The Mighty Miss Malone (7 page)

Jimmie/Father put the invisible pipe back in his mouth, nodded and said, “We’ll say that’s close enough to love to be worried. So we have to look at the cons-or-quenches of what you want to do. Let’s say you show ’em to your mother and she decides you have to give ’em back, what then? You’ve lost your new clothes, just like that.” He snapped his fingers.

I hadn’t thought of that.

Jimmie uncrossed his legs, leaned forward and flicked ashes from his pipe onto the floor.

He’s such a good actor that I almost yelled at him for messing up the floor that I’d swept.

He waved the pipe in front of himself. “My suggestion, Darling Daughter Deza, is to decide which of the two things you like the most and show Mother the other one. That way, if she
says take it back, you’ve only lost one and can sneak around with the other.”

“Thank you, Jimmie, or Father—whoever you are. That sounds like a good idea.”

Not really, but that is a kind thing to say to someone who’s a great singer, a good imitator and full of more baloney than Mr. Schwartz’s butcher shop.

I sat on my bed upstairs. I’d spread the dress next to me and set the shoes on the floor. They were so beautiful!

I wished I hadn’t told Jimmie. Before I’d talked to him I’d thought I’d just run into my bedroom, secretly put the clothes on and show Mother my special new dress and the magic clickity-clackity shoes.

Mother would say something like, “Oh, Deza! You are so beautiful!”

If Jimmie wasn’t around she’d even say, “And look how tall you are in those new shoes!”

As I smoothed my fingers over the dress I started having worries. Maybe I
should
show her only my shoes … no, maybe only my dress.…

My other brain said, “He’s right, you know, kiddo.…”

And just like that, I
did
know. If the bad brain was agreeing with him then Jimmie was wrong.

I gave myself a good soapy wash and smoothed my hair back with a little Vaseline. I put baking soda in my palm and brushed my teeth. I rubbed some more of the Vaseline into my legs and arms till they were nice and shiny. I put on the new
slip, the socks and shoes. Then, being extra careful not to get any Vaseline on it, I slid the most beautiful piece of blue gingham clothes ever made over my head.

The mirror in the bathroom is really tiny so I reached up on my tiptoes, pulled it off the nail above the washbasin and moved it up and down so I could see every part of me.

The dress was gorgeous!

I walked back to my room on my tiptoes so the shoes wouldn’t click-clack and ruin my surprise. I picked up
Great Expectations
, sat on the bed, smoothed my dress, crossed my ankles and started reading.

I hadn’t read five pages when I heard the screen door open downstairs and Mother said, “Hello, James, how was school?”

My heart beat so loud I didn’t hear Jimmie’s answer. I opened my door and clacked down the steps.

Mother said, “What is that sound …?”

I stepped into the living room.

Mother stumbled back till her legs hit the couch and she crashed down on it. One of the paper sacks she’d been carrying split open. A big loaf of cheese and a box of powdered milk bounced off of the couch.

Her hand covered her mouth and she said, “Deza! Turn around …,” and I knew by the happy look on her face that she wasn’t going to take my new clothes away!

I spun until my dress blossomed and became a beautiful blue-and-white rose!

Jimmie started clapping and whistling.

I finally fell on the couch next to Mother. I told her how Mrs. Needham said she’d been waiting a thousand years for
me to be her student and how she was going to tutor me next year.

Mother said, “I’m not the least bit surprised, your father and I always tell both of you how talented you are. It feels like Christmas in July when someone else agrees, especially someone as wise as Mrs. Needham!”

I told her about Mrs. Needham’s niece and the clothes. “Can I keep them?”

Mother said, “Stand up again.”

I stood up and something about the dress and shoes made me go right back into a spin.

Mother laughed. “Deza Malone, that dress and those shoes were
meant
for you. The only time you’ve looked more beautiful was when they handed you to me on the day you were born.

“Help me get these groceries into the kitchen, then we’ll both start working on our thank-you notes to that wonderful woman.”

As I picked up the welfare food Jimmie said, “You lucked up.”

I slapped his head. “No, Jimmie Malone, the truth is always the best way.”

He said, “Not in real life, Deza. Let’s be
truthful
and admit it, you just lucked up. I gotta tell you, though, Ma was right, that getup was made for you. You’re one sharp bit of calico.”

Me, the cheese, the milk and the ruined paper sack twirled into the kitchen.

I couldn’t wait for Father to get home. Even if he hadn’t found work, this dress would cheer up the saddest person in the world!

The next morning I woke up and wiggled my toes.

My feet felt heavy and horrible. Then I remembered. I’d worn Mrs. Needham’s niece’s shoes to bed.

I took them off and got up and started getting ready for school.

When I was dressed, I must have tried six times to go downstairs wearing my new shoes.

Mrs. Needham said I shouldn’t save them, and Mother
had
told me it was OK to put them on, but something wouldn’t let me take more than two tappity-tap steps to head downstairs.

I sat on the bed and picked up my old no-heel shoes. Since this was the last day of school, I could wear them one more time. And I could go barefoot all summer long. I put my regular shoes back on. I’d never noticed before how much they cramped up my toes.

By the time I got downstairs my feet were back to being used to them.

Father was on the couch reading a newspaper and Jimmie had his head on the arm of the couch and his feet tucked under Father’s legs.

This is a bad habit Jimmie picked up from Mother. She’s always complaining that her feet are cold and when she’s laying on the couch reading she’ll ask me or Jimmie or Father to sit on her feet so they’ll warm up. She’s turned us into a bunch of brood hens.

I gave each of them their good morning kiss, then went into the kitchen and kissed Mother.

I reached into the cabinet and pulled out the big new box of oatmeal.

Mother said, “Wait, Deza, there’s the open box, it must have something left.”

What was I thinking? I put the new box back and got the open one. I turned the box until the strange-looking white man was smiling at me. The man was what Mother says we should call big-boned. He was wearing a black cowboy hat, had long gray hair like a very old white woman and must have been getting ready to eat his supper because he had stuffed a fluffy white napkin down into the front of his shirt.

Father came into the kitchen.

It’s funny how something can look so normal to you one day, and then all of a sudden it can look so strange. I wonder if that’s because as you get smarter and older you look at things with different eyes, even things you’ve seen a million times before.

I stared at the man on the Quaker Oats box. “Mother, Father, who is this man?”

Father took the box. “Well, Deza, I don’t think anyone knows. The way he’s skinning and grinning, though, he must’ve just heard some very good news.”

“What do you think the news was?”

Father looked at Mother. “Peg, what would good news for a Quaker be?”

Mother said, “All I know is the Quakers have a reputation for being very honest. And they helped a lot of our people get North on the Underground Railroad during slavery.”

Father clapped his hands. “There you go! Our happy Caucasian friend here has been so busy waiting for another escaped slave that he hasn’t had a chance to read a newspaper for the last … how long have we been free?”

Father did the math in his head. “Seventy-three years. Wow, it was only seventy-three years ago that Lincoln freed the slaves. So, Dar Dawt, this guy’s so happy because he
just
heard about the Emancipation Proclamation! He’s overjoyed because he can quit fighting for freedom and get back to quaking.”

I pulled the round cardboard top off of the oatmeal box and stuck my face over the opening. The smell of the oatmeal was lovely. I closed the box and shook it. Shaking made little bits of powder float around inside the box.

When I pulled the lid off again I dropped the box and screamed.

Mother and Father jumped and Jimmie came running into the kitchen.

I pointed at the floor. There, along with the spilled cereal, was a army of teeny-weeny, wiggling-squiggling, wormy-looking bugs and beetles trying to hide under the flakes of oatmeal.

Mother said, “Deza Malone, do you have any idea how much a box of oatmeal costs? Sweep that cereal back into the box this instant.”

I don’t know what was a bigger surprise, the bugs and worms, or Mother telling me to sweep them back.

Father smiled at me. “Deza, those are only some harmless beetles that hitched a ride.”

I couldn’t believe I was having to point out something so obvious to Father. Most times he was very quick to understand. I crossed my arms. “But they’re bugs. Bugs in the food?”

He crouched down so he was looking me square in the eye, something that made me feel big and important and small and silly at the same time.

“Deza, times are hard, we can’t waste a thing.”

I stamped my foot. “Father, they’re bugs!”

He went from crouching to sitting on the floor with his legs crossed in front of him.

“My Mighty Miss Malone. You know I haven’t worked regular for months now. We’re going to have to be very careful until I can find work. That might be a while.”

He reached over and pinched a bunch of the spilled oatmeal into his hand. A couple of bugs scurried around in his
palm, ducking between flakes like they were hiding under a umbrella.

“The bugs are harmless.”

Father smiled and tossed the oatmeal, bugs and all, into his mouth!

Jimmie yelled, “Holy mack-a-rollee!”

He scooped up a pinch of bugs and cereal and threw them into his mouth.

Mother said, “Roscoe! James! Neither one of you knows when to stop. Deza, before I cook the oatmeal I always sift any of those beetles out, and the boiling water kills any germs.”

The news was getting worse! Mother had used buggy oatmeal before! I felt my stomach clenching and twisting, just like I’d eaten another bad piece of fish.

Mother said, “The last time I checked, Deza, your birth certificate said ‘Malone’ and not ‘Rockefeller.’ We just can’t afford to throw any kind of food out, my dear.”

Father got up and started out of the kitchen.

Jimmie said, “Hey, Pa, how come you quit talking?”

Father had been quiet since he’d put the buggy oatmeal in his mouth. Jimmie grabbed his arm. “What’s wrong, Pa, cat got your tongue?”

Father had tried to teach me a lesson but the lesson wasn’t going to go as far as chewing or swallowing the wiggling worms.

Father slapped the back of Jimmie’s head and when Jimmie said, “Hey!” and ducked, Father spit the oatmeal into his other hand. “What, Jimmie? I didn’t quite hear what you said.”

All the way to school Jimmie couldn’t quit talking about how him and Father had ate some bugs.

“Wait till I tell everyone!”

I rolled my eyes. That was all he needed to do, give people more ammunition to shoot at him on the last day of school, but with Jimmie it’s best to come at things sideways.

“Jimmie, don’t tell anyone, you know we’re not supposed to talk with anyone about what happens at home.”

Jimmie said, “Yeah, that means we can’t talk about family
business
. This ain’t business, this is something funny.”

Me and Jimmie look at the world in different ways. While Jimmie was bragging about eating buggy cereal, I was promising myself that I was through with oatmeal for the rest of my life.