came to the Saturday matinee when a Gene Autry movie was playing. The movie had already started when Elroy arrived, but I guess he took one look at Momma and decided he wasn’t in any hurry. Momma said she’d never seen a man dress so pretty. He spun a quarter on the counter and asked Momma, “Heads or tails?”
    Momma said,