Myth and Magic

by Radclyffe

  It was scarlet, like passion enfolded by nightfall, designed for evening soirees and candlelight. Its front was flat, yet diffident, but the back V-lined lower than modesty could own. So I bought it, then and there, using what little money I had. Jobless, I returned home, to this very same room, where I twirled in front of my mirror.

  When Ma saw me, I was beat across the head for shame. The dress had a tear in it now. Learning how to sew, and finding myself rather good, I’d stitched it back together using Lenore’s needles. When asked, I told Mother I’d pawned it.

  The door creaked.

  I spun about, dropped my dress, and ran to the corridor.

  A plate of apple-cobbler waited on the floor.

  *

  The next day I walked to town, watching the automobiles kick up dust as they rattled by. With sixty unmanageable acres to the Conahue name set on the edge of town, we offered Snellville a great deal if Snellville ever decided to expand. For what it was, the land was a good investment, but there was simply no one left to invest in it, hence the mayor’s cotillion. There was nothing like matrimony to boost the economy.

  The town was abuzz with excitement. Boys and girls of upper-class stock were coming from all over the state, and I was starting to wonder what chance Ma saw in any of it.

  My imagination played on me, presenting dreams I could never fulfill. I saw the cotillion in my mind, all paper lanterns and confetti. I envisioned the boys in their tuxedo flair, and the girls in their gowns and dresses, their many styles like a corsage variety. And I saw myself, in crushed red velvet. In my mind, I wore matching mousquetaire elbow gloves, with long hair to complement, and a chest to rival. I did not think of myself as a girl, for a girl I was not, and who had ever heard of such a thing? But in my desperate hope, I thought of myself as a beauty, warranting the adoration of those tuxedo boys, blushing so obviously against their white ties.

  A car backfired. I shook my head. What was I doing? A boy dreaming about boys? Catching my reflection in a storefront window, I looked at my face, trying to find some recognition of self, but there was nothing there I knew, save an inherited suit belonging to a man I barely remembered.

  Focusing, I looked inside, and saw, to my amazement, a pair of dark red shoes with a thin buckled strap. They were gorgeous, with an elegant heel not so high as to be intimidating and a closed toe polished to a radiant sheen. They were of burgundy depth, complementary to evening soirees and candlelight.

  Pulling three crumpled dollars out of my pocket, I looked down at my scuffed loafers, then back to the display. They were on sale. Everyone was preparing for the cotillion, pulling their more adventurous line out of the back. I had never thought to see such shoes in Snellville, and without delay I ran inside.

  The lady behind the clerk, whom I recognized as another nameless face from my congregation, looked at me awkwardly. I asked her what size they were, and she told me. For a moment I blinked, lost in gender’s odd translation. I asked her what size they were compared to a man’s foot, at which point she thought me a loon. However, there was money in my hand, and she was not one to refuse a sale, or a morsel of gossip to gab about later. Calculating with her fingers, she guesstimated, and my heart nearly melted over her cash register.

  With change left over, I bought a jar of black boot polish and left with a box under my arm. Halfway home, I scrubbed my old shoes clean in our primarily evaporated pond, dried them off in the sun, then painted my pa’s brown loafers black.

  “Perfect.” Mother clapped as I came in through the back door, modeling my remodeled shoes. I could only assume she thought my old ones were in the box. “Now what girl could resist you? I took the liberty of laying out a suit on your bed. Go have a look.”

  Lenore looked at my feet, noted the exact same tongue with the exact same laces, then went back to rolling dough.

  Upstairs, I found a real tuxedo atop my mattress. Like most of my hand-me-downs it was a size too large. The fashion was outdated, and it smelled of mildew, but it was a genuine black-tie ensemble. Disinterested, I threw open my box, unpacking my new red heels. They gleamed, even in my dim bedroom.

  “James,” Mother called up the stairs, looking wistfully at her wedding ring. “How is it? Do you like it? It was your father’s. He only wore it once.”

  “I love it,” I said, running my hands over the shoes’ smooth red leather. Remembering myself, I quickly hid them under the floorboard, nestled atop my dress.

  “Do remember to call in with Mrs. Bacon today,” Mother added, returning to the kitchen. “She’s digging up her garden, and you need the work.”

  With my secrets stowed away, I threw on my overalls and ran downstairs. With my painted black loafers deemed too nice to work in, and without any other shoes, I ran barefoot out the front door. The downside to this was that Mrs. Bacon really was digging up her front garden, and it was hard to step on a shovel with bare feet.

  Awarded iced tea, fresh peaches, and fifty cents in gratitude, I headed home as the sun sank into the tree line and the shadows grew long. To my amazement, the house was empty. Lenore wasn’t baking, Mother wasn’t directing, and my heart sank.

  Running upstairs, I pried up the floorboard, and stared, utterly confused. There was my paper parcel, my dress safe and sound, but the shoes were gone. Uncertain of my destination, I rushed outside, spied my mother and Lenore heading for the woods, and followed.

  *

  “And you’re sure about this?” my mother asked.

  “Mrs. Conahue,” Lenore sighed, leading my mother deeper into the woods. “I’ve known your family a long time, and James always was a goose. That’s why I brought ’em. Soon as I found ’em.”

  “I can’t take it anymore.” My mother trembled, holding my high heels to her bosom. Above her, the sky was a tangerine glow, making the willows all the more black. Moss grew in unkempt patches, and the ground grew soft. “It’s as if someone’s bewitched my boy.”

  “All the more reason to call on a witch,” Lenore nodded, searching momentarily to find her way. “Old Bashee’s a coot, all right, but if anyone can help, it’s her.”

  “But Voodoo? Is this why you never go to church? I always wondered, Lenore, but I never knew!”

  “Hush your prattlin’, Mrs. Conahue. We’re here.”

  Ahead of them was an old plantation house, and by the size of the trees consuming its front porch, it had to be one of the first erected in the whole state. Remnants of white paint peeled off the walls, and the banisters, and the balustrades, but the wood beneath had rot, and all that kept it up was a brickwork chimney, smoking in the dark.

  “Are you comin’ in or not?” A voice piped up behind them as an old woman elbowed her way past. “Dinner’s gettin’ cold. You like calabash? Everyone likes calabash.”

  Bent with time and hard work, Old Bashee hobbled along, her stride lopsided, her dark Creole skin marked with strange, lacerated scars. Perhaps a dog or a gator had once bitten her face, or perhaps Old Bashee wrestled with creatures far worse every day. Her hair was a thick bundle of dreadlocks, wrapped so large atop her head my mother half thought she was carrying a bundle of sticks.

  Apologetically, Lenore introduced Mrs. Conahue, who reintroduced herself, but Old Bashee wasn’t interested. The screen door slapped shut behind them, and they followed the witch down a warped corridor. The walls were sagging, the floor twisted, and from the ceiling, odd hunks of wood swung about, dangling on lengths of horsehair twine. Wreaths of chili peppers, dried and decaying, hung from every door handle, and the kitchen table was mounted with a globular candle centerpiece of melted wax.

  Three plates were already waiting, three plates of calabash.

  “So your son’s a fairy?” Old Bashee deduced, as my mother laid the heels on the table. “Ain’t no shame in it. More than a few in these woods.”

  “No shame?” my mother asked, utterly flabbergasted. “The cotillion is tomorrow, and if ever our family’s to find any good footing, we’ll need to wed our way into soci
al grace! But how can I count on a marriage when all my dreams depend on sixty acres and a boy running around in…in heels!”

  “Good footin’, you say?” Old Bashee squinted, her scarred face thick with wrinkles, her lips pursed with a wry smile. “Then good footin’ your child will have.”

  Taking the shoes, she walked over to the hearth, where three fat logs sent up a roaring fire. Muddling about the room, Old Bashee tossed oddities into the flames. A jasmine flower, a handful of turmeric, cayenne, a dash of exploding alcohol; then she rolled up her sleeve, her arm tortured with even more scars.

  Thrusting her hand into the blaze, she held the shoes in the fire. My mother gasped, but Old Bashee never flinched. Sparks curled around her fingers, smoke poured about her wrist, and her knuckles blackened with soot. Removing her fist, she tossed the shoes on the table. They were hot, but completely unscathed.

  “What did you do?” Lenore asked, as Old Bashee pulled up a chair, reached under her dress, and unscrewed her wooden leg.

  “If this don’t gain your child good footin’,” she said, dropping her prosthetic foot on the table, “nothin’ in this world ever will.”

  *

  The next morning, I woke up with nauseating, gut-wrenching fear in my stomach. I could smell Lenore cooking downstairs. My mother’s grating voice, directing salt and pepper, played upon my mind. I knew they knew. I knew I’d been found out, and I couldn’t face them.

  Nervously, I opened my secret compartment, and there were the shoes again, their glossy straps a smile in the morning light.

  More confused than ever, I headed downstairs. Mother hugged me, tighter than she had in years. Lenore dished out eggs.

  “Now, you take it easy today,” Mother said, touching my shoulder as I sat at the table. “The cotillion’s tonight and I don’t want you to overwork yourself. You do sweat when you overwork yourself, so I’ll have Lenore draw a bath this afternoon. I have some pomade for your hair, and shave, darlin’, you look like a hobo.”

  I spent that day trying to fix our old tractor in the barn. It hadn’t worked in years, but a small part of me hoped to get it running. I knew a vague bit about mechanics, but the core of me wanted to run away altogether, away from my mother and all her audacious expectations. She would never understand, and I would never have the faculties to explain it to her.

  Lying under the old machine, coated in oil and rust, I fantasized about the party, my vision now complete with heels. Of course I was going to wear Pa’s tux, and of course I was going to dance with some sweet, wallflower girl equally shy as me. But in my dreams I saw boys plucking up the nerve to ask me, of all people, to dance.

  Throughout the day, either Mother or Lenore brought me small treats, being especially nice, though I didn’t know why.

  That evening, Lenore drew a bath, and I was granted a little privacy. With a hand mirror and a straight razor, I shaved my face, but the contours of my chin betrayed me. In my head, I didn’t look like that. In my head, my features softened, and I smiled more readily.

  Looking down, I blinked at my legs. Curious, I began to shave my calves, nicking myself at the awkward junction of the knee, but I kept going. Toweling off, I escaped to my room, where my father’s tux lay waiting.

  It was getting close to sunset, but an urge stole my attention. Even if I never lived my fantasy, I wanted to know what it looked like, if only to put the whole, surreal affair behind me.

  Closing my door, I unpacked my velvet dress and slipped it over my shoulders. Turning left, then right, I admired the contours of myself with a quiet surprise. Every time I slipped on that scandalous number, I was shocked by how well it shaped my hips. A pleasant excitement took me, nervous, but glad.

  Extending my neck, I looked at myself and tried to fix my short crop of hair. I wasn’t the most masculine boy about town, but I certainly wasn’t a girl. Contemplating the effects of rouge, and desiring mascara I didn’t have, I bit my lip, puckering so as to redden my mouth—an old trick I’d learned from the girls in Sunday school.

  Behind me, the red shoes sat on my pillow. For the first time I tried them on. They pinched a little at the toes, but the heel fit snugly, and I balanced, having never actually worn a woman’s shoe. Gaining height, I laughed, my legs seemingly longer and shapelier than before. I was still lacking my mousquetaire gloves. I was still lacking stockings, long hair, makeup, and a whole feminine outline, but it was enough.

  In my mirror, I saw myself as my suitors would, and I curtsied in response to an unvoiced invitation. Alone in my room I waltzed with no one, dancing to a silent song. Wobbling a little to gain my footing, I stepped back and forth, and turned in a circle, tapping heel to toe with a little flourish I felt rather proud of—attempting to mimic the swing-dance girls I’d seen in New Orleans.

  “Are you ready, James?” Mother called up the stairs, as I spun unseen in my room.

  “Just a minute,” I called back, but when I tried to stop, my feet kept going. Twirling and tapping, I whirled about, swinging out in wider and wider circles until I bumped into the bed. My legs were possessed, and when I tried to lie down, I merely bobbed upright. Terrified, and too ashamed to scream for help, I tried to unbuckle my shoes, but they moved too quickly, and with one sashay I was through the door.

  Ma, aghast, stared at her red velvet son as I tangoed straight into her, knocking her back down the stairs. She screamed at me to stop, Lenore waved at me with a rolling pin, and with my arms tucked in I tore through the porch screen, fox-trotting straight into the field.

  I danced as though I had an invisible partner, bending and throwing my body as if pushed by some unfelt hand. Arms open, I spun forward, whirling round and round through the field, cicadas screaming in the sunset. Unstoppable, un-trip-able, I danced in the dusk, moving as I had never moved before, overcome by passion, and power, and grace.

  From the long grass, I burst onto the road. An automobile swerved. Pedestrians turned their heads, and I buried my face in my hands. Everyone was looking, but I couldn’t stop. Sweeping one leg forward and following with the other, I gave a high kick in the town square, dipped in the arms of no one, and aimed straight for the cotillion.

  The mayor’s manor was a lavish estate in the center of town, with a long green lawn decorated for the occasion with lamps, its gazebo a stage of musicians playing softly for the arriving guests. Leaping over the fence, I landed on the garden path, arms alight, poised anticipation personified.

  Men and women, parents and chaperones, eyed me with pensive caution. My preacher recognized me instantly, and I pulled my hands against my chest. For a moment, I rested. The band had stopped playing. Everything stilled.

  Then my left foot tapped.

  Spellbound, the drummer began to tap along, the rhythm infecting the clarinet, the trumpet, and the bass, as a joyous, wailing jazz accompanied my crisscrossing steps to the house. Startled, the mayor appeared, drawn to the commotion, and I dipped him—I dipped the mayor, my hand on his blue sash—and I laughed, my horror stolen by the humor of it. The sax kicked in, the mayor and I burst upon the hall, and the band followed us inside.

  Furious, Mayor Everglass shoved me away, and for the first time I fell, landing in the middle of the room, legs akimbo, grass in my hair. The horns relaxed; only the drummer’s cymbal tapped expectantly on his marching-band drum.

  All around me, looking down at a mess in a soft, velvet dress, I saw boys and girls from my congregation mixed with highbrow strangers gathered from all over the state. Panting, I tried to catch my breath, but my calves were twitching, and I knew it wasn’t over.

  Beneath me, my legs swiveled. I rose to my knees, my badly shaved gams sliding one after the other, before I sprang, music detonating behind me. The trumpets warred with the sax, the clarinet piped between them, and the jazz was on my side. The kids around me began to smile. Cued with the band, my steps timed perfectly, they figured I had to be some kind of bizarre entertainment. The girls blushed, the boys laughed, and I spun in a wide arc,
lost on how to feel. I was terrified, but I couldn’t stop, and the more I trembled within, the faster I danced. And at the same time, I felt freer than I ever had in my life.

  Across the room, I saw the mayor’s daughter, resplendent in her gown, and beside her I saw a mousy young man standing awkwardly in a suit two times too large. Unlike the other boys, mocking me like a clown, he watched with rapt fascination. His whole stance was stiff, but he didn’t blink. His blue eyes looked more scared than the rest, as if he were found out, and he was.

  Following a sensual, New Orleans samba, all carnival flair and exaggeration, I swept toward him, eyes fixed. To my left, the boys jeered each other. To my right, the girls fell quiet, some shocked, some amazed, some softened by the drama of it. Nervously, the blue-eyed boy presented his hand, and I took it, though the power came from my shoes.

  Whether or not he could dance was entirely irrelevant to magic. Together, we could do anything. Hand in hand, stepping and crossing our feet, we never stalled, or stifled, or tripped, or slipped, landing every step to strike out again. Trading hands, we became a flurrying flamenco. I stamped my heels, and stamped them again, he slid a hand around my waist, and the mayor ran at the sax player, screaming at the band to stop.

  From the flamenco, we transformed into tango, and from the tango we launched into swing, he throwing me high into the air before sliding me between his legs. Wild, unlike anything anyone had ever seen, we caught each other’s expressions. We were both grinning with surprise.

  The music quickened, he spun me under his arm, and away I went, through the back door to the kitchen, to the yard, and out into the town. I heard people calling behind me, but I couldn’t stop. Sliding through Snellville, tap-dancing all the way, I launched into a field, thrashing through a curtain of kudzu. My ankles were blistering, my toes screamed, and my joy collapsed into fear. I was never going to stop. I was going to dance and dance until I died on my feet.