My grandfather’s name was Nolan, and he was tall with skin that was even darker than Mom’s and Ruby’s. You could tell that his hair had been black once upon a time, but now it was silver and longer than mine, and he wore it back in a ponytail. My grandmother’s name was Barbara, and she was just the opposite. After seeing her, I realized just why I looked the way I did. Her skin was light like mine, and her hair was the same strawberry blond. She wanted us to call her “Grandma,” so we did. Nolan said he wasn’t old enough to be anybody’s grandpa and that the name Nolan had always suited him just fine, so that’s what we called him.
Me and Ruby had been there for almost a month when Grandma went out on the front porch to get the mail and carried a big cardboard box into my bedroom. I was sitting on the bed, listening to my CD Walkman and doing homework, when I looked up and saw her standing there, her eyes just barely peeking out above the top of that box. She set it down on my bed and stood back and looked at it. It was addressed to me and Ruby.
“This came from Cordova,” she said. “That’s a few towns over. I don’t know anybody over that way, and I don’t think Grandpa does either. Do you?”
“I don’t hardly know anybody in this whole state,” I said.
She picked up a pair of scissors from my desk and cut the packing tape and opened the box. There was an envelope sitting right inside on top of some tissue paper. Grandma picked it up and pulled out a letter. “You want me to read this?” she asked.
“Sure,” I said. I got up on my knees to look inside.
She started reading.
Dear Easter and Ruby,
Please accept this gift as a welcome to Alaska. I have seen you on the news and read about you in the paper, and I’m very sorry for all that you have been through. But I think you will enjoy living here. It is a very safe place, and the people are very nice and happy to have you. Please know that I am praying for you both.
Sincerely,
A Friend
But I only heard half of what she’d read. I’d already pulled back the tissue paper and seen what was inside the box. It was the teddy bear that Wade had won for us that night in Myrtle Beach. I pulled it out of the box and held it up and stared at it, and I tried to keep Grandma from knowing that I recognized it and that I knew exactly who’d sent it.
“Well,” she said, “this is a nice surprise. It was awfully kind of somebody to do that.”
“Can I see the letter?” I asked.
She handed it over, and I saw that it had been typed instead of handwritten.
“Your sister’s out in the backyard,” she said, “helping Grandpa set up the bird feeder. I’ll go grab her.”
“Okay,” I said, folding the letter and sliding it back into the envelope. I listened to her footsteps going down the hallway toward the kitchen, and I heard her open the sliding-glass door and call for Ruby. She slid it closed behind her.
As soon as I heard that I stuck my hand down the front of the bear’s overalls and felt around for what I’d left there that night back in South Carolina. My fingers closed around the stack of money, and until I pulled it out and saw it I almost couldn’t believe it was still there. But, when I turned it over in my hand, I saw something that hadn’t been there before. One of the tickets to the game in St. Louis was tucked behind the band. I slid the ticket out and looked at it; on it was a picture of Mark McGwire tipping his hat to the crowd. I turned the ticket over, and there on the back, scribbled in Wade’s messy handwriting, were three words: Stay on base.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
I wish to thank the following people and institutions for their kindness and support:
David Highfill, my editor at William Morrow, for his honesty, patience, and vision.
Nat Sobel and Judith Weber, my agents at Sobel Weber Associates, Inc. Nat, I wish you could ensure the New York Jets’ future as well as you’ve ensured mine. A heartfelt thank-you to the rest of the Sobel/Weber team: Julie Stevenson, Adia Wright, and Kirsten Carleton.
The Corporation of Yaddo, the MacDowell Colony, and Highland Springs Farm in Wellsburg, West Virginia, where so much of this novel was written and revised.
All of the amazing people at William Morrow/HarperCollins, past and present: Liate Stehlik, Michael Morrison, Jessica Williams, Sharyn Rosenblum, Stephanie Kim, Abigail Tyson, Shawn Nicholls, Kimberly Chocolaad, Tavia Kowalchuk, Carla Parker, Mike Brennan, Jeanette Zwart, Doug Jones, Caitlin McCaskey, Gabriel Barrilas, Anne DeCourcey, Ian Doherty, Karen Gudmondson, Jim Hankey, Kate McCune, Cathy Schornstein, Robin Smith, and, holy moly, Eric Svenson.
My colleagues and students in the MFA Program in Fiction and Nonfiction at Southern New Hampshire University.
The friends and family who either read drafts, gave advice, listened, or did all three: Cliff Cash, Amy Earnheart, Walker Barnes, Patrick Crerand, Christian Helms, Michael Jauchen, Thomas Murphy, Chatman Neely, Harry Sanford, Brian Sullivan, and Reggie Scott Young.
Last of all, but most of all, Mallory Brady Cash, my wife, best friend, and first reader: if not for her, then nothing.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WILEY CASH is the award-winning and New York times bestselling author of A Land More Kind Than Home. He is from North Carolina and has a Ph.D. in English from the University of Louisiana-Lafayette. He has held residency positions at Yaddo and the MacDowell Colony and teaches in the low-residency MFA program at Southern New Hampshire University. He and his wife live in Wilmington, North Carolina.
