Eating the Cheshire Cat

by Helen Ellis

  During the last week of Chickasaw, Bitty Jack said goodbye to her campers. She spent her last night in Summons in the cabin instead of her house. She snuck the girls brownies that her mama had made for the bus ride to Tuscaloosa. She let them use swear words. She let them stay up all night long.

  In the morning, she sent the kids off to breakfast. When the last one was out of sight, she heard the family Ford roll up behind her. Her parents got out of the truck and her father walked straight to the porch. He put one hand through the canvas straps of his army duffel bag and Bitty Jack worried that she had packed it too full. Before she could ask, her father swung that bag into the back of the truck as if he were turning one end of a jump rope.

  Mrs. Carlson said, “I packed a smaller suitcase for you. Put a coat in. Put in some pants.”

  Bitty Jack nodded and took a step toward her.

  Mrs. Carlson stepped back. She squeezed her crossed arms closer to her chest. She shook her head vehemently. “I love you, baby girl, but if you get any closer I won’t never let you go.”

  “Bitty,” said Big Jack, “your mother needs to make this short and sweet.”

  Bitty walked past her mother, scared to touch her, scared to say anything at all. She got in the truck. Her father got in too. As they drove by Mrs. Carlson, Bitty Jack got to her knees and put her hands against the back window. Her mother was walking as if the pavement had melted. She was staring back at Bitty, shielding her eyes, the gray patches of her hair lit up in the sun. Mrs. Carlson’s lips did not move, but in Bitty Jack’s mind she could hear her voice over the engine and the radio and the noise coming out of the mess hall. Her mother was calling over birds, wind, and sky, “Good-bye, baby girl. I will always be here.”

  Pulling into the Greyhound bus station in downtown Tuscaloosa, Bitty Jack marveled at how short the trip had seemed. Aided by Dramamine, she had slept the first three hours, awakened only by a pee break at the Montgomery highway rest stop. There she bought a Coke and a Kit Kat, which kept her awake for the rest of the ride. She counted VW Bugs. She got to thirty-three bottles of beer on the wall before getting bored. As the bus cruised along I-65, she quickly appreciated that, on her map of Alabama, one inch really did equal one hundred miles.

  The Greyhound station was stuffy and deserted. The fans mounted high in each corner of the waiting room buzzed and gave Bitty Jack the creeps. As she searched the phone book for a taxi cab company, Bitty Jack sat on the suitcase her mother had packed and anchored the duffel bag with her ankle through its straps.

  The taxi, which was really a station wagon in disguise, dropped her off on campus at Tutwiler Hall. Bitty Jack had read that you could judge a place by its tallest building. In Summons County, the narrow jail stood three stories high. Tutwiler stood fourteen. It was a single-sex dormitory, for girls only. Double-room capacity. No suitors past the lobby.

  Bitty Jack had arrived one week before classes to search for work. Her father had called her the Early Bird Special. Her scholarship covered tuition, but not books and not room and board. She had savings from her Chickasaw salary. Plus two hundred dollars her parents had promised for every semester. Still, that wasn’t enough. She had to find a job. More than part-time. More than minimum wage.

  When she got to her dorm room, Bitty Jack found the bed by the window already taken. Makeup bag spread open, curlers and pins on the floor like a moat. By the end of the week, Bitty Jack would learn to live with this. Her roommate was from Florida. She had come early for sorority rush. She was blond and pretty and pledged Tri Delta. She was never in their room and, for Bitty, that was fine.

  Through the job-search board, Bitty found a job at the Fifteenth Street Bakery. Tom Bradley was the owner and paid minimum for bakery work and waitress-minimum for his catering business because the clients always tipped.

  Beside the swinging glass doors to the bakery, there was a small room with a wall-size window facing Fifteenth Street. Bitty Jack often found herself there, three ovens behind her and a counter in front, level with her hips. This was the cookie-baking room. The job wasn’t so bad, except that Tom insisted his bakers sport tall paper hats. When Bitty Jack sweated, the rim left a rash. Catering was okay, but the real money was made in the “private” bakery. Unbeknownst to his best catering clientele, Tom ran a cake and party service geared toward bachelor parties, stripper conventions, and any general blowout with a sweet tooth and pornographic needs.

  Often, Bitty Jack found herself in the windowless back bakery frosting arm-length penises or strawberry-and-cream-layered D-cup breasts. She boxed edible underwear. She placed tiny naked dolls into lime green Jell-O molds. On the overhead shelf, there were two books of reference: Betty Crocker’s Cakes and Pastries and Kama Sutra for Dummies.

  Sure, it was embarrassing, but for her steady hand and attention to detail, Bitty Jack got paid twice as much as she did in the cookie room, where she had all eyes on her.

  In the afternoon, crowds gathered. They wandered toward the cinnamon-sugar smell or the peanut butter smell or the idea of chocolate chips. They liked to watch Bitty Jack place the walnuts in the dough. When she pried open glue-sealed plastic bags, they knew the raisins or Goobers were fresh. Some of them licked their lips. They tapped on the window. They eyed the plain cookies Bitty Jack set aside. It didn’t take a genius to figure out what was eventually bound for frosting. They peered over the counter, squeezed in from the sides of the window. There were old eyes and young eyes. Blue eyes and some whose irises were indistinguishable from their pupils. Sometimes the eyes had on too much mascara. Some mornings they were bloodshot. But one pair stood out. They were blue and in the middle of the crowd every day.

  They belonged to Stewart Steptoe, a 250-pound freshman who got all the answers right in her science elective.

  The “Tuskegee: And Other Contagious Diseases” course was continually hard for Bitty Jack to follow. No matter where she sat, Stewart put his books on the chair in front of hers. Gingerly, he’d squeeze himself into what, with him in it, looked like a vise. One thigh stuffed between the chair and the small, screwed-on desk. Half his butt hanging off the seat. Bitty Jack felt too sorry for him to get up and move. So she scooted her seat slightly to the left or slightly to the right and tried to crane her neck around Stewart’s stoic form. But parts of the blackboard were always blocked. More than once, Bitty Jack resigned herself to just listening to the lecture and staring at the stubble of Stewart’s soft buzz cut.

  At every class, Stewart wore clean shirts, possibly ironed. He had more than one belt and new books, not used. Bitty Jack guessed that he must come from money. At least three dollars a day went to Bitty Jack’s baked goods.

  Her first week on the job, Tom had pointed Stewart out. “He’s got to keep his weight up. Smile at him when you get the chance.”

  “He’s a football player?”

  Tom said, “He’s better than that.”

  Stewart Steptoe was Big Al, the University of Alabama’s beloved mascot. Big Al was an elephant who rode the waves of the Crimson Tide. He was six feet and gray, naked except for a red T-shirt with bama spelled out in white capital letters. He had a short tail and a floppy trunk he could spin to distract the opponent’s best player. No matter who blocked which tackle or which cheerleader was losing the elastic in the crotch of her bloomers, he was the star out there. Turning cartwheels, goosing the coach. All the fans loved Big Al. Very few knew the Stewart inside him.

  Bitty Jack was curious. When he asked her out, she was curiouser still.

  Catching her after class, what he’d said was, “Do you wanna study together?”

  Bitty Jack agreed, but she could read those blue eyes. They said Come a little bit closer. I could take care of you. You can depend on me. Johnny Iguana had blue eyes. They were familiar and full of promise.

  So Bitty Jack met Stewart in the food alley of the Ferguson Student Center.

  It was still hot in late September, so Bitty Jack wore shorts. Her legs held the tan from her summer at Chick
asaw, yet the freckles were everywhere, all over her knees. Bitty Jack was thankful that Stewart did not buy small sizes in hopes of denying his weight. He must, she thought, shop strictly at Big & Tall. His pants did not gather or rise at the crotch. His belt was not hooked on a custom-made loop. He seemed so soft and cruelty-free. In the line at TCBY, Bitty Jack noticed how the air-conditioning hit his shirt and blew it slightly at the sleeves.

  When he got back to their table, Stewart took a bite of yogurt topped with crushed Oreos and broken Chips Ahoys. “I eat a lot of yogurt. It’s good for you.” He broke off a piece of waffle cone, took a scoop, and offered it to Bitty. “Start with Black Death and work our way to smallpox?”

  “Sounds good,” Bitty Jack said and tasted the flavor of two cookies together.

  Stewart himself was one smart cookie. Better than that, he was an excellent study partner. Bitty Jack had never had someone to study with. With the nearest school district two hours from Summons, the Carlsons’ only choice was to teach Bitty at home. They ordered the state curriculum textbooks. They followed the letters as Bitty spelled aloud. They kept the kitchen table clear for Bitty’s notes and chapter outlines. When her father ran errands, he’d bring back Hi-Liters. Maybe a ruler. Anything that looked as if it might be of use.

  Stewart was always just a little more prepared than she was. He could sketch the prongs of a virus at a moment’s notice. He could talk about syphilis as if it were an uncle. He was always laughing. Cheerful. Joshing around. No matter how serious the case study, Stewart could find something to break Bitty’s unease. It sometimes was as simple as the way he pronounced a body count. Like Tweety Bird, he might say, “Dee Bwack Puh-weg. Too Tow-zand Wost!”

  Their study sessions soon became a regular thing. Twice a week and sometimes a movie. Sometimes Bitty Jack would let him treat her to popcorn. Sometimes she’d share his over-iced Coke. But they never held hands. In the light of the silver screen, they were considerate with the arm rest.

  It seemed to Bitty Jack as if every time she got comfortable, Johnny would materialize like a dead usher’s ghost. He would walk up the aisle and shine his flashlight on Stewart’s shoulder where Bitty Jack was tempted to rest her weary head. She felt guilty sitting in the dark with such a nice, thoughtful boy. So they stayed friends. Neither one brave enough to make a first move.

  Until November, when Stewart invited her to Homecoming.

  “A date,” said Bitty.

  “You can’t sit on the sidelines, but my parents are like major alums. You can hang with them in the president’s box.”

  “There’s nowhere closer I can sit?”

  “What?” Stewart grinned. “You don’t want to meet the folks?”

  The game started at two o’clock, but Big Al had to be there at noon to warm up the crowd. So Bitty Jack’s options were to be picked up at the bakery and go early with Stewart or, right before kickoff, meet his parents at a tailgate party and walk in with them.

  Stewart said, “You can’t miss ’em. Their Jeep’s got a sticker that says ‘Dr. Steptoe Knows the Agony of De Feet’ then gives his number. You wouldn’t believe how many patients he gets from that sticker.”

  Bitty Jack said she would believe it, but decided she’d rather go with Stewart than his mother and Tuscaloosa’s leading podiatrist.

  “Besides,” she told Stewart, “I want to see your Before and After.”

  The morning of Homecoming, the bakery was busier than Bitty Jack had ever seen it. Every group on campus seemed to be sponsoring a brunch. Bitty Jack’s roommate was on the Tri Delta/Kappa Alpha pregame party committee. She’d bypassed calling in an order and asked Bitty personally to take care of five trays of cinnamon buns.

  “Please,” she’d asked her. “I’ll get fined if anything’s stale.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” Bitty told her. “We make everything fresh.”

  At quarter to five that morning, Bitty Jack passed her roommate in the Tutwiler lobby. Her roommate was coming in from working on the Tri Delta/Kappa Alpha Homecoming float. Bitty Jack was on her way to the bakery and accepted the cup of cold coffee her roommate passed off to her. On the Fifteenth Street bus, she drank it as if each sip brought her closer to a reasonable hour.

  From five to eight, she worked the ovens and prep. From eight to ten she was stationed at the cash register. At ten, Tom pulled her cash drawer and hurried her through customers to the private back bakery.

  At 11:30, Bitty Jack started to get nervous. She had to finish decorating the booty cake before she changed out of her work clothes. She could get away with a sloppy frosting, but the blue sugar letters had to be lined up evenly across the biggest butt she’d ever seen. The blue dye kept coming off on her fingers. Every time she touched the booty cake, she left blue spots that turned puke-green on top of beige frosting. She had to remix small batches of white and chocolate. Just the right shade to smooth over her mistakes. Everybody has to be tan, Bitty Jack thought as she spackled. God forbid anyone have a white ass.

  The phone rattled in the room filled with only Bitty Jack and cold stainless steel.

  Stewart said, “You ready?”

  “Almost,” said Bitty Jack and slid the booty cake into a box.

  In the rest room, she untied her apron strings and used her eye teeth to remove the frosting caught under her fingernails. She picked dried frosting from the lenses of her glasses. She looked in the mirror and picked it off her cheeks and chin. She debated the lipstick in the side pocket of her purse. She put in on. Wiped it off. Put in on. Wiped it off. She changed into a black skirt and white sweater and jumped when Tom knocked twice on the rest room door.

  “Your date’s here,” he shouted. “You Cinderella yet?”

  In the parking lot, Stewart patted the front of Big Al’s Mascot Mobile. “I use this during the games. Hope it’s not too embarrassing.”

  Bitty Jack took a walk around the van. It was white with the back three rows of seats pulled out at the screws. Along the sides, Crimson waves were painted across the doors. The back windows were covered by a mural of Big Al, his hands on his hips, looking tough but kinda cute. Stewart opened the passenger door and told Bitty Jack how great she looked.

  Bitty Jack could not help herself. She whispered, “Do not.”

  Stewart shut the door and leaned in through the open window. With two fingers, he combed away a hair caught under the bridge of her glasses. He smoothed it behind her ear and repeated. “No, really, you look good.”

  At Bryant-Denny Stadium, Stewart flashed his pass and the security guards let them walk into the players’ tunnel. One of the guards called after Stewart, “Hey, be sure to do that thing you do. My kids love it. I mean, they really love it, man.”

  “You got it,” Stewart shouted and led Bitty Jack to the locker room.

  The locker room was empty, but the lockers were set. Down either side of a row of long red benches were open stalls, helmets hung top and center, uniforms on hooks, pads on shelves. The team was playing Texas A & M and the Bama Boosters had painted banners and hung them across the opaque windows. By the coaches’ office, the Coke machine hummed. The showers had been scrubbed and the fresh pine scent of generic disinfectant overpowered Stewart’s cologne.

  Stewart pulled out his keys and led Bitty Jack to his own private dressing room. “It used to be a utility closet, but now it’s all mine.”

  Bitty Jack asked, “Why keep it locked?”

  “Other teams used to steal the costume. You know, run it up the flagpole, burn it to get people psyched before the games.”

  “Has anyone ever tried to steal you?”

  “I’m way too heavy to drag off the field.”

  “I’m sure that’s not the only reason you got the job.”

  Stewart said, “I dance good too.”

  The first thing she saw when Stewart opened the door was Big Al’s head resting bodiless on a swivel chair. His eyes were lifeless, his trunk draped over one ear.

  Stewart said, “You can sit
there if you don’t mind holding him.”

  “I don’t mind,” said Bitty Jack and let Stewart lift Big Al’s head off the chair and place it carefully on her lap. Big Al’s head was the weight of two three-layer booty cakes. His ears dangled by the outsides of her thighs. His trunk swung slightly between her legs spread for balance.

  Stewart kept his back to Bitty Jack as he stripped down to his undershirt and boxers. The rest of his costume was stored in a large wooden crate. As he fiddled with the combination lock, Bitty knew he wished he’d opened the crate before he undressed. The back of his neck was turning bright red. He got the combination wrong at first, then pulled out the costume and held in front of him like a sheet.

  He started with Big Al’s feet because once Stewart was inside the elephant’s body, he could not reach past his knees. Big Al’s legs were held up by suspenders. A hoop kept his waistband perfectly round. When the band played the fight song it gave him that certain swing. Baby powder prevented chafing. A padded vest softened Stewart’s taut chest.

  Stewart said, “It’s the same stuff Santa uses at the mall.”

  The largest piece of the costume consisted of Big Al’s Bama shirt, his arms and front feet. The front feet were stumplike, no fingers apart from the palms. Inside the costume, Stewart held on to them by easy-grip elastic bands. He did have the option of wearing white gloves. But he thought it was unrealistic: a rootin’ tootin’ elephant with tiny man hands.

  Bitty Jack helped zip and Velcro the back seam of the suit. Inside Big Al’s body, Stewart looked smaller, almost petite.

  Stewart said, “We can wait for the head.”

  “It must be really hot in there.”

  Stewart nodded, the first signs of sweat starting to surface.

  There was little help with heat inside the dressing room. No paper, no programs. No Kleenex, no battery-operated fans. There was a narrow steel sink, but Stewart was already dressed. Two pairs of lockers lined the right and left walls, but Bitty was scared to go searching inside. She imagined any number of things springing out at her like snakes from a fake can of peanuts. Within minutes, Stewart’s face was a faint shade of pink.