The Marble Queen

by Stephanie J. Blake

  Once school starts there won’t be many more chances to spend a whole day with my daddy. Uncle Mort would meet us up at the fishing hole, but I don’t mind him, even if he acts as though he doesn’t like kids. He just doesn’t talk much. Probably because my aunt Janie talks a blue streak.

  Uncle Mort has a big jiggly belly like Santa Claus, square yellow teeth, and a handlebar mustache. He wears Bermuda shorts year-round—no matter how cold it gets. He works with Daddy at the repair shop. Mama says he’s always been a little “rough around the edges.”

  Mama was already up when I stumbled into the brightly lit kitchen. She was wearing her red-flowered housecoat and her worn slippers. Her hair was wrapped up in a pink hairnet. The kitchen was chilly and smelled like coffee. Well, coffee and ammonia. Mama scrubs the linoleum on her hands and knees on Saturday mornings before anyone gets up.

  She was making our picnic lunches. The minute she spied me, she asked, “Did you go to the bathroom, Freedom Jane?”

  I rolled my eyes. “Yes, Mama. And I tucked some TP in my pocket in case I have to go again later.” I patted my pocket to show I really had a wad in there.

  “Take some extra. Your daddy won’t have any decent place to take you if you have to do number two.”

  I almost said something fresh, but I caught myself in time. I didn’t say a single bad thing about the Spam she was frying, either. I don’t know why we can’t ever have turkey sandwiches on our fishing trips. Or roast beef. Mama worries about us catching worms from the mayo after it sits in the hot basket. So it’s Spam and onions on Wonder bread. Blech. Spam tastes like old shoes after it’s sat in wax paper all day. The grease always makes the bread wet.

  “I won’t need to do number two, Mama. I promise.” Why does she have to mention the bathroom all the time?

  Mama slapped some butter on a piece of bread. “You’d better bring your brown sweater. It might rain.” She handed me an apple from the fruit bowl and finished packing the picnic basket with the sandwiches, some gingersnaps, and another apple for later. She also put in a Mason jar of water.

  I wouldn’t eat those gingersnaps if I were dying of hunger. I hate them. Mama won’t buy Hydrox cookies anymore on account of Higgie—he licks off the cream and hides the stack of soggy cookies under the couch.

  I twisted the apple stem. “A, B, C, D—” The stem broke off on D. “D for Daniel. Yuck.”

  “Please don’t say ‘yuck,’ Freedom. Now, you be sure and eat that apple, peel and all, for breakfast. And don’t go drinking Cokes all day. It’s bad for your digestion.”

  Once Mama caught me throwing my apple peels in the garbage. She made me fish them out and eat every single one of them—even the brown pieces. I nearly puked.

  Daddy came in with his tackle box and the can of worms I’d been collecting. “She can have a Coke or two, Willie. It won’t kill her.”

  “It’s going to stunt her growth. I know it.”

  Daddy winked at me, kissed Mama quick, and pinched her bottom. He grabbed the picnic basket. “I’ll race you to the car, Sugar Beet!”

  We ran out the back door.

  “Be good!” Mama called. She came outside and added, “Don’t let your daddy drink a whole six-pack before lunch. Homer, do you hear me?”

  Daddy revved the engine and cupped his hand up to his ear. “Huh?”

  I waved at Mama, but she stomped inside without waving back.

  An orange-and-pink sunrise was coming up over the hills. I felt a smile cracking my cheeks wide-open. We practically flew down Riverside Drive to Hal’s Bait Shop. I waited in the car and ate half my apple. When Daddy got back, he had two bottles of Coke for me and some cans of beer for himself. A box of fruit-flavored Chiclets peeked out of his shirt pocket.

  He twirled a candy necklace around and around on his pointer finger. “Try it on, Sugar Beet,” he said, tossing it to me.

  All my life, I’ve wanted a candy necklace, but they cost a dime. Plus, Mama says it’s not sanitary to lick something and leave it on your dirty neck. But Mama wasn’t around. So I put on my colorful candy and decided not to lick it—too much.

  “Oh, thank you, thank you!” I kissed his unshaven cheek.

  Daddy grinned. “You’re my girl.” We pulled out on the highway in a spray of gravel. Daddy had one eye on the road and the other on the radio. “Open up the glove box and find my harmonica.”

  I popped open the glove box and found an entry form for the marble competition inside.

  Daddy chuckled. “I thought I’d better pick one up.”

  “Does this mean I can enter?”

  “I’ll talk to your mama about it. You know she always has the final say.”

  “Do you think I could win it, Daddy?”

  “Sugar Beet, you can do anything. Now, turn up the radio.”

  I fiddled with the dial. Our favorite Elvis song came on: “Teddy Bear.” I know all the words. Daddy kept one hand on the wheel while he played his harmonica, and I sang along with the radio all the way to the secret fishing place along Snake River.

  At the end of the song, Daddy curled his lip just like Elvis and said, “Thank you very much.” I giggled. When he’s in a good mood, Daddy is a regular clown. He’s only serious about two things: political talk and his poetry.

  He parked the Chevy on the side of the road behind Uncle Mort’s pickup. Daddy popped a green Chiclet into his mouth. “Let’s catch us some fish.”

  I grabbed our picnic basket and the Cokes. Daddy got his beers and took the tackle box, worms, and fishing poles out of the trunk. I scrambled behind him up the path to the river. Uncle Mort was settled at their usual spot in his yellow lawn chair. An empty blue-and-white one sat beside him for Daddy. I waved.

  A nasty Camel cigarette was dangling from Uncle Mort’s lip. Instead of greeting us, he said, “Haven’t caught a thing.”

  Uncle Mort had spread out a red plaid blanket for me, and I took my place in front of them. As I admired the crystal clear water a few feet from us, I could hear the falls crashing on the rocks somewhere in the distance. I wished I were a shiny silver fish. I’d jump and dive under the bubbles all day and float in the quiet water all night without a care in the world.

  Daddy was setting up my rig. “I’ll need a bobber,” he said.

  I opened the tackle box and searched for a new red-and-white bobber. Daddy picked up a thick worm and held it out. It curled up in the breeze. “Want to try putting on the worm, Sugar Beet?”

  I shook my head. I could hold a worm all day, but there’s no way I’d be able to stab one with a fishing hook. I squeezed my eyes shut until Daddy was done. He told me, “The hook doesn’t hurt the night crawler, Freedom.”

  I don’t know if I believe him. Once I accidentally hooked Uncle Mort in the neck when I was casting. He cursed and carried on while Daddy plucked the hook straight out with the pliers without flinching. Uncle Mort had wiped at his eyes for about twenty minutes after that.

  Daddy casts for me now. He threw my line out. It landed in the water with a plunk. He handed me the pole and reached into the paper sack for a beer.

  When Daddy opened the can, foam shot out and covered the toe of one of my navy-blue Keds.

  “Oopsie daisies.” Daddy sucked up the foam that was overflowing from the mouth of the can.

  “Take a load off, Homer.” Uncle Mort motioned to the other lawn chair. Daddy sat down and pulled his faded brown fishing hat over his eyes.

  A while later, we hadn’t had a single nibble on any of our lines, and there were four beer cans at Daddy’s feet.

  The only sounds were the bugs buzzing and the birds tweeting. The sun rose higher and higher until it was directly above us. My neck got sweaty. I nibbled on my candy necklace and drank a Coke.

  Daddy was snoring. I was kind of tired of fishing, but I’d never tell Daddy that. He might not bring me again. I had a big scab on my knee, so I hiked up my dungarees, picked it off, and flicked it into the water. I wondered what Higgie and Mama were doing. They’d
probably gone downtown, and Higgie was having an ice cream sundae at the drugstore.

  My stomach rumbled.

  I opened the picnic basket. The Mason jar of water had tipped over. I set it on the ground next to me. I found the apple. I was so hungry I ate it peel and all without twisting off the stem first. There was nothing left to eat but gingersnaps and the sandwiches. I unwrapped a sandwich and bit off a corner of tough Spam. Mama had burned the lunch meat. I peeled back the bread to look at the mess inside.

  Uncle Mort leaned over. “What you got there?” Another cigarette hung from his lip. I wondered for the hundredth time how he could hold it there and still talk. I showed him the sandwich, and he said, “Ick.” And you know what he did? He threw that sandwich to the fishes and gave me one of his very own roast beef and mustard sandwiches.

  “Thank you, Uncle Mort.” I sunk my teeth into the soft bread and grinned.

  “Hmph.” He blew a smoke ring into the air and took a bite of his sandwich.

  I know that Uncle Mort saw some bad stuff when he was in the army in Korea. Stuff that Aunt Janie says we aren’t supposed to talk about. I want to ask him if he ever shot anybody over there, but then I think maybe I don’t want to know. He got shot at for sure, because there’s still a piece of shrapnel in his leg.

  After we ate, Uncle Mort pulled in my line and checked to see if the worm was still on. It wasn’t. He added another one and threw the line back out. Daddy woke up just long enough to wolf down a Spam sandwich and gulp at his last beer.

  About the time my own eyes were getting heavy, my line wobbled. I turned to Uncle Mort, and he smiled. “Grab ahold of your pole there, Freedom.”

  I held my pole tight, and Uncle Mort got the net ready. After letting the fish swim on the line a bit, I pulled that wiggly fella in all by myself!

  Uncle Mort made me hold the fish a minute after he pulled the hook from its mouth. It was cold and slimy. “It’s a trout,” Uncle Mort said. “A tiny thing.”

  The rainbow scales glittered in the sun while the tail flopped back and forth.

  “Do you want to throw it back or eat it for supper?” he asked me.

  I stared that fish in the eye and squealed, “Toss it back!”

  After Uncle Mort set the fish free, he patted me on the shoulder. “Good job.”

  Daddy slept through all the excitement. By the time the sun was low in the sky, I had caught three trout. I let them all go. They really weren’t big enough for eating. Besides, I didn’t want to get fish guts all over my hands.

  Uncle Mort caught two ugly catfish. He put them on a stringer to take home for Aunt Janie to cook. Daddy drank a six-pack before lunchtime, but I couldn’t tell Mama. That’s why he didn’t catch anything. He snored the afternoon away with a beer can sitting between his legs. His line wasn’t even in the water half the time.

  It didn’t matter. It was the perfect day anyhow. Know why?

  I peed in the bushes twice. Uncle Mort taught me how to tie flies. Plus, I have a candy necklace of my very own—and an entry form hidden in Daddy’s glove box for safekeeping!

  Mama was right about carrying the extra TP. But I didn’t tell her that, either.

  Chapter Nine

  Black Sunday

  SEPTEMBER 6, 1959

  I should’ve known it was going to be a black Sunday when Mama wouldn’t let me wear my candy necklace to Sunday school. It’s only missing fourteen candies, and it isn’t even that dirty. Yes, the string is a tiny bit pink, but that doesn’t matter to anyone—except Mama.

  She wasn’t in the best of moods. Daddy hadn’t gotten up until she was putting the coffee on. Mama had stomped around, turned on all the lights, and pulled the covers off Daddy three times. He said he had a headache. She said there was no way he was staying home. “Nobody in this family gets out of attending church.”

  Higgie got into trouble because he tore the seat of his best pants on the fence sneaking out of the house while Mama was bathing. He’d chased a cat up a tree. I had nothing to do with it. I swear.

  I brushed some stubborn tangles from my hair. I put on a touch of cherry lip gloss that Nancy had let me borrow. I was slipping into my stiff saddle shoes when Daddy brought Higgie back to our bedroom. “Help him change his pants, Freedom. And hurry.”

  I pulled a clean pair from the dresser we shared and asked Higgie, “Why’d you go and do that?”

  “I can’t help it,” he said.

  “Yes, you can.”

  Mama hollered for us to get into the car.

  Higgie stuck his tongue out at me.

  I said, “Fine, you can button up your pants on your own,” and slipped past Mama as she was patting her hair in the bathroom. I was wearing my candy necklace. I went outside. As I twirled across the grass, the candy bounced against my neck. I had on only one glove. The fingerless glove I’d made for shooting marbles was hidden in the bottom drawer of my dresser underneath the itchy red sweater that Mama gave me last Christmas. I kept the gloveless hand behind my back while I stood on the driveway waiting for Mama to come out and inspect me.

  “You look nice, Freedom.” She smoothed my bangs and stared me up and down. “But there is no way you are wearing that nasty thing to church.”

  I thought the necklace was just fine. The blue candies even matched the blue cornflowers on my dress. But I realized I should’ve tucked the necklace under my collar until we got to church.

  Mama said, “I already know you cut the fingers off one of your white gloves. I found them in the trash last week.”

  Oh boy.

  I watched Mama tuck her golden thimble into her pocketbook. She wears that thimble on her middle finger during church. And if we act up, she taps us on the head with it. It’s what the nuns used to do to her in school. I bet my head is dented under my hair because I’ve been tapped about a million times with that thimble.

  I sighed and put my candy necklace in my purse before she could get it. She gave her own big sigh and put on her best white gloves. “We don’t have time to find another pair for you,” she said.

  We walked to the car together. Daddy sat in the driver’s seat. Mama poked her head in the window. “Homer, where’s your hat?”

  Daddy’s head was resting on the steering wheel, and his black dress hat was in his hands. “Ah, stop fussing, Willie. My hat is right here.” Daddy started the car. A sermon blared from the radio. He turned the dial. “We’re already late, woman. Now git in the car!”

  For once Mama closed her mouth and listened to Daddy. She opened the car door. He grinned, and Mama smiled back.

  Higgie ran by, and Mama just managed to grab him. The knees of his second pair of pants were filthy, and so was his face. Mama dusted him off and licked her finger to rub the dirt off his chin. “Get in the car, baby boy.”

  I scooted in next to Higgie in the backseat. And we were off—“like a turd of hurdles, or a herd of turtles,” as Daddy always says.

  Once we got to church, I saw Nancy waiting for me by the front door. How could I miss her frilly pink dress and those shiny white Mary Janes?

  “Hi, Freedom,” she said. “Your dress is pretty.”

  My cotton dress looked shabby compared to hers, but she always has something nice to say. I wish I could be that way.

  “Thanks. Yours is nice, too. Sorry we’re late. It’s Higgie’s fault.” I pointed to my brother, who was trapped in one of Mama’s hugs. You’d think she was leaving him for weeks. An hour at Sunday school wouldn’t kill him.

  “Be good, Higginbotham,” Mama said. “You, too, Freedom.” She gave Higgie one last hug and off she went. Mama never misses her ladies’ class, while Daddy stands around with the men in the fellowship hall for coffee.

  We crowded into the fourth- and fifth-grade classroom. I sat between Shelly Sanderson and that snot with the purple sweater, Linda Pratt.

  Wrinkly old Mrs. Peterson gave us a lecture on the importance of doing for those less fortunate. After the lesson we each had a cup of lukewarm lemonade and tw
o saltines for a snack. I left my crackers on the table for those children in China.

  As the congregation gathered together, I found Mama and Daddy near the back. It was hot. Mama was fanning herself with the program. One of the teachers brought Higgie over. “He was hiding in the baptistery again,” she said.

  Mama told Higgie to sit down. “It’s time for worship,” she whispered.

  As usual, Daddy sat on the end of our row; Mama sat next to him; then it was Higgie; then me—even though Higgie always ends up on Mama’s lap by the end of the service.

  First, the congregation sang. Singing is my favorite part about going to church. Sometimes the prayers last so long my eyes need to close, but when the whole congregation sings, it’s the best feeling. Especially when we’re standing up. I can sing louder when I’m standing up. We sang every verse of “The Old Rugged Cross.”

  Mama has a beautiful singing voice, even though her breath could’ve used a mint or two. Daddy sang along for a few songs. He couldn’t resist.

  During the sermon, Pastor Davis went on and on about the seven loaves and seven fishes. Normally I don’t mind talking about fishing, but that’s not the part Pastor Davis was focusing on. He talked about how you have to do for others, and I’d already heard it in Bible class. I couldn’t see around Mrs. Pratt’s hat in front of us. It had a dead bird on top, which is just plain creepy, even if it is fake.

  Daddy drew a bunny for me on the attendance card. Higgie and I played three games of tic-tac-toe. Mama held my hand during the prayer and squeezed it gently when I started to nod off. Still, Pastor Davis kept talking.

  I lost my one glove under the pew, and my purse fell to the floor with a thud. I counted the panes of glass in the windows. I counted the number of black hats on the ladies’ heads. I even counted how many people were sleeping: ten. Nothing helped. I was Bored with a capital B. I thought about marbles. I wondered when Daddy would ask Mama about the competition.