Spelldown (4 page)

Huddled together on both sides of the street are small wooden houses with peeling paint and torn screen doors and red clay front yards, where kids play, looking halfway angry. The road levels off as we come to the back of what claims to be the “Million Dollar Mill.” The red-brick building looks like a giant dragon climbing the hill toward town. Smoke spirals from its nostrils, and it’s surrounded by a barbed wire fence with big shiny fangs at the top.

Kelly parks and walks with me to the guard shack, where he introduces me to the tall skinny man with a silver crew cut. I follow the guard into Weave Room No. 9, which looks like a huge, steamy cave filled with gargantuan looms that make a terrible racket. I cover my ears so I can hear myself think. All the women wear ugly aprons with big pockets, and their hairnets look like thick spiderwebs. We walk for a while until he points to one of the looms. I see Mama and make my way between the noisy machines. When she sees me, she rushes over and says something, but it’s so noisy, I can’t understand her. She pulls a pad of paper and a pencil from her apron pocket and scrawls,
What’s wrong?

I write,
Everything is O.K. Do you mind if I go shopping at Belk?

She wipes her forehead with a handkerchief, reads the note, and acts relieved, but then she looks embarrassed that
I’ve seen her working so hard in such an ugly place. She pulls her small handmade leather wallet from her apron pocket, takes out a twenty dollar bill and her Belk charge card, and hands them to me, then writes on the notepad:
Pay $15.00 on the account. Keep $5.00 for yourself
. I give her a quick hug and turn to leave, but she stops me, then scribbles on the pad:
Be Good
, and underlines
Good
. I smile and nod yes ma’am, then rush out of there as fast as my legs can take me, promising myself I will never work in any kind of noisy place.

Kelly asks how Mama was, then drives slowly down South Main. The line is five deep at Liberty Finance. A woman dressed in white go-go boots stands at the back, smoking a cigarette. The One-Hour Martinizing dry cleaners is hopping with people picking up their Sunday clothes at the counter and at the drive-thru window. Kelly lets me out in front of the Red Clover Library and hollers good morning to Miss Sophia, who’s snipping marigolds by the front door. “And good morning to you,” she says.

I skip up the red-brick steps. “Hey, Karlene, good to see you.” She hands me the flowers. “Mind taking these inside for me?” Her fingernails are stained yellow from smoking cigarettes, but they’re nice and pointy.

I open the door and a cool dose of air hits me in the face. Not a soul in sight. Sunlight bounces off the gleaming oak tables. I put the marigolds in the vase on Miss Sophia’s desk, then fill it up at the water fountain. When Miss Sophia moved to Red Clover last year, she painted the walls a pale yellow, then hung nice framed pictures of Mark Twain, Emily
Dickinson, and William Shakespeare. She also hung a big sign above the circulation desk:
YOU ARE WHAT YOU READ.

The first time I met her, she asked me which subjects I liked the most. When I told her mammals, medicine, philosophy, religion, literature, and the occult, she looked at me kind of funny, then wrote it on an index card with Karlene Kaye Bridges at the top.

Before I start browsing, I walk over to the giant dictionary sitting on the fancy mahogany book throne. On the wall above it, Miss Sophia’s sign says:

PLEASE REMEMBER THIS DICTIONARY BELONGS TO EVERY CITIZEN OF SHIRLEY COUNTY, NOT JUST YOU.

RULES OF USE:

WASH HANDS BEFORE USING.

1)
TURN PAGES SLOWLY.

2)
DO
NOT
BEND THE CORNERS TO MARK YOUR PLACE.

3)
DO
NOT
PUT YOUR FINGERS ON THE WORDS.

4)
IF SOMEONE IS WAITING TO USE THE DICTIONARY, DON’T BE A HOG—SHARE!

I close my eyes, flip randomly to a page, and put my finger on a word. The word is
infirmity
, which means sickness of the body or a flaw in a person’s character. The next entry is
in flagrante delicto
, a Latin phrase. It means being caught red-handed in the act of committing a crime. I pull out an index card from my pocket and write it down.

Miss Sophia walks over, reaches across the circulation
desk, and grabs a thick volume. She hands it to me. “Since you’re interested in philosophy, I thought you should begin with an American first—and Ralph Waldo Emerson is a good place to start.” I open the royal blue cover and study the drawing of the author. He looks tired, but satisfied with himself.

“These essays aren’t the easiest things to read, but they’re worth it. I suggest you read ‘Self-Reliance’ first, then ‘Compensation.’ Then just read them in any order you like. You’ll find some excellent vocabulary words that will help you practice for the Spelldown.”

As I leaf through the book, Miss Sophia rattles on about the integrity of my mind and how, as a scholar, I need to study the work of important authors like Mr. Emerson, and that I should
never
take shortcuts by studying what a lesser thinker has to say about a lofty thinker’s work.

I turn to the essay on friendship and read the first sentence to myself.
We have a great deal more kindness than is ever spoken
. I read it again. I like how kind the words sound, so I write them down. Then I go to the reference area to look at the Latin books Mrs. Harrison put on reserve for our class. I select one and sit at the table. It doesn’t take long to find some humdinger phrases, and I write them on a fresh index card. My favorite one is
Noli me tangere
, which means, “Do not touch me.” It’s what Jesus told Mary Magdalene in the garden after he was resurrected.

“I need to get going,” I say as I head to the door.

“Let me check that out first.” Miss Sophia takes the
Emerson book, pulls out the card, and stamps the due date inside the back cover. “Guess who they asked to call out words at the Spelldown?”

“Yeehaw! Now I know I’ll win,” I tease her.

“I don’t play favorites, Miss Bridges.” She winks, then wags her finger.

I say good-bye, walk across the street, and go through the side door of Belk Department Store. Red and purple balloons float above the back-to-school specials, but as I walk toward the junior clothes department, I feel all drippy inside thinking about shopping without Mama’s eagle eye. Before she met Daddy, she worked in a fancy clothing store in Charleston and had a fine wardrobe. She’s very particular about clothes. Every year, we always do our back-to-school shopping at Belk, and I usually get three brand-new outfits. But I can make do with what I have a while longer. Mama already spent a hundred and fifteen dollars on the school clothes she ordered for the twins from the Sears catalogue.

Instead, I make my way to the fabric department. Over on the remnants table, a purple velvety fabric catches my eye. There’s a yard and a quarter of it. Enough material for a vest and a headband, which is perfect for my home economics project. It only costs two dollars, so I pay for it with my own money. On the way out, I spot five bolts of madras on sale. It is all the rage out in California. The Beach Boys look groovy in their madras bermudas. Earlier this summer, the saleslady told me that madras is named after the town in India where they make it. The weird thing about madras is that it’s
designed to bleed on purpose, just like girls.

The credit department is upstairs, so I climb two steps at a time and go up to the sweet red-haired clerk. “Where’s your mama today?”

“Oh, she’s working.” I pull out the twenty and slide it across the counter. “Will you put this against our account?”

“Your mama pays every week, just like a tithe,” she says as she fills out the receipt.

“She’s a meticulous woman, that’s for sure,” I say.

“Well, please tell her Flossie asked about her.”

“I certainly will.” I stuff the receipt into my pocket.

I walk next door to the Midway Theater, hoping that Billy Ray is working. The kiddie matinee is
Born Free
, which I saw a few years ago. I’ll never forget Elsa, that poor lion cub whose mama got shot while trying to eat the game warden. I look through the glass door but don’t see anyone. I bang on it a few times and wait. No one comes. The movie doesn’t start for another hour.

The smell of cinnamon and sugar pulls me to the bakery half a block away. I love the newspaper and magazine articles that hang in pretty white frames along the bright yellow walls. The first one is from the newspaper
The State
back in 1942, when the bakery won top prize for its Peanut Brittle Cake at the state fair.

“Hello. May I help you?” Mr. Tobias, our famous baker, is icing a huge tray of buns.

“Yes, sir. I’ll take a half dozen of those.”

He opens a large white box and starts filling it. Mr. Tobias
lives in Catawba Hills with the rest of the rich people, but he acts respectful to every linthead that comes through the door, even Daddy on his bad days. I figure Mr. Tobias might be one of those anonymous drinkers, since he lets them have the meetings in a private room upstairs. I walk along the display cases, looking at the fruit tarts, sticky buns, pound cakes, and lemon meringue pies with lots of toasted peaks. Over in the special-order department, there’s a seven-layer wedding cake with a corny bride and groom standing on top.

“That will be $1.32.” He hands me the buns and I pay him.

As I walk into Flower Power Record Store, Mayor Melton’s grandson is standing at the counter, dressed in a spectacular tie-dyed T-shirt, with his red hair pulled back into a ponytail.

“Hey, Rocky, did you hear the good news?”

“I haven’t heard any good news lately,” he says, lighting a stick of incense.

“Ringo came back to the band!”

“Hell, he was only gone two weeks.” Rocky rolls his eyes and then winks at me.

I go to the “Top 40” section. As I flip through Simon & Garfunkel and Marvin Gaye records, Johnny Cash’s thundering voice is half talking, half singing about how he shot a man in Reno just to watch him die. He sounds like a tired old werewolf growling for mercy.

Someone taps me on the shoulder and I turn around.

“Hey, Karlene, was that you banging on the door?” Billy Ray says.

“Yeah, I figured you were popping popcorn for the kiddie show.”

“I was up in the projection room. Did you want something?”

“Nah. I just thought I’d let you know how everybody’s moaning about how bad they miss you at school,” I say, instead of
I miss the hell out of eating lunch with you
, which is what we did every day last year when he was in ninth grade.

“Everybody misses me?” His eyes light up.

“Oh, you know—the usual morons,” I say. The light vanishes from his pale green eyes. I feel crummy for acting so nonchalant, but my feelings are all mixed up about Billy Ray now that he’s in tenth grade. We’ve known each other since we were little because our daddies are fishing buddies. I love him, but not exactly like a brother. Besides, he’s a Pentecostal Christian, which makes him a little preachery at times.

“I saw Gloria Jean’s picture in the paper. Guess she got married after all.”

“It’s not a subject I care to discuss, if you don’t mind.”

“Uh, okay, then. How about our camping trip next month—you talk your mama into coming?”

“I’m trying to, but she’s resisting.”

“How about the twins, are they coming?”

“Unless I find a molecular transporter and zap them to Pluto.”

A sloppy grin spreads across his face. “Okay, Psycho, what record are you buying?”

“I’m not sure, probably this one by the Rascals, ‘People Got to Be Free.’”

He waves “Hello, I Love You” in front of my face. “Whatever happened with your wild crush on Jim Morrison?”

“That was last month,” I say, trying to change the subject of crushes. Billy Ray’s acting real weird, like he’s caught a flirting virus. Last year, when these puffy muffin-breasts popped out on my chest, Billy Ray got all discombobulated around me, but lately, he acts like he’s grown accustomed to them. Probably because he’s getting an eyeful of those tenth-, eleventh-, and twelfth-grade girls’ boobs sticking out in tight sweaters.

“How about this Gary Puckett song?” He holds up another 45 and sings, “Young girl, get out of my mind—” I elbow him in his side to interrupt his rhapsodizing.

“I like it just fine, but I’m buying ‘People Got to Be Free.’”

“I’ll buy this one for you.” He walks toward the checkout.

I run after him and tug at this shirt. “Why are you doing that?”

A kind smile flits across his face. “A new record always helps when you lose something as big as a sister,” he says, then turns to pay.

I just stand there, looking at his back, wondering how he knows so damn much. Around most people, I feel sort of made-up, but Billy Ray makes me feel real as dirt.

He hands me “Young Girl” and says, “I need to run.” He rushes to the door, but turns around and says, “Tell your mama I said hey.”

***

A while later I’m stretched out on the sofa reading Mr. Emerson, trying to learn how to rely on myself better. I hear a car pull into the driveway and figure it’s Daddy and the boys, so I put the book over my face and pretend to be asleep. Someone walks into the house and stands beside me.

“Trying to get some sleep around here without the Amazing Bridges Boys?” Gloria Jean removes the book. “Come on, you want to go to the Creamery?”

“No, I think I’d rather go get my tonsils removed.”

“You’re a fruity-cake, Karlene. A real fruity-cake.”

At the Creamery, we order a super-duper banana split to share. As soon as we sit in our booth, she starts talking about Wendell this, Wendell that. Work this, work that.
Blah, blah, blah
. But I just sit back and enjoy the view. Gloria Jean’s eyes are bright and her lips are a glossy peach color. “Is that new lipstick?”

“Yes. It’s called Tangerine Dream.” She pops one of the maraschino cherries into her mouth. Gloria Jean acts different now, as if she’s excited and calm at the same time. Maybe it’s the freedom of not having to be a big sister and a daughter every second of her life.