Spelldown (8 page)

When I woke up this morning, three pitiful zombies were stumbling around like they’d spent the night in hell. Daddy looked as if he were trying to remember something and forget it at the same time. Teeny looked lost as a silly sheep, and Crawdad smelled like he’d just crawled out of the grave.

After Billy Ray cooked breakfast, we sat on the hill near the reservoir. He called out spelling words, but I couldn’t concentrate. He kept asking me if I was all right. I finally broke down and told him how sick I was of living with Daddy. He sat there for a long time with his arm around my shoulder until I stopped crying. Then he talked about how we are not responsible for our parents’ actions: “What they do is between them and their maker” were his exact words. When Billy Ray talks serious like that, I listen.

On the radio the preacher keeps exhorting about our emotions, but I’m too tired to
feel
a damn thing, so I turn off the radio and look over my Latin phrases for the week.

Errare humanum est
. To err is human.

Memento mori
. Remember you must die.

Ad augusta per augusta
. To high places by narrow roads.

Cogitationis poenam nemo patitur
. Nobody should be punished for his thoughts.

I really like the idea about not being punished for your thoughts. It must be a Catholic policy. Baptists believe that thinking something is the same as doing it. A phrase from Mr. Emerson’s essay pops into my head, so I add it to the list:
Res nolunt diu male administrari
. Things refuse to be mismanaged long.

Finally, Daddy pulls into our driveway and Mama comes outside, looking refreshed in her church clothes—until she sees how miserable we look and how dirty everything is. Her mouth gets in that tight little
o
, and she tells Daddy he needs to stay home and bathe his nasty sons and put them to bed. But, Lord knows, I am raring to go. I scrub myself good and put on my navy blue jumper, white blouse, and navy blue loafers—clothes pleasing to Mama.

The Red Clover Second Baptist Church bus honks the horn out front. The bus looks pitiful, like a bunch of third graders painted it with white house paint. The wheezy old bus driver perks up when he sees Mama. He stands up and takes her by the hand and helps her up. I climb the steps by myself and follow Mama to the middle of the bus and sit beside her.

Three of the Ashley boys from over on the mill hill are sitting in the seats at the back, singing, “Ninety-nine bottles of beer on the wall, ninety-nine bottles of be-e-e-er, take one down, pass it around, ninety-eight bottles of beer …” But Mama keeps turning the pages of the
A-K
dictionary, calling out words at random. Easy words, like
amnesia, asinine, chronology, fiduciary, fumigate, and intravenous
. She’s trying to act enthusiastic, but I can tell she knows Daddy jumped off the Sober Train again.

His drinking is not something she likes to talk about. Every time I bring it up, she acts like it’s her own private problem. Mama acts like God’s love is plenty enough to save him from his drunkenness, but I think it’s going to take a
whole lot more than that. When it comes to Daddy, it’s as if she doesn’t want to know the truth. Putting a finger on her feelings isn’t one of Mama’s strengths, but I think she’s lonely as the moon.

Training Union bored me to pieces, but I’ve never felt so damn happy to walk into the Lord’s house on baptism night. Mama and I take our usual seats on the fourth pew on the right side. There’s something magical about how the light reflects off the baptismal waters tonight, flinging little Tinkerbells all over the sanctuary walls. I feel like running up to Preacher Smoot and telling him to give me a good dunking before he even starts his sermon—but I don’t dare. Mama would be mortified. I’ve been baptized twice already, which, according to her, is one time too many.

So, instead, I close my eyes and remember the first time I was baptized. The water feels warm as a baby’s bath, my crinoline is heavy with holy water, the yellow sash of my white dress streams behind me. Preacher Smoot places his gargantuan hand upon my head and turns me toward the congregation. Then he blesses me, lowers me into the water, and holds me under for what seems like a long time. Finally, he lifts me out of the water, and I stumble up the stairs out of the baptistery, sputtering water, about to choke on my own salvation.

1: an act of breaking loose from rules or restraint

2: an adventurous action that runs counter to approved conduct

“Mr. Satterfield, will you please spell
causalgia?”
Miss Sophia says, standing behind the podium at the left of the stage.

“May I have the definition, please?” Jack squeaks into the microphone. Only five contestants remain. The other four of us are sitting in orange plastic chairs arranged in a semicircle on the stage.

“An intense, burning pain, usually neuralgic,” Miss Sophia says. She’s doing a great job as the Giver of Words, plus she looks snazzy in her new black tailored pantsuit with a white shirt and red scarf.

Jack rubs the back of his neck.
“C-a-u-s-a-l-g-e-a.”

The bell rings. Poor Jack trudges down the steps into the auditorium and joins the other seventeen spellers who heard the fatal bell ring. Being a two-time loser myself, I feel sorry as hell for them, but deep inside I feel victorious. So far, I’ve had a couple of easy words:
vehicular
and
guerrilla
. The others were more difficult:
dyspeptic, étagère
, and
neurotic
, which is a fancy way of saying you have a bad case of the cooties inside your brain.

“Miss Harper, will you please spell
craniopagus?”

Cherry Harper, the eighth grader who beat me last year, goes to the microphone. Her jet-black hair is wound into a messy French twist that looks like it’s been shellacked. “May I have a definition, please?”

Miss Sophia says, “Craniopagus is a condition in which Siamese twins are born with their heads joined.”

From out of nowhere a huge laugh wells up in my stomach. I try to squelch it by biting my tongue, but it shoots straight up my esophagus, and a noise comes out of me that sounds like a hee-hawing donkey. An image of Noah and Joshua joined at the top of their heads keeps flashing in my mind. I shut my eyes as tightly as I can, trying to squeeze the image out of my head, but the hee-hawing gets louder. A little bit of pee leaks into my panties. Oh, my God. I’m not going to be able to stop laughing. It’s like all the nonsense inside of me is percolating to the outside, and I can barely see a damn thing for the tears pouring out of my eyes. Miss Sophia is standing in front of me with her hands on my shoulders, shushing me in a sweet voice. “Shh. It’s going to be all right. Just breathe, Karlene, breathe. You need to get ahold of yourself.”

I focus on her face and breathe deeply, trying to force the whole gob of laughter out of me all at once, but it comes out in shrieky spurts, then tapers off into a few hiccups before it vanishes. I close my eyes and sit there, breathing in and out. Miss Sophia hands me a tissue. There’s not one snicker in the entire auditorium. The silence is so damn beautiful.

I open my eyes. Miss Sophia smiles and hands me a fresh tissue. “You okay now?”

I nod my head. The auditorium is still filled with absolute silence.

“Thank you. I’m ready to continue,” I say, and then blow my nose real good.

Miss Sophia nods and walks back to the podium. “Pardon the interruption, Miss Harper. Now, will you please spell
craniopagus?”

Not one syllable sounds funny to me. Hallelujah. Another miracle.

Cherry spells the word correctly, sits beside me, and gives me an encouraging pat on the back, acting dignified as a champion. Trent Thomas misspells
amoebocyte
, walks from the stage, and wanders right on out of the auditorium. Benny Gilroy offers a totally original combination of letters for
facetiously
, and acts relieved to hear the bell. He nearly skips from the stage, obviously unaware that
facetiously
is famous for being the shortest word that has all the vowels in order: Even the sometimes
y
is at the end.

Miss Sophia asks Cherry and me to stand up, and we battle it out, spelling
irrevocable, bhakti, fictioneering, gudgeon, jettison, chanteuse, smorgasbord, predilection, otitis, googolplex
. Finally, Cherry stumbles over
pinaceous
. Spells it
pinacious
. The bell rings, and Cherry drops her head and groans. Poor thing got foiled by those damn
e’
s and
i’
s.

“Miss … Bridges … will … you … please … spell …
pinaceous?”

Everything has slowed way down. My temples throb from all the blood surging around in my brain. I can’t feel my skin. Or my skin can’t feel me. I feel as if I’ve vanished except for my eyes and brain. I keep myself from looking at the Harrisons, but I can’t resist looking over at Mama, who’s sitting proudly between Daddy and Kelly. I’m thrilled they’re all here. Thrilled that Kelly is such a good sponsor and talked Daddy into going back to AA.
Damn
. I need to focus. I force myself to erase everything from my mind like Mrs. Harrison taught me.

“Will you please repeat the word, Miss Sophia?”

She repeats the word. It hangs in the air for a while.

I focus on the vibration of the word against my eardrums. Then I relax and let the letters make themselves into a word in my mind. Then I examine it and see if it feels right. It feels exactly right, so I spell it:
“P-i-n-a-c-e-o-u-s.”

“That is correct, Miss Bridges.” Miss Sophia’s words come out at regular speed. Poor Cherry moans. I smell the salty scent of despair leaking from her pores.

“Now, will you please spell
her—easy—ark?”
Miss Sophia says.

It’s a word I’ve never heard. My heart feels like a cartoon heart thumping right out of my chest. “May I have the definition, please?”

“It means the founder or leader of a heresy. Someone with unorthodox practices or beliefs.”

Hmm. Heresy. Unorthodox practices or beliefs
. I breathe deeply and think about Jesus as a Jewish boy studying in the
synagogue. And then I think about when he grew up, how he stormed into the temple, popping a whip at the people who were selling oxen and sheep and doves to be slaughtered. He was pissed off about their defiling a holy place with their bloody business, so he overturned their tables and chased them out of the temple. I bet that’s when the church leaders decided Jesus was a heretic and needed to be squelched.

Miss Sophia clears her throat twice.

I ask her to repeat the word.

She pronounces it again:
her—easy—ark
.

I see
heresy
in my mind. Then I see
monarch
. I put them side by side and let them melt together. I pronounce the word, and then say the letters that I see:
“H-e-r-e-s-i-a-r-c-h.”

Mrs. Harrison’s earsplitting whistle tells me everything I need to know.

“Congratulations, Miss Bridges, you are the new Spelling Champion of Shirley County!” Miss Sophia says it like she’s introducing a royal “heiness.”

1: an exclusive or special right, power, or privilege

2: a special superiority of right or privilege

“Jiminy Cricket, it’s seven thirty! We need to be at the party in thirty minutes.” Mrs. Harrison rises from the table. “Karlene, there’s some sherbet in the fridge. And you two,” she says to Celia and James, “you need to help clean up the kitchen.” “The food was delicious,” I say.

“I’m glad you enjoyed it.” Mrs. Harrison smiles and rushes from the table to get ready for the fancy Day-After-Thanksgiving gala at the mayor’s house.

“I’ll clear the table.” Mr. Harrison picks up all the plates and silverware, but I stop him and tell him we’ll do the rest. He says thanks and leaves to get dressed.

By the time the Harrisons come downstairs, the kitchen is spotless, and the kids and I are sprawled on the Oriental rug in the den, playing a game of Old Maid. Mrs. Harrison is wearing a pale blue backless dress; her healthy shoulders glow under a lace shawl. Mr. Harrison’s tuxedo fits him perfectly. He is terribly handsome, but he has a sweet, dignified smile, like Kelly. He winks at me. “Okay, you two, promise me you’ll be good for Karlene.”

The children grab him around the legs, promising to be
good. Mrs. Harrison gives them a quick hug and writes down the phone number at the mayor’s house for me. Then she puts her hands on my face and looks me in the eye. “Don’t forget the ten-yard rule, Your Craziness.”

Her hands feel soft as rose petals on my face, so I stall. “Whatever are you talking about, Your Saneness?”

“The rule that says if you get within ten yards of the dictionary, your tongue will be surgically removed.”

“Oh, that silly rule.”

She chuckles and walks out the kitchen door.

After building a fortress with Tinkertoys, we go to the guest room, which now belongs to me, because there’s a white ceramic star on the door with
KARLENE
painted on it. Celia and James stretch out on the new white bedspread with lavender rosebuds embroidered on it and color another turkey in their Thanksgiving coloring books. I prop myself up on two fat pillows made out of the same silky fabric, and look at the art book full of paintings by Marc Chagall. Each painting is like a happy dream that’s about to turn into a nightmare. They’re full of upside-down choo-choo trains, animals floating sideways, mermaids playing violins, lovers with their faces melted together, and angels opening bedroom windows.

My favorite picture is called
I and the Village
. There’s a profile view of a handsome, human-looking lamb wearing a necklace of multicolored beads talking to a green-faced man with white lips. Painted on the lamb’s jaw is a goat with a bulging udder that’s being milked by a woman in a green
skirt, sitting on a stool. The village is in the background, perched on a hill. In the middle of the village, a woman is standing on her head, and a man is walking toward her carrying a pitchfork. The sky is painted in swirls of blue and red and green and pink. Two of the houses are upside down. There’s a round church with a cross on top and a monster-size priest waiting at the door. All those images living in the same painting makes the village utterly wild, but it’s nothing to snicker over, no matter how mixed up it seems to be.