Tupelo Honey

by Lis Anna-Langston

  “Yes. Yes. She does have those wild eyes.” She sighed to my mother. Then she asked, “Can she sing?”

  “Of course.”

  My mother, the expert of my vocal cords.

  The two of them spent an hour talking about me like I wasn’t even in the room.

  “Hmmm,” Crusty said. “Does she always wear her hair like that? All wild and frizzy?”

  Suddenly, everything on my body had to be curled, painted, plucked, scrubbed, or combed. Curling irons, pink hair rollers, eyelash curlers, eyeliner, lip gloss, cuticle cream, pore refiner, powder, and the dreaded pantyhose. All of these items appeared, stacked precariously on the back of the toilet, the edge of the sink, and the top of my dresser.

  It got worse. Now I had to get up at the crack of dawn on weekends and miss Saturday morning cartoons. Then I had to sit in the car with my mother for an hour while we drove to another city where the pageant was taking place. On the dreaded day of the first pageant it was dark and the sun didn’t rise. Instead, a gray sky opened up and began to rain. Finally, we turned into the parking lot of what looked like an auditorium. There were about ten cars clustered together but most of the parking lot was empty. The dreariness made my stomach growl.

  The car came to a complete stop and I reached for the door handle. “Stop,” she said. The sudden sound of her voice made me jump. Rain pummeled the windshield. I had to sit there for fifteen minutes while she fixed her makeup in the rearview mirror and smoked a joint.

  A deep groan rolled my eyes into the back of my head.

  “Get over it,” she said.

  When other cars started pulling into the parking lot she stubbed her joint out in the ashtray, sprayed a ton of OnJaLee perfume all over her clothes, grabbed her purse and then stopped. Thunder boomed. She turned around in her seat, rummaged in the floorboard, then produced a plastic grocery bag. “Here, put this over your head so your hair doesn’t get wet.”

  That is how I went to my first beauty pageant.

  With a plastic grocery bag on my head.

  The only real shred of hope I’d held onto throughout this travesty was the potential for glamour. I’d seen a lot of black and white movies and regarded myself as something of an expert on the subject of glamour.

  Glamour does not begin with a grocery bag. Joan Crawford does not walk to the top of the staircase with a Piggly Wiggly sack on her head.

  I arrived in the front lobby of the auditorium completely water logged with perfectly dry hair. The building smelled like a basement.

  Three older women sat at a table.

  The one in the middle asked, “Name?”

  My mother was really stoned. It took her a minute to figure out what in the hell the woman was talking about. “Oh,” she said finally, glancing around like a room full of people were watching her. “Tupelo Honey.”

  Middle woman referred to a clipboard then flipped through a box and pulled out a large envelope, handing it over. “Down the hall,” she instructed.

  Not exactly the welcoming committee.

  The only other hope I’d been hanging onto was the thought that I’d get my own private dressing room. In the movies women always had their own dressing rooms where they kissed, collapsed in sorrow, yelled at the stage mangers and drank too much.

  The second big disappointment of the day came when my mother opened the door at the end of the hall. Not only was it not my own personal dressing room, it was a big room with no glitz whatsoever.

  It was a conference room full of tables and metal chairs. Boring to the point of tears. Two little girls sat on top of a table across the room. They were creepy twins. I shivered. To my utter horror I also realized that anyone who came into the room would be able to see my mother who was slowing down considerably given her current state. Her eyes were so red it looked like she was having an allergic reaction.

  Just to annoy her, I said, “I’m hungry,” really loud.

  The sound of my voice echoed. The twins glanced over at us. My own mother glared at me. I could tell she couldn’t figure out if I was really loud or she was really stoned. After a few seconds she couldn’t even remember what she was thinking about and dug through her purse for change. “Here,” she said, handing over a fistful of coins. “I’m sure there’s a vending machine in this place somewhere.”

  The chance for exploration was my salvation. Hallelujah. Being nosy was my best talent. Down the hall and to the right was indeed a welcome sight. A bright soda and vending machine side by side. My favorite part about vending machines was trying to decide. It wasn’t like a shelf where you could take a bag of chips off, study them and put them back. No. A vending machine required absolute certainty. There was no going back from c3.

  d4? Maybe. e9? Possibly. c5 was a major consideration. Part of the appeal was being able to study my reflection in the glass as I contemplated my definitive food choices. My hair was curled and fluffy, my pants had no grass stains, my face was freckly and well scrubbed.

  Hmmmm, I thought. There was a granola bar and that held a certain appeal but…

  “Tupelo Honey,” my mother yelled down the hall.

  I saw my reflection jump. “What?” I yelled back.

  “Get your butt back here. Now.”

  I chose a Moon Pie and Pepsi for breakfast. My mother was too stoned to argue about nutritional value.

  As soon as I returned to the room she came after me with an eyelash curler. “I swear to god if you scream like that again, we’re going to the car,” she growled.

  I screamed louder. We weren’t going to the car. I could scream all day and she’d still make me sit there while she curled my eyelashes. One by painful one.

  “Stop.” I squirmed. “That hurts.”

  “No one said it wouldn’t. Listen.” She squeezed my cheeks hard. “You’re going to start making some money around here.”

  My cheeks burned hot. I couldn’t see the other people in the room but I knew they were looking. I shut up and ate my Moon Pie.

  Before I finished my Pepsi someone opened the door and said, “It’s show time, ladies.”

  Then everything else happened really fast. Go out, twirl, walk to the end, twirl. God, I had to belch so bad. Smile. Very slowly and quietly I let the carbonation seep out through my smiling lips. No one noticed. It made me feel better to think that beauty and belching went together.

  Then I had to go back out and do the same thing in a different outfit. My mother hustled me around backstage, pulling new dresses over my head. Over and over. Just when I thought it couldn’t get any dumber, it did. My first beauty pageant was a total disaster. When I heard the judges call my name, my heart started pounding.

  I’d won Second Place.

  With utter dread I walked out onto the stage where a woman I’d never seen before handed me a trophy. I saw the look in my mother’s eye. This was just the type of fuel she needed to fully terrorize me. The woman handed me an envelope with cash in it. In a split second all of the embarrassment was worth it. I now had the money to buy items for my fort. Sticks, tarp, canteen, sleeping bag, camping lantern. I was in heaven. I drifted down the stairs next to the stage in bliss clutching my envelope and trophy, smiling and waving like Greta Garbo.

  Before I’d even made it to the last step my mother snatched the envelope out of my hand.

  “Hey,” I said, trying to snatch it back. “That’s mine.”

  “It’s mine,” she said, jerking me up by my arm.

  I wasn’t giving in without a fight. “I was the one who had to do all of the work.”

  She stopped, pinching my cheek hard. “You’ll smile like a sweet little girl and shut up. Got it?”

  Yeah, I got it. The joint had worn off.

  The next morning she made me wear a cotton crotch and stand in the living room while she determined what my talent would be. I was still pretty miffed about the money.

  “How much money was in the envelope?” I asked through clenched teeth.

  “None of your business.”r />
  I grabbed my Blondie album off of the sofa. “Then I want this to be my talent.”

  “You can’t sing ‘Heart of Glass’ in the talent competition,” she snorted.

  “Why not? Debbie Harry sings it and she’s famous.”

  “God,” my mother huffed, looking in the ashtray. “Where’s the rest of my joint?”

  I begged to go to Marmalade’s house. My mother was going to an Italian restaurant with Nash, so she caved in. Marmalade and I spent all day at the zoo. I didn’t have to brush my hair. I could stare at the wild animals all I wanted without curling my eyelashes or plucking my eyebrows. And, most important, I did not have to wear the dreaded cotton crotch.

  At the entrance to the monkey house I begged Marmalade to help me.

  “Make the tweezers stop,” I wailed.

  She held the door open for me. “That mother of yours doesn’t have a job.”

  “So. That doesn’t give her the right to terrorize me. Please . . . please help me get out of it. Just talk to her.”

  “I already did.”

  That got my attention. “Huh?”

  “You heard me.”

  “Well, what did you say?”

  “I told her I thought you were adorable and precocious and it might be good for you.”

  I glared at her. “Are you sure you wouldn’t be more comfortable in the Snake House?”

  She breezed right past me into the loud chatter of chimpanzees. “No, I’ll be fine in the Monkey House, thank you.”

  I sat next to the traitor in the big concrete room that smelled like a monkey’s ass and watched the gorilla, waiting for an epiphany. After a while a group of school kids came in and gawked at the gorilla until he charged across his cage, slamming into the glass. Everyone ran hysterically from the building. The sudden jolt of adrenaline brought forth an idea.

  I had a plan.

  The next day, I was sent back to my mother’s house with messy, wild hair.

  “Hold still,” my mother growled with a comb in her mouth and a brush in her hand.

  I ignored her, pretending not to hear, implementing my plan.

  “Tupelo Honey,” she said.

  After several seconds I looked around the room. She pulled out the most hideous green and white thing I’ve ever seen.

  I cannot believe this.

  “It’s your disco costume.” She jiggled it back and forth.

  I walked out of the room pretending not to hear. That was my plan. Feign deafness at all costs.

  I started doing bad things to draw attention. Like spitting on the floor in Joey’s Pizzeria.

  My mother jerked me up by my arm. “Stop that! Now!”

  The nagging deafness descended. I drooled.

  “Did you hear me?” The back of her hand came down fast on my face. I felt my lip cut on my tooth.

  Silence. My new best friend. Blood trickled down my chin. People were staring. She grabbed me and the pizza box and dragged us both to the car.

  Trying to regain some sense of control in my life, I planned entire days around old black and white movies. I loved how everyone drank martinis, smoked and collapsed onto the chaise. I had to have something to do while I was pretending to be deaf. My fort had been temporarily put on hold due to lack of funds.

  “Tupelo Honey, come try this dress on.”

  I ignored her, eyes glued to the television.

  “It’s a sailor suit,” she declared, spinning around in her chair. She pinched me roughly on the shoulder, then pointed at the navy blue suit.

  “I don’t want to be in the military,” I said, nonplussed.

  It wilted in her hand. I wanted no part of it. I was sent to my room for the rest of the day, which was fine because it meant no hot rollers.

  In school, I decided to expand my plan to include teachers.

  “Tupelo Honey, do you know the answer to the question?” Ms. Bishop asked.

  “Yes.”

  “Then why didn’t you raise your hand?”

  “Huh?”

  “Are you okay?”

  “What?”

  “Can you hear me?” She leaned in, so close I could smell the cinnamon candy on her breath.

  I shook my head, confused.

  A parent/teacher conference was called.

  Ms. Bishop looked from my mother to me and back again. “Well, it’s very disconcerting. Her scholastic performance is dropping because she claims that she can’t hear.”

  My mother glared at me.

  Ms. Bishop furrowed her brow. “Tupelo Honey, can you hear me?”

  My eyes drifted over to the window. I sat silent. Leaves were falling. I began to drool.

  An appointment to see the ear doctor was scheduled after my photo shoot the following week. It didn’t get me out of the pageant that weekend, but it did help me get even. After the director herded us into the big conference room and everything was curled and plucked, we all put on clean underwear, then I walked out on stage, smiled, walked to the end, turned, smiled, and walked off. Thrillsville. I disappeared before the talent competition and reappeared later, claiming not to have heard the announcement. That meant I didn’t place in the contest. That meant no money.

  My mother would not be deterred. Crusty Lady was hired to teach me to twirl a baton. I took out a few glass angels learning the basics. I had to practice in my cotton crotch with a book of Shakespeare balanced on my head. I decided that my baton was much more interesting and practical when used as a sword. I challenged a concrete gargoyle and had to spend the next hour beating the dent out of my baton with a tack hammer I found in the garage.

  On Friday I was sent back to Marmalade’s house because I was worrying the shit out of my mother. Her words, not mine.

  My friend, Preston Brown called to see if I could go camping with him and his cousin next week.

  “No,” I said, kicking at my baton, “I’m busy.”

  “Doing what?”

  “I have to be in a beauty pageant.”

  “Really?”

  “Yeah.”

  “I’m sorry. My aunt Dolores used to be in beauty pageants,” Preston said half-heartedly.

  On Sunday night I returned to hell. My mother made me exfoliate before dinner. “Preston told me stories about his aunt Dolores,” I said.

  “Dolores is a drunk who sleeps around,” my mother snapped.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because we went to high school together.”

  “Humph,” I said. “She used to be in beauty pageants.”

  Her eyes shot right through me. She pulled her hand back.

  I leaned forward, precisely uttering each word. “I have a photo shoot tomorrow. Go ahead. Hit me”

  Her hand dropped to the table. She stared straight through me for a long time. Mentally, I dared her to hit me. Go ahead, I rehearsed in my head. You can explain it to the judges tomorrow. And for our next category, Children with Bad Parents.

  She sent me to bed in pink curlers rolled so tight it pinched my brain. When the alarm went off I pretended not to hear. Then I pretended not to hear her standing in my doorway, wearing that hippie tie-dye housedress.

  “Tupelo Honey, get up and take a bath. Don’t get your hair wet.”

  I pretended to be asleep.

  She slammed my door. “Now.”

  I showed up at the table ready for breakfast. She gave me a piece of sprouted wheat bread and told me to tough it until we got to McDonald’s.

  “Where’s Nash?” I asked. I hadn’t seen him hanging around for a few days.

  She started the car. “He’s in jail.”

  There was frost on the windshield.

  “What?” It was still dark outside, and I could see the moon. “Where’s our dog?”

  “He’s in jail, too. A different kind. One for dogs. We’ll go get him this afternoon.”

  “I’m supposed to go smile and look pretty after you just told me that?”

  “Yep.” She backed out of the driveway. “It’s a skil
l you’ll thank me for later.” She jammed the car into gear. “Besides, you shouldn’t have asked if you didn’t want to know.”

  “I wanted to know. I just don’t want him to be in jail.”

  “Well, he is,” she stated emphatically and didn’t speak again until she ordered two Egg McMuffins at the drive-through window.

  “Oh, Tupelo Honey.” The photographer rushed toward me. “You look adorable. Look at your beautiful curls.”

  “Sorry, we’re so early,” my mother sighed. “I have to bring her in before she gets dirty.”

  The photographer escorted me to the back, where a changing room doubled as a props closest. He handed me a pair of white tights and I rolled my eyes.

  He knelt down in front of me. “What’s wrong?”

  “I hate these things.”

  “Hmmm, so do I.” He tossed the tights over his shoulder. “Okay . . . hold on.”

  He disappeared into a back room and seconds later returned with a bright pink feather boa.

  God . . . I’d never seen anything like it. My hands reached for the feathers. It matched my pink fuzzy purse. Women in black and white movies always wore feathers.

  “Okay,” he said, “but you have to behave. No talking back. And when I say ‘smile,’ I mean smile. I want to see teeth. Got it?”

  “Hmmm . . . Okay.”

  My mother rolled her eyes when she saw me wrapped up in the boa, but I didn’t care. I was Bette Davis. I was Mae West. I was Marilyn Monroe . . .

  It started raining on the way to the dog pound. “What about Nash?” I asked.

  “What about him?”

  “Are we going to get him?”

  She turned into the parking lot. “No, we are not.”

  “So, where does he go?”

  “To hell for all I care,” she muttered, climbing out of the car. “Don’t touch the gear shift or the steering wheel. I’ll be back in a minute.”

  A few minutes later she emerged from the crappy gray building with our dog trotting along beside her. He had a rope leash around his neck and seemed happy to see someone he knew. As soon as he was in the backseat, I turned to my mother.