A Work in Progress: The Gambler's Daughter Chapter 8 continued

hard times

The Set Up

If you’re new, you can start the story from the beginning HERE or go ahead and jump in.

This is the working draft of a new Roosevelt County Novel about Maxine, a ten-year old girl growing up in Eastern New Mexico in the 1930s. Think Little House on the Prairie, but on the edge of the Dust Bowl and Pa is a gambler.

In these installments, I pull back the curtain on my revision process, posting drafts-in-progress, complete with the typos, question marks, and random “add more here!” notes to self. I’ll explain what has me “stuck” in the chapter or what problems I’m still working to resolve.

For aspiring writers, I hope it gives you permission to write terrible drafts, and learn to work with them to make mediocre drafts, and then keep working until you have something great.

For fans of Roosevelt County fiction, you’ll get early access to my next novel and see how the story develops along the way. You’ll also be invited (begged) to give feedback, so stick around for the Issues section and comment button.

Chapter 8 continued

When Claude came in to wash up for supper, he asked Momma if he could take two potatoes to school the next day.

“You must be growing,” Momma said. “I noticed how hungry both of you were when you got home today. I guess we can manage for you to take two now and then. I can’t afford to send two lunches with you every day.”

“Thank you, Momma,” Claude said, using his sweetest voice. I noticed a strange eagerness in his eyes, and it reminded me of the marbles that had suddenly appeared in his pocket. Normally, I tried to keep Claude out of trouble, but I was still mad about him ruining my game of jacks.

“Claude had a pocketful of new marbles today,” I said. I wasn’t getting him into trouble, I told myself. There was nothing wrong with having marbles. I’d let Momma and Daddy figure out the rest and he’d get himself in trouble.

“Good game?” Daddy asked. I thought I saw a hint of pride in his eyes. Claude glanced at me, and I gave him a hard look, daring him to lie.

“Leroy forgot to bring his lunch,” Claude said, “so I traded him half of mine for his best shooter.” Momma frowned and almost said something, but Daddy placed his hand on hers, and she stayed quiet. Leroy was Cleo’s little brother, and the Grays had three kids at school and one more at home.

The pride vanished from Daddy’s face, but he didn’t say anything judgmental. “And what about the other marbles?” he asked. I cringed, knowing Claude wouldn’t stop bragging.

“Billy Barton heard our deal and offered two cat’s eyes for the other half,” Claude said, finally noticing the alarm on Momma’s face. He quickly added, “Don’t worry, Momma. I only gave him half of the remaining half, so I still got a good bit for myself.” But Daddy had heard enough.

“Claude, you’re excused from the table now. Go feed and water the cows. I’ll be out directly.”

“But I haven’t finished eating,” Claude protested.

“You’re finished for tonight. Now, go on.” Claude got up from the table, his eyes lingering on his half-eaten bowl of beans and cornbread before he left without another word.

“It’s funny, Momma,” I said to break the silence, “Cleo always forgets to bring her lunch, too.” Momma and Daddy exchanged a look that I had come to recognize. They communicated in silent glances sometimes, but I couldn’t figure out what they were saying or why they looked so worried about a couple of kids forgetting their lunches.

After a long pause, Daddy finally spoke, but he only looked at Momma. “Ol’ Bill Gray went all in on wheat again. The man is so deep in debt he borrowed against everything he has, hoping for better prices this year. Planted every inch of his ground in it. I reckon he’s not the only one with hungry children and rotting stacks of last year’s grain.”

It seemed like Daddy had switched to another conversation, but then Momma turned to me and asked if other kids often came to school without lunches. I tried to remember, but I usually sat with the same girls and didn’t notice whether anyone else was eating or not.

“I don’t know, Momma.”

“Hmm,” was all Momma said.

I noticed my parents exchange another look, and I asked what was wrong.

“Maxine,” Daddy said. I expected him to tell me it was none of my business, but instead, he said, “Your friends aren’t forgetting their lunches. Chances are, there’s no food for them to bring.”

“Everyone is doing the best they can,” Momma added. “These are just hard times.”

Nothing more was said, but I had trouble sleeping that night.

For the rest of the week, I scanned the schoolyard during our lunch recess. Each day, I noticed it was the same children, often from the same families, who began playing immediately after being dismissed outside. Before, I had assumed that they had eaten quickly or were only eager to play. Now I saw that they didn’t have a lunch to hurry through.

The Issues

Again, I’m pretty satisfied with this section other than my persistant dissatisfaction with the voice. Maybe I’ll find it in the new year!

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