Letter From America

Letter From Rural America

“You done thinked about whatcha gonna to write to that Commie girl?” Wanda Sue asked. She kicked some gravel from the edge of the old pavement into the tall grass and wildflowers growing on the side of the road.

“Don’t call her a Commie. That aint’ nice,” I responded. “’Sides, they ain’t the Soviet Union no more. We’re s’possed to call them Russian now.”

Wanda Sue shrugged. “Okay, Maralee. The Russian girl. Whatcha gonna say to her?”

I ran my small hand through my hair and started walking up the steep road toward our houses. We were small—I was fourteen and she was thirteen—but our hill-worn legs surmounted the upward hike easily. Wanda Sue and I had done this trek together for the past six years, ever since our mothers would finally let us wander down to the B&C at the foot of the hill to grab root beers on our own.

I felt the first trickle of sweat under my skirt on the back of my leg in the late July heat as we passed the small field on our right, the tobacco yellowed and tied in teepee shapes for harvesting. I had watched the growth cycle of this plant every year for as long as I could remember, but I was always amused when I saw the crop at this stage—to me the field looked like it had been mowed down and replaced with giant triangular hats.

“Don’t you think it’s weird, havin’ a Russian come livin’ with us?” I asked out loud.

“Sure,” said Wanda Sue. “Weird to have anyone new stayin’ with you for an entire year. But it’ll probably be fun. If she’s nice that is.”

“I guess,” I said, taking a sip of my cold drink. The fizz piled out of the top of the bottle and onto my upper lip.

“It’s just, you know—well, we’ve always been hearin’ ‘bout how bad they are. Soviets, Russians—”

“Commies,” Wanda Sue interjected. I shot her a look but realized I couldn’t berate her this time.

“Yeah, sure. And now suddenly everything’s different. There’s no more U.S.S.R., World War III ain’t comin’, and I guess we’re gonna get rid of all our nukes.”

“And you got a Russian girl comin’ to live with you and learn all about America.”

“Yeah,” I said. I took another swig of my root beer and caught my breath. I was beginning to get a little winded on the upward hike.

“So, as I asked before, whatcha gonna write to her? In the letter you’re s’posed to send so she knows what to expect when she gets here?”

“I dunno. What should I write?”

Wanda Sue scratched her head.

“You could start by asking her about herself. Like, what she likes. What her town is like. How old she is. You know.”

“Actually I know how old she is,” I replied. “Mom says she’s fourteen like me. And she lives in Stalingrad—‘cept it ain’t called that anymore.”

“Damn, I’ve heard of that place,” Wanda Sue said, her eyes getting wide. “Must be a big city.”

I laughed.

“Yeah! You know what, that’ll probably be the biggest change for her. Bet she’s 'xpectin’ America to be all like New York City. I hear that’s what they all think America’s like.”

“Where’d ya hear that?”

“Mrs. Coates said that, in history yesterday.”

Wanda Sue took a sip of her root beer.

“Hell, I ain’t never been anywhere like New York around here. Does she know she’s gonna be livin’ in a hillbilly town in the Appalachians?”

I laughed so hard root beer bubbles came out my nose.

“Poor girl,” I said. “She’s gonna hate it here.”

“Nah, don’t say that!” Wanda Sue exclaimed. “It’s nice here! New York’s all dirty and got lots of pickpockets, so they say. Here’s it’s sunny, safe, and pretty. I mean, look at all them flowers!”

I followed Wanda Sue’s gaze to the Worchster house on our left. The large lawn sported three ponds in the front yard surrounded by a mass of black-eyed susans, cornflowers, and thistle. I had to admit that the unkempt blanket of weeds was quite beautiful.

“K, I know what I’m gonna write to her.” I said. Wanda Sue looked at me.

“Yeah?”

“Sure. I’ll tell her how you can say anything at any time here and you won’t get arrested, and no one listens in on your phone conversations cause Mrs. Coates says that happens all the time over there, and we have lots of pretty flowers and it’s usually sunny. Oh, and it’s real hilly here ‘cause we live in the mountains.”

“Sounds perfect,” Wanda Sue responded. She stopped walking. We were by our spot—the area by the side of the road where the fields and yards melted into a wild forest.

“Are you gonna tell her 'bout us?” Wanda Sue asked, softly.

I looked around briefly. The road was deserted and the air was still. I put my hand to the back of her head and ran my fingers through her sweaty hair.

“I don’t think I should,” I said, looking at her eyes. My hand rested on her shoulder.

“Good,” she said. She exhaled, as if she had been worried.

“We don’t know her. Not gonna trust her like that. She could tell someone.”

Wanda Sue nodded and took a final sip of her root beer. She threw the bottle deep into the woods; it made a soft clanking sound in the distance. I took her hand as we walked into the cover of the trees. She slipped her hand around my small waist as we found the soft patch of earth between the fallen logs—the place where we felt safe.

“All in all,” Wanda Sue said as she started unbuttoning my shirt, “I think she’s gonna love it here.”

I nodded as I felt her lips against mine. They were so soft.

“Yeah, this place is pretty perfect,” I said.