The House You Pass On The Way Read online

  Table of Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Secrets

  “I need to tell you something, Stag. I need to tell you why Ida Mae sent me here. If we’re going to be friends, I don’t want it starting out on a lie.”

  “I don’t know if it’s something I want to hear.”

  Trout stared at her for a long time. “If you don’t want me to tell you . . . I won’t.”

  But Staggerlee knew why Ida Mae had sent Trout here; she could see it in Trout’s eyes and she could feel it when Trout sat down next to her. There was a feeling growing inside Trout, and Staggerlee knew it because it was growing inside her too.

  “I know why, Trout,” Staggerlee whispered.

  “This richly layered novel will be appreciated for its affecting look at the anxious wonderings of presexual teens, its portrait of a complex interracial family, and its snapshot of the emotionally wrenching but inarticulate adolescent search for self.”—SLJ

  “As soft-spoken and poetic as the heroine herself, Woodson’s prose gracefully expresses Staggerlee’s slow emergence from isolation as she and Trout grapple with their shared secret.”

  —Publishers Weekly

  PUFFIN BOOKS

  Published by the Penguin Group

  Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, New York 10014, U.S.A.

  Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto, Ontario, Canada M4P 2Y3

  (a division of Pearson Penguin Canada Inc.)

  Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

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  Registered Offices: Penguin Books Ltd, 80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England

  First published in the United States of America by Delacorte Press, 1997

  Published simultaneously by Speak, an imprint of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.,

  and G. P. Putnam’s Sons, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2003

  This edition published by Puffin Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 2010

  Copyright © Jacqueline Woodson, 1997

  All rights reserved

  “Desperado” by Don Henley & Glenn Frey © 1973 Cass County Music/Red Cloud Music

  All rights reserved. Used by permission.

  THE LIBRARY OF CONGRESS HAS CATALOGED THE G. P. PUTNAM’S SONS EDITION AS FOLLOWS:

  Woodson, Jacqueline.

  The house you pass on the way / Jacqueline Woodson.—1st G. P. Putnam’s Sons ed.

  p. cm.

  Summary: When fourteen-year-old Staggerlee, the daughter of a racially mixed marriage,

  spends a summer with her cousin Trout, she begins to question her sexuality to Trout

  and catches a glimpse of her possible future self.

  eISBN : 978-1-101-47797-7

  [1. Cousins—Fiction. 2. Racially mixed people—Fiction 3. Interracial marriage—Fiction.

  4. African Americans—Fiction. 5. Lesbians—Fiction. 6. Homosexuality—Fiction.] I. Title.

  PZ7.W868Ho 2003 [Fic]—dc21 2003001277

  The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume

  any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.

  http://us.penguingroup.com

  For Toshi, Juna, Kali, and Tashawn

  And freedom? Oh, freedom.

  Well that’s just some people talking.

  Your prison is walking through this world all alone.

  IT WAS WINTER THAT FINALLY MADE STAGGERLEE remember. Something about the way the cold grabbed hold of her as she walked along the river, her dog, Creek, galloping behind her, their shadows like ink against the white snow. And in the distance, the house sitting big and silent with all her family’s land spread out beyond it. Even the land seemed vast and muted now. Staggerlee turned to look at it—remembering all the corn and collards, all the wheat that had been harvested. The land didn’t seem capable now, flat and snow-covered. All spring, men had come, men her father had hired to work the land. And Staggerlee had watched them moving slowly through the fields, plowing and planting, their faces lined and weathered. Then fall had come, and these same men had returned to harvest the corn and wheat that seemed to grow for miles and miles. Then winter—and the men faded into the thick quiet. Even their laughter—the way it carried back to the house from the fields—where was it now?

  Staggerlee squinted up at the sun. It was weak today. Wintry. Everything about this place had settled into winter. Even the fish had disappeared, moved closer to the bottom of the river. And the meadowlarks and mourning doves. They were gone too. She shivered, wrapped her arms tighter around herself as she walked. In the distance, a horse whinnied. Creek ran ahead of her, skirting the icy edge of the river.

  Autumn had been new—a new school, a new baby sister, the choir. But now she had fallen into the routine of it, and the cold and snow had settled in on Sweet Gum. She walked slowly along the river, picking up shards of ice that had formed along the bank and gazing into them where rainbows shot through in every direction. She stopped walking and turned slowly, full face toward the river. Where would it take her? she wondered. She wished the river were time itself and could take her back to someplace before now. Maybe before last summer. Back to the beginning of her own time. And maybe she could start over there.

  And the letter from her cousin, Trout, when it finally arrived late in January, its edges smudged and bending. And the way her legs buckled when she got to the part about—about Trout and . . . Yes, that had made her want to remember. She wanted to make sense of it all, of that summer, of what happened with Trout.

  Creek turned and ran back toward her, barking. She reached down to pet him.

  “Do you remember it, Creek?” she whispered. “If you could tell the story, what would you say?”

  The tiny brown patches above the dog’s eyes twitched, and Staggerlee smiled. It always made him seem to be thinking.

  “What do you remember, dog?” But she wasn’t looking at Creek any longer, she was looking out at the river and beyond it—to her own beginning. The river wind blew hard and cold around her, whipping her hair up over her face. It was longer now, and the brown-gold ringlets felt wild in the wind. She closed her eyes and smiled. This was her hair. And her mother’s. And her father’s.

  But her name, Staggerlee, that was her own. A name she had given herself a long, long time ago.

  She was born Evangeline Ian Canan at Sweet Gum General, the third of five. Fourteen years ago. Pre
tty baby. In the baby pictures, she is smiling or reaching up to hug someone. Her hair was red then, and straight. And her eyes were blue like her mother’s but had changed over time. Now they were brown. Her mother said she didn’t cry often as a child. Staggerlee had gone through the pictures over and over. There were photos of Charlie Horse—her older brother—crying as a baby. Now Charlie Horse was eighteen. When he came home from college at Christmas, Staggerlee showed him the pictures and he laughed. He had a sweet laugh, her brother did. And now Staggerlee smiled, remembering how he’d hugged her and said, “You were just the prettiest of us, girl. That’s why there’re so many smiling pictures of you.” Charlie Horse was older now. College had changed him; he seemed more thoughtful. When he was home, he spent long hours at the piano, practicing right through lunch and dinner. He had always been able to go for hours and hours without eating. Now he seemed able to go days.

  And there were crying pictures of Dotti too. Dotti, who was sixteen now. Smart and popular Dotti. In town, boys and men stared at her, their mouths slightly open. Staggerlee watched them. They were dazzled—as much as she hated that word, it was the only one she could find to describe how people reacted to her sister. But Dotti seemed unaware—almost as though she was looking away from it because she didn’t want to see it. Maybe it was because of this—of how beautiful she was—that she worked so hard at school. “My brain’s going to be here,” she once said to Staggerlee, “way after my looks are gone.” And Staggerlee had laughed and said, “Not if you lose your mind.” Dotti. Born with Daddy’s lips and Mama’s eyes. In the baby pictures of her, she looked as though her heart was breaking.

  There were even crying pictures of Battle, who was two now, and one or two of Hope—the baby, who still cried and cried.

  Again and again she had searched through the photo albums. Again and again she saw the pictures of Evangeline Ian—pretty, smiling baby. As she grew older, that smiling baby girl became her own tiny burden. She was the good child—the happy one. The one that never needed, never asked for anything, never caused any trouble.

  It was windy along the river, and cold. She knew by the time she got back to the house her nose and cheeks would be red and numb. Mama would be in the kitchen making lunch or nursing the baby. She closed her eyes. Hope had been born beautiful, with Daddy’s broad forehead and Mama’s delicate hands. Over the months, as her eyes opened and changed, she became even prettier, and often Staggerlee would come downstairs in the morning to find Mama or Daddy snapping picture after picture. Some evenings she sat on the stairs, half hidden by the banister, and watched them coo over the baby. She wasn’t jealous—just curious. Had they been like this with her? Would Hope remember it? Would Hope become a good girl the way she had?

  Her father had married a white woman. That’s how Sweet Gum people talked about it, talked about her mother. Not to their faces, but it got back to them. The whole family did well at hiding the sting of townspeople’s words. It was not what they whispered that stung. But how they whispered. Yes, Mama was white and that made all of them—Charlie Horse and Dotti and Battle, Hope and Staggerlee—part white. The only mixed-race family in Sweet Gum, maybe in all of Calmuth County. No, it wasn’t what people said, for that part was true. But Mama was more than “white.” She was Mama, quiet and easygoing. She kept to herself. When she smiled, her whole face brightened, and tiny dimples showed at the edge of her lips. Why was white the word that hung on people’s lips? At school, when the kids talked about her mama, they whispered the word or said, “Your mama’s white!” and it sounded loud and ugly, like something was wrong with Mama. And if something was wrong with Mama, then that meant that something was wrong with all of them.

  Some evenings they would sit out on the porch laughing and carrying on and her father would say, “Staggerlee, why don’t you play us a little song?” Those nights, Staggerlee took her harmonica out of her pocket, ran her tongue over her lips, and started playing. If Dotti was home and in a decent mood, she’d sing. She had a pretty voice. Those evenings, they were not black or white or interracial. They were just a family on a porch, laughing and making music. Those nights, Staggerlee wished they could always be that.

  And when people asked her what it felt like to be both black and white, she didn’t have an answer for them. Most times, she just shrugged and looked away or kicked her hiking boot against the ground and mumbled something like “fine.” Her family had never talked about it, the way they hadn’t talked about a lot of things.

  Lately, she’d been thinking about God, watching old film footage of her grandparents, listening to the hymns they used to sing. They had been in show business, her father’s parents. Grandma could sing a blue streak, and her grandfather was right beside her, dancing, his candy-striped cane flying, tap shoes moving so fast they blurred. Some nights, sitting in the dark, watching old film clips of them performing on The Ed Sullivan Show, she would imagine them alive, about to finish up a show and come home.

  And last Sunday morning, for the first time in her life, Staggerlee rose at dawn, put on a gray-and-blue dress, pulled the thick blue sweater Mama had knitted over her head, and walked the six miles to Sweet Gum Baptist Church. Some people smiled when they saw her, trying to hide their surprise. A few old women came up to her, asking if she was Elijah Canan’s girl. Staggerlee nodded, waved hellos, and took a seat close to the door. She was looking for God, not townspeople. Looking for answers, not questions.

  Sweet Gum Baptist is a beautiful church—white walls and high, polished oak pews. On the stage, behind the preacher, there is a stained-glass window. And from the stained glass, a brown-gold Jesus looks out at the congregation. Staggerlee stared up at the glass without blinking. He looks like me, she caught herself thinking. Not black, not white, but both and all of it. She stared at him so long the colors in the glass blurred—the yellow gold of his robe melted up into the brown disappointment in his eyes. From what seemed like a faraway place, Staggerlee could hear the chorus singing “Precious Lord.” Softly. Sweetly.

  She could hear the preacher climb the pulpit and clear his throat. But she could not pull her eyes from Jesus. And the words from the preacher’s mouth blended into the stained glass, poured from the clear glass tears in Jesus’ eyes and slowly made their way to Staggerlee.

  “Truly I say to you . . . one of you will betray me.”

  Staggerlee blinked. The church felt small and hot suddenly. She could feel Trout pressed into her, shoulder to shoulder, her voice whispery and warm. Feels like everyone in my life has betrayed me, Staggerlee.

  The organ struck a chord; then the choir started humming. The preacher’s voice grew loud, more desperate, but Staggerlee didn’t hear the words anymore. Couldn’t. The church was closing in around her. She felt herself standing and squeezing past people. Then she was outside, taking in huge gulps of ice-cold air. But Trout was still at her shoulder, her voice still hard against Staggerlee’s ear. Feels like everyone in my life has betrayed me. I guess I’m kind of scared you will too.

  Now Staggerlee shivered, remembering that Sunday. That was before the letter. When months and months had passed with no word from Trout. No, she hadn’t betrayed Trout. Now she knew that. She had the letter in her pocket to prove it. And she would read it. Again and again. But first she had to go back to the beginning of all this—had to remember the before time. And maybe if she started from that before place, she’d understand this all.

  The sun moved slowly over the water. She hugged herself harder. Her hair blew wild and the wind slapped against her face. Like somebody’s cold, cold hand.

  Chapter One

  TROUT H AD COME TO SWEET GUM THE FIRST TIME by letter, a letter from Ida Mae addressed to Elijah Canan—Staggerlee’s father. It arrived on a rainy Saturday in April, and while her mother read it, Staggerlee stared out at the rain. She had never met Ida Mae—only knew of her from the stories her father told. Her mother read softly, her eyebrows lifted in surprise. It had been twenty years since anyone had heard anyt
hing from Daddy’s sisters.

  Dear Elijah,

  I know it’s been a long time and I hope this letter finds you and yours well. Hallique passed this morning. She had been going back and forth with the pneumonia for a time and one morning, she said to me, “Ida Mae, I just want to lay down and rest.” Doctors down in Wartlaw say they did all they could do. You know how they don’t care much about colored people nohow so I guess their best was the best they could do for somebody that wasn’t white. It’s a shame all these years pass and people still act the way they do. Hallique passed peaceful, though. In her sleep. I figured you would want to know being that this is the only sister we got between us. Now it’s just you and me left of Mama and Daddy’s children and we haven’t seen each other’s faces in nigh of twenty years . . .

  When her mother got to the part about Hallique passing, Daddy started crying softly, one hand pressed over his eyes. Staggerlee watched him. It was not the first time she had seen her father cry, but the first time she had seen him cry so openly, sitting at the table with all of them around him. Some nights, when they watched old film clips of his parents performing, his eyes would fill up and in the darkness of the TV screen light, he looked thinner and sad-faced.

  Dotti got up from the table and put her arms around his shoulders. She whispered something. Staggerlee stared at them, wondering when Dotti had become grown-up enough to do something like that. She wondered what her sister had whispered, why it had made Daddy nod and pat her hand.

  There were photo albums and frames filled with pictures of Hallique, but the pictures were old, from years and years ago. In them, Hallique was a teenager, tall and thin like Daddy, with dark suspicious eyes. Staggerlee stared out at the rain slamming against the window and imagined it was the spirit of Hallique trying to get inside. Trying to get a good look at them all once, just once, before moving on to the next place.