I opened the lunch box and pulled out the birthday cards from Lulu—one for every year except for when I turned six; that one must have got lost in the mail.
I laid on my back and read them, tracing my finger over the big, loopy L in Love you and the little x’s and o’s that were kisses and hugs sent through the mail. I spent some time thinking about Momma— Lulu recording her songs up in Nashville, getting famous. The memory of her was worn and fuzzy on the edges, since I hadn’t seen her since I was three. But I know I have the exact same color of red hair, so that’s the brightest spot in the picture I kept in my head.
Back when Momma and Daddy and me all lived together, I remember liking to twist her hair around my finger while she held me on her hip. I loved the way it felt soft and slippery, like the satin edge of my blanket. Momma didn’t like it though, ’cause she’d spent a long time getting it to look just right and I messed it up. I remember her and Daddy getting in a fight once when she smacked my hand away. It was all my fault, and I’d felt bad. When we all got to live together again, I’d be careful not to cause any fights. I put away the birthday cards and closed the lunch box. Then I just laid there for a spell, watching light dance with shadows and thinking about what I was gonna name my horse. By 10:32—I knew the time exactly ’cause Daddy had given me a really neat Timex with a black leather band for Christmas—it was already about a thousand degrees out. The brick street out front looked like it was wiggling from the heat. Dogs had already crawled under porches and into garages to get out of the hot sun. They would come out after sunset with cobwebs on their noses and dirt clinging to their coats like powdered sugar.
Wish I had a dog.
One like Lassie.
She’d follow me everywhere. I was thinking on how she coulda gone
to get help when I fell through the floor in the haunted house when I heard clack-clack-chhhhhh, chhhhhhh, chhhhhhh, chhhhhh, clack-chhhhhh chhhhhh-clack. I knew who was coming, wearing the metal, clamp-on skates she’d just got for her fifth birthday—Priscilla Panichelli. I called her Prissy Pants. She wore dresses with cancan slips and patent leather shoes every ding-dong day. She wasn’t even gonna have to work at changing into a lady when her time came.
I was kinda surprised she’d risk getting those shoes all scuffed; skating on our broken-up sidewalk was dangerous business—which accounted for the clacks. I bet her big brother, Frankie, who was in my grade and called her way worse things than Prissy Pants, had made it a dare.
I moved so I was behind the tree trunk and held real still, just in case. Besides dressing like a doll, Prissy Pants could be a real pain in the behind with her goody-two-shoes, tattletale ways.
Then I heard trouble. A bicycle was coming fast with a card clappin’ against the spokes. It meant only one thing: Jimmy Sellers, turd of the century. Jimmy was gonna be a hood, anybody could see that. But Mamie, and truth be told a lot of the other old people on our street, thought he was a “nice, polite Christian boy”’cause he was a real brownnoser, too.
Prissy Pants was like a lightning rod to Jimmy’s thunderbolt. She was just too shiny and clean to not try and mess up—even though it always seemed like an accident.
As I said, I had no warm place in my own heart for Prissy Pants, but Jimmy was twelve, almost a grown-up. Him picking on her was just . . . wrong.
I held my breath and hoped that bicycle would buzz right on by. Chhhhhh-clack-clack. Silence.
Prissy Pants must have seen Jimmy.
The card slapped the spokes just a little faster, and I thought trouble
would just keep rolling down the street. I moved around the trunk and peeked out just in time to see Jimmy’s bike jump the curb and head right for Priscilla.
She stood there in front of the LeCounts’ house like a possum staring at a Buick.
Jimmy pedaled faster.
I jumped out of my fort, too far away to do nothin’ but hold my breath.
At the very last second, he cut the handlebars and swerved around her. Priscilla jerked backward and fell flat on her flouncy heinie. One of her skates come loose from her shoe and hung from her ankle by the leather strap—she wouldn’t need that skate key hanging around her neck to get that one off.
She squealed, then started a real-tears cry, not her usual just-forthat-I’m-gonna-get-you-in-trouble cry.
Jimmy swooped in a circle and come back around. He stopped his bike and looked down at her. “Gosh, looks like you’d better practice some more with them skates.”
Prissy just cried louder and used her key to loosen her other skate.
I got what Daddy calls my “red rage.” I was hot and cold at the same time. My nose and ears and fingertips tingled and I couldn’t breathe.
I run down the block and grabbed his handlebars, jerking them to the side. Instead of making Jimmy fall down, he just let the bike go and stepped over it as it fell into the grass beside the walk.
“Go back to your tree, shitbird.” Jimmy shoved my shoulder.
“Shitbird!” I swung. His nose popped.
The blood hadn’t even touched his top lip when I heard Mamie yell, “Starla Jane Claudelle!”
Good-bye, fireworks.
2
i
’d had trouble sleeping because of the sticky heat and thinking on all I was gonna to miss: cherry snow cones and fried okra, winning the blue ribbon in the horseshoe throw (this woulda been my fourth year in a row as champion for the ten-and-under age group), penny candy falling like rain from the parade floats, fireworks and sparklers. It was enough to get my ears burnin’ all over again. Grounded on the Fourth of July, of all days. And Miss Prissy Pants hadn’t even stuck around to come in on my side of the story; did nothin’ but get up and bawl all the way home. And of course, Jimmy had been real convincing—I bet his nose didn’t even hurt that much.
Mamie had made me walk Jimmy’s bike home while he held one of our dish towels filled with ice on his nose and she fussed over him like he’d been crippled or something. She made me apologize to Mrs. Sellers (which she probably deserved ’cause she had such a horrible kid for a son) and to Jimmy (which had nearly made me barf ). The whole way back to our house I got the ladies-do-and-ladies-do-not lecture, which started and ended with how embarrassed she was by my “trashy, street-gutter” behavior and always had a bit about not saying ain’t. Hey, I didn’t even want to be a lady.
After stewin’ and sweatin’ all night, I was tired and extra grouchy Fourth of July morning. Guess it didn’t really matter; sass or not, I was still on restriction on the best day of the summer.
I walked into the kitchen, real quiet, hoping to avoid another lecture. Mamie sat at the table in her pink-and-white seersucker housecoat, her pink slippers, and a pink lace hairnet over her pink sponge curlers—I forgot to mention, Mamie liked pink best of all the colors and was real sad that my red hair kept her from buying me pink dresses. She was looking at the S&H Green Stamp catalog, drinking coffee and smoking a cigarette. Mamie loved that catalog enough to marry it. Our grocery even had double-stamp days; if we was out of bread and one of those days was in sight, we’d go breadless. Which is kinda funny, ’cause we got our toaster with Green Stamps.
Mamie looked up at me. I braced myself; if I got sassy now, who knew how long I’d be on restriction—probably till Labor Day. But she didn’t start yammering about me being a lady, or being an embarrassment to her and Daddy (even though Daddy wouldn’t even know to be embarrassed if Mamie didn’t keep telling him stuff ). She just nodded toward the fancy, new Norge refrigerator Daddy had bought for her. She’d been so proud of it that she’d made the whole bridge club come into the kitchen to look at it. A long list of chores was taped on the door. She must have been up all night thinking up stuff for me to do.
“That should keep you out of trouble today while I’m gone,” Mamie said in a way that said this wasn’t gonna be the end of my punishments.
I felt a hot prickle run over my skin—the red-rage prickle. I looked her right in the eye an
d said, “Maybe I’ll just run away from home. Then you won’t be embarrassed by me anymore—and you’ll have to do all this stuff yourself.” Like I said, I was grouchy.
I half-expected a slap, or at least another day stuck onto my grounding, but Mamie just blew out a stream of cigarette smoke and pushed herself up from the table and headed out of the kitchen. “I’ll go pack your bag.” Over her shoulder she said, “But remember, you can’t leave until next week, after your restriction is over.”
Gritting my teeth, I snatched the list off the refrigerator. It was worse than Cinderella’s.
I stomped back up to my room without breakfast. Milk would have soured right in my mouth.
While Mamie went to the Fourth Festival, I was Rapunzel in the tower. I crumpled the chore list and threw it into the corner of my bedroom. I sat on the floor in front of my window with my elbows on the sill and watched as the LeCounts loaded their station wagon with a picnic basket and lawn chairs and four of the five kids piled in. Ernestine, their colored maid, stood on the porch holding Teddy, the baby, raising his chubby arm for him to wave as the family pulled away. She was probably glad to see ’em go. I liked Ernestine fine, even if she was a grouch most of the time, nippin’ at me to not step on the flowers and to stay away from the cistern. I reckon she had cause to be grouchy. Them LeCount kids was the wildest and noisiest in town; and there just kept getting to be more of them all the time.
Our upstairs is hot as the hinges of Hades. Usually if I wanted to stay out of sight, I’d take to my fort. But today, I sat in my bedroom. I kinda hoped when Mamie got home late this afternoon, she’d find me passed out from heatstroke. Then she’d feel bad over ruining the one good day of the summer for me. Maybe I’d even have to be put in the hospital; that’d fix her.
I sat looking out the window and sweating for long enough that my hair started to stick to my forehead. Then I started to get ideas: What if I went to the parade? Mamie was at the park. I could go stand with the big crowd of kids on the corner near Adler’s Drug Store, where you had two chances at candy when the parade turned from Magnolia Street onto Beaumont Avenue. Mamie would never know. If I came back right after the parade, I could be home before her easy. I’d hurry through enough of the chores to keep her from being too mad. If I looked tired and pitiful enough, all sweaty and weak from hunger, maybe she’d let me go to see the fireworks. Bet she wanted to see them; and I ain’t allowed to stay home alone after dark.
This could work out fine. Course I’d miss getting my blue ribbon and the snow cones, but at least I’d have some of my Fourth of July.
But what if Prissy Pants or somebody from church saw me? Or worse, Mrs. Sellers, who knew I was grounded ’cause Mamie made a big deal of it in front of her.
Just then I heard Jimmy’s bike coming down the street, headed toward town. He had a big, white bandage across his nose. He looked up, saw me in the window, and gave me the finger. I didn’t know exactly what that meant, but I knew it was dirty.
Well, that was it. No way was I letting the turd of the century see the parade and ride back past here with his pockets full of candy while I melted into a big puddle of lady.
I slipped out the back door and down the alley, not that anyone was left in the neighborhood to tattle. Still, at each cross street, I looked careful before I stepped out in the open.
I waited behind the post office until a group of kids heading toward the parade passed by. I talked Drew Drover—he’d had a crush on me since second grade—out of his Ole Miss Rebels baseball cap and put it on over my red hair.
Ten minutes later I wiggled into the middle of the group of kids in front of Adler’s Drug. The color guard had just passed, and people were puttin’ their hats back on.The first float rolled by, the one with the Cotton Queen and her princesses, and a long line of floats and horses and marching bands was behind it. Candy flew like cottonwood seed.
I was a genius.
My luck held through the parade (thank you, baby Jesus). No tattletales saw me, and my pockets was bulging with candy. It’d be a whole lot easier to do my chores eating Pixy Stix and jawbreakers—after all, I hadn’t eaten breakfast.
All of the kids started to head toward the park. I hung back, wishing I could go, too. Even though it’d be several more hours before Mamie got home, the park was too dangerous. Not only was she there, but Drew had taken his cap back and there would be way too many church ladies around for Mamie not to get wind that I wasn’t home doing chores like I was supposed to be.
“Starla!”
I quick ducked behind the light post. I was tall and skinny, but not skinny enough to hide behind a light post. I was caught.
I peeked around the post and saw Patti Lynn Todd, my best friend in all the world, running toward me. Patti Lynn had a real family with a sister and three brothers and lived in a big house on Magnolia Street. She even had a dog.
“I been lookin’ all over for you,” Patti Lynn said, tugging my hand. “Come on, you’re gonna to be late signin’ up for the games.”
“Can’t. I’m grounded.”
“’Cause you broke Jimmy Sellers’s nose?” Patti Lynn knew me well enough not to ask why I was at the parade if I was grounded.
“How’d you know?”
“Everybody knows. Prissy Pants’ brother told. Jimmy’s still trying to get everyone to believe that it was Rodney Evans who done it.”
I laughed. Nobody’d believe that story. Rodney Evans was the biggest hood in town, wore a ducktail and rolled-up sleeves on his T-shirt. He walked the streets in his black boots with metal taps on the heels just looking for trouble. And he usually found it. If he’d lit into Jimmy, Jimmy would have had lots worse than a broken nose.
“I’m on restriction for a whole week.”
Patti Lynn smiled. “It was worth it. Maybe Jimmy’s nose’ll heal all crooked.” She linked her arm through mine. “Come on. I’ll hang out with you for a while.”
“You’ll miss all the games and whatnot.”
She shrugged. “Don’t care. It’s no fun without you.”
We headed to the school playground, inventing crazy stories that Jimmy would probably try to get people to believe to hide the truth that he’d been beaten by a girl.
Patti Lynn was the best best friend ever made.
Twenty minutes later, Patti Lynn and I was making daisy chains out of clover blossoms, so I didn’t notice the pink-and-white Packard pull up until I heard the car door slam. Mrs. Sellers, for who knows what reason, had showed up at the playground.
Wish Mamie could see her, out here for all the world to see in redcheckered shorts—Mamie could give her the ladies-do-and-ladies-donot lecture.
Mrs. Sellers come flying across the pea gravel fast enough that it was shootin’ out from beneath her Keds. I guess I forgot to mention that yesterday I’d discovered she was real prickly when it came to her “little boy.”
“Starla Claudelle! Your grandmomma know you’re here?” By then she was on me, diggin’ her fingers into my arm and gritting her nice white teeth at me. All the sudden, I was sorry I’d ever felt sorry for her; she looked like a witch hiding under perfume and powder. I shoulda known a person with a son like Jimmy couldn’t be too good herself.
I looked right up at her with my defiant face. “Yes, ma’am. She knows.”
“Well, we’ll just go and see about that.” She pulled me toward her car so fast I couldn’t do nothing but run along beside her.
“Bye, Starla,” Patti Lynn called. “See you later.”
Fat chance. I was never gonna get off restriction.
As Mrs. Sellers yanked open the passenger door, she said, “Your grandmomma is right, you’re no-good, cheap trash, just like your momma.”
My ears started ringing. My face got hot and prickly. “When did she say that?” Sometimes I think she hates being my mamie—once she told me it was a shame I’d even been born, so I guess she does.
Mrs. Sellers looked at me with a wrinkled forehead. “What? Well . . . every ti
me I see her, poor woman. Now get in the car.” She tried to shove me in, but I dug in.
“My momma is gonna be famous. And your son is a mean son of a bitch!” It was the worst thing I’d ever overheard my daddy call anyone; so I figured it fit Jimmy Sellers just right. I yanked my arm free.
She made to grab me again, her face looking for all the world like Jimmy’s when he was gonna beat the living daylights out of someone. I gave her a shove. She fell backwards squealin’ like a stuck pig, landing in the dirt.
I ran like the devil hisself was on me.
“You come back here!”The screaming made words. “You’re going to reform school for sure!”
I’d done it now. I was a goner.
I ran until my lungs burned like they was filled with hot rocks. Then I walked. That’s when it was hardest not to cry—when I slowed down. Mamie said I was gonna end up in jail someday, said she’d be happy if they throwed away the key. So I knew she’d be happy to turn me in if I went back home. I wasn’t sure what I was gonna do, but going back wasn’t on my list. I was too worked up inside to think clear and make a plan, so I just kept going and hoped something came to me.
I’d already passed the lumber mill and the city dump. I’d turned at every crossroad I’d come to, figuring a straight line was easier for the police to follow. Still, I kept my ears peeled for the sound of the sheriff ’s siren. I wondered how long I’d have to go to prison if they caught me. I’d seen it on Perry Mason you could get fifteen years for assault with batteries . . . which was lawyer talk for beating someone up.
Feeling as low as skunk’s toes, I wondered if I should maybe head for Nashville. Lulu was probably my only hope; she’d hide me. Daddy would just haul me back to Cayuga Springs ’cause he was all about accepting your just desserts. Besides, it’d break his heart to see his little girl go to prison. Mamie would probably do a dance when she figured out I wasn’t never coming back to be an embarrassment to her ever again.
Trouble was, I didn’t know how to get to Nashville, or even what direction I was headed exactly. I always went by rights and lefts, gas stations and flagpoles, not easts and wests; which was another disappointment to Mamie. I just couldn’t get those directions to stick in my head unless I was standing on my own front porch, facing the street.
Whistling Past the Graveyard Page 2
