Sway

by Amber McRee Turner

  “Let’s see. Nope, nope, no not that one.…Wait, here’s one!”

  Dad handed me a pale yellow soap that was extra perfumey. “Mark Twain, great American storyteller. Packed a lifetime of books full of his own childhood memories.”

  “But this soap says S C.”

  “That’s right,” he said. “For Samuel Clemens. That’s his real name.”

  “Perfect!” I snatched the sliver from his fingers and dashed back to the store.

  “Don’t forget the scissors!” Dad called out.

  The front door of the Sav-Mor jangled when I ran in. Ambrette looked up from her crossword. I had to talk between huffs and puffs.

  “I know this sounds crazy,” I said, nervously flipping the sliver in my palm. “But my dad, well my dad and me, we have this stuff. And I think it just might be magical, I don’t know. He calls it Sway, and we have these old soaps that belonged to famous people, and you can wash your hands with one, and well, the Sway, it sort of gives you some of that person’s good qualities. Like painting or singing or dancing or something.”

  I moved the little soap across the counter to her, slow and steady, like I wasn’t sure if I wanted to just rewind that whole speech and walk backward out of the store. Ambrette slid the soap from under my hand and studied it carefully.

  “Who’s S C?” she said. “Santa Claus?”

  “No, ma’am. It’s Samuel Clemens,” I said. “He was a mighty good remember-er-er. What I mean is, he never forgot a thing, and could tell stories about all the things he never forgot.”

  I wasn’t even sure I was making sense. Ambrette gave a puzzled look.

  “I just thought that washing with his soap might make you remember stuff too. Maybe if you just try it, we’ll—I mean, you’ll see.

  “And, oh yeah, do you have any scissors?” I added breathlessly.

  “The last aisle on the left,” she said, keeping her eyes on the soap.

  On the way up my aisle, I took at peek at the big round security mirror on the ceiling. Ambrette was already gone, and the ladies’ restroom door was closing behind her. When I got back to the front, I had no earthly idea what to expect, whether she would come out of that bathroom and hug me or cuss me. I considered dropping the money on the counter and running, even with scissors, all the way back to The Roast.

  Then Ambrette came out. And she hugged me. When she did, the scent of that little soap wafted off of her strong, as if her hands had absorbed the whole sliver.

  “You got a minute for a little story?” she asked. I noticed that her eyes were watery, and I hoped it wasn’t because of the soap smell.

  “Yes, ma’am.”

  “Before he went into the army, my husband was an auto mechanic,” she said. “On the night of our second date, a customer with a squirrel stuck in his exhaust pipe had kept him after hours, putting him in such a rush to get ready, he’d accidentally splashed on his mother’s perfume instead of his aftershave. That date was the first time we ever held hands, and we held tight through an entire showing of Planet of the Apes. I went to sleep that night sniffing the soft rosy scent on my palm and dreaming of our future together.

  “I’d forgotten how that feeling smelled and how that smell felt, until just now,” Ambrette said. “When I washed with your soap, I remembered.”

  “That’s a really nice story,” I said.

  “Thanks to that…that…now, what did you call it?”

  “Sway.”

  “Right. Sway.” Ambrette put her hand to her face. “You mind if I keep the rest of the soap? I’ll consider the scissors an even swap for this maybe-magic.”

  “Yes, ma’am. You can have it,” I told her. “And thanks for the scissors.”

  When I climbed back into the RV, Dad was waiting anxiously for a report. He handed me my tank top, folded up neat and springy fresh.

  “How did it go?” he said.

  “She remembered,” I said. “She really remembered.”

  “And you and that compassion of yours helped her,” he said, looking at me like, Well am I right or am I right?

  “So,” he added, puffing up with pride, “would I be correct in assuming a certain someone might be becoming a believer?”

  “Might be,” I said. And it sure was a mighty might.

  With his spirits lifted to the point of whistling a little tune, Dad set to filling all things empty. It was early afternoon when we found our way back onto the highway, which was bordered on both sides with soybean fields that looked like they’d been groomed with a giant comb. At first I busied myself with cutting the frayed edges of M. B. McClean’s cuffs down to a nice neat row of fringe that looked far more on-purpose. Once the jacket and pants were sufficiently trimmed, I spent the next hour with my face leaned against the refreshingly cool glass of the side window, wondering silently to the blackbirds crowded on the telephone wires what on earth had just happened back there with Ambrette. And whether I was a total nut for sort of believing it.

  I tried to remember stories about my mom from back before she even started rescuing. Soon I was wishing that I hadn’t left the rest of the Samuel Clemens soap behind, because I could have used it to help me remember things, too. At least feeling the hard corners of the phone card in my pocket gave me some comfort that I’d have Mom’s actual voice to help me remember, as soon as I could steal away and call her. Then, just about the time I began to wonder when exactly that would be, there came and went a magnificent sight, all blue and crumply, by the side of the road. That’s when I shouted so loud, I made Dad cough powdered doughnut sugar all over the steering wheel.

  “Stop! Dad! It’s a shoe!”

  “Shoe! For real!” I hollered again.

  Dad wiped his face, swerved over, and threw The Roast into reverse. We beeped as we backed down the shoulder, till the blue shoe was directly in front of us in the gravel. Thankfully, the passing vehicles were few and far between.

  “Your turn uh-gane,” he said, handing me Ye Olde Sneaker Reacher.

  I stood on the center console while Dad steadied my knees. That put me outside from the shoulders up, just enough to be able to hold the Reacher out, aim it, and cast it.

  I cast and cast, and cast some more, before having to rest my burning arm muscles. A guy in a Doritos truck honked as he blew past us.

  “Steady now,” said Dad. “Just hold your breath and try it once more.”

  I did. And it worked. Within seconds, I reeled the blue crumple all the way up the front of The Roast and lowered it and myself back down into the cab. I even volunteered to take the shoe off the hook, and discovered that it was a moccasin, so trampled and worn, it could have belonged to Pocahontas herself. Turquoise and orange beads just barely hung on by their threads. But to me, the shoe was as lovely as Cinderella’s slipper.

  “Fishin’ accomplished,” said my dad, blowing the road dust off Ye Olde Sneaker Reacher.

  From where we sat on the edge of the road, there was no exit in sight. Just a cluster of painted signs springing up from the ground. Right between free dirt and repent now, the biggest sign had an arrow drawn across it. It read belfuss family crawfish boil.

  “Well, Cass, it sounds to me like the Belfusses could use a little hand-washing.” Dad pronounced it Belfusseseses, like I’d have to thump him to make him stop. “After all, it’s the shoes what choose, right?”

  He grabbed the newly fringed suit and his duffel bag.

  “Cass, you mind if I use your room for changing? My limbs have taken a beating from that little bathroom this week.”

  “I don’t mind, but um, let me get ready first,” I said, not quite sure if I’d completely hidden the pink beauty box that was home to a certain cell phone.

  “Sure thing.” Dad plopped onto the couch with his stuff piled in his lap and waited patiently while I shoved the moccasin into my box-bed, lint-rolled the green-andyellow thread scraps from all over me, and tucked the phone card alongside the phone inside the top level of the beauty box. Unfortunately, the twinge of
guilt I felt for buying the card and fibbing about it couldn’t be lint-rolled or stuffed into a box, so I’d be stuck with that feeling for the rest of the day. After all that was done, I put my new yellow visor on and took it off again three times before finally leaving it on. By the time I came out from behind my curtain, M. B. McClean was already in the driver’s seat, and was all decked out in his fakeskin shoes and altered suit.

  “I couldn’t wait,” he said, starting the engine.

  “What about the hat?” I said.

  “I dig it,” he said. “You get that at the Sav-Mor?”

  “No, I mean your hat.”

  “It’s in my duffel.”

  “And the glasses?”

  “They’re back there too.”

  “I’ll go ahead and put them in the wagon,” I said.

  “So,” he said with a half smile, “are you saying the partners should go all out today?”

  I shrugged out a maybe and began looking for the tambourine. At the next intersection, we turned off and followed cardboard arrows down a road so narrow, The Roast filled up both the this-way and the that-way lanes. And then came a moment I’d been dreading.

  “Biiiiiiiiiiiiiiiig Riiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiiight!” McClean bellowed, taking a turn so sudden, all I could do was run for the bookshelf, spread my fingers hard, smush the encyclopedias until my nails turned white, and hope for the best while the rest of everything went sliding. The whole time I was thinking, Please don’t let that beauty box break open and send that phone bouncing off the walls of the RV. When all was still, and I finally let my breath out, we had arrived.

  “Job well done!” M. B. McClean stood and made his top hat do a little fliparoo in the air and land right on his head.

  I leaned to peek out the windshield. In the distance, puffs of steam rose up over a whole slew of people who waved us in as if we had “Busfull o’ Belfuss” painted on the side of the RV.

  M. B. McClean slid his glasses on and grabbed the suitcase. He held his hat to his side as he approached the crowd. I followed close behind, pulling the wagon.

  Across the way, there were men assembled around a big pot, pulling out baskets of little red critters from the boiling water. Tables made out of old doors propped on the backs of chairs were scattered around the grove. People of all ages crowded around the tables and stood, ladies in feathers and sequins and heels sinking into the dirt, and men with vests and dress shirts with rolled-up sleeves.

  Each door-table was loaded up with a pile of crawfish, a stack of corn on the cob, and a mountain of potatoes, all steaming. Sticks of butter with the paper half torn off were scattered all around for rubbing on the hot corn and potatoes. In the middle of every table, a round hole had been cut, through which the Belfusses tossed crawfish and corn remains into a trash bucket beneath. Children ran in circles around the tables, holding the crawfish and letting them wiggle in the air, boys threatening girls, and girls threatening boys with the pinchy weapons. I wished that Syd could be here to witness all the mudbugs, and then I imagined how great it would be for my own family reunion to be this colorful someday.

  It didn’t take a genius to notice, however, that despite all the good eats and the bustling of the children, there was something very somber about the folks at the gathering. In fact, none of the grown-ups were really smiling or laughing at all. Instead, the Belfuss Family Crawfish Boil seemed to be a solemn occasion. As soon as McClean and I got close, half the crowd stopped to stare at us. It was obvious by our skin color that we weren’t long-lost Belfusses.

  “You folks miss your turn?” A man with an elaborately carved cane spoke up. His legs were as twisted as his white beard, and they made him wobble like he was sitting on a one-legged stool.

  “Well, sir, it sure smells like we’ve made the rightest turn of all,” said my dad. “The name’s M. B. McClean, and this here’s my young assistant, Cass. We’ve come your way to see if the Belfuss family is in need of any of our help in making this celebration complete.”

  “Not sure I’d exactly call this a celebration,” said the man. “You the photographer or somethin’?”

  “No, sir. But if you’ll grant us the use of this here table, we can show you what we do have to offer.”

  M. B. McClean swung the suitcase onto an empty table and popped the latch in the same motion. He opened the lid to reveal the dangling soap slivers, still jiggling on their tacks.

  “Suffice it to say”—he aimed his voice just over the old man’s head and got louder with every word—“where the Belfusses gather, there’s magical lather!”

  McClean shot me a mighty proud look after that little gem.

  “Well, I’ll be a skunk’s patoot,” the man with the cane said. Women in fancy hats peeked from around women in even fancier hats. There was near total silence across a sea of unimpressed faces.

  “If you will allow my assistant and me to set up shop in the shade of this here tree, we will elaborate further on our offerings,” said M. B. McClean. “Sir, you got any loose water ’round here?”

  The man didn’t answer, but only pointed his cane to a well on the other side of a sunflower field.

  “Cass, why don’t you unroll the banner while I take care of this?” McClean called to me as he headed toward the field. “I’ll be back in a jiff.

  “No troubles in our bubbles!” M. B. McClean said, marching in rhythm on the path and pulling the wagon behind. Once he’d disappeared behind a row of sunflowers, all ears might have been on him, but all eyes were on me. I laid the banner on the soft grass and started to unroll it with a little kick, but shyness got the best of me under the weight of a hundred Belfuss stares, not to mention the beady eyes of a thousand crawfish. For some reason, I’d expected these people to welcome our weirdness with enthusiasm, but instead I’d suddenly found myself alone and up to my elbows in awkwardness. So I found me a bench made from an old brass bed, shoved the banner underneath it, crossed my legs, and pretended to be messing with my foot. It quite simply wasn’t going to be a banner day.

  “If you got a splinter, I can help out,” came a voice from behind me. The voice belonged to a woman in a hat of navy felt—round and fuzzy like a piece of hard candy that’s been rolled on the carpet. Chunks of black hair sprigged out from under her rosy red wig. She had a pile of buttery new potatoes stacked on her plate, arranged much like the cannonballs I’d seen the day before.

  “I’m Constance,” she said, squeezing in close to me on the bench. “But these folks call me Connie.”

  Connie had one soft arm and one that looked a bit robotish. It had a plastic sleeve that matched my skin but not hers, and a big metal pinch-grabber at the end.

  “This here spread of people and provisions is in honor of my late sister, Celeste, the Lord rest her.”

  Late sister. Lord rest her. Oh no, I thought. We’ve crashed us a funeral.

  “Nice to meet you, ma’am. I’m Cass,” I said, peering over her shoulder to see if McClean was back, so I could aim some Tone it down vibes in his direction. “What happened to your sister?”

  “Disease in her bones,” Connie said. “The same that’s done snuck its way into mine. It took her left arm and my right.”

  “I’m real sorry,” I said, still looking beyond her, but trying to not let her see. “I bet you miss her.”

  “Don’t you know it,” she said. “Funny thing is, me and Celeste, we were always fighting over stuff. Who made the best hush puppies. Who could smell the rain sooner. Who got the cuter boyfriend. But you know what? All of that was forgotten when we sat down at the piano together.”

  “You play music?” I said.

  “Only with her,” Connie said, just staring at her plate. I noticed that one of the potatoes was shaped funny, like a mini bowling pin. Mom would have made a wish on it.

  “You see, Celeste loved music more than life itself, and these gatherings used to be full up with both. But since she passed, seems no one’s got any music to spare.”

  Connie pinched the tail of
f a crawfish.

  “Is that your daddy hollering all that nonsense over there?” she asked.

  “Yes, ma’am,” I said, oh-so-wishing that wasn’t my daddy hollering all that nonsense over there.

  “I could tell by the matching hats,” she said. “Looks like he’s searching for you.”

  Sure enough, M. B. McClean was back with a wagonful of water, and he was scanning the crowd left to right and left again. I stood on a stump to get his attention.

  “Ladies and gentlemen of the Belfuss persuasion!” his bigger-than-ever voice boomed. “May I…May we have just a slice of your attention, please?”

  When he said we, he waved me over with both arms like he was helping an airplane land.

  “My young partner and I have here in this very case a genuine and rare collection of soap slivers used by celebrated heroes of the past,” he continued. “It’s a potent collection of soaps indeed, each with the power to grant you the good qualities of its historic counterpart. And with a quick dip of your hands in this here water wagon, you can wash up today and become as marvelous as these heroes of old!”

  M. B. McClean pinched his hands in the air like a green-and-yellow-striped crawfish, his top hat sliding sideways down his sweaty head. Folks started moving toward our little table to get a closer look at the suitcase. Their whoosh made the older folks wobble.

  “In other words,” he said, “let’s bring this reunion to life!”

  I cringed hard.

  “Is he for real?” Connie said, fanning herself with a greasy napkin.

  “I think so,” I said, real small.

  “And you’re the partner?”

  “Um. Yes, ma’am.”

  “Do you all make a habit of busting in on memorials?”

  “Oh, no, ma’am,” I said. “We had no idea we were doing that.”

  And from the looks of things, Dad still had no idea. I had to fix this, and fast. For all I knew, the very next words out of M. B. McClean’s mouth could get us plum booted right out of that field with our soaps dumped onto our heads. Then these people who needed Sway so badly would never get a chance to have it.