by Teddy Jones
This is a brief excerpt from Far from Uncertain, a new novel from Stoney Creek Publishing. “A young woman on the run. A life built in the shadows. A story that refuses to be forgotten. At fifteen, Frankie ran from an abusive home with nothing but her wits and a gambler’s promise of escape. What she found was a world of speakeasies, bootlegging, and survival on the edge of the law. Now, decades later, her story is ready to be told—one of grit, defiance, and a woman who refused to be broken.”
Chapter One
Amarillo, Texas—Friday, June 16, 2000
Margaret started early that morning, up by 6 a.m.. After her morning coffee, the one cup she allowed herself, she showered and dressed, put on a bit of makeup—brightening her cheeks, emphasizing her eyes with a touch of mascara, applying light lipstick. The mirror told her she was ready to take advantage of the perfect opportunity. She’d waited years for the right time to tell what she’d kept silent about—seventy-five years, to be exact. Purely by chance, apparently, the local newspaper had learned she, at age ninety, was the oldest practicing registered nurse in the Texas Panhandle. A reporter called for an appointment. His assignment was to do a feature story on her. If she could convince the reporter to listen, that would be an important first step. No one else was still alive who could be hurt by what she’d tell, and many alive now and in the future might be helped.
She fluffed her hair and leaned back in her chair to wait. The reporter sounded young on the phone. She hoped he liked his grandmother. If he did, convincing him would be far easier.
Charles rang the doorbell and, as he waited, thought about his assignment. He hadn’t spent any time talking to any elderly person since his grandparents died. Might have to take it slower, speak louder. Then the door opened. When the woman invited him in, Charles hesitated. He’d picture her as being something like his grandmother. Nothing like this.
His grandmother had been a large woman, tall as his grand-dad, maybe five-ten, with a voice he could hear from the house clear out to the barn. When she died three years back, at eighty-eight, she was still a big woman. She told him every day that she loved him, but she seldom smiled. Her hair, twisted into a knot on the back of her head, and the plain, dark dresses with sleeves never shorter than her elbows, combined to give him an impression she tolerated no nonsense and not much fun.
He said, “Ms. Margaret Kenyon?”
“Yes.”
“I’m Charles Bailey from the newspaper.”
He hesitated because this person he’d been sent to interview stood maybe five-four, with curly gray hair, a slightly lopsided smile, and a dimple in her left cheek. Her green eyes sparkled as she said, “You look surprised. Your editor said you’d be prompt, and you are. Come on in.” As he followed past a small kitchen on his right, she said, “Call me Margaret.”
Nothing at all like his grandmother.
As soon as they were seated in her small, neat living room, she said, “Before we start with the interview, there’s something I need to tell you. Just listen and then I’ll explain.”
She watched him fumble in the hip pocket of his slacks and pull out a long, narrow notebook, then take a pen from his shirt pocket. As soon as he flipped open the cover on his notebook, she took a deep breath. With her eyes closed, her voice never wavering, she began.
“The night Frankie came to in a ditch, unable to stand, covered in blood, her entire body consumed by pain, she did the only thing she knew to do. She crawled toward the pitiful, high-pitched wail of her infant boy. They said when they found her there on an oil lease road near Borger no one gave her or the baby much of a chance—too far gone, too much blood loss, too many broken bones and internal injuries.”
He felt a frown starting, a crease between his eyes. His editor chose him as her “features man” because she liked his ability to get more than name, rank, and serial number in his interviews. His pieces always fetched compliments from her and from readers because his work got beneath the surface, touched readers with glimpses into real lives. Charles didn’t mind; he liked most people and enjoyed hearing their stories. And doing features kept him off the Friday night football beat. Hell, he’d even do a food column if he could manage to get a real investigative assignment sometime.
He’d had subjects who resisted answering questions, some who apparently had rehearsed before he arrived, and others who were so delighted at the thought of being featured in the newspaper that they spilled every thought that came to mind. But in every case so far, his subjects waited for him to take the lead, to ask questions. Not this woman. He focused on eliminating that frown that threatened to show, leaned against the cushion of the comfortable chair, and paid attention to her soft-voiced, earnest words.
She opened her eyes, focused on his, and said, “You wonder why I started telling you that? Here’s my reason. You’ve been sent here to get a story from me. Well, I doubt that the recollections of an old nurse will fetch many readers. Too boring. But I want you to hear this important story. Another woman’s story, one I know well.”
Getting him interested from the start was important. So far, so good. She sat in a reclining chair near his, at an angle, an end table between them. He leaned toward her and spoke slowly, the way young people will with the elderly, and said, “I’m sure you’ve seen and done a lot that would interest our readers.”
“That’s kind of you to say, but the fact is you’ve been given an assignment. I don’t want to get you in trouble with your editor, your being young and probably fairly new at your job. I know how that is. So I’ll offer you a deal.”
“She gave me a deadline.” His smile had been worried away by the small frown, which he now quickly replaced with a new, toothier version of the smile.
“If you want to hear the recollections of this old nurse, you have to agree to what I propose.” She paused a few seconds, then said, “You’re smiling, humoring me. That’s good. If you want to hear my story, you have to listen to the other one first. That story I started just now is the tale of someone I knew for a very long time. Lots more important than mine.”
“I’ve got four days until deadline.”
“Surely you know about negotiating. I guarantee you it’s worth hearing—crime, murder, revenge, things like that.”
“Well…I could try.”
“While you’re thinking about it, there’s another condition. Ha, that sat you up straight! Who’d have guessed a ninety-year-old woman would talk like a lawyer? Before we continue, you have to promise not to tell anyone any of this until you hear me out. You agree? Need to think about it?”
He searched for the correct response.
She said, “Take your time. I can wait. Feel free to leave if you want to.”
No way he was going to tell his editor he’d crashed and burned on a simple feature interview. His smile faded as he wondered what reason he’d offer for needing an extension. When her watchful silence told him this ninety-year-old wouldn’t budge, he said, “No, I agree.”
That dimpled smile again. Definitely not cut from the same cloth as his grandmother even though they were probably born around the same time.
“Fine. Then write out your promise and sign and date it. You needn’t worry about my telling anyone we bargained.”
She scanned the two lines he’d written: In exchange for an interview of Ms. Margaret Kenyon, I promise to listen to the story she wants to tell. I will keep what she tells me in complete confidence until she finishes telling that story. It was signed Charles Bailey, June 16, 2000.
As she folded the notebook sheet, she said, “Now I’ll need your address and phone number.”
Charles hesitated, then handed her one of his business cards identifying him as a reporter for Amarillo’s local daily newspaper and its online edition.
“Thank you. I’m ready to start when you are.” She leaned back in her recliner, lifting the footrest. Looking at him over the top of her bifocals, she said, “Go ahead Charles, get comfortable.”