Ferris Beach (21 page)

“Impossible,” Mama said, and he just shook his head and hummed “The Impossible Dream,” followed by “Impossible.”

“Why do you have to always try and find something bad?” she asked. “Why can’t you accept that we all have
our good
points as well as our
weaknesses?
Why can’t you say something
nice
about somebody?”

“Et tu, Clevé?” he asked, eyebrows raised sharply.

I kept staring at Mr. Bo “Hooch” Poole the whole time we went around the circle. It was hard to imagine this man with his silver hair and Teddy Roosevelt moustache, this man who had once run for lieutenant governor, out in the county getting soused.

Mrs. Poole’s house was like a museum with all of her bric-a-brac, little crystal and pewter and silver birds and figurines which my mother ordinarily would have called “dust collectors.” The minutes from the last UDC meeting were boring, the topic meandering from side to side to discuss who had died and who was in the hospital and who had retired. We C of C’s were supposed to just sit and grin and wait until talent time.

Except for Ruthie Sands, Misty and I didn’t really know the other members, for they were several years older. Ruthie was going to be going away to a private high school in the fall, and you could tell by the somber set of her thin flawless face that she would rather have been anywhere except there. She sat with the older girls and other than saying hello, ignored us until talent time when she asked that we hold up her big flannel board while she arranged little blue and gray felt men and conducted one battle after another right up to the surrender at Appomattox.

I sang “Swanee” down on one knee like Al Jolson, my voice as deep and husky as I could make it. Misty had encouraged me to sing, and I had practiced in her cluttered bedroom the whole week before. Misty and Lily Hadley and some other girls were thinking of starting a singing group, and she had said that if I practiced more I’d have no trouble joining. She said they really
needed another white girl since they had plans to stand black, white, black, white and do lots of neat designs with their arms and legs like the June Taylor dancers used to do on Jackie Gleason.

I noticed that while I was singing, my mother was staring off, through Mrs. Poole’s large picture window which overlooked her side yard; if the hedge had been trimmed you could have seen our yard with the little white gazebo my mother had ordered in a kit and built herself. Ivy grew up the posts, loose tendrils hanging like threads. My mother’s rose garden was beautiful, too, more beautiful than Mrs. Poole’s but Mrs. Poole had never complimented her on it. I had listened one day as Mrs. Poole complimented everything from the peonies to the hydrangeas, obviously ignoring both the gazebo and the roses. “You could do a lot with this yard if you took a notion, Cleva,” Mrs. Poole had said, my mother standing there large and lifeless, gardening scissors in the pocket of her dress.

People clapped when I finished singing but, instead of looking at me, looked at Mama, who had no choice but to look back and smile. I had told her I was going to tell about our trip to Boston and what it had meant to me to glimpse the history of the
other
side of the war; I had completely forgotten to tell her of my change in plans. And though she liked to hear me sing and though she often, during a
Lord Forgive Me When I Whine
session, reminded me of the God-given grace of a singing voice, she was not at all prepared for the deep jazzy Judy Garland style that Misty had encouraged.

When Misty stood up and began her talk on cotton, I felt like I was going to burst out laughing. Other than the relief at having my turn over and having received a few compliments from the older girls, there was no good reason to laugh, but still it came over me like a wave, making my face go red and my whole body quiver. I had to excuse myself and rush into Mrs. Poole’s kitchen; when I got behind the swinging door, I made myself cough again and again so they would think I’d had an attack. I knew Misty.
knew this old trick because we had both used it at Sunday school and I listened, expecting her to lose her control but she was as composed and dry as ever. I waited there, peeping through the crack of the door to see Misty modeling her new peasant blouse with the lace and embroidery. “Cotton,” she said. “This is 100 percent cotton.”

I felt another wave coming over me but coughed instead. Whenever my mother allowed me to sit with Misty in church, we played a game where we’d close our eyes, open the hymnal, and then read the two titles with an ending of “in the bed,” such as “Just As I Am
in the bed”
or “How Great Thou Art
in the bed”
It was Misty’s game, recently learned from the
so very mature
Dean, and though it seemed a little sacrilegious, I couldn’t help but shake with suppressed laughter, so desperate for the freedom to let it all out.

Misty bent the label from her skirt waistband and said, “Cotton.” The older girls were trying hard not to laugh, while Ruthie Sands sat there with her cute little nose wrinkled in disgust. “Blends are inferior,” Misty continued, still straight-faced. “Let the ladies feel your blouse, Ruthie,” she said. “Let us now compare cotton to polyester.” I had to put my hand over my mouth and slip back into the kitchen where I couldn’t see or hear. Even my mother had looked as if she were about to lose control.

“You got the giggles, I suspect?” Maralee Landell was standing right behind me. I nodded, my hand still over my mouth. “You haven’t visited over here in a long time, have you?” she asked, and I shook my head, peeked back out into the living room, where a red-faced, jaw-clenched Ruthie stood while people fingered her blouse. “I still see your mama over here right often. I guess you’re old enough to go your own way, have for awhile now.” She began running water in the sink, her tennis shoes squeaking on the spotless linoleum, while she arranged some little sandwiches on a tray. “You want a sandwich?” she asked, and when I said no, turned off the water and went and opened the back door. I saw
her waving her right arm in a big loop while she held the door open. As I watched, I couldn’t help but wonder where Mr. and Mrs. Landell went when another day of running Mrs. Poole’s house had come to an end; I imagined them walking out the back door and down to where the pastel houses stood.

“Come on, honey,” I heard her say. “You’ve worked up an appetite I know, and I’ve set aside some goodies for you.” Mama glimpsed me in the doorway and gave me a look that said,
Come back in here and sit down,
so I faked another cough, all the while expecting to see Mr. Landell come in from the yard and take off the little cap he wore while driving Mrs. Poole around town.

“Yes, it’s getting mighty warm these days. You need to wear some lotion so you don’t burn, got a nose like Rudolph.” I turned just in time to see Mrs. Landell throw her arms around Merle Hucks and give him a quick hug. “What’s this nasty thing you got around your neck, baby?”

“Rawhide,” he said, and pulled away. He still hadn’t seen me. “It’s what people wear these days.”

“Well, looks like a shoe string to me.”

“Yeah, I guess.” He grinned at her and she patted his shoulder again. “I finished edging around the roses,” he said. “Now I’m gonna mow.”

“Well, come cool off a second,” she said. “Is your mama doing any better?” He shook his head and followed her over near the counter, waited for her to hand him a sandwich. “I sure am sorry to hear it.” She retied her apron, the ends barely reaching when she crossed them in the back and pulled them around to the front. “Yes sir, your mama sure has had a time.” She turned and then stopped as if she’d forgotten I was standing there. “Why, I forgot you were here,” she said, and Merle looked over at me. “You two must know one another. Merle lives right behind you.” She motioned with her thumb to the back window. I nodded and looked away. “Kate’s here for a meeting,” Mrs. Landell said, lowering her voice. “Got tickled and had to leave the room.”
Merle nodded, still staring at me. He had grass stains on the knees of his jeans. “Do you want some refreshments, too?” she asked, and I shook my head. She fixed a big glass of iced tea and handed it to Merle. “Has your mama been back to the doctor?” she asked but he shrugged, then glanced at me.

“I see,” she said. “We can talk over all that later. You two just help yourselves to those sandwiches over there. Not these though.” She pointed to the silver trays she had finished arranging. “Lord knows, not these. I got to run speak to Mr. Landell and I’ll be right back.” She wiped her hands on a dish towel, patted Merle’s shoulder, squeezed it as if to send him some secret message, and then was gone, out the side door and around past the window. Merle sat down at the kitchen table, and I felt like I was frozen with no place to go.

“What are you looking at?” he finally asked, and I shook my head. “Well, what are you doing here then?”

“A meeting.”

He laughed a loud forced laugh and then rearranged the salt and pepper shakers. They were cut glass with silver tops, and when he held them up, the light from the window hit and bounced in little circles. “I mean in the kitchen.” He shook his head, and I kept waiting to hear him meow but he didn’t. “The meeting’s in there.” He pointed to the door as if to tell me to go on.

“Where’s Frankincense?” I asked, suddenly realizing what a ridiculous thing that was to say; it had been well over a year since the church retreat. When I looked back up, he was grinning, his front tooth that used to be gray, loosened, and chipped long before, was as white and straight as the others.

“Aw, he’s off somewhere with my brother, Dexter.” He reached for another sandwich. “They have club meetings, too.”

“You’re not a member?” I was slowly moving towards the table, wishing I could not hear the voices from the other room. Misty was now singing, her voice huskier than mine could ever
be,
in them old cotton fields back home.
I was close enough to read the scribbles on the rubber sole of his tennis shoe, his initials, a peace sign, New York Jets, heavy lines marked to scribble out something else. Then I heard Sally Jean say, “A house is made of brick and stone, but a home is made of love alone.”

“I’m not much on clubs,” he said, giving his head a jerk toward Mrs. Poole’s living room. “Don’t like meetings.” I nodded, and pulled out the chair across from him, lifting carefully so it didn’t squeak against the linoleum. His eyes must have lingered on my cheek longer than he had intended, because he suddenly started and glanced away, raked his fingers through his damp hair.

“What’s wrong with your mother?” I asked, my voice awkward and strained.

“Hysterectomy.”

“Oh.” I felt my face and neck get warm.

“No big deal.”

“That’s good,” I said. Another long heavy pause. “What are you doing here?”

“Working.” He got up and went to get one of the sandwiches, started to put it in his mouth, and then waited. “I do yard work mostly,” he said. “Do your parents need somebody to mow?” Of course he
knew
where I lived, but somehow it surprised me to hear him acknowledge that he knew. “You can let me know it they do, at school or something.”

“Yeah, okay.” I watched him come back over to the table, this time pulling out the chair closer to mine, across the corner, and when he sat, his knee brushed against mine. “I’ll ask my dad.” I waited for him to say something else, but he just nodded and smiled at me, his hands clasped on the table, dirt from Mrs. Poole’s roses still under his nails, a fine scratch across the base of his thumb. I was about to ask him what happened when he spoke again.

“Yeah, well, you can let me know anytime,” he said again. “If you miss me at school you can always call me at home. You
could...” He stopped midsentence when Misty pushed through the swinging door looking for me, her eyebrows going up in surprise to see Merle there.
I
could what,
I wanted to say, but Merle had already leaned back in his chair, moving his knee so there was no risk of brushing against me again.

“I’m always looking for other yards to mow,” he said, turning to Misty. “Both of you can let me know if you need somebody.”

“My brother does most of the yards around here,” Misty said. “We don’t really have any grass, you know, but he’s done Kate’s yard for a long time.”

Merle just smirked and shrugged, put that whole little sandwich in his mouth. “So maybe he’s tired of doing it.”

I called for Misty to come on but she ignored me. “Katie wouldn’t want you mowing her yard anyway. You’d probably run over her cat with your mower, spray him all over the place.”

“Right,” he said. “You keep believing that.”

“Maybe we will.” She nudged me with her elbow. “Where’s R.W.?” she asked, her voice softening with the question. She flashed him a flirty little smile I had seen her practice in the mirror of her medicine cabinet a million and one times.

“What’s it to you?” he asked, and then they grinned at each other.

“Just curious.” She picked up a little sandwich, pulled the sliced olive off the top. “Oh, Kate, I forgot to tell you. I think Dean might ask you to go to the senior prom.” I didn’t say anything, just stood there with my face burning, eyes on that crystal salt shaker. She had told me again and again that we would be much more desirable to guys if they thought
other
guys were after us. “What do you think, Merle? Don’t you think Kate and Dean will look
so cute
together?”

“I don’t,” I began, about to say that I knew nothing about any of this and that Misty was way out of line to be discussing it when Merle’s “Who cares who goes anywhere with her?” hit my ears loud and clear. Merle crammed another sandwich in his
mouth. This time he didn’t pick up one of the little party napkins as he had before but wiped his hands on his pants. “See ya,” he mumbled as he passed Mrs. Landell in the doorway.

It was like everything had sped up, and I followed Misty back into the living room, where she wanted to know what I was doing in the kitchen with Merle Hucks to begin with. Did I
like
Merle Hucks? Did he act like he liked me? No, I told her, no, a thousand times no. He had given me no reason to think that he liked me; his knee had brushed mine but it was an accident, and yes, he had talked to me, but what else could he do when we were the only two people in the room.
Who cares who goes anywhere with her?
he had said. Over by the refreshment table, Mrs. Poole was smoking rapidly while Sally Jean told her that her house was anesthetically pleasing. “What?” Mrs. Poole barely got the word out of her mouth before Sally Jean launched into a newly learned proverb:
There are two special gifts we give our children; one is roots, the other is wings.