Long Gone, Come Home

Praise for Long Gone, Come Home“A big-hearted story of perseverance, family, and ambition... In Birdie, Chenault-Kilgore has created an unforgettable heroine whose resilience and determination will resonate long after you finish reading.” —Bryn Turnbull, internationally bestselling author of The Last Grand Duchess“A heart-filled tale about a young woman willing to sacrifice it all for love and family. Set against the background of the Great Depression and Jim Crow, Chenault-Kilgore’s debut tugs every emotion as Birdie fights to make a way out of no way.” —Kaia Alderson, author of Sisters in Arms“A poignant and powerful debut novel... Monica Chenault-Kilgore has penned a sweeping, poetic story of love and family told through the eyes of a courageous and unforgettable heroine.” —Chanel Cleeton, New York Times and USA TODAY bestselling author of Our Last Days in Barcelona“An extraordinary tale of resilience and determination... Long Gone, Come Home takes us on a journey of the 1930s jazz era and civil rights movement through the eyes of a tenacious and unforgettable heroine. Birdie’s enduring story is one of love, loss, family and survival... I was blown away by this powerful, heart-wrenching and ultimately hopeful debut!” —Eliza Knight, USA TODAY bestselling author of The Mayfair Bookshop“Nuanced and atmospheric, this is a story of people pursuing big dreams amid great injustice, and ultimately realizing the value of family and the enduring power of love.” —Kristin Beck, author of The Winter Orphans“A remarkable story wonderfully told...with a wealth of captivating characters in a story about relationships, identity, struggles, and the heartbreak and joys of a Black woman and her family... Birdie is unforgettable—from page one, this complicated young woman grabs hold and doesn’t let go until the last sentence.” —Denny S. Bryce, bestselling author of Wild Women and the Blues Long Gone, Come HomeMonica Chenault-Kilgore For my mother, OliviaI love you Monica Chenault-Kilgore was born and raised in Cincinnati, Ohio, and currently lives in Edison, New Jersey. She is a graduate of the Ohio State University School of Journalism. Her published works include Liberty and Justice for All...Profiles of Middlesex County African American Veterans of WWII and the Korean War, which is available in the public library. She formerly worked as a contributing reporter for the Home News Tribune and the Courier News newspapers. ContentsWe All Fly HomeProloguePart OneChapter OneChapter TwoChapter ThreeChapter FourChapter FiveChapter SixChapter SevenChapter EightPart TwoChapter NineChapter TenChapter ElevenChapter TwelveChapter ThirteenChapter FourteenChapter FifteenChapter SixteenChapter SeventeenChapter EighteenChapter NineteenPart ThreeChapter TwentyChapter Twenty-OneChapter Twenty-TwoChapter Twenty-ThreeChapter Twenty-FourChapter Twenty-FiveChapter Twenty-SixChapter Twenty-SevenChapter Twenty-EightChapter Twenty-Nine...we all fly homeAcknowledgmentsReader’s GuideDiscussion Questions WE ALL FLY HOMEA wonderful planTaking the road through tall treesTo the scarlet sunWorries tossed asideTwisting and floating on airDancing in the windThe path is litteredSeasons gather at our feetCourageously oursPassing through waterSeeking the deepest riverBeyond its richesI’ll swim up to youYour arms encircle my waistDripping wet we kissWe travel awayOver dry stones in the roadLosing each otherThen we all fly homeWhere alone and togetherOur love lingers still More often than not, life whisked men away from my family. Life was war in far-off lands or murderous mobs with rifles and rope riding up to a front door. Life was easy money from criminal acts which always ended badly. Life even snatched away those men who, with the best intentions, left Kentucky farm towns for better paying work up north or out west. They rarely came back.My sisters’ father died when I was too young to remember. All that was left to remember him was a faded picture of a tall, slender, shiny black man dressed in uniform and a medal of ribbon and bronze with something written in French. Mama kept them in her drawer under English linen. She told us he fought with France during the Great War and when he returned home, the church folks hoisted him up with pride.Within two years of coming home, his body was found hanging from a tree down by the Kentucky River Lock and Dam. Ghosts must’ve risen from the water to hang him because no one was ever convicted of his murder.When we spoke of him, which wasn’t often, I would call him Daddy. Eventually I learned he was not my real father. Ghosts must’ve got my father too. No matter who I asked, I never received an explanation of where my father came from or where he went. Mama would just say my father was pretty, followed by a “just like you.” After a while, I stopped asking. PART ONEThe road through tall treesTo the scarlet sun CHAPTER ONEMt. Sterling, Kentucky1936Broken bits of sunlight pierced through the high-arching trees forming a patchwork carpet along the dirt road. In the distance, an amazingly old wagon was being pulled by a horse that was just as ancient. Birdie Autumn Jennings watched the slow-moving horse and wagon while shielding her eyes against the sudden burst of sun that pushed its way through tree branches. Yellow clouds of dust rose each time the horse’s hooves hit the dirt. The air filled with the scent of moist clay and fresh grass which grew stronger as the wagon approached.Is that Bucky? How can that old horse still be alive?As a little girl Birdie would ride in the back of that very same wagon to and from a one-room schoolhouse. It was the sole mode of transportation for her, her two sisters and every other brown child in the farming community on the outskirts of Mt. Sterling. The families who were determined their children get a proper education paid a nickel for them to ride the wagon to and from the school that stayed open throughout most of the year, unlike the nearby state school that only had classes around crop schedules.Watching the plodding horse and wagon draw near, sensations of her childhood returned. Birdie could almost feel the sudden fits and jerks of the wagon as it moved over the undisciplined road. She remembered how the motion and the heaviness of the heat in the early summer lulled her and the other children into dreamland. She could almost