by Phoebe Stone
Everybody is finally all scrubbed and shiny like a set of spoons all done up with silver polish. Needless to say, Melinda looks like a princess out of a storybook in her salmon-colored angel slippers and matching gauzy angel-wing dress. All she lacks is a halo.
We have three umbrellas and when we run out to Mama’s van, the rain is coming at us from all angles, blowing the yard around and mixing everything up. Granddaddy’s lawn chair goes tumbling off down the road and Mama calls out, “Let that old hunk of junk go, Granddaddy. Get in the van.”
Once we’re inside the van with the rain hammering on us, Mama starts turning the key and the motor starts making that grinding growling no-way-José kind of noise. “I guess we’ll have to take Granddaddy’s car,” says Mama.
“Told you,” says Granddaddy, “these vans are no good.”
“I can’t show up in Granddaddy’s ugly old car,” says Melinda. “Everybody’ll laugh at me.” She looks like she is going to cry.
Mama says, “Don’t you dare shed a tear, Melinda May. It’ll ruin your makeup. Don’t shed a tear till you win.”
“I won’t go in Granddaddy’s car,” says Melinda, crossing her arms.
“We have to get going, honey. It really doesn’t matter how we get there, long as we get there,” says Mama.
“Granddaddy drives too slow anyway,” says Melinda.
“Now come on, little girl,” says Granddaddy, “let your granddaddy take care of things. Don’t get all upset, we’ll get you there.”
We make the dash from the van to the car all at once, umbrellas puffing up in the wind, feeling like to carry us away. Me, I step in a puddle, making my white plastic shoes feel cold and stiff and clammy. Granddaddy’s car starts like a top. “What did I tell you, sugar pie,” says Granddaddy, giving Melinda a special just-for-her kind of look. But she doesn’t even see it. She’s tapping her fists together, staring out the window, wearing a wet raincoat over her pink cloud dress, and it kind of spoils the effect like a coat will do on Halloween.
“You all in one piece, sweetheart?” says Mama, looking around smiling. “Where’s all this rain coming from? Radio’s going on all day about flash flooding this and flash flooding that and I’ve heard all kinds of crazy warnings in this county and that county. Where do you suppose it’s all coming from?”
As we pull out of the driveway I am up on my knees looking out the back window at the river pushing at its edges. “What are you doing, Jessie Lou?” says Mama. “Sit down, honey. Stop jumping all around. Boy, if I could bottle whatever it is you’ve got that makes you so energetic, I’d be a rich woman. Wouldn’t I, Granddaddy?”
“This car sounds like an old chain saw or a motorboat, Mama,” says Melinda. The trees are heaving and flinging themselves back and forth along the road that follows the river.
“River’s so full,” says Mama. “Look how fast it’s going!” Leaves and twigs and water and rain blow over the road. I lay my head back on the seat. It’s been a while since anybody has mentioned any experiments or any half-cracked operations on poor old Conrad’s leg. Maybe the whole notion will just drift away as hearsay and nonsense. And I’m wondering about those extra T-shirts Conrad’s mother made, the ones Tiny Bailey wants. Now I know why he wants them.
We drive over the crest of the hill and down the road, going the back way past the silver-colored windswept house on the edge of the field, rain ripping across it, birds hidden away in the bushes around it. I kind of wonder where that vintage airplane came from and what exactly is an old barnstormer.
“We aren’t late, are we?” says Melinda. “Drive faster, Granddaddy.”
“Well, I can’t go much faster, ’cause it’s hard to see in all this rain,” says Granddaddy. The windshield wipers are working overtime, going back and forth, back and forth. Going down the hill through the woods, we can hear the river roaring below.
Mama says, “That’s almost too loud to be true. Hear that water? The river’s cheering for you, Melinda!”
The sky seems to be getting darker. It’s a charcoal-green smoky color and we can hear thunder drumming in the hills above us. Granddaddy clicks on his high beams. “Don’t worry about this old car. She’s a tank,” says Granddaddy.
“What time is it?” says Melinda. “And sit back, Jessie Lou, I can’t see around your big head.”
More lightning. More rain. The car sails down the hill and at the bottom there is a stream running over the road, a wide, rushing stream. “Hold on,” says Granddaddy. “We’re going through it.” And he guns the motor and the car sinks into the water and moves through it pretty quickly until the water seems to be rising and the wheels are spinning in the mud underneath. The motor sounds as if it’s swallowing water and then it stops and Granddaddy can’t get it going again.
“Mama!” Melinda calls. “Mama, we’re stuck. And the water is rising, Granddaddy.”
“Get out of the car!” shouts Granddaddy. “Grab those umbrellas. I’ll carry you, Melinda. Hurry.” Granddaddy is standing out in the water, a river running around his legs, thunder and lightning and rain everywhere, his face and hair all wet. “Hurry, sweetie, let me carry you. Jessie Lou, you hold on to Mama and you get across. Get on the other side and get under cover over there by the rock ledge. Go on.”
I struggle to open the car door. Water is pushing against it, and when I finally get it open, water roars in on the floor all over my feet and ankles. I climb out into the water and work my way through it, holding Mama’s hand. Her hair is all wet and the bottom of her skirt drags in the water.
Granddaddy carries Melinda gently, carefully, and she holds an umbrella over her head, crying and saying, “I can’t help it, Mama, I have to cry.” Granddaddy wades through the water that is rushing and rising around us, carrying Melinda, all the while making sure her butterfly pink dress doesn’t dip and trail.
I get to the other side and I climb up the muddy rise and duck under a rocky ledge, followed by Mama and Melinda and Granddaddy. Then all of us are standing there, wet as dogs and muddy, except for Melinda. Granddaddy kept her pretty dry. We stand there waiting for the rain to subside.
Granddaddy’s car is filling up with water. We can see it almost running over the seats. I can’t help looking down at Melinda’s shoes as we stand here. They are covered with mud and water spots. They look like somebody’s been crying all over them.
“Don’t worry,” says Mama. “A car’ll come along and give us a ride. We’ll fix everything when we get there. We’ll go in the ladies’ room and get you all straightened out. They’re expecting you, honey. Even if you are a little late, you’ve got a number. You’re all registered. They won’t start without you.”
Mama has a knack for being right and she stays real level when everything seems to be falling apart. Like the time Granddaddy had a cookout for fourteen Lions Club members at the house. They left the steaks out on the picnic table while the grill was heating up. Then all the Lions Club members and Granddaddy went into the garage so Granddaddy could show off his new lawn mower. While they were in the garage, Bongo, the neighbors’ big Saint Bernard, came over and ate all the steaks, every one of them, and all the potato salad too. It looked like the afternoon was going to be a disaster, but Mama was able to produce, on call, fifteen frozen hamburger patties from the fridge. So they cooked them up and all the Lions Club members were very cheerful and happy to be eating anything at all and Granddaddy’s cookout was a huge success.
“That big dog eating the steaks was a subject for a great many jokes, while otherwise there might not have been anything to talk about at all. Helped make the event a success,” Mama said later. I keep thinking about Granddaddy’s cookout as we stand here, soaking wet, rain continuing without letting up.
Melinda is leaning against Granddaddy and he is saying, “Now, now, little girl, we’ve got plenty of time. Not to worry.” Granddaddy’s car is beginning to look like a big white hippopotamus sinking deeper into the mud and water.
Soon enough I hear another so
und besides the rain, besides the river roaring. The sound of a motor. A gray SUV is coming down the hill. Granddaddy goes out into the road and starts waving his hands around, his white hair flying every which way. He’s all wet and skinny-looking, my granddaddy. Makes him look frail, like a poor old tomcat that fell in a puddle of water. I can’t stand to see my granddaddy look so old and windblown, so I bite my lip till it bleeds ’cause I want him to live forever.
The SUV comes sailing on down the hill, slides into the water covering the road, churns through it like a boat, and comes up on the other side, perky and full of pep. Granddaddy waves his arms like a windmill. The guy at the wheel stops his car, hits his automatic buttons, and his windows roll down. “Looks like you could use a lift and some help getting that old jalopy out of there.”
“It’s a Chrysler Imperial. Had it for thirty years. It’s a good car. Usually runs like a top,” calls Granddaddy through the wind and rain.
“Well, those things are low to the ground,” the man shouts back. “Why don’t you all get in and I’ll give you a lift somewhere. I think you’re off the road enough that people can get around you.”
Mama looks at Melinda and Melinda looks at Mama and then they hug each other and kind of squeal. The guy pushes open the door to the backseat and we climb in, me hitching up my saggy soggy checkered dress and Melinda getting into the SUV like it is a golden carriage with a footman, looking at it amazed, like it had been a pumpkin just a half hour ago.
We roar off through the rain, following the graygreen swollen rushing river toward the spring state fair that’s going on full blast in the distance in spite of the rain. “This is just so kind of you. My daughter Melinda is a contestant in the beauty contest over there. I always wanted to be in a beauty contest when I was a little girl. Never got a chance,” says Mama, looking out the window.
Then Melinda nudges me with her elbow and mouths the words “Quit wiggling around so much. He’s going to stop the car and throw us out.”
And I say out loud, “No, he will not.” And Melinda whisks her head around and stares out the window.
“Some kind of weather,” says Granddaddy. “I sure hope I can get my old Imperial on out of the mud.”
“You’ll have to come back in the morning,” says the man. “It’ll clear up by then. It better had. I’ll drop you folks off by the main pavilion.” He turns onto a small dirt road, joining a muddy line of traffic on the grassy sloping field around the fair. “Ever been over to the hypnotist show? My wife and I went there last year and the fella chose me out of the crowd. He hypnotized me and he had me speaking fluent French. I tell you something right now, I never did take a foreign language in school and I don’t know a word of anything but English.”
When the SUV stops and it’s time to get out, I’m so wet and cold that I feel like I’m not going to be able to uncurl and stand up like I’m supposed to. But I start to perk up when I hear all the music coming from those crazy rides and I see all those red, yellow, and green lights blinking away, full of all kinds of promise.
We spend about a half hour in the ladies’ room hitting the hot air button on the hand dryer over and over again. I am holding my shoes and then my socks over the heat to dry them. Melinda goes “Pee-yew” when I hold up my socks. But they aren’t old smelly socks, they’re just wet socks. Mama gets her skirt kind of dry the same way and she fixes Melinda’s hair and scrubs at the mud spots on her shoes. She smoothes out the netting on her dress and reapplies Melinda’s Pink Parade lipstick.
Then we go on into the pavilion. Mama and Melinda go backstage and Granddaddy and I push into the fourth row where our name tags are attached to chairs. I can tell Granddaddy is feeling kind of important thinking that everybody is watching us because we’re the family of Melinda Ferguson. Granddaddy’s jacket is still wet and as we sit down, I notice his shoes are dark and soggy-looking.
While we’re waiting for the pageant to begin, I see Fred and Frank Bailey are in the same row with their wives. I decide to look at both of them at the same time and I try to memorize their little differences. One seems to have heavier eyebrows but it’s hard to keep track, and soon enough the lights are out. Rain is still coming down, rolling against the tin roof of the pavilion.
Now there’s a man standing in a round circle of spotlight. “Good evening, ladies and gentlemen. We are going to start the Apple Blossom Junior Teen Beauty Pageant tonight with a talent show. Each of the twenty-five contestants has been asked to recite something they wrote, so we can hear the sound of their voices and see how they make a presentation.”
As he is talking, I look around toward the back of the crowd and I can see Conrad and Quentin acting stupid, whispering and not paying attention. The man introduces the first ten contestants and each one comes out and recites something. Some read essays, some poems, and one girl reads part of a short story about a tree that can talk. I think it’s really stupid. Quentin and Conrad do too, ’cause I can hear them giggling. There are a couple of babies crying in the back, covering up some of Conrad and Quentin’s noise.
Then the announcer says, “Our next contestant is Melinda Ferguson. She is thirteen years old, and she is going to recite her poem called ‘Big Old Lazy River.’ Well, I don’t know if any of you saw the Cabanash River down in the hollow tonight, but it didn’t look too lazy to me.” The crowd laughs and then the spotlight falls on my older sister, Melinda, coming out onstage looking like a nervous rose-colored princess.
I can see she’s scared, but she stands still in the spotlight and then she says, “I’d like to read the poem ‘Big Old Lazy River,’ written by me, Melinda Ferguson.” She takes a deep breath and then she begins to read.
Big old lazy river,
Winding to the sea,
Slow and sleepy river,
Bring him back to me.
The river’s long and lazy
And I am young and free
People think I’m crazy.
Just bring him back to me.
Big old sleepy river,
I’m here on bended knee.
Put out your sails
And blow your wind
And bring him back to me.
Yes, bring him back to me.
The crowd is very quiet while Melinda says my poem, so quiet that if a feather should fall off a seagull’s back right now and float right to the ground, you could hear it as it touches. A whisper kiss. I almost can’t believe that everybody is listening to my poem. It’s a secret poem that I wrote for Conrad Parker Smith. It was a secret from me to myself. I never would want Conrad to know I wrote such a thing for him. He’d probably turn green and die if he were ever to suspect.
There is a second right now where everyone is silent and the poem is finished. Then suddenly the crowd starts clapping and cheering. They go on and on. I look over at Granddaddy and he is clapping too. “Looks like they really liked Melinda’s poem,” he says, raising his bushy eyebrows and smiling.
They keep clapping and clapping. Then as Melinda slips offstage like a princess floating away, the announcer says, “That was a good poem, Melinda Ferguson. Thank you for sharing it with us.”
The crowd claps some more and then the announcer starts talking about another girl named Stacey Pratt from Roanoke and how she is going to recite part of her fire prevention essay. “Miss Pratt wrote this essay for Fire Prevention Week this year,” says the announcer.
The second part of the show, the announcer says, is the most important part, and it’s based on pure beauty. “Now let’s have all twenty-five young ladies out here so you can see all the contestants at once. Then we’ll bring each one out individually. Now you in the audience can make the choice for yourself while our panel of judges up here to the left of me will cast their votes for third place, second place runner-up, and number one, the Apple Blossom Junior Teen Beauty Queen!” The crowd cheers.
Then all the contestants come out and stand in a line onstage. For a minute I cannot find my big sister. Then there she is stan
ding between two taller girls. In fact, everybody onstage seems taller and older and more at ease than Melinda. Suddenly she looks so small and the spotlights seem to be hitting her in the face. It looks to me like at any moment she might burst into tears. I can see a faint tracing of a water stain on the netting over her dress.
“Granddaddy,” I whisper, “is Melinda short?”
“Well, I’ll tell you something, if you’re friends with one of the judges, that’s how you win,” says Granddaddy. “Those judges will pick their friends or the daughters of their friends. That’s how everything works.”
“What about being the prettiest?” I say.
“You think they pick the winner on beauty and merit? Bah,” says Granddaddy. “You could be the most beautiful girl in the world, and if you didn’t have a friend on the judging panel, they’d pass you right by.”
The contestants move forward and turn once. My older sister looks lost and small in the towering forest of poised beauties. Some of the contestants know how to walk like models do on television, and they glide forward and then stop to stand like a photograph you might see in a magazine. Stacey Pratt arches her neck and looks at the crowd with self-assurance, like she knows she’s a winner, like she has winner written all over her.
Granddaddy leans across the seat and whispers to me, “I think Melinda is by far the most beautiful. She outshines everybody. Don’t you think?”
I don’t know anymore what I think. I think the moon turned purple and fell out of the sky. That’s what I think. I think the stars dropped from the universe and are clattering all over the roof above us sounding like rain. That’s what I think. Everybody is smiling and acting normal, but nothing is normal. My older sister looks small and thin and overwhelmed.
“Now I would like to announce the third-place winner.…”
