The Firefly Dance

by Sarah Addison Allen

  “Stop it! That’s nasty, Daddy.”

  He let her go, laughed. Then he called out, “Beth! I’m off.”

  He waited until she came out of their room. When she entered the kitchen, Petey was surprised to see Momma was already dressed. She’d been in her robe and gown most all the time and when she did change into her regular clothes, it wasn’t until after noon. And before Rock, Momma had loved dressing in her clothes. She said clothes were more than covering up nakedness. Petey had always shrugged at that.

  Daddy kissed Momma, grabbed his keys from the peg, and headed out the door.

  Momma asked what Petey’d like for breakfast.

  “Homemade biscuits.”

  “How about some peanut butter toast?”

  “Okay, Momma, but I can do that.” Petey took out the bread. Store-bought. It wasn’t like they never had store bought, it was only they’d never had it all the time before. She put two slices in the toaster and then went to the pantry for the peanut butter. There wasn’t even any homemade jam or jelly. Texas had good fruit, and at the grocery she’d seen some huge berries. Perfect for jam or jelly. Mary had told her that Texans were proud and could brag the bark off a tree in one big long strip over how Texas had everything bigger and better. She said it as if she was proud even of the bragging, like it was all a part of what being Texans was all about.

  One day at school one of the older boys had hollered, “Everything’s bigger in Texas!” then had pointed between his legs—There! At his Thing! His friends laughed, slapping their thighs.

  A girl said, “How vulgar.” She tossed her dark curls back, giggled, and licked her lips to make them shine, like she didn’t think it was vulgar at all but cute as can be.

  Petey had hurried away from them, her face flaming hot as the Texas wind.

  While the toast toasted, Petey remembered Grandma’s letter, took it, and stuck it into her pocket to read later. She knew there’d be a dollar or two for her, and news about the mountains. Sometimes Grandma sent pictures. One time she sent Petey Grandpa’s very own jackknife. Petey kept it wrapped in the tissue nestled in the box it came in and put it in her chester-drawers.

  Grandma had told her to take good care of Grandpa’s jackknife, that he’d whittled things with it from the time he was a kid, so Petey knew it was really really really old. Every so often, she took it out and tried to whittle with it, but she’d never be as good at it as Grandpa had been. He could do anything. He was bigger than Texas. She missed him something fierce. The wrong people left the ole world, is what Petey thought. They left whether old or young or even teeny tiny before they were able to live. Just didn’t seem right for people who were loved and loved back to have to leave.

  Petey spread peanut butter on the toast, thick, just as she liked it.

  Momma sipped coffee and as always stared out the window. She then turned to Petey and said, “That toast smells good. I can’t think of the last time I had peanut butter toast.”

  “I can make you some, Momma.” Petey tried to act casual about it, but inside her heart did a skippity-do-dah-day. She bit into her toast and the peanut butter stuck where she had to rub her tongue against the roof of her mouth to get at it.

  “Maybe later,” Momma said, after just a bit of a hesitate, like she had thought about it a little.

  Petey let out a big ole sigh, but quiet inside herself. The tea Anna had given Momma was on the counter, and she opened it. She couldn’t tell if any was gone, but there was a mug beside the tea. Petey had that hope rise up once again. While she finished off her toast, Petey popped another piece of bread into the toaster to make Momma a peanut butter toast. Just in case. When it was ready, she said, “Here Momma.”

  Momma smiled at her, stuck her finger into the peanut butter, licked it away, then said, “Thank you for making it.”

  Petey washed her plate, taking her time so she could see if Momma would eat the toast. When she turned, three bites were gone; the plate was pushed away.

  Petey told herself to go stare into the mirror a second time. And she did. She dashed into the bathroom, looked at herself for the count of one-two-three (one for each bite of the toast), said, “Ha!” then ran out into the hall and into her bedroom.

  It was still hot outside, even in the coming fall, so Petey decided to read The Incredible Journey. She loved Luath the brave loyal Labrador, Tao the proud fearless Siamese cat, and old Bodger the faithful sweet bull terrier. When she was to the part about Luath having porcupine quills all in his muzzle, poor Luath, she smelled something cooking. Not exactly cooking. Burning. She tossed down her book and ran into the kitchen. Momma stood in the middle of the kitchen, sniffing the air.

  “What’s that burning, Momma?”

  “It must be coming from downstairs.”

  “Anna said she was going to cook for her beloved. To make him love her, I guess.” She then said to Momma all in a rush, “Like how Daddy found you at the bakery, and you said how you baked sweets and when he ate them it made him even sweeter, and how that made him fall in love with you and you with him, and how you put your whole heart in everything you baked and that made Daddy fall harder, and if you cook with love, the food gives back love.”

  A funny look sprung into Momma’s eyes. “Yes, I did say that, didn’t I?”

  “Yeah. And remember how you helped out Mrs. Patterson that time? She was sick and wouldn’t eat nothing hardly (like you, Petey almost said), and you baked her that big huge coconut cake, her favorite? She said after that how her zest for food was back; she said it just like that, zest for food. She said you have magic in you that comes out in your food.”

  “It’s love,” Momma said so quietly Petey wasn’t sure she heard it at first. Momma sniffed the air again. “Burning and something else. Cake-mix cake. I know it when I smell it.”

  “I told you; she cooks with mixes. Imagine that, Momma. Mixes!”

  Then Momma seemed to be tired of talking about it. “Well, she has to learn by her mistakes, I guess.” She sat at the table.

  Petey felt the anger rise up out of her, full and fuller. She was so mad her breath scorched her lips as she heaved out the words at Momma. “You aren’t ever going to be like you were before! All cause of Rock being dead. Well, me and Hill aren’t dead! I’m alive, see?” She pinched herself on the arm hard, harder, then harder still.

  Momma stood. “What are you doing? Stop that!”

  Petey pinched more, her raggedy nails dug into her skin, her fingers pinching, pinching, pinching. The pain spread up her arm as if she’d been stung by ten stinging nettles.

  “Petey!” Momma grabbed at her. Petey jerked and turned away, still pinching. Momma came around, trying to pull at her hand. “Stop it, I said!”

  She kept pinching, harder, deeper, tears burned out of her eyes.

  Momma pulled at Petey’s fingers; she was crying right in front of Petey, saying, “Please, Petey! Please stop!”

  Petey at last let go and faced down Momma. “I wish little Rock wasn’t dead, but that don’t mean I got to feel sad all the rest of my life, do I?” Petey’s face was hot; her whole insides were boiling up and her arm throbbed. “I’m tired of feeling bad. I been looking in mirrors. I been trying.” She stomped her foot. “You tried nothing! Nothing!”

  Momma turned away from Petey, laid her hands on the counter and leaned there. “You can’t understand. You’re a child.”

  “I understand lots of things. I’m not a baby anymore.”

  “Petunia. Please.”

  Petey went to the door. “I’m going to go help Anna get her beloved. I’m going to help her all I can.” Petey stomped out the door and rattled down the stairs.

  Hill had an old stuffed toy rabbit in this mouth and was growling. When he saw Petey, he spit it out and said, “What’s wrong? What’s all that yelling? Why’s your face so red? What ha
ppened to you? Why’re you bleeding?”

  “I’m mad mad mad mad!”

  “Me, too,” Hill said. “I’m mad as a mad bull.” He charged towards Petey, “Grrrrr, grrrr, I’m a mad bull, grrrrr!”

  Petey pushed him away.

  “Are you mad at me, Petey?” Hill’s lip trembled.

  Petey felt horrid; he was so small, and cute as a butter bug, and he was her only brother. “I’m not mad at you, ’kay?”

  He grinned, picked up the stuffed toy with his teeth, and shot off on all fours. Petey couldn’t figure how he did that so fast.

  At Anna’s opened door, Petey smelled the burning even more. She peeked inside, unsure if she should let herself in. Momma’d taught her kids good manners about going where they weren’t invited. She said, “Anna? It’s Petey,” and stepped one step in.

  Anna sat at the table, her head in her hands. Smoke lifted out of a pot on the stove.

  “I’ve come to help you cook for your beloved.”

  When Anna looked up, her face was red and wet and her eyes swollen. “I ruined it! I burnt the roast and the potatoes, too. And the cake is crooked and awful.”

  Petey stepped all the way into the kitchen. She opened the lid on the pot and inside was what used to be the roast, but what turned into a hard chunk of char. On the counter was a cake that leaned crooked to the side, and the icing had melted in nasty oozes. Petey knew Anna’d frosted it before it cooled; she knew this from watching Momma.

  “My mom wasn’t too great of a cook, but we were going to take classes together. We were so excited.” Anna slid her eyes to the Buddha. “That’s all we talked about for weeks. Dad teased Mom about it, how he’d finally save money on restaurants, and how he couldn’t wait to taste our cooking. Mom turned to Dad and said, ‘Well, don’t think I’m waiting on you hand and foot!’ Dad looked at her with his eyes all rounded, and then they teased each other. They were so happy. I was, too.” Anna sniffled and wiped her nose with a tissue. “I was still in high school. A policeman came to get me out of class. Some drunk slammed into my parents. They were there to kiss me goodbye that morning, and then they weren’t there to ever do that again.” She blew her nose. “That Buddha used to be in Mom’s garden. She said it made her feel happy and calm and peaceful. She liked to garden,” she looked up at Petey, “like you told me your mom does.”

  Even if Petey’s parents were acting weird, they were still alive and they kissed her most every day, sometimes more than once. Her stomach reared up and told her it was feeling nasty. She didn’t want to think about her parents being dead. Then she wondered if how she felt thinking about her parents dead, the feeling as if her heart was squeezed and her stomach was twisted raw, was how Momma felt since Rock left. She shouldn’t ought to have yelled at Momma.

  “I’m sorry for all that sad story. I seem to be telling you things about me as if you were my age instead of . . . how old are you?”

  “I’m almost twelve.” Petey stood tall; she wasn’t a little kid anymore.

  “Well, then you understand how it is to be a woman.”

  Petey nodded, though she didn’t really all that much understand.

  “What a sight I must be.” She then said, “Oh! What happened to your arm?”

  Petey turned to the counter and tried to fix Anna’s cake, though it was a lost cause as it slid around, the icing melted, the edges of the cake hard. She went to the roast and tried to scrape the burnt off of it, but it was hard and useless. Petey felt useless herself. She wanted to help Anna, but wasn’t sure where to start.

  Anna stood, left the kitchen, and when she returned she held a white tin box with a red cross and First Aid written on it. She washed her hands, and from the box took a cotton bandage, tape, a piece of cloth, alcohol, and some cream. “I’m going to have to call off the date. I don’t know why I bragged how I could cook.” Anna poured a bit of alcohol on the cloth, took Petey’s arm and wiped the pinched places with the alcohol-dampened cloth.

  Petey sucked in air when the alcohol touched the raw places.

  Anna next spread the cream. “And why do I have to prove I cook? Why do I have to prove anything to a man?” She gently placed the cotton bandage over Petey’s hurts. “It’s just . . . it makes me think of my parents, you know? Silly, I guess.” She smoothed the tape at the edges of the cotton. “It’s why I travel, I suppose. They were going to travel when they retired. They shouldn’t have waited.” She put away the things into the tin box. “When my parents died, I pulled my hair so hard some came out by the roots. It felt better to feel that pain than the other pain.” She then looked right into Petey’s eyes.

  Petey looked down at her arm, then back to Anna.

  Anna went to the sink and washed her hands. “I never did take those cooking classes. But I’ve been traveling to the places they wanted to go.”

  Petey said, “Momma says we cook for love. To show someone we love them.”

  Anna set the tin box on the counter, then picked up her tissue and blew her nose.

  Petey stared again at the roast. Maybe if she cut off all the burnt parts something good would be in the middle of it.

  From behind her she heard, “You had the temperature too high on that roast . . .”

  Petey swung around so fast, her head near-abouts fell off her shoulders.

  “. . . and you can’t bake a good cake from a mix. It’ll never taste right even if it looks pretty, which that one certainly does not.” Momma stood in Anna’s kitchen, her apron tied around her. Her apron. Her clean white apron.

  Petey’s heart filled with a great big love that exploded right out of her skin and made the room glow bright.

  Momma went to the roast pot and stuck it in the sink, roast and all, and poured water over it. She poked at the cake, shook her head. “That won’t do. That won’t do a’tall.” She took a pad from her apron pocket and wrote onto it.

  Anna stood next to Petey. They were quiet, watching as if hypnotized by Momma.

  Momma reached Petey the list and some money. “Go to the grocery and get me what I wrote down. Make Hill go with you, and quickly. No dawdling, you hear?”

  Petey still stood there, as if she was cut out of stone like one of the Graces. All three of them could be a Grace, the way they stood together, waiting for what wonderful thing would come next. Momma leaning on the sink; Anna with her eyes rounded and wide and hopeful; Petey with her hand to her lips as if trying to hold onto any words that would slip out and give them to Momma, instead of the mean words she’d said earlier.

  “Petey? Can you do that?”

  She lifted away her hand, reached out to take the list and money from Momma, and said, “Yes, Ma’am!” Petey looked at Momma’s blocked letters and read some of the ingredients: potatoes, flour, eggs, a chicken, buttermilk (would she be making her fried chicken? The one Daddy said won first place at a fair?), baking chocolate, cream cheese.

  Momma said, “Hurry it up so we can get started. Anna and I will clean up this mess while we’re waiting. Right Anna?” Momma gave up a trembled smile.

  Anna ran to Momma and hugged her. “Oh, thank you thank you thank you! I know it’s silly, but I want this to be so perfect.”

  Momma let Anna hug her, her arms straight down at her sides. Then something came over her, Petey reckoned, because Momma lifted her arms and hugged Anna back. Petey hurried out before she did something embarrassing, like crybaby stuff. She yelled for Hill, gave a sharp whistle, and he bounded out of the woods. She told him about Momma wanting things from the store, and about how she wore her apron again.

  Hill said, “Well I’ll be a monkey’s Uncle Monk.”

  “You’re the monkey himself, bologna breath.”

  Hill made monkey noises, one arm dragging the ground. Petey laughed, grabbed her little brother by the t-shirt, took hold of Anna’s wagon rope, and down
towards the road to the grocery they went. In her daze and wonder at it all, Petey didn’t even realize she was singing aloud until Hill joined her, “Went out to milk; and I didn’t know how; I milked the goat; instead of the cow; a monkey sittin’; on a pile of straw; a winkin’ at his mother-in-law; oh! turkey in the straw, turkey in the hay; roll ‘em up and twist ‘em up a high tuckahaw; and twist ‘em up a tune called turkey in the straw . . .” And even though the mountaintop was far away, Petey could pretend, a little, that she was home. Momma’s apron had made her feel that way.

  In the grocery store, Hill did The Point when he found something, just like those pointer dogs, and Petey would put it in the wagon. He sneaked in a bag of candy and Petey put it back. He sneaked it back in and Petey put it back on the shelf again.

  When Petey and Hill were back from the grocery and to Anna’s half-house, they took a grocery bag each from the wagon and went inside. The kitchen and dishes had all been cleaned and put away. Anna and Momma weren’t there. Petey called for Momma, and from upstairs she heard, “Up here!”

  Petey and her little brother climbed easy up the steps, each carrying their bag; Hill having to hug his to him so he wouldn’t drop it. Petey made sure she had the bag that held the eggs with her. They set the bags on the counter and stood watching Momma and Anna looking through recipe books. Momma’s palomino hair close to Anna’s darker hair.

  Momma said, “Put away those groceries, kids. We got lots to do.”

  Petey began taking things out of her bag. There at the bottom was the candy. She said to Hill, “You stinker. How’d you do that?”

  Hill haw haw’d.

  “Hill? Help Petey put away the groceries, okay?”

  “Oh-kay doe-kay.”

  While Hill and Petey put up groceries, Momma wrote on a sheet of paper, every so often putting the pencil to her lips.