The Marble Queen

by Stephanie J. Blake

  When Mama asked where I’d been, I didn’t have it in me to fight with her, so I said, “Playing jacks with Nancy at the park.”

  Mama smiled. “You should have brought her by. She’s a good girl, even if her father is good for nothing.”

  It’s true. Nancy’s daddy owns the crooked car dealership on the edge of town. He’s always flashing around money, smiling wide with his white teeth. He hit Nancy’s mama one night outside the bingo parlor in front of half the town. They got a D-I-V-O-R-C-E, and people are still talking about it. I wonder which is worse, having your daddy die in Korea or having a daddy like Nancy’s.

  It wasn’t until I was brushing my teeth before bed that I realized something that stopped my heart. When Daniel called quitsies at the ring, he was also talking about his friendship with me.

  Chapter Five

  The Big Zucchini

  AUGUST 19, 1959

  I was practicing a spin shot on the rug in the bathroom when Mama called me to the kitchen. There was a ham in the oven, and it sure smelled juicy. Her sewing basket was on the table. The button jar was out. She was trying to put a new button on one of Daddy’s work shirts, only she couldn’t seem to get the needle threaded. She licked at the white thread over and over with one eye closed. Mama is farsighted, which means the opposite: she’s supposed to wear her eyeglasses when she does things up close like read or sew. Sometimes she’s just too stubborn for her own good.

  “Freedom, can you pull up the dead tomato plants? That storm last weekend nearly killed everything in my garden.”

  “Sure, Mama.”

  Mama jabbed the thread at the needle one last time and declared, “Gotcha.”

  Careful not to let the screen door slam against the house, I went outside. I stared up at the gathering clouds. It looked like another thunderstorm was coming. I stole a peek through the fence at Mrs. Zierk. She was standing in the shade, watering her rhubarb and fanning herself with her garden hat.

  Mama’s tomato plants were a raggedy mess. Every year she plants tomatoes, but they never seem to give much in the way of fruit. I pulled the wire cages out of the muck and started digging up the dried, windblown plants. The black dirt at the roots was cool and soft, and pollywogs scurried around under my fingers. I poked one, and it balled up fast. There were a couple of fat earthworms. I left them alone.

  I saw a strange curlicue vine poking through the fence. What do you know! A giant green zucchini was nestled in under our dead tomatoes. It must have been growing quietly all summer. It was bigger than a watermelon. Bigger than a bread box. As big as a baby! I figured a flower had sprouted from Mrs. Zierk’s vine and had turned into a perfect zucchini on our side.

  I pulled up the last dead tomato plant, threw it aside with the others, and thought for a minute. My daddy loves to eat fried zucchini almost more than he loves drinking beer. It was harvesttime. The zucchini would die if I didn’t pick it. Mama says wasting food is a sin, and zucchini is food—even if I don’t like eating it.

  I peeked through the fence again. A yellow jacket buzzed around Mrs. Zierk, and she was trying to whack it with her hat.

  I decided that the right thing to do was to pick that zucchini. Mama would be so pleased.

  The vine was tough, and I skinned the palms of my hands trying to get it up. The bottom of the zucchini was muddy from lying there all summer. I hiked the vegetable up on my chest and tried to balance it on my hip; but it was stuck to the vine, and the vine was stuck in between two fence boards.

  Higgie had come outside, and he was having a jump rope contest with himself. I could hear him counting: “Four.” Thwap! “Nine.” Thwap! “Three.” Thwap! “Six.” Thwap!

  I pulled again. Hard as I tried, I couldn’t free the zucchini from the vine. I stepped back to rethink the situation. It was hot. Sweat had soaked my armpits. I had dirt on my clothes, and my hands were covered in mud. That zucchini was good and stuck. I couldn’t carry it by myself, even if I got it loose. The answer was clear: I needed Higgie’s help.

  I called out, “Higginbotham! Get over here and help me.”

  Higgie’s new thing was peeing outside, and he had stopped jumping and was squatting over a puddle he’d just made, watching ants drown.

  “You’d better pull up your pants before Mama sees you.”

  Higgie ignored me and went off to pee on something else. I should have known he’d be no help. I heard Daddy’s Chevy pull into the carport. He had music on real loud. He came strolling through the back gate, whistling, with a transistor radio in one hand and a bag of beer in the other.

  “Hi, Daddy, look what I’ve found!”

  He came over. “Let me see what you’ve got there, Sugar Beet.”

  Daddy handed me the bag of beer and the radio and took out his pocketknife. He sliced at the vine with one quick motion. Then he picked up the zucchini and raised it over his head.

  “Fried zucchini for supper!” he shouted.

  I tried to smile, but suddenly I didn’t think my plan was such a good idea. I didn’t want to eat zucchini. I wanted the ham that Mama had been roasting in our oven all day.

  Daddy went into the house with the zucchini while I followed behind with the radio and the beers. He was muttering, “Or maybe some zucchini cake or zucchini bread...”

  When we got to the kitchen door, Mama grinned at Daddy like he was bringing her an armload of diamonds. I hid the bag of beer behind me so Mama wouldn’t see it. Sweat rolled off my cheeks.

  Daddy tried to dance with Mama while holding the zucchini. He took her hand and swiveled his hips and sang, “Maybe, baby, I’ll have you for me—”

  I set the radio on the counter.

  “Turn down the music, Homer,” Mama said, but she was still smiling. She flicked him away playfully with her dish towel. If you ask me, she needs to smile more often. She’s pretty when she smiles. “Me, oh my! Where’d you get that zucchini?”

  “Freedom grew it in the tomato beds,” said Daddy.

  Mama stared at me. She knew better than that. “Did you steal this vegetable from Mrs. Zierk, Freedom Jane?”

  How come Mama always thinks the worst of people?

  “Of course not, Mama. I didn’t grow it, but I found it! Mrs. Zierk’s vine poked through our fence.”

  Daddy took the beers from me and put them in the Frigidaire while Mama wasn’t paying attention.

  I thought Mama would be mad at me, but she was grinning. “Well, well. That old bat will have to share some of her summer bounty, after all.” Mama must have been extra happy because she’d beaten Mrs. Zierk two times in one day. Mama had cut a branch off the burning bush that very morning.

  Daddy decided, “I’ll take fried zucchini, Willie.” He kissed Mama on the cheek and reached for the newspaper on the table.

  Mama said, “Freedom, wash your hands. I’m going to show you how to make Daddy’s favorite treat.”

  Daddy turned the radio back up and got a beer.

  I scrubbed my hands in the bathroom and wondered what game my brother was up to now. I’d be suffering in the hot kitchen with Mama and that blasted zucchini.

  When I came out, Mama tied a clean apron around my waist. “A woman needs to be the queen of the kitchen if she wants to make her family happy, Freedom. You’ll have to learn to cook sometime, and this is as good a time as any so you can help when the baby gets here.”

  I don’t want to be queen of anything—except marbles. And truthfully, Mama is not that good of a teacher, but I held my tongue. I started thinking about that baby. Higgie and I already share the extra bedroom. Where was the baby going to sleep?

  I must’ve been scowling, because Mama said, “Freedom, get me the skillet. And stop making that face. Babies are a blessing.”

  How could Mama read my thoughts? Still, she didn’t look so sure herself.

  Mama showed me how to sift the flour, but I pinched my finger in the sifter. I got to crack an egg, but she made me pick out the shells. She sliced up the zucchini with the big knife all
by herself. She called me “accident-prone.”

  The skillet got so hot, the grease sizzled. I admit I was a tiny bit scared of getting burned. We dredged the zucchini slices in the egg and flour and fried them until they were crunchy and golden brown.

  She set the plate on the table and called for Daddy, who was reading the paper in the living room.

  He came in and opened another beer before nearly drowning his fried zucchini pieces in ketchup. I don’t know how he gobbled them up right out of the grease like that. “Delicious!” I watched him get a third beer from the fridge. “I’ll be outside.”

  Daddy let the screen door slam, and Mama flinched. I knew she was counting the beers, too.

  “Go and see what Higgie is doing, Homer!” she yelled. “Now, for the quick bread,” she told me.

  Mama licked her finger and found a tattered recipe card in the wooden box over the stove. She got out the shredder and showed me how to rub the zucchini up and down the sharp points. That part was kind of fun. I shredded up the zucchini. She measured out more flour and sifted it.

  “This was my mama’s recipe,” Mama said with a gleam in her eye. She looked happy and sad at the same time. “My mama could always make something out of nothing.”

  “Did she like zucchini?” I asked.

  Mama chuckled. “She loved any kind of food. Even zucchini.”

  It never did rain. For the rest of the afternoon, while Higgie and Daddy played catch outside, I helped Mama bake zucchini bread and mix up a batch of zucchini slaw. The whole time, I wished I were shooting marbles at the park instead. I needed the practice.

  By suppertime the zucchini was all used up, and Mama threw the ends in the trash. I was never so happy as when Mama told me we were finished cooking.

  As we were doing the dishes together, I gathered up my courage and asked, “Mama, can I enter the marble competition this year?”

  Mama paused for a moment. “I really don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  “But, Mama, I have my heart set on winning.”

  “I know you do, but playing sports with boys is just not ladylike.” She smoothed my bangs.

  “Please, Mama. Will you think about it some more? You don’t have to answer me today.”

  “We’ll see,” Mama said.

  I frowned. Everyone knows that “We’ll see” is just another way of saying no.

  “Come here, Freedom Jane.” She pulled me close.

  Neither of us said another word about marbles. I just let Mama hug me tight.

  How on earth could I change her mind?

  We ate the ham and potatoes for supper, with a side of gloppy zucchini slaw and a slice of nutty zucchini bread. I hate zucchini more than ever. It’s green. It’s awful smushy, and if you want the honest truth, it tastes terrible no matter how you cook it. If I ever find a surprise vegetable growing in our tomato patch again, I’ll leave it where it is.

  Chapter Six

  Mama and Daddy’s Kitchen Debate

  AUGUST 28, 1959

  Daniel never comes around anymore. He barely steps off his porch and won’t even wave at me when I squeak by on my rusty skates. He just sits there reading a book like we’ve never met. I’ll bet he misses Huckleberry Hound. And there’s no way I’m giving back the Superman comic book he lent me right before he called quitsies.

  His mama never comes around, neither, so she’s probably mad at me, too. For what, I don’t know. It might be because I got my kite stuck in their tree on Tuesday. And I had to leave it there when the lightning started. I heard Mama and Daddy talking about how Mr. Kroger’s car was in front of Daniel’s house for three hours in the middle of the night. Daddy said Mr. Kroger was probably over there relighting the pilot light on the furnace or something.

  Mama smirked and said, “I’ll bet.”

  I don’t need Daniel Coyle anyway. I’ve got Nancy Brown.

  Nancy and I went swimming at the YMCA pool on Wednesday afternoon. It was loads of fun. I didn’t jump off the high dive like Nancy did. I didn’t feel like it. Plus, it seemed awfully high up. Her red bathing suit sure is nicer than mine. I told Mama that I need a new one, but she said that summer is nearly over.

  On Thursday Mama let me go to Nancy’s house. I had to wear my best dress, the one with the blue cornflowers all over it. Mama put my hair up in blue ribbons. Nancy and I sat at a kid-sized white table in her room, while her mother served the most delicious store-bought heart-shaped cookies and sweet tea on fancy china.

  I found out that Nancy is kind of bossy, and she still plays with dolls. She made me cart her Precious Baby doll around in the wheelbarrow while she put her teddy bear in a wire shopping cart. The doll’s eyes open and close all by themselves—it’s creepy, and I don’t like it one bit.

  We played with Nancy’s collection of Barbies for over an hour, until I got bored to death. I asked if we could play jacks instead. Nancy said it is nicer to do what the hostess wants. I’m not sure that’s true.

  Mama says it’s Nancy’s turn to come to my house. But I’m not ready for that. I have only the one Barbie, and we’d have to include Higgie.

  I tried getting into a game of Ringer today. The minute Mama put Higgie down for his nap, I ran all the way to Highland Park with my marble pouch under my arm. The boys were starting a new game when I arrived. I was panting and had a stitch in my side. Daniel wasn’t there. “Hey, can I throw lag?” I asked.

  Wally Biscotti looked me up and down. “Nope.”

  “We’ve got a new rule: girls can’t play,” Jacob told me.

  “Why not? Who’s the ref today?”

  Wally pointed at Anthony, who didn’t say anything. He was counting a few marbles in his hand.

  I asked, “Can I play or not?”

  The boys ignored me.

  I waited for them to change their minds until Esau said, “Not this time, Freedom.” He was gentle with his words, but I got mad anyway.

  I stomped away, but not before I said, “You are all a bunch of jerks.”

  They just laughed. “Go home, little girl!” Jacob called.

  While I walked home, I had mean thoughts about those boys. By the time I got to Lilac Street, I decided it didn’t matter if they wouldn’t let me play. I’d practice shooting on my own, and at the Autumn Jubilee I’d show them a thing or two when I won all of their best marbles.

  I planned on asking Mama about the competition at supper; but when I got inside, she was pacing around like a lion on the hunt, so I figured I’d better not. Somehow, Mama had found out that Daddy had skipped work again to go fishing with Uncle Mort.

  She was looking for a fight when she served up Campbell’s tomato soup and grilled cheese sandwiches for supper. That’s lunch food according to Daddy; but he still wasn’t home, and it was time to eat.

  After supper Mama asked me to play in my room while Higgie got a bath. She put Higgie to bed when it was still light out. And for once he knew he’d better go right to sleep. Then Mama scrubbed out the Frigidaire from top to bottom, hosed down the driveway, and swept out the carport. I sat on the couch watching television with one eye on the door.

  When Daddy got home, she started jawing at him before he could even wash his hands. He plopped down on the couch next to me. The smell of beer and cigarettes made my nose wrinkle.

  “Put a coaster under that beer bottle, Homer. Why didn’t you go to work today?” Mama asked.

  He sighed. “Willie, summer’s nearly over.”

  “What does that have to do with getting in a hard day’s work? If you went fishing, why are you so late?”

  “Mort and I got to talking about that darn Kitchen Debate, and time got away from me.” Daddy patted my leg. “Vice President Nixon shouldn’t have goaded Mr. Khrushchev in such a way. I’m telling you, we’re going to find ourselves at war with the Soviet Union.”

  Mama went into the kitchen, and I followed her because I wanted a bowl of the tapioca pudding she’d made for dessert. But she didn’t dish out the pudding. She went to
the stove and put the soup back on. I sat at the table and waited. It wasn’t the time to ask for anything.

  Daddy came in and paced around the kitchen. “We’re in real trouble here, Willie. Don’t you understand how politics work?”

  Mama said, “Shut the window. We don’t need everyone in the neighborhood knowing that I’ve married a Communist sympathizer.”

  “That’s not true,” Daddy said, but he shut the window anyway. He opened another beer. “If you paid more attention to the news instead of what everyone’s wearing in Life magazine, you’d know what I’m talking about.”

  Mama glared at him.

  He sat down at the table with me. I didn’t know what any of it had to do with our family.

  “Do you want something to eat?” Mama put a sandwich in front of him.

  He took one look at the tray and said, “Can’t you see I’m having a beer? I need to unwind, Willie.”

  “From what exactly? Drinking all day?” Suddenly, Mama threw the tray of soggy grilled cheese to the floor and shouted, “I can’t live this way anymore!”

  She stormed into their bedroom. Daddy and I went after her. She bounced the cardboard suitcase onto their bed.

  When she started throwing his things into it, he just chuckled. He took a swig of his beer. A smile tugged at the corners of his mouth. “Give me a smooch.” He reached for her.

  Mama pushed past him. “You stink.”

  She opened a dresser drawer and took out some of his undershirts.

  He sidled up to her and tried pulling her close, but her baby belly got in the way. “Come on, Willie. You know you aren’t ever leaving me.” Mama pushed him away.

  His hip hit the corner of the beat-up oak dresser with a crack. The mirror above rattled.

  Mama narrowed her eyes and pointed to the front door. “You’re the one leaving. I mean it this time.” She snapped the suitcase closed and tried to hand it to him. She pursed her lips.

  I slipped out of the bedroom and sat on the edge of the couch, hoping I was invisible, not knowing what to do. Where would Daddy go? This was his home. I looked around. His books filled the shelves. Mama’s knickknacks were lined up on the mantel. Their wedding picture hung over the fireplace. I saw that the round crocheted doily under the lamp on the side table had a stain, probably from one of Daddy’s beers. The brown couch appeared more worn than ever.