Whisper Hollow Read Free Page B

in turn helped down the metal steps by a young man in steel-toed boots. Then the baseball players, smiling and proud, their uniforms packed into the cardboard suitcases they carried, descended into the small crowd waiting for them. Their mothers and a few fathers whose shifts in the mines had ended or else not yet begun, sweethearts, and classmates welcomed them home with claps on the back and demure smiles. When shortstop Giovanni Esposito stepped into the light and waved at Alta, she lost her breath again.
    Giovanni, or John, as he was called, was fifteen, with dark, curly hair and a smile that turned his eyes into crescents. She’d never been close enough to know what color his eyes were and had never cared to find out until that moment, when they looked right at her. Unlike the other boys, whose faces were slick and spotty or darkened by coal dust, John’s complexion was clear and smooth, except for a small mole under his left eye near his nose and the shadowy beginning of facial hair. He was tall for his age, taller than the high school coach who was traveling with them, and his shoulders looked as strong as a grown man’s. Under the midday light, he resembled her image of Homer’s Odysseus, the king of Ithaca, about whom she’d read nightly for three weeks by candlelight the previous winter. That is, after her chores were done.
    He waved again and shouted, “Hello there!” and Alta, suddenly smitten, tentatively raised her own hand to return the greeting. Why was he waving to her? Then, from behind her, another shout: “Hey, Johnny!” She felt the brush of a boy’s shoulder against hers as he moved toward John to pump his hand and offer congratulations on a game well played.
    Embarrassed, she turned her face as though she hadn’t been staring, entranced, at the boy who in that moment became themost beautiful thing she’d seen in all her twelve years. When she moved her gaze beyond him, she found herself staring again, this time at the second-most-beautiful thing: the woman she assumed was her new aunt, Maggie.
    Maggie stood so still amid the excited, doting movements of her uncle Punk that she seemed to be floating in the stir of air he whipped up around her. Alta watched as she reached inside her drawstring purse and pulled out a silver case. Maggie took out a cigarette and put it into the end of a long plastic holder. Punk quickly dug inside his pocket for a lighter, then made a cup against the wind to light it. She hardly moved, except to bring the cigarette slowly toward and away from her mouth, but Alta had the impression that all her movements would be as languid and graceful as a cat’s. Maggie waited as Punk collected their many suitcases from the baggage car, struggling under their weight and piling them next to her one by one. Each time he appeared, she beamed at him, but made no offer to help.
    Alta had never seen a woman with such poise. Had never watched someone stand so elegantly and confidently still. Had never, ever seen a woman smoking a cigarette, nor wearing high-heeled shoes, flesh-colored stockings, a dress with a hem that barely covered her knees, dangling earrings, rouge. In the vague periphery of her vision, Alta realized that other people were staring at Maggie as well. She even heard an audible gasp from somewhere nearby. Nothing like this woman had ever happened to Verra, West Virginia, much less to Alta herself.
    Finally, when Punk had gathered all their belongings, he looked around for his brother or nephews, but all he saw was Alta.
    “Is that you, Alta?” he called across the platform. Alta came out of her reverie enough to nod. “Well, come on up here and meet your aunt Maggie!”
    Alta walked the thirty or so feet without taking her eyes off her new aunt, then stopped in front of Maggie without saying a word.
    “I swear you’re gonna be taller than any of us, you keep growin’ like you do,” Punk said; then he turned to Maggie. “This here’s Alta. My sister’s