Ten Miles Past Normal - By Frances O'Roark Dowell Page 0,10
gripped Mr. Pritchard’s shoulder in a kind of guy mini-hug. “You’re looking good, Harlan. How the ladies treating you?”
Mr. Pritchard calls all the female nurses and aides at the nursing home “the ladies.”
“They can’t resist me, Mike,” Mr. Pritchard told him, pushing himself up from his chair, which he offered to me. I shook my head, nodding toward the two boxes of equipment, which I began to set up. “Got to beat ’em off with a stick.”
Mr. Pritchard walked over to his bed and boosted himself up. His legs dangled over the side like a little kid’s. “My voice isn’t feeling all that strong today, Mike. You want to sit next to me on the bed while we talk?”
I set up the mic stand in front of Mr. Pritchard and positioned the microphone so it was angled toward his mouth. Pulling the monitor over to the chair next to the sink, I sat down and began adjusting the sound levels, feeling competent and tech savvy as I twisted and turned the knobs, although this is the only technical expertise I actually possess, and only because I’ve been helping my dad with his interviews for years now.
After my father announced into the mic the date and place of the interview, and that the interview was with Harlan Pritchard of Manneville, North Carolina, he began with his questions. “Now, Harlan, last time we were discussing the medicinal herbs that Hazel grew for teas on the east side of the house. Tell me some of the names, if you would, and how Hazel propagated plants, that sort of thing.”
Mr. Pritchard shifted forward toward the mic. “Well, sir, Hazel was a seed collector. If you had a plant she found interesting, she wouldn’t waste any time asking you to fill her an envelope up with some seeds.”
After an hour, Mr. Pritchard’s voice began to grow raspy, and it was easy to see he was getting tired. “I’m not much good to you today, Mike,” he said finally. “Couldn’t sleep at all last night. Some old girl down the hall was crying for her babies. Saddest thing you ever heard. I’m glad my Hazel never had to go through this”—he waved his arm around the room, pointing at the heart monitor next his bed and the bedpan on his bedside table. “Terrible way to finish things up.”
I can’t stop thinking about Mr. Pritchard, the way he stays so cheerful even with the bedpans and the crying, and by the time the bell rings to release us from first period, my doodling has grown into a full-fledged portrait. He’s standing in the middle of his front yard surrounded by birdhouses filled with bluebirds. Mrs. Pritchard, who Mr. Pritchard has talked about so much I feel like I know her, peeks around from the corner of the house, a bouquet of flowers in her hands. I’ve seen her picture, so I know to make her eyes all crinkly. She ends up looking like Emma.
I tear out the page from my notebook and put it in my backpack, next to Sarah’s note. As I stand and scoop up my books, I remember something Mr. Pritchard told me about Hazel—she was a teacher. She wasn’t a public school teacher, though. She taught people how to read and write so that they could register to vote.
“Got a window shot out for that,” Mr. Pritchard recalled when he told my dad about it. “Got shot at too. But Hazel wasn’t afraid. Only thing that ever made her afraid was that the bad guys might win in the end.”
Hazel Pritchard. I grab my notebook out of my backpack and scribble her name under Marie Murray’s. Then I duck my head and shoulder my way toward world history, occasionally glancing up to see if anyone’s interested in making eye contact in a welcoming, “maybe we could be friends” sort of way.
Guess what?
They aren’t.
Chapter Six
Lunch Bunch
Let me just clarify one thing: I don’t actually eat lunch in the library. Food and beverages are not allowed, as the signage posted every two feet will tell you. So I scarf down my lunch standing in front of my locker, then head for sanctuary.
The first thing I do when I get there is find an open computer and check out my mom’s blog. Each new post is an adventure in potential humiliation, but somehow I can’t help myself. I have to see how my mom has reconstructed her homemade life for public viewing.
My mom is a freelance