Spelldown (10 page)

“Get in, son. Ain’t nothing in this world out of my way.”

Billy Ray shrugs, then hops into the backseat.

“Those onions smell good,” Daddy says, like he’s all full of energy.

He whips into the Jiffy lot and parks the car in front of Mickey’s. The bait shop is closed on Sundays, but an
OPEN
sign hangs in the window. Above the front door,
SCHLITZ
glows in neon letters.

“Wait in the car, baby.”

“Aw, Daddy, why can’t I come in?”
“The Jiffy ain’t no place for a girl. Come on, Billy Ray.”

Billy Ray and Daddy head toward the Jiffy.

I jump out of the car and yell, “Get Mama a banana milk shake,” and then go sit on the hood of the car.

The cold seeps through my coat, my corduroy skirt, my panties, and freezes my butt. I pull up my hood and watch the girls with teased hair smooch their boyfriends. It gives me a horny feeling, so I lie back and look up at the moon hanging golden in the black sky. Staring at the sky reminds me that Earth is hurling and twirling itself through the infinite universe, and that the only thing holding me on to this cold car is a little smidgen of gravity. The vastness of it all makes me realize that being a Baptist is beside the damn point.

“Let’s go.” Daddy pulls on my scruffed-up black-and-white saddle oxford.

I make Billy Ray sit up front. Daddy pulls out and heads toward town. Not much going on in Red Clover. Just boys riding up and down Main Street, wondering if they will ever find a girl, dreaming about being rich and famous and happy, and hoping most of all that they’ll never be like their linthead daddies. Daddy blows the horn at Kelly sitting on the bench in front of the Royal Taxi Cab Company, whittling away. Kelly salutes and smiles.

“Kelly said you might do some driving for him,” Daddy says to Billy Ray.

“Yes, sir. After school and in the evenings, during the week.” A miraculous image shimmers in my mind of me
sitting up front with Billy Ray driving Kelly’s taxi.

Daddy turns into the entrance of Whispering Pines Trailer Park, drives down the bumpy dirt road, and stops at a beige trailer with two tall, straggly pine trees in the tiny front yard. The trailer doesn’t look too bad. Pieces of cardboard are duct-taped over the living room windows.

“Appreciate the ride, Mr. Bridges.” Billy Ray opens the car door.

“Anytime, son.” Daddy hands Billy Ray a big white paper bag. “I bought some burgers for you and your mama in case you get hungry later.”

“Thanks a lot.” Billy Ray takes the bag and walks toward the house.

“See you later, Billy Ray,” I call. Then I plop into the front seat.

As I watch Billy Ray kick a pinecone all the way to the trailer, a noisy silence throbs in the car. Daddy looks sorry or guilty about something. His profile looks carved out of stone as he pulls out onto the highway. Then he rolls down the window a little, pushes the lighter in, and fiddles with his cigarettes. The lighter pops out and I grab it like I’ve done since I was a little girl, then hold it to his cigarette as he inhales the fire into the tobacco. The tires whine on the asphalt as he turns onto Beale Street. He parks in the dirt driveway of a mustardy-colored house. A mangy bulldog charges toward the car, but is yanked back by a chain anchored to a dead oak tree.

“I gotta pick up some cigarettes. Won’t take but a minute.
You can listen to the radio.” He jumps out of the car and hurries toward the house.

I wish I was anywhere but here sitting in the car, mutilating my fingernails, worrying about why he is going into a trashy house looking for cigarettes instead of stopping at the Esso station we passed a mile back. “Incense and Peppermints” is playing on the radio. I turn up the volume. Strawberry Alarm Clock is by far the weirdest name of a band I have ever heard. I know the words by heart, but listen deeper to see if I can figure out what in the world the song
means
. Maybe it’s about dead kings and crippled things. Or about things that smell good. Or about playing games you can’t win or lose. Or about turning your eyes inward and taking a real hard look at yourself. Perhaps it’s a song about life not meaning a damn thing. That the whole point is that there is no point. It doesn’t really matter. The music makes me feel like I’m on a glittery ride to nowhere in particular.

Finally, the car door opens and Daddy slinks into the seat, a brown bag in his hand. The smell of Southern Comfort fills the car. He puts the bag underneath the seat and drives toward home.

We pull into the driveway of our newly painted house that is the color of jonquils during the day, but tonight, in the light of the full moon, it’s the color of old teeth. The house is dark, but the porch light is on. Daddy grabs the paper bag from under his seat and walks to the backyard with his head down. The moonlight shines on his face as he lifts the bag to his lips. I hunker down in the car and pray furiously, breaking
all of Mama’s praying rules.
Dammit God, help my daddy. Turn that liquor into lemonade. Forgive me for being pissed off. Show me the way not to cry myself a damn creek. And oh, yeah, God, thanks for nothing. Nothing at all
.

After I put Mama’s milk shake in the freezer, I look out the window and see that Daddy’s car is gone.
Damn, damn, damn
. I check on the boys and look in on Mama. She’s asleep, one foot hanging off the side of the bed.

I’m nervous as a tick. Standing on my head might calm me down. I grab a pillow from my bed and put it on the floor about ten feet away from my wall of fame. I get into tripod position, then carefully lift my legs into the air. It’s weird how I’m upside down, but my heroes still look right side up. Maybe my mind is so used to these headstands that it inverts the image automatically. Ringo’s smiling goofily with the big purple heart I colored on his chest. Aretha’s dressed in a glittery turquoise dress, her lips almost touching the big, shiny microphone. And in the painting I cut out of my Sunday school book, there’s a light breaking through the darkened sky and it’s shining on Jesus, who looks willing to hang on that cross forever. The way the artist left off the crown of thorns created a real peaceful effect.

After my brain gets oxygenated, I ease my body down and rest a minute or two. Then I grab our gargantuan flashlight, a towel, and put on my jacket. I walk through the woods to Highway 200. I cross Bear Creek Bridge, then walk past Dodge Country, Buckwheat’s Body Shop, and Kentucky Fried Chicken. Across the street, a neon sign flashes
RED
CLOVER MOTEL
one second and
RED LOVER MOTEL
the next. That c has been acting up for months.

There are no lights on at the parsonage, so I slip around to the back of the church. The window in the kitchen lifts easily and I climb in. I love coming to church when nobody’s around. Most times when I sneak in, I just go to the nursery, get a pack of graham crackers, pour myself a cup of orange Hi-C, then go sit in the balcony to admire the stained-glass window of Mary and her baby.

In the sanctuary the sconces along the wall cast a pale yellow light. I adore the clean peachy smell of furniture polish that protects the gray poplar pews. I make my way through the choir room and then to the baptistery, where I strip naked. Then I take three steps down and wade into the small pool. I float on my back in the cool, shadowy water. A huge metal crucifix with grapevines curled around it rises above me. And a buttery light filters down from the ceiling, caressing my skin.

I don’t feel angry, or sad, or afraid.

I feel peaceful as a water lily.

After a while I dunk myself real good in the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost. Then I just float around in the dark feeling unguilty—like I’ve never harmed anyone or anything.

1: lack of knowledge or awareness: IGNORANCE

It’s Monday. I’m sitting in the cafeteria, choking down a cold piece of corn bread, feeling like a cadaver in the midst of obnoxiously cheerful students. I couldn’t muster up a giggle for a million dollars. I must be sending out a powerful don’t-tread-on-me signal. Not one soul has bothered me all morning. I’ve been trying to finish my history homework, but I’m sad as a bastard, thinking about Daddy’s drinking. I wish Billy Ray were here. Last year, whenever I showed up for lunch as The Untalkative One, he’d perk right up and start his happy talk about how one day I’d be President of the whole damn country and he’d be Secretary of the Interior.

To make it worse, Mrs. Harrison is at a conference for Latin teachers. I can’t bear the thought of going into her classroom and having to entertain a crummy substitute for fifty minutes, so, after fifth period, I’m going to walk home through the woods.

I look up at the clock. History starts in ten minutes. I read through the short essay Mrs. Helms assigned us to write over Thanksgiving about South Carolina’s secession from the Union. Miss Sophia helped me find some original sources,
which gave some interesting statistics. The paper sounds convincing, but it’s a little too spunky, so I change
dumb-asses
to
morons
and all the
hells
to
hecks
, then pack my stuff and mosey down the hall with all the other white students to my history class.

When I walk into the classroom and take my seat over by the window, Kim Gainey leans forward and whispers, “Watch out, she’s wearing her puke green pantsuit,” which means Mrs. Helms had a terribly awful, no-good weekend.

But then I think,
Well, mine wasn’t exactly a glorious celebration
. Besides, I’m tired of being the Timid One because I questioned her pronunciation at the bee.

Mrs. Helms sits at her desk with her hands folded and her eyes closed, instead of striding around the room speaking to us in her lecturing voice as she usually does. It’s so quiet, you can hear the big square clock ticking. Finally, she opens her eyes. “Instead of proceeding to Chapter Eight, I’d like to ask for volunteers to come up to the front and read their essays to the class.” She’s speaking in her swing-low-sweet-chariot, coming-for-to-carry-me-home voice.

No one raises a hand. Most students are looking down at their desks or scribbling in their notebooks. Since the mispronouncing incident, I’ve been waiting until last to volunteer, so as not to appear arrogant. But I really want to read my essay. The second hand on the clock jerks to seventeen minutes past one. Mrs. Helms clears her throat twice and asks for volunteers again. I raise my hand high. She looks around the room, avoiding my row by the window. No
one else raises a hand. Mine is still in the air. Desi looks at me and shrugs, as if to say,
She’s all yours
.

Kim passes me a note. I unfold it and read:
You’re humming real loud!

Damn it all to hell
. I feel embarrassed about my stupid “Kumbaya” quirk, but I force myself to squelch that emotion. The clock’s hand jerks to eighteen minutes past one. I stand up beside my desk. “Excuse me, Mrs. Helms, I’d be happy to read my essay.” Her eyes look semi-glazed.

“Why, I am not one bit surprised, Karlene,” she says in a scary gleeful voice. “You’re always
so terribly happy
to read your essays.”

Blood swooshes through my heart as I look around the room. The other students don’t know what to think. Neither do I, so I pray for courage and walk to the front of the room.

“Mrs. Helms, this was a terrific assignment. I learned a lot from reading about the subject.” I breathe deeply, and then with all the gumption I can muster, I read the words scrawled on the raggedy notebook paper:

The room is quiet as a graveyard after a snowstorm. The students look enthralled.
I hope to God they swore on a stack of Bibles
ricochets inside my head. I turn to hand my paper to Mrs. Helms. Her head is resting on the desk. I can’t see her face, but her shoulders are shaking.

I touch her arm gently. “Ma’am, are you all right? Can I get something for you?” She’s sobbing softly. I put both arms around her shoulders and whisper, “It’s okay, Mrs. Helms, you’re just having a bad day. It’s going to be all right.”

She lifts her head and looks at me with the eyes of a child who’s been lost for years. My heart gets a cramp as I see her deep loneliness.

“Come on, Mrs. Helms. You need some rest.”

She looks at me with complete trust and stops crying.

“Desi, Mrs. Helms is not feeling well. Will you please help me get her to the lounge?”

Desi walks over and stands on the other side of her. We arrange her arms around our shoulders and help her stand up. Then we escort her out of the room. Ever so softly, I hum “Kumbaya” to comfort her frazzled nerves.

When I reach home, the Plymouth is in the driveway, which means Daddy didn’t go to work. My mood swings lower. I shouldn’t have gotten my hopes up about Daddy. I throw my books on the floor, flop onto the sofa, and smother my face in the brown vinyl. Poor Mrs. Helms. She wouldn’t let me leave her side until her scary husband showed up to take her to the doctor or wherever. I didn’t want to let her go with him. Who knows what’s in people’s hearts. She’s not mean or hateful, just horribly sad. She probably keeps her face in a jar by the door like Eleanor Rigby.