Sway

by Amber McRee Turner

  “The thing is,” I said to Connie, “my dad and I still might be able to help your family today. You see, we have these soaps, the ones he’s up there talking about. And I don’t know how to explain it, really, but they have this magic, and all I know is, when you wash with one, something special happens to you.”

  Connie’s plate shifted on her lap and sent a cob of corn rolling down her leg and onto the grass, but she didn’t seem to notice at all.

  “I didn’t believe it at first either,” I told her. “But honest, I’ve seen what the soap can do. I saw it make a lady remember things she had forgotten. And a bunch of kids do some amazing things. And soldiers come to life.”

  “Soldiers do what?” Connie said.

  “Never mind,” I said. “What I mean is, it makes things better for people.…Even rescuing them from trouble sometimes.”

  When Connie stood up, her toes all bunched out the openings in her shoes. I thought she’d march away in a huff.

  “Well, baby girl,” she turned to me and said, “those folks over there might be unsure, but I can tell you I don’t need any more convincing if you say you’ve got something that can make this dreary ol’ day any better.”

  I breathed a sigh of relief.

  “Hear that far-off thunder?” she said. “Storm’s coming soon. You can stay right here if you want, but Connie’s not about to miss out on that mystery stuff over yonder.”

  Connie adjusted her wig, tugged at her skirt, and struggled to make her way through the thickness of uncertain onlookers gathering fast around M. B. McClean.

  “We call it Sway!” I said, excusing myself past men, women, and children all the way to the front, where McClean stood suddenly speechless in the midst of a doubtful crowd of Belfusses. To say that they were insulted by his accidental disrespect was like saying the ocean was damp.

  I had to crawl under our folding table and yank his pants leg for attention.

  “Psst! Dad! I’ve got to tell you something.”

  “Tough crowd,” McClean said as he squatted to my level, pretending to make adjustments on the wagon. “I’ve never seen such a solemn family reunion!”

  “That’s because it’s not just a reunion,” I whispered back. “It’s a funeral!”

  The color drained from McClean’s face and almost right out of his suit.

  “You’re kidding me,” he said. “A funeral? And I’ve been up here carrying on like some kind of doof. These people are probably ready to dropkick me to Little Rock.” He glanced around like he was looking for an escape route. “Come on. Let’s make some apologies and pack up.”

  “No, Dad, just wait a sec,” I whispered. “I think we can help them.”

  He looked at me warily. “You think so?”

  “Yeah, really!” I said. “The thing is, this Celeste, she loved music more than anything. And when Celeste died, their music died. What they need is music,” I said.

  McClean looked like he was catching on.

  “And Sway can fix that easy, right?” I said.

  Just then a little of McClean’s color returned to him.

  “You know what?” he said. “I think you may be on to something there, Cassette.”

  I peered over our table. There was some wind in the leaves and a fair amount of crawfish-cracking, but the Belfusses had stopped most of their talking.

  M. B. McClean faced the audience once again.

  “Please forgive our little interlude there,” he said. “But as I was saying, my partner and I have here in this case a powerful collection of soaps used by actual heroes and heroines of years past. And as I have been rudely slow in acknowledging, I understand that we are here to honor a heroine who has just passed on.…I believe her name is Celeste?”

  A few of the men and women gave approving nods.

  “Well then,” McClean said louder, “how about let’s make this a true celebration of her life? A quest to honor Celeste, we’ll call it.”

  I saw Connie’s felted head bob up a few rows back.

  “I understand Celeste was a marvelous lady,” he said. “But I never had the pleasure of making her acquaintance. So who in this crowd can tell me something about her?”

  Too many seconds ticked by in uncomfortable silence as people looked left and right for someone to speak up.

  “She had the voice of an angel!” finally came a shout from the back of the crowd.

  A shorter silence passed.

  “And the pound cake to match!” someone else said.

  “She taught me how to twirl,” piped up a little girl wearing a headful of braids and dragging a dingy doll by the foot. “Well then,” McClean said, stooping to the girl’s level. “I think we may well have our first washer of the day here.

  “Young lady, you ever heard of Ginger Rogers?” he asked.

  “Mmmm, no,” she said shyly, twisting a braid around her finger.

  “Well, let me tell you, Ginger Rogers was a great dancer, and we just happen to have one of her old soaps right here.”

  The little girl backed away, half hiding behind her dad’s leg.

  “And you know what?” McClean continued. “Ginger Rogers was not only good at dancing on her own, but she was superb at dancing with a partner. And we just happen to have enough soap here for you and your doll. Who knows? It just might make you both brilliant dancers.”

  With that, the girl reappeared in a flash.

  “Cass, grab me that G R resting right on top there, if you would,” he said.

  “I get to help her?”

  McClean gave me a nod.

  I led the little girl by the elbow to the wagon and handed her the soap. I expected her to be scared at first, but she wasted no time plunging the sliver into the water all the way to her elbows, swirling her doll’s whole self through the wet. When I bent to help her dab dry with a clump of paper towels, I could see the sparkly excitement in her eyes. Or maybe it was the reflection of my own excitement. As the girl twirled herself a path through the crowd, all the way to a dusty stage under a weeping willow, she never let go of her ragamuffin partner, dipping and spinning quite gracefully.

  “So here’s the main thing Cass and I want to know,” said M. B. McClean to the livening crowd. “Would Celeste have stood by and let this couple dance without any music?”

  The people shook their heads no, almost in unison.

  “I thought not,” he said. “So we feel like it is our duty to let you in on the vast array of musical talents represented in this case right here. Soapernatural wonders that are yours for the trying at no cost at all…other than your kind hospitality, that is.

  “Before we continue, though,” said McClean, “I have but one more important question.”

  The crowd shushed.

  “Did Celeste have a favorite style of music?”

  A man in a dark blue crispy dress shirt called out, “She loved the big bands!”

  “Well then, step up, fine gentleman,” said McClean. And let my partner hail you a Cab!”

  “I don’t know what that means,” I whispered.

  “It’s all right. Just look for a C C in there,” he said. It took me some shuffling around, but I found a green swirly that matched the description.

  “You, sir, come on over and try you some Cab Calloway. And when you do get sudsy-sudsy-sudsy-so, just listen to the music playing in your head, like each soap bubble is a word to the song.”

  And the crispy-shirted man did just that, scrubbing up good and drying his hands seconds before being moved to belt out a sound so big, it made my heart forget a beat.

  “Hidey Hidey Hidey Hi!” he called.

  The other Belfuss men followed suit, singing out after him. “Hidey Hidey Hidey Hi!”

  “Hodee odey odey oh!”

  “Hodee odey odey oh!”

  And the song went on and on just as crazy as that.

  “What in the world?” I said to McClean, behind my hand.

  “Cab Calloway was known as the master of big band scat singing ba
ck in the thirties,” he said. “He used nonsense words to make his voice into an instrument.”

  Awesy Awesy Awesy Awes, I thought.

  “Now, who else wants to try washing with a twist?” McClean called out for the next Belfuss as soon as the scat was over. “Who wants to feel the magic in their fists?”

  For the first time since we’d shown up, there were more folks smiling than not, the smilers giving full credit to the spirit of Celeste for leading me and McClean to their gathering. M. B. McClean gave away soap right and left and up and down as countless Belfusses joined the fun, washing in the likes of country crooner Patsy Cline, composer Wolfgang Amadeus Mozart, and the King of Soul himself, Otis Redding. There was even one Arturo Toscanini, world-famous conductor, given to the wobbly-legged man with the cane. Every time I’d pick up a sliver, I found myself holding it up to the crowd and showing it off like shiny jewelry. And with every new musical talent added into the mix, their celebration only became more lively and melodic.

  There was so much commotion going on, at one point, McClean got a little hoarse and a Belfuss brought him a cup of iced tea. He guzzled it down as the sky began to rumble, steady and loud, all around us. When the tea was gone and his voice was still fading anyway, McClean looked at me kind of fretful.

  “It’s okay,” I said. “I’ve got something.”

  “What?” he said, clearing his throat.

  “Thunder and wonder is a good rhyme.”

  “You bet that’s a good one,” he said. “You take it from here.”

  “You mean me say it?”

  “Why not?” he said.

  And truly, I was feeling a little why-not-ish myself.

  “Forget the thunder! Try this wonder!” I tried to yell, but it came out all puny.

  “Forget the thunder!” It gained some strength the second time.

  “Try this wonder!” By the third time, my voice was downright music itself.

  McClean gave me a tip of his hat as he chomped on a piece of ice. A small boy holding a thoroughly gnawed-on cob of corn squeezed himself through a maze of legs to the front and cupped his hands to his mouth to shout, “Mister, I want to make some music too!” He tugged at M. B. McClean’s jacket.

  “You do?” I said to the boy. “Well then, you just need a rinse with a little…” I looked to McClean to fill in the blank.

  “How about going old school?” he said, stooping to give the kid a tiny F C sliver. “Musical genius Frédéric Chopin began giving concerts at the age of seven.”

  The boy looked both stunned and pleased at that news.

  “Well, I’m seven and three-quarters,” he said, standing up straight and tall like he was trying to stretch himself all the way to eight.

  “Then you’re three-quarters of a year more qualified than Chopin to give a concert, aren’t you, my man?” said McClean.

  With that, the boy held the corn in his mouth while he took the soap and scrubbed till it was all used up, then marched right to the middle of the grove and pretended to play that piece of corn like a blues harmonica, humming a bittersweet tune. I’d never even heard a real harmonica sound that good. A wave of laughter and applause washed over the crowd.

  “I do believe Celeste is smiling down upon us,” shouted a man in a rust-colored suit.

  “Yes, she certainly is,” called out someone from behind. I felt a hand on my shoulder. It was Connie.

  “Looks like the magic soap business is your true calling,” she said. “Now, what you all got in that case of yours for a grieving sister with a troubled soul?”

  “Whoa,” said M. B. McClean, sounding raspy and looking stumped. “That’s a tall order.”

  I was beginning to think that poor Connie might be both our neediest customer and the first one ever turned away, until McClean lit up and said, “How about some Horatio Spafford for you?”

  Horatio Spafford. I recalled that I’d heard that name before in church.

  McClean searched through our stash for an old, fragile-looking H S soap. “Here you go, ma’am,” he said. “Horatio Spafford was a nineteenth-century gentleman who lost half of his family in an accident and yet still found the God-given strength to write one of the most beloved church hymns of all time. He titled it, ‘It Is Well With My Soul.’

  “Are you familiar with the song?” McClean asked, presenting her the sliver like it rested on a satin pillow.

  “Why yes, I do believe I’ve heard it a time or two,” said Connie with a grin. Then she dunked her one soft hand into the wagon water and twirled the soap around and around. Even as she washed, she began to sing, so quietly I could hardly hear her.

  “When peace, like a river, attendeth my way.”

  Her voice grew stronger as she stood up straight, her arm dripping at her side. Every last Belfuss, Nordenhauer, and crawfish stopped to listen.

  “When sorrows like sea billows roll.”

  Just humming along with her gave me chills all over.

  “Whatever my lot, Thou hast taught me to say.”

  She sang out to the clouds like her voice might very well split them in two.

  “It is well, it is well with my soul!”

  Connie kept her face to the sky, making her way to the center of the hushed crowd, who struggled to hang on to their hats in the gathering wind. Soon, they joined in singing with her, the white-bearded man raising his cane to lead them.

  “This is just what Celeste would want today to be.”

  Connie gathered herself and smoothed the feathers on her hat. “A sho’nuff revival.”

  The look of joy on her face was remarkable, as if it really was well with Connie’s soul.

  “Looks like our work here is done,” McClean whispered to me. “We best be on our way before what’s left of our inventory gets rained on. No telling what kind of magical montage of a mess that would make.”

  I moved to press the lid down tight, and noticed that, through what was left of the soaps, I could see the bottom of the suitcase for the first time. As McClean dumped the wagon and folded the table, I picked up the tambourine and shook it wild, the colorful ribbons blowing out into straight lines.

  After their song, the people unanimously invited us to join in their family photo. As M. B. McClean and I held tight to each other to make room for a hundred Belfusses around us, a man with a camera that spit out the pictures as he took them kept counting to three and snapping the picture on the number two every time. While the little square pictures developed from nothingness to something-ness on a table, big raindrops landed on most of the tiny faces and wiggled them up like a fun-house mirror. Even so, you could tell that every single one of us was smiling.

  The photographer handed one print to Connie, and pocketed one for himself.

  “Here you go,” he said, handing me the third. “You take this as a memento of your time with us Belfusses today. I’d say you’ve earned a right to keep one.”

  “Thank you,” I said, but just as I began to dab the picture dry on my shirt, a storm blew into the grove fast, loud, and heavy. The rain came like a curtain closing, and lightning touched down far beyond the sunflower field.

  “Come on, Cass!” M. B. McClean shouted, as he made a dash for The Roast with the suitcase balanced on his head and his jacket on top of that.

  I ran as fast as I could with the banner coiled around one arm and the wagon dragging behind me, going airborne with every bump. Looking back over my shoulder, I expected to see the Belfuss family taking cover and moving in huddles toward their own cars. But instead, there they remained, drenched and muddied, still singing and laughing. The old man had hooked his cane on a low tree branch and was leading them all around in a line, waving his hands and kicking up dirt. With the wind gusting in its branches, the biggest of the pecan trees masterfully conducted their symphony of joy.

  Dad and I boarded The Roast and shook our wetness off like a couple of dogs. He peeled the photo from my shirt and tried to pat it dry without smearing the details out. Then he clipped the
picture to the passenger’s-side visor and took off his top hat, revealing a smush-ring in his thick brown hair. The air around him smelled like honeysuckle and hot sauce.

  “Not too shabby for crashing a party.” Dad laid out a layer of napkins to sit his damp self on before navigating us back to the closest on-ramp. The streetlights were just beginning to flicker on, and the rain looked like a million contact lenses on the windshield. Dad leaned to one side and reached under his leg for a napkin to wipe a circle into the foggy glass in front of him.

  “It was a lot more of a party when we left than when we got there,” I said.

  “Thanks to you,” said Dad.

  For the first time, being his Cassistant gave me kind of a warmish gushy feeling inside.

  “And thanks to you too,” I said.

  From a doggie bag that a kind Belfuss had packed for us, I ate a mini cob of corn and some potatoes while my dad fumbled the same crawfish three times, trying to pinch it open and drive at the same time.

  “That was amazing,” I said.

  “Oh, you like my crawfish juggling, huh?”

  “No, I mean back there. The Belfuss thing. That was really something.”

  “Agreed,” said Dad, trying not to touch the steering wheel with his spicy fingertips. “I’d say we just witnessed us some mighty fine Sway.”

  Dad popped a whole potato into his cheek. By the time he got it totally chewed, he’d found us an Arkansas truck stop to park for the night, and squeezed us in so tight between two trucks, I thought The Roast might scrape along the sides and make sparks.

  “Really,” he said, unbuckling and swiveling toward me. “Thanks for the help out there today.”

  “But I was pretty shaky,” I said.

  “I know. Like fodder, like dodder.” Dad did some fake trembling with his red-peppered hands.

  “So what are you considering?” he said. “Is there any special request you might have for your own first dip into the Sway? You know, we’ve still got a Pablo Picasso in there,” he said. “And even a Georgia O’Keeffe, I think.”