Crooked Hallelujah. Kelli Jo Ford

Copyright

      Copyright © 2020 by Kelli Jo Ford

      Cover design and artwork by Kelly Winton

      Cover photograph: silhouette of figures © Shutterstock

      All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the publisher, except by a reviewer, who may quote brief passages in a review. Scanning, uploading, and electronic distribution of this book or the facilitation of such without the permission of the publisher is prohibited. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author’s rights is appreciated. Any member of educational institutions wishing to photocopy part or all of the work for classroom use, or anthology, should send inquiries to Grove Atlantic, 154 West 14th Street, New York, NY 10011 or [email protected].

      FIRST EDITION

       Published simultaneously in Canada

       Printed in the United States of America

      First Grove Atlantic hardcover edition: July 2020

      This book was set in 11-pt. Scala by Alpha Design & Composition of Pittsfield, NH.

      Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication data is available for this title.

      ISBN 978-0-8021-4912-1

      eISBN 978-0-8021-4914-5

      Grove Press

      an imprint of Grove Atlantic

      154 West 14th Street

      New York, NY 10011

      Distributed by Publishers Group West

      groveatlantic.com

      20 21 22 23 10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1

      Contents

Cover

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

Epigraph

PART I

Book of the Generations

PART II

The Care and Feeding of Goldfish

Annie Mae

The Year 2003 Minus 20

       Terra Firma

       Greater the Mass, Stronger the Pull

       Hybrid Vigor

       Then Sings My Soul

       You’ll Be Honest, You’ll Be Brave

       You Will Miss Me When I Burn

       Bonita

       Consider the Lilies

       PART III

       What Good Is an Ark to a Fish?

      Acknowledgments

Dedication

       For my grandmothers, my mom, my aunties and cousins, and, now, Cypress Ann

Epigraph

      It was really the world that was one’s brutal mother, the one that nursed and neglected you, and your own mother was only your sibling in that world.

      —Lorrie Moore, “Which Is More Than I Can Say About Some People”

PART I

       Beulah Springs, Cherokee Nation of Oklahoma 1974

Book of the Generations

      1.

      When Lula stepped into the yard, the stray cat Justine held took off so fast it scratched her and sent the porch swing sideways. Justine had been feeding the stray, hoping to find its litter of kittens in spite of her mother’s disdain for extra mouths or creatures prone to parasites. She tried to smooth cat hair from her lap. She’d wanted everything to be perfect when she told her mom that she’d tracked down her father in Texas and used the neighbor’s phone to call him.

      “That thing’s going to give you worms.” Lula dropped her purse onto the porch. She hadn’t been able to catch a ride from work. With a deep sigh, she untucked her blouse and undid the long green polyester skirt she’d started sewing as soon as she’d seen the HELP WANTED sign at the insurance office. She was a secretary now, and as she liked to tell Justine, people called her Mrs. and complimented her handwriting.

      “I’ll wash up,” Justine said. She’d already decided today wasn’t the day. Like yesterday. And the day before that.

      “At least let me say hi.” Lula kicked off dusty pumps and let her weight drop into the swing beside Justine. The swing skittered haywire as Lula pulled bobby pins from her bun, scratching her scalp. Her long salt-and-pepper braid fell past her shoulder and curled under her breast. “Bless us, Lord,” she said, the words nearly a song. She closed her eyes, and as she whispered an impromptu prayer, she touched the end of her braid to the mole on her lip that she still called her beauty mark.

      As a girl, Justine had pored over the pictures from Lula’s time at Chilocco Indian School, trying to see her mother in the stone-cold fox who stared out from the old photographs. Lula’s clothes hung loosely, even more faded than the other girls’ in the pictures, but something about her gaze—framed by short black curls, of all things—made it seem as if she were the only one in the photo. If Marilyn Monroe had come of age in an Indian boarding school and had fierce brown eyes instead of scared blue ones, that would have been young Lula. Justine kept the old pictures in a box hidden in the top of the closet where she kept her Rolling Stones and a mood ring, other forbidden things. She hadn’t thought of the pictures in ages, but she did so now as she watched her mom in prayer.