Sway

by Amber McRee Turner

  “Nimble Creek, Exit A, here we come!” Dad called out as I unfolded my afghan, stuffed the little pillow back into its spot, and let loose my little poinsettia curtain, which had already shed so many glitters that the name Cass looked more like “Cuss.” We parked for the night in the lot of an abandoned minigolf place, where each hole was decorated to look like a different fairy tale. Crumbling and faded as the displays were, I could still make out Snow White, Rapunzel, and The Princess and the Pea.

  After a supper of burritos that stayed cold in the middle despite spinning for thirty minutes in the little microwave, I got myself ready for bed in the tiny bathroom, where my elbow bumped the wall a hundred times during teeth-brushing, and I put both my legs through the same hole of my jammies twice before getting it right. Then I listened to my dad run through his own bedtime routine. There was some gargling and spitting, some rolltop desk top-rolling and page-turning, some general bumping about, a quiet, “Good night, Cass. Big things happening in Nimble Creek tomorrow.” And then, nothing but snore.

  I balled up one end of the big afghan to use as my new pillow, thankful for my own smarts and to Mr. and Mrs. Winky Pizza that I was no longer the Princess and the P.U. The cushion between me and the world’s largest shoe box was pleasantly squishy, but still I had a hard time snoozing under the weight of the weirdness around me. What on earth were we about to do in Nimble Creek? Sell invisible meat? It sure wouldn’t make things much weirder, I thought.

  It was far too dark to add anything to the Book of In-Betweens, so instead I ate a whole bag of Chex Mix, tugged at my eyebrows a bit, and then totally perfected the Knotty Ball of Failure with my finger string. When all of that failed to lull me to sleep, I tried to make it through my front-and-back-of-forever prayer for the first time in days. As I imagined myself sitting on the bare stump of a Castanea dentata tree, my ancestors and descendants marched by like always, but this time none of them would wave or even smile. Instead, they all just walked past carrying suitcases. Probably going to Florida without me. Amen.

  I woke up the next morning with my ear stuck in an afghan hole. There was so much rustling and commotion behind my curtain wall, I stood up, rubbed my eyes, and peeked around the edge.

  If I hadn’t seen his long dangly earlobes and the creases on his scruffy neck, I wouldn’t have known it was my dad, but there he stood with his back to me, adjusting a yellow top hat in the rearview mirror. The mystery suit bag was crumpled behind him on the floor.

  I squeaked out a little gasp that made Dad look back over his shoulder.

  “Oh!” he said, turning all sorts of red. “Good morning, Cass.”

  He swiveled his whole self to face me.

  “So what do—” His voice cracked the first time, so he had to start over. “So what do you think?” Dad made some nervous Ta-da! arms and pointed to himself.

  The afghan fell into a lump at my feet. From head to toe, back to head again, I took in the whole scene. There stood my dad in the yellow top hat, big round green glasses with no glass in them, and a wide-striped, green-and-yellow suit jacket that was a bit snug and buttoned over a crispy white shirt. The jacket had tails in the back and two pockets in the front, one big and one tiny, with a piece of tarnished metal chain looping out of the tiny one. The pants flared at the bottom, and peeking out from the flares were some yellow snakeskin loafers with golden buckles on top. He looked just like the cover of a cheap comic book.

  I was utterly flabberwobbled.

  “Are you heebed out?” he said. “You’re totally heebed out, aren’t you?”

  It was so quiet you could have heard a jaw drop.

  “I realize it leaves a little to be desired in the fit, but check it out,” he said. “Two of your new favorite colors.”

  It was indeed chartreuse and goldenrod, just like Mom’s shimmery makeup.

  “Did you get all that at the Then Again?” I asked.

  “Honestly, Cass,” he said. “I know I’m no Toodi Bleu when it comes to fashion, but don’t you think I would have picked something a bit more flattering for myself?

  “In fact,” he added, “I think this is a good time for the brand-new, made-up-on-the-spot Rule of The Roast Number Four. Don’t hate the suit—it came with the loot.”

  Dad tried to bend over to get the old brown suitcase from under the driver’s seat, but his pants wouldn’t let him.

  “Cass, would you mind giving me a hand sliding this thing out?”

  I lifted the case with both hands and ran my fingers across the embossed MBM under the handle.

  “What do you mean, loot?” I said.

  “Gently, gently!” Dad said when I let it drop too hard onto the table. “Delicate stuff inside there.”

  He wiped the dust off the lid with his cuff.

  “This is the loot I speak of,” he said. “There’s a big family secret inside this case here, Cass, and you and the people of Nimble Creek are about to find out.”

  “But what kind of secret?” I said. “And who’s MBM?”

  “He’s M. B. McClean,” Dad said. “And you’re looking right at him.”

  I thought to myself in my best Aunt Jo voice, You don’t mean it.

  “I realize it’s a big transformation,” Dad continued, tugging at his jacket sleeves. “But the thing is, Cass, you and I are in possession of something lots more thrilling than plain old Douglas Nordenhauer has the skills to introduce. It’s going to take an all-out spokesperson to do this job right.

  “Now, be honest,” he said, trying to see himself section by section in the rearview mirror. “Are the glasses too silly? No, it’s the hat, isn’t it? The hat’s too much, right?”

  Honestly, I figured we’d reached Too Much one green-and-yellow suit ago. My own dad stood before me in someone else’s clothes, second-guessing himself and rambling on about a suitcase full of mystery. I wasn’t sure if I should feel excited or worried. “I’ll take your silence as a resounding yes,” Dad said, tossing the hat onto the couch. “I know the outfit is pretty outrageous. I felt the same way when I found it.”

  “Found it where?”

  “In the attic with the other things,” he said, nodding toward the suitcase.

  I reached for the brown suitcase immediately and was met with a quick “uh-uh” from my dad.

  “Not just yet,” he said, pulling a lint roller from his duffel bag.

  “Cass, would you mind giving me a good once-over with this? I don’t want to make my first appearance as M. B. McClean looking like a ferret herder or something.”

  I made three passes over his back with the sticky roller and let out four sneezes before saying, “I just don’t…I don’t get it.”

  “I know,” said Dad. “But just trust me on this. It’s still me under here.”

  He took the lint roller and ran it over his pants. By the time he was through, the roller itself could have been mistaken for some kind of critter.

  “Bottom line is, you and I are in for some much-needed sparkle today, Cassiopeia,” he said. I knew by the nickname that there was indeed some semblance of dadness under all that getup.

  “Now, could you get that big roll of paper from the floorboard in the front?” Dad wheeled the glittered wagon from under the rolltop desk with his foot. He loaded the wagon with both the suitcase and the paper.

  “And there’s just one more thing I need your help with before we start our day, partner,” he said. “A folding table that’s stored under the couch. Would you mind getting it and carrying it outside with us?”

  I scooted the plastic table away from the couch and laid flat on my tummy to reach under. While my hand patted from one dust clump to another, I could see Dad’s yellow loafers wandering around The Roast in a circle as he mumbled, “Now, where in the world did I put that tambourine?”

  “On the floor under the wagon,” I said, remembering that Aunt Jo had once told me to be nice to crazy people because you never know when you might be crazy someday too. And that Mom had mentioned something to me
about people being so shocked by a traumatic event, they sometimes act a little weird and unpredictable for a while. Even Uncle Clay wasn’t himself for a whole year or so after his stroke. But try as I might, I sure didn’t remember Uncle Clay ever wearing a stripy costume.

  “Come on out whenever you get ready,” Dad said, throwing open the door of The Roast so hard it bounced right back and smacked him in the nose. “The good Nimble Creekians await.”

  Half of me considered never getting ready at all, and the other half wanted to break the world’s fastest getting-ready record. I made it outside The Roast within minutes, to find Dad-turned–M. B. McClean already setting things up in a big gazebo at the center of a park. It was a bright, sunshiny day in Nimble Creek, Mississippi, and I noticed quickly that my limited view of the minigolf ruins had not done the rest of the town justice. The park had a playground full of shiny modern equipment with kids climbing on every inch of it. Just beyond that was an ice-cream stand with a twirling vanilla cone on top. Throughout the park, there were winding sidewalks of uncracked concrete. Not to mention a towering flagpole that put Olyn, Alabama’s to shame. But despite all that, I found the newness of the town to be far less captivating than the newness of my dad. And from the looks of it, Nimble Creek felt the same way too. The park was chock-full of families who slowed their playing to stare curiously in our direction. I took comfort in remembering that today would probably be the first and last time we’d ever see these people.

  Dad struggled to unroll one end of the big paper without the other end rolling right back up, so I laid the table on the grass and knelt down to hold one side under my knees. He pressed out the paper all the way, to reveal a banner that said in tall black letters:

  TOTALLY FREE! TODAY ONLY!

  M. B. McCLEAN AND HIS LOVELY CASSISTANT

  BRING YOU SOAPERNATURAL WONDERS GALORE!

  He tore a couple long pieces of masking tape from the roll on his wrist and put a piece on each of his corners, then tossed the roll to me to do the same.

  “Cassistant?” I said.

  “I wouldn’t and couldn’t do this without your help,” he said, but I was sorely wishing he’d at least tried to.

  “Now, hold your side up,” Dad said, taping his end of the banner to one gazebo post, before helping me secure my end to another.

  “Does that look even to you?” he said.

  “Pretty even, I guess.…What are soapernatural wonders?”

  “Well, assistant, why don’t you come have a look for yourself?”

  On his left side, Dad set up the wobbly table and carefully placed the brown suitcase on top. When he opened the suitcase slow and easy, I saw what looked like hundreds of old bars of soap that had been used down to little slivers. Heaps of blue, white, pink, and even swirled ones. Some of them were stuck to the lid of the suitcase with thumbtacks. Tons more of them were piled in the bottom. All of the soap slivers had letters, like monograms, carved into them. It may have been just a case full of soap, but it sure had the appearance of being more than just a case full of soap.

  “It’s just a case full of soap,” I said.

  “So it would seem,” said Dad. “To someone unacquainted with the history of these particular soaps.”

  I wasn’t exactly sure I wanted to be acquainted with the history of a soap, but Dad had a look like it was something way worth hearing.

  “What do the letters mean?” I asked, trying to read all the ones I could lay my eyes on.

  “The letters indicate who the soaps once belonged to,” he said. “Presidents, inventors, artists, explorers, and kings alike. In fact all manner of past heroes are represented in this case.”

  “No way,” I said. “Those people didn’t put their initials on their soaps.”

  “They didn’t,” Dad said. “But the one who first painstakingly gathered this collection did.”

  “And who was that?”

  “Can’t say that I know,” he said. “I discovered them a while back when going through some old family stuff. This here collection represents a long-lost part of Nordenhauer history, Cass. Turns out, we have us a sudsy legacy. And that’s only half the story.”

  I reached out cautiously, but Dad stopped me just short of touching one of the soaps.

  “No,” he said. “Not just yet.”

  Dad took the handle of the sparkly wagon and bumped it up the steps to the fountain at the center of the gazebo. While I wondered over the pastel rainbow of soaps, he filled the wagon till it sloshed, one doublehanded dip at a time from the fountain. He then parked it a few feet away from the suitcase. It seemed like everything was right where he wanted it, so Dad tugged at his sleeves once more, gave me a there’s no turning back now look, and slid something from under his jacket in the back.

  He lifted the tambourine over his head and gave it a smack that sent out a loud SHOOKA! and made the ribbons whip around like crazy. Even people from the ice-cream stand across the way paused their licking to check us out.

  “Here,” he said. “I brought this for you.” Dad tried to hand me the tambourine, but I resisted, resulting in a push-o-war between us.

  “How can I be your assistant?” I said. “I don’t even know what we’re doing out here.”

  “I’m not sure I know either,” he said. “But you make some music, I’ll do the talking, and let’s just see how the second half of the story unfolds.”

  “Curious children of Nimble Creek!” Dad shouted as a few families got close enough to form a little crowd. I tried to do my part, but found it to be a lot like that patyour-head-and-rub-your-tummy thing. It’s near impossible to shake a tambourine and watch your dad act a fool at the same time.

  “Allow us to introduce ourselves!” he said. “My name is M. B. McClean. This here is my able assistant, Cass, and we are here to show you the wonders of the soapernatural.”

  I gave a slight shrug and a slighter wave to the front row.

  “Be the first to witness!” he continued. “We have here in this very case a genuine and rare collection of soap slivers used by actual heroes of history!”

  Dad waved his arm over the vast collection of soaps. I found myself so mesmerized by them, I forgot to even shake the tambourine. Instead, I just held it stiffly out to my side like I had me a skunk by the tail.

  “Today and today only,” he said, “you can wash with one of these slick little treasures and become just as great as these men and women once were!”

  A little woo-hoo mixed together with a lot of no way scattered from my belly button out to my whole body, like when you hear the click-click-click on the first big uphill of a roller coaster.

  “And it’s all free!” Dad went on, chanting louder and louder above the heads of the first rows of perplexed onlookers until even more people were drawn from their seesawing and jungle-gyming. When bikes, skateboards, and roller skates began to appear in the distance, Dad cleared his throat and shouted into the air, “Gather, small ones! Don’t be duds! We’ve got us some magical suds!”

  He looked at me as if to ask if the rhyme was decent enough.

  Decent enough, I nodded back.

  “No more swinging! No more sliding!” he said to the kids on the playground. “Wouldn’t you rather lather?”

  Dad shot me a doubtful look, and without him even having to ask, I said, “That one was a little better.”

  And I clearly wasn’t the only one who thought so. Kids came from all directions, pulling moms and dads and uncles and babysitters by the arms.

  “Forget your troubles! Try these bubbles! You can’t say nope to extraordinary soap!”

  In a matter of minutes, dozens of noisy children stood in a bunch all around me with their hands in the air, and being a Cassistant felt a tad less embarrassing.

  “Do us a good solid smack on that tambourine if you would, Cass,” he said. So I gave it my best effort, and the noise immediately silenced the crowd. Everyone, including me, and maybe even including Dad, waited to hear what this M. B. McClean would say n
ext.

  I felt a gurgle in my belly and a fluster in my face. Dad must have noticed.

  “You up for some more assisting, or would you rather watch and learn this first time around?” he whispered. The crowd made a hushy hum behind me.

  “Um…watch and learn,” I said.

  “No worries,” he said. “How about a bird’s-eye view, then?”

  While the fidgety, impatient crowd looked on, my dad, in all his stripy shininess, gave me a boost up the little ladder attached to the back of The Roast, where I found myself a spot to sit crisscross-legged and catch the whole scene.

  “Now, let’s get down to business!” Dad turned back to the people. “Remember, any trusting soul can experience the magic himself! So who’s going to be our first volunteer?”

  Dad scanned the small show of hands.

  “You there!” he said to a boy who had brightly colored chalk crammed into his overalls pocket. Dad waved him up the steps, and the boy carefully inspected the soap-filled suitcase. His mom hovered close behind, watching every move.

  “I see you are an aspiring artist,” Dad said. “Perhaps I can make a suggestion.” He pulled out a pink swirly sliver with the initials V V G scraped into it.

  “This was Vincent van Gogh’s actual bar of soap.” Dad held the soap up so everyone could get a look. I strained to see the details of the soap, as if I had a clue what the real thing would look like. Then I studied Dad’s face, as if I had a clue what him lying to a crowd would look like.

  He continued. “Vincent van Gogh’s adventurous use of wild colors turned the world of art on its ear, if you will. His painting of a nighttime sky in bright swooshes and blazing stars is his most famous work ever. And not only that, but he painted unbelievably fast, finishing nine hundred paintings in ten years’ time.”

  Dad put the soap in his palm and reached it out to the boy.

  “One wash with this sliver, young man, and you yourself can be one of the finest ar-teests in Nimble Creek.”