Ferris Beach

by Jill McCorkle

  “Sally Jean is trying so hard. I hope they all have a real nice holiday. I hope the children got her something nice.” Mama looked at me as if to pose a question, and I told her that Misty had gone shopping earlier.

  “Today? She waited until today?” She shook her head and looked at my father as if to drive home a point. She was going to be surprised when she saw just how much thought he had put into her gift. I had gotten her some Wind Song cologne, which I gave her every Christmas, and a large tortoise-shell clip, since her hair had finally grown long enough that she could pull it back in her old style. I wasn’t sure how much thought I had put into my gift either, considering I had gotten the idea of the clip from “The Gift of the Magi,” and was relieved I had not had to make any sort of sacrificial trade there at Belk-Hensdale.

  Just the day before, Misty had found Mo’s stocking carefully wrapped in tissue paper and placed on the end of her bed. “I guess Sally Jean wanted to get it out of the decoration box,” Misty had said, and all I could think about was how the year before, Sally Jean must have found it and just left it there. Everything else was pulled from the box and then returned, with Mo’s cotton quilted stocking still there on the bottom. “She made my dad a new stocking to match hers, a crocheted one.” Misty made a face. “She said she’d make me and Dean crocheted ones, too, if we were interested.”

  “Santa Claus has lots of tricks up his sleeve.” Daddy laughed, his hand patting his chest, as he pulled out the bottle of brandy he’d been sipping from all day. “You are never going to guess what you’re getting, Cleva.” He sat down at the table and lit a cigarette. “You’re going to love it.”

  “You know what I’d really like?” She turned and I knew from the quick glance she gave his hand with the cigarette that she wanted to say stop, but then she changed her mind and I was relieved; what I really wanted was a happy, merry Christmas, though I really felt that nothing could dampen my holiday. When I felt the bits of tension, when I thought of Perry there on the ground, I forced my thoughts back around to Merle, the smoothness of his mouth, the softness of his voice. Before I left the cemetery, Merle had said that he would see me real soon, that he’d call me. Of all the times that I had thought through Angela’s visits and days spent with Mo Rhodes, second by second, it was nothing compared to the careful dissection I had done of my meeting Merle in the cemetery; I had every millisecond memorized.

  “Tell me what you’d like,” he said. “You name it, Cleva. Anything within reason.” He laughed a long deep Santa Claus imitation, his face red as he finished and took in a much needed breath.

  “I’d like to have a very merry Christmas” she whispered, came and stood right behind his chair, lifted the cigarette from his hand and stubbed it in the ashtray, before massaging his shoulders. “I’d like,” she whispered, “for you to go and get a physical, start the new year off with a good bill of health.” She hugged him, her face right next to his, voice low and serene. “And I’d like for those people back on that street to turn off the damn music for five minutes. If I hear ‘Frosty the Snowman’ once more today, I am going to stick my head in the oven.”

  “I like it,” he said. “Don’t think much of the physical, but as for the merry Christmas, yes.” He stood and walked over to her. “And, oh boy, do I like it when you’re mean, Cleva.” He muscled her under the misdetoe and kissed her right on the mouth, smudged that carefully applied lipstick all over her chin. “If Theresa Poole could see you now,” he said. “And by the way, Mrs. Poole drew herself a picture of the nativity scene, and there at the back she drew a great big fat man. Well, Cleva Burns walked by and said, ‘Why, Theresa, what lovely art you’ve done but now tell me, who’s the fat guy there at the rear of the stable?’” He paused, jiggled Mama, who with cheeks flushed and eyes watery, smiled, mouthed, “Who?” He looked at me where I was still sitting on the counter in front of the window; in one glance I saw myself and then I could look beyond the darkness and see Merle’s house. “Mrs. Theresa tilted up her nose and said, ‘Why, Cleva, don’t you know? Why, don’t you know?’” He could do a wonderful Theresa Poole impersonation, and it had gotten better and better since he told this same joke every year. “’That’s Round John Virgin.’” My mother said the words with him, laughed. “Okay, so here’s a better one.” He stopped, swallowed hard, opened his mouth as if to belch but nothing happened. “Bad gas.” He patted his chest.

  “Fred.”

  “In the car. I bought some bad gas. Damn thing hopped all the way home like in that Gulf commercial—no knocks.” He was in rare form, or maybe he was trying hard to do the same thing I was, to keep the holiday a holiday. “This traveling salesman stopped at Theresa Poole’s house and asked if he could spend the night and she said yeah, but that she just had the one bed ...”

  “Fred?”

  “Yes, dear?” He thumped his chest again and then swooped over and lifted the big roaster pan from her hands and ceremoniously carried it over to the counter. I watched her watching him, saw her look of fear that that big bird could slide from the pan and out into the hall.

  We sat in the living room while waiting for Angela, just the tree lights on while we took turns shaking gifts and trying to guess what was inside. At the back of the tree was a big package for Angela “from Fred, Cleva and Kate”; it was the gift wrap they were using at Thalhimers, and it was my mother’s handwriting on the card. Part of the time we just sat there, quietly, but it was comfortable; no Judy Garland, no fondue magazines, just the three of us in the darkened room. I sat on the floor near the tree, where I could see out the front window onto the porch. I pulled the lace panel curtains off to one side so I could see Angela as soon as she drove up. Except for the lights on Sally Jean’s flocked tree, Misty’s house was dark, but I could see them all moving about in the front yard. There was a flash, a lighter, and then there was Misty, a sparkler in each hand as she danced around the dark yard, another flash and then there was Dean standing completely still but his hand moving in a circle with the sparkler trailing. I watched them over and over, Sally Jean taking a turn as she twirled around and around in a circle and then draped her arm around Misty. To my surprise, it looked like Misty hugged her back.

  “So how long should we give her?” Mama finally asked. The Rhodeses had exhausted their sparklers and gone inside, their dining room all lit up as they sat down to eat.

  It was around nine when Angela arrived, and though Mama had fussed and reheated the dressing a couple of times, she looked genuinely relieved when she heard the loud engine of the Impala pull into the drive. We all three were in the doorway waiting when she walked up on the porch.

  “Welcome,” my mother said, and pushed past us to be the first to greet her. “Why, where is your coat?” She pulled Angela’s crocheted shawl up higher so that it completely covered her shoulders. “Come on in and get warm.” My father looked at me, one eyebrow raised suspiciously as we watched them. It reminded me of the scene in Gone with the Wind when Melanie goes to meet Scarlett at the entrance at Ashley’s birthday party. Angela was wearing a red dress, too, smocked at the top with a low neckline, long puffy sleeves, and folds of the thin sheer material that hung in different lengths about six inches above her knees. She wore black suede boots and carried a matching bag.

  “Wow, look at you,” my father said, and gave her a quick hug. “You went all out.”

  “Well, I was invited to a party,” she said, and turned to me, gave me a quick kiss. “That’s where I was when I called you. I had a great time.” She winked at me. “But I told them that I had to leave, that I couldn’t wait to get here. Well, you know how hard it is to leave a place like that.”

  “Oh, yes, indeed I do,” Mama said, and led the way into the dining room, while my father took Angela’s keys and went to get everything from her trunk.

  “I can’t wait for y’all to open your gifts,” Angela said. “There’s no feeling quite like knowing that you’ve found the perfect gift for someone.”

  The dinner
was beautiful, like a cover from one of my mother’s magazines; she had candles burning all over the dining room, a pineapple centerpiece with oranges and apples pierced with cloves. With every dish passed, my mother beamed with the compliments, becoming more and more festive with each minute. “Tell Angela the one about Round John Virgin” she said to my father, and then laughed uncontrollably when she realized she had given away the punch line.

  “What have you been eating, Cleva?” he asked her. “I want seconds on whatever it is.”

  “Me, too,” Angela added. “Do you remember that time you took me to Clemmonsville to see Seven Brides for Seven Brothers?” She was looking at my mother, who started laughing again, and then she turned to me. “Cleva took me to see that movie, and all of a sudden we got so tickled that we had to get up and leave because people were looking at us.” I tried to picture the impossible, my mother and Angela sliding down in their chairs as they tried not to giggle.

  “It all started because I said that I had never really cared for a Western,” Mama said, with a straight face. “And especially not one where they suddenly burst into a song. Those great big men out building a barn—and all of a sudden the seven brothers were jumping logs and carrying on.” She laughed, leaned forward on a propped elbow, face cupped in her hand. My father was staring at her and smiling, a cigarette burning in his hand. “Now for dessert,” she said, but we all begged off until later.

  “I need to leave for a little while,” Angela said, looking at my mother as if to ask permission. “It’s real important. You’ll understand tomorrow.”

  “Sure, do what you need to do,” my father said, but Angela waited to hear my mother say the same thing, and then she was gone, my father slipping out to finish his project on the back porch while I helped clean up in the kitchen.

  “Don’t blow out the candles,” Mama said when we had cleared the table. She lit more candles in the kitchen and turned off the overhead light as well. “There’s something so sad about going from candlelight to regular light,” she said. “When you blow them out you should just let the room be dark.”

  “Cleva Burns, philosopher and chef extraordinaire,” my father said as he slipped her Saran Wrap off the counter and carried it back outside. We washed the dishes by candlelight, and though I wanted to muse about Angela’s errand, to ask questions about the two of them and their trip to the movies, I felt somehow that it was best just to leave it alone. From the blinking house below I heard “It Came upon a Midnight Clear,” and it gave me a chill to think of the night before, the cold darkness of the cemetery, Perry on the ground. I concentrated on the fine gold band edging my mother’s china, the way it glistened with suds in the glow of the candle. I concentrated on every flicker, every word of the carol, until I realized with surprise that my mother was singing along, her voice solid and clear.

  It was almost two when I heard the floorboards in my bedroom creak, and when I opened my eyes Angela was there, already dressed in a long flimsy gown and robe. “Kitty? Kitty?” she whispered, gently shaking my arm. “Merry Christmas.”

  I felt disoriented, my first thought being the fear that I had dreamed myself into the cemetery with Merle and had never really been there at all.

  “Oh, Kitty, it was the most wonderful night. Can I turn on the lamp?”

  “Okay.” I squeezed my eyes tightly so I could adjust slowly to the light, and when I opened them, there was Angela’s hand, a diamond ring on her finger. I must have looked shocked and just sat there, blinking, mouth open.

  “I’m getting married,” she said, and hugged me close. Her gown was as thin as Mama’s sheers in the dining room.

  “Married?”

  “Greg said that without me he had absolutely nothing in his life worth mentioning.” She held her hand out, turning it from side to side as she admired the ring, her nails painted a deep burgundy, her thick hair pulled up loosely in a big leather clip. “I had a feeling tonight was the night.” She laughed. Somehow in the midst of it all, being sleepy while she talked rapidly, I couldn’t help but picture Angela and James Caan in the bridesmaid scene, and then it was Perry and Dexter, Perry and R.W., Mo and Gene Files, Merle and me. “So, that’s something, isn’t it, Kitty? The man actually got on his knees and begged my hand in marriage.” She pranced around the room like a show horse, high steps and head tilted back, thin blue robe twirling around her legs. “He said that I was the most wonderful thing to ever happen to him, that he loved me madly and would forever.” She stopped in the center of the room, hands clasped to her chest in excitement. “So tell me, Kitty. What’s new with you?” She twirled once, ran her finger along my bookshelf and then sat at the foot of the bed, legs pulled up Indian style. Somehow, the story about Merle Hucks kissing me in the cemetery didn’t sound like much after her spiel, so I decided to save it for a time that would do the afternoon justice.

  “We’re glad you’re here,” I said, and reached up to turn off the lamp, waiting to readjust to darkness.

  “Now tell me truthfully”—she crept up beside me, making the springs creak—“did Cleva say anything about me getting here late?”

  “No,” I said. “She didn’t.”

  “C’mon, Kitty, it’s me you’re talking to.” She shook my shoulder and then just rubbed her hand up and down my back. “She probably sighed and said things like, That Angela, you can’t trust her.” She leaned close to get my reaction, and once again I shook my head. “Well, if she did get mad, she won’t be tomorrow when she sees my ring.”

  I tried to get back that aerial of view of Merle and me rocking back and forth beneath the trees, tried to hear his voice once again saying that he’d see me soon, but Angela kept talking and talking until I fell asleep, the last words I heard being “Me, a bride, isn’t that just the craziest?”

  The next morning my mother served coffee and cinnamon rolls in the living room while we opened presents. She wore a heavy green velour robe, the contrast making Angela’s robe of the night before seem even flimsier. Fortunately, Angela was dressed for breakfast, in jeans and a Myrtle Beach sweatshirt, and she was still flashing her ring about. She had raved on and on about the robe we had given her, a nice thick flannel one in a pink and white stripe with matching long gown, but I knew from having seen what she wore the night before that it was not something she would have picked for herself.

  She gave my parents a big pottery elephant that served no purpose other than to sit around and be an elephant. It reminded me of something Mo Rhodes would have had in her house, but I knew that my mother had had to bite the inside of her mouth to keep from gasping when she opened the box. She gave me a huge macramé purse, which I loved; unfortunately, my mother had also bought a purse, a neat navy canvas clutch, which paled in comparison. In short, we all tactfully lied a few times during the opening of the gifts. My mother really seemed to like her clip, but the most sincere look of joy came when she was presented with her greenhouse model, and was told that the real one was coming in the spring. And I wasn’t surprised when Angela announced that she had a little something extra for my mother, and then emerged from the other room with the zebra plant and the African violet.

  By late morning we began getting ready for the afternoon meal, while my father tuned in to the parade on TV and speculated as to whether or not a sniper could conceal himself under a big plastic flap and ride atop the huge Snoopy balloon. We had already invited Mrs. Poole for dinner, and I think now Mama was beginning to get a little nervous, knowing that Mrs. Poole would quiz Angela thoroughly throughout the day. Mrs. Poole had no sooner arrived but that Sally Jean and Misty came across the street with a big tin of cookies to say Merry Christmas. Misty was wearing a whole new outfit, new Levi’s, new wool fishermanknit sweater, new leather boots. She even had tiny handblown glass earrings shaped like Coke bottles.

  “Can you believe Sally Jean picked all this out?” she whispered incredulously. “I mean, the salesperson must’ve helped her, but still. Look.” She pulled up the leg of her jeans so I
could see the black leather boots. “But she made this.” She thrust her arm out for me to feel the sweater. “Dean got one, too, only his is blue.” Misty was talking as quickly as Angela had the night before, her face almost pretty with her hair put up the way she was wearing it. “I got two Jim Croce albums, and a set of electric rollers ...” Misty’s list went on and on while she looked at my things, mosdy clothes, two pieces of blue Samsonite luggage. “Where are you going that you need a suitcase?” she asked, and laughed. We had always joked about how we carried our clothes back and forth across Wilkins Road in paper bags.

  “Why, Sally Jean, what an unusual pin you’re wearing,” Mrs. Poole said, and I turned to see her lift Sally Jean’s lapel, a big gold lizard with green glass eyes, pinned there. Everyone leaned close to look, and I noticed Misty’s cheeks were flushed.

  “Misty gave me this,” she said. “I think he’s beautiful.”

  “Well.” Mrs. Poole nodded and turned away, commented on the suit my mother had picked out for herself, called attention as she always did to the fact that, though they were the same height, she was a small frame and my mother was at best a medium on the bone chart, probably a large. “Yes, a doctor would probably say you’re a large.”

  “Aren’t you excited about your greenhouse?” Sally Jean asked. “You know I got those tongue depressors for Fred. He asked me one day if I had anything he could use to build a model and I said, ‘Well, no, I don’t, but there are loads of things in a hospital that you could use,’ and of course look at this. He did a fine job, didn’t he?” She looked at Mrs. Poole, who looked up to the ceiling and then sat down and lit a Salem. She had been talking to Angela for a good thirty minutes and was just about ready to ask questions. “Ferris Beach, you say? And did I hear Cleva say once that your mama died while birthing you?”