Billie Starr's Book of Sorries: A Novel

By Deborah E. Kennedy

“Funny yet bitingly realistic look at small-town life…A grim literary mystery and a hopeful family story, this genre-blending novel manages to be both charming and heartbreaking.” —Kirkus

“An enthralling suspense thriller…Exquisite prose matches deep characterization. Kennedy deserves to win an Edgar.” —Publishers Weekly, starred review

Sometimes, a woman has to rescue herself.

Jenny Newberg, Queen of Bad Decisions, is about to make another one. In a small town where everyone knows everyone’s business, down-on-her-luck single mother Jenny is on a first-name basis with the debt collector at the bank, who is moving toward foreclosure. She is constantly apologizing to her precocious young daughter, Billie Starr, who is filling a book with her mother’s sorries, and it seems to Jenny that no apology will ever be enough.

Then a pair of strangers in black suits offers her a hefty check to seduce someone known as the Candidate. Finally, something will go her way.

But nothing ever goes as Jenny plans, and she is swept into the Candidate’s orbit. Surrounded by a wide universe of new ideas, she realizes how constrained her life has been by the expectations of everyone around her, and she starts to see how much more she might be capable of. And when her world is rocked to its core and Billie Starr may be in danger, Jenny is forced to do what she once thought impossible: trust in herself and her own power to make things right.

Shimmering with rage and sparkling with subtle humor, Billie Starr's Book of Sorries showcases Edgar Award-nominee Deborah E. Kennedy's singular voice and shines a light on the town of Benson, Indiana, where lakes, grudges, and family rifts run deep – but so does a mother’s love.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Macmillan Publishers
• Release date: Oct 4, 2022
• ISBN: 9781250138446

Deborah E. Kennedy

Deborah E. Kennedy is a native of Fort Wayne, Indiana and a graduate of the Iowa Writers' Workshop. Kennedy has worked as both a reporter and editor, and also holds a Master's in Fiction Writing and English Literature from Miami University in Oxford, Ohio. Tornado Weather is her debut novel.

Book preview

Ashes

Jenny remembered his arms best. Hugging her, holding her, waving, working. Forearms, lean and tan, covered in reddish-brown hair that was often speckled with dust or paint or ash. Tattoo of his mother’s name on his left biceps. Doris. A scorpion on his right. Wrists strong. Fingers nimble. A triangle of moles over one elbow. Scabby crocodile skin just below. Jenny liked to play with it, mush it around in the shape of a mouth, have it say things. I love you. Who farted? Don’t leave me.

His face, unforgettable. White scar between his blue eyes. Nose, a little bumpy from a bar fight. Teeth, bad. Voice, not low but not high either. Heart, big. Sometimes too big for the world he was born in. That was her father all over. Sweet-tempered and shortchanged. Small beer.

A lot of ugly in this world, beautiful, he told her. Got to make our own pretty.

Pete talked like that. Like a hick Hallmark card. A fan of country music, the White Sox, Marlboro Reds, and Cher, he was also superstitious. Never stepped on a crack, never walked under a ladder, threw out mirrors when he broke them, and gave Jenny an impossibly soft purple rabbit’s foot for her fifth birthday.

Luck, sweet pea. Good and bad. Sometimes it’s all we’ve got.

For most of his life, he built cabinets and countertops and installed them in houses that his boss, Bob Butz, a local Realtor, sold to people who didn’t care that men like Pete existed. Then, when Jenny was sixteen, when she needed him most, he died. She held his hand as it happened, felt it grow stiff and cold. She’d wanted to drive him to the hospital, but he refused. Didn’t like how hospitals smelled. Too sad, those places, he said. Too many blue walls and white coats and code reds.

When Jenny called her mother to break the news, Carla was annoyed more than anything, irritated that her ex-husband would choose that day of all days to give up the ghost. She had tickets to a Kenny Rogers concert.

And I’m fresh out of black dresses.

Pete had moved to Crooked Lake by then, to a little motel at the dusty end of a dead-end gravel road. The last place he’d been truly happy, he said. Jenny had been happy there, too, when, during a long-ago spring break, Pete brought her with him on a job. While her father and a small crew of men worked on a house across the water, Jenny sunned herself on the public beach and ate lunches of peanut butter and jelly in the motel room in front of game shows and soap operas and terrifying documentaries about serial killers. In the evening, she and Pete walked to a nearby tavern for fried fish dinners and Pete told her all about the fancy family who owned the house he was working on, about the fresh-squeezed orange juice they drank and actual butter they ate and the tennis rackets and skis and motorboats they owned and the pictures on their walls of places they’d traveled to—New York City, the Grand Tetons, Yellowstone. People like that saw the world up close and in person. People like Jenny and Pete saw it in magazines and on TV. It was fine, though. They weren’t mad about it because, before they went back to the motel for the night, they had time to venture out onto a nearby dock to look at the stars. Arm around Jenny’s shoulder, Pete pointed out constellations, told her stories about ancient men who used to steer by them, his voice full of awe.

This is my happy place, Jenny. Right here, right now, with you. As good as it gets. Jenny, sleepy and full, agreed. A perfect week of nothing much.

But then that week was followed by months and months of Pete getting sicker and sicker. Coughing. Always coughing. Divorce in there somewhere, Jenny dividing her time between her mother’s house and the motel. Pete only stopped coughing when he stopped breathing. Carla’s best friend, Vi Gregor, called his death a blessing. He’s at peace, she said. His suffering is finally over.

Peace? Jenny wanted to die along with him, follow him into the fire, come out the other side light as air, feeling nothing.

On a gray day in July, shivering, she scattered Pete’s ashes at the end of their star-watching dock, teenagers from the city skiing by, hooting at her, slaloming right through the line of white and gray. Just like that, Pete went from being son of Doris, father of Jenny, knight in torn tee shirts, to debris. It was too fast, that transformation. And too unsung. Jenny should have brought fireworks, planted a cross or something. Instead, she went home and slept for twenty hours straight, dreaming of motorboats and mermaids, swords and stones and fish food.

She never admitted it to anyone, but she took to praying to Pete like you would a saint, begged him to protect her the way he used to. She felt stupid doing it, idiotic, but she did it anyway, and when she became a mother, she asked him to look after Billie Starr, too, to keep her safe from dangers Jenny felt unqualified or unable to counter. Bullies. Lightning strikes.

Maybe it worked or maybe it was just luck, the good kind. Either way, Jenny had come this far—twelve years—without him and it was 1991. A famous basketball player, thirty-two, had just announced that he had AIDS. A famous rock star, forty-five, had just died from it. A postal worker shot up his office, and a former KKK grand wizard just barely lost a race for governor of Louisiana.

Jenny, twenty-eight, turned off the news. She was alive somehow and so was Billie Starr, and when she remembered to, Jenny kept the velvety purple rabbit’s foot with her, held it close. Sometimes she forgot all about it. But not about him. Pete. Bony-kneed. Red-necked. Starstruck. He’d loved her. The only one who did.

Book One

She woke to snow on the ground, a dripping sink, and her neighbor’s cats at her door, begging for food. The dripping sink and begging cats—Jenny was used to that. Her house was old, her plumbing was shot, and her neighbor, Marcus Rye, often forgot to feed Gertrude and Yo-Yo, and so it had fallen to her to give them two cans of tuna each day—one in the morning and one at night. The snow, though, that was new. The first of the year, it turned her scrubby lawn into something pretty for once, and, standing on the back stoop, cats winding around her ankles, Jenny looked at it—the sparkle, the purity of it—and thought that maybe, just maybe, what she was about to do wasn’t so terrible after all.

She gave the cats their breakfast and poured herself a cup of old coffee. She didn’t bother heating it up. The microwave would wake Billie Starr and Jenny wasn’t ready for that. Not yet. She still needed to shower, shave her legs, get dolled up, as her mother put it. And she needed time to figure out what she would say when she saw him. The first words. They seemed important. Monumental, even. Life and death.

The man’s picture was in an envelope on the counter next to the toaster. Jenny gave the cats a head pat and went back in, pulled the picture out, studied it. The men in black suits told her to be on the lookout for a weak chin and large, liquid eyes. Also a halting gait. The photograph obviously didn’t show his gait, but the weak chin was there, and his eyes reminded Jenny of a puppy’s. He had a full mouth and shiny skin and thinning brown hair. His brows were bushy and unkempt and his sideburns were out of style, but he wasn’t ugly. More gentle-looking, and his sweet smile gave Jenny pause.

Still, the men in black suits told her that if she didn’t take the job someone else would, and maybe that lady wouldn’t be as cute as Jenny or as kind. It was her choice, the men said. They weren’t there to pressure her. They were simply presenting her with an opportunity, the likes of which rarely came along for girls like her.

Girls like her. Jenny knew what that meant.

She put the photo down, drifted into the living room to the large picture window that looked out on the front yard. The snow gave the sky its light, made the early morning world glow baby blue. Four sets of paw tracks wound around the big locust tree. A rabbit had been by, and a deer. Gertrude and Yo-Yo picked their way across the drive back to Marcus’s, the beige single-wide dark this time of day and missing some siding.

Jenny lived in an old brick schoolhouse at the top of a sharp S curve on a small stretch of road that, a hundred years before, had its own railroad station and post office. That was ancient history, and Acorn Street was part of Benson now. Five miles outside town, bordered by farmland and patches of woods, it was a lonely spot on the map, a nothing sort of place that everyone pretty much forgot was there. Then, the previous August, a drunk twentysomething missed the curve and drove right into Dorothy Renfrow’s house, killing her and her entire collection of African violets. The Fort Wayne news carried the story. A few Indianapolis outlets, too. The twentysomething went to jail for a month. His parents were important somehow. Or anyway rich. The house, a haven for raccoons and blackbirds, had yet to be repaired or torn down. It looked like a punched-in face. And Dorothy, about as a friendly as a thistle, wasn’t missed by anyone.

After the accident, the city installed a blinking yellow sign to alert drivers to the coming curves. It throbbed all day and all night, a sour signal that pulsed through Jenny’s dreams and made the houses on Acorn Street look even worse than they already did. Marcus’s trailer was an eyesore on its own. There was the missing siding, but also several cracked panes, a mountain of soggy mail on the front step, and a charred west wall from the night he’d left the stove on and set fire to a bunch of phone books. And the blinking made it seem like the cops were forever stationed in Dorothy Renfrow’s front yard, radioing for the coroner.

Jenny’s house wasn’t much either but she loved it anyway, cherished its creaky wooden floors and odd nooks and crannies. Even the window above the kitchen sink that let in wind and snow and rain was just more proof of its character, its uniqueness. Most of all, she loved that it was hers. She’d used her tiny inheritance from Pete as a down payment and filled it with Goodwill furniture, cute antiques, candles. How long, though, before the bank took it all away? A collection agent named Kevin called often now, called early, and the flashing sign reminded Jenny that she was three months behind on her mortgage payments. Mortgage mortgage mortgage, its blinking seemed to say. Loser loser loser.

The sign pulsed at the same rate as the mantel clock Jenny’s mother had given her for her last birthday, a hideous rococo thing Jenny hated but couldn’t get rid of because Carla would call her ungrateful if she did. Carla considered rococo high culture. Also anything that suggested Asia at its finest. Her apartment was cluttered with porcelain figurines of white-wigged men and women at leisure, her walls dotted with prints of geisha girls and sumo wrestlers. Rooms at war with themselves.

The sign and the clock reminded Jenny that time was running out, that, like Pete, like Dorothy Renfrow and her violets, she, Jenny Newberg, would die someday and so would Carla and Billie Starr and Jenny’s best friend, Lyd Butz, and Marcus. Good business for Hiram Hardacre, the town funeral director, but bad news for everyone else. Gertrude and Yo-Yo, they would die, too. And the locust tree. The bunny and the deer, wherever they were. Everything. Everything and everyone would die and then what?

Jenny finished her coffee and padded down the hall to take a shower.

---

Mom?

Yeah, pumpkin.

I’m not a pumpkin. I’m an airplane.

Oh, okay. Zoom!

I don’t zoom, Mom. I roar.

Roar!

You sound like a bear. Plane roars are different.

Billie Starr had dressed herself that morning. She’d dressed herself every morning since she started school three years before and refused to take Jenny’s advice on anything that had to do with clothes. Underneath her bright red coat, she wore an orange sweatshirt, a turquoise skirt, and black, sparkly kneesocks. Her white gym shoes lit up when she kicked her feet, sending little red signals against the passenger seat.

What are you? she asked Jenny.

What do you mean, sweetie?

I’m not a sweetie. I’m an airplane.

Of course.

I asked you what you are.

I’m your mom.

But what else?

The farms flashed by, field after field of spent cornstalks, bent and sharp in the frigid soil. White wooden foursquare houses sat off the road, surrounded by barns and pickup trucks and earthmovers. Long driveways in this part of the county. And short fuses. A few weeks ago, one of the farmers, Lorne Keck, shot at his wife for making a runny pie. No one was exactly shocked by the news. Lorne and Trish had a reputation for being volatile, and Lorne collected antique revolvers, haunted gun shows on the weekends. Many in town were, however, surprised to find out that shooting at one’s wife was an offense worthy of arrest. Didn’t it matter that he missed?

Lorne was still in the county lockup as far as Jenny knew, and she hoped he’d be there for a long time. He was an old friend of Pete’s but she never understood what her father saw in him. Once, when she was spending the weekend with Pete at the dead-end motel on Crooked Lake, Lorne dropped in on them, carrying a pizza and a twenty-four-pack of Milwaukee’s Best. While Pete coughed in his bed, Lorne cued up a pay-per-view boxing match between two aging heavyweights. Then he proceeded to eat all the pizza and drink all the beer. He smoked so many cigarettes that night, one after the other, Jenny had to go outside in the freezing cold just to breathe.

Mom?

Yeah, sweetie.

I told you I’m not a sweetie. I’m not a sweetie or a pumpkin or a honey. I’m an airplane.

I’ll try to remember.

And I asked what are you besides a mom and you never answered me.

I’m sorry.

You’re a sorry?

Sure.

That doesn’t sound very interesting.

I guess it’s not really.

Well, I’m going to Paris because I’m a plane. Mr. Richardson said we can go anywhere we want to in our imaginations.

Mr. Richardson was Billie Starr’s teacher. A nice-looking man in his midthirties with sandy hair and a baseball player’s body, he’d asked Jenny out once at the beginning of the school year. His wife had died of ovarian cancer the previous spring. Jenny had taken a week to think about it. In the end, she turned him down, said she didn’t think it would be appropriate, since he was her daughter’s teacher. Sometimes at night, though, lying alone in her bed, Jenny regretted her decision, wondered what it might be like to go on a date with a decent man.

Mr. Richardson is right, Jenny said. You can go anywhere you want. In your mind.

See you when I get back.

See you.

Billie Starr disappeared into her own world then, tracing pictures in the frost on the window with her index finger, singing as she did so—Freray jacka, freray jacka, dormay-voo, doomay-voo—and making airplane-taking-off-and-landing sounds. She did this almost every time Jenny drove her to school. The make-believe destination wasn’t always Paris, though. Sometimes it was Disney World. Other times the Grand Canyon or Niagara Falls or the California redwoods. And she wasn’t always a plane, either. For a long time, she was the Batmobile. Before that, a bullet train and before that, a stagecoach.

Jenny couldn’t remember playing such games when she was Billie Starr’s age. She was just herself, Jenny Newberg, going to school, Jenny Newberg at school, forgetting to listen, flubbing up on tests, and Jenny Newberg leaving school, feeling the weight of all her failures lift off her shoulders until the next day when she would have to go back and do it all over again. Finally, when she was sixteen and a half, she was Jenny Newberg not going to school, Jenny Newberg dropping out. Jenny Newberg on her own, hunting for jobs and a place to live, Jenny Newberg discovering, as Carla had warned her, that money did not grow on trees.

She passed more farms—the Johnson place, the Winkler place, the Shields place—and a trailer park where Randall Leffert, Billie Starr’s father, had lived for a while after he lost his job at the feed store. Jenny heard from Lyd that Randall had moved out of the trailer park a few weeks ago, that he was seeing someone, a hairstylist from Crooked Lake who vowed to fight off any woman who showed the slightest interest in him.

Literally, Lyd said. Chick used to be a wrestler.

After the trailer park came a cluster of grain silos, a park, and finally the school on the left, teeming with traffic.

School is my favorite thing, Billie Starr said.

I know, baby.

I’m not a baby! I’m an airplane!

Okay, okay. How’s your landing gear?

Billie Starr kicked her shoes, red arcs in the half-light. There and fully functional.

Good. We’re on our descent.

The elementary school wasn’t the same one Jenny went to. That school—which Pete’s father helped build—had been torn down years ago. Modern, brick, single-story and sprawling, the new school sat at the edge of town on land that used to belong to the Lefferts. Carla liked to go on about how the Lefferts owned Benson, Indiana, called them their corporate overlords, but the truth was the Lefferts were dying off. They were packing it in and in many cases, packing up. The still-alive ones were taking their money and moving in droves to gated communities in Florida and Texas and North Carolina, all of them, it seemed, except a handful of police officers—and Randall. Randall swore he’d never leave Benson, even though his parents had decamped for a place called Orange Blossom Gardens the year before. He couldn’t bear to part with his daughter, he said, but he made no real attempt to be a part of her life, just showed up on Jenny’s porch late at night, drunk, high, or both, crying into his shirt collar and hollering at Jenny about wanting to see his daughter, begging her to give him back his balls. She refused to let him anywhere near Billie Starr on such nights. As for his balls, those were his problem.

Mom?

Yeah.

You’re going in the out way.

Shit.

You shouldn’t say ‘shit.’ It’s a bad word.

Jenny was in a game of chicken with a line of minivans. An angry dad waved at her from behind a windshield dotted with state park stickers. Then he started honking.

You need to turn around, Billie Starr said.

I’m trying.

You’re messing the whole thing up.

The school parking lot was a minefield. Every morning, Jenny was shocked she got out of there alive. It was mostly an issue of space. The lot had been big enough five years ago, but when the Lefferts started selling off their farms to developers, subdivisions began popping overnight—Birch Meadows, Willow Lake Estates, Juniper Ridge. No one could keep up with the growth, and everything was overcrowded now—the grocery store, Pike’s Pizza, Dr. Harme’s office. Dr. Frank’s office, too, and the Brown Derby, Benson’s one cloth napkin restaurant. The school parking lot was just an extreme example of both the overcrowding and the mismanagement thereof. Someone—Gladys Mock, Jenny assumed, the school’s principal, who was on the verge of retirement and had been Jenny’s terrifying sixth-grade math teacher—was always switching the car lanes with the bus lanes and the in with the out in an effort to supposedly make things more efficient. Jenny couldn’t keep it straight.

Mom, this is taking forever, Billie Starr complained.

Jenny carefully backed up onto the roadway, hoping to shoot forward into the designated in lane before the minivans blocked her way, but she was too slow. They streamed by her in an endless line of blue and white and maroon. Very patriotic, those vans, Jenny thought. Like a big, rumbling American flag. Desperate, she parked in a small patch of gravel behind a fire hydrant and a utility shed.

Time to fly, Jenny said.

Billie Starr sighed heavily and grabbed her unicorn backpack. Fine.

Five more minivans sped by. Five more frustrated, pinched faces peered out at Jenny as if she were personally responsible for the crowd of cars and shifting lanes. She pulled her coat tighter around her thin dress. The coat covered what she needed it to—the cleavage, the arrow necklace pointing to it, her bare arms. But what about her hair—high, curled, sprayed to unnatural stiffness—the too-heavy blush, the eyeliner? Jenny had overdone it. She’d overdone it and now, because she had to run Billie Starr into school instead of just dropping her off at the curb, everyone would see her looking like this, a woman in her late twenties who should know better.

The snow, so sparkling back at home, was melting here into sooty slush in the drains, green and brown patches around the trees. Jenny and Billie Starr hustled clumsily up the winding sidewalk past the buses and toward the front doors of the school. On the way in, they ran right into a pack of moms, all perfectly put together and clutching thermoses of tea and sleek, stylish purses. For some reason, they gave off an odor of cinnamon—probably the tea—and created a low sort of hum with their talk of their husbands and houses and special diets. They reminded Jenny of a hive of bees, but Lyd called them the Mummies. A few were old schoolmates of Jenny and Lyd. Aging cheerleaders, high achievers who’d only recently started watching their weight. Most were transplants from Fort Wayne who lived in the new subdivisions (which the women and their chubby, beige husbands moved to because housing was cheaper here than in the city) and spoke up at PTA meetings about the need for more computers in the library and healthier food options in the cafeteria and the inappropriateness of showing fifth graders videos about their changing bodies. Also about evolution and the moral and economic advantages of certain Marxist principles. That last one had been a mistake, apparently. Wrong tape in the player.

Jenny ducked her head, tugged Billie Starr behind her. Hurry, hurry, she whispered. Step on it, airplane. But it was no use. She’d been spotted.

Jenny!

It was Ashley Batchelder, former cheerleader, current PTA president, mother to Terri, eight, and recently divorced from Ken Batchelder, city councilman and the owner of the asphalt company on Route 20. Ashley was on the school board. Ashley was very active in the community. Ashley didn’t have to work. According to Lyd, head teller at Benson Bank and Trust, Ken paid Ashley an insane amount of alimony. So she volunteered. She headed up the annual Boy Scout popcorn fundraiser and the Girl Scout cookie sales drive. Sometimes, like now, around Christmas, she hosted parties at her house where she sold makeup and kitchen gadgets and quilted bags. Jenny had gone to a few of the parties, not because she wanted any of the products, but because, when Ashley issued the invitations, she made going sound like giving back. In the end, though, everything was too expensive, and Jenny always went home empty-handed. Embarrassed, too, ashamed she couldn’t afford a fifty-five-dollar cheese grater.

Where are you headed in such a hurry? Ashley asked.

She and a few of the other Mummies moved in on Jenny, a cloud of beautifully coiffed hair, all of it styled in exactly the same way and modeled after an actress in a television show Jenny tried to watch but couldn’t. It was too stupid. All the characters complained constantly about not having enough money, but Jenny never saw any evidence of their poverty. No collection agents named Kevin ever hounded them, and their apartments were as perfect as their teeth. Maybe that’s why the Mummies liked the show so much. It reminded them of themselves.

We’re late is all, Jenny said.

Ashley smiled. Aren’t you always late?

Jenny tried to smile back. She could feel the foundation on her cheeks cracking.

You’re looking… Ashley raised one of her eyebrows, plucked thin and boomerang shaped. Interesting.

Jenny quickly surveyed the women around her, their attractively tailored coats, their elegant pants, their boots so clean and in fashion, and felt cheap and trashy. Back in her bathroom with her candles and cracked mirror, Jenny thought she’d looked pretty, but now that she was surrounded by all the prettiness that money could buy, she knew she was wrong. Her purse wasn’t like their purses. It was scuffed and out of style and packed with free-sample perfume and dry lipsticks. Her outfit, her hair, her makeup and eyebrows and earrings, were all in bad taste. She was bad taste. Even her pantyhose were the wrong color. Too dark. Jenny wanted to rip them off and go back to bed.

I have a funeral to go to, she said to Ashley.

Oh, I’m so sorry.

Me, too, but that’s life, right? Death.

I guess so, Ashley said. For some people.

Billie Starr was tapping her foot and tugging on Jenny’s coat. Mom…

Well, I should—

Ashley put a thin hand on Jenny’s shoulder. It’s really good we’ve run into each other. The gals and I were just talking about the second-grade field trip to Chicago. It’s going to be so much fun. We’re taking the kids to the museums and to the Magnificent Mile for some shopping. Christmas is coming up, you know. She peeked around Jenny at Billie Starr, back to making airplane sounds. You do want to go, don’t you, Billie Starr?

Billie Starr stopped roaring and nodded shyly.

You need to sign her permission slip, Ashley said to Jenny. And pay the fee, of course. It’s nothing. Seventy-five is all. A small price to pay for memories, don’t you think?

Jenny couldn’t remember hearing about any field trip, and the last time she checked her bank accounts, she had maybe a hundred dollars to her name. But no matter. After this morning, she’d be flush. She’d be set. She could afford to send Billie Starr to a million Magnificent Miles.

A very small price, Jenny said.

Before you go, Ashley said, twinkling. Where did that twinkle come from? Her bright white teeth? An emptiness behind her eyes? Did you get the invite to my party?

The invitation was at the bottom of Jenny’s kitchen trash. Not quilted bags or gadgets this time. Knives. Something called CutCorp that, according to Ashley’s perfect handwriting, could slice through car doors like butter. I did. Yes. Thank you.

I’d love to see you there. We all would, wouldn’t we, ladies?

The Mummies hummed their assent, nodding their heads in unison. Jenny felt dizzy, a little hypnotized standing there. "I’ll definitely